Pedro wiped his brow. The hot sun hung at its median in the northern sky, and he thought about stopping at Donna’s Truck Stop for a coke and burger. Rare and juicy, with onions and mushrooms and lots of cheese. That’s how he liked it. He stopped for a moment in the shade of a willow, and gazed across the river, wondering for just a moment about life on the other side. Law was wild. A wide-open sort of place, and Dillon had seen no reason to change it, as long as everyone obeyed the rules. It was the sort of environment Pedro couldn’t abide. The lack of control made him nervous. That was the source of his falling out with his old amigo, Matt. That, and Matt’s insistence on playing by the rules, when any fool could see that the only applicable rule was that the guy at the top of the food chain got to eat the best meal. Fuck that rules shit.

     Law and Order had been established to ensure that the gold miners coming down from the mountains with their payloads tithed their share of taxes to the New America Corporation. Pedro insisted that it was only fair that he and Matt take a little extra for their trouble. But Matt didn’t look at it that way. As a consequence, the miners on the riverboats now purchased their goods on Matt’s side of the river. It had forced Pedro to set up his own taxing station further up river at the narrows. Matt didn’t like that, but Matt didn’t have the balls to challenge him. And Pedro had the highway on his side. The bauxite triple-trailers had no choice but to stop and pay taxes to the city of Order.

     A brief thunderstorm the previous evening left the air filled with the sweet smell of wet sage and ozone. After five years, Pedro still couldn’t believe how much this place felt and looked like the chaparral country of south Texas, where he grew up. Only the northern sun was wrong, and you couldn’t really convince yourself it was south, because then it would be going in the wrong direction. It was unnerving when he thought about it, so he tried to not think about it when he could.

     What he did think about today was the arrival of Her Majesty, along with some special guest. Landing with her whole god damned entourage this evening. It was all a big pain in the ass, but he couldn’t complain, really. It was his job.

     “The young man will be a guest of the good Sisters,” her messenger had said. “He will have an around-the-clock guard, and his presence must be kept secret at all cost.”

     “Tell Ms. Cheng, ‘No problem.’” he said to the messenger.

     Jolene Cheng rewarded him well for his little favors. One of those favors was to keep her doings and goings out of sight of Dick Miglia, and by extension, that meant Matt Dillon. Pedro had no idea what it was all about. Some corporate power struggle that didn’t concern him. He could take care of himself. Jolene Cheng may or may not be Queen of the Fucking Universe, but Pedro Blasón was the King of Order.

     Pedro didn’t like the Sisters of the Temple. He didn’t understand them, and their secret hierarchies and hidden agendas didn’t mesh with his need for control. But they were Jolene’s bambino. As long as she protected them, their was nothing he could do. Just keep his eyes and ears open, try to make some sense of it all.

* * *

     On the Law side of the river, Matt Dillon was singing the blues. He had been practicing all morning for the gig tonight with his band, Indigo River, and now the hot sun was burning in through his north window, turning the room into a furnace. He wiped the sweat from his dark forehead with the back of his hand, and turned off his karaoke machine. The new material was difficult, but it would have to be good enough. Matt sang an occasional lead, but mostly he performed backup for Carmella Johnson, a gorgeous ebony-skinned beauty who fronted the band. Matt loved to sing, and if it weren’t for his other commitments, he might consider doing it full time. For now, it was all in fun.

     Matt thought maybe he was in love with Carmella Johnson, but he wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. Carmella was a hard woman to know, and even though he had been sleeping with her for two years, he still couldn’t figure out where he stood with her. He wondered if maybe the price of power was never understanding what anyone really thought of you beneath that deferential veneer they all wore.

     He sighed, grabbed a beer, and headed for the front door. From the shade of the porch, he gazed across the broad expanse of desert, the ramshackle houses and dusty dirt roads, the willows along the river, and on the other side of the river, the tidy little town of Order. Something was happening over in Order. Matt could feel it in his bones. The Monitors had been alight with signals all week, encrypted messages. Jolene Cheng, no doubt. What the hell was Cheng up to?

     Matt and Pedro had once been Jolene’s soldiers, but now they worked for Dick Miglia. Matt was nothing if not loyal to his employers. Cheng was going rogue, and Pedro, the opportunistic little bastard, was trying to position himself for the biggest crumbs when it all settled down. It was pathetic, but no kind of reason could sway him.

     Matt trigged his com and requested Sharma Xerxes, his Monitor supervisor.

     “Yes, Sir?” Sharma’s voice sounded hollow and distant. He wondered if the New America techs were working on the com grid again.

     “Sharma, are our ears still online across the river?”

     “No change in status, Chief. Something new come up?”

     “No. Just a feeling. Whatever’s going on in Order, it’s happening soon. Just keep up the vigilance.”

     “As usual, Sir.”

     “Thanks, Sharma. I know you’re on top of it.” Dillon cut the com. Sharma was a good girl. Competent. And he trusted her. He just couldn’t stop worrying. Jolene Cheng made him nervous.

* * *

     Later that night, Matt Dillon lay in bed, looking into Carmella Johnson’s deep, brown eyes. He lingered there for a long time, searching until all that remained was his own reflection on flecks of green and gold and sienna and the darkest black he had ever seen.

     “There was a theory floating around,” he said at last. “When I was in school back in the teens. Some physicists believed that the visible universe was like a hologram. That we are pixels or something, moving around on a two dimensional surface, and that everything we see is only a projection. Do you think that could be true?”

     “Mmmm,” said Carmella.

     “Do you know who the pointillists were?”

     “Uh-uh.”

     “They were a school of art, founded by the French painter, Seurat. They only used the primary colors, which they painted as little dots, creating an illusion of a whole spectrum of color.”

     “Like pixels,” said Carmella.

     “Yeah, just like pixels. The first pixelated art. Unless of course you accept that everything is pixels.”

     “Dillon, where the hell do you come up with these ideas, anyway?”

     “I don’t know.” Dillon drew back into himself, trying to remember something. Some piece of himself forgotten long ago. “I used to be interested in physics and art and all sorts of things before I joined the F.B.I. back in ‘22. I got all this shit in my head, and it just bubbles around up there, like a pot of boiling stew.”

     “That stuff will drive you crazy, Sugar.”

     “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

©2009, Duane Poncy, all rights reserved.

     Michel teased her about her aversion to religion, and she had to laugh at herself. Yet, the Temple of New Life worried her. She had convinced herself that all this superstition would simply fade away after a few years on Sweetland. That it was merely a device to help the people adjust to their new reality. But the Temple had taken on a life of its own. The Sisters were everywhere in Sangre del Corazon, on the councils, in the guilds and the marketplace, and in the schools. They had become powerful enough that they now openly challenged the secularist majority on the Concilio.

     Of course, that was their right. It was a democracy, after all, and as long as they abided by its secular principles, well…

     She pushed away all thought of the Sisters of the Temple, and replaced it with her other recurring obsession: Joey and Molly. Her heart ached for them. It had been over a year, and she had heard no word. Molly knew the woods too well to become lost. The agreed plan had been for the children to come down in the spring, after the snow melted. Not to Meadow Springs, but here, to Sangre del Corazon. Molly was to contact Felicia Ibanez at the Concilio. But summer was now approaching, and Felicia had heard nothing.

     Jessie fretted and complained daily to Michel, who did his best to calm her fears. “It is a two-month journey from Lake Adandoyi, love…they must circumvent El Pared…the snow is barely melted on the high plateau….” His arguments were sensible and logically articulated, but he failed to calm her fears. She felt in her heart that something was wrong.

     Then yesterday she had received a mysterious message. An acquaintance, a fellow refugee from the upper settlements, had sent a note by messenger. “Dear Ms. Larivee, please come to 29 Calle del Nuevo Mundo tomorrow at noon. We’ll have lunch. I have important news you will want to hear.”

     That was the entire message. She could think of nothing but Joey and Molly. But, she hadn’t expected the information to arrive this way. She begged Michel to go with her. She feared Jolene’s spies, who were certainly in the city. But Michel had work, and they needed his income to survive.

     “You will be fine, dear,” he said. “If Jolene wanted you, she would have taken you long ago and spirited you out of the city. If she has somehow grabbed the children, she will let you know what she wants. And we’ll know what has happened to them. But these thoughts are all premature. Until we hear something, it is out of our hands.”

     “I know, Michel,” she said. “I just feel so helpless.”

     Dark thoughts brewing, Jessie arrived at Avenue of the Disappeared, the only other paved street in Sangre del Corazon. She turned left on the empty, narrow street. Following the south edge of the town, its round, red stones eventually merged with Avenue St. Sofia, as it looped around the peninsula. Beyond Avenue of the Disappeared, to the southeast, lay the ramshackle Refugee City. It held nearly twenty thousand people, twice as large as Sangre del Corazon itself. Refugee City had a reputation for being untamed, like the upper settlements of the Muddy Red, from which most of its residents came. Something happens to you when you become a refugee, Jessie thought. Even in your own country. You lose an anchor. You lose trust in those who had once been your friends and neighbors. Anger stirred just beneath the surface. She felt it whenever she came here.

     Jessie and Michel had been lucky. Michel’s work and Jessie’s connection with Felicia had smoothed their way into an older part of the city. Jessie felt guilty at first. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Influence and money weren’t supposed to procure special treatment in the New World. But there it was. Felicia’s mother, a physician, had a house with an extra room, and it would have been awkward to refuse.

     Calle del Nuevo Mundo was no more than an alley. The house she sought was just off Avenue of the Disappeared, no more than a crudely made shack, its tiny grounds strewn with debris. A temporary home until it was safe for its residents to return to the upper settlements, or perhaps a new home to the north. The refugees were divided over that. Jessie figured that many were tired of the harsh winters and difficult frontier life in the south.

     No one knew for certain if the mercenaries of New America still presented a threat. Overnight, they had swept into Echota, killing dozens, and forced the population down river to Deepwater and beyond. For several weeks the refugees passed in small groups through Meadow Springs, fleeing to Red Sky or Sangre del Corazon. It was during this time that Jessie received a message from Jolene. It had been such a shock. She had no idea that her mother was here, on Sweetland, ready to mess up her new life. It was all for Joey, Jolene had said, to give him the life he deserved. What a crock. How had she known about Joey? And what did she really want?

     The message, brought by a traveler had been a blunder on Jolene’s part. Jessie had time to prepare. When the soldiers pushed into Deepwater and Meadow Springs, simultaneously, in a pincer move, the children were already deep into the forest, and Jessie and Michel were making their way down river to Red Sky. The mercenaries never came any further, perhaps afraid to provoke all out war. But what they did instigate was the arming of the colony’s citizens, and the preparation for future conflict.

     Arms and ammunition had mysteriously begun to appear eleven years ago, after the settlements of New America were discovered by Michel’s geoprobe. Cries went out for an armed militia, and the initial resistance from the peace-loving citizenry gave way when spies were discovered in Sangre del Corazon. At first, no one admitted knowing where the guns came from, but it was soon revealed that an arms manufactory had been established in Frontera in the early days of the colony. If not for the threat of New America, the revelation would have split the colony in two. In fact, in nearly did, and the rift never really healed. Where had the precision machinery come from? Had it been sent here from Earth? How was the steel made? The Concilio was ripped with accusations, and counter-accusations. Town meetings were occupied with rumors and suspicion. Many, like Jessie, felt that they had been betrayed, that the new society and its principles of openness had been a lie from the beginning. Others believed that there was still a portal open somewhere, that materials from Earth were still being sent over. Only no one could prove it.

     Now it was all a moot point. Everyone wanted protection from the ruthless mercenaries of New America.

     Jessie approached the shack and knocked on the door. A small youngish woman, with a weather-aged face, wearing a rough country smock and the trousers of a field worker, opened the door. She looked at Jessie without smiling.

     “Welcome, Jessie,” she said.

     “Hello, Arlena,” Jessie replied. “How have you been?”

     “Getting by. Please come in.” Arlena stepped aside to usher Jessie through the door.

     Jessie stepped inside, ducking slightly to clear the low doorway. Dim light filtered through two small windows on the north side of the house, illuminating a small room void of decoration. Two dark figures sat in the shadows, peering up at her. A vague anxiety came over her. “I didn’t know there would be others joining us.”

     One of the figures stood, and Jessie recognized the deep red robe of a Sister. Not just any Sister, but a Sofia. Her anxiety deepened.

     “Sorry, Jessie,” said Arlena. “This is Sister Magda. The Sisters have something important to talk to you about.”

     “I’m the one who must apologize,” said Sister Magda. “I asked Arlena to keep our attendance confidential. This is a very delicate matter. It involves your son, Ms. Larivee.”

     Confusion supplanted anxiety. Why were the Sisters involved with Joey and Molly? “I don’t understand.”

     “We are here to tell you that your son, Joey, is safely under the care of the Sisters of the Temple.”

     Confusion gave way to relief, and then suspicion. “Sorry, Sister. A Sofia comes to a secret meeting in Refugee City to tell me Joey is safe? Not damned likely.”

     “You’re very astute, Ms. Larivee. We have, shall we say, other motives. We would like to bring Joey here, to you, but we need your cooperation.”
Fury bubbled up from Jessie’s depths. “It’s my fucking mother, isn’t it?”

     “I assure you, we don’t work for your mother. This is a very complex situation. You seem to have some political savvy, so I’ll try to be as open as possible with you.”

     “I won’t hold my breath.” Jessie regretted her sharp tongue, even before the words left it. But Magda merely smiled, indulgently.

     “This is the situation, Jessie, if I may call you by your given name.” It didn’t sound like a question. “Your son has become a pawn in a ruthless political game. Although he is in our care, it is only because we have made a temporary alliance with Jolene Cheng. Miss Cheng’s enemies would like to do harm to the boy. Do you understand?”

     “I understand that my mother is a ruthless woman, and that I don’t trust you or any of your Sisters to have my son’s best interest at heart.”

     “Then look at this as a chess game, Jessie, and let me give you the layout of the board. We would like to move Joey to Sangre del Corazon. We can’t do that without Jolene Cheng’s cooperation. Ms. Cheng needs something from you —to help open up a dialogue with the Concilio. She is interested in an alliance of sorts with the colony. Ms. Cheng is in a power struggle, and an alliance would be beneficial to both sides.”

     Jessie scowled at Sister Magda. “And your interest in this?”

     “We want to reunite a mother and son. Nothing more than that.”

     Fat chance, thought Jessie. “What about my sister, Molly?”

     Sister Magda handed her a card. “Molly is safe, Jessie. Think about what I’ve told you. It’s what we call a win-win situation.”

     “Sister, the problem with win-win situations is that they may be good for everyone at the table, but it’s the onlookers you step on as you dance together out the door. Those are the ones I worry about.”

     Sister Magda gave her an deep, appraising look, and smiled wryly.

     The grownups are afraid of the woods. All except for Mama Bridge. I don’t know why, unless it is a fear of the unknown. Or a fear of what they might find out about themselves, which is the same thing, I believe. I don’t think the trees on Earth talk to people this way, or the people wouldn’t be so afraid. In the woods I feel warm and safe, like when I’m snuggled under blankets in the winter or in Mama’s arms after she has been gone for months. I hear the memories and dreams of the forest.

     Or, I imagine I do.

     Every day on this island jail, I have thought about my forest. I long for its rustling leaves and soothing voices. And I pine for Mama, far away on the other side of the continent. I worry about her mind-sickness and how she will survive another winter, even with the forest and her ghosts —her Indians— to keep her company. There are no trees here to talk to me. On the estate grounds, there is only Earth’s silent grass. I have forsaken the outdoors.

     Today, for the first time, I sit at my desk with my pen in my hand, trying to put my thoughts straight. It is a beginning, Father.

     The walls of my prison are papered with green leaves and pink flowers above dark, mahogany wainscoting. On the picture rail are hung beautiful old paintings from Earth. There is an ornate chandelier on the high ceiling, and a lock on my door. The lock is for my privacy, I am told. It does not keep me in. I do that very well on my own, thank you.

     I haven’t seen Joey for three months, since the soldiers brought us to the Isle of Fortune. Joey is your grandson, Father. He is my sister Jessie’s son, of course, not mine. I am much too young to have a child of twelve. I do not know Jessie’s whereabouts. It has been a year since I saw her. She and Michel were sending us off into the forest to escape the soldiers. They were to go to Sangre del Corazon and wait for us, and now they must fear that we are dead.

     What a year it has been, Father. I’ve debated with myself about how much to tell you, and I have concluded that I shall tell all —and more. It seems that I have nothing better to do than to write, even though you will, most likely, never read this. But should you —should it somehow find its way to you— I want you to understand the direness of our situation. I fear that help from Earth is all that can save us now.

     Connie, the maid, has just brought tea and some very delicious cookies. They are made with something called oats. Prairies full of this grass were discovered by the first settlers to New America. They tell me that oats are found on Earth, also. Does this seem possible to you, Father? It does not to me. And this may be the least of the strange things I wish to relate to you.

     Connie is but one of a number of visitors who come weekly to take care of my needs or to interrogate me. I am unsure of their motives. I enjoy Connie’s visits, although they have been brief. She was told she mustn’t “bother” me, so she seldom stays for long. But she is the only one here who seems real to me.

     The first time I saw her, I had flown into a rage, throwing my breakfast across the room. “You have no right!” I screamed. “You have no right to keep me here against my will!”

     “Please, Miss. You need to eat. I’m sorry they have treated you so badly.” She looked terrified as she stooped to pick up the remainders of my tantrum. “I also am not here of my own free will. But, we must do what we must do to survive.”

     Her big, dark eyes peered at me, shyly —eyes not much older than my own. While they held fear, I could see determination, also. “You’re a prisoner here too? It’s slavery,” I protested. I have learned about slavery in school, and I never thought we would see such a thing on Sweetland, but Jessie says that our history follows us, wherever we go. From all I have seen here, I think she must be right.

     “I’m making the most of the situation, Miss. We really shouldn’t talk about this.”

     She left, hurriedly, and for the next few days, she put my tray down without a word, avoiding my eyes. She has since warmed to me, and now, on her visits, we exchange brief glimpses into each others lives. Connie’s life on Earth was very difficult. I think that you might appreciate that, Father, and understand. She believes that in some ways she is better off here, a slave, than she would be a free woman on Earth. It angers me to hear her speak these things. Not anger at her, but anger at the human cruelty which would force such a choice on an intelligent being.

     I have not yet met my warden at Castle Cheng. Nor do I know why I am here, although I have suspicions. I heard whispers between Jessie and Michel, just days before the soldiers came and they sent Joey and I off into the forest to stay with Mama Bridge.

     “Damn her,” Jessie said. “I won’t be her pawn.”

     “Your mother isn’t going to wait, Jessie,” said Michel. “I think we should open channels—”

     “Are you forgetting what she did to your sister, Michel?”

     “Jessie, we can’t let personal history cloud our thinking. The survival of the colony is at stake here.”

     “If she wants to get to Felicia and the Council, let her go directly, damn her. Why is she threatening us?”

     They argued for a long time, but I didn’t understand the things they were talking about. Is Jolene Cheng Jessie’s mother? I am fairly certain it is so. Perhaps I will find out soon enough.

     Although Jessie is my sibling, I have always known that we have different birth mothers. Jessie hadn’t seen her own mother since she was nine-years-old. Whomever she is, Jolene Cheng’s appearance in Jessie’s life has triggered an earthquake of destruction in our village, and in all our lives, propelling Joey and I in flight to Adandoyi, and then, across the continent, all the way to the western sea. And it signaled the beginning of a horrible war for Sweetland which has not yet played itself out.

     Outside my window, the last winter snow has melted, and spring is arriving at last. I have spent too much time brooding and feeling sorry for myself. Only a few days ago I sat here at this very desk wondering how much longer this room can contain me, and now, in less than an hour I will be leaving. It has all happened so quickly.

* * *

     Yesterday I chose to go outside for the first time since I arrived here. I must have a plan, I thought, and a plan requires knowledge. I have been so blinded by my own self-pity that I have been nearly swallowed by the darkness.

     I uncovered no great secrets in my brief foray, but I met an old gardener and two young masons who were repairing the estate wall. I questioned each of them, hoping to learn something about my circumstances. The gardener told me he lives in a small village on the seashore. There are a few hundred people in the village, and most of them work directly for the estate. There is a small store, which sells food and clothing, a boarding house, and a tiny marina with about a dozen fishing boats. A larger boat, called a yot, is also harbored there. It is owned by Jolene Cheng. There is another boat, which comes once a week to bring supplies and workers from the mainland town of Port Harvest, nearly 400 kilometers distant, and an all-day journey. This is disheartening news. The only way off of this island for me may be this supply boat.

     The masons live in Port Harvest, and are staying at the boarding house. They have come for a month, and will return to the mainland in another week. They told me that the mainland, itself, might not be so far as the gardener estimated, as the boat follows the shoreline for a long distance, and must round a great cape before it comes to the open sea.

     I thanked them, and continued exploring the wall around the estate. It took me nearly two hours. I have found a few places with vines sturdy enough to bear my weight. At one of these sites, I actually climbed to the top of the wall and peered over. The island seems to be what Jessie calls a Savannah. That is, a grassland with trees. They seem more like Earth trees than Sweetland trees. One day soon, I thought, I shall go over this fence and make a closer examination.

     Inside the wall, the grounds are planted with lawn. The gardener explained that this is a type of grass which is short, and can be cut repeatedly, so that it is like an outdoor carpet. There are also trees from Earth, which produce strange, but pleasant-tasting fruit. The food here is very odd and takes some getting used to. They don’t consume many of the things that we eat at home, like nunaroot and breadfruit. Nor do they spice things with pampas or cinnamon-flower. What they call cinnamon is tasty, but it is not the same. The gardener treats the native plants as though they were weeds.

     Strangest of all is that they eat the flesh of animals, which they keep enslaved behind fences. On our journey across the prairies and chaparral, Joey and I witnessed large herds of these animals, called cattle, whose only purpose was to make something called hamburgers. I know that many of the settlers consumed meat on Earth, and during the harsh winters, some have chosen to eat the chickens and goats for survival. But to raise animals in pens, like crops of breadfruit! It seems so very barbaric. I made it clear when I arrived here that I shall not eat it. The simple thought of it makes me ill. The household staff have been very obliging with my diet, but I miss Jessie’s nunaroot stew. I miss the tangy spice of pampas. I miss home.

* * *

     That evening I went exploring indoors. Castle Cheng is very, very large. I did not know this until I saw it from the outside. There must be nearly 100 rooms. In the halls, as in my room, hang beautiful old paintings. Some must be hundreds of years old. A few of these paintings I have seen in the art books, but they are much more spectacular in their original form. One can see the layers of paint laid down by the palette knife, the fine detail of the brush stroke. I never thought I would see anything as amazing as this, Father.

     As I walked down the hall, I tried each door in turn. Several were open and contained old beds and paintings, like my own room. One room appeared to be a library, which I perused for some time. It contained many works which may be found in Meadow Springs, and many more which I do not know. At last I came to a great hall, larger than the community center at home. Hanging from the high ceiling, three huge and very ornate chandeliers cast their fractured light across the lovely tiled floors, making patterns of swirling color. When I think about the poor of Columbiana, in their miserable conditions, It angers me that one person should have all this.

     Finally I came upon a service area with a small kitchen and several supply closets. No one seemed to be around, so I took my time exploring all of the nooks and cupboards. As I looked at the strange food stuffs, I heard a footfall and saw a shadow looming over me. I think I jumped a half-meter in the air, my heart pounding as I turned around to see who had stolen up behind me.

     “You shouldn’t be in here, Miss,” said a deep, male voice. The speaker was the biggest man I have ever seen, over two meters high and half as broad as one of those trucks the New Americans use to haul ore from the mountains. The first sight of him made me tremble, but I quickly got my wits and stared him in the eye.

     “Are you going to report me to Ms. Cheng?” I dared him. That would be one way to meet her.

     “No, silly child,” he said. “But this area is for staff only. There are dangerous chemicals and tools in these closets.” He pushed back a shock of thick, black hair from his eyes. “And besides, you are in my way. I need to get to my equipment.”

     He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, but I held my ground. “My name is Molly,” I said, extending my hand.

     He held back for a moment, not knowing what to make of me. Then he gently took my hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss Molly.”

     “And you are…?” I prompted.

     “Bernie, Miss. I clean and polish the floors and such.”

     “Do you live in the village?”

     “No, Miss. I live in the servants quarters.”

     “I see. So, you must know all about this place, where things are, who is here, things like that?”

     “Yes, Miss. I guess I know the mansion pretty well. Been over every inch of it with a mop and dust rag at one time or another.”

     “Are there any other guests here? Or am I the only one?”

     “Look, Miss Molly, it’s been nice talking to you and all, but I really must get back to work.”

     “Please,” I pleaded, “just tell me if I’m all alone here.”

     “Miss, do you know who your host is?” I was taken aback by the question.

     “Jolene Cheng,” I said.

     “Miss Cheng is the chief of security for New America Corporation. Her eyes and ears are fixed on every centimeter of this house. She doesn’t like people snooping. Now, please let me return to work.”

     “Wait…” I began to protest, but saw that it would not be productive.

     “Nice meeting you, Bernie,” I said, turning to go.

     “Nice meeting you, Miss. Perhaps I will see you out on the grounds some time. I take a walk every morning at six o’clock. The cool, fresh air is good for the lungs.”

     I waved goodbye and headed back toward my room, thinking about our little encounter. It was obvious that Bernie was afraid to talk about the castle. At least while we were inside. But why would he be so specific about his morning walks, if he did not wish me to join him outdoors?

* * *

     I left a message for Connie to awaken me at five o’clock. I haven’t gotten up so early since I arrived at Castle Cheng. But I decided that Bernie was my best chance of finding Joey. I was already sitting up in bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, when I heard Connie’s soft knock.

     “It’s five o’clock, Miss.”

     “Thank you, Connie. Would you bring me some light breakfast right away, please?”

     “Of course, Miss.”

     Connie’s footsteps faded down the hall as I climbed out of bed and searched for some trousers. I found a pair of green denims and pulled my old boots from the closet. It is time, once again, for me to dress for eventualities. My boots were made for the forest, and they had served me well for the past few years.

     Connie returned with a poached egg and some toast. I thanked her, without engaging her in conversation, and I devoured my food like a hungry kid sucking on mama-goat’s tit.

     Then I slipped out of my room and down the hall to the stairway. My room is on the second floor and the stairs descend a brightly lit well with east-facing windows, so the morning sun shines through the lights. I could see, from the deep red colors on the horizon, that a sunrise was about to burst upon the world. By the time I walked through the door the full glory of the sunrise had turned the leaves deep purple, and the sky plum red. It has been foolish of me to have slept away so many beautiful mornings. Jessie says on Earth the color’s are different —that the dawn shadows are deep blue and the sunrise orange or crimson, because your sun is a different spectrum of color. It sounds very strange, Father, and I would like very much to see it.

     Seeing Bernie nowhere, I took the path to the pond, which was centrally located on the estate. From there more paths radiate in various directions, making it a logical place to begin my search. By the time I reached the pond, the sun had cleared the trees and light sparkled on the dew. I saw Bernie sitting on a bench, watching the ripples on the water, a smile on his face.

     “Beautiful morning, Miss Molly,” he said as I approached.

     “It sure is, Bernie,” I said.

     “So, Miss, what brings you to Castle Cheng?”

     “I am a prisoner.” I fear my protestation sounded like a petulant child.

     “You are certainly not the only one, but you are a special one.” He did not sound at all surprised, but I supposed there is a lot of whispering that occurs among the staff.

     “I was rudely dragged here with my nephew, Joey.”

     “Ah. The young Prince.” Bernie’s eyes sparkled, and his mouth turned up in the slightest of smiles.

     “What do you mean, Prince?”

     “Ms. Cheng fancies herself The Queen, you know. The Queen of New America. In her Magisterial Presence, she expects you to acknowledge her…uhm…Eminence. Just a warning. So, I assume you are attempting to locate the young boy?”

     I sighed. “Yes.”

     “Then you must not know that he is no longer here. He has been taken to the frontier to hide him from Ms. Cheng’s enemies.”

     My heart was crushed at that moment. How would I ever find Joey now?

     “I suppose,” he ventured, “you will want to make your way to the mainland, huh?”

     “I have no idea how I would do that. And where would I begin to look, in any case?”

     Bernie winked at me. “Well, Miss Molly, I can give you my sister’s address in Columbiana. I believe she will be able to help you find young Prince Joey.”

     “I don’t understand. How could she—”

     “Best not ask too many questions, Miss.”

     He handed me a slip of paper, which I stuffed in my pocket.

     “As for going to the mainland, there is a supply boat leaving tomorrow at 14 hundred for Port Harvest. Dress as you are today, and no one will suspect you’re not a worker. It will cost you a fare.”

     Bernie held out a wad of money. I wanted to protest. I was confused. It was as though he had already known my situation and planned this out all in advance.

     “Take it,” he said, thrusting it at me again.

     “Thank you.” I took the money and shoved the bills in my pocket with the address.

     “Go now child and may The Mother be with you.”

     “Shit.” No lunch today. Payday had been yesterday, but for the third time this year, The Agency was out of funds and he was out of food stamps, and out of creds with the burrito man on Division. Not that Arturo had any edible tortillas since the wheat rationing began in August. You couldn’t even buy a loaf of bread in Portland these days. Joe squatted to retrieve his pen and a half-dozen file folders from the floor. As he awkwardly regained an upright position, his eye caught the SmartSpots above the bus windows. They were all flashing in a ribbon of red, white, and blue around the perimeter: Make her happy tonight. Grow your penis three inches. Guaranteed. The spammers had struck again.

     “One hundred twenty-second and Stark,” announced the prerecorded voice on the bus’s speaker system. “This stop sponsored by Tommy Tonkin Bicycles by Toyota.”

     An old woman rose with difficulty from the seat next to Joe, and hobbled from the bus. Joe sat down in her place. The seat bore a large gaping wound which pinched and poked him in the buttocks each time the bus encountered a pothole. The young man seated beside him gripped a ragged backpack, holding it tightly against his chest with whitened knuckles. He looked frantic, his eyes darting between the window and the front of the bus, as though searching for an escape. Joe’s heart skipped. What was in the backpack? Why was this boy so scared? Joe could see that was what he was, just a boy with a few scraggly hairs jutting out of his chin. Settle down, he told himself, there’s a hundred or more reasons this guy might be scared. He looked too much like a jackrabbit to be a ‘cider.

     In front of him, a woman wearing buds jerked her head rhythmically to some fast-paced music. Tweaking. The woman was likely younger than he, but her teeth were gone, and her face was scarred with the pockmarks of an old-fashioned meth addict, leaving her looking years older. He seldom saw active trash-tweakers anymore with all the new designer drugs out there. Plenty of his customers were recovered tweakers or had merely moved on to a drug more subtle in its ravages. This one wasn’t using a common methamphetamine. He suspected something stronger, a derivative called black trash, or death, due to the speed which it destroyed the mind and body. Some called it a suicide drug. Joe couldn’t imagine taking that exit. Why not just throw yourself in front of a bus, for God’s sake?

     A young woman with wrap-around sunglasses sat next to the tweaker. Her head was turned slightly toward the aisle and Joe could see her lips move slightly, almost imperceptibly, her throat pulsing. Over the past few months, increasing numbers of these wrap-arounds had begun to appear. He had a vague idea about their purpose –popular new hardware which tapped into the simulated worlds of the grid. Joe didn’t have much knowledge about that type of thing. Just another way for the advertisers to get into your head and sell you crap.

     He sighed and pulled a file folder from his bag, “Connie Velasques” written in pencil on the tab. Beneath the name he could see the ghosts of Mary Snider, Tomas Sylvan, Letitia Jackson, partially erased. Erased just enough so that a stranger would not recognize them. But Joe did. And he knew their children, and their ex-spouses, and lovers, and their job history, and their drug habits, and their pain. Joe felt the pain of each and every one.

     “You’ve got to remove yourself from all that,” Susan Miller had said to him one day in the break room. “You’ve got to remember your boundaries, Joe. You’re not responsible for the mess these people’s lives are in. You can’t hold on to all this suffering. It’ll kill you.” That was five years ago, his first week on the job. He wondered whatever became of Susie. One day, she just didn’t show up at The Agency for work. It seemed like a recurring script. Many new case workers didn’t last six months, but even old-timers like Susie disappeared without notice, worn out, unable to heed their own advice.

     He returned to Connie’s folder. This would be just a routine check-in. Find out how Connie was managing at her new job. How the children were faring. If Connie was keeping clean. Connie had just kicked a seven-year heroin habit when she was assigned to Joe in January. She had done exceptionally well over the past nine months. School started last week, so daycare would be less of a money sink while Connie looked for work and did the occasional temporary job. He had high hopes for her.

     Joe’s heart sank when the bus pulled up in front of the apartment building — the ambulance, the blue and red flashing lights of the police cars, a knot of officers standing around an open door. The door to Connie’s apartment.

     It was going to be another one of those fucking days.

     Joe tucked Connie’s folder back into his bag as he stepped off the bus. He hated talking to the cops. His Uncle Louis had been a cop, and Joe knew a little too much of what went on in the back room. And he didn’t like most of these young uniforms, just back from war, with their arrogance, and their disdain for these poor people trying to survive on the broken streets. As if this wasn’t a battlefield, too. But, here the land-mines were everywhere, not just underfoot.

     At least he was in popo territory and he didn’t have to deal with the clean-n-safes. For them, he held another level of disdain altogether. Private security firms, originally hired by the neighborhood business associations to keep transients and other riffraff from their client’s businesses, the clean-n-safes became Portland’s solution to social and economic breakdown. Out in East County, businesses had not been so organized. But, they were beginning to pull together enough to hire their own police force. There will be nothing but anarchy in East County, Joe thought, when the Portland Police Department is finally phased out.

     Across the street, a blackwater, the Fed’s contribution to local law and order, stood sentry at the westbound MAX stop, clutching a semiautomatic. Even from a block and a half away, Joe could see the nervousness in his young face, and the unsureness of his footing. Waiting commuters eyed him with a skittish diffidence.

     Joe approached the popos with caution, as he had been taught, flashing his identity badge to let them know that he worked for The Agency. He deliberately set out on a path close to the building so he could see through the window as he passed.

     “You got business here?” the officer nearest him demanded.

     “I’m her caseworker.” Joe looked askance through the window. Inside, Connie slumped on a couch wearing a pair of those dark wrap-around glasses, like the girl on the bus. No blood, no drug paraphernalia that he could see.

     “You were her caseworker,” said the cop. “Your docket just got cleared of one problem. This one’s gone to Sweetland, permanently.”

     “She’s got kids at school,” Joe said, adding asshole under his breath.

     “Well,” said the cop, “I guess you get a paycheck then, after all.”

     Joe seethed. He just couldn’t figure these guys out. Connie could have been this jerk’s mom. Men in uniform, the grunts, grew up in neighborhoods like these, with single parents struggling to survive, and yet they seemed so eager to turn on their own.

     Joe swallowed his anger. “What happened to her?”

     “I’m not at liberty to say, sir. You should go take care of them kids, now.”
Don’t argue, Joe told himself. Arguing just gets you in jail. Or disappeared.

     “I’ll do that,” he said. “Thanks, officer.”

     Joe retreated to the bus stop across the street, weaving his way carefully through the bicycle traffic. Out of nowhere, a group of young boys dashed past and a bottle flew through the air, landing at the feet of the blackwater, who raised his gun to his shoulder. Crouching, his muscles tense, Joe felt the adrenalin rush through his body as he hurried across the bus lane. He was relieved to see a bus pulling up to the stop. He stepped up into the vehicle, and two of the young troublemakers broke from the pack as it ran by, and boarded behind him. They took the seat across the aisle from him. Joe clenched his jaw. Perspiration formed on his forehead, and he wiped it nervously with the back of his hand. These fools didn’t know what they were playing with. They could get a lot of people hurt or killed, including themselves.

     “Did you see that blackwater’s face?” one whispered, excitedly.

     “Yeah, chuck,” said the other one. “He was friggin’ ready to piss his pants.”

     “You boys should be a little more cautious,” admonished a sixtyish woman sitting behind them.

     “Whatever, Grandma,” said the first boy, with a nasty snarl. But they fell silent, and then left the bus after two more stops. Joe exhaled slowly.

     At last, the bus pulled up to his stop near his office, which was housed in the basement of the old Church of Christ building. The church, recently acquired in a hostile takeover by General Dynamics, had succumbed grudgingly to privatization. The Agency itself now existed in a gray transition zone. In two more years, there would be no public sector at all. Just the so-called free market. Police, libraries, schools, social services, all under the dictates of private profit. Joe could see the havoc being wreaked by the gods of the Free Market. There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing anyone could do. It was what they called a done deal.

     A deep sense of despair overtook him as he entered the basement door, and walked down the dim, shabby hall, its light green paint peeling and covered with black marks from the soles of shoes where hundreds of weary legs had rested as they waited for assistance. Help that often never came. He slunk past Christi, the receptionist, and signed in, then he bee-lined straight to his cubicle and verified that Children’s Services Corp employees were picking up Connie’s kids. He didn’t trust the popo to get things right, but they had made the proper arrangements.

     Too distressed to do any useful work, Joe disconnected and put in his buds, surfing to his favorite gridcast channel. He would sit and listen to some soothing music. No one would know. Or care.

     “Today,” said the news announcer, “the war in sub-Saharan Africa has taken a new turn. Nigerian federal troops, advancing on rebel camps, met no resistance. The camps were empty, claimed startled commanders. They reportedly found no insurgents, yet inside the tents, arms, and ammunition waited, along with some meager food supplies, and a handful of field computers. One British observer reported that ‘It seemed as though the mothership came along and beamed them up. Very eerie…’ Meanwhile, in New York, to no one’s surprise, Governor Chelsea Clinton announced that she would run for President in the coming election. At a news conference announcing her candidacy, she stressed the need to combat domestic disorder…”

     Joe removed the buds and put his head between his hands. “To hell with this,” he said in a whisper. Then, “to hell with this,” again, at the top of his voice. As the anger grew, he picked up a broken cup he used as a pencil container, and threw it across his cubicle with a violence that startled him. “I’m going home,” he announced to the office, making sure that everyone could hear. “Fuck this!”

* * *

     Joe retrieved his bike from the indoor bike corral and rode homeward, carefully maneuvering across the bus corridor, sliding smoothly over to the turn lane. Commuting down 122nd Avenue stressed him out. Too damned much rubbish. Too many buses. He turned off on SE Clinton, the first bicycle-only street he encountered. Once safely on Clinton, he began to think about what he had just done. He might get fired for that. At the moment of his frustration, he hadn’t given a damn, but now fear began to nibble at him. Five years ago, he would have been confronted before he could leave the building. Told not to come back. But that was then. Now fewer case workers had to deal with an exponential increase in the misery index. Joe was good at what he did, and conscientious. And one of his clients had just died. He hoped they would understand.

     At 119th he turned right, toward Division. Division was a rail line, but it also contained a bicycle lane, which took him all the way down to 52nd. When he arrived at the Fifty-second and Division checkpoint, a bored blackwater glanced at his ID badge and waved him though. From the checkpoint, he followed the Hawthorne trolley down to 21st, and then right to Belmont. The five-mile journey took him about half an hour on most days.

     As Joe wheeled his bicycle up to his apartment building, he knew something wasn’t right. From Jessie’s window came the faint but unmistakable blue glow of her veejay screen. He clearly remembered going into her room after she left for school this morning, to make sure everything was shut off. It was routine, because Jessie inevitably left something on, and although he lectured her about the cost of electricity and climate change and the threat of further rationing, nothing seemed to get through to her. It wasn’t defiance, just forgetfulness. She had been like that since she was a little girl. Her Grandma Amy used to tease her, “You’d forget your head if it weren’t screwed on.”

     So, what was Jessie doing home at 2 pm on a school day? He locked up his bike in the shelter at the bottom of the stairs, in its usual place next to hers, and approached his door, turned the key in the lock. Inside, all was quiet, except for the faint sound of a voice coming from Jessie’s room. He put his bag down and walked over to her bedroom door, gently pushing it open. Jessie leaned back in her chair, involved in some fantasy world, talking on her gamer headset. He hadn’t remembered seeing her with these before. They were those wrap-around sunglasses, like the ones on Connie Velasques and the girl on the bus. As he thought about it, he recalled kids wearing them down at the coffee shop, and in the park this summer. The latest cool thing, he supposed. How do the kids say it? They were glitch.

     “Jessie.” No answer.

     “Jessie!” A little louder. She didn’t turn or acknowledge him.

     Joe walked up behind her and removed the glasses. Jessie jumped and wheeled around in her chair, startled.

     “God, Dad,” she said, “you scared the pee wadding out of me. What are you doing home so early?”
“The question is, Jessie,” Joe shot back, “what are you doing home so early?”
Joe could see the look, the evasive movement of her eyes to the right, a signal that Jessie was about to lie. Instead of stopping her, he would let her spin her story. He would gently challenge her until she became caught up in her own web. It never failed. The fourteen-year-old was a terrible liar.

     “I wasn’t feeling good.”

     “So why aren’t you resting?”

     “Well, I wasn’t feeling that bad.”

     “Who are you talking to?”

     “Just some friends.” The look again.

     “And what friends would this be?”

     “Pox and Cedar,” she said. Names he’d not heard before.

     “So, why aren’t Pox and Cedar in school? Are they sick, too?”

     “I think maybe they’re in a different time-zone or something.”

     “Jessie,” Joe lit into her, “how often have I told you that people you meet online are not your friends. You don’t know them. You don’t know anything about them. They might not be kids at all. They might be rapists or terrorists or human traffickers. You don’t know what they are. Don’t you get that?”

     She looked as if she were ready to cry or scream at him, Joe couldn’t tell which. It could go either way these days, but to his surprise she did neither. “I’m sorry, Dad. The kids told me about this sim on New Life. It’s really glitch. Everyone’s doing it.”

     “So, where did you get the new hardware?” He held up the headset.

     “They’re citspecs, Dad,” she said. “You are so living in the past. They were selling them in the mall at SimWorld. They only cost $20.”

     “You’ve got to be kidding.” He looked them over before setting them down.

     “I think the idea is to get people into the sims so they shop and buy stuff on New Life.”

     New Life was the latest generation of life sims on the grid. Not so much a game as a simulated world. For a couple of years now it had been the buzz among The Agency’s customers and some of his coworkers. Escapism is how he would describe it, but probably no worse than some of the grid games kids played, or those stupid reality shows. Maybe he was being too harsh with Jessie.

     “Jessie,” he said, “I just want you to be safe. You know that, right? These people…just don’t let anyone know your real name, or where you live, okay? Be careful. And promise me you won’t skip any more school for this nonsense.”

     “I won’t, Dad,” she said, “I promise.”

     Joe closed the door and made his way to the kitchen, where he pulled a beer out of the fridge. Then he went to the living room to zone out on the couch for the rest of the afternoon. He didn’t want to think about work or Connie Velasques, or Jessie, or the state of the world. He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

     Claire giggled. She couldn’t help herself. She always giggled like a girl whenever the make-believe bartender asked if she wanted a make-believe drink.

     “What’s so funny, Ms. Deluna?” he asked. He always asked it in exactly the same way.

     “All of it, Jasper. The whole damned ridiculous idea of it. You know what I mean? Grown-up people playing dolls for a living. Jesus Christ, it’s funny.”

     “Yeah, it’s pretty funny all right.” Jasper gave a brief reserved laugh as he turned to serve a customer at the far end of the bar. All perfect, all so disney, she thought.

     Claire glanced at the clock behind the bar. Ten past seven. Why the hell wasn’t Bigshot here yet? These corporate types, always so keen on punctuality. Oh wait. That’s when they’re expecting you. Gotta keep perspective on the pecking order, here, sweetie. One of her weaknesses, the whole perspective thing.

     She admired the neat rows of vintage liquor bottles artfully lined up on the shelf as she watched Jasper go through his routines, dutifully wiping down the counter with a bar rag and chatting with the customers. At quarter past, she stood to leave.

     That was when her eye caught the avatar in the doorway. He was dumb-ass ridiculous. His shoulders and biceps were exaggerated beyond belief, and there was a massive bulge in his pants. A little dick in real life, or some other kind of bullshit. You might think it was satire, except these guys had no clue about satire. Claire had an urge to laugh out loud, but you don’t laugh at a prospective client. Besides, she was pretty much a cliché herself, wasn’t she?

     He strutted up to her with macho confidence.

     “You must be Jeremiah Bigshot,” she ventured.

     “Yes.” His voice was deep and confident. “And you are Claire Deluna. May I call you Claire?”

     “No. Ms. Deluna will be fine.”

     “All business.” He sounded disappointed. “Okay, Ms. Deluna, I can go with that. You’ll allow me to buy you a drink?”

     “Sure.” If Mr. Bigshot wanted to support the 3D artist who created her favorite hangout in New Life, who was she to deny him the pleasure. Besides, it was the expected thing to do. Part of the protocol.

     Bigshot paid for the drinks at the bar and chose a privacy booth near the back of the room. Claire set her encryption. She trusted The Downbeat’s data shields for personal conversations, but an added layer of protection never hurt when it came to protecting her clients. Or potential clients.

     “So, Mr. Bigshot, what can I do for you?”

     “You certainly don’t waste any time, Ms. Deluna,” said Bigshot. Claire resisted saying something really hackneyed about time and money.

     “We deal with sensitive data, Ms. Deluna. I’m afraid files are going missing, and hackers are playing with our data. To complicate things, we recently purchased a company, and it’s beginning to look like a possible source of the mischief. I need someone I can trust to get to the bottom of all this.”

     “And the real life company you represent is…” Claire prompted.

     “Futures, LLC. We’re—”

     “Hold on,” interrupted Claire, “I know who you are. You’re that new tech company that’s been in the news lately. Developing ‘the next generation of sim technology’ or whatever.”

     “That’s us.”

     Claire hesitated. “Hmm. I don’t know…”
She had to think about this one. It might be hazardous. Over the past few years the criminal gangs, which had long promoted gambling and prostitution on the sims, had begun to entrench themselves in the corporate structures. Hacker wars had taken out one of New Life’s major competitors, and a bomb last summer decimated New Life headquarters in Denver, killing a CFO and several staffers. But, they had money to throw around. Lots of it.

     “I’ll make it worth your time,” said Bigshot, as though reading her mind. “They told me you’re the best. I want the best, and I’m willing to pay for it.”

     “Okay.” Claire succumbed to the flattery in a heartbeat. “Fifty k up front and I get full access to all the information I need. That’s all and any info I tell you I need, when I need it.”

     “That’s fine,” said Mr. B. “Fifty thousand NewDineros it is.”

     Claire cleared her throat. “That’s real life dollars, Mr. Bigshot. I hope you don’t think I was born yesterday.” Jesus, she thought, what is it about this job that makes you want to talk in cliches?

     “Certainly not, Ms. Deluna. I just wanted to be sure.”

     When the transfer of the retainer registered, Claire thanked him and promised to make contact first thing in the morning. Then, she promptly teleported to her office. Claire loved her office. She had spent hours getting the details just right, the stains, the paper-strewn desk, the ashtray, and half-empty whiskey bottle; even down to the old, battered fifties couch, complete with stuffing coming out the tear in the cushion.

     “Maxi.” She beckoned and a beautiful, middle-aged brunette with a no-nonsense demeanor, a bit butch, emerged from the door behind Claire’s desk. Claire’s assistant, Maxine Magnolia, had been programmed by K.T. Willow, one of the best hackers on the planet. She was more sophisticated and trustworthy than your typical out-of-the-box concierge. And she had access to a number of corporate, law enforcement, and DHS databases.

     “What can I do for you, hon?” asked Maxi, in her syrupy Appalachian accent.

     “Could you find out everything you can about Futures, LLC, and its subsidiaries, Max? I’ll be checking out until morning.”

     “I’ll get right on it, darlin’. You know Maxi never sleeps.” Maxi winked and disappeared through her door.

     Claire shed her trench coat and reclined on the couch. Fifty thou wasn’t bad. It would pay for a few months rent, both here on New Life, and for her little studio apartment in Seattle.
 
* * *
 
     Bridge Whitedeer transluced her ocs and sighed. It had been a good day. It was time to put Claire Deluna to bed, although she regretted it just a little.

     She gazed out her window over the darkening waters of what had once been the south edge of downtown Seattle. Most of the buildings south of Pioneer Square still stood, rising like drowned ghosts from the sea. A few people still lived inside these doomed towers. At high tide, they exited through windows just above the waterline and rode one of the taxi dinghies or homemade rafts created from plastic bottles and other floating garbage. When the tide dropped low, the inhabitants put on waders and slogged their way to higher ground.  At night, you could see their dim lights flickering in the windows.

     Other buildings leaned and twisted, undermined by the rising water, which had flooded the Seattle underground and eroded their footing. Many older brick structures were clearly crumbling. Even the city engineers said that Smith Tower would likely go within the next few years. The skyscrapers further north stood, as yet untouched, on an advancing shoreline. Seattle, protected by the Sound and the Olympic peninsula from the worst effects of the rising ocean, fared much better than other cities, such as San Francisco, where the strong tides pushed constantly at the western hillsides, pulling the old structures, and the hills themselves, into the sea.

     Bridge was born about the time the scientists began to grow seriously alarmed about the melting ice. It will take centuries, they said, for the sea to rise enough to engulf our cities. Their models were based on incomplete knowledge, denial, and political cowardice. When the Greenland Ice Shelf began to collapse in earnest, only a few cities had adequately prepared. By then, the country was in perpetual war and deep depression brought on by the oil crash. The sea rose three meters between the time Bridge began high school and the time she would have graduated in ‘21. Since then, it had raised another twelve meters, fed by the total disintegration of Antarctica’s ice shelves.

     Bridge hunched her thin shoulders and pushed her short, black hair back from her eyes with scrawny fingers. She considered her reflection in the window. Absent-mindedly she teased the mods which were installed, like tiny embedded jewels, behind her right ear. She looked nothing like her alter ego, Claire Deluna.  Claire was someone Bridge imagined was more attractive, with her cute red hair, and breasts you could actually see. A girl with more moxie and flair than her real life puppet master. More suitable as a private eye. Bridge could never be an investigator in real life. Who would possibly take her seriously? And yet, Claire was the best. Mr. Bigshot, himself, had told her so.

     She continued to look out the window for a time, watching the lights and listening. The drumming had begun, its tribal rhythm calling out from the homeless enclaves, and the drowned buildings, as it had every night since the beginning of summer. It seemed more insistent now as the weather grew wet and inhospitable. There was something indescribably comforting in it.

     Finally, Bridge crossed the floor to her tiny refrigerator, grabbed a half-eaten sandwich. She sat at her little kitchen table and took a bite. Then she put her head down on the table and fell asleep.