Ambient (4 page)

"Blue Moon of Kentucky" played while Avalon
sipped Glenlivet through a straw from a liter. She
drank heavily on conference days in hopes of being
unable to recall them from month to month.

"He bleed enough for you?" she asked, pulling
off her cap, unlacing her suit.

She wasn't speaking to me. Mister Dryden said nothing, nor
did he watch her as she shed. He picked up the phone and called
the bookstore, asking that his books be delivered to his office
within the hour. The books were reshelved, he was told. He said
he saw no reason why his wishes wouldn't be fulfilled as demanded, and hung up; he hung up on everyone except his father.
Taking beauties from his compartment and bennies from his
drawer, he washed them down with absinthe. A few snots and
sniffs from the kane and he sat sufficed. Not until a year agoafter his mother died-had Mister Dryden much to do with the
reckers so successfully imported into the country by his organization. Now he was always on the fly. Drug's shrouds swathed
him so closely that it was as if, having been hurt and seeking
protection, he chose to wrap himself so tightly in bandages that
he might suffocate long before he healed.

We drove to his office, at Rockefeller Center, in the Dryco
building. Army troops passed us, marching down Fifth in hap hazard formation, the smirkers on their helmets bobbing as they
huffed along.

"Yellowjackets," Jimmy sneered, nodding at their sunflower
flakjacks. "Think they sting like fire."

Avalon donned her conference outfit, hooking up her armor, a
heavy steel corselet daubed with orange trim. Daggers rose from
each breastplate like exomissiles. She slid on her spiked leather
bracelets, her kneepads, her elbowpads, her thick wool leggies,
and her leather G-string. Finally she pulled on her tight leather
mitts and her roller skates.

"You're pillowing?" asked Mister Dryden, frowning.

"Yeah," she said, oiling the wheels with a can of 3-in-1.

We parked out front, in the small street by the plaza, in front
of the building. I brushed soot from my eyes as we stepped from
the car; my hands were filthy from being in the air. Sirens whined
in the distance. Several jets passed east, overhead, toward Long
Island.

"We'll afternoon it down, Jimmy," said Mister Dryden.

"Right," said Jimmy, standing at ease beside the car. He wore
a dark blue Navy bridge coat that must have weighed thirty pounds;
too warm for the weather, I thought, but he wore it always. For
aesthetics he'd sewn skull-and-crossbones patches on the shoulders, and a patch of the Lion of Judah on the back. His hair,
knotted into thick ropes, tumbled past his neck. He wore razor
knucks strapped to his left hand. Standing next to him was unsettling. I'm big, but Jimmy was magnificent; I came up to his chin.
It was good to know that in theory Jimmy worked with us and
not against-still, you could be certain only of yourself. Every
worm can turn and strike, and it always seemed to me that Jimmy
was only waiting for the moment he could keen to strike deep.

At the building's entrance, Mister Dryden shouted to a gentleman arriving, an unfamiliar face; someone's replacement. He had
a compact bodyguard; they wore gray suits. This signified that he
was but a boozhie midman and so could be easily replaced as the day demanded. Only owners and their immediate lessers wore
corporate blue; it wasn't forbidden that others should, but to do
so would be considered unmannerly at best.

"Tom,'' said Mister Dryden. "Well-going, son?"

"Fine, sir."

Tom looked to be thirty years older than Mister Dryden.

" Conference-ready?"

"Yes, sir."

We entered the lobby, Avalon rolling on ahead, zazzing around
the planters and the display cases containing Dryco-made products: electronic gear, sports equipment, art supplies, cassettes,
phone systems, Army weapons, farm tools, fiberoptic line, auto
parts, laserlights, robots, and plastic statues of E. Dryco-di-
rectly or indirectly, it didn't matter-controlled about 40 percent
of American production and could if desired lay claim to another
30 percent.

A silk banner hung from the ceiling in the lobby, wafting gently
in the AC. On it was printed the Dryconian ethic:

WORRY NOT, WONDER NOT.

We newstanded a moment. The proprietor, an old man Iegbent
and wobbly with rickets, leafed through El Newsweek. I picked
up the two dailies-the New York Times and USA People-and
dropped the two cents in his hand. In a guarded nook was Mister
Dryden's elevator. "Open," he said, pressing his hand against
the printcode monitor; the door opened. We entered and began
rising to the sixty-fifth floor. Most elevators had Vidiac piped in,
but not Mister Dryden's; we had nothing to watch but each other.

"Basic morning meets, OM," said Mister Dryden, slipping
his stance, weaving slightly, as if the increasing altitude affected
his sense of balance. "You can skip. Three contractings and one
intrapersonal. No shakes."

"No problem," I said. Most important business meetings I attended with Mister Dryden, so that I might lend counsel and
prevent assassination. I knew so much about the workings of the
organization in most areas as he did-most, but not all. One area
remained an enigma and I suspected, then, that it always would.
I suspected as well that so long as it did, I would go no further
than I already had; it was something the family kept tight, and
underwrapped, like the crazy uncle locked in the attic roomthough whatever it was, was considerably more useful than that.

"Who're you seeing?" Avalon asked, making noises with her
straw and giggling, her bottle tucked in the crook of her arm. The
more she drank, the stronger her accent grew. She was born in
Washington Heights. Her parents were English, by way of Barbados-perhaps vice versa. Her given name was Judy-Judy
something; she never said what. Proxies tend to lose touch with
their families during their time spent as lalas. Avalon hadn't seen
hers since she was eleven; she once sent them a Christmas card.

"Pards," said Mister Dryden, chewing his lip, tapping the walls
with his fingers as if attempting to send messages to the spirit
world. "La Rue from StanBrand, Jameson from XBP, Timmer-
man from Gorky-Detroit. They're reporting me preprogram. "

"Sounds thrilling. Who's the fourth?"

"Lope. "

"He's a nice old man," she said. "The old ones always spend
more sugar than the young ones."

"Is he still working with Intel?" I asked; Lope hadn't been by
in months-working on arms deals in Siberia, I believed.

"He's working his old boys with this one. He stands to Mar-
ielize Atlantic City."

"Why?"

"We won't."

The system was simple and, unlike most systems, often worked.
Mister Dryden steered the business; the computers and midmen
ran it; his father owned it. His father owned many things. Dryco
piefingered every major country, stuck both hands deep into America. Mister Dryden's father-the Old Man, we pegged himwas the most successful of those who had bested the Ebb.

"How long's it going to take?" asked Avalon. "I'm freezin'
my ass."

"Hourish. I'm gauging that Lope '11 conference today."

"I didn't think he liked violence," I said.

Mister Dryden laughed, pressing the up button several more
times. "Ask Dad," he said.

In the halcyon days, in those shimmery years lostbegone, the
Old Man and his wife-Susie D-controlled the most profitable
recreational drug circulation network between the Americas. With
trusted assistants such as Lope and with friendly competitorsthose they hadn't had to buy, as it were-they directed other
promising enterprises on an equally productive scale: carting and
disposal, active/passive pleasure provision, domestic security and
international antiterror assistance, and general import-export. Even
then the family was rich, though of comprehensible wealth.

"Note me, OM," said Mister Dryden. "Call a maintenant."

For years the Drydens stood firm, reinvesting their profits and
growing evermore secure. Their influence was strong, before;
afterward, it was complete. The administration of that day, having beguiled the nation so willfully with enthralling lies, suffered
a succession of unexpected horrors, long developing and at last
erupting. The panic was on; no one understood what was happening well enough to concoct a believable deceit in time, and so for
a while it all came down. The Old Man and Susie D knew when
to move and when to lay still, and as all began to tumble they
caught, reaped, secured, and ran. Their plan worked well-for
them, and for their friends. It was as if the country had been in a
theater when the cry of fire rang; when all broke for the exit, they
discovered that the Drydens had locked the doors behind them,
and now charged all an escape fee.

"Maintenant?" I asked, "Why?"

"Speed increase," he muttered, pressing the button again.

"You're flyin' now," mumbled Avalon.

After the Long Island accident and the birth of Ambients; after
the revelation of the Q documents and the loss of spirit thereof;
after the economic emergency, the resulting currency devaluation, and what was called, by some, the unavoidable regrouping
of structures, came the twelve months known by Ambients, and
now by most, as the Goblin Year. All made up the Ebullition
(another Ambient coinage that slipped into general use-though
we just called it the Ebb). I was twelve, that year, unknowing of
the inventiveness of my future employers; uncertain, as was
everyone, of what future there might remain. My mother had
been killed earlier, during a pro-life riot. My father, once a realtor, once well-off, managed to hold only one property, the building on Avenue C in which Enid and I lived, and had lived, since
that time. Dad was gone in a matter of weeks; Enid raised me,
having raised herself.

"I was elevatorspeaking," he said.

"Oh," she nodded. "Of course."

"I'll see what can be done," I said, knowing nothing could be
done; there was nothing wrong with the elevator.

"Good man," said Mister Dryden.

Since then, all had adjusted-some more so than others. It was
quite simple. The government served those who supervised the
sailing of the yacht of state; the government controlled the business that controlled the government. Complex in theory, it was
infallible in practice. I gather that new owners weren't much different from old ones; oldboss, newboss, as Enid put it. Live and
let live was the word; so went the thought, so went the act. With
useful exceptions matters ran themselves; that this did not always
work to everyone's benefit aroused among the government apparatchiks no concern, brought no interpretation, produced no
apology, stirred no regret. Those in control worked their legerdemain when and as they wished. It was nature's way.

"Here now," said Mister Dryden as the elevator slowed.

American society, thus, had three arenas in which all could
cavort: that of owners and their servants; that of boozhies, the old
bourgeois; that of what the government pegged the Superfluous.
The last, like owners, paid no taxes; unlike owners, they were
felt to deserve no shielding from the vicissitudes of life. Unless
they entered the Army (by draft or, in the case of women, by
choice) the Superfluous were underemployed. Some were useful
to industry; the elderly were useful in research. All did business
on the unders; many got along. There was no excuse for being
poor in America; it was much easier to be dead.

"Ola, Renaldo," said Mister Dryden.

But no cynic, I; there was never a country like America in
which to live.

Mister Dryden's waiting room was impressive: paneled in woodtone, shielded from the public hall by three-inch glass; that hall's
door openable only from the reception desk. A neon smirker hung
behind the desk. Renaldo was the receptionist. He was once a
member of La Societa Mariel, formed originally to provide its
members with jobs; people helping their own, as the government
always insisted. As with Jimmy, the lure of Dryco proved inescapable. Madre was tattooed in his lower lip; her image marred
the backs of his hands. He shaved his head; he affected a bushy
mustache and wore small hoop earrings. The metal plate in his
skull reflected the overhead light; his head at some angles resembled an expensive kitchenware item.

"Renaldo," said Mister Dryden, "Punch up 37H, 26B, 29C,
2T. Expect them. Don't enter others. "

"Toderecho," said Renaldo.

Cameras focused the doors leading from the public hall. On
his monitors, Mister Dryden could see who entered, could signal
by silent alarm. Renaldo kept an ax by his desk, ready for unsolicited arrivals.

Avalon and I sat on the couch nearest the elevator. I shifted as
I sat so that my weight wouldn't ache my hip joint. We looked over our papers: I had USA People and she read the Times. The
first three of Mister Dryden's visitors arrived and disappeared
behind the office door. I studied my paper. NATION'S CRIME
RATE PLUNGING WEEKLY, the headline read; in smaller type,
Slower Progress Seen in Major Cities. The twenty-first anniversary of the start of the Russian-American War was to be celebrated this year in the capitals of both countries, from July 4 to
November 7. Enormous profits for both sides had been realized
during the previous quarter. Additional advisers were to be sent
this year into Pakistan, Nigeria, and Costa Rica by both sides, to
assist those countries' armies. Poland was again up for grabs; a
settlement was made in Indonesia, good for three years. The
blessing of the Russian-American War-indirectly, of the Pax
Atomica itself-was that the two countries never needed to battle
directly; that would have been neither emotionally productive nor
financially wise.

There was other news. Britain was in good form; under the
guidance of King Charles-presently occupying himself buying
horses in Kentucky-and the National Front, unemployment was
down to 80 percent. In Germany, President Streicher set forth
new policies promising shifts in direction concerning resident
Turks. Swedish destroyers shelled Oslo; another argument over
fishing rights. Lucy, the last rhinoceros, died of old age in the
Cincinnati Zoo. Why they called it USA People, I'll never know;
there were rarely any in it.