War Surf (5 page)

My condo tower stood near the northwest arch of Nordvik’s city-spanning dome, and my observatory bubbled outside the dome like a small blister. High-powered telescopic equipment poked out through my window walls. Some peered at the smoggy Norwegian sky while others tilted inside the dome toward neighboring condos. On a wide-screen Net node, Verinne showed us her latest research—she was always scouting out new wars. I sat on a moss green ottoman, half-crocked, swaying gently back and forth and gazing sloe-eyed at my comrades.

Winston sprawled across my sofa with one bare leg thrown over the armrest. He balanced a liter of frozen daiquiri on his chest, and its dripping moisture ringed the front of his orange robe. Now and then, he snored. Grunze sat on the floor, playing with Kat’s toes, trying to annoy her. Kat had commandeered my floral chaise lounge, where she sat lotus style with a notebook spread in her lap, sawing a strand of scarlet hair between her large front teeth. Verinne perched on the edge of my desk, working a handheld remote to scroll her research data. I glanced casually at my wrist-watch to check on Sheeba—and had to grip my wrist to hold the screen steady. One of my male guests was entering her bedroom.

“We’re going to Heaven?’ Winston sat up with a jerk and barely caught his tilting drink.

“Forget that,” I mumbled, glowering at my wrist. Who was that guy in Sheeba’s room?

“Heaven’s only the nickname because it smells so sweet. It’s a sugar factory.” Kat flicked her stylus steadily against her knee, hyper as usual.

“I hardly think it has a smell, Katherine.” Verinne cleared her throat. “The satellite orbits in hard vacuum. Its official name is Provendia A13, and it produces protein-glucose base. Not sugar.”

Kat flushed and glared. When Grunze tugged one of her toes too hard, she kicked him in the teeth.

“We’re not going to Heaven.” My words came out garbled.

“It’s in outer space? Fan-fuckin-tastic.” Winston slurped frozen daiquiri through a straw and accidentally snorted a little out his nose.

“Heaven’s rated a solid Class Ten. Some of you guys may want to sit this one out,” Kat said provocatively.

Everyone protested. “Fuck that.” “No way.” “I’m up for it.”

Everyone except me. I sat grinding my teeth, staring at my wrist-watch, split between this aggravating conversation and the unknown male whose shadow fell across Sheeba’s bed.

Grunze pointed at me. “Nasir knows all about Heaven. Tell us, sweet-pee.”

Tell you what? I could barely pronounce my own name. The man on my wrist screen was touching Sheeba’s knee.

“Artificial gravity,” I mumbled.

“What the fuck is that?” Grunze crossed his legs and made his thigh muscle jerk at me.

“The factory spins,” Verinne answered, “and centrifugal force creates an effect like gravity.”

On my tiny screen, the intruder leaned over Sheeba’s pink body and nudged her awake. “Beast,” I snarled. Then I fell off the ottoman.

“Sweet-pee, you’re the one who’s spinning.” Grunze kneed me in the ribs.

“Nassssty Nas, you slipped off your stool.” Winston giggled like a half-wit.

Verinne logged a note in her laptop, while Kat inhaled another line of Peps and fastidiously cleaned her nose.

On my wrist-watch, the stranger was crawling into bed with Sheeba. I staggered to my feet. “Excuse me. Something I have to…Downstairs…I’ll be…”

Kat snarled. “The cultured Mr. Deepra can’t admit when he needs to piss.”

“Don’t let the toilet lid fall on your wanker,” Winston added. “I did that once.”

Winston was describing this emotional incident as I stepped into my elevator. “Seventy-eight,” I said. The small bedroom lay two floors below my observatory, and as the elevator dropped, I fought to keep from retching. After three days of partying, quite a few mood swingers bopped through my bloodstream. Quickly, I whipped out my mirror and adjusted my hair.

When the elevator opened, I rushed down the hall, burst into Sheeba’s bedroom and found Robert Trencher massaging my love’s rosy thighs. His jaded eyes swiveled. Picture me tottering in the doorway, red-faced, clutching the jamb, breathing in snorts.

“Nasir.” Sheeba sat up in bed.

She hadn’t been fully awake until that moment. I could sense this by the way she instantly jerked apart from Trencher and drew the covers up to her chest. Clearly, I’d rescued her just in time.

“Sheeba darling, we need you upstairs. I’m not interrupting, am I?” Though the words caught in my throat like clotted mud, I tried to sound urbane.

She pushed waxy fuchsia locks out of her eyes and sighed—with relief, I’m sure. “Give me a minute, Nass.”

‘Trencher.” I nodded in sullen greeting.

“Deepra.” He nodded back, equally grim.

When Sheeba and I were alone in the elevator, I ground my false dental implants and plotted revenge against Trencher. The worst of it was, I’d hired him. The guy had showed so much potential, I’d treated him as a friend. Now look, the dirtbag was sneaking around with my Shee—in my own condo.

Sheeba smoothed her waning pink foam to cover more of her body. “Who needs me upstairs?”

Frankly, I hadn’t considered why anyone might need Sheeba upstairs, but necessity is the mother of lies. “We’re planning a surf. You want to understand why we do it, so I thought you could listen in.”

“Oh.” She brightened and bounced on tiptoes, then stooped to kiss my cheek. “Thanks for remembering, Nass. You are totally sympathic.”

I kissed back, but in my woozy state, my lips missed her and sucked empty air.

In my absence, Verinne had rastered a virtual screen across the domed observatory ceiling, and the Agonists lay supine on couches and floor mats, gazing upward and arguing. The screen displayed a schematic view of A13, the orbiting satellite we surfers called Heaven. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Why couldn’t they forget that place? When Sheeba said, “Hello,” they sat up and scowled.

“Private session,” Kat said. “No outsiders allowed.”

Sheeba glanced at me, and her disappointment twisted my musty old heart inside out She said, “Pardon, I thought I was invited.”

“Screw you, Kat.” I drunkenly nudged Sheeba forward. “Shee’s my guest.”

“Sheeba’s a-okay with me.” Winston lifted his glass and sloshed daiquiri on my carpet.

“Too risky. This is a Class Ten surf, and she’s a freakin’ newbie.” Grunze lay back and laced his fingers behind his head.

Kat nodded. “Don’t take this to heart, Sheeba dear, but if you screw up, you’ll put the entire crew in danger.”

Sheeba lowered her voice. “I’m not your danger, Kat.”

“Leave her alone. She’ll do just fine,” I said without thinking. Never had it occurred to me that Sheeba might join our war surf. I’d brought her here to listen—to get her away from that Trencher slime. But I’d had too much to drink, and when my friends started razzing her, of course I took her side. “Sheeba’s
in
”

“Beau.” She pushed my weaving hand away. “If they don’t want me—”

“But I want you, dear. Please stay.”

As she tilted her head back and studied the projection on the ceiling, her eyes got that twinkly transcendent gleam, and I knew more spiritual fizz was about to bubble forth. Sure enough, she breathed almost reverently and said, “This may be the dark canal.”

I glared at the crew. “Sheeba’s my guest. Any objections?’

My challenge was potent, because they were all my guests, eating my food, drinking my booze—not just at this party but at all the parties. I played host every time. My condo was the staging ground for all our surfs. Not only that, I underwrote our Web site and paid for our teleconference minutes. The others were cheapskates.

Kat flushed purple and lay back to study the ceiling screen. “It’s a stupid idea, Nass. Whatever happens, it’s on your head.”

Grunze was already drawing laser highlights on the schematic, tracing our proposed route. In a sour tone, he said, “Just keep her outta my way, sweetheart.”

Verinne said, “You’ll have to outfit her. She doesn’t have any gear.”

Winston patted a spot on his sofa. “Lie here, Sheeba girl. This is nice and comfy”

“No.” I steered her to my personal futon. “Sheeba stays with me.”

Sheeba fell among us like a raindrop among hard crystals of salt. However each of the Agonists may have felt about her, we all coveted her youth. I see it clearly now. Waiting in this anteroom with its murky fluorescent light, I see how we envied and desired her, how we competed for and against her. We longed for her unblemished surfaces. We craved her oblivious good cheer. In our separate ways, we yearned to steal inside her and dissolve.

“Your hands look rough, dear. You mustn’t be careless with your skin.” Verinne squeezed a drop of pearlescent lotion into Shee’s palm. “I’ll lend you my cream. It’s made from human milk.”

“Wanna watch me bench-press?” Grunze flexed to show her his muscles. “Fifty says you can’t lift a tenth the weight I can. Come on, Shee. I dare ya.”

“Poor Sheeba, no wonder you’re clumsy. Your feet are huge.” Kat made a sucking sound with her teeth. “Didn’t your mother tell you about hormone control?”

Winston took her in his arms. “Hiya, Shee. Let’s do a movie tonight.”

Leave Sheeba alone, I wanted to roar at them. Shee’s my guest. I found her, I’m paying her way. But of course I didn’t say that. Instead, I complained about aches and coaxed Sheeba into giving me extra massages. And I bought her things.

Right after the party when I finally sobered up, my first urge had been to kick myself in the head for inviting Shee to a war surf. The risk, ye gods! But my darling girl talked nonstop about surfing. She attached some kooky spiritual meaning to the zone, and her enthusiasm for my sport secretly thrilled me. She kept gazing at me with moony eyes, chattering about the dark canal, and asking when we could go. Her attitude caromed from breezy playfulness to grave fascination. I couldn’t let her down. So I decided it would be okay to take her through an easy Class One zone. And I vowed fervently to watch over her and keep her safe.

Kat’s space shuttle needed maintenance, so she had to go offworld for a while. And Grunze had to get his ailing quadriceps replaced with electroactive polymer, a grueling operation but worm every wrenching spasm, according to his doctors.

Consequently, I organized an easy Class One expedition with just Sheeba, Winston, Verinne and myself. We planned to cruise a little brouhaha raging between Gromic.Com and one of its seafarms. A place called MR407 in Bengal Bay.

“Don’t forget to take off your signet,” I warned Verinne on the morning of our trip.

She gave me her classic scowl—acerbic tight lips and one arched eyebrow. Then she removed her signet stud from her tongue.

I said, “You, too, Win. The cops watch this seafarm twenty-four/seven. If they read our IDs, we’re scorched.”

“Right, right.” Winston gamely tugged off Ms signet ring.

My signet was permanently implanted in my earlobe, so I would have to cover it later with magnetic tape to block its beam. Cops patrolled the mutinous seafarm every hour, and if they picked up our signet readings, they would be able to identify us remotely and bring us up on charges of criminal trespass. The surfer’s second universal law was to remain anonymous. (The first was to remain alive.)

My observatory windows looked out on 3:00 a.m. darkness as we sorted and packed our gear. Chad catered a trailer load of yummy snacks for breakfast. We intended to leave Nordvik before dawn, and for convenience, everyone had slept over at my place. Everyone except Sheeba. Sheeba had not yet arrived. She was late.

Winston halfheartedly picked through his first-aid kit. “Who’s she screwing these days? I saw her with some new guy at the Tortoise Club.”

“Impossible. She works practically around the clock.” I tried not to sound as aggrieved as I felt. With her perfect skin and galloping stride and happy naive laughter, Sheeba had always impressed me as virginal. I pictured her sleeping in a simple teddy between white gingham sheets, as chaste as starlight. Shee was too young to be sleeping around.

Verinne checked her watch—again. “Bengal Bay’s in the cyclone belt. We absolutely have to get there and back before the midday heat.”

Winston winked at me and patted Verinne’s arm, but she was right. Getting a late start was no joke.

First you need a mental picture of this seafarm. Imagine a translucent balloon floating with the tide like a jellyfish, trailing long ribbon tentacles through the viscous brown ocean. That was MR407 from a distance.

Closer, the balloon resolved into a solar still, a giant floating tub of filtered sea fluid domed with an airtight collection membrane. The sun’s heat evaporated the fluid, and the condensed water vapor dribbled down the dome’s membrane into catch-basins, while the salts, metals, chemicals and solids were raked off for shipment to subsidiary markets. And that was just the beginning.

Laced around the balloon was a fluted collar of solar panels and oxygen mills. The mills filtered breathable air from the atmosphere, while the solar panels delivered electricity. Shielded under the balloon was a three-story sealed submarine habitat—the farmstead itself—where resident ag workers cultivated an assortment of bioproducts in hydroponic tanks. And trailing underneath the habitat were the osmotic tentacles that harvested carbon, nitrogen, phosphorous, potassium and other basic fertilizers directly from the polluted sea.

Nearly eighteen hundred workers lived aboard MR407, and they were striking over email access. Apparently they wanted to chat with off-site relatives. To make their point, they kidnapped their local exec manager, and in reply, Gromic.Com dumped thick black paint over their solar still so they couldn’t make water. Now the farm lay under a quiet, insidious siege.

I wanted Sheeba’s maiden run to be as soft as baby fuzz. We would approach by jet skis, land on the collar, climb up the dome and stick on a transponder patch to prove we’d been there, then get away fast before the noon heat triggered thunderstorms. Nothing gnarly. No thermal-energy waves to dodge. No hostile encounters. The hardest part would be finding footholds on the slippery plastic membrane.

“Why bother with a plan? This is a Valium surf.” Winston squinted at my maps through glum, wet eyes. His energy tabs were fighting a war with the alcohol left in his system from the night before, and his head jerked with infinitesimal quavers. He scratched his sparse chin hairs—he’d forgotten his beard suppressor again. “What am I doing awake at this hour?”

Verinne tossed him a climbing harness. “You’d do well to practice your form.”

She was swiftly coiling rope into a bag, counting the loops in silence. Verinne approached every surf with solemn precision. She’d rolled up her sleeves for the work, though, and I marveled at how coarse her skin had grown. Her arms looked like packed sand.

“Time to load up,” she said.

“I’m on it,” Chad announced through the house intercom.

Then he directed his team of dumb robots to carry the gear, while he remained aloof. Chad existed strictly as a virtual Net agent. He considered it demeaning to instill himself in hardware.

“We can’t leave without Sheeba.” I frowned at the expensive new surface suit I’d bought her. Pearly pink with silver lightning bolts down the pant legs and a matching helmet. It lay across my futon like a glittery shadow of the missing girl.

Winston, Verinne and Chad’s troop of robots were packing the car outside on my rooftop landing pad when Sheeba’s call came through. I cupped my hand over my wrist-watch so I could see her tiny image better. “Where are you? Were you in an accident?”

Her smile was all frisky innocence. “I’m on my way up now.”

The small screen showed her bopping into my elevator. Midnight blue hair, lemon yellow skin, dangling jewelry. She wore a white workout leotard, and she’d tied her hair back. Her makeup looked smudged.

“I expected you last night. What happened?’

She beamed a smile of pure candor. “I didn’t think last night was definite.”

Not definite? For an instant, I wanted to shake her. The closer I squinted at the screen, the clearer I saw the mascara smudged around her eyes and the lip gloss smeared over her chin. She’d come here straight from some lover’s bed.

But then she bounded out of the elevator, grabbed me in an armlock and lifted me off my feet. “Good morning, Nass. I have a blissed feeling about today. We’re beginning an Ordic journey. What’s this? My new surfsuit? I love the colors!” She twirled around, holding the pink suit to her chest and making it sparkle. “Nass, I feel my center moving. This may be the beginning of a spiritual metamorphosis.”

Lovable child. I drew her close and buried my nose in the soft flesh under her chin. Of course, I forgave her for being late. “Dear Shee, don’t ever change. You’re perfect, here and now.”

“I’m not kidding, Nass. We’re headed into the dark.”

“Right, right.” I nuzzled under her chin and inhaled her herbal scent.

Verinne came through the door with a look of disapproval. Then Winston pushed past her and made straight for Sheeba. “Do I get a morning kiss?”

Sheeba was tugging the new pink surfsuit over her leotard, but the silky Kevlax material didn’t want to slide over her round feminine bottom. She paused to give Winston a peck on the cheek, and from the way his hands were hovering, I saw he meant to help her squeeze in.

I’m the one who paid for the damned suit. Elbowing Win aside, I showed her how to zip the gaskets and seat the helmet, and I explained the life-and-death significance of an airtight seal. One whiff of Earth’s polluted atmosphere meant certain death—the usual safety talk.

“Give me your signet,” I told her. “We’ll leave it here, just to be molto certain the cops can’t read your ID.”

The barest trace of irritation passed across her features, then vanished behind her cheerful smile. She slipped off her modest silver ring with its plain glass smart chip. The humbleness of her signet touched me. I locked it in my safe.

Winston and I jockeyed for a place next to Shee in the car, but to no avail. She bounced into the front seat beside Verinne. Luckily, the high-speed flight from Nordvik to Bengal Bay took only two hours. Crammed in back with Winston, I listened with half an ear while he brayed about his new quasi-organic wetware. Good old Win, did he suppose he could captivate Sheeba with his memory sticks? He even pulled back his hair to show us the new ports behind his ears. The scars were still puffy and red. Win claimed these new organic sticks operated more like native memory and that his Alzheimer’s problems were a thing of the past. I still had the old silicon type, so I secretly made note of his brand.

Up front, Verinne was speaking to Sheeba sotto voce. I leaned forward to eavesdrop.

“…and you must preserve your eyes, dear. Have an extra pair of corneas cloned now, while you’re still young. You have such lovely clean tears.” When Verinne patted Sheeba’s cheek, I gawked Verinne never displayed affection. Imagine my dismay as I watched her chalky old fingers dwell on Sheeba’s lemon-colored eyelids.

We landed in Nepal, where, thanks to the rising sea levels, the coastal mountains cut straight down into the thick yellow waters of Bengal Bay. A vast mat of floating debris clogged the harbor near the airport. Empty cargo containers, rusting barrets, plastic. In the hazy morning sun, the trash glistened like beaded tapestry.

Verinne spent a long time helping Sheeba undo her seat belt, and men Winston lifted her out of the car with both arms. Sheeba giggled and made raucous jokes. No doubt, their excessive attentions embarrassed her. As soon as possible, I claimed her hand.

The tepid bay lapped under a veil of surly ochre smog. India brought back no memories. My childhood. My little brother Raju. Prashka, the first love of my youth. All buried. Calcutta lay under the swampy ocean now. Only a few of its old skyscrapers still protruded above the waves, rotted by sun and salt. I had trained myself to forget the mass evacuation. That was long ago, another lifetime—those recollections were edited, erased, shunted to deep storage. I stood gazing at the foam that sloshed around the pier and thought of nothing.

Winston asked the local guides for a weather forecast, and while I was distracted paying for the rented jet skis, Verinne pointed out the special features of Sheeba’s new pink surfsuit.

“Satellite earphone. Metavision. And here’s your water recycler.” Verinne patted the device on Sheeba’s breast. “It captures and purifies your waste body moisture. This tube connects to a nozzle in your helmet.”

“Sleek. Do I suck it?” Sheeba twirled the helmet and giggled.

“Yes, but first you need to put moisture in. There’s a gel pad here.” When Verinne touched the place between Sheeba’s legs, I dropped my cash card. Her white hand lingered, cupping Sheeba’s crotch. “You can urinate now if you like. The pad will soak up everything. Try it?”

Sheeba must have blushed. I could imagine her color rising under the lemon skin dye.

Get away from Shee, you dried-up old bat. That’s what I wanted to shout at the tall willowy woman I had once adored. Instead, I cranked one of the jet skis. Its throaty roar startled Verinne and made her drop her hand. Then I revved it up to drown further conversation. Storm clouds gathered overhead. I felt a dark mood coming on.

As the temperature rose over Bengal Bay, we zeroed our clocks and began timing Sheeba’s virgin surf. My mood improved as we glided out through the harbor flotsam. Good old Win couldn’t remember the local forecast. So much for his new memory sticks. Win suffered from a mutated strain of Alzheimer’s that failed to respond to traditional antibody therapies. No matter how often he upgraded his implants, synaptic plaques kept fouling his interface.

But we weren’t concerned about a forecast. After our global climate reeled through those first cataclysmic years, things settled down—as they always do—in predictable routines. Since the early 2200s, Bengal Bay’s weather had followed a clockwork pattern: Morning calm. Afternoon cyclones. Evening heat.

Soon we encountered open sea and chop. Winds were coming out of the south, shearing froth from the crests of the lathery waves, and a dense morning smog closed in. Chad called with news about my Trandent holdings, and we decided to vote out the current CEO. He also reminded me of a hair appointment

Since I was wearing a surfsuit and gloves, I couldn’t browse the IBiS screen, so I asked Chad to check it remotely. On his command, my implanted biosensor instantly pinged every NEM in my body, then beamed the data through the Net to my various doctors and monitoring agents, and finally relayed a status back to the processor in my thumb.