Because it was the lonely time, when night people could be found, Pilar went looking for someone named Jimmy McKenna, knowing that wouldn’t be the name he used. Privacies came in many strange forms in the net. What Pilar needed to find was someone who knew Jimmy’s Name and would be willing to tell her his address.
Gulf Coast? The last place to look.
Music? Beethoven’s Fifth Synchrony, BFS, hadn’t heard of him, or so he said.
The Frisco Freak?
[Freak] No way, hon. Pilar, we’re going to run a thing Thursday night at Infinity Warehouse. You wanna come down and do some fleshtime? Just for the old Freak, maybe?
[Pilar] $$$???
[Freak] Well, of course there’s no *money* in it, am I the Freak or what?
Whiteline scored for her.
[Whiteline] Yeah, Jimmy the Mac. Let me tell you, Empress, this is a shy dude and he just keeps pulling every byte of yours off the net. But he checks in with me alla time and somehow he manages to ask if I’ve heard from you. So have I?
[Pilar] So you’ve heard from me, Whiteline. Like I want his ass soonest, okay?
[Whiteline] I figure ten minutes.
But it didn’t happen in ten minutes. Pilar slept well into the morning, and dreamed of brick alleys that never dead-ended and never opened onto streets. It was a maze in a kid’s book, she knew it, and if she could just get up high enough to look down, she could see where Out was.
The bricks were old, their faces dulled with years into that funny baked-bean color. It was Boston; it was where she’d been taken after the double funeral, both her parents in caskets heaped with flowers. Drunk driver, drunk driver, only this time Papa was the drunk driver. Pilar still remembered him, and security, and laughter, when she smelled bourbon. Odd that she liked the way it smelled, even now.
Pilar had sketched those brick walls, over and over. Sitting in Auntie Beatrice’s bay window that looked out on Beacon Street, where little old ladies in cloned minks rode their bicycles to market and the light always seemed to come through a thin lens of gray oil.
* * *
Pilar woke to a Seattle fog, and she woke charged, ready to work. On the holo stage, she set—
A background of faded moiré velvet the color of tobacco, rumpled over cracked, stained marble. A stalk of dried mullein just there, its heavy head the shape of a candle flame. Tossed, a handful of freshwater pearls.
Pilar tilted her head and looked at what she’d done. The sound, the sound, yes.
It took her, for some inexplicable reason, several tries to find what she needed. In Symphony Hall in Boston, not the shrilling tune-up before a performance, but the time between movements of a string quartet. The first violin playing open fifths, quietly, to check the tuning, and somewhere, one cough, and then several. She took the sound, multiplied the tracks, and dulled them down to pianissimo. Then upped the echo again. A scent track? She tried a whiff of sandalwood. No.
Janine, scrubbed and polished, waited at the doorway when Pilar looked up.
“The florist is here,” Janine said.
“Oh, yeah. I ordered some tulips for you. When’s your interview with Tanaka?”
“Tonight. His tomorrow. Pilar, you going to eat today?”
“Later. Later.”
Janine sighed and left. Pilar enjoyed, in some perverse way, Janine’s concern. But pet, she wanted to tell her, I am not an anorexic. Or rather, I would be, but I have this thing about hot fudge sundaes. Pilar looked again at the tobacco velvet, at all the dry, soft textures.
“This sucks!” she yelled, and stood up in the middle of scattered virtual pearls. Trash it?
Pilar kicked a few pearls with her imaged foot and left them that way. She went into the kitchen and nuked up last night’s twice-cooked pork and rice and ate it all, with three glasses of orange juice and a vitamin pill. Then she fixed the tulips for Janine, went back to the studio to store the pearls and velvet, and just sat, for a while, looking out the window to where Rainier probably was.
* * *
Signy, looking in, saw Pilar at rest, her profile dark against the pearly light from the window, one arm draped over her bent knee and her midnight hair pulled forward over one shoulder.
Pilar looked as if she had posed for a life class. Signy saved the image to storage and hunted for Jared on the Siranui.
* * *
She found Jared in a poker game. And didn’t bother him.
* * *
Signy worked her way through the Houston data, looking for correlations that might overlay Pilar’s iceberg scene. There were no telltale spikes in the graphics to give her a sure feel for emotional undertones. Rage, in the Houston population, was a dull thing, worn down by years and years of less and less. The world didn’t whimper anymore, it just … dwindled. The Great Plains aquifers were dead, the West surviving on rainfall and caution. The seas, the biologists said, were graying. Their creatures were duller, less exuberant than in times past. Times past.
Signy lost herself, for a pleasant while, in Jared’s views of the sea. The world looked pretty healthy there.
[Paul] It’s time, Signy.
Seascapes vanished, replaced by Paul, dressed for Kobe’s morning business hours. Paul wore money clothes. He had spruced up, close-shaven enough that he looked scraped and oiled, in a carefully knotted foulard, a blinding white shirt, a British tailor’s charcoal suit. On the Seattle screen, Janine sat all proper in a pale gray business tunic. Her hands rested on Pilar’s scrubbed birch table. Janine and Paul both had their notebooks propped beside them; Signy would be able to add silent comments while they talked. A mass of forced pink tulips stood on an oak sideboard behind Janine. They were very Dutch-looking tulips, loosely bundled in markedly non-Asian profusion.
“Okay?” Paul asked.
“You’re gorgeous,” Signy said. Grubby Signy. As soon as they finished this little conference, Signy figured she would shower, or maybe soak in the hot tub.
“Listen with us,” Paul said. “Cut in if you need to.”
“You’re meeting with a company shyster,” Signy said. “Not Tanaka himself. But the finery looks nice.” And you’re both as scared as I am. God, kids, don’t blow it.
“Kazuyuki Itano,” Janine said. “That’s as close as we’re likely to get to the center, for now.”
Signy windowed up Itano’s dossier. A Stanford graduate, he’d spent years in Tanaka’s San Diego offices and now worked out of the home office in Kobe. Itano ran the fisheries for Tanaka and he would shepherd Tanaka’s position at Antarctic Commission meetings in Lisbon.
“I may consult you while Itano is on-line,” Paul said. “I want him to meet all of us, so he’ll know we’re not offing a junior on him if he talks to you.”
“Show my face and I’ll kill you,” Signy said. “Other than that, fine.”
A young man with a round face and glasses answered Paul’s call. He wore a regulation dark business suit and looked too young to be a Stanford graduate. “Mr. Itano will speak with you now,” he said. Roundeyes was a secretary, Signy realized.
Itano came onscreen, seated behind an expanse of glossy rosewood. The wall behind him was a windowless expanse of polished limestone rich with marine fossils. Kazuyuki Itano had white sideburns and a narrow European style nose.
Signy figured the sideburns were cosmetic.
“Mr. Maury, Dr. Hull,” Itano began a ritual round of greetings in unaccented West Coast English. Good, Signy thought, he won’t argue Janine’s input, even if she is a gaijin blonde. “I have read your negotiating proposals, Mr. Maury. Your suggestion that the French-speaking delegations would find a reexamination of the tourist ban to be ‘inflammatory’ is intriguing.”
“They will become upset. It would be good for a distraction, if you need one. Remind people, again, that only the affluent could afford to travel to Antarctica thirty years ago, and they were banned. Now, such travel would be limited to the filthy rich. Such people fund research, after all.”
“Research is integral to Tanaka’s interests,” Itano said. He looked at something over Paul’s head and seemed to change the subject. “We are pleased to learn that the nephew of the U.S. negotiator is graduating the Scripps Institute.”
“I have heard that the young man is considering a position with Pacific Biosystems,” Paul said.
“Is he?” Itano asked.
And said young man just might receive an offer from Tanaka, at rather a more favorable salary, if Signy was reading Itano’s expression right. There was nothing ominous in such a move. We’ll be okay, Signy thought.
“You have approved the advertisement in the Economist?” Advertizment, Paul said, dropping into British pronounciation.
Signy smiled.
“Your copy looked attractive to the type of recruit we seek,” Itano said. “Our British PR agency approved the copy as written. Have you recommendations for other media exposure?”
“We have concerns about that,” Paul said. “This is delicate—it may be that public awareness of the renewal date for the Antarctic treaty may reopen the discussion about mineral rights. If no blather is heard, then the old environmental guidelines may stand as is, and the public will likely remain unaware that mineral extraction is only temporarily forbidden under the terms of the treaty. The guidelines could be brought up for review again. A company who promised extravagant safety procedures might find sympathetic listeners in the Commission. The oil reserves are considerable, we know, and copper? Its availability may be greater than we think. There is always the possibility that ‘objective’ estimates made in the eighties and nineties were slanted to appear less, rather than more, in quantity.”
“Thirty years ago, no one wanted the continent disturbed,” Itano said. “Tanaka’s opinion has not changed. Leave it alone, at any cost.”
“My information is that mining the continent would be economically ridiculous, even now,” Janine said.
Itano frowned in Janine’s direction. Then, perhaps because the screen on the front of his desk was feeding him Janine’s academic credentials, he looked directly at Dr. Janine Hull’s face and nodded agreement.
Economically ridiculous now, Signy thought, economically feasible when all else became scarce. The Alaskan oil fields are still pumping. We’ll need Antarctic oil and copper someday, but not yet. The restrictions keep the issue quiet, but not closed. Damned parasites, us humans. Still, some of us must live.
“If someone stirs up the Greens, if someone makes them aware that mineral extraction is still a possibility in Antarctica, they may decide to take on the cause of the poor fishes again,” Janine said. “They would package the issues together; they would try to stop the mining, forever, stop fishing, forever.”
So far, so good. Itano looked interested.
Pilar had framed Janine and her wide blue eyes in front of massed pink flowers, so European. Way to go, Pilar, Signy cheered. If you can’t hide it, flaunt it. She wondered if Itano thought that Janine’s rose and ivory coloring was pretty, or just strange.
Itano tented his fingers as if he were praying. “Maximum sustainable harvest is necessary. Many would starve without the sea harvest,” he said. “I emphasize: sustainable. We have no intention of depleting the Antarctic, Dr. Hull.”
“So we have heard,” Janine said. “Mr. Itano, I am concerned about the proposed quota system. Giving the most fish to nations with the most people may not be the optimal way to maintain the safety of the biomass in the Southern Ocean.”
“Nothing else has been proposed.” Itano pulled his hands beneath his desk and out of sight.
[Signy] He’s tensing up, Janine. Paul, you answer.
“A system was used in Arctic waters, briefly, twenty years ago,” Paul said. “Permits went to the highest bidders. Not by nation; any fleet could bid. The fleets who could get the fish out the most efficiently paid percentages of profits to a UN fund. The UN spent the money on benthic research and allocated some to protein distribution.”
[Signy] Janine, it’s Paul who makes Itano tighten up. You take him, girl. He’s warming to you.
“The agreement didn’t last,” Janine said. “Countries with no fisheries invoked the Law of the Sea agreement; ‘sea resouces are the common heritage of mankind,’ and all that. Several landlocked countries threatened to claim their share of the catch. The fishermen got upset and delivered some of the disputed share to a protesting country’s embassy. A couple of truckloads of fresh fish can make quite a mess on a hot day.”
Itano returned Janine’s smile. “The Sardine Solution. Yes.”
“You seriously suggest we propose opening such a can of … worms … again?” Itano asked.
“I seriously do.” Janine’s eyes were as big as saucers, as innocent as bluebells. “But I would not suggest that protests be met in the same way.”
“Our time is limited,” Itano said. “You are suggesting that we change our proposed strategy entirely.”
“Our best recommendation, Mr. Itano.”
Itano’s hands pushed against the edge of the desk. “Difficult,” he said.
“Possible. Possible, Mr. Itano.” Janine’s voice stayed low and she began to use a slower, more deliberate cadence. “For a company willing to maintain a long-term view.”
[Signy] I can’t be sure he will catch the change in emphasis, but give it a try.
Itano let his elbows rest on the desk and cupped his palms in front of him, as if he kept guard on some invisible object on the table, something that might scurry away. Paul crossed his arms and waited.
“Tanaka reported a catch of one hundred thousand tonnes of krill last season. Of Nototheniops larseni, of Champsocephalus gunnari, and related bony fishes; fifty thousand tonnes. Tanaka’s fleet is by no means the largest in Antarctic waters.” Janine’s tongue had no problems with the fishy names. Itano stayed intent on her words; Janine continued. “Other fleets report their catches to the Antarctic authorities on an honor system. The catch is variable by year, and a decrease in reported catches has been occurring each year for the past four years. This is considered alarming in some quarters. Arbitrary restrictions on all catches are being considered.”
“You have done your homework, Dr. Hull. Have you calculated the changes attributed to decreasing salinity at the Antarctic upwelling? Ice-cap melt is increasing, but some researchers maintain that the productivity will increase, not decrease, because of it. We may be just seeing an adjustment in speciation, not a true decrease.”
“Parameters are still in question,” Janine said. “In many areas. Isn’t that what people say when they don’t know what’s really happening, but they’re afraid they’re wrong?”
“The decreases cause us concern,” Itano said. “We might like to manage the harvest differently. I am scheduled to arrive in Lisbon tomorrow. Time prevents us, unfortunately, from discussing the changes we would like to make.”
Security concerns, Signy thought, prevent us … but Itano wasn’t insisting that Edges go ahead and sell the proposed treaty language.
“But if you could come to Lisbon…”
[Signy] Aha! Your fish is nibbling the bait. You knew he might ask. I think you should go, Janine.
“… we could perhaps discuss this further,” Itano said.
“I—would be honored.” Janine didn’t look honored, she looked not very happy at all.
[Signy] Smile, damn it.
Smiles and bows finished the discussion. Itano’s secretary followed Itano’s goodbyes with promises of travel arrangements and guest housing for Janine. The secretary’s round face vanished, and Signy waited for Janine’s response.
“You did it, Janine. Itano’s responses were negative to my comments, pretty much, from the few tension parameters I could read of him,” Paul said.
“You’re Harvard. He’s Stanford. What did you expect?” Signy asked, voice this time, since the conference was over. Relief relaxed her shoulders. Relief was a comfortable, warm feeling. The contract, which had seemed so tenuous, felt real, felt doable.
“More friction than I got, actually. You’ve got to do it for us. Fleshtime, my dear Ms. Hull,” Paul told Janine. “It is said that blue-eyed blondes get the highest prices in the better houses in Tokyo.”
“Really?” Janine asked. “Paul, you are so low.”
“Just information. Just information.”
“We’re on an open line, Paul,” Signy said. Just this once, she was happy to catch him in a relative security goof.
Paul vanished.
Janine cut away into a carrier wave. Signy stretched and got up and sat down again. She looked in on Jared. He had finished his game, and he sat in Kihara’s cabin, working at the flat-screen. Signy started to download some of the meeting to him, but then she figured Jared could just as well ask her for it. He would want a precis, anyway, and Signy didn’t want to do one just now.
The Seattle cameras responded to motion, and Signy saw Janine at the doorway of the studio. Janine looked in at Pilar, who seemed unaware of her.
“I thought it went pretty well,” Signy said.
“It seemed to,” Janine said. “Is there anything to see in Lisbon in January?”
Signy had expected outrage, not resignation. “Oh, babe. I don’t know.”
Janine’s formal tunic contrasted with the clutter, the room’s cameras showing unadorned Seattle walls, and Pilar in a paint-stained caftan, fingering her way through a box filled with wrinkled tubes of acrylic pigments.
“You’re through?” Pilar asked. “I’ll use the tulips, then.”
“Yeah, I’m through.” Janine pulled the tunic’s high collar open and rubbed at her neck. “I’m going to Lisbon.”
“Yeah.” Pilar squeezed a blob of cadmium yellow on her palette and frowned at it.
“You going to paint tulips?” Janine started for the door, to get the tulips, Signy figured. She waited on Pilar’s every whim, and Signy hated that she did.
Janine didn’t leave; she sat down on a battered tapestry cushion and stared up at Pilar.
“Maybe. You know those knitted hats the sailors wear on the Siranui? I think they’d sell in L.A.,” Pilar said.
“They’re ugly.” Janine frowned and picked at something on her cushion.
“That’s why they would sell,” Pilar said.
Signy pulled her headset off. The Taos house sat warm against the winter cold. She added a couple of logs to the corner fireplace and nudged them into place. Why didn’t Pilar act pleased, or happy, or give some sort of human response? We all worked on this, sweated through this conference, and now Pilar chooses to ignore Janine, who needs a few strokes. Damn her for an insensitive …
Loud and insistent, Signy heard a siren whoop on the Siranui. The noise alarmed her, hit a deep vein of fear that she’d shoved aside. Running back to her station, she realized she was primed for this, that she had been waiting, all through Itano’s call, waiting for something ominous to surface. Her headset felt sweat-slick when she pulled it on. Signy disappeared the Seattle inputs and scrambled to find Jared’s signature in the Siranui’s virtual architecture. An accident? A medical alert? Jared was not in sick bay, but Signy hadn’t expected to find him there. In Kihara’s cabin, she found the familiar sense of Jared’s body, awakening. Signy punched the volume control and heard Alan Campbell’s voice.
“… distress signal coming from a submersible.”
“Anna’s got the crash kit. I’ll be right up,” Jared said. He swiveled away from the cabin flatscreen.
Jared’s body language felt alert, not alarmed, but he was tense enough to startle Signy as she felt him get to the cabin door and head for the lift.
Seen through Jared’s cameras, the Siranui’s deck took shape before her, Alan’s freckled neck visible for a moment above his collar, glimpses of Jared’s feet in bulky moonboots. Crew members in bulky parkas pushed a helo into position for takeoff. The deck’s granular black surface was rimed with ice, slippery, and Signy felt herself jerk as Jared skidded.
Anna’s hand caught his elbow in a grip as strong and sure as a longshoreman’s.
“Thanks!” Jared shouted above the helo’s engines.
“Move it!” Anna yelled.