Attribution

by Christine Horner

  “Wrap it up and put a bow on it!” Dean bent down closer to the console to yell though it wasn’t necessary.

  “Evidently we have prepared a special presentation for all 8.6 billion of you!” Stu rushed.

  A life-size 3D hologram presentation featuring a toddler solving advanced math problems appeared where Studebaker stood. Unsure where to go, Studebaker danced around the stage.

  Dean cringed. “Get. Off. The. Stage!”

  General Frohm’s bulging eyes nearly exploded from their bony sockets. Young was about to tap Frohm’s steamy lid when the man surprised him by leaning out from his seat to disingenuously smile and nod toward President Cane and Secretary-General Arya. Rudely turning his back to the stage, he then inspected the entire crowd.

  Frohm’s face went dark before contorting, “That donkey still thinks he can buy the whole world even after it’s already been sold.” He spoke too loudly to anyone who would listen.

  “General, perhaps another time,” pleaded Young. Let’s just leak national security secrets whenever we feel spiteful, Young thought. It will be the man’s downfall. And I’ll be waiting.

  Frohm continued, “Boy, I tell you, we really messed up pursuing terrorism militarily instead of quietly buying up mineral rights around the globe like the Chinese.”

  A scowling woman, royalty, at the next table shushed Frohm. Her dainty gloved hand waved a cloth napkin sharply his direction to show she meant business.

  Frohm paused for a moment. Young could tell he was thinking by the way he rolled his lips around as if swirling an invisible breath mint. Two White Russians and the man became a loud-mouthed ticking time bomb.

  “General?”

  Frohm slapped his knee, “Terrance, offer our friend a special tour. Find out what he wants.”

  “Now, sir?” Young had no choice but to twist his body a full one-eighty. There, in a poorly lit corner, Young identified the “special friend” looking back at him. Red and gold decorated the crisply starched uniform along with many rows of service bars.

  Young scowled back, but then nodded, changing into his most winning smile like a man changing coats. He would be alone with one of the most powerful men in the world. One never knew when an acquaintance might become a friend.

  CHAPTER 19

  Never in a trillion years could a grocery store stocker from Utah have ever imagined he would wake up one day to find himself speeding down a private service elevator deep underground into a secret place with three big shots—well, two. But, then people never believed him when he said he was from Utah either.

  When he’d told them he didn’t have a security clearance, the vanilla tall skinny one, not the yellow tall skinny one, said he didn’t give a sherlock if he’d enlisted that morning, what he was about to see was classified and to keep it himself or he’d be court-martialed by morning if he talked. The elevator slowed as an unknown vibration shook it slightly.

  “Good thing relations between our two nations are mended, or I might feel I should be concerned,” commented General Chen.

  “Well, maybe it was an earthquake or something. You should be used to those,” said Private Coby Holt.

  Chen and Young had been locked in a staring contest since they’d gotten in the elevator minutes ago. Refined by the Art of War, both men knew much could be gleaned out of silence.

  General Chen’s bodyguard quickly looked down at the floor in shame on behalf of the National Guardsman who dared to speak to his General much less offer his opinion.

  Young wasn’t happy himself he’d only been able to rustle up what was proving to be a liability at the last minute.

  “Thank you, Private. That will be all.”

  Private Holt blushed hotly. Unable to pry open the door of a moving elevator and dismiss himself down the deep elevator shaft, he, too, looked at his shoes in embarrassment realizing Young was ordering him to shut it.

  The elevator smoothly slowed to a complete stop. A muted interactive documentary featuring Project DupliCity concluded fading from the elevator doors.

  “Welcome to Project DupliCity,” a digital female voice began as “her” occupants exited. “Please enjoy your private tour.”

  “Indeed. Welcome to Project DupliCity.” Lt. General Young held out his arm like a game show host to allow Chen to move into the ambient lit anteroom.

  “Interesting name,” said Chen.

  “Only to the illiterate. Context is king, don’t you agree, sir?” smiled Young.

  “I’m sure a king would agree.”

  Private Holt stationed himself in front of the elevator. The lobby was the size of a typical luxury home foyer with elegant seating arranged in small groupings. There was a sliding pocket door closet along one wall only discernable by a small control panel. At the far end, a long narrow hall led to the main chamber. Holt curiously watched the room as it detected it was occupied and sprang to life. Dim lighting was replaced by walls that dissolved, the illusion of a 360 view of New Las Vegas during the day taking its place. Families with children walked sidewalks as clouds floated by high in the sky. The view aided in the prevention of claustrophobia a thousand feet underground.

  Beyond the anteroom, the entire floor was a private underground showroom displaying a fantastical scaled down miniature of Project DupliCity. The miniature demonstrated how the uniquely designed superstructure, partially underground, blended processes utilizing nanotechnology and graphene membranes to desalinate ocean water and generate hydropower. Scientists had also figured out how to harness changing salt water concentrations to generate an electrical charge.

  A combination of pipelines containing internal spherical turbines and geothermal plants scattered around the country mined heat to produce steam to power the movement of water across the entire continent. Multiple forms of green technology interlinked, the super-heated water could even run generators and wind turbines in a constant feedback loop.

  Initial arguments were that the desalination plant should be near the ocean, but security concerns and the desert’s natural resources made moving inland more judicious. It also revitalized the dying wasteland the West had become, reviving the economy. The abundant New Las Vegas and its periphery now employed thousands of workers, attracting tens of millions more in tourism from around the globe.

  Marketing teams deployed to every country, the Global Security Council saved the greatest benefit of all for last during the presentation lest any country balk. A self-sustainable interconnected global water system meant any wasteland could be converted into a lush, green paradise.

  During the process of photosynthesis, plant life absorbs carbon dioxide to create oxygen. The Conservancy had potentially created a “green” offset to global warming, arguing it wasn’t too late. But it was an all-for-one-and-one-for-all deal. Every country had to be persuaded to make the material and financial commitment to make the Global Security Council’s dream of saving the planet a reality. A few Scandinavian holdouts were quietly pressured by the global community in the form of veiled economic blackmail.

  “Sir, since you have a background in civil engineering and you were on the initial development committee, General Frohm thought you might appreciate a V.I.P. tour.”

  “To rub my face in the fact China lost the bid. Will Frohm be joining us or is this his attempt to preempt—”

  Young bent an elbow to check his BioID.

  “General, am I keeping you from something more pressing?”

  “Uh, no, sir. Everything’s fine,” smiled Young.

  “Then why don’t we get on with what we came here for?” Chen imperceptibly nodded at his bodyguard.

  The farthest wall of the underground floor featured earthquake and bullet proof glass that allowed guests to view the mechanical inner workings of the superstructure in action. Young stood in front of the glass checking his BioID periodically as the Chinese General walked around the miniature display pointing and making comments occasionally.

  At the elevator, Holt suppressed another yaw
n, shaking his head to stay awake when the Chinese bodyguard returned from the narrow hall.

  The bodyguard’s eyes widened in amazement at the change in the room’s appearance. He wordlessly took his place on Holt’s left in front of the elevator. Each man stood as straight as a flagpole representing his respective country.

  Two yawns later, Holt was jolted to alertness. His nose twitched at an unexpected aroma. He glanced at the unmoving bronze busts of the three child geniuses next to him before his eyes made a quick scan of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, movement at the Chinese soldier’s rear flank caught his attention.

  Holt craned his neck further to investigate. A black ragged circle marred the perfection of the wheel of a stroller attended by a grandmother in the computer-generated scenery cloaking the closet door. The hole’s circumference began to expand.

  “What the heck? Pardon my French,” apologized Holt.

  When the Chinese bodyguard didn’t move, Holt stepped in front of the man to peer around him. Suddenly, a testosterone-fueled black squirrel appeared out of the pockmark in the wall, its bushy tail flicking furiously as it busily worked on something hidden inside the now softball-sized blemish. Holt skittered nervously at the sight of the little beast this far underground trying to assess if it was real or part of the digital scenery. He looked back in confusion at the unfazed Chinese man, then down the narrow hall toward his commanding officer.

  Just then, the squirrel violently yanked and pulled at something while making loud chattering noises. It disappeared inside the hole only to back out with a wad of electrical wires in its tiny mouth. The pistol began to chew furiously.

  Holt gaped. He couldn’t just stand there, he reasoned. He looked down the hall to the showroom once more for his C.O. Sparks arced from the commotion in the corner.

  Staring at the Chinese soldier, Holt narrowed his eyes in indecision. “Fine. I’ll do it.” He rapidly blew out three cheek-filled puffs of air, psyching himself up for battle.

  Holt rounded the corner of the elevator when the mad squirrel leaped at him landing squarely on his head. Unable to see, the soldier flailed, drifting toward the corner of the room. More afraid of Young than the furry beast, Holt suppressed the urge to scream as he worked to remove the animal from his face.

  The Chinese bodyguard made his move. In one stroke, his left hand quickly attached the small but powerful multi-sensory laser hologram pointer he’d been manipulating to the elevator’s exterior sidewall. That will keep the idiot busy, he smiled to himself. His second move was to reach behind to push the elevator button. His third was to take a single step backward, the elevator doors silently whisking closed.

  Bending down on one knee, the bodyguard retrieved what looked like an ordinary business card from his wallet. Printed on one side was a video ad featuring a grid of exotic dancers at an underground private strip club. Wedding chapel locations scrolled on the other. His pointer finger selected all six strippers in the correct sequence, releasing nanobots from the wedding chapel on the other side that leaped into wall panel crevices.

  As he waited for the bots to do their job, the highly-trained special forces man laughed out loud at the tiny print at the bottom of the elevator panel: Made in China.

  Fight over, the scraped and disheveled Private tugged at his uniform before bending down to inspect the wall that had been the source of his latest trouble. The smoke and fire along with the squirrel had vanished.

  He ran his hand over the unblemished wall. No wires, no smoke, nothing. “What the heck? No more energy drinks,” he muttered to himself.

  The distant sound of voices reminded Holt he was not alone, and that he was away from his post. He jumped to his feet.

  Standing like the perfect sentry in front of the elevator, sweat poured from Holt’s armpits.

  How would he explain the Chinese man’s disappearance to his commanding officer?

  CHAPTER 20

  “It’s a different world now, Stu. Don’t you get it?” Dean had just unleashed a verbal barrage he didn’t know he had in him and Loren Studebaker had been on the receiving end. The last time he had allowed himself to feel much less express anger like that was the day he lost the only surviving member of his family.

  “You may call me Mr. Studebaker, or if you must, call me Loren or Studebaker. But do not call me Stu! I’ve dedicated too many years of my life to this business to be treated with disrespect by whiners the likes of you, General Frohm, or anybody else!”

  In the men’s DupliCity Sky Tower bathroom lounge, Studebaker sat in a cushy chair in front of a mirror, carefully perfecting his hair with a multi-purpose groomer. Studebaker congratulated himself for his self-restraint. He could have said so much more.

  Dean had locked the door to the bathroom to ambush Stu after the last person left, kicking out the service-bot.

  He openly paced. “I don’t think you get it,” he said, throwing up his hands in defeat. “What’s it going to take?”

  Dean withdrew his handheld computer. He replayed the video of Studebaker’s one-on-one interview after he’d already bungled the 3D video introduction.

  Starzl, one of the three child prodigies responsible for the success of WREN, stood next to Studebaker.

  “Starzl, that’s an interesting name. You’re twenty-four now. I understand you were just six-years-old when the Global Security Council hired you. When I was six-years-old, my mother was still reminding me to put on clean underwear.” Studebaker paused to looked at the camera and the audience for their approval and laughter. “How did you discover you were a genius?” Studebaker grinned at the camera.

  “Um, I think we’re just supposed to introduce the next segment,” said Starzl awkwardly.

  The sound system failed to filter out a small ruckus offstage before a shoe flew into the camera shot, narrowly missing Studebaker. Studebaker heard Frohm raging off screen, “Get him off that stage now!” before Starzl jumped offstage in fear.

  Video over, Studebaker huffed slightly, wordlessly turning away from the device back to his image.

  “I’m not letting you out of here until you play by the rules.” When Studebaker said nothing, an exasperated Dean pleaded one last time, “The script is already written, Stu. Not just in news, but all of it. These people...”

  Studebaker saw the boy turn his back on him in the mirror. What if Loren had done the same to a parentless young girl he’d been asked to watch over a dozen years ago?

  Whirling back around, Dean tapped his BioID, “They run the whole show and not just this one. Got it?” Dean threw up his hands, storming out of the lounge.

  The boy was too young to be so jaded. Studebaker studied his reflection, “I know what the world thinks of me. Maybe I like it that way.”

  He smiled at himself. More experienced than the younger man, he knew how to choose his battles and to bide his time. After all, he’d made a promise. And so far, Loren had kept it. He had his limits, but for now...

  CHAPTER 21

  Two personal bodyguards loaded small bags inside a four-person GSC guest flying vehicle, the midmorning air still cool and motionless. General Chen waited impatiently in the front passenger seat checking his vintage 1925 pocket watch with a functioning thirty-minute chronograph. A gift, it was even engraved.

  “Wǒ huì qīnshǒu shāle nǐ, rúguǒ nǐ bù fēi zhè liàng chē zài liǎng miǎo zhōng!” (I will kill you myself if you don’t hurry!)

  Chen’s best bodyguard, Wu, hurriedly strapped himself into the driver’s seat. A meaty hand reached over to grab his lapel, pushing his face gruffly into the dash.

  “Do you swear on the life of your family you have done your duty?”

  “Shi!” exclaimed Wu.

  ___

  “Are we going to a fire?” Studebaker trailed behind as Dean rushed past reception on the ground floor of the PNN Media Tower.

  “Sure. Why not?” Dean tossed casually over his shoulder without breaking his stride.

  As Dean and Studebaker headed t
oward an elevator across the expansive lobby, a robotic receptionist with a human face chased after them, its heels clacking on the marble floor.

  Holding out a metallic wrist, the robot said, “Good morning, Dean. I have a package for you. Scans show the content to be safe for humans.”

  “Joy,” Dean muttered. He accepted the small box, turning on his heel.

  “What’s that?” Studebaker was curious.

  “We don’t care.”

  “Since we are going to a fire,” Studebaker slowed to reminisce. “I tell you, there’s nothing like going back to the TV station a hero after covering a good apartment fire. Smelling like smoke, knowing you nailed live shot after live shot.” He almost had to trot to keep up with Dean’s long steps. “Now you send out machines to do an impersonal job, and robots greet you. Where’s the humanity in a good disaster?”

  Riding up the elevator, Dean held out a lady’s compact, powdering his face in the tiny mirror. “Thanks to you getting lost this morning, we don’t have time for hair and makeup. He offered the compact to Studebaker, “Here, use this.”

  Studebaker had had enough of Dean’s tone of voice the last twenty-four hours. “I’m not the nitwit you seem to think I am, Dean. Is that your grandma’s face powder?”

  He closed his eyes, skillfully discharging a single-use facial spray tan pulled from a pocket. Staring at Dean, he dropped the refuse into a pop-out trash receptacle, brushing his hands off like an old pro. Dean just shook his head.

  As they approached Dean’s workstation in the PNN newsroom, Dean’s BioID activated his personal workspace. The flooring retracted to allow a desk with a computer and armchairs to rise from below. The privacy screen was transparent, but a setting change could convert it to opaque and soundproof.

  Studebaker sat in the side chair, his arms folded across his chest. “You know something? I will no longer follow you around like a lost puppy. You should be thanking your lucky stars to have a mentor like me.”