Ascendancies

by Bruce Sterling

  Brooke had arrived. They were loading provisions aboard his ship: bags of rice, dried fruit, compost fertilizer. Turner, smiling, hoisted a bag over his shoulder and swaggered up the ramp on board.

  Brooke oversaw the loading from a canvas deck chair. He was unshaven, nervously picking at a gaudy acoustic guitar. He started violently when Turner dropped the bag at his feet. “Thank God you’re here!” he said. “Get out of sight!” He grabbed Turner’s arm and hustled him across the deck into the greenhouse.

  Turner stumbled along reluctantly. “What the hell? How’d you know I was coming here?”

  Brooke shut the greenhouse door. He pointed through a dew-streaked pane at the dock. “See that little man with the black songkak hat?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s from the Ministry of Islamic Banking. He just came from your kampong, looking for you. Big news from the gnomes of Zurich. You’re hot property now, kid.”

  Turner folded his arms defiantly. “I’ve made my decision, Tuan Councilor. I threw it over. Everything. My family, the West…I don’t want that money. I’m turning it down! I’m staying.”

  Brooke ignored him, wiping a patch of glass with his sleeve. “If they get their hooks into your cash flow, you’ll never get out of here.” Brooke glanced at him, alarmed. “You didn’t sign anything, did you?”

  Turner scowled. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

  Brooke tugged at his hearing aid. “What? These damn batteries…Look, I got spares in my cabin. We’ll check it out, have a talk.” He waved Turner back, opened the greenhouse door slightly, and shouted a series of orders to the crew in their Dayak dialect. “Come on,” he told Turner.

  They left by a second door, and sneaked across a patch of open deck, then down a flight of plywood steps into the center hull.

  Brooke lifted the paisley bedspread of his cabin bunk and hauled out an ancient steamer chest. He pulled a jingling set of keys from his pocket and opened it. Beneath a litter of ruffled shirts, a shaving kit, and cans of hair spray, the trunk was packed to the gills with electronic contraband: coax cables, multiplexers, buffers and converters, shiny plug-in cards still in their heat-sealed baggies, multiplugged surge suppressors wrapped in tentacles of black extension cord. “Christ,” Turner said. He heard a gentle thump as the ship came loose, followed by a rattle of rigging as the crew hoisted sail.

  After a long search, Brooke found batteries in a cloisonné box. He popped them into place.

  Turner said, “Admit it. You’re surprised to see me, aren’t you? Still think you were wrong about me?”

  Brooke looked puzzled. “Surprised? Didn’t you get Seria’s message on the Net?”

  “What? No. I slept on the docks last night.”

  “You missed the message?” Brooke said. He mulled it over. “Why are you here, then?”

  “You said you could help me if I ever had money trouble,” Turner said. “Well, now’s the time. You gotta figure some way to get me out of this bank legacy. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’ve broken with my family for good. I’m gonna stay here, try to work things out with Seria.”

  Brooke frowned. “I don’t understand. You want to stay with Seria?”

  “Yes, here in Brunei, with her!” Turner sat on the bunk and waved his arms passionately. “Look, I know I told you that Brunei was just a glass bubble, sealed off from the world, and all that. But I’ve changed now! I’ve thought it through, I understand things. Brunei’s important! It’s small, but it’s the ideas that matter, not the scale. I can get along, I’ll fit in—you said so yourself.”

  “What about Seria?”

  “Okay, that’s part of it,” Turner admitted. “I know she’ll never leave this place. I can defy my family and it’s no big deal, but she’s Royalty. She wouldn’t leave here, any more than you’d leave all your money behind. So you’re both trapped here. All right. I can accept that.” Turner looked up, his face glowing with determination. “I know things won’t be easy for Seria and me, but it’s up to me to make the sacrifice. Someone has to make the grand gesture. Well, it might as well be me.”

  Brooke was silent for a moment, then thumped him on the shoulder. “This is a new Turner I’m seeing. So you faced down the old smack merchant, huh? You’re quite the hero!”

  Turner felt sheepish. “Come on, Brooke.”

  “And turning down all that nice money, too.”

  Turner brushed his hands together, dismissing the idea. “I’m sick of being manipulated by old geezers.”

  Brooke rubbed his unshaven jaw and grinned. “Kid, you’ve got a lot to learn.” He walked to the door. “But that’s okay, no harm done. Everything still works out. Let’s go up on deck and make sure the coast is clear.”

  Turner followed Brooke to his deck chair by the bamboo railing. The ship sailed rapidly down a channel between mud flats. Already they’d left the waterfront, paralleling a shoreline densely fringed with mangroves. Brooke sat down and opened a binocular case. He scanned the city behind them. Turner felt a light-headed sense of euphoria as the triple bows cut the water. He smiled as they passed the first offshore rig. It looked like a good place to get some fishing done.

  “About this bank,” Turner said. “We have to face them sometime—what good is this doing us?”

  Brooke smiled without looking up from his binoculars. “Kid, I’ve been planning this day a long time. I’m running it on a wing and a prayer. But hey, I’m not proud, I can adapt. You’ve been a lot of trouble to me, stomping in where angels fear to tread, in those damn boots of yours. But I’ve finally found a way to fit you in. Turner, I’m going to retrofit your life.”

  “Think so?” Turner said. He stepped closer, looming over Brooke. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

  Brooke sighed. “Choppers. Patrol boats.”

  Turner had a sudden terrifying flash of insight. “You’re leaving Brunei. Defecting!” He stared at Brooke. “You bastard! You kept me on board!” He grabbed the rail, then began tearing at his heavy boots, ready to jump and swim for it.

  “Don’t be stupid!” Brooke said. “You’ll get her in a lot of trouble!” He lowered the binoculars. “Oh, Christ, here comes Omar.”

  Turner followed his gaze and spotted a helicopter, rising gnatlike over the distant high-rises. “Where is Seria?”

  “Try the bow.”

  “You mean she’s here? She’s leaving too?” He ran forward across the thudding deck.

  Seria wore bell-bottomed sailor’s jeans and a stained nylon wind-breaker. With the help of two of the Dayak crew, she was installing a mesh-work satellite dish in an anchored iron plate in the deck. She had cut away her long dyed hair; she looked up at him, and for a moment he saw a stranger. Then her face shifted, fell into a familiar focus. “I thought I’d never see you again, Turner. That’s why I had to do it.”

  Turner smiled at her fondly, too overjoyed at first for her words to sink in. “Do what, angel?”

  “Tap your phone, of course. I did it because I was jealous, at first. I had to be sure. You know. But then when I knew you were leaving, well, I had to hear your voice one last time. So I heard your talk with your grandfather. Are you mad at me?”

  “You tapped my phone? You heard all that?” Turner said.

  “Yes, darling. You were wonderful. I never thought you’d do it.”

  “Well,” Turner said, “I never thought you’d pull a stunt like this, either.”

  “Someone had to make a grand gesture,” she said. “It was up to me, wasn’t it? But I explained all that in my message.”

  “So you’re defecting? Leaving your family?” Turner knelt beside her, dazed. As he struggled to fit it all together, his eyes focused on a cross-threaded nut at the base of the dish. He absently picked up a socket wrench. “Let me give you a hand with that,” he said through reflex.

  Seria sucked on a barked knuckle. “You didn’t get my last message, did you? You came here on your own!”

  “Well, yeah,” Tu
rner said. “I decided to stay. You know. With you.”

  “And now we’re abducting you!” She laughed. “How romantic!”

  “You and Brooke are leaving together?”

  “It’s not just me, Turner. Look.”

  Brooke was walking toward them, and with him Dr. Moratuwa, newly outfitted in saffron-colored baggy shorts and T-shirt. They were the work clothes of a Buddhist technician. “Oh, no,” Turner said. He dropped his wrench with a thud.

  Seria said, “Now you see why I had to leave, don’t you? My family locked him up. I had to break adat and help Brooke set him free. It was my obligation, my dharma!”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Turner said. “But it’s gonna take me a while, that’s all. Couldn’t you have warned me?”

  “I tried to! I wrote you on the Net!” She saw he was crestfallen, and squeezed his hand. “I guess the plans broke down. Well, we can improvise.”

  “Good day, Mr. Choi,” said Moratuwa. “It was very brave of you to cast in your lot with us. It was a gallant gesture.”

  “Thanks,” Turner said. He took a deep breath. So they were all leaving. It was a shock, but he could deal with it. He’d just have to start over and think it through from a different angle. At least Seria was coming along.

  He felt a little better now. He was starting to get it under control.

  Moratuwa sighed. “And I wish it could have worked.”

  “Your brother’s coming,” Brooke told Seria gloomily. “Remember this was all my fault.”

  They had a good head wind, but the crown prince’s helicopter came on faster, its drone growing to a roar. A Gurkha palace guard crouched on the broad orange float outside the canopy, cradling a light machine gun. His gold-braided dress uniform flapped in the chopper’s downwash.

  The chopper circled the boat once. “We’ve had it,” Brooke said. “Well, at least it’s not a patrol boat with those damned Exocet missiles. It’s family business with the princess on board. They’ll hush it all up. You can always depend on adat.” He patted Moratuwa’s shoulder. “Looks like you get a cell mate after all, old man.”

  Seria ignored them. She was looking up anxiously. “Poor Omar,” she said. She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Brother, be careful!” she shouted.

  The prince’s copilot handed the guard a loudspeaker. The guard raised it and began to shout a challenge.

  The tone of the chopper’s engines suddenly changed. Plumes of brown smoke billowed from the chromed exhausts. The prince veered away suddenly, fighting the controls. The guard, caught off balance, tumbled headlong into the ocean. The Dayak crew, who had been waiting for the order to reef sails, began laughing wildly.

  “What in hell?” Brooke said.

  The chopper pancaked down heavily into the bay, rocking in the ship’s wake. Spurting caramel-colored smoke, its engines died with a hideous grinding. The ship sailed on. They watched silently as the drenched guard swam slowly up and clung to the chopper’s float.

  Brooke raised his eyes to heaven. “Lord Buddha, forgive my doubts…”

  “Sugar,” Seria said sadly. “I put a bag of sugar in brother’s fuel tank. I ruined his beautiful helicopter. Poor Omar, he really loves that machine.”

  Brooke stared at her, then burst into cackling laughter. Regally, Seria ignored him. She stared at the dwindling shore, her eyes bright. “Goodbye, Brunei. You cannot hold us now.”

  “Where are we going?” Turner said.

  “To the West,” said Moratuwa. “The Ocean Arks will spread for many years. I must set the example by carrying the word to the greatest global center of unsustainable industry.”

  Brooke grinned. “He means America, man.”

  “We shall start in Hawaii. It is also tropical, and our expertise will find ready application there.”

  “Wait a minute,” Turner said, “I turned my back on all that! Look, I turned down a fortune so I could stay in the East.”

  Seria took his arm, smiling radiantly. “You’re such a dreamer, darling. What a wonderful gesture. I love you, Turner.”

  “Look,” said Brooke. “I left behind my building, my title of nobility, and all my old mates. I’m older than you, so my romantic gestures come first.”

  “But,” Turner said, “it was all decided. I was going to help you in Brunei. I had ideas, plans. Now none of it makes any sense.”

  Moratuwa smiled. “The world is not built from your blueprints, young man.”

  “Whose, then?” Turner demanded. “Yours?”

  “Nobody’s, really,” Brooke said. “We all just have to do our best with whatever comes up. Bricolage, remember?” Brooke spread his hands. “But it’s a geezer’s world, kid. We got your number, and we got you outnumbered. Fast cars and future shock and that hot Western trip…that’s another century. We like slow days in the sun. We like a place to belong and gentle things around us.” He smiled. “Okay, you’re a little wired now, but you’ll calm down by the time we reach Hawaii. There’s a lot of retrofit work there. You’ll be one of us!” He gestured at the satellite dish. “We’ll set this up and call your banks first thing.”

  “It’s a good world for us, Turner,” Seria said urgently. “Not quite East, not quite West—like us two. It was made for us, it’s what we’re best at.” She embraced him.

  “You escaped,” Turner said. No one ever said much about what happened after Sleeping Beauty woke.

  “Yes, I broke free,” she said, hugging him tighter. “And I’m taking you with me.”

  Turner stared over her shoulder at Brunei, sinking into hot green mangroves and warm mud. Slowly, he could feel the truth of it, sliding over him like some kind of ambiguous quicksand. He was going to fit right in. He could see his future laid out before him, clean and predestined, like fifty years of happy machine language.

  “Maybe I wanted this,” he said at last. “But it sure as hell wasn’t what I planned.”

  Brooke laughed. “Look, you’re bound for Hawaii with a princess and eight million dollars. Somehow, you’ll just have to make do.”

  Dinner in Audoghast

  Then one arrives at Audoghast, a large and very populous city built in a sandy plain…The inhabitants live in ease and possess great riches. The market is always crowded; the mob is so huge and the chattering so loud that you can scarcely hear your own words…The city contains beautiful buildings and very elegant homes.

  —Description of Northern Africa

  Abu Ubayd Al-Bakri (A.D. 1040-94)

  Delightful Audoghast! Renowned through the civilized world, from Cordova to Baghdad, the city spread in splendor beneath a twilit Saharan sky. The setting sun threw pink and amber across adobe domes, masonry mansions, tall, mud-brick mosques, and open plazas thick with bristling date-palms. The melodious calls of market vendors mixed with the remote and amiable chuckling of Saharan hyenas.

  Four gentlemen sat on carpets in a tiled and whitewashed portico, sipping coffee in the evening breeze. The host was the genial and accomplished slave-dealer, Manimenesh. His three guests were Ibn Watunan, the caravan-master; Khayali, the poet and musician; and Bagayoko, a physician and court assassin.

  The home of Manimenesh stood upon the hillside in the aristocratic quarter, where it gazed down on an open marketplace and the mud-brick homes of the lowly. The prevailing breeze swept away the city reek, and brought from within the mansion the palate-sharpening aromas of lamb in tarragon and roast partridge in lemons and eggplant. The four men lounged comfortably around a low inlaid table, sipping spiced coffee from Chinese cups and watching the ebb and flow of market life.

  The scene below them encouraged a lofty philosophical detachment. Manimenesh, who owned no less than fifteen books, was a well-known patron of learning. Jewels gleamed on his dark, plump hands, which lay cozily folded over his paunch. He wore a long tunic of crushed red velvet, and a gold-threaded skullcap.

  Khayali, the young poet, had studied architecture and verse in the schools of Timbuktu. He lived in the household of Manimenesh as h
is poet and praisemaker, and his sonnets, ghazals, and odes were recited throughout the city. He propped one elbow against the full belly of his two-string guimbri guitar, of inlaid ebony, strung with leopard gut.

  Ibn Watunan had an eagle’s hooded gaze and hands callused by camel-reins. He wore an indigo turban and a long striped djellaba. In thirty years as a sailor and caravaneer, he had bought and sold Zanzibar ivory, Sumatran pepper, Ferghana silk, and Cordovan leather. Now a taste for refined gold had brought him to Audoghast, for Audoghast’s African bullion was known throughout Islam as the standard of quality.

  Doctor Bagayoko’s ebony skin was ridged with an initiate’s scars, and his long clay-smeared hair was festooned with knobs of chiseled bone. He wore a tunic of white Egyptian cotton, hung with gris-gris necklaces, and his baggy sleeves bulged with herbs and charms. He was a native Audoghastian of the animist persuasion, the personal physician of the city’s Prince.

  Bagayoko’s skill with powders, potions, and unguents made him an intimate of Death. He often undertook diplomatic missions to the neighboring Empire of Ghana. During his last visit there, the anti-Audoghast faction had mysteriously suffered a lethal outbreak of pox.

  Between the four men was the air of camaraderie common to gentlemen and scholars.

  They finished the coffee, and a slave took the empty pot away. A second slave, a girl from the kitchen staff, arrived with a wicker tray loaded with olives, goat-cheese, and hard-boiled eggs sprinkled with vermilion. At that moment, a muezzin yodeled the evening call to prayer.

  “Ah,” said Ibn Watunan, hesitating. “Just as we were getting started.”

  “Never mind,” said Manimenesh, helping himself to a handful of olives. “We’ll pray twice next time.”

  “Why was there no noon prayer today?” said Watunan.

  “Our muezzin forgot,” the poet said.

  Watunan lifted his shaggy brows. “That seems rather lax.”

  Doctor Bagayoko said, “This is a new muezzin. The last was more punctual, but, well, he fell ill.” Bagayoko smiled urbanely and nibbled his cheese.

  “We Audoghastians like our new muezzin better,” said the poet, Khayali. “He’s one of our own, not like that other fellow, who was from Fez. Our muezzin is sleeping with a Christian’s wife. It’s very entertaining.”