Ambient (8 page)

"You think she won't?"

"See," he said. "You could do it sole, if needed, AO?" I
nodded. "But then you wouldn't, perhaps-"

Neither of us said anything, for several long seconds.

"See. In seclusion. All of this is in seclusion."

"AO," I said. As we stepped from the car one of Mister Dryden's phones buzzed. I picked it up and handed it to him.

"Dryden here," he said. "AO. They imaged, then? You did?
Prokashnik! Spot them twice over. My account. AO."

He hung up. I lifted my eyebrows, curious.

"Two casinos look safe," he said. "Martel listens well some
days. Especially with inspiration effected. Jake effected that."
Without warning, his face downcasted.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"We'll have to raise the boardwalk, still," he said. "Floods
at high tide. That damned Green."

The Green was so arcane that even our city's denizens were struck
dumb by the possibilities. The subject never arose in chat; like
the existence of the Superfluous, like Ambients, the Green came
up only in discussions of problems for which the ever-inventive
young would probably find a lasting solution. The debate was
hampered in that no one agreed as to what the Green would involve.

The weather had been peculiar since I was a boy. The temperature in New York, these days, rarely dropped below fortythough the previous June there'd been a one-day blizzard-and
though it averaged sixty to seventy year-round, on occasion it had gone so high as one hundred and fifteen. Deserts expanded
worldwide; in the American west, the Dust Bowl brushed the
skirts of Dallas and Chicago. Once, during a trip to that latter
city, I recall standing with Mister Dryden on the ninetieth floor
of one of our buildings, watching through the window a broad
brown band writhing along the horizon's line; the state of Nebraska, rolling up like a rug.

As American grainland vanished, so Canada's and Russia's
grew, and so from those countries our wheat arrived to supply
our stones. The Siberian growing season lasted eight months of
the year, lately; for eight months of the year, too, it snowed in
Sydney and along the southern coast of Australia. Ten months of
the year, along the Pacific coast, it rained, a cool, perpetual drizzled fog. The last time Mister Dryden and I were in LA the rainy
season was off ; a thermal inversion had set in. The air was so
thick you could nearly roll it into little balls.

And so far as anyone admitted, and so the Old Man believed,
the sea would rise five to one hundred feet in five to one hundred
years. No scientist would, or could, explain precisely what was
going on; at heart, everyone, I believe, suspected that someone
else, somewhere, for some reason, was doing it all deliberately.

Not all of New York would sub, according to the Old Man's
experts; the Bronx and much of upper Manhattan would forever
rise above the waves. The Old Man planned for the building of
his new city, fresh and shining-bright, on the golden-green hills
of the Bronx-of which, that day, he owned 100 percent of the
land.

Visions come sometimes to my sleeping eyes; once I beheld
one of the city of Old New York, one hundred-maybe fiveyears hence, a Venice on stilts: cobbled docks extending out from
the tenth floors of the most attractive skyscrapers; gondolas plying
the gray currents, down the watery boulevards, in morning's mistthe towers still habitable, high above, and the old horrors way
down below the ocean. Mister Dryden, even early on, had no faith in my vision, and laughed the time I told him. He said l was
a hopeless romantic. Perhaps. Some dreams fade like cheap dyes,
bright at first wear and drab thereafter; unlike their dreamer, my
dreams never ran.

For that afternoon's remainder, I stayed with Mister Dryden as
he went about, checking what he thought needed checking.
Through the Dryco bank-Chase, obtained like so much else,
during the Ebb-Mister Dryden, and Dryco, and the government
could weigh in balance the daily worth of most of the world's
nations. Since the days after the Ebb, when all countries' banks
began working with paper commodities rather than paper currency (the debts could never have been paid otherwise), Dryco
had held a close grip on each and all, for no other reason than
that Dryco owned so much of every sort of thing, everywhere.
The Old Man devised this barter system, or so he claimed; more
likely it had been Susie D's toy; she was always more apt in those
fields. Mister Dryden effected and programmed the weekend details: diamonds from Mandela would ship to Amsterdam in exchange for chips from Frankfurt; Malaysian lumber would sail to
Tokyo in exchange for denims from Quito; from Canada's mines,
bauxite was to go to Zeiching and Shanghai along with American
Pepsi-Cola, both in trade for Vietnamese TVCs that would later
make their way to France, in exchange for champagne soon to be
guzzled at Mister Dryden's Westchester table. As we were at war
with Russia and its allies, all trade with them was carried on only
during the first half of the week, through a different exchange.

I checked in with the Market about certain of our holdings.
Some delay occurred in my obtaining info. Two hours before, at
the conference's conclusion, SatCom disappeared from the big
board, and all stocks held by other companies and by striving
midmen suddenly became Dryco property-for Dryco was not a
member of the big board, or of the exchange; the Old Man never trusted the Market, he said. Once the last suicides had been carried out, my info cleared quickly, and I found what I needed.

Around four I approached Avalon, wishing to talk.

"Here?" she asked.

"Too many ears," I said, looking toward Mister Dryden.
"Down a ways."

We made our way to a lower floor, to the Central Data Processing Department on the fiftieth floor. As we stepped out of the
elevator, we clutched each other for warmth, for the AC was
powerful on that level. As we walked into the main office, our
breath escaped from our mouths in clouds.

The office was full. Processing midmen-women, mostlyonce worked at home, doing piecework with small terminals. After
much thievery of time and material, all Dryco computer ops were
required to work at the office. The staff worked in thirty-two hour
shifts; on average, they received forty cents an hour after taxes
as overtime pay.

"Where d'you want to talk?" Avalon asked me; she'd borrowed Jimmy's coat and buttoned it around herself. It reached
the floor.

"Down at the far end. Away from them-"

"They can't hear," she said. "They're not paying attention,
anyway."

I rubbed my hands together, warming them; wishing I could
rub them against Avalon. Each processor sat in a small cubicle,
their eyes focusing the CRTs hanging on the walls before them;
each wore headphones so as to hear their terminals-number
eights-as they punched away. A red light flashed over one of
the cubicles. One of the office maintenants rolled over and unlocked the stocks that held the young woman's feet. It guided her
across the room, toward the lav; her white cane helped her in
tapping out the way. The system had flaws; some employees went
insane-they were fired-and some grew blind-the ones whose
fingers slipped were given Braille keyboards, at cost.

"What's the deal, then?" she asked, after we reached the far
end of the room. I told her what he'd told me.

"What do you think?" I finally asked.

"Sounds wonderful," she said, not smiling.

"Yeah-"

"Sounds like smoke and words," she whispered. "And a whole
pile of shit underneath."

"I don't think so."

"I don't trust him," she said.

"I know."

"You do?" she asked. "Why?"

"I've known him longer. He was talking me today as he used
>,
to.

"Making any more sense than he has lately?"

"In some ways."

"Ways that help you," she said.

"That help us."

"Seem to, don't they? What if this is just to set us up for
something?"

"Why would he do that?"

"Why's Pops do things the way he does? Why do either of
them do anything the way they do? They're both fuckin' crazy."

I still hated to admit it, for whatever reason. "I know," I said.

"And you think he's less crazy than his father?"

"Look," I said, "Weren't you just saying a few hours ago
how if I didn't do something, you would?"

"Yeah. "

"What?" I asked. "What'll you do?"

She leaned against the wall, folding her arms across her chest.
"If he's out to take us," I continued, "he will, one way or the
other. But we'll be together. Right?"

Her eyes brightened; I decided to be more overt than I had
been-the time seemed so right as it ever would.

"I love you," I said. I'd never said it before to anyone but

Enid; had felt it for Avalon since the moment I first vizzed. "If
he's leveling, then we'll be doing AO for a time. If nothing more.
Both of us."

She nodded, and let her arms drop to her sides.

"Whatever happens, we'll be together. Do you want that? If
you don't-"

At once she put her arms around me, clamping me tight. I felt
the bones in my back pop as she squeezed. I brought my hands
to her face, stroking each side.

"I don't trust him," she said. "We better ready to run."

"We'll run together."

"Ready to kill, Shameless," she said. "Ready to die."

"Together," I said. "You'll go?"

"Detail it," she said. We walked back toward the elevator, all
proper and business-pure. Into her ear I whispered her cues. Red
lights went off at each end of the room, and maintenants rushed
to lead. Saturday, I thought. After tomorrow's long hours we
should never part alive.

Before I left I changed clothes, putting on my
highlace black boots, dark pants, a sweatshirt, and
over all my Krylar coat. Signing out at eightMister Dryden and Avalon kept to their downtown
apartments, on the one hundredth floor, and so my
shadow could safely stray-I picked up my check and walked
out. There was extra this week; not so much as I would have
wished-it never was. I made $4,000 a year working for Mister
Dryden. Enid and I, who owned one small building between us,
by law paid the highest percentage of property tax. It was judged
a great incentive that the more buildings you owned, the less tax
you paid. Last year our property tax ran $1,800; take so well
electric bills, cable bills, phone bills, food . . .

As an owner's protege, my personal taxes were nada; boozhies
shelled the funds that kept the wheels rolling over all.

There was a Chase on Chambers Street, near Centre; I went
in, sliding my card into the machine, and waited for a response.

"Good evening, Mister O'Malley," said the voice; bank
voices-number sevens-were sharp castrati sopranos. "Can I
help you?"

"Deposit."

"Code first."

I pressed out my code with care. If you miscoded while trans acting, the machine electrocuted you. Chase claimed that, for the
public, the printcode was still in development.

"Good evening."

"Night," I said, leaving. Near the night courts, off Foley
Square, was a Dogs A'Us that kept the late hour so that lawyers
and juries might larder their maws. I fastfood it only on payday;
at least my Drydencard exed me from the 30 percent VAT added
to all goods' retail cost. Dogs A'Us, safe for all, used only organic additives in its wares; you could be sure of what they held
even if you couldn't choose the breed. I usually stand by an unexciting diet: fruits and veges, tolerably safe if soaked for several
hours; bread bought from kosher bakers and thus free from unnatural carcinogens. On occasion splurge became a must. I ate
five wienies. Three eleven-year-olds served up; the girl wore
manager garb. Her wedding photo hung over the counter; the
couple, in full dress, stood by the sprout bar, hard by the plastic
Happy Dog figurine.

I moved along up Centre Street, satisfied. A block up was the
Tombs, packed with disparos: Dreds, Mariels, Maroons, problematics, foreigns, and all of like ilk. In the buildings' heart was
Wonderland, where, I was told, the choicest cases were taken. I
knew little more, then.