Earthfall

by Craig Delancey

  The man frowned. He seemed to think hard a moment. “I think….” He hesitated.

  “Come on,” DiAngelo said. “Catherine is not here. You can tell me. I want to know. I work with people mostly my age. They’re conservative. They got their life plans well underway. And still, I’d say a quarter of them are planning new lives for themselves. They expect to live some new way, if we join the Alliance. And they’re practically my age. I can’t imagine what the world looks like for someone like you. Your life all before you, and suddenly, they show up.” He pointed at the square of sky above, to indicate the direction of the generic Galactic.

  The young boy, with his pale face—he looked familiar, somehow. Like someone DiAngelo had seen before, recently.

  The boy hesitated. He wanted to speak. To encourage him, DiAngelo added, “Talk to me. I need to know if I can trust you.”

  DiAngelo realized immediately that this last thing he said had been a mistake. He’d ruined it. The kid had understood his earlier question, and had thought hard about it. But this last thing DiAngelo said—the kid took that to mean, are you loyal to the Terran Liberation Front?

  “It’ll be the end of us,” the young man said, his voice turning easy. “Everyone will turn away from our history, our religion, our world. We’ll never be human again.”

  DiAngelo sighed. The kid was just parroting the TLF line now. He felt a crushing loneliness settle on him. What was he doing, trying to make conversation with this kid? He was so lonely. So hungry for a conversation. Everyone he knew worked for him. Said yes or no to him. But never wanted to sit and wonder with him. He didn’t have a friend in the world that he could just talk to.

  DiAngelo slid the case over. The kid grabbed it by the sides, but DiAngelo held the handle, and the kid tugged at it, and then stopped, looking at him in surprise.

  “Let me give you some advice, kid. Being human, that’s gotta start with having your own reasons. You find your own reasons for doing this, or don’t do it. Go do your own thing. Not a Galactic thing. Not a TLF thing. Your own thing.”

  He let go of the case. The boy hugged it to his chest.

  DiAngelo stood. He brushed off his pants. “Tell Catherine that’s the end of it.”

  The boy frowned but nodded. “You…” he said, “I….”

  DiAngelo waited for him to muster a sentence.

  “I’ll give you some advice too. You should get out of town for a few days.”

  “Why?”

  The boy stood. He started to walk. DiAngelo grabbed his shoulder and turned him.

  “Steve, Stevie, you fucking little punk, why? You aren’t doing anything in New York. That’s the deal.”

  The boy shrugged off DiAngelo’s hand. “The embassy is here. What did you think would happen?”

  DiAngelo put a finger in the boy’s face. “You tell Catherine….”

  But the boy turned and hurried off the patio. DiAngelo did not pursue him. He was too old to go chasing kids.

  He looked around the courtyard. The old man with the bread stared at him. The couple clutched their daughter and frowned.

  He rushed for the doors.

  _____

  When he let himself into his apartment, the cameraman stood at the end of the hall, the big camera rig resting on his protruding belly. He turned slowly to aim the lens at DiAngelo. The floating cameras kept their aim toward the dining room.

  DiAngelo forced his face blank. He found his wife sitting at the end of the dining room table, alone. One of her soliloquies, he knew. Once or twice a day she had to sit, the long table spread out before her like a stage, and complain about her friends while the cameraman just filmed.

  “Oh, Alfonso!” she called. Always brightly enthusiastic when the cameras fixed on her. He didn’t know how she did it. She demonstrated a kind of stamina that he could not fathom: deep reserves of commitment to acting as someone she wanted to be, hours and hours on end. Did she aim to convince herself or the viewers? Did she think she would become—or actually did become—that person, by immortalizing these moments in recordings?

  “Hi, love,” he said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  She hesitated, the smile trembling with effort. She understood he meant alone. She looked at the camera, then back at him. “Uh, sure, honey. Of course. Right now?”

  DiAngelo didn’t answer, but walked to their bedroom door. The cameras were forbidden in the bedroom. A deal he had forced them to write into the show’s contracts. He had also soundproofed the room. DiAngelo went inside and held the door.

  Victoria came in, her smile strained, and sat on the edge of the bed. He pushed the door closed and locked it. She visibly relaxed into her own self as the lock clicked loudly into place. DiAngelo took her gilded chair from the vanity and turned it around, set it close to her, and sat, his knees touching her own.

  “Let’s go away,” he said.

  “Where?” she looked at him with soft eyes. The acting was over. She understood that he talked to her now in utter seriousness. She reached out and took his hands.

  “To Italy,” he said. “Just the two of us. Let’s lose ourself in what remains. We’ll go to Rome. I want to walk in the Forum. I want to see the Catacombs. I think I can get us a private tour of the Vatican museum. We’ll walk the ruins. Eat great food. Remember the thousands of years of great things done there. We’ll see the Sistine Chapel. The Last Supper. Then we can travel. The canals of Venice. Florence. Milano: we’ll spend a whole season at La Scala, watching every opera. We’ll just remember. Someone needs to remember.”

  “Remember what, honey?”

  He felt tears come to his eyes. He was a man of power. A man who had through great force of will earned many millions, and bought and sold empires. And he did it all by keeping his heart cold. But not now. Now he felt a great sadness well in his chest. The world was ending. The world he’d known and loved, loved so very much, died all around him.

  “We need to remember all the things we did. That human beings did. Because I think it’s over. It’s over now, baby. We’ll always be… next to nothing. We’ll be just a tiny little island, from now on. Like Hawaii. Or Malta. A little place, quaint. For eternity, Earth will be nothing but a tourist destination. And that will break the will of humanity. So we just need… I just need to stop and appreciate all that came before. It’s not enough to just save it. It’s wasted if no one appreciates it. Why not us?”

  “I’d love that,” she whispered. “You’ve worked too hard. I’ve worked too hard. And all the world is changing too fast.” Tears welled in her eyes too now. To his surprise, DiAngelo felt two tears roll down his cheeks in response.

  “You’re right,” Victoria said, “if we don’t appreciate all those great things, who will? Everyone is turning their eyes away from the Earth and all that we’ve done here. Everyone is looking up at the stars.”

  DiAngelo raised her hands to his lips and kissed her soft knuckles. He had forgotten that she could be like this. So understanding. So appreciative. Sensitive. Not intelligent—he could admit that she lacked any sharp intelligence. But she felt, and understood, and saw. She noticed things.

  “We have enough,” he told her. “I’ve got money hidden away all over. We’ll just go.”

  His wife nodded.

  He kissed her knuckles again. She squeezed his hands and sighed contentedly. Then she said, “The season ends in six weeks. We can go right after.”

  He froze, holding her hands halfway to his lips.

  “Today,” he said. “Let’s go today. Right now. It has to be now.”

  She pulled her hands away. “Honey, I can’t do that.”

  “Yes you can. You’re rich on the first season’s royalties. And I’m richer. We can do whatever we want.”

  “I signed a contract.”

  “Let them sue.”

  “But I have fans. I have responsibilities. And you, don’t you have the business?”

  “Besides, it will help the show. The disappearance of Victoria DiA
ngelo.”

  That almost got her. She frowned, thinking about it. It would be a scandal. And scandals were very good for ratings.

  “The hell with all of that,” he added. “Let’s go now. We have to go now. I feel it, Victoria. I feel it. If we don’t go now, we’ll never go. This is our one chance. This is it. Italy now or never.”

  “Are you in trouble?” Victoria pushed herself back, swung her legs to the side, and stood, making the bed squeak. She walked a few steps away. “Are you in legal trouble? Something with the business?”

  “Trouble is coming. But not because of the business. Not trouble for me. Just trust me. Trouble for everyone.”

  She looked at him in silence a long moment. She pressed her lips into a frown. “Oh, Alfonso. Alfonso, you know I can’t—”

  The doorbell rang. The bedroom had its own speakers. “Julia Croft awaits at the door,” the house computer said.

  “That’s Julia,” she whispered. “We’re reenacting an argument we had yesterday. There’s only a few hours left till the editors need the feed. It has to go live at midnight.”

  “It’s not live, honey.” He pointed at her, at himself. “This. This is live. This is life. That’s just… nothing.”

  Her face set in anger. “How can you say that? Don’t disparage my work.”

  DiAngelo shook his head. “This is really our last chance.”

  “No it’s not,” Victoria said. “You’ll see.” She went to the door. “You’ll see. I promise.” She pulled the door open. The two floating cameras and the cameraman waited outside, all filming the closed door.

  “Vultures,” DiAngelo hissed. The chair fell backwards as he stood. He walked past Victoria and past the cameras. The cameraman swung the accusing black lens after him. He walked behind DiAngelo, following him to the front door. Julia stood there, a brunette woman in all other respects like his own wife. She smiled hugely and cried “Alfonso!” But he hurried out the front door, racing to catch the waiting elevator.

  _____

  “Is that good?” Victoria asked the cameraman, an hour later. He had lowered the camera for a moment. It was rare that she saw his face. He had an unlovely face, bloated and pale, with eyes that always seemed inflamed and red. Their first season, she had often thought of the incongruity of it: the show portrayed unbroken elegance, from scene to scene. And yet, in every scene, no matter how divine, there stood this man with his camera, his tee shirt stained over his bulging gut, his blue jeans frayed by the many tools he kept in his pockets.

  “Did you get that, Bobby?” she asked him.

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “I’ll check the feed to be sure. But I think I got it.”

  “Be a dear and let us girls talk. Go have a beer. Take the cameras.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” he said. But he did leave for the kitchen, taking his large camera with him. The galactic cameras floated up into the corners, watching like spiders.

  “That was a good take,” Julia said. Her face was still red from their argument. “I really got mad there for a while.”

  “I’m worried about Alfonso,” Victoria blurted out.

  Julia frowned. “Why, honey? Did you fight? He seemed mad when he stormed out of here earlier.”

  “He wasn’t angry. He never raises his voice to me. He was just… disappointed. He acts so strange lately. He’s secretive. He has meetings at odd times. He’s impulsive. He just asked me to leave town.”

  Julia tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “Well….”

  “Well what?”

  “Well,” she said. “I’m sorry Vic, but it sounds like an affair, don’t you think?”

  “Oh. But no. He just asked me to run away with him.”

  “Men feel guilty, and they ask their wives to help them get out of it. Leave town together. Leave the other woman behind. Hope it all blows over.”

  “You think? Oh, that would be terrible.”

  Julia leaned toward her, and spoke in a mock whisper. “You saw that footage from the opera, where he talked with some woman in the bar?”

  “Alfonso knows a lot of people, Julia.”

  “And you’ve read the show’s boards?”

  “The boards for Wealthy Wives?”

  Julia nodded. “Hundreds of members, all posting that they think he’s unfaithful, and they think he talks to his lover in that home office of his. The truth is, it must be good for ratings, that they filmed him talking with that woman. Can’t think of what else could cause the increase in interest.”

  They both looked to the locked door at the end of the hall.

  “Too bad you can’t get in there.”

  “And do what?” Victoria said.

  “Hide and watch. Bring one of the cameras. It’d make great TV.”

  Victoria hesitated. “I do know how to get in. I flirted with the contractors who put in the security system. I told them I needed the codes, in case of fire or some emergency. They gave me the master codes.”

  Julia clapped her hands. “Perfect!”

  “I… I don’t like this,” Victoria said. “I trust Alfonso. I think that things are just hard at work.”

  “One way to know. See what he’s doing in there. If it’s just work, it’s in your contract that his work remains confidential, right? So no harm then. But maybe, instead, you solve a mystery.”

  “A mystery?”

  Julia sighed impatiently, “Come on, Victoria, I don’t have to tell you. Our numbers are down. This—all these new emails and posts—that’s the first good news in weeks. We need something to shake up the show. We need to get our viewers back. What better than a mystery?”

  Victoria nodded uncertainly. “I’m… not sure.”

  “Well, I am. Let’s call the writers. They can sketch out some scenes for us, where we plan it all out. Then you can spy on him. Very dramatic. Hide in there, bring a camera. See what we see. Imagine the reconciliation if I’m wrong. His anger, your apology. A whole season of making it up to him. And, on the other hand, if he’s really got another woman, then he deserves what he gets.”

  Victoria reached up toward one of the floating cameras. It levitated down and settled in her open palm. She closed her hand over the cool metal and held it before her face. She saw herself, tiny and translucent, reflected in its big black lens.

  “Just this one thing,” she whispered. “To finish off the season. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  Chapter 6

  The next morning at breakfast, Victoria sensed that Alfonso was still angry at her. Or, at least, disappointed. She had smiled and he had been civil, but the warmth of their conversation the day before, alone in her bedroom, had been lost. He stared off in space, as if deeply troubled by something. He thought of work, she might have concluded, if only that he never acted that way at home about work. He kept work problems in the office.

  But, just as she rose from the table and wished him a good day, he had stopped her, while the morning maid—he did not want help in the house between meals—took her plates. “Where are you filming this afternoon?”

  “A luncheon at the Met,” she said.

  He asked her for meticulous details about the lunch and the schedule. If it took hours to film, to get the scene right, did she get a new lunch? How else did they maintain the sense of time? If she had a salad in one shot, and empty plate in the other, wouldn’t it be obvious they had edited?

  “We eat, then get a second order and just sit with it,” she said.

  “So you’ll be there for hours, not really just an hour, like for a normal lunch?”

  “It always takes a long time. I told you that. Twenty hours of filming for every hour of the primary program.”

  He nodded, pushed his chair back, and went to fetch his jacket. When he left the house, Victoria immediately called Julia. The galactic camera floated nearby, close, its microphone extended.

  “He was trying to ensure I’d be out of the apartment,” Victoria explained to Julia.

  “Let’s call Sa
l,” Julia said. Of their three producers, Sal had been scheduled to manage this afternoon’s shoot. He answered their joint call immediately. Victoria explained again, but her voice grew more tentative as she explained. She ended with, “But I don’t think we should do this. Let’s just film an argument at the Met. This could be business. A breach of our contract with the show.”

  Sal frowned, a pouting expression, and leaned his head forward, his brow raised in exaggerated sympathy. “Victoria, honey, I didn’t want to do this, but….” He touched a button. His image was replaced by another image: a still shot. Alfonso, standing at a bar. She recognized the bar. The one at the opera. Alfonso stood very close to a tall woman, with sandy hair and broad shoulders. He held her bicep tight, almost like he was pulling her toward him. The woman was pretty, but in a severe way. Not, she would have thought, Alfonso’s type.

  “We’ve all seen that,” she said.

  “The footage we got at the opera. He went to the bar and had an intimate conversation with this woman. We recognized her. Once a famous cage match fighter. Then she was a sports model for a little while. Off the radar since. But not for Mr. DiAngelo.”

  “That picture proves nothing,” Victoria said. But her voice betrayed uncertainty, and she knew it. And once Sal detected her uncertainty, he would get his way.

  “Victoria, tell me this. You think he wants you out of the house?”

  “He’s going to use the home office this afternoon. I know it.”

  “So, you see, if it’s business, then we’ll delete anything you find. We don’t want to be in breach of contract, any more than you want to have a fight with your husband. It will quietly go away if we’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not sure about this.”

  Sal nodded. “It’ll be great. Great. We’ll make some great TV. Bobby is going to bring you one of the new galactic cameras. Then he’s going to set up across the street, to get the context shot showing Mr. DiAngelo entering the building. He’ll call you when he sees Mr. DiAngelo. So don’t answer any calls except from me or Bobby.”