Arkwright (21 page)

His father had once suggested that he bring her because she wasn't a white male American and therefore might be able to get a better deal from the locals, but that wasn't the reason. He wanted to do something with her that would take them away from the project and its people, if only for a little while. It wasn't exactly a date, but at least it was better than sitting around the pool again. To his surprise, Chandi agreed. She was tired of seeing little else but the clean room and the hotel, and like Matt, she'd never been to Ste. Genevieve. So they left just after dinner, and as the sun was going down, they parked the Volksun at the municipal wharf and walked onto the floating pier leading to the
flotante
.

The inhabitants of Ste. Genevieve had saved their homes from destruction by rebuilding them atop a collection of rafts, barges, and pontoon boats anchored above the flooded remains of the original town. Narrow boardwalks kept afloat by barrels connected shanties and shacks, which in turn were tied together by submerged cables. In some instances, the upper floors of preexistent brick buildings were still being used, their rooftops supporting a forest of solar collectors, satellite dishes, and freshwater tanks that collected rain and distilled it. The walkways were illuminated by strings of fiber-optic Christmas lights strung across tar-painted poles, and rowboats, canoes, and kayaks were tied up in slips between buildings. Smoke rose from tin ducts that served as chimneys; the salt air held the mixed aromas of burning driftwood and fried fish.

Matt and Chandi made their way through the
flotante
, trying to locate the bar where the weed dealer was said to hang out. Hand-painted signs nailed to shanty walls showed them where Ste. Genevieve's original streets had once been located; Matt had been told to look for a place called Sharky's, located on what was still called Rue Majeur. Islanders sitting in old lawn chairs silently watched them; their expressions hinted at amusement, suspicion, or curiosity, but no one said anything. Foreigners from the space center didn't come to town very often, and while the locals didn't have anything against them, they didn't necessarily have anything
for
them, either.

Sharky's turned out to be the rusted shell of a double-wide trailer that had been relocated to a barge, with a wraparound porch outside and a screen door leading inside. A few island men were seated on the porch; they quietly observed the Americans as they stepped onto the barge, and it was clear that they appreciated seeing Chandi. She did her best to ignore their stares, but Matt wasn't surprised when she took his hand.

The barroom was small and dimly lit with shaded fluorescent bulbs and cheap beer signs. Incredibly, there was a state-of-the-art holoscreen on the wall; it was showing a soccer match, the volume turned down low. Everything else was run down, with the same particle-board tables and plastic chairs as the outside deck. The bar was little more than wood planks laid across a couple of oil barrels; the bartender impassively watched the visitors as they approached the bar, saying nothing as he continued to wipe clean a chipped beer mug.

“Hi. I'm looking for someone named Parker. Is he here?”

“Lots of folks named Parker.” The bartender wasn't giving him anything. “You have a first name?”

“James Parker.”

An indifferent shrug. “I know someone named James Parker. What do you want with him?”

“We understand he sells something we'd like to have.”

The bartender finished cleaning the mug and then put it down and fished another one from the tub beneath the bar. “He'll be here soon. Have a seat, mon. Would you like a beer?”

“Yes, thanks. Red Stripe.”

The bartender turned to a cooler and pulled out two bottles of beer. There were no stools, and Matt was beginning to look around for a place for him and Chandi to sit when a voice behind them asked, “Care to join me?”

Another man was in the bar, sitting at a table in the corner near the door. Surprisingly, he was the first white person they'd seen since entering Ste. Genevieve. Middle aged and thick set, with iron-gray hair and handlebar mustache, he had on the kind of outfit only a tourist would wear: khaki hiking shorts, a photographer's vest over a long-sleeve safari shirt, a bush hat, and waterproof boots. Like he was expecting to spend time in the jungle, hacking his way through the rain forest with a machete.

There was something about him that Matt immediately distrusted. He didn't know why, except perhaps that this character was even more out of place than he and Chandi. There was no polite way to refuse, though, so he led Chandi over to the table.

As they sat down, Matt noted a couple of empty Dos Equis bottles on the table, along with the one the stranger was currently drinking. Obviously, he'd been there for a while.

“Frank Barton,” the stranger said as they sat down. “And you are…?”

“I'm Matt; she's Chandi.” Matt shook hands with him. “Down for some sightseeing?”

“Something like that.” Barton picked up his beer. “I've come to see where all the action is. You folks work at the space center?”

“We're with the project, yes,” Chandi said.

“I see.” Barton took a long slug from his beer, wiped his mustache with a finger as he put it down again. “So what is it you two do there?”

“I'm an engineer. He's a consultant.” Apparently, Chandi was suspicious, as well. Glancing at her, Matt saw the wary expression on her face.

“I see, I see.” Barton slowly nodded. “I've heard you people sometimes come into town. I sorta figured if I sat here long enough, I'd eventually meet one of you.” He smiled. “Guess I'm lucky … here's two.”

Matt didn't like the way he said this. Now he noticed something else; half hidden within the open collar of his shirt was a silver chain holding a gold crucifix. It might mean nothing—he knew plenty of people who had crosses just like it—but it might also portend trouble.

“Why is that lucky?” he asked. “You want to know something about the project?”

“I already know all there is.” Barton leaned back in his chair. “You, on the other hand, are in need of enlightenment, for the sake of your souls.”

That settled it. Frank Barton belonged to the New American Congregation, and he'd staked out Sharky's in hopes of cornering someone from the project. Matt's father had warned him against engaging the church's “missionaries,” and now he knew why.

Matt started to push back his chair. “Well, it's been nice to meet you, but—”

“What does my soul have to do with this?” Chandi made no move to get up. She leaned closer, resting her elbows on the table and propping her chin on clasped hands. “Please,
enlighten
me.”

“Isn't it obvious?” Barton fixed her with an unblinking stare. “What you're doing is blasphemous. Sending forth the human seed into God's creation, there to foist our sins upon other worlds. We were never meant to—”

“Really? Where in the Bible does it say that?” She smiled. “I've been to church too, and I don't remember ever hearing space exploration was inherently sinful.”

Barton's eyes narrowed. “God clearly intended Man to live on Earth and Earth alone. He created this world for his chosen, and the other worlds were to be left alone.”

“Again, where does it say that?” She looked over at Matt. “I must have missed something in Sunday school, because that's an interpretation I've never—”

“There are many interpretations of the Gospel.” Barton clearly didn't enjoy being challenged. “For you to rip children from their mother's wombs and put them aboard rockets—”

“Oh, c'mon, do you
really
think that's what we're doing?” Chandi was grinning by then; she was toying with him and relishing every second. “Hate to say it, but you're the one who needs enlightenment. You've got everything wrong and don't even know it.”

“So you're aware of the word of God, and still you commit a mortal sin!” Even in the bad light of the bar, Matt could see that Barton's face was becoming red. His anger was growing in proportion with Chandi's amusement. “I thought I could save you, but I see now that you're beyond redemption.”

Matt closed his eyes. Barton was a familiar type: more than just a zealot, he was a cranky, middle-aged man who'd long since decided that he was right about all things and couldn't tolerate any difference of opinion. There was no point in arguing with someone like this, but Chandi wasn't giving up. She was enjoying herself too much.

“Yup. Sinner and proud of it.” Chandi picked up her beer. “Better that than an old fart who thinks he speaks for God.” She started to take a sip. “Jesus would've laughed his ass off if he'd ever met you—”

“How dare you take his name in vain?” Barton leaped up from his chair. Before Matt could stop him, he reached across the table to slap the bottle from Chandi's hand. “Miserable whore, you have no right to—”

It had been many years since the last time Matt punched someone, and the last time he'd been in a bar fight, he'd been ashamed of himself later for doing so. But not this time. There was something very satisfying about slamming his fist into Barton's hillbilly mustache, and it was even more gratifying when Barton fell back over his chair, hit the wall behind him, and sagged to the floor.

Chandi was still regarding Matt with wide-eyed shock when the bartender came out from behind the bar. “Out!” he yelled, half raising the cricket bat that had materialized from somewhere. “No fights in my place! Leave before I call the police!”

“Hey, look, he—”

“Let's go.” Chandi took Matt's arm, pulled him away from the table. “You've done enough.”

Matt looked down at Barton. He was still conscious but stunned enough that he wasn't going to get up for another minute or so. When he did, though, things would probably get worse than they already were, and Matt didn't want to have to deal with the island police as well as an angry bartender. It wouldn't be easy explaining why two Americans from the space center were in a dive like Sharky's.

He pulled a couple of dollars from his pocket and dropped them on the table by way of apology and then let Chandi lead him from the bar. The islanders sitting out on the deck must have heard the fight, for they were standing just outside the door, silently watching him and Chandi as they came out. Among them was a tall, skinny fellow with dreadlocks, who appeared as if he'd been just about to come in; Matt wondered if this was James Parker but decided not to stop and ask. There wasn't going to be a chance to buy weed tonight, that was for sure.

Neither he nor Chandi said anything to each other as they walked back through Ste. Genevieve. Matt's hand had begun to throb, and when he flexed his fingers, he discovered that he'd jammed his middle knuckle. He still had to drive, though, because the Volksun was key-printed to his touch. He'd also need to find some aspirin and maybe a bandage once they returned to the hotel.

The ride back was largely in silence. Matt tried to make a couple of jokes about what had happened, but they fell flat. From the corner of his eye, he could see Chandi quietly studying him; she said little, but her gaze never left his face. In the pale light from the dashboard, though, it was hard to tell her expression.

He parked near his parents' cottage. When he and Chandi climbed out, they could hear party sounds coming from the pool, just out of sight from behind the trees.

“They're not going to like it when I tell 'em I didn't get any weed,” Matt murmured as he started to head for the flagstone path leading to the patio.

Chandi laid a hand upon his arm, stopping him. “We're not going to the party,” she said quietly.

“We're not?”

“No. We're going to my room.”

And then she pulled him close for a long, lingering kiss.

 

9

It didn't go unnoticed that Matt and Chandi failed to show up at the party. Every eye turned in their direction when they came down for breakfast together the following morning, and quite a few knowing smiles were cast in their direction. Although Graham gave him a salacious wink, no one said anything; it was if everyone had been quietly waiting for the two of them to pair up, with the only surprise being that it hadn't happened earlier.

It was not the one-nighter Matt had feared it might be. Chandi slept with him again the next night, this time in his room. She had a queen-size bed, though, and the cabanas were visible from the patio, so after that, they agreed her place was more comfortable and offered a little more privacy. He returned to his room each morning to shower, change clothes, and brush his teeth, but after a while, they decided that he might just as well move in with her, and that was fine with him; he never liked the cabana, anyway.

Their relationship was gloriously erotic, but it wasn't just the fun they had in bed that kept them together. It had been many years since the last time either of them had been in love. Like Matt, Chandi had had her share of failed relationships; she told him that she'd once been engaged but had broken up with her fiancé when she'd discovered that he was secretly having an affair with another woman. And until she'd met Matt, she'd never had anyone willing to stand up for her. Matt was relieved; his last girlfriend would have been disgusted if she'd seen him get in a bar fight, even if it had been to defend her.

They were ready for each other. Their meeting on the flight to Ile Sombre may have been a happy accident, but Matt's parents seemed to believe that Chandi was just the sort of person their son needed to have in his life. Matt was nervous when he reluctantly accepted their invitation to bring Chandi over for dinner—to be sure, they hadn't liked his previous girlfriends—yet it turned out for the better. His mother enjoyed meeting her, and while his father already had respect for her intelligence, he was apparently surprised to find that she was charming, as well. Matt hadn't been necessarily seeking their approval, but nonetheless, he came away from the dinner pleased that they thought well of her.