Ambient

by Jack Womack

  "Say that I do," I said. "Someone has to take the fall. Even if I disguise it we'll be suspected-"

  "They can't touch me," he said.

  "They can me," I said; it wasn't the police, or the Army, that concerned us, but the Old Man's guards and supporters, who had their own interests to consider, some of whom were even more accomplished than Jake when it came to discipline.

  "You'll lowlie it after, at my request," he said. "Out of country. For a couple of months until we can reorganize. Fire a few, here and there."

  "Still-"

  "Hear my last proposal and decide," he said. "You'll need assist in this yourself, certain. Rule me out for the obvious. Trust no one at the estate."

  "Jimmy?" I asked.

  "More in his pocket than mine. You'll need someone lightfooted. Sharp wits about. Trustworthied. Keen to travel. One with whom you work well. With a bulb dimmer than yours, perhaps, so as not to outshine."

  "Who?"

  He motioned toward the front seat, looking through the clear panel. The seat was broad and the car wide; Avalon lay there, on her knees and elbows, curled up, asleep, facing Jimmy. Her bottom was raised as if for a computer advertisement. Sharp blue electric flushed my skin. Jimmy pulled our car onto the ramp leading into the subtower area, and her form was lost in shadow.

  "Avalon?"

  "As described," he said, no discernible emotion in his voice. This seemed entirely too much like one of my dreams; I felt my objections drifting into sleep.

  "But-"

  "OM," he said. "It's time for many changes. Her fondness feeds me no more. I see how you see her. See how she sees you back. Only nature's way at op. This morning I saw how you clasped, postconference. Even when eyeshut, I see. "

  "I'd think you wouldn't be very happy about it-"

  "I'm not, on level one. On level two, as said, it's time for many changes. There's no point keeping what you haven't got."

  A heavily guarded garage area had been built beneath the north tower, and we were therein admitted. Jimmy pulled the car onto the lift. At his signal, the lift rose; we floated upward, secure within our chamber.

  So--

  "She'll assist, after," he said.

  "In what way?"

  "She'll say, Saturday, that she keens to cityshop. You'll guard. A houseguard will drive you down. En route, the setup effects. Once citied you'll contact the name I'll give. They'll exit you. Wherever you wish to vacation, you can. London. Leningrad. Zeiching. You name."

  "And when we return?"

  "If she wishes to stay," he said, "She can."

  "With me?"

  "With you."

  Something roiled in my stomach as I shed all final qualms; for a moment I felt I was being eaten from within. I looked up again, at Avalon, and imagined myself with her, running down the roads. That I wished so much to be with her decided my mind and buried my soul. I can only say it was a decision to do that which you think you'd never do yourself, no matter how many others ever expected it of you-like joining the Army on whim's notion, or tossing yourself from a moving car, or blowing up the world.

  "I'll go," I said. Mister Dryden smiled. The lift stopped.

  "In the office I'll pass contact info. Talk to Avalon. See if she goes?"

  "You think she won't?"

  "See," he said. "You could do it sole, if needed, AO?" I nodded. "But then you wouldn't, perhaps-"

  Neither of us said anything, for several long seconds.

  "See. In seclusion. All of this is in seclusion."

  "AO," I said. As we stepped from the car one of Mister Dryden's phones buzzed. I picked it up and handed it to him.

  "Dryden here," he said. "AO. They imaged, then? You did? Prokashnik! Spot them twice over. My account. AO."

  He hung up. I lifted my eyebrows, curious.

  "Two casinos look safe," he said. "Martel listens well some days. Especially with inspiration effected. Jake effected that." Without warning, his face downcasted.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "We'll have to raise the boardwalk, still," he said. "Floods at high tide. That damned Green."

  The Green was so arcane that even our city's denizens were struck dumb by the possibilities. The subject never arose in chat; like the existence of the Superfluous, like Ambients, the Green came up only in discussions of problems for which the ever-inventive young would probably find a lasting solution. The debate was hampered in that no one agreed as to what the Green would involve.

  The weather had been peculiar since I was a boy. The temperature in New York, these days, rarely dropped below fortythough the previous June there'd been a one-day blizzard-and though it averaged sixty to seventy year-round, on occasion it had gone so high as one hundred and fifteen. Deserts expanded worldwide; in the American west, the Dust Bowl brushed the skirts of Dallas and Chicago. Once, during a trip to that latter city, I recall standing with Mister Dryden on the ninetieth floor of one of our buildings, watching through the window a broad brown band writhing along the horizon's line; the state of Nebraska, rolling up like a rug.

  As American grainland vanished, so Canada's and Russia's grew, and so from those countries our wheat arrived to supply our stones. The Siberian growing season lasted eight months of the year, lately; for eight months of the year, too, it snowed in Sydney and along the southern coast of Australia. Ten months of the year, along the Pacific coast, it rained, a cool, perpetual drizzled fog. The last time Mister Dryden and I were in LA the rainy season was off ; a thermal inversion had set in. The air was so thick you could nearly roll it into little balls.

  And so far as anyone admitted, and so the Old Man believed, the sea would rise five to one hundred feet in five to one hundred years. No scientist would, or could, explain precisely what was going on; at heart, everyone, I believe, suspected that someone else, somewhere, for some reason, was doing it all deliberately.

  Not all of New York would sub, according to the Old Man's experts; the Bronx and much of upper Manhattan would forever rise above the waves. The Old Man planned for the building of his new city, fresh and shining-bright, on the golden-green hills of the Bronx-of which, that day, he owned 100 percent of the land.

  Visions come sometimes to my sleeping eyes; once I beheld one of the city of Old New York, one hundred-maybe fiveyears hence, a Venice on stilts: cobbled docks extending out from the tenth floors of the most attractive skyscrapers; gondolas plying the gray currents, down the watery boulevards, in morning's mistthe towers still habitable, high above, and the old horrors way down below the ocean. Mister Dryden, even early on, had no faith in my vision, and laughed the time I told him. He said l was a hopeless romantic. Perhaps. Some dreams fade like cheap dyes, bright at first wear and drab thereafter; unlike their dreamer, my dreams never ran.

  For that afternoon's remainder, I stayed with Mister Dryden as he went about, checking what he thought needed checking. Through the Dryco bank-Chase, obtained like so much else, during the Ebb-Mister Dryden, and Dryco, and the government could weigh in balance the daily worth of most of the world's nations. Since the days after the Ebb, when all countries' banks began working with paper commodities rather than paper currency (the debts could never have been paid otherwise), Dryco had held a close grip on each and all, for no other reason than that Dryco owned so much of every sort of thing, everywhere. The Old Man devised this barter system, or so he claimed; more likely it had been Susie D's toy; she was always more apt in those fields. Mister Dryden effected and programmed the weekend details: diamonds from Mandela would ship to Amsterdam in exchange for chips from Frankfurt; Malaysian lumber would sail to Tokyo in exchange for denims from Quito; from Canada's mines, bauxite was to go to Zeiching and Shanghai along with American Pepsi-Cola, both in trade for Vietnamese TVCs that would later make their way to France, in exchange for champagne soon to be guzzled at Mister Dryden's Westchester table. As we were at war with Russia and its allies, all trade with them was carried on only during the first half of the week, through a different exchange.<
br />
  I checked in with the Market about certain of our holdings. Some delay occurred in my obtaining info. Two hours before, at the conference's conclusion, SatCom disappeared from the big board, and all stocks held by other companies and by striving midmen suddenly became Dryco property-for Dryco was not a member of the big board, or of the exchange; the Old Man never trusted the Market, he said. Once the last suicides had been carried out, my info cleared quickly, and I found what I needed.

  Around four I approached Avalon, wishing to talk.

  "Here?" she asked.

  "Too many ears," I said, looking toward Mister Dryden. "Down a ways."

  We made our way to a lower floor, to the Central Data Processing Department on the fiftieth floor. As we stepped out of the elevator, we clutched each other for warmth, for the AC was powerful on that level. As we walked into the main office, our breath escaped from our mouths in clouds.

  The office was full. Processing midmen-women, mostlyonce worked at home, doing piecework with small terminals. After much thievery of time and material, all Dryco computer ops were required to work at the office. The staff worked in thirty-two hour shifts; on average, they received forty cents an hour after taxes as overtime pay.

  "Where d'you want to talk?" Avalon asked me; she'd borrowed Jimmy's coat and buttoned it around herself. It reached the floor.

  "Down at the far end. Away from them-"

  "They can't hear," she said. "They're not paying attention, anyway."

  I rubbed my hands together, warming them; wishing I could rub them against Avalon. Each processor sat in a small cubicle, their eyes focusing the CRTs hanging on the walls before them; each wore headphones so as to hear their terminals-number eights-as they punched away. A red light flashed over one of the cubicles. One of the office maintenants rolled over and unlocked the stocks that held the young woman's feet. It guided her across the room, toward the lav; her white cane helped her in tapping out the way. The system had flaws; some employees went insane-they were fired-and some grew blind-the ones whose fingers slipped were given Braille keyboards, at cost.

  "What's the deal, then?" she asked, after we reached the far end of the room. I told her what he'd told me.

  "What do you think?" I finally asked.

  "Sounds wonderful," she said, not smiling.

  "Yeah-"

  "Sounds like smoke and words," she whispered. "And a whole pile of shit underneath."

  "I don't think so."

  "I don't trust him," she said.

  "I know."

  "You do?" she asked. "Why?"

  "I've known him longer. He was talking me today as he used >, to.

  "Making any more sense than he has lately?"

  "In some ways."

  "Ways that help you," she said.

  "That help us."

  "Seem to, don't they? What if this is just to set us up for something?"

  "Why would he do that?"

  "Why's Pops do things the way he does? Why do either of them do anything the way they do? They're both fuckin' crazy."

  I still hated to admit it, for whatever reason. "I know," I said.

  "And you think he's less crazy than his father?"

  "Look," I said, "Weren't you just saying a few hours ago how if I didn't do something, you would?"

  "Yeah. "

  "What?" I asked. "What'll you do?"

  She leaned against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. "If he's out to take us," I continued, "he will, one way or the other. But we'll be together. Right?"

  Her eyes brightened; I decided to be more overt than I had been-the time seemed so right as it ever would.

  "I love you," I said. I'd never said it before to anyone but

  Enid; had felt it for Avalon since the moment I first vizzed. "If he's leveling, then we'll be doing AO for a time. If nothing more. Both of us."

  She nodded, and let her arms drop to her sides.

  "Whatever happens, we'll be together. Do you want that? If you don't-"

  At once she put her arms around me, clamping me tight. I felt the bones in my back pop as she squeezed. I brought my hands to her face, stroking each side.

  "I don't trust him," she said. "We better ready to run."

  "We'll run together."

  "Ready to kill, Shameless," she said. "Ready to die."

  "Together," I said. "You'll go?"

  "Detail it," she said. We walked back toward the elevator, all proper and business-pure. Into her ear I whispered her cues. Red lights went off at each end of the room, and maintenants rushed to lead. Saturday, I thought. After tomorrow's long hours we should never part alive.

  4

  Before I left I changed clothes, putting on my highlace black boots, dark pants, a sweatshirt, and over all my Krylar coat. Signing out at eightMister Dryden and Avalon kept to their downtown apartments, on the one hundredth floor, and so my shadow could safely stray-I picked up my check and walked out. There was extra this week; not so much as I would have wished-it never was. I made $4,000 a year working for Mister Dryden. Enid and I, who owned one small building between us, by law paid the highest percentage of property tax. It was judged a great incentive that the more buildings you owned, the less tax you paid. Last year our property tax ran $1,800; take so well electric bills, cable bills, phone bills, food . . .

  As an owner's protege, my personal taxes were nada; boozhies shelled the funds that kept the wheels rolling over all.

  There was a Chase on Chambers Street, near Centre; I went in, sliding my card into the machine, and waited for a response.

  "Good evening, Mister O'Malley," said the voice; bank voices-number sevens-were sharp castrati sopranos. "Can I help you?"

  "Deposit."

  "Code first."

  I pressed out my code with care. If you miscoded while trans acting, the machine electrocuted you. Chase claimed that, for the public, the printcode was still in development.

  "Good evening."

  "Night," I said, leaving. Near the night courts, off Foley Square, was a Dogs A'Us that kept the late hour so that lawyers and juries might larder their maws. I fastfood it only on payday; at least my Drydencard exed me from the 30 percent VAT added to all goods' retail cost. Dogs A'Us, safe for all, used only organic additives in its wares; you could be sure of what they held even if you couldn't choose the breed. I usually stand by an unexciting diet: fruits and veges, tolerably safe if soaked for several hours; bread bought from kosher bakers and thus free from unnatural carcinogens. On occasion splurge became a must. I ate five wienies. Three eleven-year-olds served up; the girl wore manager garb. Her wedding photo hung over the counter; the couple, in full dress, stood by the sprout bar, hard by the plastic Happy Dog figurine.

  I moved along up Centre Street, satisfied. A block up was the Tombs, packed with disparos: Dreds, Mariels, Maroons, problematics, foreigns, and all of like ilk. In the buildings' heart was Wonderland, where, I was told, the choicest cases were taken. I knew little more, then.

  The smog was nearly translucent. I passed through the checkpoint at Canal Street. A sanitation truck roared through the barricade behind me, rushing down Canal. It stopped at Bowery; the driver raised the truck's bin and dumped its load into the street. Hundreds of bags burst, hitting the ground. The driver returned to his starting zone. Trash pickups in the Downtown Control Zone and in the abutting Secondary zones were recycled over the wall, in the Loisaida Twilight Zone, the barrio de noch, my neighborhood. It was easy to get into a Twilight Zone. The official name for such an area was an Enterprise Zone, but no one who lived in them called them anything but Twilight Zones.

  I stepped through previously recycled garbage as I strolled Canal, garbage scattered further by tads plucking deposit cans, hoping to turn them roundo, penny for ten. At Mulberry I weaved north, pushing through the crowds, scooting past the clunkers scuffling the streets; once such a mobile home was obtained, a family could drive a Twilight Zone indefinitely, taking turns at the wheel, stopping only to tank and turn. I k
new the streets by rote; none bore street signs. A stranger might be lost for days, though the locals would surely spot him long before.

  Merengues blared from a thousand boxes. Droozies (the Dru- zhinas-local vigilante units who, in zones, parceled order as they saw fit) had stripped a young girl, shaved her head, and, having daubed her in tar, trounced her with long poles. Consorting with Army boys, or so suspected; that was the usual treatment for such dalliance. There'd been a blast farther up; smoke dyed the air brownish-blue. Folks perused the bodies in the street, retrieving what might later prove usable. Someone from on high lobbed a chunk of concrete; it bounced off the hardhat I wore down here. Knees buckling, I moved along, suspecting no personal animosity. Ahead, youths lithely sprang through a restaurant window, followed by additional youths swinging bats, pipes, and old parking meters. Losing their quarry, they upended pedicabs and trampled the riders. Their colors announced them as members of the Law's Long Arms. An old Pontiac scraped along the street, hauling produce from the Javits Center. The car was tireless; the women pulling had a rough time of it. Nearby, two rascals wedged a boy into a crack between two buildings and took turns playing Johnny-in-the-pony. At the corner of Grand, a woman straddled a man lying in the walk, caressing him repeatedly with a hammer; her point seemed moot. I paused to give ear to two accordionists playing Stravinsky's Rite of Spring and gave them each a nickel. One put the change into a plastic capsule and swallowed it, so that it might be recovered safely, once home. I always went through Chinatown, walking from the Tombs; when stalking time settled, it was the safest route.

  An Army truck bashed through the crowd, lights on and sirens roaring. The Home Army boys never patrolled Twilight Zones in standard fashion; they'd sooner go into Long Island. Antiterror units came in periodically, for gaiety, and for the touch of the multitude. The truck stopped; soldiers stood up in the back.

  "Baffle!" they drawled, firing into the people.