This Eden

by Ed O’Loughlin

  They were at the corner where his neighbourhood met the Camino Real. The bus slowed for the turn; Michael’s phone had already told it where to drop him. As the bus swung ponderously out of its lane, an old lady in a Honda had to swerve to avoid it. She leaned on her horn, lowered her window, uploaded a digit that meant nothing to the bus.

  Come on, Aoife said. We have to get off here.

  How do you know where I live?

  Aoife knew that when you’re playing a fish, you don’t haul it in at the very first nibble. First, you have to sell it the legend, the one in which it never had a chance of getting off the hook.

  Understand this, Michael: we know where everyone lives.

  The bus stopped outside his house.

  Go on, she said. I’ll follow.

  When his back was turned, she took out the phone that she’d stolen from the Inscape engineer, wiped it with a tissue, dropped it under the seat. She caught up with Michael at the top of the bus and pressed herself against his back, so the bus would detect only one person leaving. When they were off he turned to her, flustered.

  What was that about?

  Just be there tomorrow. Fess is paying you plenty.

  Will you be there?

  She turned, walked away. She hoped he was watching. He called after her.

  Hey! What’s your name?

  Ann, she said, not turning her head.

  Ann? That’s all?

  No. Ann without an E.

  *

  Michael stepped over the clothes that he’d dumped inside the front door a month before. It was time to explore his new home. There were two bedrooms, a bathroom, a lounge, a fully equipped kitchen. A small utility room, just off the kitchen, contained a washing machine and a dryer that he would never have to use, and a Wi-Fi router that blinked in the dark. The lounge had a forty-two-inch smart TV that he fiddled around with and then gave up on. There was an Ikea couch, an Ikea coffee table, two Ikea armchairs and an Ikea bookcase. The bookcase contained mostly dust, but over at one end, huddled together as if for warmth, was a stack of new paperbacks. At the other end of the shelf sat the black plastic cube of a Felix, Inscape’s own-brand wireless speaker and digital assistant. But this Felix’s duty was ended: someone had smashed it with a hammer, then driven a nail through, just to make sure.

  The books must have been a puzzle to Michael. Had they been there when he first came to the house, a month ago, when he’d dumped his stuff and left? He’d only stayed five minutes, and had barely gone inside. Did he now examine the dust on their spines, and compare it to the dust on the bare shelves beneath them? If he didn’t, he should have.

  What was on that bookshelf?

  The Dispossessed. Ursula K. Le Guin.

  Solaris. Stanislaw Lem.

  Player Piano. Kurt Vonnegut.

  The Crying of Lot 49. Thomas Pynchon.

  The Drowned World. J.G. Ballard.

  The Master and Margarita. Mikhail Bulgakov.

  Parable of the Sower. Octavia E. Butler.

  Roadside Picnic. Arkady and Boris Strugatsky.

  Oryx and Crake. Margaret Atwood.

  If someone was sending him a message, or instructions on how to brace for an impact, then subtlety wasn’t their thing.

  Here is Michael, later that night, at the strip mall, grey in the lens of the ATM’s camera. His face is lit from beneath by the screen. His eyes are just shadows. He must be nervous, because it takes him two goes to put his PIN in correctly. Then, having taken out two hundred dollars, he puts the card back in and takes out one hundred more.

  Is he thinking of Alice, and her Yoyodime scheme? There’s a payphone in the strip mall, just beside the ATM. Does this payphone remind him of Alice? Is that why he takes out more cash than he’d been told he needed? Something is clearly on his mind, because even after he has his three hundred dollars in his pocket, he puts the card in a third time, re-enters his PIN, and checks his bank balance for the first time in weeks.

  Observe his shock. Where did all that money come from? Fess must be paying his wages up front. He takes his card and disappears.

  The Santa Clara Valley begins in the hills south of Hollister, then falls north-west for thirty miles to San Francisco Bay. To the west, the Santa Cruz Mountains screen it from Salinas and the coast at Monterey. To the east, the Diablo Range divides it from

  California’s Central Valley.

  Once, this was known as the Valley of Heart’s Delight, a country of orchards and fruit trees and dairies that exported canned produce all over the world. But then San Francisco metastasised, outgrew its peninsula, pushed south into the valley’s mouth. It encysted the ancient redwood tree that the Spanish called El Palo Alto, swallowed the Mission Santa Clara and the pueblo of San Jose. It’s still moving today, inching south, up the Guadeloupe valley and the Calaveras Fault, a glacier of concrete and houses, erasing the fruit groves and cornfields and dairies. The leading edge, a grey moraine of industrial parks and transformer stations, has almost reached Gilroy, the garlic city, where Michael will switch to a County Express. No one calls it the Valley of Heart’s Delight anymore. They now call it Silicon Valley.

  And this too has its beauty, if you know where to look. Consider the cars on the Monterey Road, little worlds that flit past each other, fragile and fearless. See the flowers in a cyclone fence, by the overgrown ditch where a creek that once had names in Ohlone and Spanish now seeps incognito, waiting for someone to name it again. Road signs with place names in a fallen language. Fast-food logos on strip malls, plastic primary colours faded to pastel. Deal of the Week boards at the gates of used-car lots. All saying together, This too is beautiful, because this too won’t last. Then think of the mountain ranges, east and west, grinding in opposite directions, north and south, a few inches a year, as the coastal faults rip the whole valley in two.

  Michael may have noticed this as he headed south on the buses in the early spring sunshine. He may have watched through all the stops between San Jose and Gilroy, seeing school kids and migrant workers come and go from the bus. He may have watched the buildings thin out as he rode south from Gilroy, seen fields of vegetables and wheat, the fruit trees and orchards that Silicon Valley has yet to upgrade. He may have observed the horses and cattle on the green hills that rose over tillage. Or he might have fallen asleep. He might even have brought one or two of those books to read, in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t brought a telephone. No one was watching him, and no one talked to him. He had the freedom you earn by taking the bus.

  The County Express dropped Michael beside a tuxedo rental store, just off Hollister’s main square. This was a quiet farming town, with streets of two- and three-storey buildings from early last century, dusty and faded, unaware of their charm. Traffic was light, and the sidewalks were deserted. Michael could have been back on the prairies, except that here it was warmer, a hot wind from the east. Hills appeared in the gaps between buildings. The sky was blue, with fluffy white clouds, and the sun shone down as the sun sometimes does, even in February.

  Following his instructions, Michael hired a taxi from the limo company on Fifth Street, half a block from the bus stop. It took him south, out of town, along a narrow farm road, past groves of fruit trees that were not yet in leaf. Neat little farmsteads, half hidden in trees, sat back from the road. The land here was steppe, fields of vegetables and winter wheat with grassy hills above them, closing in on the road as the taxi climbed. A creek ran by the roadside from the head of the valley, shaded with willows and cottonwoods. Lone oaks stood on hillsides, watching Michael pass.

  The driver stopped at a junction where three farm roads met.

  Santa Anita and Quien Sabe. You sure this is the place? There’s nothing out here.

  I’m meeting someone.

  Michael waited until the driver had gone, then started to walk.

  It was early afternoon and the sun was high
and hot above the valley. Michael, who hadn’t reckoned on such heat so early in the year, hadn’t brought a bag or a hat or water, and, having nothing better to do with them, swung his arms as he walked. At intervals, cars and trucks drove past, sweeping the dust from the road with their slipstreams; the dust settled on the shoulder of the road where he walked. It coated his sneakers, made them hiss with each step. When he wiped his forehead, the sweat on his hand was red from the dirt. He could see branches swaying on the oaks on the hillside, but there was no breeze down here.

  He walked more than a mile, past the last of the farm houses, and still there was no fruit store. He was becoming frustrated. Why couldn’t he have taken the taxi all the way to the meeting, if it really existed? Was this some sort of test?

  Then he saw it: an old shack, up ahead, on the right, sagging by the roadside on a patch of bare dirt. It was shaded by the cottonwoods that grew in the creek bed. Beyond it was an untended orchard. Closer up, he saw writing: Casa da Fruta, in sun-bleached black stencil, and underneath, hand-painted: Fresh From the Farm.

  The service hatch was shuttered, its planks furring into splinters at the ends. Michael stopped, wiped his forehead again. The sun, now at its highest, threw his shadow a little way north.

  A pickup truck went past, moving fast up the valley. He turned away, screwed his eyes and mouth shut against its dust, and when the truck had passed he opened his eyes and got a surprise. The hatch on the fruit stand was open, propped up by a stick.

  A man watched him from the darkness inside.

  You looking for fruit?

  No thanks.

  Then why are you standing there?

  I came for a walk.

  The stranger smiled.

  Wait there.

  Michael heard a door open – or rather, fall off its hinges – around the back of the shack. A moment later the stranger appeared. He was tall and stooped, his hands rammed deep in his pockets. His bony, sallow-skinned face, close-cropped and balding on top, unshaven below, so that it seemed to be layered between rashes of stubble, looked to be somewhere in its early fifties. He wore a business suit which, though expensive, was now creased and stained, and a pink shirt with a collar that was grey at the edges. A blue silk tie hung loose and wrinkled, and his Italian brogues were dusty and scuffed.

  The stranger didn’t offer his hand.

  My name is Towse.

  Towse?

  Yeah. Like house, with a T. I work for the government. I can’t tell you which agency.

  The NSA?

  Towse shrugged.

  Sure. If you like. But I’m on secondment to Inscape. We have mutual interests. Which you already know about. That’s why you’re here.

  I don’t have a clue why I’m here.

  Towse smiled.

  Come with me.

  Michael followed him around the back of the shack. Two cane chairs sat either side of an upturned orange crate, on which an eighty-ounce bottle of water, half empty, stewed in the sun. The door of the shack, held partially in place by its lower hinge, leaned against white-painted boards that had long since turned grey. The creek tinkled coolly in its cottonwood shade.

  Towse sat, adjusted the knees of his trousers. He waved Michael over to join him. Michael stayed on his feet.

  Why should I believe that you really are who you say you are?

  You shouldn’t. And I didn’t.

  Michael gestured at the shack.

  This is meant to be a government front?

  Why not? Ever hear of the United Fruit Company?

  Michael heard footsteps and turned. Ann-without-an-E was dressed differently today: sun hat, jeans and a loose cotton shirt. Her hiking shoes and jeans were crusted with mud.

  Sorry I’m late, she told Towse. I took a shortcut through that orchard and fell in a ditch.

  She jabbed her thumb at Michael.

  He’s alone. I watched him all the way from where the taxi dropped him.

  She spotted the empty chair.

  Are you using that?

  Before Michael could answer she had already flopped down, stretching her legs out in front of her.

  Jesus. My feet are killing me.

  She unscrewed the top of the bottle, took a long drink, made a face.

  This water’s boiling. You should have put the bottle in that stream to keep it cool.

  She screwed the top back on the bottle, then remembered Michael.

  Did you bring your phone?

  No.

  Good. There’s no cell reception here anyway. That’s why we picked this place.

  Towse waved at the trees and the mountains.

  Plus, there’s a really nice view. Paradisiacal. Want some water? We kept some for you.

  But Ann-without-an-E cradled the bottle, and didn’t look ready to give it up.

  No thanks, said Michael.

  You sure you don’t want some fruit? We’ve got some in the shack, you know.

  It’s true, said Ann-without-an-E. It’s important to get the details right. We’re under deep cover.

  She rolled her eyes.

  I don’t think I want to be here, Michael said.

  She smiled up at him, not at all sweetly.

  Stick around, Michael. Towse hasn’t finished with you.

  Towse cleared his throat, got to his feet, took out a pack of cigarettes.

  Mind if I smoke? I like to smoke when I make a pitch. It gives my hands something to do. And I like to walk around too – have my chair, by the way; this will take a few minutes. Walking and smoking distracts people, gives them something to look at apart from my face. It makes it harder for them to know if I’m lying.

  You’re actually telling me that you might be lying to me?

  Sure. But only out of courtesy. You should always assume that. Please, sit.

  Despite himself, Michael sat down. Towse lit a cigarette and started pacing back and forth, an actor gearing up to deliver a soliloquy.

  He stopped, closed his eyes, took a long drag on his cigarette, opened his eyes and started prowling again.

  All right. Here it is. I’ve got it straight, now . . . Have you ever heard of OmniCent, Michael? Do you know how it works?

  Sure.

  Towse took a pensive drag on his cigarette, looking up at the hills.

  OK, then. I’ll explain it to you, Michael. OmniCent is a private online currency which Inscape is developing for the world’s biggest tech firms and banks. They want their customers to use OmniCent for all their online payments, instead of whatever national currency they have where they live. OmniCent will be what they call a cryptocurrency, based on a thing called blockchain technology. But if it makes it any easier for you, just think of it as special computer money.

  I’m a qualified engineer, you know. You don’t have to talk down to me.

  Towse stopped, took another drag, studied Michael.

  I don’t? OK . . .

  Towse lit another cigarette off his old one, then crushed the butt underfoot. He started pacing again.

  Anyhow, some aspects of OmniCent are so sensitive that Fess has set up an elite secret team to develop them off site. Only a couple of dozen people in the world know about it. I’m one. You’re another.

  But I’ve never heard of it!

  That’s the spirit. See, Ann? He’s discreet, like Fess said. He’ll be perfect.

  Michael looked from one to the other.

  Perfect for what?

  To act as a go-between.

  Go-between?

  Liaison, said Towse. Contact. Messenger. Courier.

  Cut-out, said Ann-without-an-E. Fall guy. Patsy. Chump. Can I have one of those cigarettes, Towse?

  I thought you didn’t smoke.

  I do when I’m bored.

  There you go . . . We need a m
essenger, Michael. Someone exactly like you.

  I don’t want to be mixed up in anything secret.

  Ann-without-an-E exhaled heavily, blowing smoke through pursed lips.

  It’s too late for that, Michael. You’ve already been paid.

  His bank balance. That made sense, now.

  But I don’t write code, Michael said. I never have. My last real job was delivering junk food.

  We know, said Towse. And you were good at it, Michael. I’ve seen your stats on the app. You collected promptly and delivered on time. And when there was a problem you didn’t give up easily. That’s what we need. Someone to deliver, and someone to collect.

  Collect what?

  Towse grinned.

  Great! Then you’ll do it! Ann – get the laptop.

  She went into the shack, came back with a black nylon shoulder bag.

  Here, she said. It’s a MacBook. Just like the one you had in Vancouver.

  How do you know what I had in Vancouver?

  She shrugged. He turned to Towse.

  What am I meant to do with it?

  Just bring it to work every day. Give it to Barb Collins. She’ll pass it to Fess. And when he’s done with it, she’ll give it back to you. You’ll bring it home every evening and Ann will collect it and take it to me. I’ll have a look at it, then Ann will give it back to you. Rinse and repeat, until the job is done.

  I don’t get it.

  You don’t have to. But I’ll tell you anyway. Someone at Inscape has been snooping in the servers of the OmniCent task force. A mole. We need to find out who they are. And whoever they are, they’re good at covering their tracks. They’ve set trip wires that will warn them if anyone comes after them. This laptop will get round that. It will be our Trojan Horse.

  I still don’t get it.

  During the day, Fess will use this computer when he works on the project. That won’t look suspicious. He has one just like it. Everyone does. But when he uses it, he’ll be importing project data on to its hard drive. The stuff that he wants us to examine. If you take the laptop home, we can search it later, offline, in a sterile environment, without the mole noticing.

  Michael looked at the bag. Ann jiggled its strap to make the bait look more tempting.