Kim Robinson: New York 2140

“Get you something?”

She thought it over. More and more I liked her.

“Yeah, but I don’t know what,” she said. “Here let’s go check it out.”

“My man Inky will make suggestions,” I agreed. Oh Lordy, she was cutting me out of the rude-and-crudes! My heart did a little bouncy-bouncy.

We stood at the bar. She was a little taller than me, though not wearing heels. I almost swooned when I saw that, put my elbows on the bar to keep myself standing. I like tall women, and her waist was about as high as my sternum. Women wore high heels to look like her. Oh Lord.

Inky dropped by and we got something exotic he recommended that he had made up. A something or other. Tasted like bitter fruit punch. Crème de cassis involved.

“What’s your name?” she asked with a sidelong glance.

“Franklin Garr.”

“Franklin? Not Frank?”

“Franklin.”

“As in, you be lyin’, but I be franklin’?”

“Ben Franklin. My mom’s hero. And my job needs a fair bit of lying, to tell the truth.”

“What are you, a reporter?”

“Day trader.”

“Me too!”

We looked at each other and smiled a little conspiratorially. “Where at?”

“Eldorado.”

Oh my, one of the biggies. “What about you?” she asked.

“WaterPrice,” I said, happy that we were substantial too. We chatted about that for a while, comparing notes on building location, work space, colleagues, bosses, quants. Then she frowned.

“Hey, did you look at the CME for yesterday?”

“Sure.”

“Did you see that glitch? How for a while there was a glitch?” She saw my look of surprise and added, “You did!”

“Yes,” I said. “What was it, do you know?”

“No. I was hoping you did.”

I had to shake my head. I thought it over again. It was still mysterious. “Seems like maybe tweakers must have gotten in?”

“But how? I mean, things can happen in China, things can happen here, but the CME?”

“I know.” I had to shrug. “Mysterious.”

She nodded, sipped her punch. “If that had gone on for long, it would have gotten a lot of attention.”

“True.” As in, end of world, but I didn’t point that out, not wanting to make fun of her too soon. “But maybe it was just another flash bite.”

“Well, it did come and go. Maybe it was somebody testing something.”

“Maybe,” I said, and thought that over.

After a moment of silent contemplation we had to talk about other things. It was too loud to think, and talking shop was only fun when you could hear the other person without shouting. Time to get back to basics, but also she was finishing her drink and going into leave-taking mode, or so it appeared from her aura. I didn’t want to blow it; this was not going to be quick and I didn’t want it to be, so it required some tact, but I can be very tactful, or at least try.

“Hey, listen, would you like to go out to dinner some Friday to celebrate the week?”

“Sure, where?”

“Somewhere on the water.”

That made her smile. “Good idea.”

“This Friday?”

“Sure.”

Vlade’s little apartment was located at the back of the boathouse office, down a set of broad stairs. The rooms had been part of the kitchen pantry when the building had been a hotel, and were below the waterline even at low tide. Vlade didn’t mind this. Protection of the submerged floors was one of his main jobs in the building, interesting to manage and valued by the building’s occupants, although they took it for granted when there were no problems. But the water work was never done, and never less than crucial. So it had become a little point of pride for him to sleep below, as if deep in the hull of a great liner for which he was ship’s carpenter.

Methods to keep water out kept improving. Vlade was currently working with the team from the local waterproofing association that had caissoned the Madison Square side of the building to reseal the building’s wall and the old sidewalk. The aquaculture cages covering the floor of the bacino had to be avoided, making for a tight squeeze, but the latest Dutch equipment could be angled and accordioned in a way that gave them room to work. Then new pumps, dryers, sterilizers, sealants—all better than ever, even though this same work gang had passed through only four years before. It made sense, as Ettore, the super for the Flatiron, pointed out; this work was the crux for every building in the drink. But Vlade kept thinking things were as good as they could get. Ettore and the others laughed at him when he said this. That’s you, Vlade . They were a good group. Supers for the buildings of lower Manhattan formed a kind of club, all enmeshed with the mutual aid associations and cooperative groups that knitted together to make intertidal life its own society. Lots of complaints to share about all kinds of things, such as being paid in wetbits and blocknecklaces, which some called torcs, as they were basically forms of indenture to the building, a fancy version of room and board—people went on and on, but despite all the moaning they were lively and helped keep Vlade out of the depths.

On this day he woke in almost pitch-darkness. Green light from the clock cast hardly any illumination. He listened for a while. No rushing liquid except for his blood, moving sluggishly around in him. Internal tides, yes. Low tide in there, as on most mornings.

He pulled himself up and turned on the room light. The building screen reported all was well. Dry to bedrock: very satisfying. North building the same, or almost—some as-yet-unidentified crack was leaking into the foundation over there, very vexing. But he would find it.

He had slept four hours, as usual. That was all the time the building and his bad dreams gave him. Part of his low tide. Nothing to do but get up and go for it again. Up to the boathouse, to help Su get the dawn patrollers out the door and onto the canals. There were six lifts in the boathouse, and the boathouse computer provided them with a good sequencing algorithm. Where the human touch was still needed was in mollifying boat owners if their departure was delayed. Even a minute could get a bad response. Ah yes, very sorry, Doctor, I know, important meeting, but there’s been a slipped sling at the bow of the James Caird , it’s a bit of a tub . Not that the doctor’s boat wasn’t a barge itself, but no matter, the balm of chatter, all would be well. Everyone who wanted to be out the door without stress could do it. It was true there were people who needed a fight a day to satisfy some awful itch, but Vlade made them find it elsewhere.

Su was happy to see him, as Mac had gotten a call for her water taxi and wanted to take the job. This altered the drop sequence, and it took some hunting to find an alternative that balanced Mac’s need with Antonio’s standing request to be out at 5:15 a.m. Small things made Su nervous; he was a careful guy.