Free Islands in the Net by Bruce Sterling Page A

Abolition.”
    â€œMmmm,” 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 philosophy. 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.”
    â€œCould 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 negotiations. The Europeans amused themselves in the conference room, running up the Lodge’s telecom bills.
    The Grenadians, on the other hand, seemed deeply interested 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 active liking to David. They had gathered with him in the downstairs lounge for the third night running.
    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 favorite. 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 anything but “La Espia.” Everyone agreed that she was weird. Poca loca . But she was Rizome, so it was okay.
    Laura had not gone running in three days. Her ankle was better now but the forced confinement was making her antsy. 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 deliberately mimicking a romance. She pulled a chair close to David’s.
    â€œSo what do y’all think?” David said.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œThe hell