Islands in the Net (43 page)

“Hell,” he said, “we'll show 'em to you. That all right, Baptiste?”

“Why not?”

Hesseltine shook hands all around and made a studied exit. He and Baptiste and Laura emerged into a dining hall where thirty neatly groomed Red Crewmen were eating, jammed elbow to elbow around collapsible tables. As Hesseltine entered, they set down their forks with a clatter and applauded politely.

Hesseltine offered her his elbow. Frightened by their flat, fishlike eyes, she took his arm. He paraded her down the narrow aisle between rows of tables. The men were all close enough to grab at her, to wink or grin or hoot, but none of them did, or even looked like they wanted to. It smelled of them: their soap and shampoo, their beef stroganoff and green beans. In the corner a wide-screen TV was showing an illegal kick-boxing match, two wiry Thais silently beating each other bloody.

They were out. Laura shivered helplessly and let go of his arm, her skin crawling. “What's wrong with them?” she hissed at him. “They're so quiet and numb.…”

“What's wrong with
you?
” he riposted. “A long face like that … you're making everyone nervous.”

They took her back to the first room she'd seen, with the elevators. They emerged on the upper deck of grating. Below them, Yellow Crewmen were at work on the drones, examining stripped-down bits of machinery on cramped little blankets of tarpaulin.

Baptiste and Hesseltine stopped by one of the elaborately painted silos. The crude stars and whizzing comets … she saw that it had a black silhouette, the nude outline of a stylized buxom babe. Long leg kicked out, hair flung back, a stripper's pose. And lettering:
TANYA
. “What's this?” Laura said.

“That's the tank's name,” Baptiste said. A little apologetic, like a gentleman forced to bring up an off-color subject. “The men did it … high spirits … you know how it is.”

High spirits. She couldn't imagine anything less likely from the men she'd seen aboard. “What is this thing?”

Hesseltine spoke up. “Well, one climbs inside there, of course, and …” He paused. “You're not lesbian, are you?”

“What? No …”

“Too bad, I guess.… If you're not gay, the
special features
aren't going to do much for you.… But even without the simulations, they says it's very relaxing.”

Laura backed a step away. “Are … are they all like this?”

“No,” said Baptiste. “Some are drone ports, and the others launch warheads. But five of them are our recreation tanks—‘Hollywood baths,' the men call them.”

“And you want
me
to go inside there?”

“If you like,” said Baptiste reluctantly. “We won't activate the machinery—nothing will
touch
you—you simply float within it, breathing, dreaming, in nice heated seawater.”

“Keep you out of trouble a few days,” Hesseltine said.

“
Days?
”

“They're very advanced and well designed,” Baptiste said, annoyed. “This isn't something we
invented
, you know.”

“A few days is nothing!” Hesseltine said. “Now if they leave you in a few
weeks
, you might start seeing your Optimal Persona and all kinds of twisted shit.… But in the meantime you're perfectly safe and happy. And we know where you are. Sound good?”

Laura shook her head, minutely. “If you could just find me a bunk … a little corner somewhere.… I really don't mind.”

“Not much privacy,” Baptiste warned. “Crowded conditions.” He seemed relieved, though. Glad that she wouldn't be taking up valuable tank room.

Hesseltine frowned. “Well, I don't want to hear you bitching later.”

“No, no.”

Hesseltine looked restless. He glanced at his waterproof watch-phone. “I really need to uplink with HQ and debrief.”

“Please go ahead,” Laura said. “You've done more than enough. I'm sure I'll be fine, really.”

“Wow,” said Hesseltine. “That almost sounds like a thank you.”

They found room for her in a laundry space. It was a chill, steamy warren, stinking of detergent and crammed with sharp-edged machinery. A bare little single bunk slid out over chromed storage rails. Towels hung from a forest of gray, stenciled pipes overhead: there were a couple of steam presses inside, old laundry mangles.

And carton after strapped carton of old Hollywood movie films, the thick mechanical kind that ran through projectors. They were neatly labeled with hand-printed tape:
MONROE #1, MONROE #2
,
GRABLE, HAYWORTH, CICCONE.
There was a closed-circuit phone on the wall, an old-fashioned sound-only handset with a long, curly cord. The sight of it made her think of the Net. Then, of David. Her family, her people.

She had vanished from their world. Did they think she was dead? They were still looking for her, she was sure. But they would look in Singapore's jails, and hospitals, and, finally, the morgues. But not here. Never.

A Red Crewman made up her bunk with clean, sheet-whipping efficiency.

He produced a nasty-looking pair of chromed tin snips. “Let's see them hands,” he said. The two remaining bracelets of plastic handcuff still looped Laura's wrists. He pinched and worried at them till they came loose, reluctantly. “Musta been a mighty sharp knife that cut those,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Don't thank me. It was your pal Mr. Hesseltine's idea.”

Laura rubbed her skinned wrists. “What's your name, sir?”

“‘Jim' will do. I hear you're from Texas.”

“Yeah. Galveston.”

“Me too, but down the coast. Corpus Christi.”

“Jesus, we're practically neighbors.”

“Yeah, I reckon so.” Jim looked about thirty-five, maybe forty. He was broad-faced and chunky, with reddish, thinning hair. His skin was the color of cheap printout, so pale she could see bluish veins in his neck.

“Can I ask?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Protectin' people,” Jim said nobly. “Protecting you right now, in case you decide to do something stupid. Mr. Hesseltine says you're a funny little duck. Some kind of political.”

“Oh,” she said. “I meant, how did you get here?”

“Since you ask, I'll tell you,” Jim said. He popped down a steel-wired bunk from a space high on the wall and hoisted himself in. He sat above her, legs dangling, neck bent to avoid the ceiling. “Once upon a time, I was a professional fisherman. A shrimper. My dad was, too. And his dad before him.… But they put us in a squeeze we couldn't get out of. Texas Fish & Game police, a million environment laws. Not that I'm speakin' against those laws. But American law didn't stop the Nicaraguans and Mexicans. They cheated. Cleaned out the best grounds, took everything, then undersold us in our own markets. We lost our boat! Lost everything. Went on the Welfare, had nothin'.”

“I'm sorry,” Laura said.

“Not half as sorry as us.… Well, me and some friends in the same jam, we tried to organize, protect our lives and families.… But the Texas Rangers—some goddamn informer is what it was—caught me with a gun. And you know a man can't own a handgun in the States these days, not even to protect his own home! So it looked pretty bad for me.… Then I heard from some pals in my, uhm, organization … about recruitment overseas. Groups to protect you, hide you out, teach you how to fight.

“So, that's how I ended up in Africa.”

“Africa,” Laura repeated. The very sound of it scared her.

“It's bad there,” he said. “Plagues, and dustbowls, and wars. Africa's full of men like me. Private armies. Palace guards. Mercenaries, advisers, commandos, pilots.… But you know what we lacked? Leadership.”

“Leadership.”

“Exactly.”

“How long have you been inside this submarine?”

“We like it here,” Jim said.

“You never go out, do you? Never surface or go on, whatever they call it—shore leave?”

“You don't miss it,” he said. “Not with what we have. We're kings down here. Invisible kings. Kings of the whole damn world.” He laughed quietly, pulled up his feet, a little balding man in deck shoes. “You look pretty tired, eh.”

“I …” There was no point. “Yeah. I am.”

“You go ahead and get yourself some sleep. I'll just sit here and watch over you.”

He didn't say anything more.

Hesseltine was being sympathetic. “A little tedious.”

“No, no, really,” Laura said. She slid away from him, rumpling the sheets of her bunk. “I'm fine, don't mind me.”

“Don't worry!” he told her. “Good news! I straightened it all out with HQ, while you were sleeping. Turns out you're in their files—they know who you are! They actually
commended
me for picking you up.”

“HQ?” she said.

“Bamako. Mali.”

“Ah.”

“I knew it was a good idea,” he said. “I mean, an operative like me learns to go by his gut instincts. Seems you're a pretty important gal, in your own little way.” He beamed, then shrugged apologetically. “Meanwhile, though, you're stuck in this laundry.”

“It's okay,” she said. “Really.” He stared at her. They were alone in the tiny cabin. An awful silence. “I could wash some clothes if you want.”

Hesseltine laughed. “That's cute, Laura. That's funny. No, I thought, as long as you're stuck here, maybe some video games.”

“What're those?”

“Computer games, you know.”

“Oh!” She sat up. To get away, partially, for a while, from these walls, from him. Into a screen. Wonderful. “You have a Worldrun simulation? Or maybe Amazon Basin?”

“No, these are early games from the seventies, eighties.… Games played by the original sub crews, to pass time. Not much graphics or memory of course, but they're interesting. Clever.”

“Sure,” Laura said. “I can try it.”

“Or maybe you'd rather read? Gotta big library onboard. You'd be surprised what these guys are into. Plato, Nietzsche, all the greats. And a lot of specialty stuff.”

“Specialty …”

“That's right.”

“Do you have
The Lawrence Doctrine and Postindustrial Insurgency
by Jonathan Gresham?”

Hesseltine's eyes widened. “You're putting me on. Where the hell did you hear about that?”

“Sticky Thompson showed it to me.” She paused. She had impressed him. She was glad she'd said it. It was stupid and reckless to say it, to brag at Hesseltine, but she was glad she'd stung him somehow, put him off-balance. She brushed hair from her eyes and sat up. “Do you have a copy? I didn't read as much as I'd have liked.”

“Who's this Thompson?”

“He's Grenadian. The son of Winston Stubbs.”

Hesseltine smiled mockingly, back on his feet again. “You can't mean Nesta Stubbs.”

Laura blinked, surprised. “Is Sticky's real name Nesta Stubbs?”

“No, it can't be. Nesta Stubbs is a psycho. A drug-crazed killer! A guy like that is voodoo, he could eat a dozen of you for breakfast.”

“Why can't I know him?” Laura said. “I know
you
, don't I?”

“Hey!” Hesseltine said. “I'm no terrie—I'm on
your
side.”

“If Sticky—Nesta—knew what you'd done to his people, he'd be a lot more scared of you than you are of him.”

“Really!” mused Hesseltine. He thought it over, then looked pleased. “I guess he would! And he'd be damned right, too, wouldn't he?”

“He'd come after you, somehow, though. If he knew.”

“Whoa,” Hesseltine said. “I can tell you'd be all broken up about it, too.… Well, no problem. We kicked their ass once, and a couple months from now there won't
be
a Grenada.… Look, nobody with your attitude needs to be reading a crazy fucker like Gresham. I'll have 'em bring you the computer instead.”

“Okay.”

“You won't see me again, Laura. They're flying me out on the next Yellow shift.”

It was the way it had always been with Hesseltine. She had no idea what to say to him, but had to say something. “They sure keep you busy, don't they.”

“Don't I know it.… There's still Luxembourg, you know. The EFT Commerzbank. They think they're safe, since they're embedded in the middle of Europe. But their banking centers are in Cyprus, and Cyprus is a groovy little island. You can think of me there, when they start poppin' caps.”

“I certainly will.” He was lying. He wasn't going anywhere near Cyprus. He might not even be leaving the boat. He was probably going into a tank, she thought, to be rubbed down by wet rubber Hollywood dolls while floating in limbo.… But he must have some reason to want her to think about Cyprus. And that might mean that someday they would let her go. Or at least that Hesseltine thought they might.

But she didn't see Hesseltine again.

Time passed. The sub ran on an eighteen-hour cycle: six hours on duty, twelve hours off. Sleep fractured between shifts so that day and night—as in all ocean depths—became meaningless. On each shift a crewman would bring her a meal and escort her to the head. They were careful not to touch her.

They always took her to the same toilet. It was always freshly sterilized. No contact with bodily fluids, she thought.

They were treating her as if she were a retrovirus case. Maybe they thought she was. In the old days, sailors used to rush onshore, drink everything in sight, and fuck anything in skirts. But then harbor hookers all over the world began dying of retrovirus.

But the world had the virus pretty much whipped now. Contained anyway. Under control.

Except in Africa.

Could it be that the
crew
had retrovirus?

The video-game machine had about as much smarts as a kid's watchphone. The games plugged into the deck, little spring-loaded cassettes, worn by endless play. The graphics were crude, big stairstep pixels, and you could see the screens refreshing themselves, jerky and Victorian.