On this day there was a slushy rain falling from the sky. Many of the mothers tracked mud across the floor. Corrag thought it would give her a chance to do something slightly more active, to get the bot over there and use the disinfectant on the tiles. The mothers and several curly headed little children trooped through the turnstiles and signed off with eye scans administered by the headset. The joke was it was not functioning and Chuckie had insisted that they keep up appearances by jacking off the cover and replacing the infrared bulb with an LED. The LED's hazy vibration was enough to set anyone's teeth on edge, but most of the mothers, the second generation of Meadowbrookian refugees from the Repho's oligarchical circus, hardly passed it a glance.
Corrag shared front desk duties for the remaining hours of her workday with Lana, a three-year veteran of the health club. Lana chatted with clients passing through the turnstile, especially with the men who came to practice in the challenge room. Many of them worked, or aspired to work in the futures sector, buying and selling shares, the heart of the Repho's service economy. Lana called them come-uppers. They usually started appearing soon before it was time for Corrag to take off for home. She didn't mind missing out on these interactions, which meant a great deal to Lana, the chance to pass a few words and get noticed by some of the futures boys. Corrag thought many of them were attractive physically, with sculpted bodies formed by nutritional supplements and plenty of time in the challenge room, but found their egos a serious turn-off. She enjoyed her work, but was always happy at 3:30 when it was time to leave. She was glad to get away from The Meadowbrook and its overwhelming air of dissatisfaction.
The sidewalk was full of real people of all ages and stripes on their way home, arms full of shopping bags. Little children ran along behind a bot leading them to the canal porter stop. The sky was grey and the water of the canal reflected back a dull sheen of contaminants and antibacterials run amok. The smell of the canals still struck hard. It was only in the heart of the winter months that the water ceased to give off a deathly sulphurous odor, as the biological reagents sunk into the harbor sediments. Soon the cold would clear the air. It was late November and the chill made Corrag rub her arms under the black pea coat.
She walked around the block to the bitcoin booth and replenished her card. Next door to the booth was a small Spanish grocery store that carried bread and cheese and coffee. Corrag also splurged on a whole chicken and some Italian coriander sauce and a bottle of maple wine for Beithune. He needed a lift of the spirits. It wasn't great, but it would have to do. She hoped he'd find some position soon, although his dream about a place inside Sandelsky was rapidly fading. As she stood at the checkout waiting for the bot to scan her purchases, she saw the two Brazilians from The Meadowbrook push through the glass door. Corrag smiled at the woman as they walked by her in the checkout and up the drinks aisle. She paid for her purchases with the card and walked out. Someday she would introduce herself to them, she thought. It would be fun to take classes. She had always loved the music and had several classic Brazilian pieces on her emosponder. Outside it had gotten colder. With all her educational possibilities and here she was scurrying along the sidewalk to catch the canal porter in the midst of the subsistence crowds, not the kind of people Alana would approve of. Ricky was more understanding of her dreams, her desires to experience the fullest kind of life. But Alana dreaded a fall from the comforts of the Axion class. Ironically, now she was working in the Rosaria greenhouses while Ricky reconfigured for a new career. She would see her parents soon enough. A couple of months more and then Beithune would come to his senses and head home and she would catch the tubid back to Democravia.
She felt dizzy. These spells that came over her were caused by lack of sleep, she was sure. She just had to sit. There was a step outside the door to a townhouse. The Jackson Heights Canal porter stop was straight ahead. A crowd was forming at the gates as the porter pulled into the jetty. She sat on the step and placed the bag of food next to her. She would catch the next boat. It wasn't a big deal. As she was sitting there a couple approached, walking up from the crowds along the jetty. The man jangled his apartment keys while the woman chatted and then went silent when she realized Corrag was not getting up to get out of their way.
"Excuse me," said the woman.
"I'm sorry," said Corrag, trying to stand. She went for the grocery bag and slipped, falling and spilling the bag's contents over the sidewalk. The frozen chicken in the nanofoil bounced and rolled into the path of a bot pulling a cart full of water bottles.
"Oh, my God," said the woman.
The man leaned down and stared into Corrag's face.
"Are you all right?"
Corrag did not answer. In her mind she was searching for the right words. The words that could explain her predicament, explain why Ben was fighting with HumInt in the Basin and why she was unable to accept fine tuning like the other children, why her father was no longer the man she remembered and why Beithune's dreams were destined to end up failing, and mostly why she did not feel like herself, as if Corrag were a stranger, an imposter, somebody else's sham version of the girl she could never be. And who was that girl? Corrag suddenly remembered. The real thing, the Democravian ideal, her teacher's idealized version of sacrificial and charismatic female leadership, her parents' vision of an accomplished, mature, responsible and serviceable womanhood. But the words did not come. There was a gap between the images in her mind and their utterance in a language anyone could ever understand. And now there was not even dinner, as the frozen chicken in the nanofoil disappeared under the wheels of the water cart.
"She's not okay," said the man.
"Call the cops," said the woman.
"Really? You think the cops?"
"Of course. Why take the chance? She could be a disruptive."
"Oh, come on. Look at her. She's not a disruptive."
Disruptives were the sort of people that would break into your house and steal the last few cans of food off your shelves to sell for a quick brain fix. Corrag was offended to be associated with that class of people. She stood awkwardly. The man put his hand on her elbow, and she shook it away.
"Look. Let's bring her inside. Who knows? She probably has people looking for her. She's a runaway, Yula."
"Jesus. You and your intuitions for the blessed motley."
"Oh come on. Please come in. We'll get you something to take the place of this, this ... We have vindaloo. Yes, and some pastries. Isn't that correct, Yula?"
"Technically, it is." The woman made a gesture with her hand, pointing vaguely to the scattered groceries. Corrag tried to pick up the bag, but the maplewine bottle had broken and she cut herself on the shard sticking out of the side.
"Crap," said the man. "Look at this, Yula. Look at this."
Corrag thought he might cry. She sucked at the hand to get the bleeding to stop.
"I'm okay," she said, coming to her senses with the sight and taste of her own blood.
"No, no. Please." Yula had the door open and was waving her inside with her fan-like, hypnotic, well-manicured fingers. Beithune would never get the maplewine. It was the thought of this, the failed gesture of charity, that drove her inside, not the opportunity afforded by the open door or the couple who lived beyond it.
The apartment was cluttered with furnishings. Esoteric sculptures of mythological Hindu gods and elephants abounded on dark wooden, well-oiled side tables, and there was a bar with vintage Cleo glasses. Dark green curtains were drawn shut. When her eyes adjusted to the dim track lights, Corrag could see a grey cat reclined along the edge of a leather sofa with a painting of a nude woman on the wall above it. Yula drew her to the kitchen with a hand on her waist and ran the water from the sink over her cut hand. The water was tepid, and there was a faint, sickly smell of vinegar coming from the sink that for Corrag was the smell of New York. They all had it in their hair and on their clothes. Even the smell of the canal water could not overpower it -- the collective sickly sweet smell of the New York
kitchen sink.
"The key is to keep it elevated. The power of the healing body will take over immediately."
Yula was talking to her, she realized. She had a freckled face and green eyes under a black bang that swept down on one side of her face. She looked away as Corrag took her hand out of the water and wiped it on the back of a towel draped on a chair. The man came into the kitchen.
"And how are you now? Feeling better?"
"I'm fine."
"We have not met yet. Allow me the introductions. My name is Antonio. And this is Yula."
"Corrag."
"Corrag. Will you eat with us?"
"Yes. That would be fine."
"Splendid."
Antonio spread a tablecloth out on the table that came down out of the wall in the living room. There were extra folding chairs in a closet. The silverware came out of the bottom drawer under the sink. Corrag sat down on a chair and held her hand tight to stop the bleeding.
"We don't have a bot. It's so liberating. Don’t have to worry about hurting their feelings, including them in any plans we make for the weekends. It's frankly great," said Antonio.
"My parents keep sending their bot for resegmenting. I tell them just to upgrade. It' s difficult. They get attached, the poor things. Soon they'll pass us in capabilities, but they'll keep on out of sentimental reasons. Don't you agree?" asked Yula.
"Yeah. We have a bot at home."
"And that is where?"
"Edmundstown."
"Democravia. Of course, I should have guessed. And you're making your way in the big city. Did you run away? Kidnapped by the Ozark mountain gang?"
"No, nothing like that. I am an emissary. My cousin and I came down from New Albion. He wants to crack the Sandelsky. Get inside. It's his dream."
"Is he augmented?" asked Antonio, pausing from his chores, which kept him going back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room.
"No. And neither am I."
"Well, it's the only way inside, but it's not worth it. Much better off cracking a niche for yourself. Look at Yula and I, together for fifteen years now. It's not a bad life. Most people are crazy for the Augment. They've been duped," said Antonio.
"Immortality, the false lure of forever. Better than sex." Yula interrupted them. She was carrying a steaming pot of curried stew. "Although the alternative, confronting the universe on one's own terms is sometimes too daunting for words. I wake up some mornings and I just want to say no. I'm not ready. Who is? If you ever feel like you're ready for this life, Corrag, watch out. It truly means you're ready to take off for the next installment. Here it is. The matrix of mother love. This is what you really need. Hope you like it, Corrag. Charming conversationally after all, isn't she, Antonio?"
"Yes and a real striving kind of story. You should hear her tell it."
"Is that right?"
Yula settled herself in at the head of the table and served them the curry. There was also a kind of soy and miso extract as a beverage. Yula worked for a publisher of digital texts, fiction and esoteric works of metaphysical content. She worked on the marketing side, making presentations to reading clubs in retirement communities and in the few libraries that were still funded in some of the wealthier suburban aggregations such as the Charlotesville/Roanoke and Tampa/St. Pete areas. But she was interested, she said, in stories that could help the power of words make a comeback against the deadening bureaucratic spirit of the age. She had a few of her own, collected in a thumb drive. She wanted to show Corrag later, bring them up on the small nanowall that came with the apartment. Antonio was working on an expansion rig. Antonio and Yula were also committed to living augment free, or at least as free as possible, given the fact that the Repho was increasingly becoming a police state and infringing more and more on civil liberties. Which is why they only drank bottled water straight down from springs in the Adirondacks.
The talk of water reminded Corrag of Abel Marin and the water of the Ysidro canyons he'd given her and Ben to drink. That water had been clarifying of so many things.
"I knew someone once who only drank spring water. You would have liked him."
"Really? Who was he?"
"He was from Sonora. A Yaqui Indian named Abel."
"So many stories, Corrag. We must introduce her around at the next party," said Yula.
"Oh, gosh. Yula and her parties. I'm so lucky I get invited."
"Having no social skills doesn't seem to hinder you."
"Only because I'm with you, usually, Yula dearest."
"Antonio exaggerates. It’s why I've never encouraged his literary ambitions."
"Oh, please. One person in the house with that sort of deficit is enough."
Corrag liked the two of them. She found herself telling them about Alana and Ricky and her fears of having lost her childhood home. They were compassionate but not moved to a frenzy of concern, having seen and heard much worse. They warned her that life in the Repho was not a haven for seekers and non-conformists. It was easier than Democravia to live according to your own lights, but also easier to fall victim to the depredations of various types of connivers.
"It's getting late," said Corrag, looking at her emosponder. There was a message from Beithune marked with an urgent emoticon. She would listen later, once she got out of the apartment.
"I'll walk you to the canal stop," said Antonio, looking at Yula.
"You don't have to."
"Of course, Corrag," said Yula. "But first give me your contact. I want you to come with us to meet the writers."
"I'd love that," said Corrag.
Antonio zipped his spandex coat up to the chin line. The night was frosty cold. Celebratory shouts and the pounding rhythms of jihad rap came from passing boats on the canal. Overhead a drone silently fed the police with live feed, giving away its position by the blinking of the red lights on the rotor shaft.
"It's cold out," said Antonio.
"Yes, it is. It feels like the season has changed."
"Yes, every season is a new reality, Corrag," said Antonio.
They walked quickly ahead, ignoring the jostling crowds along the slippery walkway. Corrag was still amazed at the ability of native New Yorkers' to converse and manage the sidewalks at the same time. She was able to stay abreast of Antonio, though. He seemed to want to speak his mind. Steps away from the canal porter turnstile, he stopped and faced her. His eyes shone, even in the dark of the night under the dim streetlamps.
"Well, here we are."
"Yes."
"A pleasure to meet you, Corrag. I hope you weren't offended by us and our silly talk."
"Oh, not at all."
'New York is a funny place. You have to look out for your own interests. Be selfish, Corrag. It's the key to your survival. Augment or not."
"But you and Yula take care of each other."
"We've reached a temporary understanding of mutual interest. Everything changes, though."
Antonio's eyes were piercing and bright. He seemed to devour her body with his eyes.
"Well, I've got to catch the boat now."
"I'll see you again soon."
"Yes, of course," said Corrag.
On the boat there were two groups, partiers from the outer precincts riding the canals with their emosponders blasting music and commuters coming quietly home from Manhattan jobs and perhaps a bit of social time in the bars and smokehouses. The porter tenders did their best to keep the two groups in line, but occasionally tensions flared. Corrag hoped this would not be one of those times. She wanted to be with her thoughts about the party on the Butterfly and meeting Monica, her illuminating dinner with Yula and Antonio, especially the impression left on her by Antonio, and then Beithune and his dreams. But how to hold it in her mind? She could understand why people would prefer the Augment with its clean lines and easy access to a tried and true knowledge base. But still, she would insist on constructing her meaning from a life that was her own, no matter how scattered it could seem, how empty of a thread thro
ugh it all.
The music from the emosponders was loud, vaguely threatening. She could also hear Beithune, calling from a distance, almost unrecognizable. She listened closely because she wanted to believe that the two of them were communicating. He seemed to be complaining about a pain in his shoulder. She would ask him about that when she got home. She listened to his message on the emosponder.
"Corrag, where are you?"
That was it, just a question. She would answer soon enough in person.
In the apartment, Beithune was fiddling with the wires on his vertglove, sitting in his coat and ragged jeans at the kitchen table. The apartment was in shambles, their clothes strewn over the floor and on the bed, boxes of rotting food lying out on the floor. The dim tracking fixture in the kitchen was the only light on in the dingy apartment. Beithune was shivering, his face pale and drawn.
"Why don't you turn the heat on?" asked Corrag. "Is your shoulder all right?"
"I don't need it, Corrag, My shoulder's fine. We're already two months behind on the bill. I need your help, though."
"With what?" asked Corrag, hanging her coat up in the closet, dreading the thought of cleaning up before getting into bed. She just wanted to sleep.
"There's a new trial from Sandelsky. They've turned ugly. Lars has got his hands on some bootleg in pills. Corrag, I don't think ... I'm ... I'm not good enough on my own. I want to go back in with you."
The Victor's Heritage (The Jonah Trilogy Book 2) Page 14
