Free Islands in the Net by Bruce Sterling Page B

you say,” David said mildly. “It’s Texas music, I’m a Texan.”
    â€œThat’s Spanish they’re singing, mon.”
    â€œWell, I speak Spanish,” David said. “Maybe you didn’t notice our staff are Texan Hispanics.”
    â€œOh, seen, I notice them,” Sticky said. This was the first time Sticky had used such a thick patois. “I noticed you sleep up in the castle tower.” Sticky pointed upstairs. “While they sleep down here by the kitchen.”
    â€œOh, you reckon so?” David drawled, stung. “You want those old folks to walk up two flights of stairs, I guess. While we keep the baby down here to wake our guests.”
    â€œI see what I see,” Sticky said. “You say, no more wage slaves, equal rights in the big mother Rizome. Everybody votes. No bosses—coordinators. No board—a Central Committee. But your wife still give orders and they still cook and clean.”
    â€œSure,” Laura broke in. “But not for us, Sticky. For you.”
    â€œThat’s a good one,” Sticky said, riveting his hot eyes on Laura. “You talk a good line after those P.R. courses at the university. Diplomatic, like your mother.”
    There was a sudden silence. “Chill out, Sticky,” the old man murmured. “You gettin’ red, boy.”
    â€œYeah,” David said, still smarting. “Maybe you better take it a little easy on that milk.”
    â€œThere’s nothing in this milk,” Sticky said. He shoved the thermos at Laura, who was closest. “You try it.”
    â€œAll right,” Laura said abruptly. She had a sip. It was cloyingly sweet. She handed it back. “That reminds me. David, did you feed the baby?”
    David grinned, admiring her bravado. “Yeah.”
    There was nothing in the milk, she decided. Nothing was going to happen to her. She sipped her wine to wash the taste away.
    Carlotta laughed suddenly, breaking the tension. “You’re a caution, Sticky.” She started rubbing his shoulders. “It’s no use you bein’ down on Mr. and Mrs. Married Life. They’re straights, that’s all. Not like us.”
    â€œYou don’t see it yet, girl. You haven’t heard ’em talk upstairs.” Sticky had lost his temper, and his accent. He was starting to sound more and more like a cable news announcer, Laura thought. That flat Mid-Atlantic television English. Global Net talk. Sticky pulled Carlotta’s hand away and held it. “Straights aren’t what they used to be. They want it all now—the whole world. One world. Their world.” He stood up, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, girl. The bed needs shaking.”
    â€œ Buenas noches ,” David called out as they left. “ Suenos dulces, cuidado con las chinches !” Sticky ignored him.
    Laura poured herself another glass and knocked back half of it. The old man opened his eyes. “He’s young,” he said.
    â€œI was rude,” David said contritely. “But I dunno, that old Imperialist America line—it gets me where I live. Sorry.”
    â€œNot America, no,” the old man said. “You Yankees aren’t Babylon. You only part of her, now. Babylon-she-multinational, Babylon-she-multilateral.” He chanted the words. “Babylon she come to get us where we live.” He sighed. “You like it here, I know. I ask the old women, they say they like it too. They say you nice, you baby’s cute. But where she growing up, that baby, in your nice one world with its nice one set of rules? She have no place to run. You think that over, seen? Before you come down on us.” He stood up, yawning. “Tomorrow, eh? Tomorrow.” He left.
    Silence fell. “Let’s go to bed,” Laura said at last. They went upstairs.
    The baby was sleeping peacefully. Laura had been checking her crib monitor with the watchphone. They pulled their