Everyone's Island Page 9

  They broke the water's surface together, then grunted and heaved their catch up to the dock. They sat around at dockside, talking shop about farming and dive gear. Then it was back into the water for them, searching for sunken treasure among the waving towers of kelp. A pipe here, a cable there, a not-so-buoyant hydroponics square. Every piece was a helpful find. The process of seeking it out, patrolling the blue and flying over the ground, finally took Garrett's mind off the disaster. He had to admit he was having fun again.

  By evening they were worn out. "Almost like home, eh?" said Garrett, sprawled on a blanket they'd spread on deck. Overhead the clouds had turned to gold, and the waves broke like calm breaths.

  Tess ate a frozen dinner quietly, and Garrett tried to bring her into the conversation. "You should've gone with us. We got a lot done. Want to join us in the morning? Or you, Martin?"

  Tess said, "We should bring Zephyr."

  "What, on a screen?" Garrett glanced at the tourists, wondering how much they knew about the bot. They had insisted on donning their video gear again as soon as they got dry, which struck Garrett as boorish. Zephyr's existence felt like a secret to Garrett even though they'd been on television together. "Martin, what do you think of this business with Zephyr?"

  Martin shrugged. "He's a useful tool. Your roboticist friend is clever."

  The tourists listened.

  "Well," said Garrett to them. "Sorry we don't offer better accommodations." Their room was hardly more than a concrete alcove.

  Argus said, "You should advertise this place."

  "We're really not here for entertainment."

  Martin looked thoughtful, saying, "We should be." When Garrett started to object he added, "You'll still be able to do your work, Fox. Leave it to me."

  Garrett didn't feel mollified. He could imagine strangers stomping through his station, stealing and breaking stuff. It'd be out of his control.

  Argus said, "How hard would it be to add a snack bar, say?"

  "Easy!" Tess said, getting up to look around. "Um. We could dedicate a small room to a snack bar and gift shop."

  Garrett's face fell. "A gift shop? Castor is not a tacky roadside attraction! I understand the need for money, but are we going to go totally mercenary now? It's not about profit." He stood and paced, fuming. "This isn't a safe place. Things are broken and missing. It never measured up to the ideal plan. It's dirty and isolated and Spartan. Why would anyone in their right mind want to come here? It's not good enough!"

  Argus said, "So fix it!"

  His friends joined in. "Yeah, fix the place up."

  "Fix it!" Tess echoed with a grin.

  Martin joined in, so that everyone was practically yelling at him to "Fix it!"

  Garrett held up his arms and felt driven back a step. Yeesh! "I'll think about it, okay?"

  * * *

  He couldn't sleep. In North Tower he made himself useful shoving boxes of expensive gear around. He'd sunk nearly everything into Castor, and here people were trying to turn his nice, clean science project into something it was never meant to be.

  He sat on a plastic cooler with a cartoon sun on it. In an idle moment he'd used his computer to call up the original college plan and was comparing it to the version he and Martin had settled for. If he'd had a jillion dollars he'd have done it all. Many giant platforms, great sealanes lined with silver windvanes, internal roads of high-tech trams and gondolas. A city of mathematically arranged, standard modules in a gloriously efficient urban plan, better than the rotting husks that were modern cities. The concept art gleamed like something from Star Trek: blue and white, right-angled and upstanding, neat and orderly. Apparently that wasn't in the cards.

  Still, the grandeur and pageantry of that vision appealed to him. He'd scaled back his hopes for the sake of practicality, to the point that he felt hostile to any attempt to make things fancier than his squalid little compromise. It was stupid to feel that way. He had to wallow in the mud for now, but that didn't mean he had to like it, to be satisfied with it. Maybe he'd never achieve the original mega-project's glory, but he could make things better than they were.

  "Fix it," he told himself.

  5. Garrett

  A few days later, Martin was laughing in the deckhouse. Garrett was coming to distrust that sound. "What is it?" he asked, carrying a dripping wetsuit.

  "I've found cheap labor for us without hiring foreigners. It's time to bring in some help."

  Garrett took the computer Martin offered and saw a Net site: The Holy Spiritual Confederacy of Saint Lee.

  Garrett said, "Saint Lee? What is he, the patron of kung-fu?"

  "No. The Lee."

  "Bruce will always be my Lee."

  Martin took back the screen and rapped Garrett's knuckles with it. "I've made contact with these folks. They're a close-knit group with a good reputation in their community -- for hard work, anyway -- and some remarkable staying power for a cult."

  "You're proposing to fill Castor up with lunatics?"

  "It's perfect! They work well together, they're seeking a new spiritual haven, and they actually make money. And it so happens they've got none other than Bradford Duke among them."

  "Duke! The washed-up actor?" Poor guy; The Sea Kings was just one of his flop movies.

  "The very same. Now, the group needs time to pray on its decision and get itself over here, but I expect them to move quickly. We're essentially offering them free housing and our other facilities in exchange for their money and labor."

  "Hold on!" said Garrett. "You've already made a deal with them? We don't have any idea whether these people will be trustworthy. In fact, shouldn't we be pretty sure they're one fish short of an aquarium?"

  Martin gestured at the bare concrete walls. "You said it yourself: who in their right mind would come here?"

  Garrett sighed. He'd had in mind some cheap labor from Cubans, or grad students or something, and random crazies were definitely not part of the plan. But having a dedicated group of workers he didn't directly have to pay made too much financial sense to ignore. "Fine, fine. We'll try it. Will we be able to throw them out if necessary?"

  "I'm making sure of that. This is a good deal for us, lots of cheap hands. It might work."

  "Shall I start padding the walls?"

  "It won't be that bad. Surely you can put up with a little chanting. On another note, remember that Eaton wants to meet soon to discuss an affiliation with his biotechnology firm. That should appeal more to you."

  "What about the religious aspect of this?" asked Garrett. "Doesn't it bother you to be working with the Holy Dixie Convention or whatever they are?"

  Martin looked smug. "I can tolerate them for a higher cause, as I can tolerate atheists."

  "What makes you think I'm an atheist? You've never asked."

  "I don't need to. Whether or not you've consciously chosen, you've not shown any signs of faith. You're an atheist by default if not by choice. But I don't really care if you disagree with me, so long as we're in accord on the need to make Castor successful."

  Garrett didn't appreciate the implied accusation of intellectual laziness. He'd consciously chosen, all right, and his choice was to steer clear of the whole business of religion. He'd met many smart people who fervently believed things that were bonkers to him. He'd gotten into enough arguments that he'd decided it was best not to talk about the subject at all. He said, "Let's make the arrangements."

  * * *

  Garrett ended up being the one to ride to Cuba to see Eaton. The man sounded worth meeting, even aside from his usefulness. Once Garrett docked, he called the guy. "Where should we meet?"

  "There's a bar near the hospital." Eaton sounded stern and loud, voicing each word like an order, or maybe a complaint.

  Garrett docked and made his way towards a concrete building under heavy renovation. There was some kind of historical re-enactment group setting up nearby, with the people in pseudo-Victorian garb. Come to think of it, Garrett hadn't seen a woman wearing a
dress in months. A pirate's life for me. He sighed, thinking of Alexis, and waited until Eaton met him outside. It had to be him: a sharp man with freshly ironed clothes and some scars he hadn't bothered to remove. Garrett shook his hand. "Walter Eaton, I presume?"

  "Let's get inside and talk a bit before we go."

  Garrett looked into the bar, admiring the open-air style of it. "I don't drink anymore."

  "Bah. What kind of Irishman are you?"

  "I'm an American, sir. Ethnicity is for foreigners."

  Eaton's gave a quick laugh. "Well said. We can talk on the way there. I'd like to get away from those freaks."

  Garrett glanced at the historical group again, a few dozen people milling around. "Is it the town's anniversary or something?"

  "I asked around. It's some sort of cult."

  "Oh, hell no." Garrett re-evaluated them. They weren't so much setting up as milling around with crates. All adults, grim-looking and not demonstrating handicrafts to tourists.

  "What's wrong?"

  "These, apparently, are my new workers."

  "My God. You hired these clowns?"

  "It's more of a partnership." With a sigh Garrett said, "I'm sorry. Would you mind waiting while I find out why they're a week early?"

  "I'll be over there," said Eaton, pointing to the bar.

  Garrett steeled himself and made for the group, getting the attention of two men in grey woolen coats. The man on the left looked impeccable despite the muggy heat, while the other was balder, bearded, flame-faced and shedding sweat as he moved constantly about. Garrett looked back and forth between them and decided the second man was in charge; he couldn't say why. As soon as he introduced himself, that scruffy man grabbed Garrett's hand in both of his own and pumped it up and down. "An excellent thing to meet you, sir. I'm Leroy Phillip, the head of our little congregation."

  With a smooth motion the other fellow interposed himself and smiled as he shook Garrett's hand, while standing with his heart towards Garrett and his eyes wide and bright. "I suppose you've seen me before. Bradford Duke."

  Garrett only now recognized the actor. "We've made good use of some of your stage props." Duke wasn't one of those actors who was a foot shorter in real life; he seemed wary and eager to try out some real action-hero stuff.

  "Ha!" said Duke. "Life imitates art and art, life. Tragedy becomes comedy and vice versa, back and forth through time."

  Phillip said, "O Captain, the Holy Spiritual Confederacy of Saint Lee is arrived and ready to take up residence."

  Garrett waved at the dozens of -- Confederates? -- with bewilderment. "Nice to meet you, but you're early."

  "Spiritual pilgrims move when God calls them. More tangibly, we were spurred by a tip that we'd been identified as 'troublemakers'."

  "We're not ready for you yet," Garrett said. "I'm also busy at the moment."

  Phillip said, "Strike while the iron is hot! Surely you can help us begin moving in."

  Meanwhile Garrett saw a trio of policemen on bicycles heading for the lawn. He took a step toward them, and Phillip and Duke turned to see the police coming their way.

  "Who's in charge here?" asked one of the police.

  "We are," said Duke, shaking a cop's hand. "What seems to be the problem?"

  "Trespassing and loitering."

  Duke smiled, arms spread. "This is a beautiful public area. Are we bothering anyone?"

  The first cop looked to her colleagues, then said, "Sorry, but we still need you to disperse. You haven't got a permit for a rally or... whatever it is you're doing."

  Phillip added, "We're hoping to leave promptly, since our ride is here." He pointed at Garrett.

  Oh, thanks. Now the cops were looking to him. Garrett said, "This is unexpected, but I'll start taking them off the island right away." Rather than leave it at that he turned to Phillip. "In the meantime, please get everyone to disperse. I'll have to make several trips, and this is a good time to hang around and enjoy the island. Do some last minute shopping. In fact, why are they all standing here?"

  Phillip looked puzzled. "Because I told them to."

  "So tell them not to. I'll take a few people and their gear for each trip. Do you have phones or any way to coordinate, or is that against your religion?" Maybe they preferred telegraphs.

  With a snort Phillip said, "We can be very organized when the need arises. Watch us!" He turned to his people and called, "Form up!" Everyone reacted, laying aside their gear to gather in front of the leaders. Garrett was impressed, but found it creepy that they would move in unison.

  Phillip began giving instructions and Garrett asked the police, "Is this all right, officers?"

  One cop said, "I think you have a long day ahead."

  The group split up somewhat, and Garrett excused himself to retrieve Eaton. As soon as he stepped into the bar, he heard someone call out, "Yo, Garrett!" It was Carlos Mar, the dive shop owner.

  "Hey. Look, I'm really busy right now."

  "No problem, but I've got more divers for you. Same referral fee?" There'd been a group over the weekend.

  "Hell. Okay, I'll get them there somehow, but warn them it's going to be weird."

  Garrett reached Eaton at last. "A puzzle. Say you need to take a fox, a chicken, and a pile of grain across a river with a boat that only holds one at a time. And you can't leave the fox alone with the chicken, or the chicken alone with the grain. What do you do?"

  "Get help," said Eaton.

  As it happened, Garrett's first trip brought Duke, a nonplussed Eaton, and a few of the believers to Castor. Garrett tried to keep the mood light so that he could keep from telling himself that this new crew was a bad one. "What interested your group in coming all the way out here?"

  "Destiny," said Duke. He pointed dramatically ahead into the waves, where there was still nothing to see but afternoon sky. "Sir Phillip's strength is his ability to prophecy, to sense the currents of God's Plan, even if he needs help putting said Plan into motion."

  Garrett learned little from that. "Let me come at this another way. Why did you leave the mainland? How does this advance your, uh, doctrines?"

  "You did hear the President's speech after the hurricane, didn't you?"

  "Absolute rot," muttered Eaton, probably referring to Duke as well as the speech.

  Garrett said, "No."

  Eaton pulled a computer from his pocket and offered it to Garrett. Garrett read. My fellow Americans, my children... said the transcript. The President went on at length about the need to "save America from the demons of divisiveness" and "bring about unity under one people, one moral standard".

  Eaton said, "And one Leader, I'm sure."

  "What does this have to do with the hurricane?"

  "It's a breaking point. A chance to lead shocked, scared people into accepting some 'reforms' that've been waiting in the wings, on a lot of subjects. Freedom of speech, taxes, borders, the role of government in general."

  Garrett stared into the transcript again, unable to stomach the flowery language. It was like a machine of words, a bomb that he needed to dismantle but didn't know how to. He lacked the tools to answer this politician's calls for more power, more centralization. He dropped the computer, shaken.

  A woman grabbed it in midair, rescuing it from the muck at the bottom of the boat. She had coffee-colored skin and long, dark hair hidden under a plain dress and grey headscarf. She struck Garrett as the sanest-looking of the bunch; why had she gone along with some weirdo neo-Confederate cult?

  "Anyway," said Duke, "That was our cue to leave."

  When the platform appeared on the horizon Garrett gunned the engine. His passengers leaned forward and stared.

  "There's going to be so much work," one of them said. Garrett glanced back and saw it was that woman again. But she wasn't complaining; she looked excited now.

  The radio crackled. "Castor Station calling transport boat."

  "Hey, Tess. Are we cleared to dock? I've got passengers and cargo. Change of plans: the, uh, gro
up is coming early." He looked back at Duke and said, "What do we call you people?"

  "Pilgrims," said Duke, with a smile.

  Author's Note: This group's theme isn't meant to reference current events in any way. See the book's end note for explanation.

  6. Tess

  "So you're the soldier guy." She stared up at Eaton, a jock who was looking the station over like he'd conquered it.

  "Close enough." Eaton shook her hand and she couldn't help thinking, he's a professional murderer. Even now he was probably mentally listing fifty ways he could kill her and escape.

  She said, "You're not with these religious people, are you?"

  "Those idiots? No. I'm here to look around."

  Martin swooped into view. "Tess, I need you to supervise these... Pilgrims as they move in."

  Eaton said, "Hide the sharp objects."

  Tess sighed and descended into South Tower while Martin chatted up Eaton and that actor guy. She'd have to put away her little lab.

  Since the hurricane, she'd buried herself in work. Blaming herself for not maintaining the float cylinders well enough, she'd tried everything she could to improve things with what parts were available. When she worked herself to exhaustion she heard from Zephyr, showing up like a geeky valkyrie to approve of her. "I can help," he said. "Let me see what you're seeing." She let the AI access her i-glasses. He could practically look through her eyes and speak privately to her about her tasks. It was good to have Zephyr there to talk with. Garrett was spending the same nights staying up with his own work, and neither human was willing to intrude on the other. Mostly she and Zephyr talked about their work, about possibilities for building new things, but those were broad categories. She was learning a lot.

  When she reached the clutter of equipment, the cultists were poking at it. "Hey!" she called out, loud in the bare concrete room. Four people in stupid fantasy outfits were disconnecting cables and sweeping tools into a box. "Don't touch my stuff."

  A black woman said, "Oh, is this yours? Where should we put it?"