by Brandt Legg
“I believe we’re looking in the wrong way.”
“My grandfather thought that also. He followed the Transcension Hypothesis originally put forth by John Smart, a futurist born in the latter half of the twentieth century. He speculated that all of the advanced civilizations capable of reaching us have evolved so far beyond us that they’ve vanished within themselves to another dimension, a higher realm.”
“Yes. I’ve read similar theories, but the AOI has done a fine job of suppressing debate and discussion on topics such as these.”
“Yes, they have. Why do you think that is?”
Nelson shifted, uncomfortable answering without his Whistler, but surely Deuce’s office was safe. Unless he’d walked into a trap. “Even before the Aylantik came to power, well prior to the Banoff, there have been those who sought to prevent the masses from looking within.”
“Why?” Deuce pressed.
Nelson looked around and absently reached for a bac, but stopped before his fingers touched the pack. “B-Because,” he stuttered, “that’s where the power is.”
Deuce held his gaze until Nelson, uncomfortable, looked away.
“Enough about everything. Let’s talk about something much simpler . . . the matter you came to see me about today.”
“I’m still in shock. You must have fifty offices around the word, and‒‒”
“Yes, a happy coincidence that I happened to be in Seattle. And it’s good you came to see me about this.”
Nelson returned to his seat. “I know how you value books. I’ve always appreciated your interest in my writing. But I didn’t think of actually involving you in our little project.”
“Yes, I read your note. You’d like me to help you get in touch with Blaise Cortez.”
“That’s right. I believe he could create the DesTIn program we need.”
“To cull the most important ten percent of more than a million books . . . that would be a large set of variables. What kind of time table are you working under?”
“Very short. Less than a week.”
Deuce nodded, as if this short deadline could be doable. “And your note didn’t say why you’re doing this, ‘project’ I think you called it.”
Nelson didn’t know what to say.
Sensing his quandary, Deuce rescued him. “This has something to do with the closing of the library in Portland?”
“Yes, but how do you know about the closing?” Nelson asked, afraid he’d made a huge mistake. Of course Deuce knew. He could easily have been involved in making the decision to shut it down. For all Nelson knew, it could have been all Deuce’s idea, but Nelson also had knowledge that Deuce and the AOI were not exactly friends.
“The subjects of information dissemination, education, and the preservation of art and ideas are ones that interest me greatly.” His blue eyes focused like a laser on Nelson.
Nelson studied him. A large part of his success as a writer came from his ability to create believable characters. He owed that skill to a gift for reading people, for summing up all their traits in a few well-chosen lines. Deuce Lipton may have been insanely wealthy and wildly powerful, but he was still just a living, breathing collection of neurosis, baggage, bad habits, and unresolved issues like the rest of them. Nelson went with his intuition.
“We have that in common.”
“Once you identify the books you want, does your plan include ‘checking them out’ from the library in the next nine days?”
Nelson nodded slowly.
Now Deuce studied Nelson. After some time, he stood and paced the round, windowless room. Nelson shifted uncomfortably in his chair, unsure if he should also stand, or stay seated.
For a moment, Deuce stared past Nelson as if watching a movie that only he could see.
Finally, Deuce spoke.
“We tried to get the books out in Belgium. The mission failed.”
It was the last thing Nelson expected to hear, and it both emboldened and devastated him. If Deuce Lipton had sought to save the books, it proved the critical importance of Nelson’s objective. Yet the fact that the richest and one of the most powerful people in the world had not succeeded at doing the very thing they had just undertaken, meant the odds of succeeding were terribly slim.
“Why did you want to save the books?” Nelson asked, trying to ascertain if Deuce knew about the changing words.
“Same reason I keep gold and other physical assets. The ‘virtual’ world is not a place that feels very secure to me. It’s too difficult to tell what is real. It’s too easy to manipulate reality across the digital Field.”
“I always thought you controlled much of the Field.”
“It is too big for anyone to control. Once upon a time, there were safe places where one could keep a grip on things, but those days are long gone,” Deuce said, still pacing. “That was before AOI and the war.” He stopped and stared into the faux heavens above them.
“What war? We’ve had peace for seventy years,” Nelson said.
Deuce did not immediately answer. Eventually, he sat back across from Nelson. “I wish I could help you more, but you have no idea of the complexities that exist within this simple peace.” He said the last word as if growling out the word “piss” in disgust. “Your note asked if I could get you in touch with Blaise Cortez. Are you sure you want to swim with the sharks?”
Nelson felt suddenly lost. A moment ago he sensed Deuce might get involved, providing a lifeboat, joining them in their attempt to rescue the books. Now, he realized he’d somehow botched the conversation and Deuce was throwing them overboard, “to the sharks” as he put it. On top of that, the powerful trillionaire seemed angry with him.
“I know enough to know we can’t do this without some powerful help,” Nelson said almost pleadingly.
“You have no idea.”
“Will you help us get the books out?”
“No. That is not possible.”
“Then, if you won’t help, I have no choice but to seek the assistance of Cortez.” Nelson pushed a hand through his shaggy hair. “I met him a few years back.”
Deuce raised an eyebrow. “He has no loyalties.”
“Is it true he’s worked with the AOI?”
“Blaise Cortez has worked with everyone.” Deuce stood up and pressed a button on a narrow gold wristband that Nelson had not noticed before. The stars above faded, replaced by images of Blaise and various buildings. The entire room became an INU display.
“Normally, within a few minutes, I could give you the current location of just about any person on the planet. Cortez, however, is a special case. His DesTIn expertise allows him to vanish in ways we mere mortals find most difficult.”
“Does the AOI have the same system as you? I mean, can they also locate us anytime, anywhere?”
“Not quite as fast, not quite as reliably, but they can find you if they want you.”
Nelson shivered. “Can they even track you?”
“You ought not to ask so many questions, Nelson.”
“Sorry. Just the curious writer in me.”
“Yes, but remember that what you might disguise as fiction will be understood as fact by those searching for the truth.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“The AOI and I have considerable history. They may not know where I am at any given time, but let’s just say they know how to reach me.”
Nelson considered this. “Are things . . . bad?”
The two men each knew things that the other didn’t, but they shared a common knowledge that the wonder of their time wouldn’t last forever, and it might not even be true.
“I’ve been in this business a long time,” Deuce said, “and I’ve learned that the only thing more dangerous than asking questions is getting the answers.”
Nelson nodded. He took what Deuce had said to be a yes. Things were bad.
Deuce looked up at the image of Blaise. “I tried to hire him a long time ago, but he’s always preferred to be freelance. A few year
s back I even offered to buy his company, hoping to acquire his talents that way, but again, he refused. As I said, Blaise has no loyalties, and I value loyalty above all else.” Deuce eyed Nelson, then continued. “But nobody does DesTIn like Blaise. It’s in part his system that allows me to remain somewhat invisible.”
Nelson thought about asking Deuce why he couldn’t develop a DesTIn system as good as Blaise’s, considering his vast wealth and his own corporations that were leaders in most tech industries, but decided he’d asked enough questions. Then, images suddenly appeared in the air above them that made him not only doubt their ability to save the books, but he wondered if he’d be in prison or dead by the end of the day.
Chapter 10
Polis Drast, AOI head for the Pacyfik Region, stared into the illuminated aura from his Eysen INU, carefully considering the colors on the map that stretched from what used to be South America up to the Alaskan wilderness. The red areas, level-fours and fives, were not his greatest concern. He knew those hot spots and had plenty of resources in place to handle anything. The yellow-lit pockets, however, kept him up nights. There were too many of them, and the unpredictable nature of the level-threes presented challenges that could easily upset the delicate balance that kept the world one step ahead of what he feared most: a collapsing peace and a long spiral toward war . . . or worse.
He focused his deep blue barracuda-like eyes on details as the INU spun more VMs into the air, revealing more profiles of possible troublemakers, instigators, and schemers. There were thousands who had been identified and were under increased monitoring, one mistake and one breath away from elimination by the AOI.
His favorite DesTIn bot rolled up and displayed Drast’s image. Mirrors had been replaced by digital-reflects long ago, providing complete 360-degree views of any part of one’s body, with full magnification available, as well as hundreds of lighting filters. His dark hair had just a few touches of gray. It was short, but not too close, still enough to slick back with product that didn’t look slick but kept everything in perfect place – a handsome politician. He’d come a long way from the Wyoming Area farm where he grew up, the eldest of two boys. Anyone who studied facial recognition and genetics would recognize that his clean-cut and polished looks belonged to a rugged, mountain man who would put up a tough fight and might be just as comfortable saddled up on a horse as sitting among floating INUs and VMs. His Tekfabrik suit immediately changed to a more formal pattern and began a light temperature reduction, as he was about to speak with his boss.
“The Field-View is live,” a digital voice announced as his regional map was replaced with images from the other twenty-three AOI heads, along with the AOI Chief. He was surprised to see the World Premier’s Security Chairman also present. In his seven years as Pacyfik head, he’d never known anyone from the WP’s close staff to attend.
The Chief and two-thirds of the AOI heads were women. Being white also put Drast in the minority, but in 2098 skin color wasn’t the issue it had once been for the world. There had been much blending. The majority of people were a varied and lovely light shade of brown.
The AOI monitored the Field, the KEL, and many other factors, then continuously dissected and assimilated the resulting data in a massive DesTIn system which allowed the government to anticipate trouble before it occurred. Incredibly complex algorithms interpreted voice tone, speech patterns, body language, word choice, and interactions of the world’s 2.9 billion citizens.
Privacy, an antiquated idea, didn’t hold the same romantic notion it once had. Still, most people were completely unaware of how sophisticated the system had become, and how devastatingly heavy-handed the AOI could be if you were thought to be a threat to the peace. Only thirty-eight percent of those arrested were given a trial, as the Aylantik Constitution did not guarantee this right. Many charges allowed no trial option, just a straight shot to prison or execution, and both of those carried a wide spectrum of variations in the exact implementation of the punishment.
“We begin with the Pacyfik,” the Chief said. A perpetual hardness in her expressions, even when smiling, seemed to fit her job as the world’s number one enforcer. A short, military-style haircut, always kept a dusty shade of brown even though she was close to sixty, completed her tough demeanor that was neither cultivated, nor contrived, but rather totally natural for the one-hundred-push-ups-and-fifty-sit-ups-a-day, highly intelligent leader of the AOI.
“Thank you, Chief.” Drast was not surprised, nor unprepared. He delivered an eight-minute summary of the current state of his slice of the world. Most of it had been routine. Drast, like all regional heads and the entire AOI, held a tight grip.
“The library closing in Portland,” the Chief began. “Is it anything to worry about? We had a few issues in Belgium last year.”
“I’ve studied both the Belgium and Australia closings, and other than Deuce Lipton dabbling in bibliophilia, it was textbook, no pun intended.”
“No pun, I’m sure,” the Chief retorted. “However, although we never uncovered Lipton’s reason for trying to obtain those books from the Belgium library, knowing the man as I do, it would be foolish to assume he is simply a wealthy bibliophile pursuing a hobby.”
“KEL has reported nothing concerning Lipton and the Portland library.”
“Good. But KEL isn’t foolproof, particularly when it comes to Deuce Lipton.”
“All indications are for a quiet ending to that chapter . . .”
The Chief cleared her throat at Drast’s second attempt at levity. “See that it remains quiet then.”
“Chief, is there anything more to this than a library closing?” he asked, eyeing her carefully.
She paused, perhaps for a fraction too long, “Only that it is the last library, and located within a Creatives-heavy section of the Pacyfik.”
“I’ll give it extra attention.”
“Good,” she said, flipping her hand to change her INU views. “Chiantik.” Drast relaxed once she called the next region and began shuffling his INU until he reached an open VM connected to a subordinate. He sent him a flash to pull a full risk assessment on the library closing.
Drast was relieved when the Chief closed the meeting with her standard, “Peace prevails, always.” He immediately double-checked the KEL and ran complex crossing reports on Portland. He assumed the Chief’s interest was due to Lipton’s attempt to interfere with the Belgium closing. Deuce Lipton had always been a difficult and delicate matter for the AOI, and the tensions went well beyond the simple fact that the Aylantik government considered the world’s wealthiest man to be a renegade.
There were rumors, which Deuce was fully aware of, that the AOI had something to do with the death of his father. And even the prior generation, Deuce’s grandfather, Booker Lipton, had history. The A-Council, which had formed the AOI from the wreckage of the world’s intelligence agencies that existed prior to the Banoff, had offered Booker a seat on the Council, and he’d turned it down. The suspicions between the Liptons and the government, Drast had heard, had even existed earlier, but in the post-Banoff world, Booker’s rebuff of the Council had cast the die for seven decades of distrust.
The Chief was being careful, but not overly cautious. She knew it would be difficult for Deuce to interfere with Portland’s closing without being detected. Still, she considered seeking permission from the Council to brief Drast on the ultra-classified Data Arts Correction And Revisions project. DACAR had been going on in some form for four decades, and even she hadn’t fully been brought up to speed, but she knew enough to know it was nearing completion. The closing of the final public library merely signified the culmination of the A-Council’s mission to remove any intellectual threats from their power.
DACAR had long been at the center of the A-Council’s three-pronged arsenal to counter or suppress any mass opposition before it took root. The other components were simply dubbed “Removal” and “Surveillance.”
The Council had learned, from the centuries that led u
p to the Banoff, that fear did not represent a long-term strategy to manage a population. They wanted everyone happy.
Chapter 11
Blaise Cortez owed Deuce a favor, or he was just curious by nature. Either way, he agreed to meet with Nelson. Even with a Whistler and all of Blaise’s tricks, the conversation needed to be in person. Blaise got word while somewhere in Mexico, but he had a plane and a pilot so logistics never bothered him. They set the meeting for 2300 that same night at the Portland airport.
Nelson would be exhausted – his bedtime typically hit between 2100 and 2200 – but he couldn’t disregard “the winds of fortune,” as he called his string of luck that day. First convincing Runit, then actually sitting across from Deuce, and finally Blaise Cortez flying to Portland to meet with him? He took the successes as a sign that he had a solid plan with “right” on his side. But the high level of interest, coupled with the jarring images he had seen at Deuce’s office, confirmed what he’d suspected all along: closing the last library was about far more than just books.
Blaise’s long, chocolate-brown hair fell just below his shoulders with strands crossing into his eyes, which he occasionally brushed away. A short mustache and trim goatee framed a nearly constant sly smile, giving the impression that Blaise knew something no one else did. And he probably did, thought Nelson.
“Drinks?” Blaise asked even before saying hello.
Nelson wasn’t put off, remembering him as being gruff, and Deuce had warned him that Blaise’s social skills were “somewhat unique.” Still, it seemed as if Blaise had no memory of their previous meeting.
“Sure.”
“My grandparents were Spanish. Yours were apparently bakers in the old US Midwest,” he said, poking a finger into Nelson’s doughy belly.
“Uh, no.” Nelson tried not to sound irritated, a state he often resided in.
“Did I offend you Baker-Boy? Tsk, tsk. But you’re descended from paper-white folks?”
Nelson gave a confused nod.