"Come on, Beithune!" shouted Corrag. She dropped her bag and rushed with the others to the edge of light.
The ball dropped. Beithune gained first possession, spinning with it on his left foot in a tight radius. His hat fell off and his long hair flowed behind. Shulder was on his back, no delay in his reactions. His face registered a focus that seemed demonic, superhuman. His shoulder went down and with a grunt he forced Beithune aside, leaving the blue ball exposed and rolling. Sliding, both of them went after it, but Beithune, lightning in his reflexes, was up quicker. Corrag's heart was in her throat as Beithune leapt after it and cocked his left leg for a try at the target lit up in a bright spot on the wall beyond. Shulder let out a desperate war cry and spun, his foot aimed at Beithune's head in a swirling sidekick. Beithune ducked and stopped, foot on the ball, and reversed himself, spinning against the direction of Shulder's kick. In three quick leaps he was at the wall, but instead of flicking at the target, he reached for the tool in the pocket of his homespun pants, reached down and stabbed the ball, popping it, then pinned the flattened skin against the wall in an impressive arm strike. This was a sign of relent, and despite the defeat, Shulder's life was automatically spared. The lights came on. Shulder stayed down on the floor, his face, contorted in rage, hidden by his two hands.
The giant came up to Beithune and Corrag next to him.
"I must say I speak for all here. That was a hell of a good barrier challenge. As a prize, here's a new vertglove." The giant held out in his hand the vertglove dyed in rainbow colors.
"Oh, and something else with that."
Beithune reached out his hand again and took the vial the giant was handing him.
"Be easy on these. Like I said, this is still in the rollout phase. Someone with your capabilities should be okay, but never overconfident. Got it?"
"Yes, I do," said Beithune, smiling.
They were walking across the bridge to the western wastelands, Beithune and Corrag, in the late afternoon. Behind them were the blocks and blocks of burned out tenements and refugee camps smoldering with scrapwood cooking fires. Corrag stopped and scanned the horizon behind them. Such a landscape of human suffering hadn't even existed in her imagination before. The subporter had taken them through the tunnels and spit them out at the foot of the bridge, but even there, in the bowels of the city's infrastructure, in the higher elevations that had been spared the destruction of the Great Flood, she could still smell the rot, the waste of life on the streets that permeated the old concrete and sank into the ground. Ahead were the parking lots for commuters. They'd been quiet since leaving Sandelsky, but Corrag wanted to talk now.
"Why does the Republic allow all this?"
"You mean all the poor?"
"Yeah. It wouldn't take that much to build it better, at least. Put nanofiber road surfaces down. Plant some bamboo as a carbon soak."
"It's called co-dependence. You don't want people to rely on caregivers. Then they can't fend for themselves. We want a land of the free."
The zipcar was in lot 49. Beithune stashed her bag in the trunk. He helped Corrag adjust the reclining seat. She felt suddenly like she could sleep, but wanted to stay awake to watch the new landscape. Beithune fitted his emosponder to the rearview mirror and placed his beret and the new vertglove in the glove compartment. Then he spoke into the emosponder.
"Home."
The zipcar started rolling, and within minutes they were out of the parking lot and cruising at a comfortable, constant speed up the northern highway. The houses were metal prefabs, with occasional wooden survivors of the megastorms that habitually whipped up out of the islands. There was constant road advertising, selling everything from nano-milk to Kleenex. Apparently Kleenex was a panacea for fitfulness and instability, to be used to wipe away imperfection and liquid mess, especially for older people. Corrag had never seen age as a demographic component, but that was because in the Fed it was supposed to not exist anymore. But here in the Republic, home truths were not kept secret. They were an opportunity for merchandising. And older, poorer Republicans were the main targets of commercial remediation.
They stopped at a roadside refreshment kiosk and recharger. Beithune plugged the zipper in, while Corrag used the vacuum toilet and then wandered around the kiosk. There were videos on the nanowall screens here for popular items such as the Klondike Tours voyages to Kazakhstan with celebrity guides like Eunique Bieber. Beithune appeared at her side silent as a ghost while she listened to Eunique Bieber plug the service.
"Some of this stuff is pretty cheesy," he said.
"Why is that?"
"Mostly geared to old timers with the mullah to buy such garbage."
"Young people don't?"
"No. There's high unemployment for our generation. We have to fight hard to get jobs and move away from home. Save money for a house. Pay off the college debt. Buy a solar charger and the portagon. Getta hold of the dream, don't you know? That's the Republican deal."
"Yeah, we have it pretty easy in the Fed. No advetising, and no false hopes."
"I'll say. But then you don't have as many options. Freedom of choice is the rock solid foundation of the Repho. Limited choices means no freedom."
"Maybe. What are your choices?"
"Finish college and find a job. Just finished my freshman year. I'm on a co-op semester. Supposed to be doing an internship."
"With who?"
"The family business. I'm a design consultant."
"The family business?"
"You'll see. My mother runs it. So it can change pretty quickly from one week to the next. My consultancy work consists pretty much of staying one step ahead of her whims."
"Okay."
"Yeah."
They got back in the zipcar for the last couple hundred miles of the journey through the woodlands of the great North. The trees were genetically modified pine and hardwood, grown to immense heights under the carbon-charged atmosphere. The forest was meant as a reservoir for carbon uptake, but the giant trees often toppled due to the pulpy fiber of quick growth. Several times they slowed for roadside crews working on sawing up the thick trunks that had blocked traffic. The crews were young men and women, laughing, with bronzed faces, and their zipbikes and zipcars were parked haphazardly nearby in a clearing, as if they'd been summoned in a hurry to take charge of the problem.
Beithune slowed and exited the highway at St. Albans. Then a series of back roads ensued, until they descended a steep hill towards a river valley, crossed an oxbow of the broad, black river eastward on an old covered bridge reinforced with titanium inserts in the beams, and ascended the switchback on the other side into a hill country covered in windmills on the ridges.
The Hunnewells lived on the farm that had been in the family for five generations, starting with the original internal migrant in the mid-1960s who had moved up from the cities, bought the failing dairy farm, and taught music in the local school while reworking the land into an alpaca and wild boar reservation. Since then, the farm had raised Highland cattle and tilapia, white fish, prawns, and mealworms -- all sources of protein and high energy value as food stocks for the food and entertainment industry. With the growth of synthetic printing, they had been forced to adapt once again and now were experimenting with varietals of maple syrup for the export market.
The family house was a large, turret style Fortress with glass walls on the south exposure leading out to a lawn studded with artificial ponds and artifacts from local studios. The zipcar parked itself on the gravel drive, and Corrag got out and stretched her legs. The housebot was stepping down the tiled path from the house, but Beithune stopped it gently with a simple hand movement and a few words and directed it back the way it had come. On the trail of the housebot came a barking yellow dog. It jumped at Beithune, who ordered it down and laughed at its antics. Then the dog ran ahead, and Corrag and Beithune followed to the back entrance through the garage filled with a variety of modified farm implements and up the steps to the door, where the la
rge silhouette of Joan Hunnewell stood outlined in the frame. She wiped her hands and held them both out.
"Corrag Lyons. Welcome to our home," she said, her voice cracking with genuine emotion. Corrag pressed up into the door and dropped her bag. Joan hugged her in her meaty arms, damp from recent exertion.
"So good to see you."
"Yes, and here. My mother sent this," said Corrag dropping to her knee and unzipping the bag to find the ball of California crystal prized by collectors.
"Oh, my. This is wonderful. And you are a great beauty just like your mother."
After more pleasantries, Joan introduced her to Wennill, Beithune's sister, a shy fourteen year old with weak eyes who looked up from her screen on the couch in the living area and attempted a smile. Jeoff Hunnewell, Alana's brother, was away on a business trip and due back later that evening.
"We'll eat now since you must be hungry. Wennill, off the couch and help set the table."
"I'm not hungry."
"Doesn't matter. You'll eat with us. We don't usually. But today we have a special guest."
"How long is she going to be here?"
"I don't know. Doesn't matter. Get off your butt."
Wennill and the housebot set a table in the dining room. The original beams from the first house on the site had been used in the ceiling. One wall was lined with shelves that held some of the farm's mementos: prizes for 4H club livestock from the last century, a taster's gold medal from the Vereniging van Cider in 2038, and the original Homeland Export License of 2032, were among some of the items Corrag noted. There was no nanowall. She wondered if they couldn't afford one or maybe it was a matter of choice.
"How was the tubid?"
"It was fine. No major delays," said Corrag.
"Your first time?"
"Yes."
"So amazing, isn't it? All the advances we've made and the two families never visit. After all these years. But things are looking up now with you, a youth emissary. That is quite an honor for a Federation girl."
"Well, it was more a matter of expediency, to be honest. I was in a bit of trouble with the law."
"Oh, the law is an ass. You have all my sympathies, girl. It's in the Hunnewell genes."
"Well, we believe that genes need the right conditions to express themselves."
"Right conditions are bound to come along," said Joan, cryptically.
"What's your boyfriend's name?" asked Wennill
"Boyfriend?"
"The one you got in trouble for. I assume that's what you're on about."
"Oh, Ben. He's in the Army."
"Do you hear from him much?" asked Joan.
"No. Not much."
"Par for the course."
"He's probably a little busy, Mom."
"Well, that's true. It's the same with our boys and girls fighting those Jihad natives over there so they don't get ideas about attacking the Homeland. We should really join together again. We were much stronger before the secession."'
"I wonder if that would ever happen," said Corrag.
"Fat chance," said Wennill. "Not while President McKinsky's in office. His cronies have too much invested in keeping us apart. Imagine if we got all the deals you get over there as part of our package."
"There's something to be said for working for your benefits," said Joan.
Ben smiled during the entire exchange.
Dinner was macaroni and cheese that Joan served in a hand turned, curly maple bowl. They sat at the island in the kitchen that still had the old granite countertop that Jeoff's great-great-grandfather Dwayne had installed in the original farmhouse. Jeoff showed up halfway through the meal with a carton of ice cream he had bought on his way home from the tubid port of Norm Laveque, named after a hockey star and Quebec academic that had led negotiations formalizing the independence of Canada from Repho in 2042. The ice cream was a maple flavored variety that had been made with their carob maple syrup, a flavor patented and sold to the company in Toronto that manufactured the ice cream and sold it around the world. Repho exporters had perfected printing techniques that enabled duplication down to the photon level of feedstocks, something the Federation was only now beginning to emulate. Jeoff had flown in from Brussels where he had been consulting on agricultural patents with a Belgian company that built dairy farms, mainly in China, and used recycled methane to power worm composting facilities. The worms and the byproduct were used to provide feedstock for South Asian markets. Jeoff was a graduate of Dartmouth with a PhD in Finance and Ethical Markets. He mentioned all of this between spoonfuls of the ice cream and questions about Corrag and her mother and father. He reminded them all that his sister Alana had also been a brilliant scholar, with an advanced degree in Game Theory. She had met Ricky at an intercontinental conference in New Orleans in 2029, the year before the hurricane that had finally destroyed that Southern city, last of the Repho gulf hubs to hold on to a population base. Jeoff tended to dominate the conversation, and Corrag discovered later that was the reason they rarely ate together, even when they were all home.
There was silence when they were done. Jeoff went over to a cabinet and brought out a bottle of a maple syrup liqueur that had the family name, Hunnewell Northern Lights Saffron SugarShack. Beithune and Wennill brought over the glasses and Jeoff poured out the concoction with the long-winded title in five crystal goblets. Corrag politely exclaimed at the amber color and held up her glass, savoring the moment.
"To Corrag, may her stay with us become a long-lasting foundation for peace," said Jeoff.
"Amen," said Joan, downing the glass in a quick shot.
Corrag's room was on the top floor, a loft above the media space with shelves of old books collected over the generations. The books reflected ancient family interests. There was a thin, well-thumbed volume of poems about trout fishing in America and another paperback about a cowgirl with big thumbs and then there were old movies catalogued by year on a rustic wall chart. The housebot that showed her upstairs had several recommendations for her.
"How do you know what I'd like?" Corrag asked the bot.
"I infer tastes. That's one of the things I can do. Federation bots are not as advanced. You have an interest in family and societal critiques with a thrilling and harmonious musical track."
"I see."
Everything seemed to be better in the Repho household of her cousins, even the bots. They undoubtedly cost a fortune and were therefore only used in the homes of the wealthy, or as in the case of the Hunnewells, the aspiring, as opposed to the widespread dispersal one could find across the Democravian demographic. But the underlying truth was that there was an air of something not quite right, of people tumbling over themselves to avoid the glaring, obvious unhappiness that she could already sense.
Corrag was left alone in the bedroom after the housebot was called back down by Joan to help with cleaning the kitchen. She lay in bed and looked at the texts on her emosponder. Finally Gurgie had gotten back to her with her new Cloud ID. She sent a quick text back to the new address:
-- Hi G. Let's see each other on MM. I can get on if you want.
A few minutes later there was a ding of an answer.
-- I can't. We’ve been cut off from all the old games. Part of the induct. Higher learning means remapping old pleasure centers, C. Someday for you too, I hope. Do you hope also, C?
Instead of answering, Corrag thought. What was it she hoped for? Something unnamable, a place she imagined. Its existence would allow her to feel comfortable with herself. And friends and loved ones, a family around, encircling her. Corrag slept soundly. She was awakened the next morning by the dog, Teddy, poking her foot with his nose. The sun was streaming in the window above the bed, and the morning light glinted on the wooden floor with the promise of new discoveries. Corrag wandered downstairs and served herself some breakfast, a bowl of quinoa and blueberries and a black coffee from the Ethiopian highlands. The house was quiet. Then Beithune appeared in a doorway and called her over. The door led to a w
ing of the house, a hall and several rooms off of it. In the first door, Jeoff sat in his office with a bud in his ear conversing to a group of people displayed in holographic three dimensions before him at his desk. The three were Africans dressed in desert garb. They were exporters of Guaniba, a bean from the Mandarke tree that was used in the production of everything from emoenhancers to biological weaponry, explained Beithune. They were speaking to Jeoff from the conference room of the tribe's headquarters in Ngauoundal. Down the hall, Beithune had a sterilized lab.
"This is where we develop taste modules for our products. It's pretty cool," he said.
"Can I help?"
"Yeah. I can train you in the techniques we'll use. You'll work with me here if you want. Then when I go back to school you can take over some of the projects. Which will free Jeoff up to do some more consulting work."
"Sounds good."
Corrag trained with Beithune in the production of taste modules. In a month they produced several new varietals of maple products for the luxury market, salad dressings, deserts, a barbecue sauce and Corrag's favorite, a chewing gum. They worked hard with only a half hour break for lunch on most days. Orders flowed in from major restaurants and gastronomic clubs across the Repho sphere. Beithune believed the Federation would eventually have to begin allowing imports of molecular modules, which were still a forbidden food in her country.
"It only stands to reason. How could you keep this out?" asked Beithune rhetorically, his hands busy with a boiling vat of calcium carbonate solution.
"It doesn't come from the ground. Federation feedstocks must be organic. Look at all this stuff we use. Alginates. Nitrous oxide. Monosodium. Methane hydrates. It can't be good," said Corrag, allowing her thoughts free rein, despite their critical tone.
"Yes, but it's delicious. That's what people want. Choices, Corrag. Have to give the people choices."
"How can that be, Beithune? 'A plethora of choices has ruined the contentment of the American people.'"
"Who said that?"
"Wally Delamare."
The Victor's Heritage (The Jonah Trilogy Book 2) Page 9