Ambient (6 page)

Crazy Lola put away her mace and charged again, flailing her
broadax in a wide circle. As Lola flew toward her, Avalon dropped
to her knees and whacked her rival on the legs with her bat. The
broadax shot out of Lola's hands and hurtled toward our bleachers. Most of us ducked-I, most quickly, I'm sure-but two
Mitsubishi reps froze and suffered unexpected haircuts. Lope hid his eyes behind his hands; Mister Dryden grinned, nudging
him.

Thrown off balance by Avalon's swing and by the weight of
her own armor, Crazy Lola fell forward and slid thirty feet down
the floor, Avalon hot on her wheels. Lola hadn't a chance. Avalon, holding fast to the rubberoid end of her chain, rushed by,
lassoing Crazy Lola's neck and pulling the chain taut. Then,
yanking Lola upright, holding the chain, beginning to pirouette,
Avalon started swinging her around. She spun faster and faster;
Lola, disoriented, rolled helplessly on Avalon's line. It reminded
me of one of the more memorable science fair experiments in
high school. When she built up enough centrifugal force, Avalon
let go the chain. Crazy Lola cannonshot through a window in a
rain of glass.

"Meeting adjourned," said Mister Dryden, rapping the gavel
once more.

Our audience, heady with delight-save two-stood Avalon
an ovation as she rolled to our barricade. I opened her visor and
put her choppers in; she was shaking. She burst into tears; I don't
recall that I'd ever seen her cry before, and without thinking of
consequence I threw my arms around her and hugged her. She
kissed me; her tongue slid into my mouth like an oyster. Mivida,
I thought. My corazon. Ambients say of their loved ones that till
time's lovely end, their blood beats their beloved's heart everaf-
ter; so mine beat Avalon's. She returned my embrace, tightened;
my chest stung with the prick of her daggers.

"I've had it, Shameless," she whispered to me as I held her.
"I can't do anymore. I can't stand it."

"You won."

"He won," she said. "We've lost. We'll always fuckin' lose."

I didn't want to admit it, because I didn't think it true. "I
know. "

"Can you get us out of this? Any way? I'm ready to take
off-"

"You'd be guttered," I said. "There's no hope then."

"Damn little now," she said, squeezing me. "It don't matter.
Don't fuckin' matter. I've had it. You've had it."

"I might be able to work something out-"

"What?"

"I'm not sure yet. He wants to talk to me. Something's on.
Don't see what yet. "

"Whatever. Talk and tell me. But I've had it, whatever you
do."

"I know."

"Better let go, Shameless. He might see us."

"He might," I said, not fearing. He'd been vizzing our way,
but I estimated he'd account it to the moment's heat.

"I've had it. Never again. Never."

With little tumult and no shouting, the president of SatCom
stepped onto the floor, striding over his ex-employees and ours,
almost slipping in the wet spots. Mister Dryden awaited, rocking
forthback on his heels, self-full enough to pop. The fellow presented Mister Dryden with the appropriate deeds; they bowed.
He knelt down before Mister Dryden, leaning forward, brushing
the hair from his neck. Mister Dryden nodded. Jake, the main
office overseer, approached, withdrawing his long Kyoto sword.
Jake, a real master, handled the more delicate aspects of corporate etiquette; he always wore an immaculate white suit.

He rode with us down to the lobby; he and Mister Dryden
chatted on the way about King Dagobert's latest edicts in France
and how Dryco reps might best deal with them, whether eyesa-
ware or underlight. We walked to the plaza. Mister Dryden bade
Lope goodbye, winking at him as well. Lope looked pale, and
more than a bit suspicious. Jake went over to hang-as if it were
a prized Christmas ornament-the newest trophy from one of the
flagpoles. Some of the older trophies were but bony skulls; replaced soon enough, recycled into candy dishes and jewel cases
and other useful objets d'art.

Avalon stepped into the car; Mister Dryden put his hand on her
shoulder.

"Front yourself," he said and motioned toward me. "OM. In
the back. Let's talk."

As I climbed into the car, settling in beside Mister Dryden,
Lope's limo, over on Fiftieth, exploded. There was nothing to do
but watch. Mister Dryden looked at the wreck and leaned back
into his seat.

"Can't be too careful," he murmured, smiling. "Downtown,
Jimmy. Bank me."

We drove down Fifth, past the bookstore. Flames rose like
flowers from the ruins.

"Batbrained. Not iffed or maybeed. He's sliding
hard and fast," Mister Dryden said to me, attempting to explain as he drew shut the clear panel
dividing the car's front compartment from the rear,
turning on the bar-sink faucet so that the roar of
running water might muffle our illicit chat. I saw Avalon through
the panel removing her conference outfit. She put on only another
wig, my favorite: the lovely light brown one with aubergine highlights. The hair glided in snakish curls beyond her waist; it was
as if Lady Godiva rode the front, blowing wisdomweed from
Jimmy's bowl.

"He's always been eccentric," I said.

"Eccentric is as eccentric does," said Mister Dryden, downing four pills, swallowing dry. "He's far gone now." He offered
me some tablets; I declined, happy to avoid all forms of polypharmacy.

"Maybe it only seems that way."

"He's entered permanent right-brain mode. No, OM. Action's
time is here."

When speaking with me alone, Mister Dryden often let slip to
some degree the bizspeak that, through practice, came so naturally to his lips; obfuscation was not his intent with me, as it was
with so many others.

"Big action or little action?"

"The biggest," he said, coughing. One of the tiny pills, halfdissolved, flew from his throat in midspasm and stuck to the front
seat. I slapped him across the back.

"AO?" I asked; he nodded. We drove west, down Forty-seventh. Empty storefronts lined Midtown streets; vast offices blockaded the avenues. Over time an exodus of smaller businesses
from Midtown-their owners frazzled by ever-increasing rent,
ever-decreasing trade, and ever-present fright-swept clear the
streets of the extraneous. In even the most populated buildings-
Dryco's as well-whole floors sat empty and defixtured, windows sealed and trimmed with flowery decals. There was space
aplenty now, though in Midtown as in much of Manhattan, no
new offices had risen for two years. 0 contrare: those retaining
possession of smaller buildings often torched them so that the
ruins might fall under city ownership.

"I haven't seen him for very long periods lately," I said. "He
hasn't seemed so different, the past few times."

"He gives good behavior when publicked," said Mister Dryden, taking another couple of pills to counter the effects of his
coughing fit; with water, this time.

"I'm sure you've seen more than I have," I said.

He nodded. At Sixth Avenue was ABC, another Dryco holding. Immense colorgraphs of network stars hung from the tower's
sides. Some wag had rappelled up and painted mustaches on several; those, and those of stars recently canceled, were being rolled
and removed by workmen and maintenants.

"How batbrained are we talking?" I asked.

"Total," he said. "Ego gone wild. Paranoia. The works. Reason's headfled. "

"Is he still working on those Bronx plans?"

"Exclusive. Exxing when he's saying I'm destroying the company. "

I said nothing, for I had thought that was what he intended.

"Every day," Mister Dryden continued, his eyes focusing,
"he secludes with Army corpsmen. Running his plans to Bronx
it and leave all else waysided."

Since Susie D died, no one saw overmuch of the Old Man,
who over the years had grown fond of shelter. Once a month we
weekended at the estate in northern Westchester so that we might
soak our souls in verdant hours and dull our sense with country
air; during those visits the Old Man appeared when food appeared, and when he chose to drag us all to chapel service. Otherwise he vanished so completely as did the vice-president a few
years ago. Those were merciful weekends, truly; I could spend
more minutes with Avalon, serving as her guard when she wished
to ramble across the estate's green meadows, for even there oneon-one protection was deemed essential, just in case.

"Maybe he's just bored and this enlivens his mind," I suggested.

"Enlivens?" said Mister Dryden. "Boils it red."

The death of his wife-it seemed to me-never caused the Old
Man the unbearable pain I believe it caused his son; perhaps it
caused not even bearable pain. The Old Man and Susie D were
married for more than forty years, but I never saw theirs as a.
union forged strong through love's blasts, resembling, rather, the
bond between Siamese twins: undeniable, inescapable, attached
by chance, kept whole by necessity, ending only in death. An
Ambient comparison, perhaps; I stand by it.

"He's moneytied us," said Mister Dryden. "Filling the Bronx's
pockets. In several areas right now we've got to float fast or we'll
be docklong and dollarshort. He's preventing."

"How so?"

Susie D passed into Godness's other domain during one of our
weekends there, as we slept; no one ever specified what killed
her, though rumors drifted like floaters down the Hudson. A coronary, we were first informed; that became a stroke a day or two
later, following the cremation. The coroner's ruling was death by misadventure; that could apply to anyone, these days. During the
past long year Mister Dryden had never spoken directly of his
mother's death. The Old Man's words were select: curiosity, he
said, killed the cat.

"Boredom has nada to do with this hobby," said Mister Dryden. "He's sunk millions down per quarter. My millions. His
millions. That's the line as bottomed. Millions best spent elseways. On the coast. In Africa. In the Sydney markets. For the
casinos, immediately; unless we refund, Mariel's going to move.
Lope came by to brief me that he was signing over to them, since
he couldn't count on our help. "

"So you helped Lope-"

He shrugged. "He'd have talked. Word spreads. I've problems enough. These things happen in life."

I wondered where else they might happen; thought it was wise
to change the subject and so avoid one of those things about which
it was wise to worry not, wonder not.

"How many millions are involved?" I asked.

"Half our working net'll be Bronxed. Land purchase wrapped
last month. Last quarter our profits downed 75 percent of last
year's. It's madness. His madness. The Army primes to push far
with this. Jumps full command when his finger points. They can
output this one forty years. Construction to begin, end of the
season. End of construction, when the money goes. Before I have
it, at this rate."

We steered down Seventh Avenue, reaching the Times Square
Free Zone at Forty-third. As we glided through, clearing our lane,
I saw Army boys frosting the wall with icy blooms of razorwire.
Over the entrance was stenciled the message: The Guilty Will Be
Punished. Times Square was Manhattan's only Free Zone; it wasn't
large. At Dryco's suggestion, the Army had set the quadrant apart,
though city police patrolled regularly, in groups of six. Here the
uninvolved could spend their passions on harmless excitements,
releasing emotions otherwise kept bottled before those in action against state interests-keen to divert such energy toward their
own devices-applied more glittery methods of uncorking. Each
day, each night, the Army admitted thousands, in rotation, for
two-hour shifts so that all might stalk in ease, slaughtering time,
frolicking beneath the advertisement's gleam, vizzing the enormous vid monitors that hung from the building facades. The zone's
streets were perpetually wet; the only way to clear the area for
oncoming shifts was to send through Army vehicles equipped
with water cannons.