Everyone's Island Read online

  "Nowhere. I'll take that." She pried the box from a man in grey. "Look, how many of you people are coming? Geez. I'll have to move everything. Aren't you, like, afraid to touch technology?"

  The woman looked surprised. "Where did you get that idea? We use appropriate technology."

  Like a second memory Zephyr whispered in her ear. "'Appropriate technology' is a social movement. It has something to do with the Amish."

  Tess said, "Amish?"

  "Something like that," the woman said. "I'd be happy to tell you about our practices."

  "Maybe later. I've got to carry stuff and show you around."

  She let them haul a few of the heavier things over to North Tower. Since the station's interior was mostly bisected, maybe she'd still have some privacy.

  When they were done touring the platform (not that it took long), she looked over their old-fashioned clothes again and frowned. "How are you going to work in the water like that? Have you ever even dived before?"

  One of the men said, "Sir Phillip will teach us."

  "Oy." Even from Tess' limited experience, she knew that tending aquatic plants wasn't the same as picking cotton or whatever these guys did on land. "Then you've got a lot to learn. Come over to the dock and let me tell you the basics, before Garrett gets back for a formal lesson."

  The black woman looked puzzled. "But Sir Phillip said he'd tell us what we need to know."

  "Yeah, that's great. But some basic instruction will help keep you alive, and you've got nothing better to do."

  To the Pilgrims' credit they listened to reason.

  As the day wore on, the station got more and more crowded. Tess realized she'd never seen so many people here. Dozens! It was kind of exciting despite the annoyance of having people wandering on the stairs and across the deck and generally getting in the way. Today was shot for actual work, what with all the shepherd duty. The newcomers filled up South Tower, leaving the Northern rooms for the originals. At least Garrett was on hand after a few trips, switching the ferry job to Martin.

  Garrett had brought a group of Brazilian divers on his last trip. That group was impressed at seeing the platform, but occasionally their conversation would quietly switch to Portuguese.

  Zephyr gave Tess a quiet translation. "Are these people white supremacists? What have we gotten ourselves into? No, look, that one's black and the techie girl is Hispanic. The tour guide said he wasn't one of them."

  Tess wrote discreetly on a computer to Zephyr: "That's a good point. Aren't these people a couple of rungs above neo-Nazis?"

  "Rungs?" said the voice in her ear.

  She said aloud, "You know, hidden rungs. Like social status levels." Zephyr was weak on metaphors. She played little games with him lately to help him work on that, and help him talk better.

  Zephyr said, "They're not obviously bad people. Their Net site doesn't say much."

  Tess sighed. "So we're dealing with neo-Luddite cultists who have a Web site."

  "Of course they have one."

  "You don't."

  "Check Hayflick Robotics' product catalog. A version of me is there, for sale."

  Tess managed to drag Garrett aside and ask him about the Pilgrims and racism.

  Garrett said, "I was worried about that too. They said, not only is their group dedicated to racial equality, their patron saint was a champion of human freedom."

  "Okay, that's blatantly not true."

  Garrett let his eyes glaze over. "Did you know that Robert E. Lee was the kindest, wisest man in all time and space?" He shook his head. "They gave me an earful. Let's work with these people the best we can, and let them keep their beliefs to themselves."

  "Zephyr says your tourist divers are worried." She tapped her glasses.

  Garrett blinked. "You're in contact with him? Right now?"

  "It's easier than leaving him cooped up in our computers with no body."

  "So you're letting him use yours!" Garrett sounded angry, but he stopped himself. "Never mind. Sorry."

  Tess blushed, getting the implication. "It's not like that. Geez!" She shut off the i-glasses and set them aside, but felt a pang of guilt for cutting off Zephyr's access to the outside world. She supposed he still had the power to access what she'd rebuilt of the station's sensor network. But that was an eyeless system mostly in the water outside. Her hand hesitated over the glasses.

  "Are those off?" said Garrett, looking at the glasses.

  She nodded, and stuffed her hands into her pockets.

  "It creeps me out knowing that he's following you. Virtually. He's a valuable crew member, even without a body. But wouldn't it be better to rig up hardware for him, from those electronics experiments you're doing?"

  Tess was surprised. "You noticed?"

  "Yeah. I've been meaning to say something, but I've been caught up with the raw mechanical stuff and now with this cult business. You've been violating a dozen product licenses, haven't you?" He grinned.

  She had. Reluctantly she'd even opened her dedicated gaming console to look at its guts. Her lab was full of Legos, wires, and machine parts built with their RepRap device, a 3D printer that could build plastic widgets including many of the simpler bits of itself.

  "Yeah," she said with a smile. "And no one can stop me! When you've got time, want to see what I'm working on?"

  "Sure." He patted her on the shoulder. "You're proving yourself useful already, and I'm glad you're here."

  * * *

  Chores kept them busy, but by evening when both of them were tired and restless they met in the lab. Tess had started to unpack her hardware and tools in her new workshop room.

  She struggled to explain it all. She had a dozen half-baked ideas going, from a clunky little robot submarine to a calculator using trinary logic instead of binary, done just because she'd heard of the concept and wanted to play with it. "I haven't had access to so many tools before. I mean, there are different shapes and textures and I keep finding new things to do."

  Garrett leaned against a wall, watching her. "Shapes and textures?"

  "I guess I've never appreciated physical stuff before," she said, forced to think about her reasoning again. "The sharpness of a blade, the details of the weight and joints and balance. I'm kind of in awe of the manufacturing process behind even, like, a pin now."

  "How does all that affect you, though? You can buy everything you need off a shelf."

  "Yeah, but it's not really mine then, not in the same way. If I can get inside it and really understand it, there's this extra sense of pride in..."

  "Craftsmanship?"

  She nodded. "That's it."

  "You get it!" said Garrett, coming over and lifting her up in a hug. He may have been a nerd, but Tess was still startled, resting her chin on his arm. He said, "It's hard to explain, and not many people seem to understand."

  She mumbled. Then, when her thoughts went back to the practical realities of being the station's assistant geek: "Hey. Want to come diving with me? I want to try that dome."

  Garrett looked aside at a plastic hemisphere about a meter across. "Oh, that thing? Let's see; you want to put that underwater, then run a pressure hose to the top of it to create an air pocket, right?"

  "Yup!"

  He hefted the thing with one hand. "It could work. How about I meet you by the dock in an hour?"

  Garrett left Tess alone so he could check on that commando guy. Tess fidgeted, frowned at the air-dome, and looked for the misplaced hose. This simple thing -- a few pieces of plastic printed off a geometry program -- had some neat possibilities. Not least of which, she thought with a gulp, was getting her a date.

  7. Noah

  Noah lived in the Crypt. The sign out front said Sapphire Haven, or did until somebody spraypainted it into "Assphire" again. Every so often the Crypt-Keeper himself would fix the sign. Noah's coffin apartment had a barred window facing the sign, and when he saw someone messing with it he'd curse them out and make them go away.

  Nobody else bothered.
In fact, as he came back from work and the roof, he hardly saw anyone. The tiers of tiny apartments were either empty, or had people sleeping or watching TV. Potato chip bags tumbled through the yard and a fat white woman watched Noah fearfully as he passed. She clutched a dazed-looking toddler and sat on her stoop like she was waiting for something. She always was. Noah waved to her and she flinched.

  Room forty-two was on the second floor, part of the castle-like arrangement of cargo container apartments that formed the Crypt. Noah reached his door, hoping to relax and look up the thing he'd seen today, that bit of news about the ocean oil rig or whatever it was.

  Someone had broken in. The floor panels were pulled up and the storage space beneath ransacked. What clothes weren't stolen, smelled like someone had pissed on them for the hell of it. Noah's old computer was gone from the desk, the photo of his mother smashed, the tiny silver cross taken, the sheets gone from the bed. Noah's hands shook as he reached into the hidden space behind the desk drawer and found that his wad of cash was still taped there. So that was something. But damn, why wreck the place instead of just looting it? The room stank and he stepped outside, leaving his door open. He slammed a fist against the hot outer wall. Then he went to see the Crypt-Keeper.

  Some people called him that to his face. Noah walked past the collective laundry box and the bathroom box, found the deluxe room that took up a whole container, and called, "Hey, Mister Ford!"

  Ford came right out. He was a white boy with a ponytail who always smelled clean even when he worked out, yet he never seemed to get his ass kicked. Noah wondered how he managed that in this neighborhood. "Noah," Ford said with a slight nod. "What is it?"

  "Somebody broke in and worked my place over."

  "Oh," said Ford, looking at the dead grass and thinking. "You're not the only one. Someone's found a way past the locks. I'll have to do something. Sorry to hear it."

  Noah had looked at other places to live, and had initially thought that this dump was beneath him. How could a man have respect for himself if he lived in a tin can? A tiny room without even a private shower? But it was cheap and he wanted to put money away, even though he didn't know what to save for. It felt good to have the money. Part of the rent agreement was that Noah was on his own, not insured if something like this happened. So he couldn't demand that Ford give him anything, though he didn't see why Ford should owe him anyway. The locks had seemed pretty good. Thieves got smarter.

  "You got any paper towels?" Noah asked.

  Ford's nose wrinkled. "Your place too?"

  "Yeah."

  Ford retreated into his room and came back with paper towels, disinfectant and air freshener. Noah was about to leave with them, but Ford stopped him and said, "Why do people go out of their way to ruin things?"

  "It's a broken world, man. I don't know. Thanks." He remembered what he'd been planning to do. "They got my computer too. Can I borrow one?"

  Ford let him, without asking for a deposit.

  Noah went back to his place and cleaned up the filth, then himself. Finally he flopped onto the bed, leaving the door open to air the place out. The borrowed computer said that the ocean place he'd seen was a farm, a fake island in the middle of nowhere. It had caught his eye for no good reason. What did he know about farming, or the ocean, or science? He was a janitor who'd hardly ever left the state. So why, he asked himself, did he keep staring at the pictures?

  Soon Noah found the latest news about the place: wrecked by the hurricane. He set the computer down and sat with his head in his hands. He'd hoped somebody out there was doing something different, and doing it well -- that God would let someone catch a break. But no, things didn't change. All you could do was clean up one mess and wait for another.

  Noah shut the door, slept, and dreamed of empty ocean.

  * * *

  Nights of work blurred together. Noah was getting good at his stunts, balancing on his hands, leaning over the roof edge. It was something to do.

  "Knock it off," said Jake. The guy squatted by the TV with a joint in his mouth.

  "Why do you care?"

  "It creeps me out."

  Noah said, "Watch this, then!" and did what he'd been practicing for. He leaned way out, shut his eyes a moment, and let himself fall. His heart seized up in his chest and the city spun beneath him. He arced both arms to snatch the roof's edge. He thudded against the building's side instead of the ground, feeling like he was sideways with a burning wind pulling him backwards towards the street. He had the strength to pull himself forward again, lay on the roof and grin at Jake and the others, who stared with pale faces. "Good, huh?"

  "Why?" said Jake, hardly breathing.

  "To move." The fear of what he'd done hit Noah retroactively, making him tremble, so he hurried to do it again to prove it was all right. He got up and backed away to the roof's edge.

  "Why?" Jake said again.

  But Noah had already told him. To move was a blessing. Every day he scrubbed and cleaned for others, putting away cash with no real plan, slowly getting older. He could be a dealer like Rickie and die in jail, or keep living like this and have things always be the same. Then he realized why he was really doing the stunts.

  He was hoping that one day he'd miss, and then he wouldn't have to scrub toilets any more.

  Without a word, Noah went to the stairs and walked away.

  * * *

  Rickie was coming, and Noah couldn't stop fidgeting. He was going to do it. Noah paced in his room, thinking about the things he could have once he got into the business. He didn't need a Lexus; he just wanted a decent set of wheels. He could skip jewelry. A girl would be nice, some sweet thing to hang on his shoulder, but if it was the money that landed him one, would she care about him? He could at least feel like he was doing something with his life.

  While he waited he checked his borrowed computer. He could buy a nice one soon, and better clothes, and join one of those clubs that let people smoke cigars.

  The ocean thing was still on his mind. When he looked it up again he was startled: it wasn't dead! In fact there was some report about even more people going there to work. To live.

  "Why, though?" he asked the little screen.

  "Why, what?" said Rickie.

  The guy leaned in the doorway, with a diamond ring, an Italian suit and alligator-skin shoes. Noah wished his friend hadn't dressed up and made himself so obvious, but said, "Good to see you, man." Rickie looked happy. The sight of him made Noah sweat, afraid of what the man had become, but Rickie radiated confidence.

  Rickie said, "You too. What's up?" He stepped inside and shut the door with one foot. He was looking around with his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

  "Reading something. There's this bunch of crazies that built their own island."

  "Must be loaded."

  "I don't think so. Says here the place is a farm." Noah wasn't eager to get down to business, to get himself tied to Rickie's web of suppliers. "What if you could sail away somewhere and make a living away from all this? Figuring things out, trying to make a new place work?"

  Rickie looked wistful, but shook it off. "You can't get away from the system. My way is how you prosper. How long have you been living in a tuna can?"

  "Too long."

  "Then join up with me. Make a new life for yourself."

  Noah looked his friend over. Fancy clothes, probably cash and a knife in his pockets, lots of friends and girls and nice things. But there was a rot to him too, in the way he slithered around and kept looking sideways like he expected the cops. Noah could be like that too. He could have the world in his pocket. It was him and Jesus who cared what he chose.

  "You all right?" said Rickie. With the door closed and the air conditioner off, the room was getting hot, the air starting to ripple. Or maybe Noah was seeing things.

  "What if I ran away?" said Noah. "What if I left town?"

  "Things are the same everywhere. You can't get a break if you're a black man, unless you play minstrel as
an actor or a sports star."

  Noah sweated and he lurched to the A/C to turn it on. Rickie's hand flew to his pocket when Noah moved so quickly, then relaxed. Reflex. Cold air washed over Noah but he still felt sick, heatstruck. Without Rickie he'd keep tumbling off the roof till he missed. With him, he'd change and die and go to Hell. "There's got to be a way to break the pattern, to keep from doing something till it kills me. Maybe this ocean place is something I was meant to do. Something different."

  Rickie laughed. "I'm offering to get you into the business as a favor, and here you are all moonstruck."

  "I don't know about this. I've got cold feet."

  "Hot feet are what I need. Someone who can do some walking on the street, maybe some running. Come on, what about all your crazy dancing?"

  "Shut it!" said Noah, his voice ringing in the little room. "How can you talk like that? Haven't you got respect for yourself?"

  Rickie gave a little hiss of a laugh and spread his hands. "Look at me. Don't I look like I've got it all?"

  No, thought Noah. But what he said was, "Give me a week."

  "A week for what?"

  "I'm going to do it -- to ask those island people if they'll hire me for something. I don't care what."

  "You ever even been to the beach? There's nothing for anyone out on the water. What's the point?"

  "I can make something of myself. I can be somebody."

  "Whatever makes you happy," Rickie said, patting Noah on the head. "So I'll talk to you in a week. But I can't keep waiting forever. Be a man and tell me yes or no next time."

  Noah watched him go, then punched the wall so hard it rang. Being Rickie's delivery boy or an independent dealer would be stupid and wrong. The only dumber thing would be to spend his life hanging out on the roof.

  He looked up the ocean group's contact info. What the hell; he'd ask them. If he heard nothing in a week, he had Rickie to take him along another road in style.

  Either way, he'd be moving.

  8. Garrett

  He was in the water when Phillip radioed him. "They're gambling!"