"Oh."
As Corrag walked across the floor to get to the table, Shearstein looked past her to the stage where a band was taking its place: three men on electrified clavichords hung about their necks and the singer, a woman about thirty, with thin arms in a sleeveless, cotton Gotzeitgeist dress. Corrag slid in to the restored pleather bench beside Shearstein, and he finally wrinkled his eyebrows awkwardly at her.
"You came."
"Of course. Didn't you think I would?"
"I had my doubts."
"You're not concerned?"
"About what?" asked Shearstein, stifling a yawn.
"Me being here and you being here."
"You and I are free Democravians. I am fulfilling my duties as a state attorney to ensure you're back on track."
"Yes, but the Bazoom Club? And couldn't this be seen as undue influence on your part?"
"No, not at all. You must understand the algorithms are constantly modulating in favor of greater human intercourse as one reaches the status of augmentation. You should be flattered, not be attacking me."
Corrag nodded. She thought she should appreciate his candor. The woman began her song after a brief confessionary introduction, with coy gestures using her arms and hands turned palms upward. It was a bluesy number about living on skid row in the nineteen thirties, with mentions of Prohibition and Al Capone in a gun battle with the feds. Prohibition and Al Capone were signs of the decadence of the old institutions, of the inhumanity of the old United States, according to Miss Schilling.
"What kind of place is this? How does it get away with this kind of entertainment?" asked Corrag.
"The Cloud Councilors are tolerant. They have to be. They are slowly proceeding with loosening some social restrictions. It's progress."
"Who are the Cloud Councilors?"
"Nobody is certain. I, of course don't know."
"Aren't you an attorney?"
"Yes, but my level of augmentation is only Code Blue."
"Why?"
"I like my privacy."
"So the higher your level of augmentation..."
"Yes, the more open your mental process."
"Until..."
"At the highest levels you are basically one mind with the Cloud Councilors."
"No-one ever taught me that."
"No. It's not widely understood. There are some things that the people don't need to know."
The woman finished her song. The Japanese tourists stood and clapped effusively. They were heavy-duty fans of the band. The head waitress came by and asked if they wanted to order. She gave Shearstein two old-time plastic menus. He gave one to Corrag and asked the waitress to come back later.
The entrees included poached salmon and beef sirloin in a wine marinade. That was unusual, particularly wild salmon. How did they get their hands on prohibited feedstocks? Corrag decided to order the salmon with asparagus and a kumara and risotto soufflé. Shearstein wanted glazed roast jabali and rainforest snails in a duck sauce with a parsnip salad. He returned the menus to the waitress.
The waitress arrived with their orders and served them silently while they listened to the singer continue with her set of songs about life on the periphery of the social world. The food came almost instantly, although it was supposed to celebrate old-fashioned cookery, according to the blurb on the menu. They ate together without talking. Corrag had never tasted such delicious food, the meats and rich sauces and fresh vegetables. It was a bounty that the Democravian elders had decided could only be available on a limited basis, not trusting that the old greed would not reassert itself in the absence of limits. The music too, was a throwback to older pleasures and thus a subversion of the Federation’s puritanical aversion to frivolous, corrupting entertainment.
"This is good," said Corrag, at last, suppressing a burp.
Shearstein smiled enigmatically.
"Tell me about the Picket book."
"It's good. I like it. I like his style. What he has to say."
"Do you appreciate the basic assumptions about the rise of Democravian order."
"I do understand. Of course. I just am not ready to sacrifice myself to it."
"What do you mean? Sacrifice seems like a curious word."
"But what about happiness? That's curious to me because it doesn't get represented at all in the graphs or the numbers. There's so much I want to see and hear and taste. Don't you have doubts?"
"Of course I have doubts. Everyone has doubts. But look at me. I'm happy. There's much I am still learning. You never stop learning."
"Yes, but how free are you? Okay you're Code Blue. That still supposes some level of directed thought."
"Not much really. Basic alignment with the Federation goals. That's all."
"I'm just not sure. How free are you? Really," insisted Corrag.
"I'm proving it to you right now. What do you think this is about?"
"I'd like to see you show some emotion, Edward."
"You are a piece of work. Do you know what I mean by that?"
"Sounds like something Alana would say. My mother. She says I've inherited a propensity for drama."
"Well, Corrag. A sense of drama can be a good thing. The Federation needs the passion and energy of young people such as you. But freedom, is that what you're talking about? Freedom is nothing. You hold on to nothing in order to be truly free. The ideals of an advanced society can be measured in direct correlation to the absence of desires."
"I know. That’s what Picket says. The negative wellness correlation. What someone once called the zombie society. 'Cause it's dead and doesn't know it."
Shearstein looked at her intently, and Corrag felt that she could intimate what he was thinking. He was determined to get to her, to make an impact, make himself felt as a man. This was beyond his normal duties. It was something he was taking on as a goal for himself, and she was flattered, although scared also. It verged on anger, what he was thinking. She was like some project or something for him, and if it failed, if it blew up in his face, if she rebuffed him, what then? He had insisted that there was nothing untoward, that he was interested solely in her education, but should she trust him? Would he recommend her for the VocAg track instead? Would she not be allowed to travel East? Maybe she'd be compelled to take up a place in the HumInt Corps and fight in the Basin against the tribes. She remembered what Ben had said about the shape shifting capabilities of their enemies, how it had seemed he and his companions were hallucinating when under attack. That’s what she felt now looking at Shearstein look at her. She was under attack and he could shift at any moment and take on another, more monstrous appearance. But then that thought went away and another took its place. He was a door, a portal to the kind of knowledge she had never learned in school. She wanted to keep that door swinging open.
They stayed for the singer's final set. The songs took on another feel, just as nostalgic, but more ballad-like, more personal. There was a song Corrag really liked about a mother mourning the loss of a son who had gone away to war, and it seemed like a pro-tribes song. More people showed up in the club by the end of the set, a motley crew of men and women with aged faces and lumpy bodies, obviously not being cared for by the Health Administration. Shearstein made several drumming motions with his fingers when they all came in. Then he motioned for the waitress and paid the bill with a swipe of a personal account bitcoin card, not the Justice Department employee ID.
"Let's go," he said, and he waited for her to stand before leading the way outside.
He stopped and turned on the sidewalk, waiting for her. The air was cool, and there was a rising full moon behind him coming over the tops of the warehouses.
"Let's keep walking," said Corrag.
"No," said Shearstein. "Aimless wandering. That will alert the algorithms. We want to go someplace specific. The Hotel Junipero. They make an excellent coffee gelato."
"Well, sure," said Corrag, sounding to her own ears false, overeager and childlike.
"It's just a few blocks," said
Shearstein.
They walked side by side on the mostly empty sidewalks without touching.
"Did you see the people who came in?" asked Shearstein.
"Yes."
"Anti-war disaligners. Want to take us back to the days of the old United States when such protests were allowed. You know what dissension did for us then. Anybody learns about that in school."
"Why are they allowed to?"
"To what? Associate?"
"Yeah."
"A few protest songs and they can be mollified. Believe me, Corrag. The Federation knows what it's doing."
The Hotel Junipero was a block from the Taylor Jabones Convention Center and was the oldest structure in the city, built in the 2020s by a billionaire tech tycoon as a museum cum residence. It boasted unique Botero sculptures in the atrium and huge, ornate glass chandeliers throughout the first floor. The bar was full of people in suits and fancy jewelry, milling around in a muted, sophisticated buzz. They seemed to be travelers, coming and going to and from exotic locales. Shearstein greeted men and women on their way to the bar and stopped for several seconds of an exchange with a man whom he said was also an attorney. The other man's attitude was breezy and cocksure, and it seemed artificially merry inside the place. Corrag decided that they must have had the O levels turned up. They both had gelatos. They didn't talk much. Corrag felt that Shearstein was nervous.
"The usual quid pro quos don't apply any more, Corrag."
"What does that mean?"
"Do you have any questions for me?"
"I have lots of questions. Why are you taking all this trouble at my expense?"
"Because I care about you? Why wouldn't I?"
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
That wasn't enough for her, but she followed him out again to the lobby. He seemed almost handsome in this place, surrounded by the ornate decor and serious people, testimonies to a former era's extravagance. Someday again there would be opulence, was the promise of the Hotel Junipero, amidst the Federation's egalitarian ethic of utility above all. But Corrag, although interested in this forbidden world, was intent on a different wisdom.
Out on the street he kissed her. He tasted metallic, slightly bitter, as if it was his very essence she could taste. And he didn't know how to kiss, just pressing himself against her mouth and sticking his tongue bravely forward in an expeditionary, ambitious way.
"Okay. Now what?" she said, balancing on one leg.
"Don't be so quick, Corrag. You're too linear. Obviously you need fine tuning."
Corrag felt her face flush, even in the dark.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"The Federation augment provides superior insights into human behavior, believe me," said Shearstein. "You can't know because you have no access. But someday...”
"Well, I guess that's one upload I'm lacking." Corrag's sarcastic tone was meant as a subtle chide, a moment of intimacy, but Shearstein did not take it that way. He seemed offended, suddenly agitated. He hailed a taxi with an abrupt wave of an emosponder.
They rode in silence back to St. Michael's Close and Durkiev Drive. He seemed to be punishing her with his lack of words, but Corrag was confused. She couldn't think of what to say to break the spell of gloom that had come over Shearstein.
The cab stopped in front of her driveway.
"Wait here," said Shearstein to the driver, a bot. They both got out of the cab and walked up the drive to her door.
"Well, I guess this is it," said Corrag, stopping.
"Corrag, don't you realize what is going on?"
"I do. You're angry. I'm sorry."
"I'm risking everything for you -- my reputation, my family. This is crazy. For what? For who? You're just a girl. A silly, spoiled girl." His words came out with a hiss, and the anger had transformed his face, twisting it in the dim light of stars and streetlamps.
Corrag felt herself get hot with anger. But instead of fighting back, she thought suddenly of Abel.
"You risked it all for me because there are some things that you can't control. You should be grateful instead of angry. I wish there was a way I could make it better for you."
She looked down. He stepped aside. When she looked up at him again, he was staring at the night beyond the roof of the house. It seemed like he was in pain. Clearing his throat, he finally spoke.
"Yes, you're right. I should be grateful to you. Good night."
Then he turned and walked down the driveway.
She heard the smooth hiss of the metallic tires on the magnetized carbon fiber road surface as the cab with Shearstein drove away down Durkiev Drive, and perhaps with it all her chances for advancement.
What was he really thinking? Had he been augmenting when he finally spoke? These questions were a torment to her, made worse when she finally got up to her room and switched on the nanowall to have Ben's low def selfie on the home page there with her. His mischievous smile seemed a beacon of goodness in the dark. She sat in bed wondering and confused. The muddle she was in could not be any worse. If only she and Ben could have made their way to the hinterlands together. Life as outcasts was preferable to the torment she felt, the torture of having her fate hang in the balance, decided by the whimsical moods of the Democravian Cloud Council. Even if Shearstein cleared her for travel as a youth emissary, would their illicit association sully his recommendation? She felt incredibly vulnerable, with nowhere to turn for help. There were too many questions to contemplate and she couldn't bring it up with anybody at the moment. She texted Ben.
"Wish you were here," she typed, adding the emoticon for fear, a dragon's wing. She sat in bed watching reruns of old reality series. There was no answer back. She turned off the nanoscreen and curled up in the dark. Someday she would not be scared, but that night fear ruled her, running up her back like cat's claws and shortening her breath as if the air itself had curdled.
Three -- New Albion
They were running late, as usual. Alana yelled at the housebot because Corrag's plaid skirt wasn't ironed to her satisfaction.
"It's okay, Mom. It'll be fine," said Corrag, trying to keep her emotions under control. It felt so strange to be leaving home, like jumping off a moving portagon. It had all happened so fast, she hadn't had time to process. A few days after Ricky and Alana had returned from their Alaskan cruise, the council met to handle a complaint about export quotas by the fruit and tree nut growers association. Ricky, as a tenured professional and a close friend of Councilor Culpepper, the former president of the UUW, had managed to jump the list and bring up his daughter's petition for travel to the Republican Homeland as a youth emissary in the public session. The petition had been granted unanimously without preconditions, based on the recommendation they had received from Attorney Shearstein. For Corrag, it was a triumph, and for Ricky and Alana, a huge relief to have Corrag once again back on track. Ties with the Republic were always fraught with complications. By not setting preconditions, Alana fretted that perhaps they had not valued Corrag's potential contributions as an augmented adult, but Ricky was certain that it showed they had absolute confidence that she would return a committed Democravian after her sojourn in the land of the unreconstructed free market jungle, as Ricky termed it.
For Alana it was a chance to prove to her family once and for all that the superior way of life was to be found in the enlightened haven that was the Democravian Federation. Corrag would shine the reflected light of her mother's rebellion against the staid and unreconstructed generations of settlers that had come before her. She reminded Corrag at breakfast for it seemed the thousandth time that as a youth emissary she was counted on to hold to a higher standard of behavior than the cousins she would soon be meeting. They sounded like a bunch of ignorant hicks to Corrag, but she knew that Alana tended to exaggerate.
The housebot ironed the skirt one more time and brought it up to her room. As she put it on, she felt a twinge of regret, thinking the old housebot would probably be traded in by the tim
e she got back for a newer model, one of the perks of their family status on the Rankbook. Her bag was packed with clothes and toiletries. She had stuffed in some of the little childhood mementos from the top drawer of her desk. But her emosponder had thousands of photos of the house, the garden, Durkiev Drive, the Rosaleses, Ricky and Alana and of course the Rosaria beach, everything she needed to keep her strong. The trip back East was still like going into enemy territory, despite the decade or so of peace between the continental rivals, and she wanted to fortify herself against the temptations she was sure to find. Although the council had affirmed, and her parents strongly still believed that Corrag was a loyal and heartfelt Democravian, the truth was she wasn't sure who or what she was, and this wavering sense of belonging, she thought, could possibly be her downfall.
Ricky insisted on driving to the Lax tubid port. It would have been easier to take the subporter, but he wanted to drive. The tubid port was up the coast, halfway between Edmundstown and the Bay. It was packed with vacation goers headed to the Federation Cup in São Paulo and soldiers headed home or back to base. Corrag scanned their faces, seeing in them some of the changes that she had seen in Ben, and thinking also that he might be dead at that very moment. She had not heard from him since the text she had sent after that outing to the Bazoom Club with Shearstein. She had still not talked to anybody about that night, the loneliest of her life.
She looked at Alana across the table at the deli. The lines of mother worry softened for a moment. Corrag felt like she would cry. There was so much she held back from Alana, but she would miss her. Soon enough she'd be home, and perhaps then Alana would accept her as a person in her own right, not some projection of her own desires.
"Wipe the jelly from the corner of your mouth, Corrag," said Alana.
Ricky smiled.
"Look at you about to make your first trip on a tubid. Our little Corrag."
"Okay, Dad. That's enough."
Corrag dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. This was the right time to go. All three stood.
"I'll miss you," she said, stifling a sob.
"Aw, baby," said Alana. "You'll be home for Edmundsday."
The Victor's Heritage (The Jonah Trilogy Book 2) Page 7