Geosynchron (27 page)

The room suddenly seemed to get a lot darker. Jara remembered her conversation with Horvil where he said the Pacific Islands could be
a war zone in a week's time. It had felt like hyperbole then, but now it
looked like events might prove him right, two days earlier than he had
predicted.

18

A life lived on perimeters. A life in between things.

Neither connectible nor unconnectible, neither resident of the
Pacific Islands nor resident of Andra Pradesh. More than a lover to
Margaret Surina, yet not her legally bonded companion. Not a fulltime parent to Josiah, in order to help Margaret complete her Phoenix
Project-but not a full-fledged partner on the Phoenix Project either,
in order to spend time in Manila raising his son.

Quell, man of edges.

And now, Quell sat in the in-between place once again, this time
in a very literal sense. He was a prisoner aboard one of Len Borda's
Defense and Wellness Council hoverbirds, scuttling along the unconnectible curtain outside Manila. Four officers wearing the white robe
and yellow star surrounded him, two armed with dartguns and two
armed with the connectible equivalent of a shock baton. Quell's wrists
were bound, but otherwise he was quite comfortable.

He had told Jara that Magan Kai Lee would bail him out. Yet if
there was one thing Quell knew about Magan, he knew that Magan
was not a man of sentiment. Quell had fancied himself an important
asset to the rebellion, but looked at through the concentrating prism
of logic, the case was not so strong. The longer he sat here staring at
the ocean, the more hopeless his case became.

Magan did not need him. The lieutenant executive might have
used Quell to press his case to Josiah, but Quell was confident that Jara
could do just as good a job. Truth be told, Josiah was far more likely
to heed her counsel than heed his father's.

Borda did not need him either. The high executive might also have
used Quell as a bargaining chip to get his armies behind the unconnectible curtain, but Borda would soon see the futility of that idea. Jara's first recommendation to Josiah would undoubtedly be to not let
Quell's capture color his reasoning.

So why would anyone confront this cadre of Borda's troops to free
a worthless fool of an Islander whose life had never been his own?
Magan had already freed him from Borda's clutches once at great risk;
he had given Quell his freedom and promised assistance in recapturing
legal rights to MultiReal in exchange for the Islander's assistance getting Magan's armies behind the curtain. The lieutenant executive
wasn't likely to come up with another such bargain. Which meant that
Quell would probably sit in a succession of hoverbirds staring at
dartgun barrels until the situation in the Council resolved itself. Either
that, or he would shortly be on his way back to orbital prison and the
ever-present danger of broken thumbs.

And who would be the worse for it?

Quell tried to remember when his identity started to slip away. He
supposed it began when he was a student at the Gandhi University all
those years ago, the day he met Margaret and confronted her about her
speech before Creed Surina.

Quell had been seventeen years old, and Margaret sixteen. She had
stood up before an audience of creed sycophants and lectured them
about how the universe compelled humanity to scientific discovery,
how it invited exploration of its mysteries. No philosopher, philanthropist,
or prophet has done as much to improve our lot in life as the scientist, she had
said. My father once told me that when you turn your back on scientific
progress, you turn your back on human suffering. The world was still newly
embroiled in the Economic Plunge, and rioting in Melbourne had just
rocked the very foundations of the centralized government. People
were hungry for the ambition and audacity of the Surinas.

Margaret's speech before the Creed Surina devotees had left Quell feeling restive and belligerent. He had walked up to the podium after
the speech was over and the devotees had all slithered away. Only Margaret's ever-present retinue of handlers had remained.

So you think I'm a masochist? Quell had snapped by way of greeting.

The young lecturer had turned to focus her attention on the
Islander. She was a small woman, thin as a stalk of wheat. Her almondcolored skin and sizable nose betrayed her Surina heritage. So I think
you're ... what? she had replied, confused. Apparently in high society
Andra Pradesh, what began with an H.

Your speech, Quell had said. "When you turn your back on scientific
progress, you turn your back on human suffering. " If you really believe that,
you must believe the Islanders are masochists. Why else would we refuse to run
biollogic programs twenty-four hours a day? Why else would we wear these?
He had pointed to his government-issue connectible collar, which was
even thicker and more unwieldy in those days. It must be because we like
sickness and pain. We must like human suffering.

Something had surfaced from beneath those ocean blue eyes.
Curiosity. Of course I don't believe that, Margaret had replied. All of us are
looking for a way to deflect our own suffering.

Quell had taken the words in and imprinted them on his memory.
What's that supposed to mean?

It means that if you liked disease, you wouldn't be using biollogic programs
to control your asthma, now would you?

The Islander had paused. He had thought of Margaret as a hypocrite because she mouthed words of support for pro-Islander policies
in public while completely ignoring the actual Islanders studying at
the university. But apparently Margaret had taken an interest after all.
Quell's condition had hardly been a secret, but neither had it been
obvious to a casual bystander, thanks to the OCHREs lining his
brachial tubing and the bio/logic programs that directed them. So you
admit your father was wrong, he had said. Just because we doubt science
doesn't mean we embrace suffering.

I admit nothing of the kind, Margaret had riposted, clearly starting
to enjoy the duel. In fact, you've just proven his point. Software can fix your
lungs today, but if your parents had embraced medical technology when you
were conceived, you wouldn't have gotten asthma in the first place. A hive would
have fixed your lungs during gestation. But because your mother chose to grow
you in her belly, she allowed your asthma to happen. She turned her back on
human suffering.

Quell could recognize a deliberate provocation when he heard one,
and he had struggled to keep his poise. Still, despite the vehemence of
Margaret's words, her tone had not been confrontational at all, but
rather upbeat, almost playful. You can fix a lot of things if you grow babies
in vats, he had said. But at what cost? Pumping them full of OCHREs?

The OCHREs are a lot easier to install during gestation. They can always
be adjusted or deactivated later.

Later? Later? The Islander had felt his voice rising in spite of himself. That's always the way it is with you connectibles. You put the burden on
us to "adjust" to your technologies. Think about it from our point of view for
once. You only give us two options: implant a complete OCHRE system in the
womb and "adjust" later, or go back to doctors with clumsy steel tools. All or
nothing. Listen. The Islanders don't want to spend half our lives upgrading
software-but do you think we want to move backwards? After all these hundreds of years?

There had been a long pause as Margaret had tried to find her
footing after this tirade. Quell had realized in characteristically late
fashion that he had pushed back too hard. He had peered over Margaret's shoulder only to see the Surina family handlers edging closer
with deepening frowns, looking at him as if he were one of the large
beetles that scurried on the walls in the summertime.

The Islander had smiled and flipped his head back, causing long
blond hair to cascade over one shoulder. He wasn't afraid of these
people. You want to ditch them? he had asked, indicating the handlers
with a lift of his eyebrows.

Margaret had blinked as if the idea had never occurred to her.
Ditch them?

Yeah.

And go where?

Quell had shrugged. Don't know. You tell me.

Something had sparked inside Margaret at that moment. Quell
would later discover that the girl had barely spent an hour alone since
the death of her father six years earlier. Privacy had been a casualty of
Marcus's death, along with her independence. I'm game, Margaret had
said with a grin. To Quell's surprise, she had grabbed one of his hands
and they had taken off for the Revelation Spire.

The Revelation Spire, the world's tallest building, a thin spike in
the sky. The place had been closed to the public for six years, so Quell
had had only vague ideas of what he would find behind those grand
double doors. He had caught a glimpse of security officers dashing pellmell across the courtyard behind them as Margaret tugged him inside.
The atrium had been filled with hundreds upon hundreds of boxes.
Quell had followed Margaret to a side alcove, watched as she opened a
secret door with a wave of her hand and leapt into the elevator leading
to the top of the Spire. The door had slid shut behind them before the
Surina goons had even made it through the building's entrance.

Margaret had kissed him on the way up. It was a long way.

Quell had been shocked by this sudden display of passion. He had
not been blind to her charms, but he had seen no hint of reciprocation
in her eyes. Amazing what you could learn to conceal when you were
the richest girl in the world.

If I ask you something, she had said, snuggling into the canopy of his
arms, will you promise to tell me the truth?

Sure.

Am I beautiful?

The Islander had suddenly realized his appeal to her. Not only
had he exhibited no fear of Margaret's handlers, he had represented a world outside the bubble of Andra Pradesh. A secure anchor to a
saner reality.

Quell had decided to keep his promise. No, he had said. You're
attractive. You're beguiling. You're sexy. You're fascinating. He had been
surprised to discover that he meant all these things. But if you're asking
whether you're beautiful in the classical sense ... no, you're not. Margaret
had nodded. She had not been disappointed in his answer; on the contrary, she had seemed incredibly relieved to have the burden of beauty
lifted from her shoulders. Why? Quell had said. What have your handlers
been telling you?

They tell me a lot of things, Margaret had said. I ... I never know
what's true and what's not.

Well, then I guess it's my job to make sure you know the truth.

Quell had been surprised to discover he meant that too.

That was the day he began to lose himself, Quell realized now as
he watched the languid Pacific Ocean pass by out the window of the
Council hoverbird. It had been on that day that the two of them had
fallen in love, and Quell had found himself drawn to something larger
than himself. He had told himself time after time that Margaret's heritage meant nothing; that he was her equal; that his wishes counted as
much as hers. But when put to the test, Quell with his stubborn individualism was no match for four hundred years of history.