more expensive it was. Rob and Caitlin had worked their way up as their fortunes improved. But it was still a miserably small four-room hive of a place, one that made Quinn antsy to be gone, even as his mind churned.
They want you to go back, Titus , Lamar had said. They’ve found it. The other place. And what if they had found it?
Sipping his dessert coffee, he looked across Portland’s sprawl, with its ocean of prefabber residential boxes. These boxes might be uniform, but their walls carried the tideflow, bearing virtual schools, markets, information, social contact, entertainment. By the Blix-Poole Act, each citizen was guaranteed a basic standard of living that included housing, food, and EDE, Electronic Domain Entitlements. The Companies paid the taxes that kept the world fed and housed. Educated, if need be. With such deep wealth, they could afford it. They couldn’t afford not to, not after the Troubles had brought civilization to the brink of darkness, when the starving told the well-fed that those gradients must pass. So in a way, the dreds—those with IQs of one hundred or less—had changed the world.
Caitlin and Rob lived considerably better than what Blix-Poole managed to dole out. Rob tended savants for Minerva. For now. Quinn looked south, toward the cramped apartment blocks where occupants upgraded the EDE basic services with every piece of gear they could afford. These diversions, selected by each occupant and reinforced by data agents, created a feedback loop that created odd, individual realities. Psychoneurologists claimed that people were unaware of choices—that their subconscious generated the “choices” using its hidden logic. By this theory, people were biological machines, driven by subconscious processes always a half second ahead of what we consciously “chose” to think. So you could walk into any child’s bedroom, any couple’s parlor and, by seeing their virtual environment, look into the jungle of their minds. Quinn’s cottage, though, didn’t have live walls, his reality being on hold.
Caitlin opened the sliding door and joined him on the lanai, handing him a glass with an inch of amber in the bottom. “The good stuff,” she said, raising her own glass.
They toasted each other. Behind her in the living room, Rob was settling in to the evening newsTide.
She gestured toward the city. “Not as nice a view as yours, but not bad, for a guy with a master’s degree and a wife who likes to stay home.” After a moment she said, “Want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“About whatever it is that brought you to see us last night.”
“Maybe I came to spread holiday cheer.”
“Try again.”
“To annoy my brother by tinkering with toys?”
“Bingo,” Caitlin said, tossing off her drink. She’d brought the bottle, though.
They settled into two stiff chairs that barely fit on the lanai. “Now, talk.
I want to hear what’s going on, and I don’t want any bullshit this time, Titus Quinn. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but it ain’t me.”
“Half my pleasure in life comes from fooling you, Sister-in-law.”
“Half of nothing is still nothing, Titus.”
Quinn held his glass out. Received a splash. “I haven’t thrown myself into the surf yet, for God’s sakes.” He looked over at her, but she wasn’t letting go. Nor would she, now that he’d come to her.
“It’s Minerva,” he said. “They’re back meddling with me. They said they’ll shit-can Rob if I don’t do what they say.”
She leaned forward, worried. “What more can they possibly want from you? You’ve already given them everything.”
“Not quite everything.” He told her about what Minerva claimed to have found, and what they wanted him to do. He didn’t know what to make of it. But a needle of hope was thrusting up from his innards, and it was drawing blood as it came. What if they were right?
Caitlin took an angry swig from her glass. “Sons of bitches.
They want you to go back, Titus , Lamar had said. They’ve found it. The other place. And what if they had found it?
Sipping his dessert coffee, he looked across Portland’s sprawl, with its ocean of prefabber residential boxes. These boxes might be uniform, but their walls carried the tideflow, bearing virtual schools, markets, information, social contact, entertainment. By the Blix-Poole Act, each citizen was guaranteed a basic standard of living that included housing, food, and EDE, Electronic Domain Entitlements. The Companies paid the taxes that kept the world fed and housed. Educated, if need be. With such deep wealth, they could afford it. They couldn’t afford not to, not after the Troubles had brought civilization to the brink of darkness, when the starving told the well-fed that those gradients must pass. So in a way, the dreds—those with IQs of one hundred or less—had changed the world.
Caitlin and Rob lived considerably better than what Blix-Poole managed to dole out. Rob tended savants for Minerva. For now. Quinn looked south, toward the cramped apartment blocks where occupants upgraded the EDE basic services with every piece of gear they could afford. These diversions, selected by each occupant and reinforced by data agents, created a feedback loop that created odd, individual realities. Psychoneurologists claimed that people were unaware of choices—that their subconscious generated the “choices” using its hidden logic. By this theory, people were biological machines, driven by subconscious processes always a half second ahead of what we consciously “chose” to think. So you could walk into any child’s bedroom, any couple’s parlor and, by seeing their virtual environment, look into the jungle of their minds. Quinn’s cottage, though, didn’t have live walls, his reality being on hold.
Caitlin opened the sliding door and joined him on the lanai, handing him a glass with an inch of amber in the bottom. “The good stuff,” she said, raising her own glass.
They toasted each other. Behind her in the living room, Rob was settling in to the evening newsTide.
She gestured toward the city. “Not as nice a view as yours, but not bad, for a guy with a master’s degree and a wife who likes to stay home.” After a moment she said, “Want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“About whatever it is that brought you to see us last night.”
“Maybe I came to spread holiday cheer.”
“Try again.”
“To annoy my brother by tinkering with toys?”
“Bingo,” Caitlin said, tossing off her drink. She’d brought the bottle, though.
They settled into two stiff chairs that barely fit on the lanai. “Now, talk.
I want to hear what’s going on, and I don’t want any bullshit this time, Titus Quinn. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but it ain’t me.”
“Half my pleasure in life comes from fooling you, Sister-in-law.”
“Half of nothing is still nothing, Titus.”
Quinn held his glass out. Received a splash. “I haven’t thrown myself into the surf yet, for God’s sakes.” He looked over at her, but she wasn’t letting go. Nor would she, now that he’d come to her.
“It’s Minerva,” he said. “They’re back meddling with me. They said they’ll shit-can Rob if I don’t do what they say.”
She leaned forward, worried. “What more can they possibly want from you? You’ve already given them everything.”
“Not quite everything.” He told her about what Minerva claimed to have found, and what they wanted him to do. He didn’t know what to make of it. But a needle of hope was thrusting up from his innards, and it was drawing blood as it came. What if they were right?
Caitlin took an angry swig from her glass. “Sons of bitches.
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