by
Steve Jordan
“This is your Captain: Welcome to Houston. The temperature outside is a balmy 36 degrees, so enjoy the air conditioning in the airport before you leave. On behalf of myself and the rest of the crew, we’d like to thank you for flying Aire Sur. Have a great day.”
If it was possible, the air in the terminal smelled worse than the stale air on the airplane. This was apparently the impression of most of the passengers debarking from the plane, judging by the number of wrinkled noses exhibited as they entered the airport terminal from the plane’s connecting ramp. Few of the passengers looked at all excited, or even vaguely interested in their surroundings. These were primarily business travelers, or people traveling to find better business elsewhere.
Keith Maryland did not seem too particularly bothered by the smell of the terminal. But he did seem to be a bit more interested in his surroundings than most. As he entered the terminal with the passengers that had flown with him, he looked around the terminal, casually taking in the large, airy space. His possessions were in the two bags he had checked onto the plane, and despite a bit of weight, he carried them easily.
The flight out of Richmond, by way of Atlanta, had been uneventful, and had actually arrived within twenty minutes of on-time. Keith’s connector to Brasil wasn’t for two hours, though, so he had time to kill at the airport. With an easy step, he walked through the terminal towards the promenade, where he knew he’d find the inevitable airport stores and services. He noticed an animated sign along the way that displayed the temperature, 36C/97F, and he reflected on his good fortune at not needing to leave the airport just yet.
He hadn’t walked far before he noticed a young girl walking alongside him. He was sure he would have noticed a girl that he was overtaking, so she had apparently come up from behind him, to match his pace. At about the same time he noticed her beside him, she looked up and smiled at him. “Hi,” she said airily. “Visiting, or passing through?”
“Passing,” Keith told her.
“How soon’s your connection?”
“Um…” Keith glanced at her. “Not for awhile.”
“I’m here for awhile, too,” the girl stated. “Let’s spend a while together.”
Keith looked at her critically. One look was enough to tell she was no professional… she wasn’t quite pretty or shapely enough to be employed by one of the airport’s courtesy services or bordellos. Still, she wasn’t ugly, and she looked legal. Most likely a poor local who turned tricks at the cheaper airport motels for food and rent money.
And as if she was reading his mind, the girl said, “Come on. I got a nice place right next to the airport. Fifty bucks for the hour. Private bed and bathroom.”
She said the last, as if it was a deal-clincher… which it most likely was, around these parts. Under almost any other circumstances, for Keith, it would have been an offer he could not refuse. But his immediate concerns were such that the last thing on his mind was tail.
“No thanks, kid,” he said. “Maybe on the way back,” he added, knowing full well that if he did come back this way, it would not be by choice, and he would not be given the chance to stop for sex.
As he continued along without his impromptu escort (who had not even bothered to try to change his mind, but instead had quickly veered away and slid up alongside another traveler in seconds), he noticed more than one woman take him in with an approving eye. He was certainly handsome enough to be appreciated: His features were of the African-European caste that was common in North America, that is, his nose was a bit less broad, his lips a bit less full, his skin not quite as dark, as the average African native. His 6’-1” frame was well-muscled and very light on fat, a factor highlighted by his light clothing and the lack of effort he demonstrated in carrying his two bags.
He eventually arrived at the promenade, where the smells of greasy airport food quickly got the better of him. He bought a hot dog, griping to himself about the exorbitant cost (as was proper airport etiquette), and found a seat in a small lounge overlooking one quadrant of the airfield. Most of the large jets he saw were from Aire Sur or Aire Unión, the two dominant airlines in this part of the world. A number of smaller city-hopping jets and planes were also evident, and as most of these were independently owned, they sported names and logos that Keith had never seen or heard of before. The city-hoppers came and went with the speed of gadflies, the swarm only occasionally shifting aside for one of the big planes to enter and depart at a much more leisurely pace.
After watching the jets jockey around, take off and land for a few minutes, Keith decided to turn his attention to business… he was, after all, on his way to a new job, and a new life. Reaching into his belt holster, he pulled out an electronic device just a bit smaller than his outstretched hand, and about the thickness of half a deck of playing cards. The device was a fairly new Mobile Information Compact, or Mik, as it was generically referred to these days. Despite its brand-new state, however, it was a government-issue model, with very basic features and limited expansion capabilities. Keith had only recently been given the Mik, but he already wanted to ditch it… no self-respecting person would be caught dead with such a cheap one, and he had a legitimate concern that it might attract the wrong kind of attention to him.
A quick look around the promenade revealed a well-known electronics franchise, which he immediately headed into. It did not take him long to pick out a new Mik from the extensive selection in the store, a unit only slightly larger than his old one, finished in a brushed blue steel, and with a protective cover that hinged over the touchscreen that filled the front side. Keith paid for the device, and asked the girl behind the counter to give him a crash-course in transferring his files from the old Mik to the new (so that he could do that in privacy). Fortunately for him, the salesgirl was bored, and had brightened up perceptively upon sight of him, so she willingly spent the time teaching him about his new toy. She even keyed up the contact screen, and showed him how it worked by inputting her own name and number as he watched. Keith smiled warmly, already resolved to delete the number later.
Then he returned to the lounge, selected a seat against the back wall, and removed his old Mik from its holster. Keith managed to follow the salesgirl’s instructions, and in moments, he had transferred his files from one Mik to the other. Certain files he deleted from his new Mik… they had been put there by the same people who issued him the Mik, but he wanted to distance himself from them as soon as possible. Then he popped the access hatch open on his old Mik, and found the hard reset button. He pressed it and held it, which the salesgirl had advised him would delete every scrap of information on the Mik. After he released the button, he waited ten seconds, then pressed it again. When he was done, he used a napkin left over from his hot dog to wipe the old Mik down and remove any fingerprints. Then he put the old Mik in the bag the hot dog had come in, and wadded the bag up like so much trash.
Satisfied he had taken care of his old Mik, Keith took the new one from his pocket. He tapped on its touchscreen haltingly, trying to familiarize himself with the new device, until it finally made a connection with the Inet through the airport’s wireless links, and he began picking through what informational cells he could find related to his future employers. He already knew a lot about the Worldfarm Project, but hadn’t really done that much research on the Worldfarm One facility, and he figured now was as good a time as any to bone up.
The Worldfarm Project was designed, basically, to feed the entire world. It had been realized by the mid-twentieth century that there was more than enough food being produced by the growing nations of the world, including the United States, to feed the entire world’s population. However, the logistics of distributing food, combined with the demands of profit-based commerce, meant that many countries went hungry, while others gorged. The U.S., long the international poster child for greed and selfishness, had lost most of its luster before the 21 st century specifically due to the perception of wasting mountains of food, even throwing away and burning excess, rather than finding ways to share their food stores with countries like Africa, which lost thousands every day to starvation and malnutrition. And their spot on the international cat-bird seat was not destined to last.
The U.S. situation had been predicted and expected for decades, and the only thing that surprised analysts in hindsight was that it had taken so long to happen. When the double-drought of 2011/12 virtually wiped out the U.S. grain surplus, America found itself without one of its greatest commodities on the world market. With no American grain to buy, and little sympathy for a country that had long ago squandered its international good relations, countries worldwide declared America’s debts in default, and called in all monies owed. The U.S. had finally seen the first domino kicked over, beginning the cascade effect that officially started the crash of 2014.
From there, job loss, lack of public services, food and commodity shortages, became the way of life for most Americans. The U.S. armed forces organizations were practically scrapped, in order to divert funds and manpower to the vital maintenance of its own country. America finally had to close its doors to international influence and activity... it simply didn’t have the resources, or the power, to maintain its controlling position in the world. The U.S. was the last of the great world powers to give up its role, and under uncannily similar circumstances as most of the others, especially the former Soviet Union. No longer was the world dominated by a single powerful country or cowed by competing superpowers.
And so, after so many years since its original charter was drafted, the United Nations finally assumed the role it was meant for: World government. With the superpowers essentially powerless, it became the job of the U.N. to assume the dominant role in international politics. The arena they entered was a shambles, the result of the old powers’ decades-old struggles with each other, at the expense of all others. Many countries had been severely wronged, and in danger of imminent collapse themselves, if something was not done for them.
The U.N. had to make many tough decisions, pooling all available worldwide resources, and creating the first actual Global Network, in order to keep civilization from pitching into another dark age.
Unfortunately for the old superpowers, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. The U.S. and the old Soviet Union were the hardest hit by the diverting of resources to those considered to be more “in need” by the U.N.
America eventually found itself surrendering its own resources to the U.N. for world distribution, creating sentiments not felt since the American Revolution. Protests to U.N. leaders fell on ears which were not deaf, but hardened by years of neglect by these selfsame superpowers, long renowned for their wastefulness and aristocratic disdain for countries less fortunate (read: less powerful) than themselves. In short, nobody cared how Americans suffered, after all the years of wasting everyone else’s fuel, air and water. The U.S. was finally getting the treatment that all bullies deserve.
Knowing full well how much worldwide peace depended on things like food and basic staples, the U.N. had decided to centralize and directly control worldwide food production, from growing to distribution, in order to guarantee every nation would get their fair share of food. Worldfarm One became the first of nine planned Worldfarms, including farms in Kenya, the United States, Eurasia, Australia, India, the future South Africa, and the experimental Pacifica and Antarctica complexes on the U.N.’s drawing boards.
They planned to utilize every modern farming technique, and pioneer many new ones, to grow new and better crops and grow them more productively, increase yields by factors of magnitude, and ultimately create a global food supply unlike any program ever seen.
As with any ambitious plan, there were, of course, problems. Most notably was the fact that the U.N. as an organization knew nothing about farming, research, or distribution of perishables. They were starting completely cold, and many detractors claimed this would doom the program for sure. The other problem was, or rather, were, the farmers of the world, who were being threatened with extinction by the U.N.’s program. To say that the world farming community was upset would have been the understatement of the century, and the polarization caused by the United Nations against the world’s agricultural backbone had shown no signs of letting up in the last decade. But the U.N. was equally adamant about their ambitious program, which was seen by many to be the first step in creating the first real Global Empire on Earth, and a feather the U.N. wanted for their own cap.
Early on, Keith came across a map that showed Worldfarm One itself, superimposed over the Brasilian landscape. Worldfarm One, named thus because it was the first of the Worldfarms to be operational, covered huge tracts of acreage in what had once been the Amazon rainforest, and quite a bit of the Amazon river basin itself. The choice of area had been an easy one, since these areas had already been razed by the Brasilian government for its tropical hardwoods, and were rapidly on their way to becoming the Amazon desert when the U.N. stepped in.
Worldfarm One had already managed to reclaim vast stretches of ruined land for their plantation fields, hydroponic and aeroponic systems, tree farms and controlled environments. After only three years from commission, the project was providing a major crop to the U.N. distribution system, including seven new strains of popular vegetables, a new fast-growing hardwood, and even two officially manmade products, the hardy but tasteless Southern Potato, and the notorious Coci bean. Keith expected to be part of these research teams, working to create new foods and growing methods, as well as trying to remove some of the drawbacks of the existing ones. At least, that was what he had studied for, and he hoped he would not be placed in a marginal position and left to rot himself.
The main complex for Worldfarm One was situated a few dozen kilometers from Manaus, an old city in the northern region of Brasil. It was no Brasilia, but then again, that was not necessarily a bad thing: Brasilia had not quite managed to get rid of the incredible overpopulation and pollution problems it had learned from its neighbors in the northern hemisphere, despite U.N. aid in the right direction, and now Brasilia was slowly crumbling away, just like the old cities in North America and Europe.
Manaus, on the other hand, had grown at a much more relaxed pace, and had weathered well. It was a comfortable city to visit, and from the travelogue-like images he saw, Keith thought he could live there happily... especially with a good salary boosting him along.
Keith’s Mik beeped at him in the middle of his researches. It took him a moment to switch over to a voice com line, because he did not want to lose his place on the Inet searches. When he finally activated the com, the small screen on the Mik’s face showed him the insignia of the U.N. Worldfarm Project.
He said hello, and a voice out of his Mik said, “Hello... Keith Maryland?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m Grant Peabody, with Worldfarm One. Did you arrive at the airport all right?”
“Yes, I’m at the airport now.”
“Good. We’re on approach, and the pilot tells me we’ll be landing in about ten minutes. I just wanted to make sure you made it.”
Keith realized he was listening to an English accent... or was it Australian? “I’m ready to go. Where should I meet you?”
“At the gate, if you don’t mind. We’ve got some supplies for WF1 that we don’t want to sit around for too long, so we’d like to get back underway as soon as we can.”
“No problem,” Keith said. “I believe you’re slotted for... yes, I see it, gate 42. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Excellent. Look forward to meeting you, Mr. Maryland.”
“You, too, Mr. Peabody. See you on the ground.”
“See you soon. Goodbye.”
Keith closed the connection, and decided he’d continue his researches some other time. For now, he decided, would be a good time to chance the men’s room. He took the hot dog bag with him, and set it on the sink counter when he walked into the men’s room. He relieved himself, then went to the sink to wash his hands. Once his hands were dry, he picked up the bag and headed for the door. As he reached the door, he casually dropped the hot dog bag containing his old Mik into a nearby trashcan. With any luck, it would be unnoticed and burned with the rest of the trash.
Keith followed the signs and arrows to gate 42. The gate was in a lesser part of the airport, on the ground level beyond the larger gates of the full-size passenger jets. Keith assumed that some of the government jets must use these gates, because they were the least used.
He did not expect to see, two minutes later, a small corporate-type jet rolling up to a stop thirty meters from the gate. The jet was a Rutan Starshuttle, the kind of jets that private corporations used. It had the U.N. seal on its side, and the usual identifying markings, and that was all. Keith exited the airport, and for the first time since he’d arrived in Houston, the hot, dry outside air enveloped him. At least, he realized, it smelled better out here than inside.
The door on the port side opened up presently, and a man in a white suit stepped out. The man was older than Keith, but not much, and in pretty good shape from all appearances. Keith picked up his bags and walked out into the Houston air.
“Keith?” the man called out, before they were really within conversational distance, and held out a hand. “I’m Grant Peabody. How are you?”
“Fine,” Keith said, transferring both bags to his left and shaking Grant’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Here, I can carry that for you. Is this everything?”
“Yes, just these two.” He let Grant take one of the bags from him.
“Planning to ship everything later?”
Keith decided to allow a bit of truth into his reply. “Don’t have much to ship, actually. I only finished school recently.”
“Oh, I see. Well, if you’re ready, we might as well get going.” Grant extended his free arm in the jet’s direction, and they walked towards the Starshuttle. “I’m sorry to rush you like this, but we have a cargo of perishable supplies for one of the labs, and we’d like to get it back as soon as we can.”
“I understand. Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Well, we couldn’t transport it like this if it were hazardous...”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Keith shook his head, then ducked it to climb aboard the jet. “I meant, is it critical to anything?”
“Oh. No, just has a short shelf life.” Grant followed him aboard, took the bag in his hand, and stowed it in a floor compartment in the front of the main cabin. “Put that bag right in here, and take your pick of seats.”
“Thanks.” Keith put his bag next to the other one and closed the compartment panel, then turned to the cabin. There were only twelve seats, six to a side, and each was a large, comfortable affair with swivel mounts, side tables and some type of IS mounted on the armrest. The walls were carpeted almost as thickly as the floors, and even with the door still open, the cabin was as quiet as a library. The sound dampeners built into the jet’s interior were clearly much better than the ones used on commercial airliners. “I’ve never flown in a private jet before.”
“Well, strictly speaking, it’s not private,” Grant said. “But I know what you mean. Small jets do seem like an incredible luxury, don’t they?” He took the front seat on the left side, and hooked a thumb to the seat opposite him. “Better strap in. This thing takes off like an elevator.”
Keith obligingly sat down in the indicated seat, removing his Mik from its belt holster and putting it on the side table at his elbow, and put his seat belt on. The jet was moving before he knew it, the door closing itself as they rolled back out to the runways. He glanced out the windows lining the sides, taking a good look at the main wing at the rear of the fuselage, and the small wings barely visible at the nose. He had heard these jets flew much better than those with the old design of main wings up front, but he’d never had a chance to ride in one, and no airline had made commercial airliners with a canard design yet, so he was looking forward to the sensation.
When the jet was in position on the takeoff runway, Keith felt rather than heard the twin engines revving up. He was pushed gently but firmly back into his seat, as the jet picked up speed and the roughness of the rolling acceleration increased with it. He noticed his Mik beginning to slide across the table, and he plucked it up and replaced it in his holster. Then, well before he had expected it, the jet seemed to leap into the air, pushing Keith down and tilting him back sharply. He felt like he was the axis the jet was turning upon, a very different sensation than traveling in airliners. Keith didn’t bother to disguise a grin, and glanced over at Grant.
Grant grinned back. “See what I mean? That’s why I was going to wait until we got airborne before I offered you something to eat or drink.”
“Good thinking,” Keith agreed. “But you were right about something else: This seems like an incredible waste of power for two people and some cargo, and that doesn’t sound like the U.N. I know.”
“True enough,” Grant nodded. “Actually, we’re only flying in this for the cargo. Like I said before, very short shelf life. If we didn’t have it with us, you’d probably be flying commercial to Brasilia, then catching a Gull to WF1.”
“Okay, you’ve got my curiosity,” Keith said. “What is our cargo, anyway?”
“Plant cells.”
Keith waited for him to say something else, and after a moment of silence, finally repeated, “Plant cells.”
“Yes. Plant cells. They happen to be a strain of wild rice hybrids. Nothing incredible in themselves, but these happen to be an incredibly hardy strain. Besides being fast growers, with very little waste stalk, they are bug resistant. We wanted to try combining them with a few of our cocoa and barley strains, to see what we can get.”
“Sounds like I’m speaking to another botanist,” Keith observed.
“Close. I’m a geneticist,” Grant said. “It is one of my projects, though. That’s why I’m along, babysitting it.” He suddenly stopped, unbuckled his seatbelt, and walked over to the front of the cabin. “I almost forgot, come on and help yourself to some food and drinks.”
“Oh... thanks.” Keith unbuckled and joined him. A small kitchenette against the wall opposite the cabin door held a small cabinet of snack foods, a cooler of sandwiches and soups, a microwave heater, and assorted liquors in a larger cabinet below. Keith, working around Grant in the small space, found a healthy-sized roast beef sandwich, added some cheese and crackers to a plate, and poured himself a scotch and soda. Then he returned to his seat with his plate and drink, followed by Grant right behind him.
“Tell me,” Keith said between bites, “How long have you been working at Worldfarm One?”
Just three years,” Grant said. “I used to work for the Australian Agricultural department. Then the U.N. made me a good offer.”
“I thought you were Australian,” Keith nodded. “I just read an article about a girl who was beat up in Mexico because...”
“Because she tried to pass for Australian,” Grant finished for him, shaking his head sadly. “I heard it, too. Weird story. Funny part of it was, she probably would have been much better off just being Anglo.”
Anglo. Never heard that used before. “You think so?”
“Yeah. She was close enough to Puerto Vallarta that if she had kept her head, she probably would have been shooed into the old Anglo neighborhoods without being touched. Have you been out of the U.S. before?”
“No...”
“Do you speak Portuguese?”
“No,” Keith said, “but isn’t English the official language there?”
“At WF1, yes,” Grant replied. “Emphasis on ‘official.’ A lot of the scientists and workers there speak their native Portuguese. And outside of the Worldfarm, most everybody speaks Portuguese. I mean, people do all know English, and you will be able to communicate. But it would do you well to learn the language. And practice your accent. Try to get the Anglo out of it.”
“Okay.”
“Just don’t... seriously, don’t try to affect a different accent. Like European English, or Aussie, or something. If they think you’re trying to pass, you’ll probably get what that girl in Mexico got.”
“Is it really that bad?”
Grant looked at him, and took a sip from his drink before replying. “‘Fraid so. The U.S. is in the international doghouse right now, especially with the U.N. U.S. citizens are not exactly being welcomed with open arms abroad.”
“You don’t seem to mind,” Keith pointed out.
“I didn’t say everyone hated Anglos,” Grant told him. “Some of my best friends are Anglos. Most of the people at WF1 are pretty civilized. But there are always prejudiced people out there. You would do well to watch your back.”
Keith considered Grant’s words, and looked out the window at the rapidly receding country of his birth. “Okay.”
~
Despite a somewhat shaky meeting, Grant turned out to be an okay guy after all, in Keith’s opinion... although he still kept hearing that “some of my best friends are Anglos” comment ringing in his ear from time to time. He was a useful fount of knowledge on Worldfarm One, and over the course of the two-hour flight, filled Keith in on a lot of official and unofficial details of life and work there.
Keith caught on fairly early to the fact that WF1... as apparently most people there referred to it... was not accomplishing quite as much as they would have the world believe, any more than the rest of the Worldfarms were. The U.N. put on a brave face, but they still had quite a ways to go before they reached their goal of feeding the world. They were also far from being the model research and development facility the U.N. portrayed in public. WF1 had its share of supply problems, funding problems, personnel problems, personality problems... in short, WF1 was staffed by ordinary people, as opposed to some kind of U.N. notion of Ubermensh.
This was actually comforting to Keith, who had been concerned that he might be getting in over his head with his brand new degree and lack of direct work experience. Grant assured him that there were many at WF1 that had started out just as he was, and had worked out fine. Keith, knowing the truth, did not bother to correct him.
Keith was glad Grant was so willing to talk about the Worldfarm. As for himself, he avoided saying much about himself, although he tried not to seem evasive. It had occurred to him days ago that he might want to invent a few choice lies to cover up his past. So far, he hadn’t had to use any of them, and he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary any time soon.
The first half of the trip had been flown over water, as they traveled diagonally down the western edge of the Atlantic and skirted Central America. When they finally came back over land, they were already in South America, and only a few minutes from Manaus. Keith expected to see below him something like what he had seen when flying over the areas of the U.S. east of the Appalachians, but they were still too high to see much more than a green carpet below them. Often the green was tinged with browns and tans, and as the Starshuttle neared the ground, he realized that much of the tan areas were completely barren of vegetation.
Grant nodded soberly when Keith mentioned this to him. “Signs of forest stripping, mostly. Some of them are just bad farming efforts... land used for too long for the same crop, now no good to grow much of anything without expensive soil treatment first. The U.N. hopes to re-grow forests on that land someday, when money and manpower are available to do the work.”
“What about the people who live there? Won’t they do the work, for pay?”
“The people who did that damage left long ago,” Grant stated. “Most of them are probably working manual labor jobs in Brasilia by now.”
“Oh. I take it a lot of South America is like this now.”
“Well, certainly far too much for our tastes. Most of the land WF1 works with looked like that, once. We’ve actually done quite a bit to improve things in our area. Pretty soon, you’ll start to see some of our own lands.”
Eventually, the jet veered to the right, and headed further inland. Keith took a look downward, and saw a huge expanse of a river, dotted from his vantage point with large and small vessels making their way up and downriver. Keith didn’t need Grant to tell him he was looking at the mighty Amazon itself. The sheer size of the river, even this far inland, and the vast number of branches and tributaries, was incredible, and Keith had to fight the urge to shake his head in amazement. Along the edges of the river, where Keith would have expected to see walls of dense jungle growth, most of the banks were taken up with large and small docks and marinas, surrounded by warehouses and factories, and barely organized industrial parks. A few had roads that seemed to run headlong into thick forest and disappear. He assumed that there were more factories further distant, perhaps a few work villages where goods were prepared by locals and brought to the docks for export.
Soon even the Amazon had shrunk to dimensions more to Keith’s comfort, though still large enough to handle large ship traffic, and still they headed inland, more or less following the river’s meandering path. The wall of docks receded to an occasional few, then to small and handmade ones, which they continued to see for miles along the way.
Then suddenly, the number and size of the docks began to increase again. Many of the large ships were docking there, with only smaller ships continuing on. The number and size of buildings increased again, and soon Keith could see signs of a city through his viewport. This, Grant indicated, was Manaus.
It was not a huge city. Manaus was never a large city, which was probably why it was doing so well now. While the larger cities of South America were all on the way down, the small towns and medium-sized cities had either strengthened somewhat or actually thrived on the radically-shifting economies of the U.N. Global Era. Manaus had seen a great deal of shipping-related business come its way, much of which had been air-related and traveling through Brasilia, when air freight tarriffs and resource export restrictions began to drive Brasilia’s economy downward. Manaus had been wise enough not to expand unchecked, but instead to improve what they already had, to a point. As a result, Manaus was a thoroughly modern third-world city, easily equal to any medium-sized new-world town of the 1960s.
It still wasn’t too impressive looking to Keith. Even from this height, he could tell that most of the buildings were ages old, stone and stucco the dominant motif. There was little civic improvement to see from up above. Of course, he hadn’t expected it to look like Richmond. But he found himself hoping that there were enough of the amenities in the Worldfarm’s complex to keep him from needing to spend much time in Manaus.
In about a minute, they were past the city and still traveling westward, but Keith could tell their altitude was dropping off rapidly. The city gave way to farms, then to mostly young forests and simple fields, and finally yielded back to the Amazon itself. From their lower altitude, Keith could now make out individual items in the forest below, though at that speed, he could derive nothing from the view. But at some point, he was not sure where, he began to realize that the patterns he was seeing below were becoming more regular, more predictable. He watched the trees along the nearer horizon, and occasionally he would be over a point where he could see that the trees were in miles-long rows, would see for a split-second perfectly straight lines of ground and lower growth beneath them, before they were no longer in line with the rows, and the forest canopy would close up and resume its random appearance again.
Keith turned to Grant, who was busy with his Mik, and not paying attention to the passing view. “We’re over the Worldfarm grounds now, aren’t we?”
Grant looked out the window, then back to Keith. “Actually, we’ve been over WF1 for at least ten minutes. Not all of it is this regular. Most of the outlying regions are still in very natural states, not like this at all. We’re just getting to the more ordered regions, where we need to exercise more control over the environment to properly monitor and evaluate the experiments we’re working on. Right now, I think about seventy-five percent of WF1 looks like raw jungle... at least from up here. But the ‘ponics areas are below the canopies, so you can’t usually make them out from above.”
Keith nodded, and resumed silently staring at the passing foliage. When the jet banked to the left, Keith looked as far forward as he could to see what they were approaching. In the distance, he could see a vast clearing seemingly forced upon the jungle around it, with a number of large and small buildings nestled within it. The clearing was dominated by a single building, maybe ten stories tall, shaped like a square “U.” The building’s walls weren’t vertical, but angled inward, resembling a long bunker or pyramid with two right angle turns along its length. The central area inside the three bordering walls was filled with a lush garden, which spilled out of the open end of the “U” and reached out for the surrounding buildings. Most of the other buildings faced the main building’s open end, with just a few smaller structures on the opposite side of the clearing, between the edge and the closed end of the main building. Keith could not tell what the smaller structures were, but the larger buildings seemed to be apartments and service buildings. It was a grand view of the entire complex, with the sun shining down and reflecting off of shiny surfaces and manmade ponds, and from this height, at least, everything looked fresh and well-kept.
“I told Prinz you were on the starboard side of the jet,” Grant commented, grinning. “Be sure to thank him for the scenic view, when we debark.”
“I will,” Keith smiled back.
Eventually the jet angled back toward the complex. Keith caught sight of the landing strip, moments before the jet’s angle hid it again from view. As they dropped closer to the ground, he could make out more details of the buildings, and see a few people moving around here and there.
Then the end of the landing strip flew into sight below him, and a second later, the jet’s wheels bumped lightly onto the tarmac. It slowed rapidly (Keith was glad he’d thought to put his seatbelt back on), then turned for one of the smaller buildings on the far side of the complex.
The smaller building turned out to be a combination hangar and warehouse, and they jockeyed between larger cargo planes, mostly Gulls and Ospreys, before coming to a stop about fifty meters from the hangar.
I’m here, Keith thought. He almost didn’t want to admit to himself that part of him hadn’t expected to get this far. I’m over the first hurdle.
The engines began cycling down then, and Grant began to collect his things. “This is it, last stop,” he announced needlessly, and Keith took the hint and unbuckled his belt. He collected his bags from the front, remembered to thank the pilot when he came out of the cockpit, and stepped out into the tropical heat behind Grant.
Keith didn’t need to check his watch to know it was about three o’clock... the heat told him right off. Grant kept an eye on him as he stepped off, and Keith would have bet it was to make sure he didn’t faint under the effects of the climate. When Keith regarded him calmly, Grant smiled and nodded. “Well, this is where we part company. I’ll probably run into you again here and there.” Grant offered his hand again, then turned and tossed him a friendly salute. “See you later. Oh... whoever’s planning to meet you is probably in the hangar office, through there.” He pointed, smiled, and headed off in the other direction.
Keith waved back, then turned and walked for the hangar’s office area. He pushed through the door, which closed behind him, and instantly felt about twenty degrees cooler, and much drier.
His sigh of relief caught the attention of two people in the office who had been talking to each other. The man behind the desk, upon seeing him, turned to a desk IS and started going through databases as if there was no one else in the room. The man on the opposite side of the desk, upon seeing him, straightened up and approached him, hand outstretched.
“Keith Maryland? I’m Nick Dreski. I’m here to take you through some orientation, then get you settled. You speak Portuguese?”
“Well, no,” Keith replied, shaking his hand. “I hope it’s not going to be a problem?”
“No, not really,” Nick shook his head. “Just curious. We keep everything in English around here, officially. But knowing the local language never hurts. You could study it, although after you’ve been around here for awhile, you’ll probably pick it up on your own. Come on, I’ve got a cart around the corner for your bags.”
They exited the office and rounded the corner of the building. The cart was exactly that, a hand cart on four wheels usually used for boxes and equipment cases. “You never know how much people are going to bring with them,” Nick explained. Then he flipped a catch and pushed, and the four-wheeled cart reared up on two wheels. Keith obligingly put his bags on the cart, and they started off towards the main building, Nick pushing the cart ahead of him. Once they were away from the hangar and tarmac, trees and shrubs overhung and surrounded the path they walked on, cooling the ambient air around them.
“This is a beautiful complex,” Keith commented.
“They did a good job laying it out,” Nick told him. “Most people find it very comfortable and pleasant here... a very easy place to work.”
“That’s great. Are you very self-contained here?”
“We’re completely self-contained here,” Nick replied, smiling. “There’s a small shopping mall in the commercial building, apartments for singles to families, we handle our own utilities, security... you could stay in here forever, if you wanted. Most people go into Manaus now and then, for entertainment of one kind or another. On their own time, of course. It’s up to you.”
The path they were on led directly into the closed end of the main building. The entrance was large enough to drive a semi through, but the airflow curtain they walked through was apparently as effective as any door for keeping the hotter, more humid climate outside. The entrance opened into a main hall, a few dozen meters wide and at least a dozen tall, that ran directly through the building to the park-like open end. Doors, manually and automatically opening, single and double-doors, lined the hallway, and people came and went from many of them as they passed. Most of what he saw through these doors resembled administrative offices.
A second floor of offices overlooked the hall, behind glass walls that ran the length of the hall. Keith could see numerous people working at desks and consoles, moving freely about, and occasionally glancing out at them, or across the hallway at the opposing offices. The open, airy design seemed to be very comfortable to its occupants, who practically exuded calm from every step and posture.
Nick swerved into an office just before the hallway reached a crossroads, and Keith followed him. He was briefly introduced to a few people, one of whom went over his employment data with him, and another who asked more personal questions designed to configure his work and recreation schedules. This proved to be the first of six such offices, each with at least one person who either asked questions or confirmed data they already had on him. This, Keith knew, was his second hurdle: Maintaining the story that had gotten him this job. Fortunately Keith had spent a lot of time preparing for this moment, so he managed to stay calm and at-ease as he provided his rehearsed answers and manufactured past to them. He kept track of the questions asked to the best of his ability, chiefly to make sure he wouldn’t say anything contradictory from one place to another, but soon he found he could no longer keep it all sorted out in his head, and concentrated on his rehearsed responses instead.
Eventually he was finished with the administrative arm, to his relief, and Nick led him down the right arm of the hallway crossroad, into one of the laboratory wings. The lab wings were likewise as open and relaxed as the admin wing, filled with sunken gardens of flowers, chairs and tables, and filled with what seemed to be natural light, coming from glass panels high up on the walls. Even an occasional bird wafted by, or called out in the distance. It was almost as if he were out in the open air, which, considering where he’d just spent most of the last decade, looked a lot like paradise to Keith.
Nick led him into one of the labs, which was unused at the moment. The lights came on as they entered, and a few pieces of equipment automatically powered up, lending a slight hum to the room. Keith had seen all of this equipment before, though he had only worked interactively with most of them during his studies, and only a few pieces could actually be considered state-of-the-art. Clearly the U.N. had run a bit low on funds about the time they finished building the facility, and had to resort to gathering old and used equipment for their labs. Still, they had everything any other modern lab would have, if not as new or as immaculate. Everything there would do the job.
As they walked about the lab, Nick pointed out various pieces of equipment, or mentioned some of the experiments or processes it was used for. Throughout, he watched Keith, and Keith assumed he was looking for some sign that he was unfamiliar with the equipment. So he asked specific questions, by way of clarifying points, to prove he knew his job. This seemed to satisfy Nick, who became noticeably more informal as the tour continued.
On their way out, they almost literally ran into a technician with a small tray of petri dishes, who was apparently coming into the lab... in fact, would have run into him, if he hadn’t seen them first and emitted a grunt of surprise. Both parties jerked to a stop in the corridor.
“Oh! Oh, sorry, Mal,” Nick said.
“Uh, that’s okay...”
“Mal, this is Keith Maryland,” Nick continued. “He’s starting with WF1 tomorrow. Keith, Mal Baker, one of our technicians. I figured we’d run into a fellow countryman of yours sooner or later.”
“Hi. Looks like you’re in a hurry with that tray,” Keith said amiably.
Mal looked down at the tray, then past them into the lab. “Oh. Actually, I don’t think...” He looked at the door number, and nodded quickly. “Oh, yeah, I came to the wrong room with these. I shouldn’t be here. My mistake. Listen, nice meeting you, Keith. I gotta go, but I’ll see ya later.” Mel gave them a quick smile, then turned and hurried down the corridor.
“Wow. I didn’t see what was on those trays, but he acted like that stuff was dangerous,” Keith commented, when Mel was out of range.
“I doubt it,” Nick said. “Half of these guys act as if they’re carrying fissionables. Come on.” Nick headed on down the same corridor, and Keith fell in step.
“Somewhere down here,” Nick explained, “we should be able to find Dr. Kay. He’s the senior botanist here.” Nick seemed to examine each door as if he could see through them, then nodded at one door. “Let’s see...” He tapped the announcer on the wall, and the door slid open. “Ah, here he is.”
Inside the lab, two people looked up from a piece of apparatus on a bench. The man, Keith presumed, was the Dr. Kay Nick had mentioned. He was a tall man, probably in his fifties judging by his white hair, and something about his appearance seemed to say, “British.” The other, a young woman, was dressed in a white lab coat and (unless she was very short) was seated behind the bench next to Kay. She was a striking Latino, almost as dark-skinned as Keith was, with long reddish-brown hair that hung over her forehead in light wisps, almost reaching her eyebrows. Keith tried not to stare, as Nick ushered him into the room and around the benches to meet them.
“Afternoon, Doctor, Joan. Do you have a quick moment?” Neither of them objected to Nick’s question, but waited for them to approach. “Keith Maryland, this is Doctor Barry Kay, and geneticist Joan Domingo. Keith is starting with us tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Maryland,” Dr. Kay nodded, as the three shook hands. He was British, as his cultured accent confirmed. “I heard you were coming on. I didn’t expect to see you today, though.”
“Nick’s just giving me the orientation tour,” Keith replied.
“Well, I had a chance to review your cells, and I’ve got a few projects waiting that should be right up your alley. Come see me in my office tomorrow morning at nine, and we’ll go over them then.”
“Pleasure.” Keith glanced at Joan, and at the gear before her. “What are you working on here?”
Joan regarded him with a slightly detached air, as if she was trying not to forget something she was concentrating on. “We’re isolating DNA fragments related to threat messaging pheromones... we hope.” She spoke with a strong Portuguese accent, yet her English was excellent. She nodded down at the apparatus before her, which Keith recognized as a DNA reading and tagging scanner. The screen showed a double string of coded sequences and shapes, which Keith recognized as the graphic representation of the DNA strand, running horizontally across the screen. Below the sequences was a group of more coded labels, each one connected to a specific part of the string by an indicator line. “We want to splice it into one of our local wheat varieties, to help make it less susceptible to a wheatgerm virus.”
“This would be one of Grant’s samples, wouldn’t it?” Keith said, and Joan stared at him, surprised. “We flew in together from Houston. He told me a bit about it.”
“Oh,” Joan said, blinking. “Well, yes, it is. Excuse me.” She nodded slightly, then turned back to the screen, and proceeded to act as if no one else was in the room.
What did I say? Keith mused, but Dr. Kay was already shifting back to the screen himself. “Yes, I’m sorry, but we do need to finish this. Keith, nice to meet you. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Certainly, Doctor,” Keith replied. “Miss Domingo,” he inclined his head in her direction. She nodded again, and briefly smiled, but did not look up from the screen. Keith paused for the barest moment, then turned and left the lab, followed by Nick. Once they were outside, he glanced at Nick and inclined his head back at the lab.
Nick nodded at Keith’s unspoken comment. “Joan’s okay, she just gets very involved with her work. Besides, you know how easy it is to screw up DNA coding?”
“Actually, yes, I do. It just seemed like she didn’t like me, or something.”
“No, she’s not bigoted.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh. In that case, forget I said it. Anyway, I know that’s a time-critical project they’re on, so we’re better off leaving them to it.”
They continued on down the corridor in silence. Keith could not help but notice how many comments he’d heard so far related to bigotry. Being an African from the United States, he was of course well acquainted with racism in its many forms, and had gotten used to it... as much as that was possible. But this was different. So far, the reactions he’d seen had happened, not when he was seen for the first time, but when he opened his mouth and let his American accent out. It was almost as strange to him as suddenly being looked down upon for having two feet. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable about it, and he hoped strongly that the feeling would wear off over time.
Try as he might, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being spit at behind his back by most of the people he’d met... at least, most of the non-Anglos he’d met. He had heard that phrase quite a lot, too, and it was beginning to sound a lot like the word “Jew” used to be used back in the U.S..
~
Eventually, Nick deposited Keith at the threshold of his new apartment. At Keith’s request, it had been sparsely furnished, so he could order his own furniture once he arrived. Consequently, the flat seemed overly large and very empty when he first opened the door and stepped inside.
Nick handed him the card that had unlocked the door, released the cart that had borne his two suitcases all day, and tapped a nearby wall plate for the lights. “You’ve got a standard singles flat,” Nick explained, “complete with heat, a/c, and IS lines. There should be a screenphone in the kitchen.” Nick led the way to the kitchen and switched the lights on. Keith noted all the appliances were new and state-of-the-art, right down to the EMC refrigerator and EM stovetops. Nick pointed to the screenphone, a standard counter model with the control pad on its surface next to the handset. Nick tapped the pad, and it lit up with numbers and a small menu, as a dialtone clicked to life. “Good, it’s already activated. That ought to help you start to furnish this place. And you’ll need to call the WF operator, to make sure your Mik’s com is linked to this flat, but they’ve probably gotten to that, too.”
Keith moved on to the bedroom. The bed was a twin, there was a dresser built into the closet, and that was it. The bathroom had an access door from the bedroom and the living room, and the shower stall had a solid plastic sliding door, so at least he didn’t need a curtain. But again, everything in it was state-of-the-art. Keith nodded his approval, and Nick smiled back.
“Well, I guess that’s about it, Keith. There’s a good introduction program available on the phone, on the “WF1” button. It’ll also show you a map of the complex, so you can start wandering around the place on your own.” Nick reached out and shook Keith’s hand. “Gotta go. I’m in the directory. See you later.”
Keith saw Nick to the door, and shut it behind him. He turned and looked again at the living room, whose desk and single chair were the only items of furniture within. He’d just recently left a place with such sparse furnishings, he reflected. Two of them, in fact. Fortunately, this was a significant improvement from both.
There were plenty of wall-mounted control panels in the place, he could see three of them from the front door alone, but they would be limited to basic light control and voice communication until he bought an IS and hooked it in. Back into the kitchen, he discovered a few EM pots and pans, some basic plates and glasses, and utensils in a drawer. The fridge had a water dispenser, so he filled a glass with cold water, and brought it into the living room.
He sat down at the desk, setting his glass in one corner, and putting his Mik down in the center. Using that screenphone to order furniture will take forever, he knew, but fortunately he’d already made quite a few selections and arrangements before he’d left Richmond. Using his Mik to access the Inet, he sent a few mail messages to three furniture companies he had shopped through while in Richmond, specifying the items of furniture he wanted, and the shipping instructions, and finally charging it to the U.N. account that had been set aside for his moving expenses. He hadn’t ordered many items, but he had plenty of time to fill the place out later. Then he located the nearest electronics outlet in Manaus, and ordered a new Intelligence System (a Sony, to make sure he’d have maximum compatibility with the Sony-manufactured Mik he’d purchased in Houston), standing rack and all, and requested a next day delivery.
It wasn’t yet five P.M., but Keith realized he was already a bit hungry. Nick had pointed out the compact shopping mall in the building next to the apartment building, and told him there was a grocery store there, so he knew what his next destination was. Pocketing his key card and Mik, he headed out the door and checked that it locked behind him.
The apartment building was similar to the main building, and every other, in architectural design: Modern contemporary, a lot of straight or lightly-curved lines and shapes, open areas well-integrated with the local flora, and medium-toned pastels with strong accent colors, a style popular in tropical climes. He walked through a balcony level designed to seem open to the outside, took a stairway down to the main level, and exited through an air curtain to the actual outer courtyards and gardens.
The commercial building was to the right, next to the apartments, just a short walk through another well-shaded garden walkway. Then another air curtain, and he was back inside and in a wide corridor filled with kiosks, and lined with storefronts selling everything from clothing to human services. The corridor itself looked more like Keith’s perception of an open-air market, and quite a few of the vendors hawked their wares as he walked by. Most of them yelled in English, a few in Portuguese, and some even used both, switching back and forth in mid-sentence as if repeating each phrase in both languages before continuing on to the next one. The hawkers were the only ones paying any attention to him, though: Just like back home, the other shoppers walked by, avoiding eye contact, barely avoiding collisions with each other, and continuing on their way. The storefronts looked much like they did in any mall in the U.S., with wide front windows advertising their wares and prices. Keith made a few mental notes about some of the places he passed, in order to stop in some other day, and kept moving.
Just as he saw the grocery store ahead of him, Keith realized he was even closer to a small restaurant wedged into one of the storefronts. It looked like a comfortable enough place, so he decided he’d have dinner there, then pick up groceries down the way. There were plenty of empty tables, and he selected one near the bar, a small table with two seats.
Momentarily, a young man walked up to the table, and asked in precise English, “Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you today?”
“Uh, yes,” Keith replied, stealing a look at the bar to decide on a beverage. “I’ll have a Budweiser draft, and I’d like a menu, please.”
“Okay,” the young man replied simply, turned, and walked away.
Keith took the moment to take out his Mik. He suspected the shopping center might be broadcasting its advertising cells, which would allow him to save its list of stores, maybe a map, and possibly access some remote purchasing systems. Sure enough, there was a cell being broadcast through the mall, which was officially known as Worldfarm Mall. There was a map of stores, including all of the kiosks and their present locations, a search program cross-referenced through the mall’s inventory, and access to each store. He started exploring the mall again, from the comfort of his seat, noticing a few stores that he had missed the first time through.
After a few minutes of wading through the mall cells, Keith noticed he hadn’t gotten his beer. He looked around for his waiter, and eventually saw him in the far section of the restaurant, sitting and chatting amiably with another waiter at a table. Keith didn’t need a club to the head to know what was going on, and he momentarily rested his head in his hand in disgust. He considered any number of ways to give the waiter enough grief to last all night, but he decided he couldn’t be bothered. So he got up to leave, pausing a moment at the table and pretending to dig into his pocket. The waiter saw him from the far side of the restaurant, and left the table when he thought Keith was digging for a tip. Instead of leaving money, Keith simply spat on the table, and left.
He was well out of the restaurant before the waiter had a chance to reach the table. To his surprise, the waiter actually stepped out of the restaurant and shouted a string of (probably) choice epithets, in Portuguese, at him. The only word Keith could make out of the verbal torrent was, “Anglo.” I definitely have to learn Portuguese. Or get a translator for this Mik. Many of the shoppers in the mall looked at the waiter, then at Keith, and he didn’t notice many kind eyes turned his way.
He looked ahead of him as he continued to walk, and that was when he noticed the U.N. Guard uniform approaching him. The Guard officer was stalking right for him, and Keith had the sick sensation that he was about to be raked over the coals by some junior Nazi over a gob of hock on a table. But the officer merely glanced at him impassively, and veered past him at the last moment. The officer continued on until he had reached the waiter, and Keith could hear the pitched tones between them all the way down the corridor to the grocery store. As he turned into the grocery, he glanced over his shoulder, and saw the officer taking the gesticulating waiter back into the restaurant, and the crowd slowly dispersing.
Once in the grocery store, Keith concentrated on buying his groceries, and quickly forgot the incident at the restaurant. He discovered that here, too, most of the products and labels were in Portuguese, but since everything in a grocery store was either clear-packaged or had pictures on it, this was not a problem. He simply went down each aisle, selecting mostly staples, a few drink mixes, and some juices. He would see about getting into more elaborate shopping later, but for the moment, he had empty cupboards to fill. In no time, he was through the scan line, where his purchases were recorded and charged to his account directly from the cart, and bagging the items at a bagging table.
On the way back, he passed the restaurant, and glanced in to see if the waiter was within sight. He wasn’t, and Keith was slightly disappointed. He had been looking forward to flashing him the finger as he went by. Not that he needed more trouble... he might actually want to eat in there some day, and he already had a sick feeling what condition his food would be in if he did... he’d just wanted the satisfaction.
~
Keith ate his dinner at his desk (it was either that, the kitchen counter, or the bed, until his furniture showed up), both feet up on the desktop while his plate rested in his lap. It’s the first day. It’s only the first day, he kept telling himself. You’ll meet people, you’ll make friends, you’ll know where to go and where not to go. It’s just the first day. He took a bite from his baked apple, and chewed it absently. I wonder if they’re as much a bunch of assholes in Kenya.
~
Keith’s first week on the job would be a very short one: His first day at work, as it so happened, fell on a Friday. He woke with his alarm, showered quickly (a sign in the shower stall encouraged taking “navy” showers... turn on water long enough to get wet, then off, soap up, then rinse. There was no point in lingering in a navy shower... which was why Keith hated the things so much), and rustled up some breakfast. He dressed simply, as he’d seen most of the scientists dressed the day before. He expected to be wearing lab coats more often than not, so he ignored his sportcoat, and just pulled on a sleeve tie. Including a simple breakfast, he was ready to go within fifty minutes.
He left his flat and crossed the gardens between his building and the main complex. There weren’t too many people out there with him, so he supposed he was a bit earlier than most. He walked quickly: He really was looking forward to his new position, despite his concerns about the anti-Anglo attitudes he had encountered the day before. He consulted a wall directory to find Dr. Kay’s office, on the ninth floor of the north wing, and took a nearby elevator to nine. Dr. Kay’s office was easy to find, and Keith smiled when he found Dr. Kay behind his desk.
Kay looked up when Keith knocked lightly on his open door. “Ah. You’re early. Come on in.” Kay turned back to the IS screen on his desk, as Keith walked in and sat in front of his desk. “I was just reviewing the botany programs we’re working on here. I want you to tie your Mik into these cells, so you can keep track of our department’s projects.”
“No problem,” Keith said, and began to tap instructions into his Mik.
“It probably wouldn’t hurt to tie into the other programs as well... primarily the genetics, chem, agriculture, and biohazard programs. You never know when someone else’s projects might benefit one of your own.” Keith nodded to Kay’s suggestion, adding those to his tie-ins as well. “We try to run an efficient operation here. Among other things, we all try to work together on our projects, share data, and avoid redundant and cross-purpose work.”
“Makes sense.”
“Have you met the Director?”
“Uh...” Keith was caught by surprise by the question. “No, I haven’t. Should I have?”
“No, no reason why you should have,” Kay shook his head. “Just curious. I’m sure you’ll run into her sooner or later. She encourages our working as a team, right down to the field laborers. Now, to you.” Kay tapped a few instructions into the IS, and a short list came up on the screen. “I want you to start in with our aeroponic research. I understand you did some good research in that area at Beacon-O-U. Had good success with nutrient layering.”
“Yes I did,” Keith said. “The methods I worked out increased yields for half a dozen plants I worked on. I based my final reports on it.”
“So I saw. We’ve already applied some of your findings here, as soon as they were released. I want you to look over our work, and see if you can apply the same things to some of our plants that haven’t come around yet.”
Keith could barely contain his smile. He was actually going to continue the research he had been doing to get his degree at Beacon Online University, research he had been forced to do mostly by VR and remote, and now could do in person. “I’d be happy to.”
“Great. We have, uh...” Kay consulted his IS screen. “...Mendez and Che, and, uh, Haupt, working those projects right now. Che has had the most direct experience with aeroponics, but none of them know much about your layering methods. I expect you should be able to advance their progress considerably.” Kay looked back at his list. “I’d also like you to look in on the biohazards group. I have a sneaking suspicion this layering might be applied to our pesticide and herbicide research.”
“There’s a good chance. I’ll check it out.”
“See Greg Rueres about that. He’ll bring you up to speed.” Kay folded his hands on the table. “That’s about it, Keith. Most of our lab people start between eight and nine, depending on the group...”
“Oh... I didn’t know, I could have come in earlier...”
“I know, I just didn’t have time to see you until nine. That’s all right. Just so you know, we don’t exactly punch a clock around here. But if your teams need you, you’re expected to be there, not loafing around on your own. So take your cues from the teams you’ll be working with. You’ll get the hang of it pretty quickly.”
“They’re not going to have a problem with the new Anglo on the block, are they?”
Keith made sure he asked the question totally without rancor, and Kay’s pause and response suggested that he had not taken offense to it. “Already run into a few problems here, hm? Around the garage, or maybe the commercial building?” Kay smiled wryly when he saw Keith’s look of confirmation. “Well, I can tell you there is very little of that kind of thing going on in our labs. The scientists you’ll be working with are all first-rate professionals. I daresay most of the problems related to such... prejudices... will come from our less-educated workers and local laborers. But if you do have any problems, I want you to tell me about it immediately, and we’ll deal with it right here.”
“I appreciate that. And actually, it happened in the mall last night, not in here.”
“Thought so. My people aren’t that narrow-minded. We have a lot of Anglos on our staff, and we couldn’t function if half our staff was fighting with the other half.” Kay waved a hand at the door. “You should get going, Keith. I told Che to expect you this morning.”
“Sure,” Keith said, standing. “Thanks a lot, Doctor.”
“Welcome aboard.”
Keith walked out of the office and turned in the direction of the elevators. Kay watched him go, waiting long enough to guarantee he was out of earshot.
“Anglos,” he muttered softly.
~
“I’m Loi Che.”
Kay had pronounced it “Shey.” Keith had expected, therefore, that the person he was about to meet would be Latino. Instead, Loi Che turned out to be an Asian woman, slight of figure with a hairnet that was large enough to hold a good yard of hair inside it. He idly wondered how many other people would surprise him as not being Latino. When she spoke, she left the side of the other two people in the room and walked up to him.
“Are you the Keith Maryland we were expecting?”
“That’s me,” Keith replied cordially. “Nice to meet you.” He looked over at the other two people, and the woman spoke first.
“I’m Dara Mendez.” Strike two, Keith thought. Dara Mendez spoke with a flawless U.S. accent. She wasn’t Latino, either... more likely Jewish.
The third in the room, a man, announced, “I’m Gregor Haupt.” Well, no surprises there. He looked German, his English had a strong German accent, the name suited him perfectly. Keith came over and shook hands with each of them, and they seemed (at the very least, pretended) to be happy to meet him.
“So, you’re the one who came up with this layering method we’ve been wrestling with,” Dara said after introductions were finished. “Have we got questions for you.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Keith nodded amiably. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve been doing?”
“Here, pull up a chair,” Loi said, joining Dara and Gregor in front of a desk IS. “We were just looking over our logs, here, which would probably be a good place to start. They’re well cross-referenced with our project cells, so you should be able to review everything through there.”
“Sounds good,” Keith said, rolling a chair over to the desk and seating himself in front of the IS. So far, every Intelligence System he had seen at WF1 was exactly the same model, a fairly new Fairbanks 3. Keith took note, since he hadn’t ordered a desk IS for his own flat yet. The flat black touch pad control gave his fingers good traction, and had an almost warm feel to it, and the control icons he called up were fast and responsive. The screen, a flat sheet of blacked-out plastic standing at a 120-degree angle to the control pad, was also responsive and easy to read in the glare of the overhead lights. While the group watched, Keith started guiding the IS through the group’s logs, pausing occasionally to jump to a linked note or results table.
“Actually, you’ve gotten off to a good start,” Keith commented after a minute or so. “How long have you been working on this?”
“About four months,” Gregor replied.
Keith looked up. “Four months! I take it back... you’ve made great progress. I may have more questions to ask you, then you have for me!”
The concession seemed to break the ice with the group, and they all broke into smiles and visibly relaxed. Once they had all pulled up chairs, they started discussing the project at length. Loi, Dara and Gregor all turned out to be competent scientists and friendly people, and Keith was at ease in no time with them.
After a few hours of discussion, Dara got up and walked over to the drinks dispenser. “I need some coffee.”
“Okay, let’s take a breather,” Loi agreed, and also got up and stretched. Keith joined Dara at the dispenser, which was a simple hot-cold water tank with a tray of mixes and cups next to it on a table. Keith found a cup and filled it with ice water, having noticed a packet of iced tea by a favorite brand (he’d discovered it while in Richmond), and mixed it, while Dara did the same with hot water and a coffee packet.
Dara looked over at Keith and, after a moment, asked, “Are you from Maryland?”
“Me? No,” Keith replied. “Family name.”
“Mm. Maybe your family was from Maryland, then?”
“Could be,” he shrugged. “Are you from the states?”
Dara nodded. “My family was from Iowa, and moved here when I was young.”
“I didn’t think you looked Latin.”
Dara smiled. “My family changed their name when they came over. It used to be ‘Meadows.’ Why they didn’t change it to a Latin form of Meadows, I’ll never understand.”
“They probably wanted something easy to remember. Have you always been down here?”
“We lived in Brasilia most of my life. I moved to Manaus after my parents died, so I was here when the Worldfarm project was starting up. I was already studying agriculture at UdE, so I added a botany minor, and applied here when I graduated.”
“Ecuador University, huh? Good school, I hear.”
“Great school. As long as you stayed inside after dark. There was a lot of Anglo-bashing going on up there, mostly gangs. I was chased home more than once. But I was always a good broken field runner.”
Keith laughed at that, though he idly wondered whether the “Anglo-bashing” she gently referred to would have involved beating, knifing, or rape. Or a combination of same. He decided he really didn’t want to know. “It’s not like that around here, though, right?”
Dara gave a wry grin. “No, the bigots around here just call you names. But watch your step: Some of those bigots have important friends upstairs, and you have to be careful who you annoy.”
“Kay said he was ready to help if—”
“God, no!” Dara whispered between her teeth. “Kay doesn’t give a shit about Anglos, he just doesn’t want trouble getting higher than him. He won’t do a thing to help you out, unless it’s to transfer you to someplace where you can’t do any harm to him. And if that means a demotion and a dead-end assignment...” she shrugged meaningfully.
Keith deflated a bit. “Grand.”
“Don’t worry,” Dara told him. “We Anglos stick together around here. It’s not hard to keep from being harassed... and there are ways around any problem.” She seemed to consider her own comment for a moment, and looked Keith up and down. “Have you met the Director?”
“That’s the second time today somebody’s asked me that,” Keith said. “Are you talking about Director DeLuis?”
“Director Conchita DeLuis,” Dara confirmed. “She has a thing for men... especially subordinates. And she doesn’t have any hangups about Anglos, as long as you keep her entertained... if you know what I mean. Get on her good side... specifically, underneath her,” she added with a sly smile, “...and you won’t get any grief from anyone in the complex.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Hey, it’s worked forever for women in the same position,” Dara shrugged. “Why not take advantage of every opportunity? Besides, you haven’t seen her, have you? She’s a very popular lady here, among the men. I don’t think you’d be disappointed.”
Dara walked back to the table, leaving Keith standing there at the dispenser, considering her words. He never thought he’d see the day when a woman he’d just met would tell him to sleep with another woman—his new boss, yet—to get ahead.
On the other hand, he’d never been hated for being an American, either.
Life just seemed to be getting stranger and stranger every day.
~
Keith spent the first half of the day with Loi, Dara and Gregor, including lunch, when they took him to the complex’s cafeteria and continued a more relaxed conversation. He privately noted that the cafeteria staff seemed much more tolerant of Anglos than the restaurant he’d visited the day before. Once lunch was over, they returned to the lab and made their plans for improving their layering research over the next few weeks. Then Keith finally managed to beg off, to meet the second group he would be working with.
When he arrived at the lab the biohazards team was supposed to be using, he knocked politely, then opened the door slowly, prepared to slam it shut again in case someone inside was concerned about contamination from within or without. There were no sounds from inside, so he continued to slide the door open, and craned his neck inside. He could only see one man, seated at a table on the far side of the lab, reading from a Mik in his lap. He looked like he was probably native, but Keith had already been fooled by names and appearances often enough in twenty-four hours to wait until he actually met him. A quick look around confirmed the man at the table to be the only one inside, and Keith was not even sure he had heard him come in, until he finally looked up.
A slight frown of confusion crossed the man’s features for a moment, then changed to dawning recognition. “Oh. Are you Maryland?”
“Yes, that’s me,” Keith nodded, reaching out a hand. “Keith.”
“Keith. I’m Greg Rueres,” the man said, shaking his hand amiably. “Dr. Kay said you’d be coming in today.” Greg’s English accent was good, but still had quite a bit of a Portuguese twang to it. Definitely native.
“Uh...” Keith took another quick look around. “Where’s the rest of your team? Field trip?”
“No,” Greg replied innocently, then realized a beat later that Keith had been trying to make a joke. He chuckled, and shook his head. “Actually, you could say we had our field trip last night.”
“Yeah?”
“We were all out in the north plantation, checking out a spore infestation. It’s a lot easier to track at night, because we can use simple flashlights with UV lenses. We got back around ten this morning. The others have all called it a day.”
“You’ve been up all night?” Keith said. “I hope you weren’t elected to sit here and just wait for me, ‘cause you didn’t need to do that.”
“No, not at all,” Greg said, standing and placing the Mik that had been in his hand on the table. It wasn’t a standard model, but a tablet-style Mik, about the size of a clipboard, that Keith had seen used in many of the labs. “I’ve been going over the data we collected, and doing some checking with some other spores which have similar characteristics, before I forgot what those characteristics were.” Greg smiled again and shrugged, then yawned lightly. “Besides, I’m used to staying up all night.”
“Dr. Kay thought my layering studies might be of help to some of your projects,” Keith volunteered.
“I know,” Greg replied. “I wish he had told me more about it before yesterday, though. I don’t know much about your work, and I didn’t get a chance to look at it last night. What, exactly, is it?”
“Well, nutrient layering is a method of adding nutrients to plants, either airborne or solution-fed, in a specific amount and order. I found evidence that alternating and varying the nutrient layers created improved growing cycles, and in many cases, makes for much healthier plants.”
“Like a tightly-controlled diet.”
“Exactly,” Keith continued, taking out his own Mik and calling up some data cells. “Take a look at these. As you can see... there... the test samples showed a distinct cycled growth spurt which seemed to mirror the layering formulas I applied to them.”
“Hey,” Greg said appreciably, looking over the cells. “Hey, yeah, I see. It almost looks like the samples gained strength from it, too.” Greg raised his head from the Mik to consider. “I see why Kay wanted you to see us. If we could use your nutrient layering to actually strengthen plants...”
“You may even be able to apply layering to your pesticide and herbicide treatments,” Keith added. “Layering usually allows for more effective results with less materials used.”
“Right. We definitely need to go over all of this with you,” Greg said, smiled, then shucked off his lab coat. “But not today, I guess. We really should do this with all of us here.”
“Mm,” Keith nodded. “Well, is there anything else we can do with today? It’s only three.”
Greg shrugged. “We don’t really ‘clockwatch,’ around here. Is that the right word? Anyway, I wasn’t going to stay much longer, myself. I’ve got a car reserved to go into Manaus tonight...” He stopped to consider. “Say, have you seen the farm control room?”
“No...”
“You’ve got to see the control room. I can’t believe Kay didn’t show it to you. Come on.”
~
The entrance to the control room, a security double-door requiring Greg to press his fingertips to a reading plate, slid open with a slight cough of pressurized air. “Your prints should already be in the database, so you can come in here whenever you like. Except in emergency situations, of course.” He led Keith through a dimly-lit anteroom and to another door identical to the first one. The doors cracked open after the outer doors were closed behind them, this time with no change in air pressure. Keith followed Greg through the doors.
The room Keith expected to see was probably a round room, maybe a dozen or so meters wide, filled with monitors and staffed with personnel working at specialized control panels. He’d gotten the room’s size wrong, by about thirty meters. “Christ, it’s huge,” he said lightly, hoping no one but Greg heard him. It was also square, not round. It was filled with desks, rows of them filling the room, and a line of them along the left and right walls. Each desk held a built-in Sun Starstation, not some unrecognizable sci-fi lightboard... but Keith knew what even one of those stations cost, and the fact that he was standing in a room with (he counted) at least fifty of them impressed him greatly.
Each station, with few exceptions, had someone in front of it, studying the readouts of the dual flat display screens and making adjustments on the blotter-sized touch panels embedded into the tabletops. The far wall was dominated by a display screen, which had been electronically segmented into eight sections to show various things at once. Keith saw men working in the fields, others walking along the aeroponic catwalks above a rainforest floor, trucks driving up to a harvest loading site somewhere in the middle of a cleared field, and other views he couldn’t make out at first glance. There didn’t seem to be a central focus of activity in the room, or a dominant programmer or technician.
“This isn’t a control room,” Keith mused, “it’s Mission Control.”
“Impressive, yes?” Greg smiled and waved a hand over the room. “The day-to-day controlling of the Worldfarm is run right here. They monitor workers, coordinate automated machinery, adjust growth factors... based on our research and recommendations... and help to compile data on all of it for us to work with.”
“Is there someone who leads all of this?”
“In there.” Greg hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and Keith looked behind him. Next to the door they had come through, was another glass door to a normal-sized office. A single woman sat behind a simple desk with a standard IS on it, and a Mik board sitting on one edge. Greg tapped lightly on the door, and the woman looked up, smiled, and waved at them. Greg motioned at Keith and the door, and the woman responded by tapping at the IS, causing the glass door to slide open.
“Thanks, Maria,” Greg said as he led Keith inside. “I thought you’d like to meet Keith Maryland. He started with us today, a botanist. Keith, this is Maria Straub, our comptroller.”
“Hello, Keith,” Maria said, extending her hand to him over the desk. “Welcome aboard. Getting the euro tour, eh?”
“Yeah, Greg’s just showing me around. Looks like a great system you’ve got in there,” Keith said, nodding at the room beyond.
“It’s a pretty good system,” Maria admitted. “We’ve still got a long way to go before we’ve reached an optimum automation level, but we’ve been making a lot of improvements over time. We managed to free up over ten stations over the last year, alone.”
“Those stations? I didn’t notice any but a few that were not being used.”
“Oh, they’re all always being used. Most of them run multiple functions at once. When we automate a system, we simply use the station for something else. That way, we’re cutting back on the number of factors each technician has to monitor, which cuts down on response time and gets everything running more efficiently.”
“I see. And you monitor it all from in here?” Keith asked.
“No: I mostly monitor the technicians from here,” Maria replied. “I rarely need to check their monitors, and I can see the big board from here.” She nodded towards the display screen in the main room. “I check up on the technicians to make sure they’re checking all their systems, and not asleep at the wheel.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, I know. But somebody has to do it, as they say.”
“Well,” Greg finally interrupted, “we just wanted to stop in and say hello. We won’t keep you.” He started back for the door, which Maria opened from her IS panel.
“Nice meeting you,” Keith said as he turned to leave.
“And you.”
Keith and Greg stayed a bit longer, to get a closer look at some of the stations in question. Some of the people were willing and able to talk to Keith about their monitoring duties, as Keith watched them work. Only a few of them seemed unwilling or unable to split their attention from the screens before them, though none of them were anything but polite in their efforts to brush him off, and Keith could definitely excuse someone who was keeping vigil over automated machinery working in the vicinity of human workers for wanting to maintain their concentration.
The stations themselves, using the latest in command-tree design, were all well laid-out, obviously custom setup for the Worldfarm project. Keith could see at a glance how most of the systems functioned and interrelated, which meant anyone using the system could concentrate on the job at hand, as opposed to figuring out how to implement each command.
When it was time to go, Keith and Greg both gave a wave to Maria in her office, before stepping back out through the airlocked double-doors.
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