She relaxed a little but narrowed her eyes at Derek. “Is that the truth?”
Derek grabbed her hand and forced a smile that failed to blossom. “You do have a good chance of survival but …” He swallowed the lump in his throat.
“What did the doctor say?”
“You have a 30 percent chance of survival. If we had started the treatments earlier …” Derek started to cry.
Hannah squeezed her son’s hand. “It’s okay, honey. I knew this day was coming. Whatever happens, I’m in God’s hands.”
Derek leaned over the bed and hugged his mother.
As they embraced, Hannah whispered in Derek’s ear, “I love you, honey. You’re the best son a mother could ever have.”
“I love you too, Mom.” Derek let go and stood upright. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his flannel shirt.
A soft knock came at the door. Derek went to the door and opened it. His girlfriend, April, stood there, wearing tight jeans and a blousy top. She had a heart-shaped face, a button nose, and straight red hair that hung past her shoulders.
April reached out and hugged him, squeezing hard, her body pressed against his.
Derek had called her a few hours ago, so she was aware of the situation. He’d also called his daughter, Lindsey, but she hadn’t returned his call or his texts. April lived in Washington DC, over two hours away from Luray, VA, but she’d dropped everything to be there. They disengaged from their hug.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.”
They stepped toward Hannah.
“How are you feeling?” April asked with a sympathetic smile.
“I’m not dead yet,” Hannah replied with a small grin.
April was great. She sat with Hannah, held her hand, laughed, and empathized. She talked enthusiastically about subjects that interested Hannah, like knitting, food preservation, and Christian romance novels. Derek watched April with his mother, thinking about how much he loved both of them. April was nearly perfect: beautiful, smart, compassionate, and fun to be around.
He’d thought about asking her to marry him, but where would they live? As an accomplished DC lawyer, she made quite a bit more money than he did. What would he do? Sell the farm and live in DC? Outside of farming, he didn’t have any marketable skills. He doubted she wanted an unemployed husband. Their relationship was at an impasse.
Something else bothered him. Her ring. The Irish Claddagh ring passed down to her from her late mother. A silver ring with hands holding a heart. If the hands and the heart faced inward, it indicated that April’s heart was taken. Worn the other way, her heart was open to suitors.
They’d dated for nearly six months before she’d turned the ring inward, but now the heart faced outward.
10
Jacob, Captain of a Sinking Ship
The autonomous Mercedes navigated northern Virginia traffic as Jacob lounged in the back seat, scrolling through his email and sipping his coffee. He opened an email from his brother Eric.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Meeting with Zhang Jun
Jacob,
I was able to broker a meeting for you with Jun. It’s on the top floor of The Regal Hotel in DC on November 23 at 9:00 p.m. I know it’s a Saturday night, but beggars can’t be choosers. You can thank me now.
Jun is eccentric and as power-hungry as they come. Don’t expect a fair deal. He believes the Chinese are superior to Americans. You might be able to use that to your advantage. Also, you will probably be walking into a party. He likes conducting business at parties. He thinks it gives him an advantage to distract his opponents with alcohol and women.
Watch out. He’s a snake. Try not to be too stuffy. He doesn’t like that. Drink his drinks but don’t get drunk. Accept the company of a woman, human or robotic, but don’t become enamored. If you can do that and keep your wits about you, you have a chance.
Good luck,
Eric
Jacob tapped on his tablet, adding the meeting to his schedule, to take place in eleven days. Conveniently, The Regal Hotel was only half an hour from his office in McLean, Virginia.
The autonomous Mercedes turned onto the sprawling Housing Trust campus. Six five-story stone-and-tinted-glass buildings were connected with glass breezeways. The grounds were impeccably maintained. Dark green grass, fresh mulch, not a weed in sight. The maple leaves were still bright green, fall coming later and later.
The Mercedes idled at the entrance to the main building. “You have arrived at Housing Trust Headquarters. Have a wonderful day, Mr. Roth,” the female voice said through the car’s speakers.
Jacob put his tablet inside his briefcase and exited the Mercedes. He yawned as he stepped to the glass doors. He was still jet-lagged from his trip to England over the weekend. The front door opened for him, the door sensing the badge in his pocket and the facial recognition cameras validating that his badge was, in fact, him.
Jacob took the elevator to the top floor. A few employees rode the elevator with him, but Jacob didn’t know any of their names. They had over six thousand human employees. The elevator was dead silent, everyone watching the numbers tick higher, a few exiting at each floor. Jacob was alone by the time he reached the top floor. He stepped down the hall and entered a glass door that read CEO Jacob Roth. Inside, he passed the reception desk and his new receptionist, Zoe Benson.
Zoe said, “Good morning, Mr. Roth.”
He nodded, stopping in front of her. “I’d like some coffee.”
Zoe stood from her seat, removing her headset. “Right away, Mr. Roth.”
She walked toward the kitchenette and the coffeemaker. Jacob watched the rock of her hips in her pencil skirt and the flex of her calves in her high heels. After all, that was why he’d hired the young brunette—or rather had okayed the hire by his assistant. Jacob continued to his office, stopping at the open office door of his assistant, Elyse.
“Good morning, Mr. Roth,” Elyse said, standing from her desk.
“Good morning, Elyse,” Jacob replied.
Elyse was tall, athletic, with high cheekbones, and long dark hair parted down the middle. She could pass for an Italian model, and she had the brains to graduate top of her class with a Harvard MBA. Elyse followed Jacob, intent on prepping her boss for the day. Jacob held the door for Elyse as they entered his corner office.
“Thank you,” Elyse said in reference to Jacob’s chivalry.
“You’re welcome,” Jacob replied. “How was your weekend?”
Jacob’s office was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the rear wall, a mahogany desk, and a sitting area with plush leather furniture. He set down his briefcase and sat behind his desk.
“It was good. Perfect running weather. How about you?” Elyse sat down in one of the chairs opposite Jacob.
“It was long. I’m happy it’s over.” Jacob sighed. “Anything pressing?”
Elyse gave him the rundown. Jacob had a meeting first thing with Ramesh, the CFO. Jacob also had a meeting scheduled with the President of Subsidized Housing and the VP in charge of maintenance.
* * *
Ramesh Patel sat across from Jacob. The middle-aged Indian CFO was small and skinny but with the paunch of a well-fed westerner. He had a small chin, big wire-rimmed glasses, and a huge forehead created by his receding hairline. He resembled an alien.
“We are in big trouble,” Ramesh said. “We need either an influx of investor capital or better terms for our bonds. With these interest rates, our debts are compounding, and we can’t stop the bleeding without major restructuring and layoffs. The short sellers are killing us.”
Zoe entered the office without knocking, holding Jacob’s cup of coffee. The room went silent as she approached. She set the coffee on the desk.
“Thank you,” Jacob said.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Roth.” Zoe smiled, tu
rned on her heels, and stepped toward the door. She stopped at the door and pivoted, standing silent for a beat.
Jacob scowled at his receptionist. “Did you need something?”
“Sorry, Mr. Roth. I was just wondering if Mr. Patel wanted something to drink.”
“No thank you,” Ramesh said.
Zoe nodded and exited the office.
Safely alone again, Jacob said, “But, if we have layoffs, we’ll have to pay severance packages, and we’ll ultimately take a hit to top-line revenue. These employees are doing deals. I know it’s not enough, but scaling back won’t solve the problem. We have to do more profitable deals per employee.”
“Even if we can do that, I would still recommend cuts wherever possible.”
“I agree, but we can’t cut anyone who contributes to revenue. We can delay scheduled renovations. We can cut from the maintenance division, public relations, and marketing.”
Ramesh winced and ran his hand over his thinning hair. He looked like he was about to pull out the rest of his hair by the roots. “Renovations are already way overdue, which adds pressure to maintenance, which is another big problem. We are dangerously behind on repairs and scheduled maintenance. Nearly half of our air-conditioning systems were out for at least a week this past summer. Don’t forget. We had three deaths attributed to heat stroke. These people were all old and in poor health, but it was a PR nightmare.”
“I know,” Jacob said, nodding. “We’ll find the funding. I have a meeting scheduled with Zhang Jun.”
Ramesh wagged his head. “Congress may not let us borrow from the Chinese, especially if the Chinese want equity interest, which I can guarantee they will.”
“Congress will either let us borrow, or maybe this’ll encourage them to increase our federal funding.”
11
Summer’s Hope-for-the-Best Baby
Summer’s autonomous vehicle dropped them off in front of a twelve-story concrete apartment building. The concrete was a drab off-white, giving the impression that the building needed a bath. It was low-income subsidized housing. Summer and Connor entered the lobby. Two old men played chess at a table. No screens, no holograms. Just a chessboard with wooden pieces. Summer and Connor approached the reception area, where a young man tapped on his phone behind the desk. They stood in front of the man for a few seconds, but his eyes were still buried in his tiny screen.
“We’re here to see Patrick Fitzgerald,” Connor said.
The young man looked up. “So?”
“Do we need to sign in?” Summer asked. “We signed in last time.”
“You gonna steal somethin’, break somethin’, or hurt somebody?”
“No.”
“Whatcha want then? A red carpet?” He went back to his phone.
Summer and Connor approached the elevator bank. A sign was attached to both elevators that read OUT OF ORDER. They entered the stairwell, immediately confronted with a strong urine smell.
“I don’t know how your dad can live here,” Connor said, as they climbed the stairs.
“He says it’s cheap,” Summer replied.
“You mean, he can afford to live somewhere else?”
“I don’t know. He’s never asked me for money. I know he does some freelance computer programming, but I don’t know how steady that is.”
They exited the stairwell on the seventh floor. Summer knocked on apartment number 708.
Patrick answered with a big grin. “Come in,” he said, motioning with his hand. He hugged Summer as she entered the apartment. “How are you?” Patrick asked, as they disengaged.
“I’m good.” Summer said the words, but her inflexion told a different story.
Patrick narrowed his gray eyes. “You sure about that?”
“Of course,” Summer replied with faux pep.
Patrick shook Connor’s hand. “What’s new, Connor?”
“Not much,” Connor replied.
The smell of garlic and onion wafted into their nostrils. The one-bedroom apartment would’ve felt cramped, but Patrick was a devout minimalist. Only the bare necessities. He had a couch but no television, which wasn’t out of the ordinary as many people streamed their entertainment in VR or on their personal devices. Apart from the couch, Patrick had a single bed and a dresser in his bedroom and a small table in the kitchen. The walls were eggshell white and empty. He could pack his place and leave in under an hour.
Patrick led them toward the kitchen and gestured to the square table for four. “Have a seat. We’re almost ready.”
Summer and Connor sat at the table.
Patrick checked the pot on the stove top, stirring the contents. “This is one of your mother’s recipes. Beef and Irish Stout stew. Well, she didn’t exactly make it up, but she used to cook it all the time.”
“You didn’t have to,” Summer replied. “Beef is so expensive.”
“Don’t you worry about that.” Patrick flashed a grin toward Summer.
Patrick was in his mid-fifties, average height, thin, and in good shape—once a college track athlete, like Summer. His brown hair was mixed with gray, his face clean-shaven and narrow.
Patrick served the stew with a piece of garlic bread. They sat around the table, enjoying their stew.
Halfway through the meal, Patrick glanced at Summer’s engagement ring, then looked at the couple. “So, you two have a wedding date yet?”
Summer frowned at her father. “We haven’t been engaged that long.”
“I’m not gonna be around forever. I’d like to walk you down the aisle, and I’d like to see some grandchildren before I’m sent to Valhalla.”
Connor looked away at the mention of grandchildren.
Patrick stared at Connor but addressed them both. “You two do want kids, right?”
Connor swallowed his food. “Uh, yes. It’s just we’re still young and not financially secure, especially if we want a designer baby.” He glanced at Summer. “Sorry, enhanced baby.”
“You don’t need a designer baby. You’re both smart, good people. You already have good genes.”
“We still have plenty of time.”
Patrick nodded, then looked to Summer. “Don’t wait too long. You’re no spring chicken anymore.”
Summer glared at her father. “Dad. I’m thirty.”
“Exactly.”
Summer raised her hand. “I vote for a subject change.”
“So, Patrick, what do you think of Naomi Sutton?” Connor asked, also desperate to change the subject. “I heard she might run for President in 2052.”
“She’s dangerous.” Patrick took a bite of his stew.
“Really? You mean, to the establishment?”
Patrick swallowed and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Her ideology is dangerous because it’s exactly what people wanna hear. But she won’t fix things because, no matter how well-intentioned, more government control never leads to more prosperity.”
“Maybe we need someone like her to shake things up?”
“Maybe we have to see the horror of totalitarianism firsthand to get it through our thick heads.”
“She doesn’t want totalitarianism. She just wants the wealthy to pay their fair share. I’ve seen her talk about the banking system and the Federal Reserve. I think she would actually end the Fed. Imagine how much more money we’d have if we weren’t perpetually in debt to the Fed and the member banks.”
“Let’s assume she does run for president, and she wins, and she does abolish the Fed. Then what? You think she lets us use whatever form of money we want? Or does the treasury control the monopoly on money, money that they can debase and create from thin air as they see fit?” Patrick leaned back in his chair. “We end up in the same place. We just took a different path to monetary slavery.”
* * *
On the way home, Summer was quiet, looking out the window as her autonomous Hyundai drove toward Arlington.
“We’re hosting another Resistance meeting next Tuesday night,” Connor said.
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Summer turned from the window to Connor, who sat next to her on the rear bench seat.
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything.”
“That’s fine,” Summer replied, her voice barely audible, her eyes hooded.
“You okay?”
“Just tired. I have a long day tomorrow. As much as I love my dad, I really didn’t have the energy to visit tonight.”
“Do you think he might be sick?”
“Sick? Why would you say that?”
“Well, he was really keen on seeing us married with children sooner rather than later. It felt like he knew he wouldn’t be around too much longer.”
Summer shook her head. “No, he’s just like that. He’s always been a little fatalistic. I guess we’re both a little fatalistic.”
Connor reached out and placed his hand on top of hers. “Because of your mom?”
Summer shrugged. “She was healthy, and then she wasn’t. The crazy thing is, she didn’t even smoke. I’m sure watching that at a young age affected my psyche. Like my dad, I definitely understand that we only have so much time on this planet. We need to be the best version of ourselves. I’m not saying I always do that.”
Connor squeezed her hand. “Maybe that’s why you’re the best nurse, and one day you’ll be the best mom.”
Summer squeezed back and forced a smile. “What if we had a baby? No crazy-expensive enhanced baby. Just a natural, hope-for-the-best baby. You’d be such a good dad.”
“You’ve seen the trends. It’s okay for us, but we’re not competing with that many of them yet. But babies born now are a different story. In the future, all the good jobs will go to enhanced babies. A natural baby would always be at a disadvantage, no matter what. What kind of life is that?”
Summer lifted one shoulder and turned back to the window.
12
Naomi and It’s Always about the Money
2050: Psycho Island Page 6