by David Gullen
Somewhere in that mix Ellen’s life changed forever. There was no single moment, no particular weight that had been passed. Trends continued, a curve became a line, percentages swung. Global interest in her turned from fascination to obsession. She became the object. The aspiration.
A few months before she was fitted with her first exoframe, when her dress size was around twice her age, Ellen came to the conclusion that life in the outside world had stopped being fun.
Five angular black helicopters came out of the north and skimmed across the azure sea. They were still twenty miles out when the house alerted Crane’s staff, escalated estate and coastal security, notified Palfinger himself, and as a last action advised the island authorities.
Palfinger and Ellen were taking an early lunch. While her father dined on Greek salad and island fruits, Ellen sat with her frame locked into a sitting position and sipped a glass of Egyptian mint tea. Together they watched the aircraft pass over a flotilla of colourful painted fishing boats and swing over the white-sailed tourist yachts in the bay. The day was bright, the sky overhead clear. Behind the helicopters, the north was a dark bruise of the storm clouds around Permanent Larry.
Ellen queried the estate office. ‘Who is it?’
Raymond St.John, the house administrator, immediately entered the room. Slender and elegant, his thinning hair swept back, his black trousers and white shirt simply cut, St.John glanced down at the data tablet in his hand. ‘It’s the President, Miss Ellen.’
Ellen was impressed. ‘Wow, what’s Ahmed Hirsch doing over here?’
‘My apologies, I meant Guinevere Snarlow. From the USA.’
‘Oh.’ Ellen’s mouth pursed between slab-like cheeks, she put down her tea. ‘She’ll want to talk about Mexico. I’m going for a walk.’ Titanium bars cemented to her ribs billowed Ellen’s lungs. The play of light and shadow in the room changed as she rose to her feet.
Palfinger Crane watched his daughter depart. Her enormous young body moved with a curious lightness, the near-billion-dollar exoframe managed and helped operate her huge body both physically and biochemically. Medical systems controlled hormone balance, administered insulin and adjusted thyroid function, and monitored blood pressure, urea, spinal fluid and a hundred other factors. Webs of gold wire emerged from the skin across her shoulders and connected to cooling vanes via a tailored slit in her clothing. Cardiac assists pulsed deep in her chest, dialysis systems filtered blood from a re-routed vein in her thigh. The frame was as much her as she was it.
Crane found himself filled with a familiar set of emotions: love, helplessness, amazement and fear. He had ceased to feel hope after the last medical review. These nights he lay alone in his bed and prayed and felt a fool.
‘I’m sorry about that, sir,’ St.John said.
‘I’m sorry too.’ Crane struggled out of his reverie. It took a moment to remember what St.John was referring to. Ellen had met many Presidents, she was bound to think of the most important ones first.
There was no doubt Crane would have to meet Snarlow. ‘Reschedule everything please, Raymond.’
St.John pressed a stud on his tablet and said, ‘Postpone all, rearrange all.’ He looked up, ‘In hand, sir. Your schedule today is now free. I’ll send apologies and resolve any conflicts myself.’
‘Thank you, Raymond.’
Whatever the reason for Snarlow’s visit, she clearly considered it far too important for remote conference, let alone prior notification. It was typical of her showmanship, her sense of theatrics on the world stage. Ahmed Hirsch, President of the EU, would simply phone up and ask if he could pop over.
Now Crane was going to meet with Snarlow for the first time in over a year. Mexico, Crane thought. Obviously.
The helicopters hacked over the Crane estate and settled onto the acreage of the west lawn. Downdraft flattened yellow and white Amaryllis, Flamingo flower and Heliconia. Men and equipment disgorged, robo-canines loped arthritically into the undergrowth, a dozen whirligig drones spun up into the sky.
Crane pushed himself to his feet, his thigh muscles still ached from his gardening with Christian. ‘I’ll meet the President in the conservatory.’
‘Three minutes,’ St.John said. ‘Leave it to me.’
Guinevere Snarlow had contrived to wear her hair up and down at the same time. Coils of long brown hair were piled on her scalp while loose strands curled artfully behind her ears and the nape of her neck. She had power-dressed for the tropics: a chocolate and cream cotton skirt and a long-sleeved white lace blouse with a high collar and deep cuffs. Oblong, steel-framed glasses gave her an archaically studious look offset by open-toed sandals and bare legs. Two dozen pearl buttons fastened the ornate blouse from stomach to throat.
Presidential bodyguards flanked the door, muscular men in dark suits, with throat mikes, extended spectrum optical mods and FaF guns. Out on the veranda a comms console was operated by a gangly, raw boned woman and a heavily overweight man. Multi-pane overlays streamed data, displayed local aerial and ground views in IR, UV and radar feeds from the flying drones and robo-canines.
It was fast work. Crane stood in the conservatory and considered what Snarlow had done to his house. His home.
‘Palfinger. So good to see you.’ Guinevere held out her hand and Crane took it. She offered her cheek for his kiss, and again.
‘Guinevere, this is a genuine surprise.’ Crane gestured to a table St.John had set with fish, cold meats, fruit and spiced rice. ‘How was your flight? Can I offer you refreshment?’
‘That’s so thoughtful.’ Guinevere laid her fingers on Crane’s forearm. ‘Not everyone would go to so much trouble for an uninvited guest.’
Crane poured two glasses of fresh lemonade. ‘Are you hungry?’
Guinevere politely declined. ‘I’m not supposed to. Security always tells me off. It looks so delicious though, perhaps something small.’ She took a red grape and put it between her front teeth, caught Crane’s eye and bit down.
They sat in the cane chairs and sipped their lemonade. Guinevere put down her glass and smiled. ‘It’s good to be here.’
Crane put down his glass. ‘How can I help you, Madam President?’
Guinevere clasped her hands and leaned forwards. ‘Palfinger.’ Her smile was bright and self-conscious. As if she realised this, she laughed, smoothed her skirt over her hips. ‘Palfinger,’ she said again, ‘I’ve come to apologise.’
That wasn’t it. ‘For Mexico?’
‘For the Xalapatech labs. We want to compensate you.’
‘You used a neutron bomb.’
‘We had to,’ she said earnestly. ‘Mexico went rogue, it failed as a sovereign nation. The climate refuges overwhelmed its infrastructure like the drug cartels nearly did before them. They attacked us, Palfinger, they tried to break through the border and invade. If they had more advanced technology, the Xalapatech para-humans were simply too dangerous–’
‘You can’t… They’re not technology, you don’t use them like that.’ Crane shook his head. ‘What happened to the staff?’
‘We used those bombs… Yes, a percentage were killed.’
Crane’s eyes glittered. ‘That’s why you’re here? Your guilty conscience?’
‘The residential areas were mostly outside the blast zone, the infrastructure is basically intact.’
‘Atomic bombs, Guinevere! Is that all you used? I’ve heard Andriewiscz has access to A/M.’
Snarlow looked shocked. ‘Anti-matter? We’d never use it. Never. We don’t even have anything weaponised, it’s too expensive, too dangerous. Harvard has a tiny amount, so does Fermilab. Maybe a thousand atoms. It’s a theory, not a deterrent.’
‘That’s what you used to say about nuclear bombs.’
‘These were tactical, Palfinger. Low yield. Very low yield.’ Guinevere’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper. ‘Nothing like the Mexicans had, what they were going to use against us.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Crane said quietly, and stood up.
It was as if Guinevere chose that exact same moment to rise. They had been sitting almost knee to knee and she lost her balance. Palfinger reached out and there she was in his arms, her hands on his waist.
‘Excuse me,’ Palfinger said.
‘It’s alright.’ Guinevere’s voice grew husky. She looked into his eyes and smiled her easy smile. ‘I don’t mind.’
Palfinger could feel her breasts pressed against his chest, her groin flat against his own.
She’s trying to seduce me, he realised. She’s offering herself, and if I wanted to, I could have her now. Any way I wanted.
The idea simultaneously thrilled and repelled him. Palfinger was physically modest, his sexual adventures limited by the extent of his self-confidence. Despite his unbelievable riches most of his erotic fantasies remained unfulfilled.
She stepped back, one palm flat against her chest. ‘Wow. What happened there?’
‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think we should–’
Guinevere’s chest heaved, she clutched at the collar of her blouse as if she could barely breathe. ‘I want to be friends, Palfinger, can’t we have that?’ She pulled open the button at her throat, and the one below. A third followed. ‘Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do, things we regret. We make promises, our integrity makes us keep those promises wherever they take us. I’m the President of a great, great nation, you’re a fantastically successful businessman, but we’re people too, simple, frail human beings with human desires.’
Crane watched Guinevere as she undid button after button.
‘We’re adults, Palfinger, you and I. We should be able to do what we want.’ Guinevere spread her arms revealing the creamy tanned skin between her breasts. ‘Baby, here I am.’
She was totally available but she had the appetites of a predator. She would let him do anything he wanted to her yet she would still be in control. Whatever it was, she would be up for it. They’d do some legal Pharma and fuck like weasels.
Crane had a vision of the two of them, half undressed in the conservatory. The bodyguards stood like statues, facing outwards. Guinevere Snarlow, 50th President of the USA bent over the food table, legs spread and blouse open, her bare breasts among the fruit and meat pâtés. He was behind her, his trousers round his ankles, corn-holing her, spanking her ass like there was no tomorrow.
Palfinger turned his back. ‘A percentage. I never got used to defining people that way. A million dead in Mexico City – what does that really mean?’
Behind him, Snarlow gritted her teeth and began to re-button her blouse. ‘Stalin said it was a statistic.’
‘Look at this cycad.’ Palfinger touched a low, palm-like plant with a spray of emerald leaves.
She touched the deep green, soft-looking fronds, discovering they were stiff, sharp-tipped things.
‘Ancient plants,’ Crane continued. ‘There used to be global forests of them. They’ve been in decline for 50 million years, but they’re still hanging on. In Kew Gardens, in England, is the only known example of one species, literally the last of its kind. When it’s gone, that species is gone. Forever.’
‘It must be very valuable.’
Crane shook his head. ‘Think about all that time, the movement of continents, the rise and fall of the dinosaurs.’
Crane went to a cast-iron bench under a tree fern with black-stemmed fronds three metres long. He gestured to Guinevere to join him.
‘Is this where that story ends, Guinevere? In war?’
Tropical sunshine streamed through the thrice-pinnate leaves and turned to dappled light on their clothes. Snarlow realised she had miscalculated. Crane was an intellectual, a philosopher. He’d rather talk than screw.
‘Our hand was forced, but annexing Mexico will stabilise the whole Gulf basin. Your tree-things, those cycads, are quite safe.’
‘You’re telling me that’s all there is to it?’
She gave him the smile. ‘Absolutely. You have my word.’
‘No problems with Canada, then?’
Crane’s innocuous sounding question made Guinevere wonder about the validity of her briefing. She’d been advised Crane had no interest in politics, that he was obsessed with his daughter’s illness, content with his life in a bubble of ultra-privileged luxury. Somebody was going swing by their tits for this.
‘Well, of course there are some on-going issues. The Quebecoise and Arcadian terrorists for one. That’s why we need you on side. Your influence…’ She went to take his hand and he drew back.
‘No, Guinevere. I’m not getting involved. I’m just one person–’
‘An important and powerful one.’
‘Nobody elected me, I’ve no franchise.’
‘I want you on the Executive.’
Crane was momentarily speechless. ‘Guinevere, I’m a Canadian.’
‘That’s not a problem. I’m the President, I can do what I want.’
‘No. You’re at war. I don’t know what you’re up to but whatever the problem you have with the Europeans you need to start a dialogue and resolve it quickly.’
‘Europe?’ Guinevere laughed lightly, ‘They’re not a threat. They don’t even have an army. We’re not worried about the Europeans.’
Crane gave her a look of frank appraisal. ‘You should be.’
Guinevere was starting to get pissed. This conversation was not going anything like the way she’d been assured it would.
‘Let me be clear, Palfinger, Mexico is a police action supported by our armed forces in strength. It is an act of self-defence to counter anti-democratic aggression.’
Halfway through her speech Guinevere realised Crane had stopped listening. He took a few paces across the conservatory. ‘Neutron bombs against refugees?’
‘It’s a dangerous world,’ Snarlow snapped. She’d show this difficult, uncooperative man where his best interests lay. ‘Everyone needs to be careful, even me, even you. Hostiles are everywhere, accidents can happen anytime. Dreadful, unforeseen acts of violence out of the blue. Your daughter–’
Crane’s eyes were suddenly cold as stone. ‘What about my daughter?’
‘What I mean, and I think you should consider my words very carefully, is that we would be able to protect her.’
Eventually Crane said, ‘Is that so?’ He held Guinevere’s gaze until she was forced to look away.
- 29 -
Washington DC, midday, EST.
Secretary of State Cheswold Lobotnov today summoned Canadian ambassador Dominique Delacroix to his office to hand her an official Note of Protest.
‘Terrorist attacks along the 49th parallel have reached intolerable levels. The USA will not allow the murderous activities of these state-funded organisations to continue. The USA has a sovereign right to defend itself from rogue states. Since the foundation of the Hudson Bay Company, Canada has been notorious for environmental vandalism. Ottawa is set on regional destabilisation via proxy.’
Ms. Delacroix retorted that Lobotnov’s statement was incoherent, wilfully divisive, ill-advised and based on flawed intelligence. ‘If these attacks really are from Canadian separatists why attack the USA? If you want an independent Quebec who in their right mind invades Minnesota?’
Both sides have ruled out European mediation though Ms. Delacroix made it clear that they are in open dialogue with the so-called Emerald Union. Secretary Lobotnov’s derisive laughter at the suggestion is a clear indication of the USA’s attitude to what a senior aide later described as ‘Unwelcome interference from a third party with a global agenda.’
Nude photos of Dominique Delacroix >>Here<<.
– Syndicated feed, Newsnscrews.gov.usa
The motel sign said SpaceTime, the word written in flowing liquid script across a ringed planet descending into an obsidian ocean. Josie and Novik were on I-5 south of Eugene, the high-rise residential malls and warehousing of Stockton and Sacramento far behind them. Exhausted to the point of collapse, unspoken consensus brought them here, a mutual refu
sal to sleep rough for another night, the rebellion of aching shoulders and blistered feet demanding hot tubs, a real bed.
Shoulder-high wands of chrome steel tipped with electric light dotted the empty motel car park. The Cadillac drew to a halt in front of the single-storey reception, a retro-future concept of chrome, curves and black glass, halfway between an Airstream caravan and an art-deco spaceship.
Inside, the metalflake floor tiles were scuffed, the black, wet-look top of the reception desk scratched and stained. Partway down the accommodation corridor, a too-skinny maid in a delta-V cap, gold eye shadow, gold boots and metallic apron listlessly pushed her cleaning trolley. She halted outside a door, touched the handle, jerked her hand at the static snap, swore, and went inside.
The receptionist and owner was Dubcek, a man as aged and weather-beaten as time itself. His wild beard and unkempt hair were dirty white, his fingers were yellow, his shirt was both. It was as if a passing hobo had discovered a generation starship and decided to play janitor until the owners returned.
‘So how d’ya like it?’ Dubcek’s expression was more hopeful than proud. Behind his watery eyes he already knew the answer but dreamed of customers prepared to lie for a discount.
‘I never seen anything like it,’ Novik said.
‘Impressive is not the word,’ Benny said.
Dubcheck silently pushed laminated newspaper clippings across the desk. ‘SpaceTime Motel’ one headline read. ‘Visit the world people a hundred years ago imagined people today would live in tomorrow.’
Novik pushed it back. ‘It must have been something.’
‘We could have gone national, a SpaceTime motel on every freeway in every city. Except nobody liked the logo. None of them, not one damned company. Now it’s Cheese-a-Swede all over.’