Garden Variety
Beneath her balcony, Seattle grows.
Bekka's shared living space is about twenty five stories up the side of one of the newer cones in Seattle. She lives in a mixed neighborhood; old twentieth century buildings, square blocks really, are giving way to a living Seattle. Specially engineered DeWalt Nibblers chew the old concrete and steel boxes, slowly, reducing them to a reusable ash: a controlled burn. Greenbelts replace the road ways and yet some things remain: a dirt path ends at the entrance of the Pike Street Market; the piers lining the bay remain, but the Port of Seattle, like most major Ports up and down the West Coast, lies miles out to sea. Automated ferries bring in the containers, on flat racks, and exchange them with automated trucks up where I-5 terminates near the King County border. Supplies for Seattle are shifted underground and distributed.
The King County Machine promises a livable, a living, Seattle; and the Machine always delivers.
Bekka lounges on her balcony. From a distance, it appears as if she's bedeviled by bugs; nasty bugs, flitting, diving and weaving. But they never approach her. They show no interest in her flesh; they are camera's, Bekka's camera's. Bekka's every moment is recorded and then squirted out into the Network.
Bekka figures there's probably ten thousand peeps camped out on her long tail, at any one time, watching. Maybe a thousand or so care enough to hit her tip jar in a given month. Good enough.
In a near cashless society, Bekka reminds herself something about how a one eyed guy, with cash, can be a king in the land of the blind. Bekka is being watched; Bekka is being paid to be watched.
Bekka studies a box on her lap. She's having to decide if the box is friend or foe; already, the box has displayed some hostile intent, almost twisting Bekka's ankle. earlier in the morning, when she left her living space to go down to the vendy. Since then, the box has maintained a cool neutrality.
The box is from the Amazons; that much is clear from the shipping plate. Bekka is curious: who sends things, physical things, this day and age? Bekka is intrigued, but all day she leaves the box unopened. The opening, she decides, will wait. The opening will be their evening fun.
Bekka knows two things: something or someone called "The Edward Agency" sent the box and he, she or they sent the box directly to her.
That much is clear from the shipping plate.
Bekka leans back in the lounge, as a voice comes from somewhere near the entrance of the living space.
"Babes, I'm home."
"Out here," Bekka responds. "Grab some wine and glasses from the cabinet," she says.
"Got it."
Bekka cranes her neck, and looks as Angela steps out onto the balcony. Angela's business slicks are completing their days work and slipping off of her; they hit the floor as Angela, glasses in one hand, wine in the other, steps out onto the Balcony. The slicks will shuffle off and look for a recycling point.
Angela sets the wine and glasses down on the table next to the loungers. She reaches over and runs her hands through Bekka's hair and gives her a kiss; Bekka returns the kiss and playfully caresses Angela's breast.
"How was the works, love," asks Bekka.
"Fine, babes. Not much." responds Angela. "Hmmm, what's this?"
"A box. From the Amazons. Came today. I think it's a gift."
Angela looks up from pouring the wine. "From one of your pervy little boyfriends," she says, gesturing towards to ubiquitous watchers.
"Not unless one of them is 'The Edward Agency'." says Bekka.
"Well, what's in it," asks Angela.
Bekka smiles. "I was waiting for you love; we're going to open it right now."
Bekka places her index finger on the shipping plate. The shipping pate turns a warm green and begins releasing the molecules that make up the packaging; the package disappears in a monatomic dust that will, Bekka is sure, find reuse elsewhere. Bekka's cameras automatically pull back and maneuver for position; not all feeds are equal.
Bekka finishes brushing the dust from the packaging. She holds it up so Angela and the cameras get a good look. Angela leans in, flicks a camera out of her way, and looks at the newly exposed box.
"EarthKit?" Angela reads aloud, perplexed. "Home gardening solutions for you; patent free mods you can grow right on your balcony. Just add water and dirt?"
Bekka reads along. "Why would someone go through the expense of shipping me pre-food?" Bekka asks, almost to herself.
Angela leans back in her lounger, and gives a small laugh. "Maybe the vendy's broken," she says.
"No," says Bekka."I was down there this morning; the vendy is fine. I picked up a slab of food for tonight."
Angela takes a sip from her wine. "Speaking of which, I'm starving. I'll go put the slab in the processor. What are you up for?"
"Salmon," Bekka says. She always says salmon.
"Hmmm," responds Angela. "Well, salmon for you; but I think I'm going to go for chicken. Maybe a salad for both?"
"Sure, fine." Bekka is staring intently at the EarthKit. Angela looks for a moment and then get up and heads into the living space.
"Bekka babes?" she calls. "This must be a prank. Just where in the hell are you going to get 'dirt' from?"
"I dunno," mumbles Bekka. "I dunno."
And across Seattle, boxes continue to be delivered.
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