Parts Per Million

by Julia Stoops

  Nelson sighs. Deirdre lifts her hand in her quoting mode, and says to the pipes above them, “‘Men would say of him he went up and down he came without his eyes; and that it was better not to even think of ascending.’”

  “That’s good,” says Nelson. “Let me guess, Sophocles?”

  “Plato,” she says.

  “I could have used it in ’96.”

  The copier hums. The lamplight is drab and brown. “So I realized I had to leave the Northwest Forest Alliance,” he says, “but I’ll be honest with you, by then I was in love with a woman in the group.”

  Deirdre says, “Ah.”

  “She was pure dedication. Fiery, passionate, courageous. Everything I wasn’t, with my spongy misguided conservation, my cushy Forest Service career”—he sweeps a hand out—“my unquestioning faith in the—” His hand clips the lamp, it lands with a crash and the light goes out.

  “Sorry,” he says, and he fumbles in the dark. The sheet tangles around him and he kicks her. “Sorry!”

  “You big oaf,” she says, laughing.

  “But I’m sorry.” He reaches down and touches shards of lightbulb glass on the floor. “About the mess,” he says. He pulls his hand away. “I’m such a goddamn mess.”

  “Yeah, well, me too,” she says. The flat of her hand smooths a slow circle on his back. It wells up, how much he’s missed being touched like this, wells up like water in the desert.

  PART THREE

  22: JEN

  On the laptop I connect to the network. My network. There would be no network if it wasn’t for me. The only other person in #rezist is the German script kiddie who won’t take a hint. Lame lame lame. “Ciao” I type, and sign off.

  The bed bounces under my back. There’s a balled-up T-shirt digging into my shoulder and I throw it across the room. It hits the wall and catches on the antenna sticking out of the bookcase.

  No Nelson at breakfast. So he finally found his way into Deirdre’s panties. Let’s hope he’s smarter than the average lobster and can find his way out.

  Fuck, I can’t stand being kept out of the basement. Should just go down there. Walk in on them. Who the fuck cares.

  But noooo. Give them their priiiivacy, says Fetzer.

  Back to the laptop. Yesterday’s work.

  Now this makes me feel better. The stuff we found in among the shit I downloaded from Reynolds’s workstation.

  Okay. Harry Lane prez to Reynolds, chair of Engineering, first memo: No, we will not entertain defense contracts. Does not jibe with Harry Lane's mission, yadda yadda. Second memo: No defense contracts, dumbass. Third memo: Pleased to begin negotiations for the defense contract.

  Big fat WTF on that one.

  Then a lot of back and forth hammering out details. Fucking five million clams worth of details. To me that seems kind of generous in exchange for some algorithms—heh, I’d be happy with fifty thousand, but then the Pentagon’s not asking me, are they? And for good reason.

  Then there’s the extended project description: The US military and intelligence communities have an ever-increasing need to monitor live video feeds and search large volumes of archived video data for activities of interest.

  Sure you do, Big Brother. And now you’ve found some obedient Thought Police technicians.

  Well, we’re going to blow you open, you pricks. Fucking fascists and your fucking cronies, your fucking greed and your fucking unaccountable neoliberal empire.

  Finally Nelson emerges from the house and comes down the path. He opens the driver’s door, nearly sits on Fetzer’s lap. Fetzer facepalms. Nelson walks around the front of the car, climbs in on the other side of me, and does a wallet-checking pat on his nerdwear jacket. Fetzer starts the engine and swings the dull white nose of the car onto a lurching U-turn. “So, Nelson.” He grins and whacks the wheel. “You son of a bitch. You finally got some action.”

  “Eyes on the road,” I say.

  Nelson holds up both hands. “Let’s just focus on what we need to do today.”

  Fetzer spits out a laugh. “Come on, admit it, you are now one happy camper.”

  “Deirdre isn’t ‘action,’ all right? I love her.”

  Fetz rolls his eyes rather elaborately for someone in control of a two-ton vehicle. He whines, “‘Deirdre isn’t action,’” then he reaches past me and pokes a grubby finger at Nelson’s jacket. “We want details.”

  Nelson snaps, “No.”

  “Jeez, I don’t,” I say.

  Fetzer stops at a light and gives me a look. “He bombed.”

  Nelson folds his arms. “You’re not going to manipulate me, Irving Fetzer.”

  “And I’m not in the mood for titty-talk,” I say.

  Fetzer steps on the gas and we all lurch backward. “Yep. You bombed.”

  Time to take abrasive action. I reach over and roll Nelson’s window down a couple of inches. “Need some air.” Nelson’s hair blows around.

  “Okay, okay,” Nelson says to the dashboard. “It was wonderful. Happy now?”

  “Wonderful?” Fetzer waves him away. “You sound like Franky.”

  Nelson closes his eyes and laughs.

  Me, I’m going to barf on the folders in my lap.

  23: FETZER

  It got annoying, but the upside was Nelson wasn’t depressed anymore. He was, however, distracted: he and Deirdre couldn’t be in the same room without being next to each other. And breakfasts got off to a slow start with him coming upstairs late. But I was thankful he put up with that tiny camp cot instead of bringing her up to his room. The walls upstairs were thin.

  One day when we were all at the breakfast table, Franky came by during his morning run. He dropped a fat handful of mail from our P.O. box on the kitchen table. “From your fans,” he said.

  “We could use the affirmation,” muttered Jen.

  That morning we’d found out about Operation TIPS, the Terrorism Information and Prevention System. Truckers, letter carriers, and utility workers would be recruited as spies because their routines made them “well-positioned to notice suspicious activity” generated by the rest of us.

  I, too, was eager to think about something other than my country’s giddy slide into overt fascism, and I sorted the mail into piles. Bills, junk, and hand-addressed. Hand-addressed was usually the best. Sometimes it was cool surprises like obscure newspaper clippings from a friend, or a supportive letter from some elderly radical. That day there was only one hand-addressed. It wasn’t bulky. “One of these days girls’ll send us naked pictures,” I said.

  Franky poured himself coffee, pulled the comics from the stack of papers on the floor, and sat down. “Keep the hope alive, Fetz.”

  Nelson opened an envelope addressed to him, and it turned out to be from a sustainability conference in San Francisco that wanted him to submit a proposal.

  Jen said, “Wow. They want you to give a talk? That rocks.”

  “Congrats,” I said, and wondered how on earth he was going to focus on such a task.

  Nelson said, “Yeah. It’s an honor.” But then his eye caught the logo on another envelope. “Oh, look where this is from.” It contained a single sheet. Reading it made him hold his breath, then let out a sigh. “Well, at least we had some warning. It’s official. Members of Omnia Mundi are no longer welcome on the Harry Lane University campus.”

  “That arrogant prick,” said Jen.

  “Why?” said Franky. “Are you guys, like, banned?”

  “Long story,” I said, “Let’s read something else.” I opened the handwritten envelope. Portland postmark, ink-jet paper, word-processed font. Except there was no greeting, and no signature. Just three short paragraphs. I scanned them fast.

  “Hey, uh, we got some hate mail.” I smoothed the paper flat and read out loud. “‘How low will you and you partners in crime the SOCIALISTS go to brainwash the people of America? Well evidently there is no limit to how low you will go.

  “‘We’re BLESSED with the opportunity to contribute to the safety a
nd security of our great nation. America is great and our best days are ahead. You are disgusting for sowing the seeds of despair and undermining our country. You all deserve to die.

  “‘You think you can get away with this but we’re watching your every move. You’re going to slip up, and we’re going to get you. You will get what you deserve.’”

  I looked up at their stares.

  “Fuck,” said Jen, and she took the letter. “Is that a death threat? Wow, our very first.”

  “It’s not funny,” I said.

  Under Jen’s elbow was an Operation TIPS story, and I could see the words . . . higher percentage of ‘citizen spies’ than the former East Germany had under the Stasi . . .

  “You should take that to the police,” said Franky.

  Jen sneered. “The who?”

  “He’s right. We should,” said Nelson.

  But after an hour or so the surprise wore off, and we started joking about our “partners in crime the SOCIALISTS.” We brought it up a couple of times after that, but we were busy, scattered, and no one got around to running that particular errand.

  24: NELSON

  Nelson has hardly been able to concentrate on the morning papers. Fetzer carries his bowl and cup to the sink. “We’re working on the House and Senate report this morning, you and me? And Jen’s taking care of that broken web forum.”

  “Yeah,” says Nelson. He watches Fetzer head down to the basement, then he glides his hand up Deirdre’s arm. “The House and Senate report is the last thing I feel like doing.”

  She gives him her alone-at-last smile.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he says.

  “Mmmm?”

  In this morning light, under this soft sky over this house, over this shining city he calls home. This kitchen sink and these red-breasted finches and this warehouse next door. In here, out there, the trajectory of his life. This is where it gets righted, set on a new course.

  He traces the back of her hand. “Been thinking about our future.”

  She flips her hair back. “The future is out of our hands.”

  “Well,” he says. Hope has frothed through him these past few weeks. A delicious sense of possibility. “I like to think it can be anything we want.”

  Another smile. “Typical American optimist.”

  He sits back. “Really? Didn’t realize I represented the national character.”

  She scrapes butter across her toast. “Yer a typical Yank.”

  “Riiiight,” he says, then, “Thing is, what do you want, sweetheart?”

  “A better camera than the one in me bloody phone.”

  He laughs. “Besides that. In the long term.”

  “Long term?” The knife pauses in her hand. Her topaz eyes. The sharp V of her mouth. “Now is fockin’ brilliant.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s fantastic.”

  She’s so much happier than when she first arrived. They both are. He’s never felt this way about anyone. It’s obvious: they’re right for each other. They need each other.

  He rubs her shoulder. “But. Well. What about the future?”

  “You know I’m not legal.”

  The perfect opportunity to bring it up. But she stands and takes her plate and uneaten toast to the compost. He comes up behind her, puts his arms around her, and watches her hands rinse the plate. He mimes her actions until she giggles.

  “So we could, you know. Get married. Problem solved.”

  Deirdre balances the plate in the rack, then picks up the sponge, wipes around the edge of the sink. Her bottom is soft against his crotch, her neck is smooth against his cheek. Downstairs Fetzer’s no doubt looking at the news online. Upstairs Jen must be taking a shower because the pipes are whooshing.

  If they knew what he’d just said, they’d think he was nuts. But they don’t understand. They never have.

  He slides his hands under Deirdre’s T-shirt, drifts around her belly, brushes over her small, soft breasts. “It’s very soon, I know. To be talking about it. But I’m happy. You’re happy. So why even pretend there’s anything else we’d rather do?”

  Deirdre arches her spine. Lets go of the sponge. Far away a lawn mower drones. She’s trembling.

  He rests a slow kiss on her neck. “You never talk about your previous marriage.”

  Her bottom presses against him. She whispers, “I don’t ask about yours.”

  “I’d tell you everything if you did.”

  “What would be the point?” she murmurs. “We’re here, now.”

  “I love you,” he says into her ear. Her head turns until her cheek is under his mouth. He kisses her cheek. Her face comes around. Between kisses she says something, it sounds like, “Here,” and her hands are digging under his clothes.

  The stainless steel of the sink is warm in the morning sun, and she’s so warm in between. He bites her hair. A spoon gets knocked into the sink. Shuffly, giggly, gaspy, pressing against her so hard her hand gets jammed down there, making her laugh. Never stop laughing, sweet Deirdre.

  Zippers. Buttons. Stupid underpants! Hot skin.

  Fetzer’s downstairs. Jen’s upstairs. For god’s sake, nobody move.

  More laughing, hurry-up-soft this time. Up you go. Edge of the sink. Oh yeah. Her thighs around his waist. Lucky lucky lucky. Oh my god.

  Her mouth opens; her eyes, body, throat, all catch in a soft high sound.

  25: FETZER

  I was taking a break during the August show, hanging out with Jen in the engineer’s booth, when Sylvia dropped by. She’d never visited us during a show before, so it was a surprise. She brought a tray of iced coffees, and the three of us sipped and watched through the glass as Nelson carried on alone.

  “. . . minimum of four percent of Americans will be recruited into the TIPS program,” he said.

  “That was quite a story about the Bush protest,” said Sylvia. “You might even get a call or two.”

  I waved at the call board. “There’s people on hold already.” There were two coffees left. “Who’s the fifth one for?” I asked.

  Sylvia stirred her straw through her ice. “Is Deirdre around?”

  “She’s working,” said Jen.

  “. . . TIPS informant reports will be available to local police forces . . .”

  “By the way, you go to Harry Lane?” I asked.

  Sylvia picked up a folder to fan herself. “No. Columbia.”

  “. . . targeted individuals will remain unaware that reports are being made . . .”

  “Why?” she said, “Do I look like a Laney?”

  In those kitten heels and tailored red dress, she looked nothing like a typical Laney.

  “Just wondering.” I said. “We’re about to out their sordid little affair with the Pentagon.”

  Sylvia’s eyebrows went up and she stopped fanning.

  “. . . cable installers and telephone repair workers will report on anything in private homes deemed suspicious,” said Nelson.

  “Do tell,” said Sylvia.

  Jen said, “Harry Lane U got this mega Pentagon contract to make software that reads surveillance video.”

  “Reads it? Automatically?” The fanning resumed.

  Jen faded in the music as Nelson wound up his segment. “No need for human eyes.”

  Sylvia said, “How can software interpret video?”

  Jen shrugged. “They don’t even have software that interprets human faces or speech a hundred percent, let alone complex movements.”

  “You just know there’s going to be mistakes,” I said. “People will get killed.”

  “Huh,” said Sylvia, filing the information under “mildly interesting.” Jen pressed a button, the “Music of Dissent” segment started, and Nelson took off his headphones and rubbed his hands over his ears.

  “So is this Harry Lane Pentagon thing a secret?” said Sylvia.

  “It wasn’t super secret,” I said, “but they never announced it.”

  Sylvia sipped her coffee and gazed at Nelson. “Don’t
take offense, dears, but are you sure anyone’s listening?”

  Jen and I shared a quick smile. “Quite sure,” I said. “Classes started this week. We made a cryptic announcement to the student association. And Jen posted another on the student forum. Laneys have been bugging us with questions all day.”

  “Ninety seconds,” said Jen.

  “I need to get back in there,” I said. “Oh, and FYI, the chair of Engineering? Guess where he used to hang out.”

  Sylvia indulged me by looking up at the ceiling as if in thought, then said, “I give up.”

  “The Heritage Foundation!”

  Her grimace was mild, even elegant. “Now that’s a bad fit for Harry Lane U.”

  Jen said, “Fetz, sixty seconds.”

  I picked up my coffee and another for Nelson. “Thanks for bringing these,” I said on the way out.

  Naively.

  26: JEN

  I type “losers” but it appears in the IRC window a nanosecond after Violetfire and ignite sign off.

  2:17 a.m. and it’s just me and a blinking cursor. Crap. I hate being the last one left.

  Everything’s quiet. Like the world’s slipped into a coma.

  Maybe I could edit the calls we got today on the show. Best call-in ever, so many angry post-Bush-protest Portlanders, so many pissed-off Laneys, so many excellent points. Good idea of Nelson’s to make a downloadable file of the highlights.

  But audio editing’s the last thing I feel like doing.