Bruce Sterling - Islands in the Net

"A position in Rizome is hardly bribery," Laura said coolly. "If they work with us, they deserve a place with us."

They passed an abandoned sugar factory. "It's tough on them, doing our housework and moonlighting as your domestic spies.

Sticky glared at her. "Those bloodclot fuckin' glasses," he hissed suddenly.

"Atlanta, I'm going offline,"- Laura said. She ripped off her rig and yanked open the map compartment. A cardboard egg carton of tanglegun ammo fell on her foot. She ignored it and stuffed the rig in-it was squawking-and slammed the little steel door.

Sticky sneered. "That'll be trouble for you. You'd better put them back on."

"Fuck it," Laura told him. "It's worth it just to hear you cut that goddamn accent." She grinned at him humorlessly.

"C'mon, soldier. Let's have it out. I'm not gonna have you pick on me all the way to the Bank, just to psych me out, or whatever the hell it is you think you're doing."

Sticky flexed his muscular hands on the steering wheel.

"Aren't you afraid to be alone with me? Now you're off the

Net, you're kind of soft and helpless, aren't you?" He gave her a sudden poke in the ribs with his finger, like testing a side of beef. "What if I drive off into those trees and get rude with your body?"

"Jesus." That had never even occurred to her. "I dunno,

Captain. I guess I tear your goddamned eyes out."

"Oh, tough!" He didn't look at her-he was watching the road, driving fast--but his right hand darted out with unbe- lievable quickness and caught her wrist with a slap of skin on skin. Her hand went funny-bone numb and a rolling pain shot up her arm. "Pull free," he told her. "Try."

She tugged, feeling the first surge of real fear. It was like pulling on a bench vise. He didn't even quiver.. He didn't look that strong, but his bare brown arm had locked like cast iron. Unnatural. "You're hurting me," she said, trying for calmness. A hateful little tremor in her voice.

Sticky laughed triumphantly. "Now, you listen to me, girl.

All this time, you-"

Laura sank suddenly in her seat and stamped the brake.

The jeep skidded wildly; the soldier in the back cried out.

Sticky let her go as if scalded; his hands slapped the wheel with panic speed. They swerved, hit potholes in the road shoulder. Their heads banged the hard ceiling. Two seconds'

of lurching chaos. Then they were back on the road, weaving.

Safe. Sticky drew a long breath.

Laura sat up and rubbed her wrist silently.

Something truly nasty had happened between them. She felt no fear yet, even though they'd almost died together. She hadn't known it would be so bad-a manual jeep-she'd just done it. On impulse. Rage that had boiled up suddenly, when their inhibitions had vanished, gone with the glass eye of the

Net's TV.

Both acting like raging drunks when the Net was gone.

It was over now. The soldier-the boy-in the. back seat was gripping his rifle in panic.' He hadn't been feeling the

Net it was all a mystery to him, that sudden gust of vio- lence, like a hurricane wind. There for no reason, gone for no reason... he didn't even know it was over yet.

Sticky drove on, his jaw set, his eyes straight ahead.

"Winston Stubbs," he said at last. "He was my father."

. Laura nodded. Sticky had told her this for a reason-it was the only way he knew how to apologize. The news didn't surprise her much, but for a moment she felt her eyes sting- ing. She leaned back against the seat, relaxing, breathing.

She had to be careful with him. People should be careful with each other... .

"You must have been very proud of him," she said.

Gently, tentatively. "He was a special kind of man." No answer. "From the way he looked at you, I know that-"

"I failed him," Sticky said. "I was his warrior and the enemy took him."

"We know who did it now," Laura told him. "It wasn't

Singapore. It was an African regime-the secret police in the

Republic of Mali."

Sticky stared at her as if she'd gone insane. His polarized shades had bounced off during the near wreck and his yellow- ish eyes gleamed like a weasel's. "Mali's an African coun- try," he said.

"Why should that make a difference?"

"We're fighting for African people! Mali ... they're not even a data haven. They a sufferation country. They have no reason." He blinked. "They're lying to you if they tell you that. "

"We know that Mali is the F.A.C.T.," Laura said.

Sticky shrugged. "Anyone can use those letters. They're asking shakedown money, and we know where that's going.

To Singapore." He shook his head slowly. "War's coming,

Laura. Very bad times. You should never have come to this island. "

"We had to come," Laura said. "We were witnesses."

"Witnesses," Sticky said with contempt. "We know what happened in Galveston, we never needed you for that. You're hostages, Laura. You, your man, even the lickle baby. Hos- tages for Rizome. Your company is in the middle, and if they favor Singapore against us, the Bank will kill you."

Laura licked her lips. She straightened in her seat. "If it comes to war, a lot of innocent people are going to die."

"They've played you for a fool. Your company. They sent you here, and they knew!"

"Wars kill people," Laura said. "David and I are not as innocent as some."

He slammed the wheel with his hand. "Aren't you afraid, girl?"

"Are you, Captain?"

"I'm a soldier."

Laura forced a shrug. "What does that mean in a terror war? They murdered a guest in my house. In front of me and my baby. I'm going to do what I can to get them. I know it's dangerous."

"You're a brave enemy," Sticky said. He pulled onto a secondary road, through a wretched little village of red dirt and rusted tin. They began winding uphill, into the interior.

The sun split the clouds for a moment and branches dappled the windshield.

From a hairpin turn high on a hillside, Laura saw the distant clustered harbor of colonial Grand Roy-sleepy red roofs, little white porch-pillars, crooked, sloping streets. A

drill rig crouched offshore like a spider from Mars.

"You're a fool," Sticky told her. "You're trying to. push some propaganda bullshit that you think will make everybody play nice. But this isn't some mama-papa Yankee shopping mall where you can sell everybody peace like Coca-Cola. It nah going to work... . But I don't think you ought to die for tryin'. It's not righteous."

He snapped orders. The militiaman reached behind him and passed Laura a flak jacket and a black, hooded robe. "Put these on," Sticky said.

"All right." Laura buckled the bulky jacket over her work shirt. "What's this bathrobe?"

"It's a chador. Islamic women wear them. Real modest

... and it'll hide that blond hair. There been spy planes where we're going. I don't want 'em seeing you."

Laura tunneled into the robe and pulled the hood over her head. Once inside the baggy thing, she caught a lingering whiff of its previous user-scented cigarettes and attar of roses. "It wasn't the Islamic Bank--

"We know it's the Bank. They been running spy planes in every day, puddle jumping over from Trinidad. We know the plantation they're using, everything. We have our own sources-we don't need you to tell us anything." He nodded at the map compartment. "You might as well put on your TV

rig. I've said everything I'm saying."

"We don't mean to hurt you or your people, Sticky. We don't mean you anything but good-"

He sighed. "Just do it."

She pulled the glasses out. Emily screeched into her ear.

["What are you doing!? Are you all right?"]

"I'm fine, Emily. Cut me some slack."

["Don't be stupid, Laura. You're gonna damage our credi- bility in this. No secret negotiations! It looks bad-like they might be getting at you. It's bad enough now, without people thinking that you're going through back channels offline."]