Hyperthought (25 page)

All the way back to Palmertown, I pressed my cheek to the glass and let that yellow sunlight explode against me. It burned through my closed eyelids and glowed bright orange on my retinas, flooding me with hope.

WE FLEW DUE
south in Trinni’s stolen jet. We got away clean. That was one year ago. Maybe you think this is the end of the story. I thought so, too.

But nothing ever ends. As soon as we landed in Palmertown, my friends grabbed a rental van and rushed me to a clinic. They were so worried, they ran red lights. Luc even yelled rude words at a pedestrian who stepped in front of our van. That was a first. Despite my protests, I spent two months in cell hygiene therapy. The docs wanted to write a paper about me. They couldn’t believe I survived the toxins. They said the only thing that kept me alive was sheer brute faith and stubbornness. But I knew better. I knew the immune response in Jin’s blood saved me. Saved my life, at least. Though it didn’t my skin.

Now I’m wrapped up in these funny synthetic epidermal graphs. When I catch myself in the mirror, I have to giggle. A meat sausage in a wig, that’s me. But I can move around fine, and Jin doesn’t care what I look like.

You may be asking, why didn’t Jin share his immunity with me earlier? Don’t hold it against him. I don’t. See, Jin’s perspective is way broader than most of us can comprehend. He’s moved beyond our selfish, human-centered worldview. To him, those bacteria and his friend Jolie were exactly the same—beautiful organisms trying to hang on to life as long as possible. He felt it wasn’t his place to alter the natural course. And also, let’s be frank, Jin has a slight decision-making disorder. Ça va.

Jin and I live in Sydney now. I have a job working for Sydney.Edu. I guide field trips and teach surface survival skills to freshmen and sophomores. We don’t travel all over the world, we just camp out on Sydney Topside, but the kids love it.

Vincente has a cube one level down. He helps me with stuff like shopping, fixing the sink, getting Jin bathed. Tan attends Sydney.Edu. He’s studying communication theory. I predict that boy will go far.

Luc stayed in Palmertown. He and Trinni and Adrienne launched their own fashion ezine, and they’re grabbing raves on the Net. Their styles mesh, you know? By the way, Luc eventually told me more about Miguel. Remember, Merida’s assassin?

Turns out the boy made an entrance at some post-edge gallery opening and started flirting with Luc. Trinni nearly came to blows with him, right there in the hot buffet line. But mon cher Luc, he could see inside people. He knew Miguel was faking the scene. He figured the boy was a customs agent spying on Trinni’s hot-market import business. Trinni was furious, but Luc convinced him it would be fun to play cloak and dagger. I think Luc could charm a cyclone if he tried. Anyway, Trinni got paranoid and made Luc wear concealed body armor night and day. When I heard that part, I had to stop and give Trinni a big slobbery kiss. Trinni and I, we get along better these days. I told them it was Lord Suradon Sura who called and got Miguel to parachute out of their jet.

So much for my friends and me. Up north, the rebels liberated Paris. You can imagine how we celebrated. But since then, the workers haven’t taken any more ground. Bien, the big three Corns are still sending out ludicrous statements about peace and productivity, and it makes you wonder what numb-nut is running the show up there. Jonas and Rebel Jeanne moved to Paris about six months back. They send me the real news.

They say Greenland’s dominance over Euro is broken for good, but Nome still holds North America, and Pacific.Com dominates the Arctic Sea and parts of East Asia. Yes, Suradon’s still hanging on. He and his cronies still toss their protes around like poker chips in their endless games to steal control from each other. I picture those kids in the California desert, scrounging for crumbs and frying in the sun, while their relatives fade away like ghosts in Nome’s underground factories. It’s preter-sick.

At least Paris is free. From what Jonas says, things are plenty wild back in my old hometown. The Parisians have set up all sorts of trade guilds and health churches and food co-ops. Their teleconferences last for hours. Parisians always did like to argue. They’re having trouble with supply distributions, and they squabble over the tax question. One thing they agreed on right away, though. They executed every Commie manager they could find.

Just outside the Place Etoile launchpad, the Parisians erected a monument I’ve browsed photos, and the thing looks heinous. It’s got two upright posts, grooved on the inside and connected by a crossbeam at the top, with a sharp, angled blade that slides down mega-fast if you let go of the rope. It’s an antique decapitation device. Jonas says it’s a reminder to the Commies not to come back.

Sometimes Jonas sends me music vids he records in the Paris cafés. Seems a lot of musicians are sampling my Angel of Euro speech. It’s comic how they’ve spliced and dubbed and recycled that old thing in a hundred different rip-rap versions. No one would mistake me for the Angel of Euro now. I look different.

Jin’s fine. He’s happy. He likes orange juice and sizz music and soft wooly scarves draped over his head. He can stare at the fountain in Sydney’s Domain Dome for hours. And he likes to go for walks up top. Jin has regained his health. He’s beautiful and strong, you wouldn’t believe it He looks like a movie star again, and lots of people recognize him. Thank the Laws, he didn’t lose that smart ring for signing autographs. He still seems unfazed by the attention. Jin doesn’t talk much, but he can say a few words when he wants to.

Like last Sunday afternoon. We’d put on our surf suits for a hike up top. Yes, we wear surfsuits. The docs can’t find a trace of that immune response in either of us. They say I dreamed the whole thing. Personally, I don’t think they know what to look for, but to play it safe, Jin and I both wear suits when we go up top. Anyway, last Sunday the atmosphere was glowing bright amber. As we strolled through a field of windmills, we watched patterns the smog made vortexing through the blades.

I said, as I always say, “Do you recognize my face today, Jin? It’s me. Your old pal Jolie.”

As usual, Jin was humming and gazing into the distance. His mind seemed a million kilometers away. Out of nowhere he murmured, “People say a lot without words.”

I laughed aloud. I love it when Jin talks. “You’re right, Jin, but use words today. Your voice makes me happy.”

As if he were moving a giant weight the size of a planet, Jin shifted his attention toward me. He probably couldn’t see me very well through my helmet faceplate, but I squeezed his gloved hand. When I felt him return the pressure, my mind rocked. He hadn’t done that in months.

“Jolie.”

He spoke my name. He recognized me. Two hot tears spilled down my cheeks. This was a good day.

“Shall I tell you a story?” he whispered.

“Oh yes, Jin. Please tell me a story.”

His glance wandered away, and he cocked his ear as he often did, listening to sounds and voices I would never hear. He paused so long, I thought he’d forgotten me, but that didn’t matter. I didn’t really expect him to tell me a story. I took his arm and guided him a little farther along the path. To my surprise he spoke again, in his soft Pacific accent, with that singsong rhythm that reminded me so much of a professor.

“There was once a coastal kingdom. Long ago in Java. Green trees waved in gentle breezes. It could have been paradise. Then came the pirates.”

So many words at once! I was blissed to the marrow. This would keep me smiling for weeks. I linked my arm through Jin’s and. squeezed his shoulder, hoping he would go on. But he had finished. Other sensations distracted him. We reached the edge of the windmill field, and he stared out toward the northern sky. In the west, a rusty haze marked the sunset. Quietly, we stood together gazing through the electrified fence. Wisps of smog swirled around us.

“That’s a beautiful story, Jin. That’s your Javanese poem, isn’t it?”

He answered readily, “Arjunavivaha.” Then he started humming his melancholy tune.

What a wonderful day. I didn’t want it to end, but the light was already leaving the sky. I touched Jin’s shoulder to steer him around for our return walk to the airlock. But he stood firm, staring at the northern sky.

“Home,” he said.

“D’accord. Let’s go home.”

When I touched his shoulder again, he raised his arm and pointed north. “Home.”

I sucked a quick breath. This was coming out of nowhere. Could Jin want to return to Pacific.Com? What a crazy idea. It was just a coincidence that he pointed north. I gripped his shoulder and pivoted him around to face me. “We live in Sydney now. Remember?”

Something had changed in him. His eyes were focusing. He looked at me with recognition, and his brows knotted. For the first time, he seemed to notice the changes in my face. Abruptly, he clasped me in his arms. He moved so suddenly, our helmets bumped, and I stumbled against him. Jin was very strong. He held me tight, and I almost couldn’t breathe. But he hadn’t embraced me like that in a long time, and I didn’t want him to let go. I was already sobbing with joy when his voice rang inside my head.

“Jolie, it’s time. I need you now.”

“I’m right here, Jin. What do you need?”

His voice whispered through my mind like a thought. He was singing, in a language I didn’t recognize. Yet the meaning went straight to my brain without the clumsy metaphor of words. He was singing that poem.

“When Krishna revealed himself in a mighty vision, Airlangga saw the universe as one radiant fabric of light. There was no beginning, nor middle, nor end. And the great god Krishna spoke in chords of bright music. ‘Rise, Airlangga. Take back my kingdom. I am you and your father and all creatures together. We must divide and do battle before we arrive at peace’.”

Jin’s song flowed through me like physical heat. I must have swayed because his arms tightened around me. Amazing. Had he spoken, or had I only imagined that ancient song? Gently, he touched his helmet faceplate to mine. “It’s time,” he said. Then he turned to face the north.

I blinked at the radiant smog and tried to make sense of what had just happened. What did he mean, time to rise against his father? I tugged at his arm. “That’s just a goofy old story. So what if you have the same name as that prince? We live in Sydney now. We’re happy. Jin, I want it to last.”

He pointed at the northern horizon, and his eyes misted. “Rise, Airlangga,” he whispered under his breath.

“Oh my sweet Jin, you couldn’t rise up to find the toilet without me. What arc you thinking?”

“It’s time,” he whispered again. “This is my choice.”

Holy Gods of Physics, why couldn’t the universe just stand still and let me be happy? Hadn’t we earned a little peace? I grabbed Jin’s shoulders and tried to make him look at me. “You want to fight your father? But you don’t have an army. What about weapons and transport? I know those protes are suffering in the north. Mes dieux, I want to free them as much as anyone. But Jin, the Coms are so powerful—”

“It’s time to make a movie.”

“Huh?”

“I need you to produce.”

For a minute, all I could do was gawk at him. Produce a movie? Bien, it wasn’t the craziest thing I’d heard him say, but it was preter-loco. I figured he was flashing back to his old life. So I shook my head and tried to think of a gentle way to tell him he wasn’t rich anymore, but right men, he did something deeply and truly astonishing. He winked at me.

Bien, that was last Sunday. Since then, life has been a little crazy. Jin is changing.

He talks in complete sentences almost every day, and he surfs the Net. He’s been ordering all kinds of stuff on my credit card. A voice pad, virtual library subscriptions, an ergonomic chair—it scares me to think about the next monthly invoice. Scares me and thrills me, too. Jin has started smiling again. He never forgets my name anymore. When he holds my hand and browses the documentation on his new chair, I feel myself singing from the inside out. Jin is waking up! The trouble is, he’s serious about this movie.

I called my friends for advice, but they’re impossible. They’re actually encouraging Jin about this movie nonsense. Adrienne loves the “Arjunavivaha” poem. She looked it up on the Net and got a full English translation. Now she quotes passages at me. She calls it the quintessential manifesto for worker revolution.

Jonas surprised me the most. He said, “Your friend’s right about the timing, love. The northern protes are fed up to their eyelashes. All they need is one spark. A movie like this, starring the son of a Com CEO, I think it may ignite the flames. Love, we should do this.”

Tan has already posted news about the upcoming movie on all the Jin Sura fan sites. The working title is—you guessed it—
Rise, Airlangga
. (I voted for
Prince Airy and the Evil Pirates
myself.) Anyway, it’s a period piece. Tan is pumped. He and Jonas are negotiating the underground distribution rights as we speak.

Can it be I’m the only reasonable mind left in this crowd? “Think of the consequences,” I keep saying. “Set aside the fact that we don’t even know how to point a camera. What if we make the movie anyway, and it works, and the protes start fighting again? Those Coms are brutal. Think what they’ll do!”

“But we have a new assault model, Jo. The Angel Maneuver. While the workers fight in the tunnels, we attack from up top.” Rebel Jeanne Sabat said that. Even Rebel Jeanne has turned against me.

Luc hacked the mailbox at Tokyo Data and retrieved Jin’s working tapes, and everybody met at our place four nights ago to watch them. We all thought they were preter-cool, but Jin is picky. He’s completely rewriting the script. Since that night, he’s taken over our living cube, and he won’t let anyone but me come near. He spends half his waking hours talking to his voice pad, and the other half staring at the animatronic fish in our aquarium.

Luc and Trinni, they’ve got their ezine staff handling the auditions. They’re hiring grips, gaffers, re-mixers, post-producers, caterers. Adrienne’s finding the money. They’ve leased some raw studio space in Palmertown and registered a new domain name, Angel Hicks. They really believe this movie will make a difference. “Media is mightier than the sword,” Adrienne keeps saying, although no one can figure out what she means.