“The ocean, it’s so green,” Ada notes.
“It’s out of balance. There’s more phytoplankton blooms. That makes it look greener,” says Lise.
“Ah,” Ada responds.
Again, they fall into silence.
“Beautiful horizontal line,” says Mori.
Quinn frowns. He means horizon, beautiful horizon. He’s nervous.
“Yes, yes it is, it’s just so, so perfectly straight.” Ada salvages the malapropism, smiling. “It’s a perfectly lovely, straight line between water and sky.”
Lise’s unamused eyes are fixed on the distance.
“Honeymooning?” Ada asks.
“An-ta-tic. Working holiday.”
Still annoying.
“Really?” Lise is surprised.
“There’s a lot to be done there,” says Mori.
“Yes, there is. Actually, we’d like some time alone with Quinn,” she says. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Anything you have to say . . .”
“Alone,” she clarifies.
He eases himself out of his chair. “Need time for my thought shower anyway.”
They watch him stride across the lawn back to the Research Station.
“What’s a ‘thought shower’?” Lise asks.
“It’s thinking. Just thinking, we all do it,” says Quinn. “I’m such an idiot, I’ve totally fucked this up.”
“Never too early for wine,” says Ada, gathering glasses from the luggagebot and opening a bottle. On this they all agree, except Tig, who refuses a glass. Instead, he busies himself peeling the mandarins and watching the skins fall to the ground.
“You’re not in love, but you don’t need to be,” says Ada.
“You can tell that from one meeting?”
“Of course. Look, he’s been very good for your career; it’s still a good alignment. You’re sure its not pre-wedding nerves? Very common. Besides, it doesn’t need to be forever.”
“Thank you; sobering advice.” Not the words of wisdom she wanted to hear on her wedding day.
They fall silent.
Tig turns to Quinn, offering her segments of mandarin in his open palm, and she sees that both his wrists are covered in fine metal bangles. Dozens of them. She leans in and stares into his open face, wondering what he’s thinking, then decides he’s a bit drone-like. Maybe he doesn’t think anything. As she takes the mandarin her fingers graze his, causing a shudder between them, a reverberating electric shock. He grins. She pulls away. The morning light catches the rim of his bionic glasses and hits her in the eye. She squints. He’s a strange thing.
“The cloud thing?” asks Ada.
“Simulated weather experience,” Quinn corrects. “More art installation than science. A cumulous cloud with fabulous ambiance and mood lighting. It has a dual purpose: besides the wedding, he’s launching his new business, Dining in the Clouds. He says people want new adventures, exciting experiences. They’ll do anything to be part of something unique. He has pre-bookings a year ahead; the fashionably wealthy still want fine food in an exclusive setting. And the press will love it, which means sponsors. Investments. He’s worked so hard on it; he even embedded actinomycetes into the platform so it smells like rain.” She turns to her mother. “Please say something. You’re too quiet.”
“Am I?”
“You know you are,” says Ada.
Another raised eyebrow.
Lise is nonreactive now, because she’s always been non-reactive. Her parenting philosophy is based on embracing failure—making mistakes and learning from them. When Quinn was younger, a teenager, Lise encouraged her to explore the world, take risks, and make mistakes. There were no boundaries and no punishments—never a stern word. She answered all of her daughter’s questions truthfully and said her actions were her choices. If she wanted to discuss them, Lise was always available.
Slowly, Quinn breathes. “I have a plan. I’m going to tell him it’s too soon, I’m just not sure, and I need more time. Then I’ll suggest we go ahead with the event, but not the ceremony. So the cloud thing happens. There’s no point canceling. That’d be worse for him. He’s worked so hard.”
Lise remains silent, reticently finishing her wine in one gulp. There is nothing else for Quinn to do; she rises from her chair and sets off toward the main building.
Four
He could be renovated.
A good Technician and
some Coin.
SO CLOSE, I COULD have leant over and kissed her. I could have picked her up and squeezed her and kissed her. Could have held her hand, taken it in mine, sat there next to her holding it, keeping it warm—but then she’d have one warm hand and one cold, so I’d have to warm the other one as well, then both her hands would be real warm; she’d like that. She likes it when her hands are warm. Yeah, that would’ve been nice—a bit weird, but nice, really nice. But would have completely freaked her out, of course, and I don’t want to do that.
Didn’t know what would happen, how she would feel, but I felt pretty fucking stupid, ’cause I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Honestly, I thought she might realize, in some small way she’d know, she’d get it, there’d be a sign, a signal, she’d realize who I was, but she knows nothing, absolutely nothing, and that’s pretty fucking obvious. She has no idea who I am, and why would she? Never met me before in her life.
Fuck, what a trip this is. It’s messing with my head. The things I remembered about her: Natural, everything about her, loose hair, no makeup, and her eyes, beautiful green eyes. No manners, she’s so fucking abrupt, “He could be renovated. A good Technician, some Coin . . .” Fuck me, didn’t know whether to laugh at her or yell at her.
The things I forgot: She’s small, tiny frame. Standing next to her, I wanted to say, “Come on, stand up,” ’cause she looks so friggin’ small. I don’t remember her being that small. And young, I’d forgotten about that—she’s young. And cute. And horny.
Actually, that’s me, not her. I’ve come a long way for love and sex.
Five
Look up at the stars and not
down at your feet.
MORI STANDS IN FRONT of the faulty printer, a tube of resin in one hand and a galvanometer in the other. He clearly has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing. On the table beside him are a pile of spare parts and a folder of documents, maps, and charts. He looks up when Quinn enters.
“And you said she was thoughtful and funny.”
“Really? Did I say that?”
“Yes, you said she holds a deep-seated skepticism about the way wealth is created, so I wasn’t to mention the property portfolio, and then you added brilliant, thoughtful, funny, and she likes a stiff drink at the end of the day. You’d have to peel layers from that onion to get anything out of it. Did she mention my age?” Abandoning the resin and the galvanometer to the pile of equipment on the table, he begins sorting through the charts, flicking through folders, like he’s trying to find something that’s not there—an exercise in endless shuffling.
“No. She didn’t mention your age. You’re busy. Let me help . . .”