Word Puppets Read online

  The thoughtfulness of the AI continued to stagger Saskia. The entire time she had been in the hospital, Metta had kept a small part of her consciousness keyed into the interface in Saskia’s room, just in case she needed anything. “Thanks. I’d been wondering.”

  “The DA agreed to a plea bargain of involuntary manslaughter. In exchange, they won’t try Wade as an adult.”

  Saskia closed her eyes with relief. The kid had been through enough. She had been terrified that they would go to trial and she would have to testify. “And his dad?”

  “That was part of the plea bargain. His father is charged with obstruction of justice and conspiracy; he confessed to trying to cover up Wade’s involvement in the bodyguard’s death. After Wade ran away, Cruise erased the security tapes. When he realized that it was only a matter of time until we cracked the encryption on Wade’s eDawg—which would have shown exactly what happened—he made the ‘ransom demand’ to send in the toy so they could wipe the memory.”

  “So that’s why Wade had a reset key.” Saskia remembered him pulling it out of the saddlebags.

  “Correct.”

  “Did you crack the encryption?”

  Metta laughed. “Puppets are hard, encryption is easy. Wade was trying to get Taylor to let him hold his gun. Taylor wouldn’t let him. They wrestled. The gun went off. If he’d reported it . . . ”

  “What about the skate punks?”

  “Cruise hired them to make the kidnapping look good. Once they figured out how much money was involved, they decided that actually kidnapping Wade would be more profitable.” Metta paused. “How are you?”

  “Getting better.” She used her good shoulder to shrug. The bullet had gone in her back at an angle, skating across her shoulder blade and ripping a hole through her trapezius. It wasn’t life-threatening, but played havoc with her ability to perform. “The deal you guys signed with my agent means the feds are paying my bills till I’m healed. It’s better than most theater contracts.”

  “But it is healing, right?” There was a strange insistence in Metta’s voice.

  “Yeah. I’ll be offline—so to speak,” Saskia winced at the turn of phrase, “for another couple of months.”

  Metta cleared her throat, which was such a strange thing, when Saskia thought about it. “Patel is giving me no end of grief because of my sudden fascination with puppetry.”

  “Well, you tell him that it’s an old and noble profession. And then make him buy you a puppet.”

  “I did.”

  Saskia nearly dropped the phone in her astonishment. “Really? A puppet?”

  “I know it’s peculiar. I’ve never envied a flesh and blood person before, but riding your signal while you were controlling eDawg, I did. I could feel the puppet’s responses to you and watch how you manipulated it to give meaning to its movements. It’s the closest I’ve come to having a body. When I worked the puppet at headquarters, it was . . . it was an external thing. I mean, I can analyze body language and tell you exactly what it means, but I didn’t understand the visceral way character relates to movement. Which brings me to a question . . . ” She took a breath, like a person steeling herself for disappointment. “Would you be willing to teach me?”

  Saskia leaned against the wall and let it hold her up. Teach her? “You’ll have to practice, you know.”

  “I know. I’m willing to learn this in real time. No uploads.”

  Saskia smiled at the obvious, entreating enthusiasm in Metta’s voice. God, how familiar was that need to breathe life into a puppet.

  “Absolutely,” she said. She stretched her shoulder a bit to test it. “I’d like that.”

  Waiting for Rain

  Mundari Vineyard 2045, Nashik (India), Shiraz

  Black cherry, plum, and currant flavors mingle with aromas of sweet tobacco and sage in this dependable offering from India.

  The sun peeking through the grapevines felt hotter on Bharat Mundari’s neck than twenty-four degrees. Another perfect day. Bharat scowled and worked his way down the row of vines, thinning the grapes so the remaining Shiraz crop would become fuller and riper.

  Not that there was a point in having healthy vines when he couldn’t pay his weather bill. Without rain, the grapevines would weaken under the stress, and stressed grapes made poor wine. No one bought flawed wine.

  He snipped another cluster from the grapevine, dropping it on the ground where it would raisin in the persistent sunshine.

  He needed his micro-climate back.

  “Bharat!” Indra peered over the trellis. “Have you heard anything I said?”

  He stood, working the kink out of his back and blinked at his wife. “No. I’m sorry, my dear, I was thinking.”

  She tilted her head, like an inquisitive bird. “About what?”

  About how the family was destitute. About how he had no resources. About the rain. “Nothing important.”

  She arched an eyebrow and looked down the row to their youngest daughter, Rachana. “Nothing important? Do you hear your father? Here we are discussing possible grooms and he is distracted by ‘nothing important.’ ”

  “I’m sorry.” Bharat smoothed the anxiety from his brow. “What did you say?”

  “Rachana said she wants to date.” Indra frowned. “I told her in my youth we wouldn’t think of such things, but everyone thinks you and I married for love.”

  “True.” The dust between the rows coated his feet as if the earth itself wanted to prepare him for the poverty awaiting them.

  Indra stopped and peeled back her glove. “I thought so.” She showed him the blister on her hand from the pruning sheers. “I wish you had hired a crew to do this.”

  If she knew about the debt . . . Bharat snipped another cluster from the vine. “It’s important for Rachana to learn the business.”

  “Not if she marries into another family.”

  They had just married one daughter off; the thought of paying for another wedding made him shudder. “I’m in no hurry to see her married.”

  The bindi mark on Indra’s forehead seemed to glare like an accusing third eye.

  “Let her find her own husband if she wants one.” Bharat went up the row, heading back to the winery. It was starting again, the marriage broker fees, setting the dowry . . . And a marriage broker would look at his financial records. He ground his teeth. They had no money.

  The tap tap of Indra’s footsteps followed him, but he kept his eyes focused on the winery. He could imagine the look of reproach in Indra’s eyes.

  “Bharat?”

  She always knew when he lied, so he simply grunted.

  “What’s wrong?” Indra’s voice sounded sweet and gentle, but the question held too many demands.

  “Nothing. I have some work in the winery.” He escaped into the cool dark of the cellar. The stacked barrels of last year’s vintage soothed him with their mute round sides. They asked him no questions.

  But the current vintage had its own demands.

  Watering the vineyard would require every waking moment. That left no time for shoot positioning, leaf pulling, or hedging. And what of thinning? How could he tend the wines in barrel and water the vines?

  Any one of the millions of unemployed laborers in Nashik could irrigate, but a day laborer would want his wages at the end of the day. And if he had money to pay them, then he could pay the weather bill and he would not need to irrigate.

  How had his father managed before the India Space Research Organization began weather control? Bharat had barely been in his teens when they switched to micro-climate management, but Nashik had been a wine region since the time of the Moghuls. Of course, it had rained more then. He still remembered monsoons.

  Bharat ran up the stairs to his office and sat in front of the ancient quad-core processor. He asked it, “What are forms of irrigation for vineyards?”

  It immediately responded with a list of sites; at the top, the ISRO offered micro-climate management. Bharat grimaced and scrolled through his other op
tions.

  Rachana cleared her throat. “Hey, Bapu?”

  He jumped. He had not heard her enter. “Are you finished with thinning, then?”

  She nodded. “Those rows. Matti wants to know when you want dinner.”

  At the thought of food, Bharat’s stomach turned. “Don’t wait for me. I’ve got work to do.”

  “ ’kay.” She leaned over his shoulder. “Irrigation, huh?”

  Sweat pricked on the palms of his hands. Words came out of his mouth in a string of lies and half-truths. “Wine historically had seasonal variations but we’ve lost that. I thought I’d stop using a micro-climate so the grapes could truly express the vintage.” As Bharat spoke, his words became true. He had attended some pre-weather control vertical tastings and the vintage variations were fascinating. “We’ve gotten away from what wine is supposed to be.”

  “I thought you’d just forgotten to turn the rain back on after Deepali’s wedding.”

  She had noticed. Of course, she had; he had been programming the 1969 Hermitage weather patterns since she was a little girl. If the weather company had given him an extension on his bill, today would be overcast and twenty degrees.

  “I didn’t think it would be this long between natural rains.” Why had it been so long since it had rained? He remembered a year when his father had turned off the weather and it had not been this long between rains. Bharat turned back to the computer. “Run on. I have work to do.”

  When Rachana was gone, he opened the FAQ page of the ISRO website and clicked on, “What happens when you can’t pay your weather bill?”

  At India Space Research Organization, we don’t want anyone left in the cold. When your micro-climate is discontinued, your weather will remain 24°C and sunny.

  Each individual word made sense, but the picture they painted when strung together mocked him. 24°C and sunny.

  Your weather will remain . . .

  Sunny.

  He stared at the words so long that all meaning drained away from them. How could they be true? There must be thousands of people who could not pay their bills in the cities. He had been to Nashik and seen the poverty lining the streets.

  But he wasn’t on the municipal weather grid here, the city weather tax did not cover his vineyard. His land was large enough that the nanites in the atmosphere could create a localized micro-climate.

  “It won’t rain again.” He wanted to call the words back, as if saying it out loud had made it true.

  The vineyard would die.

  Bile surged up at the back of his throat. He stumbled away from the desk trying to reach the rubbish bin before vomiting. No rain. Cramps wrenched his back as he heaved again. Sunny. He clenched the plastic tub, gasping. Ruined. Sweat covered him with images of dirt floors, and tiny rooms; Indra, with her sari hitched up around her knees, doing laundry in the Godavari River like one of the untouchables.

  Bharat knelt on the floor until the wave of nausea had passed. Then he leaned against the cool wall and stared out the window, empty. The moonlight lay over the vineyard like a sari draped across a beautiful woman. How could he take Indra from this?

  He hung his head. Vomit had splattered his shirt. He gagged again, wanting to crawl out of his own skin to get away from the stench.

  Unclean. He ripped the shirt off and hurled it into the rubbish bin.

  One of the harvest hands had rigged a shower in the cellar, attaching the barrel washing hose to an old garden nozzle. Bharat snatched his coveralls from the peg inside the door.

  In the cellar he stripped and stood in the middle of the cavernous room, with barrels stacked five high around him. He grabbed the soap the cellar rat had left. Honeysuckle. Bharat’s stomach heaved again. Who had brought a scented soap into the winery? That could wreak havoc on his ability to distinguish odors in the developing wine.

  He meant to wash quickly, but the rhythm of the drops pounding against his skull displaced all thought. Their aquifer ran deep and water from the surrounding hills fed it. The water pelted his face, warm from the solar tank on top of the winery. He could use that to water the vineyard. That was something.

  He went outside, pulled the hose from the wall and started to water the grapevines. The earth crackled with thirst as it absorbed the cool current.

  Each row was planted at one meter spacing, fifty vines-to-a-row, with two meters between rows. 194,256 square meters of vines. If he soaked the ground with water for ten minutes at each vine it would take . . . Three hundred hours. He almost stopped in despair, but had no other answer.

  The house was dark when Bharat returned, but Indra rolled over as he slid into the bed. “What time is it?”

  Bharat glanced at the clock and winced. “Late.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Work.” He kissed her cheek. “Go to sleep.”

  Indra snuggled next to him, her body warm against his. She kissed the back of his neck and stiffened.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Then, almost as if she couldn’t help herself, Indra said. “Your hair smells different.”

  “I took a shower in the cellar. Remember the contraption the harvest hands rigged last year?”

  She pulled back. “Why didn’t you shower at home?”

  “I—” He stopped. He did not want to tell her he had been sick. He did not want to answer her questions. “I just did. Does it matter?”

  She answered with less than a whisper. “No.” Indra turned her back to him leaving a chill between them.

  Château d’Yquem, Sauternes 2024

  Revisiting the perfect 1931 season, Château d’Yquem has recreated the wine considered the Holy Grail of Sauternes. Concentrated fruit and brilliant acidity marry perfectly in a wine for the ages.

  Shutting the door to the study, Bharat cradled the bottle of Sauternes under his arm. It was only one bottle out of the collection of anniversary wines Indra’s parents had given them as a wedding present. He had no reason to feel guilty about selling one bottle.

  He was doing it for her, so she would not know they were destitute. He set the golden bottle of wine next to the computer and surfed across the web to his favorite wine auction site. With the money from this sale, he could buy enough hose to put in a crude drip irrigation system.

  Opening a new auction page, he began inputting data from the wine.

  Indra opened the door of the study. The lamp in the living room backlit her, peeking through the folds of her sari. “Bharat? The photographer sent Deepali’s wedding album.”

  “I need to finish some work. I’ll be right there.”

  “You work so hard.” She crossed the room, her hair still as dark as when the matchmaker had introduced them. Leaning down, Indra kissed the back of his neck. He caught the hints of jasmine in the natural scent of her skin.

  Bharat captured her hand and kissed her palm, thanking all the gods that Indra did not know how badly in debt Deepali’s wedding had placed them. “Give me five more minutes.”

  Indra fingered the collar of his khurta with her free hand. She whispered so her voice seemed to kiss his ears, “Perhaps when you finish, we could do more than look at photos—Are you selling one of our anniversary wines?”

  “I—” He looked at the screen, half-filled with information from the wine. “Yes. I am.”

  In his hand, her fingers twitched like a mouse. “Why?”

  Shrugging, he released her and picked the bottle up. “We’ve got more than we’ll use.”

  “But it’s our anniversary wine.”

  “It’s one bottle.” He ran his thumb across the label, trying for nonchalance.

  “I see.” Reflected in the glass, a distorted Indra retreated from the room without another word.

  When the door closed, Bharat shut his eyes and cursed. He should tell her the truth. Even with solar power and well water, eventually Indra would need some money. And then what?

  The door opened again. Bharat spun in his chair, still cradling the d’Yquem.

&
nbsp; Rachana poked her head around the door. “Do you have time for a quick chat session?”

  “Of course.” He set the bottle down, and wiped his forehead, forcing a smile.

  She sat on the edge of the desk. “You know this whole natural weather vintage thing?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I was talking with a—” She hesitated and looked away. “A friend of mine at school who’s interning at a law office and his boss is a wine geek.”

  “His boss?”

  “Um . . . yeah. Anyway, he told his boss, and his boss was way excited, so I said they could come for a barrel tasting. I know I should have asked first, but . . . ”

  “So, who is this ‘friend’?”

  Rachana ducked her head, looking like her mother in her coy moments. “A classmate.”

  Unlikely. “Does he have a name?”

  “Mukund Krishnasami. May I bring them for a tasting?”

  “Have you talked to your mother about this?”

  “You know Matti. She goes epic if I mention boys at all. And . . . and you said that I should find my own husband.”

  Bharat winced as his angry words from the vineyard returned to haunt him. Still, this would give him a chance to look the boy over. He nodded. “All right.”

  Rachana grinned and bounded to the door. “Hey. Matti’s got Deepali’s wedding album. Want to look at it?”

  He could finish the auction listing later. “Of course.”

  As they entered the living room, Indra looked up, wiping her eyes hastily as if she had been crying.

  Bharat stopped in the doorway. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Indra smiled, but her eyes were red. “Just allergies. It’s all this dust, I suppose.” She waved at the dry landscape.

  Rachana laughed, crossing the room to plop beside Indra. “Get Bapu to turn the weather back on.”

  “You turned off the weather?” Indra looked stricken. “Why?”

  Bharat swallowed the panic rising in his throat. “I want to make wine influenced by natural weather. The whole industry makes wine that tastes the same; we’ve lost the differentiation in vintages.” These were not lies which spilled off his tongue. He did hate the sameness. He wanted to make wine expressing a time, and a region with true terroir. “I want to make something new.”