Tortoise Club.”
“Impossible. She works practically around the clock.” I tried not to sound as aggrieved as I felt. With her perfect skin and galloping stride and happy naive laughter, Sheeba had always impressed me as virginal. I pictured her sleeping in a simple teddy between white gingham sheets, as chaste as starlight. Shee was too young to be sleeping around.
Verinne checked her watch—again. “Bengal Bay’s in the cyclone belt. We absolutely have to get there and back before the midday heat.”
Winston winked at me and patted Verinne’s arm, but she was right. Getting a late start was no joke.
First you need a mental picture of this seafarm. Imagine a translucent balloon floating with the tide like a jellyfish, trailing long ribbon tentacles through the viscous brown ocean. That was MR407 from a distance.
Closer, the balloon resolved into a solar still, a giant floating tub of filtered sea fluid domed with an airtight collection membrane. The sun’s heat evaporated the fluid, and the condensed water vapor dribbled down the dome’s membrane into catch-basins, while the salts, metals, chemicals and solids were raked off for shipment to subsidiary markets. And that was just the beginning.
Laced around the balloon was a fluted collar of solar panels and oxygen mills. The mills filtered breathable air from the atmosphere, while the solar panels delivered electricity. Shielded under the balloon was a three-story sealed submarine habitat—the farmstead itself—where resident ag workers cultivated an assortment of bioproducts in hydroponic tanks. And trailing underneath the habitat were the osmotic tentacles that harvested carbon, nitrogen, phosphorous, potassium and other basic fertilizers directly from the polluted sea.
Nearly eighteen hundred workers lived aboard MR407, and they were striking over email access. Apparently they wanted to chat with off-site relatives. To make their point, they kidnapped their local exec manager, and in reply, Gromic.Com dumped thick black paint over their solar still so they couldn’t make water. Now the farm lay under a quiet, insidious siege.
I wanted Sheeba’s maiden run to be as soft as baby fuzz. We would approach by jet skis, land on the collar, climb up the dome and stick on a transponder patch to prove we’d been there, then get away fast before the noon heat triggered thunderstorms. Nothing gnarly. No thermal-energy waves to dodge. No hostile encounters. The hardest part would be finding footholds on the slippery plastic membrane.
“Why bother with a plan? This is a Valium surf.” Winston squinted at my maps through glum, wet eyes. His energy tabs were fighting a war with the alcohol left in his system from the night before, and his head jerked with infinitesimal quavers. He scratched his sparse chin hairs—he’d forgotten his beard suppressor again. “What am I doing awake at this hour?”
Verinne tossed him a climbing harness. “You’d do well to practice your form.”
She was swiftly coiling rope into a bag, counting the loops in silence. Verinne approached every surf with solemn precision. She’d rolled up her sleeves for the work, though, and I marveled at how coarse her skin had grown. Her arms looked like packed sand.
“Time to load up,” she said.
“I’m on it,” Chad announced through the house intercom.
Then he directed his team of dumb robots to carry the gear, while he remained aloof. Chad existed strictly as a virtual Net agent. He considered it demeaning to instill himself in hardware.
“We can’t leave without Sheeba.” I frowned at the expensive new surface suit I’d bought her. Pearly pink with silver lightning bolts down the pant legs and a matching helmet. It lay across my futon like a glittery shadow of the missing girl.
Winston, Verinne and Chad’s troop of robots were packing the car outside on my rooftop landing pad when Sheeba’s call came through. I cupped my hand over my wrist-watch so I could see her tiny
“Impossible. She works practically around the clock.” I tried not to sound as aggrieved as I felt. With her perfect skin and galloping stride and happy naive laughter, Sheeba had always impressed me as virginal. I pictured her sleeping in a simple teddy between white gingham sheets, as chaste as starlight. Shee was too young to be sleeping around.
Verinne checked her watch—again. “Bengal Bay’s in the cyclone belt. We absolutely have to get there and back before the midday heat.”
Winston winked at me and patted Verinne’s arm, but she was right. Getting a late start was no joke.
First you need a mental picture of this seafarm. Imagine a translucent balloon floating with the tide like a jellyfish, trailing long ribbon tentacles through the viscous brown ocean. That was MR407 from a distance.
Closer, the balloon resolved into a solar still, a giant floating tub of filtered sea fluid domed with an airtight collection membrane. The sun’s heat evaporated the fluid, and the condensed water vapor dribbled down the dome’s membrane into catch-basins, while the salts, metals, chemicals and solids were raked off for shipment to subsidiary markets. And that was just the beginning.
Laced around the balloon was a fluted collar of solar panels and oxygen mills. The mills filtered breathable air from the atmosphere, while the solar panels delivered electricity. Shielded under the balloon was a three-story sealed submarine habitat—the farmstead itself—where resident ag workers cultivated an assortment of bioproducts in hydroponic tanks. And trailing underneath the habitat were the osmotic tentacles that harvested carbon, nitrogen, phosphorous, potassium and other basic fertilizers directly from the polluted sea.
Nearly eighteen hundred workers lived aboard MR407, and they were striking over email access. Apparently they wanted to chat with off-site relatives. To make their point, they kidnapped their local exec manager, and in reply, Gromic.Com dumped thick black paint over their solar still so they couldn’t make water. Now the farm lay under a quiet, insidious siege.
I wanted Sheeba’s maiden run to be as soft as baby fuzz. We would approach by jet skis, land on the collar, climb up the dome and stick on a transponder patch to prove we’d been there, then get away fast before the noon heat triggered thunderstorms. Nothing gnarly. No thermal-energy waves to dodge. No hostile encounters. The hardest part would be finding footholds on the slippery plastic membrane.
“Why bother with a plan? This is a Valium surf.” Winston squinted at my maps through glum, wet eyes. His energy tabs were fighting a war with the alcohol left in his system from the night before, and his head jerked with infinitesimal quavers. He scratched his sparse chin hairs—he’d forgotten his beard suppressor again. “What am I doing awake at this hour?”
Verinne tossed him a climbing harness. “You’d do well to practice your form.”
She was swiftly coiling rope into a bag, counting the loops in silence. Verinne approached every surf with solemn precision. She’d rolled up her sleeves for the work, though, and I marveled at how coarse her skin had grown. Her arms looked like packed sand.
“Time to load up,” she said.
“I’m on it,” Chad announced through the house intercom.
Then he directed his team of dumb robots to carry the gear, while he remained aloof. Chad existed strictly as a virtual Net agent. He considered it demeaning to instill himself in hardware.
“We can’t leave without Sheeba.” I frowned at the expensive new surface suit I’d bought her. Pearly pink with silver lightning bolts down the pant legs and a matching helmet. It lay across my futon like a glittery shadow of the missing girl.
Winston, Verinne and Chad’s troop of robots were packing the car outside on my rooftop landing pad when Sheeba’s call came through. I cupped my hand over my wrist-watch so I could see her tiny
Similar Books
