Out of Touch (4 page)

              “States-based micro-banking keeps us busy enough.”

             
“Who needs micro-banks here? You said costs were too high, and I’ve told you over and over again how your grandfather and I came here after the troubles—“

             
An elderly waiter stepped up crisply, micro-pad in hand, and Reggie’s father dropped the Irish lilt he used for rants and placed their order slowly and clearly, pointing at the menu. “We’d like this luncheon banquet for three.”

             
“With tofu?” the waiter asked, with no Chinese accent and only a trace of amusement.

             
“No, thank you,” Father answered more quickly.

             
“Low carbs?”

             
“Carbs are fine.”

             
“Micro-nutrient boost?”

             
“No—“ Dad began before Mom fluttered her hand just above the table line, “Oh, all right.”

             
“Anything else?”

             
Reggie saw the waiter glance at Mom.

             
“Just tea,” said Dad. Everyone smiled, and the waiter left.

             
Reggie’s father was silent a moment, as if he’d lost his train of thought. “So how’s your sweetheart from the Peace Corps?”

             
“Sarah,” Mom whispered.

             
“She’s fine,” Reggie sighed. After three years, his dad should remember her name. Reggie recalled the first time he wrote home about Sarah.

He’d been setting foundation forms for the school that day, and Sarah, who was supposed to be working, was sitting under a mango tree with some of the local girls. They seemed to be playing with pebbles. It was early morning, and the sun came in at such an angle that it lit one side of each girl’s salwar, while leaving the other in shadow. Sarah wore a loose tan dress, which camouflaged with the tree but stood out amidst the bright circle of children.

             
When they’d been working intently for nearly an hour, the smallest girl in the group climbed up the tree, then swung down holding a fruit. She pressed it into Sarah’s hands before all the girls hurried away.

             
“What was that about?” Reggie asked, as Sarah walked over, holding the mango to her nose.

             
“Just math. They’re good at working large numbers by finding an approximation, then adjusting. But no one’s ever written it down and shown them how to carry to the next place. Just sitting there we worked up to long division.”

             
“Are you in mathematics?”

             
“They figured out a way to carry with pebbles. They didn’t even write the second number down, just the larger one, shifted a few pebbles, and they had the answer.”

             
“And the mango?”

             
Sarah shrugged. “It smells really good, do you want some?”

             
She pulled out a pocket knife and in a moment had the pit removed and each half of the mango skin turned inside out with ripe cubes of fruit poking up like hedgehog spikes.

“How’s she handling the loss of her mother?” his mom asked, her fingers fanning, pinkie to index, as she lifted her teacup.

“All right, I guess.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time we met her?”

             
Reggie replied without missing a beat, “On weekends she works nights. She’s probably asleep right now.”

             
“At your place?”

             
“No,” Reggie cooed diplomatically, “At the house she inherited from her mother.”

             
“Is it a nice house?”

             
“The master bedroom has excellent light.” Reggie smiled. “How was your cruise?”

             
His cell phone went off again, but it was just a grant applicant, so Reggie didn’t even check the message.

              At the end of their meal, Reggie and his parents walked along the river. The promenade of pebbled paths and sculpted bushes was meant to lure tourist to the shops in old town. But the shops looked colorless and ill kept when paired with the Disney-esque landscaping, and the smells and sounds from the freeway overpass made walking outside seem like standing in line for Autopia.

             
Reggie’s father asked, “That company of yours, how big is it now?”

             
“Eighteen people in our home office, but hundreds who receive funds or refer people to us.”

             
“And this micro-loans business, here, at home?”

             
“There’s a restlessness in the country right now. People are questioning, getting riled up.  There’s nothing concrete enough to bring them together, but if you give them a chance to follow their own insights—”

             
“You mean, give them money?”

             
“Sometimes. But some people just want to avoid the hassle of filing for non-profit status, setting up a business name, telephony, mail, web presence. Whatever help they need to fully use their talents, we try to provide that support. Speaking of which,” Reggie’s phone had begun to vibrate. He pulled it out, and saw the new text message. “I’m going to have to leave.”

             
“Is it work, on a Sunday?”

             
“Sort of. I’m part of a scatter-mob for an associate of ours. She has a great network of contacts and the media connections to make her findings public. But the government watches her so closely that she needs a mob of couriers to move the evidence from her sources to her contacts in the press.”

             
“Is this person working under Pronoia’s umbrella?” his mother asked. “You didn’t give her grant money, did you?”

             
“She’s not officially part of us. It’s more like the network of connections you telephone when you want something done. We help each other because we share certain intentions.”

             
“But if she’s in trouble with the government—“

             
“They just work for different networks with contradictory goals.” 

             
“Let him go,” his father whispered.

             
“Oh Reggie,” his mother embraced him and kissed his cheek, “Is this really what you want?”

             
His father patted him on the back, “Go save the world, son.”

              Back in his car, Reggie pasted the locations from his text message into the car’s electronic map. He was almost certainly a decoy. The way scatter tactics worked, all but one of them would be driving to a pick up location and then to a drop off point without carrying anything in between. He set his audio system to pick up the all news PBS station. If he was lucky, he’d at least find out what information had been leaked.

             
“Researchers at Harvard today announced human trials for an anti-aging treatment based on blocking calcium-activated potassium channels . . .”

             
Reggie muttered to himself, “Same old, same old.”

             
“China has declined to participate in the Keenan Foundation’s AIDS inoculation effort . . .”

             
“Possibly interesting, but not the news I’m looking for,” Reggie replied as he switched off the ignition in front of the downtown package center.

He clicked his car security and strode through an automatic front door into a plastic and vinyl room full of mailboxes. The Latina woman at the counter glanced up at him, her only customer, and he asked if there were any deliveries for “Christopher Indigo,” as specified in his instructions. She checked and shook her head. He was a decoy.

“Thank you, anyway,” Reggie nodded, and the woman behind the counter smiled enough to show braces on her middle aged teeth. Reggie smiled back and wondered if so few people said thank you.  Then he went back to his car and drove toward the broadcast station in Folsom, as he’d been assigned. In case the government used EGPS to track every person contacted, the whole meat mob had to keep up the act.

             
The radio said, “Four more dead from a bus bomb in Israel,” but Reggie’s thoughts drifted back to Sarah and India.

They’d been wandering in a city market. Fruit was sold from carts with wooden wheels right beside bootlegged hCDs displayed on a powered board with headphones.

He said, “Most people are selfish.”

              “But what do we mean by selfish? Sometimes, I think selfishness is just not appreciating what you have.” Sarah fingered the hem of her shirt as her gaze flicked from person, to cart, to shop.

             
“You think billionaires don’t appreciate their money?”

             
“Some must. But so many people who’ve been painfully poor, when they have something later, they give it to a beggar or share with their neighbors. Don’t you think?”

“They probably sympathize more with those people. Or they might feel undeserving.”

              “Maybe, or true appreciation and feeling that you can’t ‘deserve’ something could be the same idea, just with different words tacked on.”

             
At the time, in so many conversations, Reggie had found Sarah’s reasoning tangled and illogical, separated from his ideas about networks versus nodes and absolute benefits. But her words stuck in his mind, even now. He felt drawn into each brief discussion, though often uncomfortable or annoyed afterward. Sometimes later, he’d rediscover for himself part of what she meant and that she was probably right.

              The radio recaptured his attention.

             
“Documents uncovered this afternoon may threaten President Davies’ ‘Genetic Crime Deterrence Program.’ Published work by Professor Sashima purported to show that over fifty percent of males with two copies of the ‘aggression gene’ would react violently in frustrating situations. Today, an anonymous source supplied documents from Sashima’s early research showing that in those tests, only fourteen percent of the ‘genetically aggressive group’ reacted more violently than average. After receiving a large government grant, the experiments were systematically modified to determine which cues affected the ‘genetically aggressive’ men. The source maintains that the situations generated to produce numbers closer to fifty percent were unnatural and manipulative. Comments to this effect written by experts in the field at the request of peer-reviewed journals have been produced. There is a suggestion that these commentaries were suppressed to promote government screening—“

             
Reggie strongly suspected this was the news his scatter-mob had been activated to deliver. Nonetheless, he pulled into the parking lot in Folsom and walked to the lobby of his drop-off location. He made a casual survey of the room, as if looking for someone he was supposed to meet.

             
A polished blond receptionist asked, “Can I help you?”

             
“No, thanks.”

             
Reggie went to sit in his car and continued to let the news filter past him. The President’s genetic testing program scared anyone who’d heard of a slippery slope. Would this revelation be enough? Of course not, but it might fill the Genetic Defense League’s coffers for a month.

              Just before starting his car, Reggie realized how close he was to Sarah’s mom’s house. She would be asleep still. He could sneak in and scatter rose petals around her bed, maybe climb in beside her and share a little nap.

             
No, he knew he’d never be able to sleep or let her sleep at this hour. He liked Sarah far too much when she was asleep. All the fine lines that marked her forehead, mouth, and chin when she was thinking, they disappeared with sleep. Her face seemed lighter and her cheeks more pink. Tiny wisps of hair curled around her ears while the rest flared out across her pillow.

             
Once she woke up, things were far less certain. There was something about Sarah awake. Even slouching into her clothes, there was a tightness and stretch to her movements, like a bird bristling its feathers to dry them. Her movements kept him watching, fascinated, but not always comfortable. Sometimes he wanted to smooth those feathers, even if he wasn’t sure how. Other times, he was content to let nature be.

Reggie paused a moment in uncertainty, caught between what he wanted and the situation at hand. He was supposed to wait until she showed up at his place. Then he could tell her the latest news about genetic aggressiveness. Sarah was strong on mental health issues and genetic privacy, but she didn’t keep careful track of the news.  Reggie began to drive, plotting their probable discussion and other plans for the evening.