The Autumn Engagement

by Stephen Cote

The Autumn Engagement

  Stephen W. Cote

  Copyright Stephen W. Cote 2001

  First published by Inkblot Books, 2001.

  About the Author

  Hello and thank you for reading. My name is Stephen W. Cote. I am a Software Engineer and Consultant, a United States Marine, a martial artist, and an author. You can find more information about my early creative writing and ongoing open source projects on whitefrost.com. I enjoy writing hard and whimsical science fiction, adult fantasy, and poetry. As an early advocate of Creative Commons licensing, many of my short stories and poems have been available online since 1996.

  If you enjoyed this story, or my other free stories, you may also be interested in my fantasy novel, Harlot's Eight, or my short story collection Nothing Like Heaven.

  If you would like to learn more about my writing, open source projects such as the Hemi JavaScript Framework, or inquire about unpublished manuscripts and shorts, please contact me at whitefrost.com.

  Thank you for taking the time to read my work and I hope you enjoy it.

  Part 1: Freeze Framed Failure

  A three-dimensional kaleidoscope of advertisements and spectators flickered and became pixilated whenever the music started to play. At the worst moment, the inset speakers in the ceiling rattled to a tinny rendition of the Andromeda Galaxy Orchestra playing the Star Spangled Banner. The music sputtered, and three kids in the bleachers behind the dugout froze for a full second as the visiting team leapt to their feet in triumphant cheers. The World Historians Society had recorded every detail of the baseball game.

  Moments prior: Bottom of the ninth, a Great Britain National Team runner on second base, and their premiere batter facing a wicked arm from the Cascadia National Team.

  Excitement tinged Janus Franko's spine as eight month-old game footage played in staccato 3D on the worker-class apartment walls. With perfect control of movement, his doppelganger gave no indication the pitch would send the ball astray. However, one tenth of a second after the ball left his hand, he knew it would sink too early.

  Janus ceased playback. The ambrosia of champagne and salmon roe momentarily infused the air, and he recalled the affluent ambiance of his high-class suite. Then he held in his grasp a cornucopia-dream of fame, fantastic wealth and perfect love. To once more savor its succulence. Within the hour following Cascadia’s loss, the triumvirate - fame, wealth, and love – quickly began to disintegrate.

  He managed to rationalize his love for Priscilla an indulgence, and his fortune didn't matter as much as the lump in his chest suggested. But no lie hid the loss of social exuberance accompanying excessive wealth, fame, and perfect love. Gazing at the chalky apartment walls, he wished his copy of the winter festival recorded two years prior hadn't met an untimely fate with the trash disposal. Then, his relationship with Priscilla had been in fine form. Wearing a radiant near-translucent gown, she played perfectly her role of swooning lover.

  The irony of destroying the best recordings: I can only freeze-frame my failures.

  And without the reminder of success, failure replayed permanently. When not replaying the last game, his mind roamed between the climactic finale of his accounts being drained and Priscilla walking out. Baseball is life. But not anymore.

  He wrote a cuss word on a bit of paper, wadded it up, and studied the trajectory as he flicked it at Priscilla’s picture. His lips curled into a sneer when it made contact with her mouth, fancying she spoke the exotic cuss and committed a grave faux pas. Strike one. He wound up for a second pitch.

  Mid-flick, Janus’ eyes fell to a deferred source of ammunition, a brochure resting on the molded plastic end table. He knew the contents and had let it soak up his misery rather tearing it up for Cuss-Ball. Reserved for special circumstance, printed mail tended to arrive from lawyers or someone wealthy, and this brochure belonged to the latter. He picked it up and followed the rich lettering with blurred vision: Summer Festival. Although no longer a functioning member of the social elite, he still received invitations from one family. Below the title, the invitation read, Victor Welsh cordially invites you …

  Following the last game, all contact with his social circle ceased except from Victor Welch. Though he would have preferred to discard the brochure the timing of the party made the announcement difficult to dismiss.

  His pitch cost Cascadia more than a game. Fourteen diamond minds on the Luxemburg flats of Mars had been introduced as a mid-game dispute. As with any game resolving disputed extraterrestrial property, a period of reckoning preceded finalization of the deed transfer.

  The date of the party marked the last day before the transfer completed.

  Janus contemplated the date of the party and felt a widening chasm of depression. A party in two days, and on the third day his failure would be sealed.

  He tried to push fantastic thoughts of recovering his status from his mind. Obtaining an invitation to such a party came at no cost. Attendance, on the other hand, required a large contribution to a political or non-profit organization. And this particularly eccentric engagement expected a particular companion: A synthetic. Therefore, he rationalized he could not attend and returned to the tedious task of wallowing in failure.

  On his return trip into the depths of despair, his phone chimed. He touched open on the communication panel, and waited for the caller to identify their self.

  "Franko," a grizzled voice stated.

  "I already paid," he said, assuming the voice belonged to a collection agent. However, the voice sounded familiar and he tried to put it to a face. When no introduction followed, he asked, "Who is this?"

  "Franko," the voice droned in the same timbre and time.

  "Synthetic," Janus muttered. A typical marketing slogan for diamond-carbide laized synthetic brains came to mind: Synthetics now have feelings, too.

  "Franko," it repeated.

  "Yes, I’m Franko," he said.

  "I have been…" the voice started. The media company providing his free service interrupted the call with a chime.

  "Please stand by for a commercial interruption." The voice possessed every loathsome quality of a corporate spokesperson.

  "Din ji!" Janus swore, using vile profanity popularized by space-faring cargo pilots. There existed a time when he shied away from such wicked and acidic words. Lately, they found more frequent use in his daily vocabulary. He pounded the wall with his fist, listening to an advertisement for a deodorant engineered for the athlete living in high G.

  "What do you want?" Janus asked.

  "I have been asked to extend a personal invitation to the Welch Summer Festival."

  He looked around for the brochure, found it still in hand, and wadded it up. Janus crammed the paper wad against the phone’s microphone. "Hear that? That’s the part reading this is a synthetic party. Good bye." He punched the close button.

  "Signed communications cannot be closed by the receiving party," the phone instructed him.

  Janus glared at the phone and saw that the open button still glowed, indicating the caller remained connected.

  "Janus Franko?" Another voice, one he couldn’t place.

  "Another party has entered the conversation. Please stand by for a commercial interruption." A commercial started playing but halted five seconds into the minute-long program.

  "Communication is now secured," the phone instructed.

  "Free phone service," the new speaker said. "Janus, this is Victor Welch."

  Janus bit his lip, his heart raced. The voice belonged to one of the wealthiest citizens of Cascadia, and the one person who did not completely sever contact with him. "Mr. Welch," he said, mustering a polite tone.

  "Janus, I called to invite you to my party. However, I also hav
e another matter I wish to discuss. I believe a brief meeting would benefit both of us."

  "Mr. Welch, I appreciate your offer, but I’m not in much of a position to help anyone."

  "Janus," he said. "The matter is delicate and one in which you are particularly knowledgeable. In return for your assistance, I will see you are provided the material appointments necessary to attend my party. Or, if attendance is not in your best interest, other reimbursement may be arranged."

  Janus cupped his palm over his forehead. "Mr. Welch," he started, and then decided to investigate the offer rather than express outright denial. "When should we meet?"