Winning Mars | Page 9

on a sound stage or something. They probably did.
Best, though, was the islands complete lack of connectivity. The Relaxation of Complete Isolation, they said, and they meant it. Jere'd tried to use his eyepod, then bitched about them jamming the signal, running too much spread-spectrum noise or something. He tried to use his whisperpod, but it was really stupid without its net connection, and Patrice took the first chance she could to throw it in the water.
On the first night there, on the warm sand, under a primitive tent of tree-branches and stretched animal skin (what kind of animal, she wondered), Jere asked her something strange.
"Would you like to work for me again?" he said. His voice was soft, faraway, as if he was thinking of something really important. But when she looked over at him, he was watching her intently. He was a beautiful man, even though he didn't know it, with his big patrician nose and curly black hair--so black it was almost blue--and his icy blue eyes, courtesy some genetic trick of fate she didn't pretend to understand. They didn't come from his mother. Or his father. Maybe he was engineered, like they said some kids were getting these days. But she thought he was too old for that.
"You have to ask?" she said.
"You work in interactives."
"So now I'm too good for your little linears?"
Jere nodded. "Something like that."
Patrice laughed, and sat up to look down at him. She liked looking down at him. "Just don't get me killed," she said.
Something in Jere's eyes flinched, and he was silent for a long time, just looking at her. Could that be the glimmer of tears, she wondered?
"It might be dangerous."
Patrice pretended to consider. "I'll do it anyway," she said.
"You don't even want to know what it is?"
"No. I trust you."
Jere sighed and sat up. "You aren't even going to ask?"
Was that? Was he uncomfortable? Patrice giggled. She liked that. She'd gotten under his skin. He didn't know how to take this.
"No," she said.
Jere just shook his head.
"Besides," she said. "You'll be right there with me. Maybe even on camera."
Another long, strange look. Then: "Let's go look at the stars," he said, almost a whisper.
Patrice got up and went with him, happy. The sand squished happily through her toes, tickling. The water, chill, splashed her feet and calves. For a while, she could forget she was on an artificial island on the west side of Catalina, and this was their life, and it would be like this, forever, uninterrupted.

Orbit
After hearing Evan's colorful stories about Russia in winter, Jere was almost disappointed. It could have been Texas. Or Oklahoma. Miles and miles of nothing but gray-brown weeds and low hills, or at least that's what it looked like as the run rose behind them on the flight in from Singapore.
Man oh man do they have this flyover country thing down, Jere thought, after what seemed like hours. Ain't got nothing but.
Deep inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. Evan talked a game like he knew everyone in Russia. And Singapore. And Hong Kong. Rattling on about hotels he burned rooms down in, women he fucked in cabs, deals he made with nothing more than a napkin and an pencil and a whole lotta balls. He didn't need to know that Jere had only been out of the country once, when his grandfather died and they had to Mexico City for the funeral. He remembered endless rows of cheap houses, women weeping, and the butchered English his translation software whispered in his ears. That was bad enough. Like being stuck in his own head. A reminder he should've learned Spanish, or better yet, Chinese, like all the other kids did.
Jere hadn't had time to cross-referenced Evan's tales with Found Media, and he almost didn't want to. What if Evan was as big and powerful and ballsy as he said? It made Jere's own accomplishments pale. It made it seem like Neteno was built on one bit of luck, quickly lost. It made him worry that he could keep up with Evan. The man who talked so much, but somehow told you nothing about him.
When they landed at Krainly Airport, Jere's sense of déjà vu got even stronger. They could have just flown into Austin. Just another little regional airport. The only difference were the English tags floating over the Cyrillic characters on all the signs and ads.
A tall, stocky, dirty-blonde man wearing the largest and shiniest chrome-and-wood eyepod that Jere had ever seen waited for them in baggage claim. He held a hand-lettered sign that read: MCMASTER/GUTTEREZ.
He saw Evan.
"Good morning, Mr. McMaster," the man said. He spoke English with only the slightest trace of a Russian accent. "Mr. Guterrez."
"Gutierrez," Jere said, emphasizing the 'i'."
The blonde man gave him a moment's blank