The Diamond Age (50 page)

  "Darjeeling," he said. "Well chosen. Always thought of India as a more civilised place than China. Have to throw out all of the oolong now, all the keemun, the lung jang, the lapsang souchong. Time to switch over to Ceylon, pekoe, assam." He chuckled.

  White trails of dried salt ran back from the corners of the Constable's eyes and disappeared into his hairline. He had been riding fast with his helmet off. Nell wished that she had been able to see the Constable thundering across China on his war chevaline.

  "I've retired for the last time," he explained. He nodded in the direction of China. "Been doing a bit of consulting work for a gentleman there. Complicated fellow. Dead now. Had many facets, but now he'll go down in history as just another damn Chinese warlord who didn't make the grade. It is remarkable, love," he said, looking at Nell for the first time, "how much money you can make shovelling back the tide. In the end you need to get out while the getting is good. Not very honourable, I suppose, but then, there is no honour among consultants."

  Nell did not imagine that Constable Moore wanted to get into a detailed discussion of recent events, so she changed the subject. "I think I have finally worked out what you were trying to tell me, years ago, about being intelligent," she said.

  The Constable brightened all at once. "Pleased to hear it."

  "The Vickys have an elaborate code of morals and conduct. It grew out of the moral squalor of an earlier generation, just as the original Victorians were preceded by the Georgians and the Regency. The old guard believe in that code because they came to it the hard way. They raise their children to believe in that code- but their children believe it for entirely different reasons."

  "They believe it," the Constable said, "because they have been indoctrinated to believe it."

  "Yes. Some of them never challenge it- they grow up to be smallminded people, who can tell you what they believe but not why they believe it. Others become disillusioned by the hypocrisy of the society and rebel- as did Elizabeth Finkle-McGraw."

  "Which path do you intend to take, Nell?" said the Constable, sounding very interested. "Conformity or rebellion?"

  "Neither one. Both ways are simple-minded- they are only for people who cannot cope with contradiction and ambiguity."

  "Ah! Excellent!" the Constable exclaimed. As punctuation, he slapped the ground with his free hand, sending up a shower of sparks and transmitting a powerful shock through the ground to Nell's feet.

  "I suspect that Lord Finkle-McGraw, being an intelligent man, sees through all of the hypocrisy in his society, but upholds its principles anyway, because that is what is best in the long run. And I suspect that he has been worrying about how best to inculcate this stance in young people who cannot understand, as he does, its historical antecedents- which might explain why he has taken an interest in me. The Primer may have been Finkle-McGraw's idea to begin with-a first attempt to go about this systematically."

  "The Duke plays his cards close," Constable Moore said, "and so I cannot say whether your suppositions are correct. But I will admit it hangs together nicely."

  "Thank you."

  "What do you intend to do with yourself, now that you have pieced all of this together? A few more years' education and polishing will place you in a position to take the Oath."

  "I am, of course, aware that I have favorable prospects in the Atlantan phyle," Nell said, "but I do not think that it would be fitting for me to take the straight and narrow path. I am going to China now to seek my fortune."

  "Well," Constable Moore said, "look out for the Fists." His gaze wandered over his battered and filthy armor and came to rest on the floating helmet. "They are coming now."

  The best explorers, like Burton, made every effort to blend in. In this spirit, Nell stopped at a public M.C., doffed her long dress, and compiled a new set of clothes- a navy blue skin-tight coverall emblazoned with SHIT HAPPENS in pulsating orange letters. She swapped her old clothes for a pair of powered skates on the waterfront, and then headed straight for the Causeway. It rose gently into the air for a few miles, and then the Pudong Economic Zone came into view at her feet, and Shanghai beyond that, and she suddenly began to pick up speed and had to cut the skates' power assist. She'd passed over the watershed now. Nell was alone in China.

The Hackworths have a family reunion;  Hackworth strikes out on his quest;  an unexpected companion.

  Atlantis/Seattle was designed small and to the point; the narrow, convoluted straits of Puget Sound, already so full of natural islands, did not leave much room for artificial ones. So they had made it rather long and slender, parallel to the currents and the shipping lanes, and been rather stingy when it came to the parks, meadows, heaths, gentleman farms, and country estates. Much of the Seattle area was still sufficiently rich, civilized, and polite that New Atlantans did not object to living there, and little Victorian mini-claves were scattered about the place, particularly east of the lake, around the misty forest domains of the software khans. Gwen and Fiona had taken a townhouse in one of these areas.

  These tiny bits of New Atlantis stood out from the surrounding forest in the same way that a vicar in morning coat and wing collar would have in the cave of the Drummers. The prevailing architecture here, among those who had not adopted neo-Victorian precepts, was distinctly subterranean; as if these people were somehow ashamed of their own humanity and could not bear to fell even a handful of the immense Douglas firs that marched monotonously up the tumbling slopes toward the frozen, sodden ridge of the Cascades. Even when it was half buried, a house wasn't even a proper house; it was an association of modules, scattered about here and there and connected by breezeways or tunnels. Stuck together properly and built on a rise, these modules might have added up to a house of substance, even grandeur; but to Hackworth, riding through the territory on his way to visit his family, it was all depressing and confusing. Ten years among the Drummers had not affected his Victorian aesthetics. He could not tell where one house left off and the next one began, the houses were all intertangled with one another like neurons in the brain.

  His mind's eye again seemed to seize control of his visual cortex; he could not see the firs anymore, just axons and dendrites hanging in black three-dimensional space, packets of rod logic maneuvering among them like space probes, meeting and copulating among the nerve fibers.

  It was a bit too aggressive to be a reverie and too abstract to be a hallucination. It didn't really clear away until a gust of cold mist hit him in his face, he opened his eyes, and realized that Kidnapper had stopped after emerging from the trees at the crest of a mossy ridgeline. Below him was a rocky bowl with a few cobblestone streets sketched out in a grid, a green park lined with red geraniums, a church with a white steeple, whitewashed four-story Georgian buildings surrounded by black wrought-iron fences. The security grid was tenuous and feeble; the software khans were at least as good at that kind of thing as Her Majesty's specialists, and so a New Atlantis clave in this area could rely on the neighbors to shoulder much of that burden.

  Kidnapper picked its way carefully down the steep declivity as Hackworth looked out over the tiny clave, musing at how familiar it seemed. Since leaving the Drummers, he hadn't gone more than ten minutes without being seized by a feeling of déjà vu, and now it was especially strong. Perhaps this was because, to some degree, all New Atlantis settlements looked alike. But he suspected that he had seen this place, somehow, in his communications with Fiona over the years.

  A bell clanged once or twice, and teenaged girls, dressed in plaid uniform skirts, began to emerge from a domed school. Hackworth knew that it was Fiona's school, and that she was not entirely happy there. After the crush of girls had gone out of the place, he rode Kidnapper into the school yard and sauntered once around the building, gazing in the windows. Without much trouble he saw his daughter, sitting at a table in the library, hunched over a book, evidently as part of some disciplinary action.

  He wanted so badly to go in and put his arms around her, because he knew that she had spent many hours suffering like punishments, and that she was a lonely girl. But he was in New Atlantis, and there were proprieties to be observed. First things first. Gwendolyn's townhouse was only a few blocks away. Hackworth rang the bell, determined to observe all of the formalities now that he was a stranger in the house.

  "May I ask what your visit is regarding?" asked the parlourmaid, as Hackworth spun his card onto the salver. Hackworth didn't like this woman, who was named Amelia, because Fiona didn't like her, and Fiona didn't like her because Gwen had given her some disciplinary authority in the household, and Amelia was the sort who relished having it. He tried not to confuse himself by wondering how he could possibly know all of these things.

  "Business," Hackworth said pleasantly. "Family business."

  Amelia was halfiway up the stairs when her eyes finally focused on Hackworth's card. She nearly dropped the salver and had to clutch at the banister with one hand in order to keep her balance. She froze there for a few moments, trying to resist the temptation to turn around, and finally surrendered to it. The expression on her face was one of perfect loathing mixed with fascination.

  "Please carry out your duties," Hackworth said, "and dispense with the vulgar theatrics."

  Amelia, looking crestfallen, stormed up the stairs with the tainted card. There followed a good deal of muffled commotion upstairs. After a few minutes, Amelia ventured as far down as the landing and encouraged Hackworth to make himself comfortable in the parlor. He did so, noting that in his absence, Gwendolyn had been able to consummate all of the long-term furniture-buying strategies she had spent so much time plotting during the early years of their marriage. Wives and widows of secret agents in Protocol Enforcement could rely on being well cared for, and Gwen had not allowed his salary to sit around collecting dust.

  His ex-wife descended the stairway cautiously, stood outside the beveled-glass parlor doors for a minute peering at him through the gauze curtains, and finally slipped into the room without meeting his gaze and took a seat rather far away from him. "Hello, Mr. Hackworth," she said.

  "Mrs. Hackworth. Or is it back to Miss Lloyd?"

  "It is."

  "Ah, that's hard." When Hackworth heard the name Miss Lloyd, he thought of their courtship.

  They sat there for a minute or so, not saying anything, just listening to the ponderous ratcheting of the grandfather clock.

  "All right," Hackworth said, "I won't trouble you talking about extenuating circumstances, as I don't ask for your forgiveness, and in all honesty I'm not sure that I deserve it."

  "Thank you for that consideration."

  "I would like you to know, Miss Lloyd, that I am sympathetic to the step you have taken in securing a divorce and harbour no bitterness on that account."

  "That is reassuring to know."

  "You should also know that whatever behaviour I engaged in, as inexcusable as it was, was not motivated by rejection of you or of our marriage. It was not, in fact, a reflection upon you at all, but rather a reflection upon myself."

  "Thank you for clarifying that point."

  "I realize that any hope I might harbour in my breast of rekindling our former relationship, sincere as it might be, is futile, and so I will not trouble you after today."

  "I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear that you understand the situation so completely."

  "However, I would like to be of service to you and Fiona in helping to resolve any loose ends."

  "You are very kind. I shall give you my lawyer's card."

  "And, of course, I look forward to reestablishing some sort of contact with my daughter."

  The conversation, which had been running as smoothly as a machine to this point, now veered off track and crashed. Gwendolyn reddened and stiffened.

  "You- you
bastard
."

  The front door opened. Fiona stepped into the foyer carrying her schoolbooks. Amelia was there immediately, maneuvering around with her back to the foyer doors, blocking Fiona's view, talking to her in low angry tones.

  Hackworth heard his daughter's voice. It was a lovely voice, a husky alto, and he would have recognized it anywhere. "Don't lie to me, I recognised his chevaline!" she said, and finally shouldered Amelia out of the way, burst into the parlor, all lanky and awkward and beautiful, an incarnation of joy. She took two steps across the oriental rug and then launched herself full-length across the settee into her father's arms, where she lay for some minutes alternately weeping and laughing.

  Gwen had to be escorted from the room by Amelia, who came back immediately and stationed herself nearby, hands clasped behind back like a military sentry, observing Hackworth's every move. Hackworth couldn't imagine what they suspected he might be capable of-incest in the parlor? But there was no point in spoiling the moment by thinking of galling things, and so he shut Amelia out of his mind.

  Father and daughter were allowed to converse for a quarter of an hour, really just queuing up subjects for future conversation. By that time, Gwen had recovered her composure enough to reenter the room, and she and Amelia stood shoulder-to-shoulder, quivering in sympathetic resonance, until Gwen interrupted.

  "Fiona, your-
father
-and I were in the midst of a very serious discussion when you burst in on us. Please leave us alone for a few minutes."

  Fiona did, reluctantly. Gwen resumed her former position, and Amelia backed out of the room. Hackworth noticed that Gwen had fetched some documents, bound up in red tape.

  "These are papers setting out the terms of our divorce, including all conditions relating to Fiona," she said. "You are already in violation, I'm afraid. Of course, this can be forgiven, as your lack of a forwarding address as such made it impossible for us to acquaint you with this information. Needless to say, it is imperative for you to familiarise yourself with these documents before darkening my door again."