Double Trouble

  It is interesting to note that despite their impressive defenses and carnivorous diet, neither male or female Nautilus is toxic.

  J.”

  The man got points for creativity. Who knew James had it in him? It made me smile to be considered non-toxic.

  And the shell was nice. It was big with a lovely pearly finish, but then I guess pearls come from shells, don’t they? I liked the weight of it - it wouldn’t make a bad weapon if the skillet wasn’t at hand - and the smoothness of it.

  I stood there and thought about him holding it in those elegant hands. I stroked its surface without meaning to do so. Marcia was always complaining about their annual struggle to find an all-inclusive in the Caribbean that met her standards for luxury yet was within range of a good diving site.

  Had James picked this up from the bottom of the sea?

  Either way, it was beautiful. And I marveled that anyone would send me such a treasure.

  Against my every instinct, I put it on my desk where I could see it, or reach out and touch it. Oh, yes, I was in big trouble and trying desperately not to hotlink to BigMistake.com.

  The shell made me think. Gwen’s comment clicked in a bit late and I checked my calendar, uncertain what she meant. Tonight was the monthly meeting of the Ariadne’s, much to my astonishment, and it was to be here. Gee, what could have made me forget that? I made a note to stock up on chocolate this afternoon.

  We were going to need lots.

  * * *

  I probably haven’t told you about the Ariadne’s, have I? Well, you are in for a treat. Get some chocolate yourself and get cozy. I’ll fill you in on all the pertinent details.

  Of course, I had nothing to do with the founding of this group. Me and social clubs? You can work the probability of that out all by yourself.

  Well, I had nothing to do with it beyond the pungent expression of dissatisfaction at the inaugural meeting of yet another group founded purportedly for the advancement of women in high tech industries. sooner or later, all of these orgs decide that they need membership dues and the more you pay, the less you seem to get. It’s amazing how often it’s some guy getting rich over supposedly helping women to network.

  I said as much, in pretty blunt terms - imagine that - and thus became the unofficial (and unwilling) focus of seething discontent. They expected me to solve it.

  From whence came the monthly meeting of a group of like-minded folk of the feminine persuasion, all of whom figured that they didn’t need a man to fix their career for them. This eventually distilled to eight diehard souls, each willing to host every 8th meeting, in exchange for chocolate.

  The name certainly wasn’t mine. That credit goes to Tracy. Ariadne - James probably knows this but I had to learn it - was that mythological babe who helped Theseus find his way out of the Cretan labyrinth, a quick-thinking gal who helped a dude in distress. She found their way back out of the maze by unraveling a ball of string or wool on her way in, then following it back out.

  You can work out the association between threads and we web-spinning techno chix. Antonia, our token Wiccan, loves to expound upon the sociological implications of Ariadne the Moon Goddess being dropped in rank by the Greeks to just some girl. It gets complicated, lots of paternalism and subordination and seeds-of-centuries-of-abuse stuff, but that’s a whole ‘nuther story. I have to admit that I don’t listen really closely.

  As for any speculation about Theseus being really a handsome prince who swept Ariadne off her feet forever - or for a while, anyhow - and what that subliminally reveals about what we eight clever independent women really want, do yourself a favor and put it right out of your mind. We’ve got a couple of frothing feminists who will gleefully feed you your own liver for such a suggestion. Seriously, they make me look like a complacent ol’ puddy tat. Don’t even go there.

  I’m just thinking of your welfare, you know?

  So, Ariadne was the babe with the ball of twine and the plan. And the objective of the group is to share contacts and connections and help each other succeed in what is pretty much uncharted territory for women.

  Let’s get one thing straight before I tell you about everyone - this is not some touchy-feely super-pal kind of girly group. We don’t read books. We don’t moan about men and weep on each other’s shoulders. We don’t talk about our relationships. Well, I don’t talk about my relationships and everyone is cool with that.

  Got that? It’s really not very complicated.

  So, let’s meet the Ariadne’s before they all show up and start hoovering chocolate. (See, we bring chocolate to the hostess, then proceed to eat it all in the course of the evening, hitting a sugar buzz by midnight that will carry us through a good 24 hours post-Ariadne’s with a dull glow of well-being.)

  Gwen: Affectionately known as “Doctor-doctor”, Gwen is our resident physicist and Ph.D. She’s known for not playing by the rules and regularly shooting herself (with perfect accuracy) in the foot. Metaphorically, of course, as she’s an anti-violence protester. (Work that out by yourself. I never have.) God only knows how she managed to get her doctorate because there’s nothing more mired in making nicey-nice than grad school. And Gwen is incapable of nicey-nice.

  My fave theory is that she was admitted in a clerical error, promptly won a fat scholarship (that part’s true) so they couldn’t kick her out, loss of prestige being a major academic motivation. They put her on the fast track to graduation instead, reasoning that it would either kill her, drive her away, or graduate but quick. Any of the above and they’d be rid of her ASAP.

  In a particularly galling development to anyone who might have been an instigator of such a plan, Gwen not only survived, she thrived on the pressure and graduated magna cum laude. (Hey, that’s Latin. And I even know what it means. With greatest honor. Kewl.)

  She, of course, never got a T.A. slot or even a teaching position at her alma mater post-grad and refused to grovel to get that changed. These days, Gwen works at the help desk of the phone company. She says she’s fed up with academia but our consensus is that she’s just mustering artillery.

  That’s a joke.

  Gwen has a passion for melodrama, at least in other people’s lives. She’s a perennial volunteer at the opera, where she’s known for terrorizing subscribers into donating more generously. She’s constantly seeking the seamy underbelly of the existences of those around her, maybe out of curiosity, probably out of a desire to live vicariously.

  She’s got nothing but nothing on me.

  Khadija: A gorgeous petite dynamo, Khadija has the charm of a queen and a South African accent that melts the butter in the fridge. Our own steel magnolia - she didn’t know the expression but liked it when she heard it - Khadija is not to be underestimated. Meg would make much of the fact that she’s a Scorpio. She’s elegant and soft-spoken, but even when you say no to her and think you’ve stood firm, you realize later that she’s somehow gotten what she wanted out of you.

  It’s a gift.

  But she doesn’t use her talents for the dark side - she’s too busy, busting her fingies for a cause. Her cause. Khadija hosts a medical info site and support network for parents of children with spina bifida. She’s a force to be reckoned with when it comes to fundraising for research. That’s what brought her out to the networking group in the first place - she assumed that she’d find women in that group not only willing to spread the word, but to donate to the cause.

  Khadija was right. She’s got us all taking our folic acid every day, just in case we get knocked up. One less potential issue to deal with, as Khadija tells it, and she knows what she’s talking about. She’s not a tech queen in her own right, but learned what she had to learn for the cause of her heart. Khadija’s first daughter had spina bifida and died young after much suffering - we know this from her site, but she doesn’t talk about her daughter much.

  She has her moat dug deep and that’s fine with me. I’ve written some kicking code for her gratis a couple of times, not because I’m a sof
t touch or anything. I just respect her. Hey, it’s for the cause.

  Lydia. Queen of the Theories. A blonde Valkyrie, she’s equipped with an explanation for damn near everything, one that may not be the truth but often sounds better than truth ever could. She’s also not technically a tech person, just one drawn into the web, so to speak, after she met Khadija. We had a vacancy - one of our few rules is that we have eight members - and we liked her.

  Similarly impassioned about healthy babies, and about wanted babies, Lydia is a public health nurse. She’s got our nightstands full of more free condoms than any sane mortal could ever need, and often does spot checks of expiration dates in the bedroom of the current month’s hostess with the mostess. An ounce of prevention worth a pound of cure and all that. Maybe seven or eight pounds of squalling cure.

  Lydia might be a lesbian. I don’t ask but there have been a couple of clues. It’s not my business though, you know? You start delving into people’s lives and sooner or later they think it should be a reciprocal agreement. That’s not my game. I take the condoms because she doesn’t give us a choice, and ritually destroy enough of them before hosting a meeting that she thinks I’m a safe cookie.

  Ha. Got to remember to do that this afternoon. James and I only used two.

  Phyllis is fifty and fabulous. Really. I want to be a silver fox like Phyllis when I grow up. She’s our most ardent feminist, a lean mean fighting machine, with twenty years service in the military behind her and a handgun license to call her own. She’s a certified member of the NRA and big on responsible use of firearms. Know your weapon and all that. You can believe that she and Gwen have gone a few rounds now and again.

  (We have another rule - no discussion of personal politics - created after Gwen got bopped in the nose and bled all over Khadija’s new ivory rug and Phyllis broke her knuckle doing the honors.)

  Phyllis’ husband screwed around and dumped her after twenty-five years of what she thought was nuptial bliss for both parties. We do not ask what happened to the boy, by the way, or whether he sustained any injuries beyond the emotional ones. Some things are better left unexplored.

  Phyllis sat up, looked around, decided high tech was the way to forge a future (her phrase, not mine) moved to Cambridge, got her computer science degree as a mature student and took on the world. Along the way, she discovered that she was a great motivational speaker, probably by cheering the troops before exams.

  Now she runs the best cache of contract code cowboys on the east coast, cuts a tough deal for their services and is practically printing money in her basement. She has, in case you haven’t guessed, an extremely low bullshit tolerance level. She also has some major shields mounted to defend her personal space. We’re talking NASA-issue next-generation Kevlar. It’s impressive.

  I like Phyllis, a lot, and not just because she gave me some contract work when I needed cash desperately. I respect how hard she worked to climb her way back and that she did it alone. One of these days, maybe I’ll have enough work to give her some.

  Krystal is affectionately known as the Fashion Cop. This girl can shop. Zowie kazoo. Hitting a sale with her is an education. We used to call her the great pink hunter - she’s gaga for fuschia - but then she started picking on our taste in clothes and helpfully (?) remaking our images.

  Okay, we have a few members who are, or were, kind of indifferent to appearances. That hasn’t lasted. Krystal accepts no excuses, being of the “if you’re looking good, you’re feeling good” school of pop psychology. She’s earnest enough that you halfway think she just wants to make the world look better, maybe to improve the view.

  Aptly, she’s been working on the most miserable beast of technology meeting femininity - an online fitting utility for a jeans manufacturer. At first glance, you might think that this would be relatively routine - the potential customer punches in their measurements, maybe you conjure up a bit of 3-D modeling to make it jazzy and show the stock jeans on the virtual model before the customer orders.

  The problems are, of course, nearly infinite.

  First of all, women come in all shapes and variants of shapes and jeans fit to the skin. Waist, hip and inseam measurements aren’t nearly enough to guarantee a good, much less a flattering, fit. The jean company wants to guarantee the fit of jeans ordered online, to instill customer confidence. That objective is terrorizing Krystal.

  Secondly, although you could ask the potential customer to measure more elements of her own body, each request increases the probability that she will either give it up or measure incorrectly.

  And last but not least, we women lie about our measurements with breathless ease and unparalleled audacity. Especially the span of our backsides. Especially to a computer program that can’t actually see us. Nightmare city - do you add a fudge factor and risk not fitting the people who do measure accurately? How much should the fudge factor be? You can’t exactly ask people whether they’re lying or not, and if so by how much.

  Krystal has bagged a no-winner here. I just hope she gets paid for all the time she’s logged on it.

  Tracy, although the child wonder, was one of Krystal’s first victims. The Coke bottle glasses had to go - everyone knew it but Tracy. She’s all of twenty-two years old and frighteningly brilliant, well, in some ways.

  She works in a lab associated with the university, working on artificial intelligence development. She’s specifically working on little investigative modules that you swallow - they collect data all the way through the digestive tract then pop out at the end of the ride, not only with pix but analysis and suggestions for treatment. Shades of Fantastic Voyage.

  That’s the part that’s close to market that we’re allowed to know about. Next up, they’ve got a plan to shrink these modules down and make them proactive. She hasn’t told us more, but I’m guessing that the plan is ultimately for a patient to knock back a cup of cell warriors to take on their bad guys on a cell level.

  (Hmm. James would have too much fun with the potential liability there. What if the good guys turn bad? Is it the fault of the creator of the good guys, or is each warrior self-determining? This is starting to sound like theology. Never mind.)

  We have had some serious talks about the potential misuse of such powers and germ warfare. Phyllis is a conspiracy theorist pare excellence and insists that AIDS was a weapon that got away from the development labs, so you know she’s latched on to this one. Tracy is young enough to be utterly idealistic - but even though she doesn’t work for the Feds directly, she does have some kind of security clearance. That’s enough to give the anarchist in me the major creepies.

  And yes, I have wondered just how much she tells anyone else about what we discuss.

  Finally, there’s Antonia, Wiccan and high mistress of twisting technology to suit her needs. No, she doesn’t cast spells or tell fortunes - she’s a performance artist and uses high tech stuff in unpredictable ways. The purpose here is to challenge our conceptions of ourselves and our ever-changing world while echoing the unsustainability and fundamental tenuousness of our grip on reality.

  I got that from her website.

  We actually went to school together, all those many moons ago, when she was just a plain old repressed Catholic girl like me. We lost touch when I went to Japan. We hooked up a few years ago when I went to see one of her performances, which was blasted in the techie newspaper, thus feeding my curiosity.

  It was weird.

  Over the course of three hours, in a warehouse with a concrete floor, with dimmed lights and jungle sounds in the background, Antonia hunted computers. She wore a fake fur outfit à la Wilma Flintstone and a bone in her hair, and had roboticized the boxes so they could move. Their erratic - and thus evasive - paths were the result of random number generators picking their changes of course and speeds. Several had a robot arm fitted with razor blades on the “fingers” that they periodically swiped through the air, thereby making Antonia both predator and prey.

  The whole thing was unprogramme
d and unchoreographed, except that the robots slowly sped up and that they vastly outnumbered Antonia. The audience had to move as well to evade the uncharted courses of the robots, making us part of the experience of the hunt. There was real panic in the air at one or two points.

  One by one, the primeval hunter eliminated her foes, leaving some stalled and some smoking. When she took down the biggest and thus “meatiest” one, she dragged it across the floor, lit a fire, cracked its back and scooped its inner cabling out like spaghetti. She eviscerated it, then began to roast bits of it over the fire, making grunting noises of anticipation as the warehouse filled with smoke.

  I loved it. Having had more than a few moments when I’ve wanted to gut a computer, I found the show irresistible. Antonia hooked me on performance art too, that moment when the audience realized that they were part of the show having been just too delicious to forget.

  So we connected again, though the Lost Years - as we’ve come to call them - remain pretty much unexplored, by mutual choice. We’re both single now and that’s all we need to know.

  You know, of course, all you need to know about me, member #8.

  Feeling somewhat sepulchral about life, the universe and everything, I dressed for the evening in full Goth glory. Black leather pants that fit more tightly than my own skin these days, a plum crushed velvet fitted tunic and a white poet’s shirt with a good six inch deep ruffle of lace at the collar and cuffs.

  Rice powder is the trick to that pale pale Goth face. And concealer underneath to smooth out the hues of your skin. I followed with a catty Cleopatra eyeliner look in midnight blue, which made my eyes look sapphire and upstaged the shadows under my eyes. I chose a purple lipstick named, aptly enough, Deadly Nightshade and decided it was coming together well. I moussed my aubergine hair and tousled it up, telling my reflection that this could be a hellish night.

  The Ariadne’s - a wickedly perceptive bunch - might guess that something was wrong. They might want to know. They might demand that I dish, after all their various sporadic dishing over the years. I was the only one who had never surrendered a personal tidbit. Surely I couldn’t lose my touch now. I shuddered with foreboding, then slipped into a pair of beaded black mules with stiletto forever heels that I had nearly sold my soul to own. I was ready.