"Days?"
"They're very advanced and well designed," Baptiste said, annoyed. "This isn't something we invented, you know."
"A few days is nothing!" Hesseltine said. "Now if they leave you in a few weeks, you might start seeing your Optimal
Persona and all kinds of twisted shit.... But in the meantime you're perfectly safe and happy. And we know where you are. Sound good?"
Laura shook her head, minutely. "If you could just find me a bunk ... a little corner somewhere.... I really don't mind."
"Not much privacy," Baptiste warned. "Crowded conditions."
He seemed relieved, though. Glad that she wouldn't be taking up valuable tank room.
Hesseltine frowned. "Well, I don't want to hear you bitching later."
"No, no. "
Hesseltine looked restless. He glanced at his waterproof watchphone. "I really need to uplink with HQ and debrief."
"Please go ahead," Laura said. "You've done more than enough. I'm sure I'll be fine, really."
"Wow," said Hesseltine. "That almost sounds like a thank you."
They found room for her in a laundry space. It was a chill, steamy warren, stinking of detergent and crammed with sharp- edged machinery. A bare little single bunk slid out over chromed storage rails. Towels hung from a forest of gray, stenciled pipes overhead: there were a couple of steam presses inside, old laundry mangles.
And carton after strapped carton of old Hollywood movie films, the thick mechanical kind that ran through projectors.
They were neatly labeled with hand-printed tape: MONROE #1,
MONROE #2, GRAnLE, HAYWORTH, CICCONE. There was a closed- circuit phone on the wall, an old-fashioned sound-only handset with a long, curly cord. The sight of it made her think of the Net. Then, of David. Her family, her people.
She had vanished from their world. Did they think she was dead? They were still looking for her, she was sure. But they would look in Singapore's jails, and hospitals, and, finally, the morgues. But not here. Never.
A Red Crewman made up her bunk with clean, sheet- whipping efficiency.
He produced a nasty-looking pair of chromed tin snips.
"Let's see them hands," he said. The two remaining bracelets of plastic handcuff still looped Laura's wrists. He pinched and worried at them till they came loose, reluctantly. "Musta been a mighty sharp knife that cut those," he said.
"Thanks '
"Don't thank me. It was your pal Mr. Hesseltine's idea."
Laura rubbed her skinned wrists. "What's your name, sir?"
" 'Jim' will do. I hear you're from Texas."
"Yeah. Galveston."
"Me too, but down the coast. Corpus Christi."
"Jesus, we're practically neighbors."
"Yeah, I reckon so." Jim looked about thirty-five, maybe forty. He was broad-faced and chunky, with reddish, thinning hair. His skin was the color of cheap printout, so pale she could see bluish veins in his neck.
"Can I ask?" she said. "What are you doing here?"
"Protectin' people," Jim said nobly. "Protecting you right now, in case you decide to do something stupid. Mr. Hesseltine says you're a funny little duck. Some kind of political."
"Oh," she said. "I meant, how did you get here?"
"Since you ask, I'll tell you," Jim said. He popped down a steel-wired bunk from a space high on the wall and hoisted himself in. He sat above her, legs dangling, neck bent to avoid the ceiling. "Once upon a time, I was a professional fisherman. A shrimper. My dad was, too. And his dad before him... . But they put us in a squeeze we couldn't get out of.
Texas Fish & Game police, a million environment laws. Not that I'm speakin' against those laws. But American law didn't stop the Nicaraguans and Mexicans. They cheated. Cleaned out the best grounds, took everything, then undersold us in our own markets. We lost our boat! Lost everything. Went on the Welfare, had nothin'."
"I'm sorry," Laura said.
"Not half as sorry as us.... Well, me and some friends in the same jam, we tried to organize, protect our lives and families.... But the Texas Rangers some goddamn informer is what it was-caught me with a gun. And you know a man can't own a handgun in the States these days, not even to protect his own home! So it looked pretty bad for me.... Then
I heard from some pals in my, uhm, organization... about recruitment overseas. Groups to protect you, hide you out, teach you how to fight.
"So, that's how I ended up in Africa."
"Africa," Laura repeated. The very sound of it scared her.
"It's bad there," he said. "Plagues, and dustbowls, and wars. Africa's full of men like me. Private armies. Palace guards. Mercenaries, advisers, commandos, pilots... . But you know what we lacked? Leadership.
"Leadership. "
"Exactly.-
"How long have you been inside this submarine?"
"We like it here," Jim said.
"You never go out, do you? Never surface or go on, whatever they call it-shore leave?"
"You don't miss it," he said. "Not with what we have.
We're kings down here. Invisible kings. Kings of the whole damn world." He laughed quietly, pulled up his feet, a little balding man in deck shoes. "You look pretty tired, eh."
"I ... " There was no point. "Yeah. I am."
"You go ahead and get yourself some sleep. I'll just sit here and watch over you."
He didn't say anything more.
Hesseltine was being sympathetic. "A little tedious."
"No, no, really," Laura said. She slid away from him, rumpling the sheets of her bunk. "I'm fine, don't mind me."
"Don't worry!" he told her. "Good news! I straightened it all out with HQ, while you were sleeping. Turns out you're in their files-they know who you are! They actually commended me for picking you up."
"HQ?" she said.
"Bamako. Mali."
"Ah."
"I knew it was a good idea," he said. "I mean, an operative like me learns to go by his gut instincts. Seems you're a pretty important gal, in your own little way." He beamed, then shrugged apologetically. "Meanwhile, though, you're stuck in this laundry."
"It s okay," she said. "Really." He stared at her. They were alone in the tiny cabin. An awful silence. "I could wash some clothes if you want."
Hesseltine laughed. "That's cute, Laura. That's funny.
No, I thought, as long as you're stuck here, maybe some video games."
"What're those?"
"Computer games, you know."
"Oh!" She sat up. To get away, partially, for a while, from these walls, from him. Into a screen. Wonderful. "You have a Worldrun simulation? Or maybe Amazon Basin?"
"No, these are early games from the seventies, eighties....
Games played by the original sub crews, to pass time. Not much graphics or memory of course, but they're interesting.
Clever."
"Sure," Laura said. "I can try it."
"Or maybe you'd rather read? Gotta big library onboard.
You'd be surprised what these guys are into. Plato, Nietzsche, all the greats. And a lot of specialty stuff."
"Specialty ..."
"That's right."
"Do you have The Lawrence Doctrine and Postindustrial
Insurgency by Jonathan Gresham?".
Hesseltine's eyes widened. "You're putting me on. Where the hell did you hear about that?"
"Sticky Thompson showed it to me." She paused. She had impressed him. She was glad she'd said it. It was stupid and reckless to say it, to brag at Hesseltine, but she was glad she'd stung him somehow, put him off-balance. She brushed hair from her eyes and sat up. "Do you have a copy? I didn't read as much as I'd have liked."
"Who's this Thompson?"
"He's Grenadian. The son of Winston Stubbs."
Hesseltine smiled mockingly, back on his feet again. "You can't mean Nesta Stubbs."
Laura blinked, surprised. "Is Sticky's real name Nesta Stubbs?"
"No, it can't be. Nesta Stubbs is a psycho. A drug-crazed killer! A guy like that is voodoo, he could eat a dozen of you for breakfast. "