“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned and patted her shoulder. Then he was running down the stairs. After Pa’s programming career had crashed, Mother had worked harder and harder at her 411 information services. By now, she knew San Diego County and its data as well as anyone in the world. Most of her jobs were just a few seconds or a few minutes long, guiding people, answering the hard questions. Some jobs—like the Migración historical stuff—were ongoing. Ma made a big point that her work was really hundreds of little careers, and that almost none of them depended on high-tech fads. Juan could do much worse; that was her message, both spoken and unspoken.
And looking at Pa across the kitchen table, Juan understood the alternative that his mother had in mind; Juan had understood that since he was six years old. Luis Orozco ate in the absent-minded way of a truly hard worker, but the images that floated around the room were just passive soaps. Later in the night he might spend money on active cinema, but even that would be nothing with traction. Pa was always in the past or on another world. So Ma was afraid that Juan would end up the same way. But I won’t. Whatever the best is, I’ll learn it, and learn it in days not years. And when that best is suddenly obsolete, I’ll learn whatever new thing gets thrown at me.
Ma worked hard and she was a wonderful person, but her 411 business was … such a dead end. Maybe God was kind to her that she never realized this. Certainly Juan could never break her heart by telling her such a thing. But the local world sucked. San Diego County, despite all its history and industry and universities, was just a microscopic speck compared to the world of people and ideas that swirled around them every minute. Once upon a time, Juan’s father had wanted to be part of that wider world, but he hadn’t been fast enough or adaptable enough. It will be different for me. The little blue pills would the difference. The price might be high; sometimes Juan’s mind went so blank he couldn’t remember his own name. It was a kind of seizure, but in a moment or two it always went away. Always. So far. With custom street drugs you could never be absolutely sure of such things.
Juan had one jaw clenched resolve: I will be adaptable. He would not fail as his father had failed.
Juan had the car drop him off a couple of blocks short of the Gu’s house. He told himself he did this so he could get a feel for the neighborhood; after all, it was not a very public place. But that wasn’t the real reason. In fact, the drive had been just too quick. He wasn’t ready to face his local teammate.
West Fallbrook wasn’t super-wealthy, but it was richer and more modern than Las Mesitas. Most of its money came from the fact that it was right next to Camp Pendleton’s east entrance. Juan walked through the late afternoon light, looking in all directions. There were a few people out-a jogger, some little kids playing an inscrutable game.
With all enhancements turned off, the houses were low and stony-looking, set well back from the street. Some of the yards were beautifully kept, succulents and dwarf pines arranged like large-scale bonsai. Others were workaday neat, with shade trees and lawns that were raked gravel or auto-mowed drygrass.
Juan turned on consensus imagery. No surprise, the street was heavily prepped. The augmented landscape was pretty, in an understated way: the afternoon sunlight sparkled off fountains and lush grass lawns. Now the low, stony houses were all windows and airy patios, some places in bright sunlight, others half-hidden in shadows. But there were no public sensors. There was no advertising and no graffiti. The neighborhood was so perfectly consistent, a single huge work of art. Juan felt a little shiver. In most parts of San Diego, you could find homeowners who’d opt out of the community image—or else demand to be included, but in some grotesque contradiction of their neighbors. West Fallbrook had tighter control than even most condo communities. You had the feeling that some single interest was watching over everything here, ready to act against intruders. In fact, that single interest went by the initials USMC.
Above him, his guide arrow had brightened. Now it turned onto a side street and swooped to the third house on the right. Caray. He wanted to slow down, maybe walk around the block. I haven’t even figured out how to talk to her parents. Chinese-American grownups were an odd lot, especially the ones who had been Detained. When they were released, some of them had left the USA, gone to Mexico or Canada or Europe. Most of the others just went back to their lives—even to government jobs—but with varying degrees of bitterness. And some had helped finish the war, and made the government look very foolish in the process.
He walked up the Gu’s driveway, at the same time snooping one last time for information on Miri’s family … . So, if William the Goofus wasn’t really Miri’s brother, who was he? William had never attracted that much attention; there were no ready-made rumors. And Fairmont’s security on student records was pretty strong. Juan poked around, found some good public camera data. Given a few minutes he’d have William all figured out—
But now he was standing at the Gu’s front door.
Miriam Gu was at the entrance. For a moment Juan thought she was going to complain that he was late, but she just waved him inwards.
Past the doorway, the street imagery cut off abruptly. They were standing in a narrow hallway with closed doors at both ends. Miri paused at the inner door, watching him.
There were little popping noises, and Juan felt something burn his ankle. “Hey, don’t fry my gear!” He had other clothes, but the Orozco family wasn’t rich enough to waste them.
Miri stared at him. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what?”
“That’s not your equipment I trashed; I was very careful. You were carrying hitchhikers.” She opened the inner door and her gestures were suddenly polite and gracious. There must be grownups watching.
As he followed her down the hall, Juan rebooted his wearable. The walls became prettier, covered with silk hangings. He saw he had visitor privileges in the Gu’s house system, but he couldn’t find any other communications paths out of the building. All his equipment was working fine, including the little extras like 360 peripheral vision and good hearing. So what about those popping sounds, the heat? That was somebody else’s equipment. Juan had been walking round like a fool with a KICK ME sign on his back. In fact, it was worse than that. He remembered assuring his mother that she would see any friends he brought to the house. Somebody had made that a lie. Fairmont had its share of unfunny jokesters, but this was gross. Who would do such a thing … yeah, who indeed.
Juan stepped from the hallway into a high-ceilinged living room. Standing by a real fireplace was a chunky Asian with buzzcut hair. Juan recognized the face from one of the few pictures he had of the guy. This was William Gu: Miriam’s father, not the Goofus. Apparently the two had the same first name.
Miriam danced ahead of him. She was smiling now. “Bill, I’d like you to meet Juan Orozco. Juan and I are doing the local project together. Juan, this is my father.”
Bill? Juan couldn’t imagine addressing his own Pa by his first name. These people were strange.
“Pleased to meet you, Juan.” Gu’s handshake was firm, his expression mild and unreadable. “Are you enjoying the final exams so far?”
Enjoying?? “Yes, sir.”
Miri had already turned away. “Alice? Do you have a minute? I’d like you to meet—”
A woman’s voice: “Yes, Dear. Just a moment.” Not more than two seconds passed, and a lady with a pleasant round face stepped into the room. Juan recognized her, too … except for the clothes: This evening, Alice Gu wore the uniform of a timeshare Lieutenant Colonel in the United State Marines. As Miri made the introductions, Juan noticed Mr. Gu’s fingers tapping on his belt.
“Oops. Sorry!” Alice Gu’s Marine Corps uniform was abruptly replaced by a business suit. “Oh, dear.” And the business suit morphed into the matronly dress that Juan remembered from the photos. When she shook his hand, she looked entirely innocent and motherly. “I hear that you and Miriam have a very interesting local project.”
“I hope so.” Mai
nly I hope Miriam will get around to telling me what it is. But he no longer doubted that Miriam Gu had traction.
“We’d really like to know more about it.”
Miri pulled a face. “Bill! You know we’re not supposed to talk about it. Besides, if it goes right we’ll be all done with it tonight.”
Huh?
But Mr. Gu was looking at Juan. “I know the school rules. I wouldn’t dream of breaking them.” Almost a smile. “But I think as parents we should at least know where you plan to be physically. If I understand the local exam, you can’t do it remotely.”
“Yes, sir,” said Juan. “That is true. We—”
Miriam picked up smoothly where Juan had run out of words. “We’re just going down to Torrey Pines Park.”
Colonel Gu tapped at her belt, and was quiet for a moment: “Well, that looks safe.”
Mr. Gu nodded. “But you’re supposed to do the local project without outside connectivity—”
“Except if an emergency comes up.”
Mr. Gu just tapped his fingers thoughtfully. Juan turned off all the house imagery, and zoomed in on Miriam’s pa. The guy was dressed casually, but with better clothes sense than most grownups had. In the house enhancement, he looked soft and sort of heavy. In the plain view, he just looked hard and solid. Come to think of it, the edge of his hand had felt calloused, just like in the movies.
Colonel Gu glanced at her husband, nodded slightly at him. She turned back to Juan and Miri. “I think it will be okay,” she said. “But we do ask a couple things of you.”
“Nothing against the exam rules,” said Miri.
“I don’t think so. First, since the park has no infrastructure and doesn’t allow visitors to put up camping networks, please take some of the old standalone gear we have in the basement.”
“Hey, that’s great, Alice! I was going to ask you about that.”
Juan could hear someone coming down the stairs behind him. He looked without turning, but there was no one visible yet, and his visitor’s privilege did not allow him to see through walls.
“And second,” Colonel Gu continued, “we think William should go along with you.”
Miri’s father? No … the Goofus. Ug.
This time, Miri Gu did not debate. She nodded, and said softly. “Well … if you think that is best.”
Juan spoke without thinking, “But …” then more diffidently: “But wouldn’t that violate the exam rules?”
The voice came from behind him. “No. Read the rules, Orozco.” It was William.
Juan turned to acknowledge the other. “You mean, you won’t be a team member?”
“Yeah, I’d just be your escort.” The Goofus had the same broad features, the same coloring as the rest of the family. He was almost as tall as Bill Gu, but scrawny. His face had a sweaty sheen like maybe—Oh. Suddenly Juan realized that while Bill and William were father and son, it was not in the order he had thought.
“It’s really your call, Dad,” said Mr. Gu.
William nodded. “I don’t mind.” He smiled. “The munchkin has been telling me how strange things are in junior high school. Now I’ll get to see what she means.”
Miri Gu’s smile was a little weak. “Well, we’d be happy to have you come along. Juan and I want to look at Alice’s gear, but we should be ready in half an hour or so.”
“I’ll be around.” William gave a twitchy wave and left the room.
“Alice and I will let you make your plans now,” Mr. Gu said. He nodded at Juan. “It was nice to meet you, Juan.”
Juan mumbled appropriate niceties to Mr. and Colonel Gu, and allowed Miri to maneuver him out of the room and down a steep stairway.
“Huh,” he said, looking over her shoulder, “you really do have a basement.” It wasn’t what Juan really wanted to say; he’d get to that in a minute.
“Oh, yeah. All the newer homes in West Fallbrook do.”
Juan noticed that this fact didn’t show up in the county building permits.
There was a brightly lit room at the bottom of the stairs. The enhanced view was of warm redwood paneling with an impossibly high ceiling. Unenhanced, the walls and ceiling were gray plastic sheeting. Either way, the room was crowded with cardboard boxes filled with old children’s games, sports equipment, and unidentifiable junk. This might be one of the few basements in Southern California, but it was clearly being used the way Juan’s family used the garage.
“It’s great we can take the surplus sensor gear. The only problem will be the stale emrebs—” Miri was already rummaging around in the boxes.
Juan hung back at the doorway. He stood with his arms crossed and glared at the girl.
She looked at him and some of the animation left her face.
“What?”
“I’ll tell you ‘what’!” The words popped out, sarcastic and loud. He bit down on his anger, and messaged her point-to-point. “I’ll tell you what. I came over here tonight because you were going to propose a local team project.”
Miri shrugged. “Sure.” She replied out loud, speaking in a normal voice. “But if we hustle, we can nail the whole project tonight! It will be one less background task—”
Still talking silently, directly: “Hey! This is supposed to be a team project! You’re just pushing me around.”
Now Miri was frowning. She jabbed a finger in his direction and continued speaking out loud, “Look. I’ve got a great idea for the local exam. You’re ideal for the second seat on it. You and me are about as far apart in background and outlook as anybody in eighth grade. They like that in a team. But that’s all I need you for, just to hold down the second seat. You won’t have to do anything but tag along.”
Juan didn’t reply for a second. “I’m not your doormat.”
“Why not? You’re Bertie Todd’s doormat.”
“I’m gone.” Juan turned for the stairs. But now the stairwell was dark. He stumbled on the first step, but then Miri Gu caught up with him, and the lights came on. “Just a minute. I shouldn’t have said that. But one way or another, we both gotta get through finals week.”
Yeah. And by now, most of the local teams were probably already formed. Even more, they probably were into project planning. If he couldn’t make this work, Juan might have to kiss off the local test entirely. Doormat! “Okay,” Juan said, walking back into the basement room. “But I want to know all about your ‘proposed project,’ and I want some say in it.”
“Yes. Of course.” She took a deep breath, and he got ready for still more random noise. “Let’s sit down … . Okay. You already know I want to go down on the ground to Torrey Pines Park.”
“Yeah.” In fact, he had been reading up on the park ever since she mentioned it to her parents. “I’ve also noticed that there are no recent rumorings hanging over the place … . If you know something’s going on there, I guess you’d have an edge.”
She smiled in a way that seemed more pleased than smug. “That’s what I figure, too. By the way, it’s okay to talk out loud, Juan, even to argue. As long as we keep our voices down, Bill and Alice are not going to hear. Sort of a family honor thing.” She saw his skeptical look, and her voice sharpened a little bit. “Hey, if they wanted to snoop, your point-to-point comm wouldn’t be any protection at all. They’ve never said so, but I bet that inside the house, my parents could even eavesdrop on a handshake.”
“Okay,” Juan resumed speaking out loud. “I just want some straight answers. What is it that you’ve noticed at Torrey Pines?”
“Little things, but they add up: Here’s the days the park rangers kept it closed this spring. Here’s the weather for the same period. They’ve got no convincing explanation for all those closures. And see how during the closure in January, they still admitted certain tourists from Cold Spring Harbor.”
Juan watched the stats and pictures play across the space between them. “Yes, yes, … yes. But the tourists were mainly vips attending a physicality conference at UCSD.”
“But the con
ference itself was scheduled with less than eighteen hours lead time.”
“So? ‘Scientists must be adaptable in these modern times.’”
“Not like this. I’ve read the meeting proceedings. It’s very weak stuff. In fact, that’s what got me interested.” She leaned forward. “Digging around, I discovered that the meeting was just a prop—paid for by Foxwarner and game Happenings.”
Juan looked at the abstracts. It would be really nice to talk to Bertie about this; he always had opinions or knew who to ask. Juan had to suppress the urge to call-out to him. “Well, I guess. I, um, I thought the UCSD people were more professional than this.” He was just puffing vapor. “You figure this is all a publicity conspiracy?”
“Yup. And just in time for the summer movie season. Think how quiet the major studios have been this spring. No mysteries. No scandals. Nothing obvious started on April First. They’ve fully faked out the second-tier studios, but they’re also driving the small players nuts, because we know that Foxwarner, Spielberg/Rowling Sony—all the majors—must be going after each other even harder than last year. About a week ago, I figured out that Foxwarner has cinema fellowship agreements with Marco Feretti and Charles Voss.” Who? Oh. World-class biotech guys at Cold Spring Harbor. Both had been at the UCSD conference. “I’ve been tracking them hard ever since. Once you guess what to look for, it’s hard for a secret to hide.”
And movie teasers were secrets that wanted to be found out.
“Anyway,” Miri continued, “I think Foxwarner is pinning their summer season on some bioscience fantasy. And last year, gameHappenings turned most of Brazil inside out.”
“Yeah, the Dinosauria sites.” For almost two months, the world had haunted Brazilian towns and Brazil-oriented websites, building up the evidence for their “Invasion from the Cretaceous.” The echoes of that were still floating around, a secondary reality that absorbed the creative attention of millions. Over the last twenty years, the worldwide net had come to be a midden of bogus sites and recursive fraudulence. Until the copyrights ran out, and often for years afterwards, a movie’s online presence would grow and grow, becoming more elaborate and consistent than serious databases. Telling truth from fantasy was often the hardest thing about using the web. The standard joke was that if real “space monsters” should ever visit Earth, they would take one look at the nightmares documented on the worldwide net, and flee screaming back to their home planet.
The Hard SF Renaissance Page 136