Mljet was a precious place for the two of them-because Radmila was not here. The two of them were here alone together, because this island was the one place on Earth that Radmila would never, ever go.
Radmila Mihajlovic, "Mila Montalban" in distant Los Angeles: Radmila was the vital clue here, Radmila was the missing part of this story. Radmila had renounced Mljet, fleeing the distorted horror of her own being, a refugee washing across the planet's seas, like bloody driftwood.
Somehow, Radmila had found this man. She must have fallen on him like an anvil.
Remorseless as the rise of day, the world had continued, and now the father and the daughter had ventured here in order to be together.
Montalban flung the child's beach ball high. He waved his hands at the hobject, gesturing like a wizard.
Suddenly, startlingly, the beach ball tripled in size. It soared above the shoreline, a striped and glittering balloon. The bubble hung there, serene and full of impossible promise, painted on the sullen storm clouds.
The beach ball wafted downward, with all the eerie airiness of a dandelion seed. It fell as if rescuing them from their misery.
The girl screeched with glee at her father's cleverness. Montalban, his whole being radiating joy and mastery, waved his hands. The ball plummeted to Earth. It bounded off with rubbery energy.
The two of them gleefully chased down their weird toy in their oddly posh clothing.
Mljet's newest tourists were thrilled to be here. They were entirely happy to treat the dismal wreck of Polace as their private playground. No ruin less awful, less desolate, could suit them and their love for one another.
Vera turned her helmeted head away. Her eyes stung, her cheeks were burning.
She waded into the cooling waters of the sea.
A dead water heater, poxed with barnacles, lay pillowed in a deathbed of mud. Vera bent and fetched it up. With one comprehensive nervous heave, she threw full power into her boneware.
The wrecked machine tumbled end over end and crashed hard above the tide line.
The child stared at her in joy and awe.
Vera hopped through the sea, splashing. She found a submerged car. She tore the rusty hood from its hinges. She flung the bent metal to shore, and it sailed like a leaf. She put her boot against a submerged door and tore that free as well. She threw it hard enough to skip it across the water.
Mary ran down the beach, skipping in glee. "Do it, Vera! Do it, Vera! Do that again!"
Montalban hastened after his child, his face the picture of worry. He half dragged Mary away from the wreckage and to a safer distance.
Up went his beach ball again, sudden and bloated and wobbling. The bubble rose with a wild enthusiasm, its crayon-bright colors daubing the troubled sky.
Montalban ran beneath the convulsing toy, pretending to leap and catch it. The child clapped her hands politely.
Then the toy burst. It fell into the sea in a bright tumble of rags.
THE LOCAL ACQUIS CADRES took a keen interest in Vera's feelings. With the arrival of her niece on the island, the Acquis cadres were obsessed.
For years, the cadres had accepted the fact that their island society lacked children. That was the condition of their highly advanced work. They didn't need kids to be an avant-garde society, a vanguard of the future. Surely they had each other.
The Acquis had hard-won experience in managing extreme technologies. Mljet was typical of their policy: a radical technical experiment required an out-of-the-way locale. It had to be compact in scale, limited in personnel. A neutered society. A hamster cage, an island utopia: to break those limits and become any bolder posed political risks. Risks posed by the planet's "loyal opposition," the Dispensation.
The Dispensation was vast and its pundits were cunning propagandists with the global net at their fingertips. They were always keen to provoke a panic over any radical Acquis activity-especially if those activities threatened to break into the mainstream.
Radical experiments that might be construable as child abuse made the easiest targets of all. So: No children allowed on the construction site…yet the clock never stopped ticking.
John Montgomery Montalban had brought his own child to the island. This was a Dispensation propaganda of the deed. The shrewder Acquis cadres understood this as a deliberate provocation. A good one, since there wasn't a lot they could do about adorable five-year-olds.
Montalban was simply showing everyone what they had missed, what they had sacrificed. Sentiment about the child was running high. Vera thought that it must take a cold-blooded father to exploit his own flesh and blood as a political asset, in this shrewd way. But John Montgomery Montalban had married Radmila Mihajlovic. He had married Radmila, and given her that child. There had to be something wrong with him, or he would never have done such a thing.
Vera could literally track the child's path across the island by the peaks of emotional disturbance her presence created. Mary left a wake wherever her polished little shoes touched the Earth.
The local Acquis cadres were unimpressed by Montalban. They considered themselves bold souls, they'd seen much worse than him. They felt some frank resentment for any intruder on their island, yet Montalban was just another newbie, an outsider who could never matter to them on a gut level.
Little Mary Montalban, though, was the walking proof of the cavity in their future.
Vera knew that her own powerful feelings about the child had done much to provoke this problem. In an act of defiance, Vera had chosen to wear her boneware and her neural helmet to meet Montalban-although Herbert had warned her against doing that. It had seemed to her like an act of personal integrity. Personal integrity did not seem to work with Montalban.
So: no more of that. If Vera put her own helmet aside-from now until this crisis blew over-the trouble would end all the sooner.
She had been wrong to trust her intuitions. She needed help. Karen would help her. Karen loved children. Karen had a lot of glory. Karen always understood hurt and trouble.
JOHNMONTGOMERYMONTALBAN — through an accident or through his shrewd, cold-blooded cunning-had chosen a new, more distant site for their next meeting. Without her boneware, Vera had to hike there from her barracks, on foot.
Mljet's few remaining roads were reduced to weedy foot trails. People in boneware had little need for roads: they simply jumped across the landscape, following logistics maps.
Vera no longer had that advantage, so she had to tramp it. Luckily, she had Karen as counsel and company. Unluckily, Karen's stilting strides made Vera eat her dust.
Modern life was always like this somehow, Vera concluded as sweat ran down her ribs. Impossible crises, bursting potentials. Rockets and potholes. Anything was possible, yet you were always on sore feet. Always, everywhere, ubiquitously. That was modern reality. Modern reality hurt.
Vera coughed aloud.
"Shall I carry you?" Karen said sweetly.
Vera wearily crested a ragged limestone ridge. Her humble fellow pedestrians crowded the valley below her. They were women from the attention camps, hand-working the island with hatchets and trowels.
The camp women wore their summer gear, with their hair up in kerchiefs. Every one of them wore cheap, general-issue spex.
Karen broke into a stilting run, bounding past the camp women like a whirlwind. The women offered Karen respectful salutes, awed by her cloud of glory.
Vera trudged among the lot of them, panting, sweating, sniffling. The camp women ignored Vera. She had no visible glory. So she meant nothing to them.
Vera took no offense. It was a software-design issue. Proper camp design reflected the dominant camp demographics. Meaning: middle-aged city women. Most modern people lived in cities. Most modern people were middle-aged. So most modern people in refugee camps were necessarily middle-aged city women. As simple as that.