Islands in the Net

"Like lifting the lid of a cesspool," Laura said. A salt breeze blew in from offshore, and she shuddered. "We're getting nowhere with these negotiations. It's obvious they have no intention of reforming. They barely tolerate us. They think we're saps."

"Oh, I think we're progressing nicely," Emerson said.

Since the talks had started, she had relaxed into a glazed professional ease. Both she and Laura had made an effort to break past their formal roles and to establish the kind of gut-level personal trust that held Rizome together as a postindustrial company. Laura was reassured that Emerson took the company's principles so seriously.

It was good, too, that the Committee had fully acknowl- edged Laura's need to know. For a while she had been afraid that they would try some security bullshit, and that she would have to go on the company Net and make a stink about it.

Instead they had taken her into the core of negotiations. Not at all a bad thing, career-wise, for a woman still officially on infancy furlough. Laura now felt vaguely guilty about her earlier suspicions. She even wished that Emily Donato hadn't told her anything.

Emerson nibbled a praline and gazed out to sea. "It's all been skirmishing so far, just macho one-upmanship. But soon they'll be getting down to business. The critical point is their blackmailers. With our help, with a little guidance, they'll join forces in self-defense."

A seagull noticed Emerson eating. It swooped up and hovered hopefully above the walkway's railing, its flat yellow eyes gleaming. "Join forces?" Laura said.

"It's not as bad as it sounds, Laura. It's their small scale and fast reflexes that make the data havens dangerous. A

large, centralized group will become bureaucratic."

"You think so?"

"They have weaknesses we don't," Emerson said-,settling deeper into her reclining chair. She cracked off a chip of her praline and studied the floating bird. "The major weakness of criminal groups is their i

She smiled, lifting her hand. "And that means rule books, laws, stiff formal hierarchies. Violence is not Rizome's strong suit, Laura, but we do understand management structures.

Centralized bureaucracies always protect the status quo.. They don't i

"The bigger, the stupider, is that the strategy?" Laura said. "What happened to good old divide and conquer?"

"This isn't politics. This is technology. It's not their power that threatens us, it's their imagination. Creativity comes from small groups. Small groups gave us the electric light, the automobile, the personal computer. Bureaucracies gave us the nuclear power plant, traffic jams, and network television. The first three changed everything. The last three are memories now."

Three more freeloading gulls swooped up from nowhere.

They jostled gracefully for space, with creaking screams of greed. Laura said, "Don't you think we ought to try some- thing a little more vigorous? Like, say, arresting them?"

"I don't blame you for thinking that," Emerson said. "But you don't know what these people have survived. They thrive on persecution, it unites them. It builds a class chasm be- tween them and society, it lets them prey on the rest of us without a twinge of conscience. No, we have to let them grow, Laura, we have to give them a stake in our status quo.

It's a long-term struggle. Decades long. Lifetimes. Just like the Abolition."

"Mmmm," Laura said, not liking this much. The older generation was always going on about the Abolition. As if abolishing bombs intended to destroy the planet had required transcendent genius. "Well, not everyone shares that philoso- phy. Or else these data sharks wouldn't be here now, trying to roll with the punches." She lowered her voice. "Who do you think is blackmailing them? One of them, maybe? Those

Singaporeans ... they're so aloof and contemptuous. They look pretty suspicious. "

"Could be," Emerson said placidly. "Whoever it is, they're professionals." She threw the last of her candy to the gulls and stood up, shivering. "It's getting chilly."

They went in. Inside the Lodge, a routine had emerged.

The Singaporeans always retired to their rooms after negotia- tions. The Europeans amused themselves in the conference room, ru

The Grenadians, on the other hand, seemed deeply inter- ested in the Lodge itself. They had inspected it from tower to foundation, asking flattering questions about computer design and concretized sand. Since then the Grenadians seemed to have taken-an awe liking to David. They had gathered with him in the downstairs lounge for the third night ru

Laura went to help with the washing. The staff was bearing up well, despite the security requirements. They found it exciting to have actual live criminals in the place. Mrs.

Rodriguez had stuck appropriate nicknames on the guests:

Los Opios, Los Morfinos, and, of course, Los Marijuanos.

Winston Stubbs, El Jefe de los Marijuanos, was a staff favor- ite. Not only did he look most like a proper pirate, but he had tried to tip them several times. The Morfino Europeans, however, were on everyone's shit list.

Debra Emerson had not escaped-no one called her any- thing but "La Espia." Everyone agreed that she was weird.

Poca loca. But she was Rizome, so it was okay. .

Laura had not gone ru

She needed a drink. She joined David and the Grenadians in the bar.

David was showing off his music collection. He collected old Texas pop music-western swing, blues, polkas, conjunto border ballads. A sixty-year-old conjunto tape played over the lounge's speakers, rapid accordion riffs punctuated with high- pitched wails. Laura, who had grown up with synthesizers and Russian pop music, still found the stuff eerie as hell.

She poured herself a glass of the house red and joined them around a low table. The old man sat slumped in a chair, looking drowsy. Sticky Thompson and the Church woman sat together on a couch.

During the debates, Sticky had been very animated, almost hyper at. times. Among his luggage, Sticky had brought a thermos of what he claimed was acidophilus milk. He was drinking it now. Laura wondered what was in it. Sticky couldn't be older than twenty-two or three, she thought. He was a little young to have ulcers.

Carlotta had a glass of orange juice. She had made it clear that she never touched coffee or alcohol. She sat intimately close to Sticky, pressing her black-stockinged thigh against his leg, tugging lightly at the curls at the back of his neck.

Carlotta had never taken part in the debates, but she shared

Sticky's room. She watched him with animal raptness-like the gulls outside.

The sight of Carlotta and Sticky-young love played at 78

rpm-gave Laura a sense of unease. There was something horribly bogus about their ambience, as if they were deliber- ately mimicking a romance. She pulled a chair close to David's.

"So what do y'all think?" David said.

"It's better than those yodeling cowboys," Sticky said, his amber eyes gleaming. "But you can't say this is your roots, mon. This is Third World music."

"The hell you `say," David said mildly. "It's Texas music,

I'm a Texan."

"That's Spanish they're singing, mon."