by Brandt Legg
Blaise ordered drinks. Tequila for himself and water for Nelson. “I just think you should watch the calories. Have you ever been to one of the fat farms? They aren’t very friendly.”
Nelson caught the waiter and changed his water to a rum and coke.
“Okay, but I’m already questioning your ability to do what you say.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re clearly a sloppy, and therefore reckless, man, Nelson. I don’t like messes.”
Nelson fought his temper. “I assure you I am neither.” He stared into Blaise’s eyes. The irises resembled a sandstorm.
“We’ll see . . .” He took a pen-sized device from his coat pocket, placed it on the center of the table, then found another object the shape and thickness of two quarters and put them down in front of Nelson. “Place your INU on top of this.” He pointed to the little round disc.
Nelson did as he’d been told.
“You have my time as a favor to Deuce. However, getting my commitment is something entirely different. I’m leaving as soon as I finish my drink,” Blaise said as the waiter set the glasses on napkins and left them alone. “Unless you’ve convinced me by then.”
“Do you recall that we met at a party in Santa Fe some years back?” Nelson finally asked.
“Of course I do. You were a few pounds lighter then, but still eating more than your share. Black button-up shirt and a black leather sport coat. Did you dress that way hoping it would make you appear slimmer, or were you just trying to be cool? Neither worked.”
“What is the fascination with my weight?”
“It is not fascination, it is an admonishment. Was I not being clear? Forgive me Baker-Boy, but I prefer precise over nice. I’ve read some of your books. You write well. In fact, your prose reads as if it were written by a lean, muscular man younger than yourself. Is that where your energy goes? Your will power?”
Nelson stared at him, considering options. Some would leave at the insults, others might hurl some back. There might have even been a compliment in there somewhere.
Nelson took a gulp from his drink and smiled. “Were you this way before the implant?” he asked.
Blaise squinted, unfazed. “Do you know why people get them?”
“Because they want to be smarter than they are. Smarter than the rest of us.”
“They want to be like me.” Blaise’s smile widened. “I helped develop the first ones. My artificial intelligence DesTIn technology is still used in them. Nothing better out there. So the rumors began that I have an implant, but I do not.”
“Then you just happen to remember what a person you only met briefly four years ago was wearing?” he asked, refraining from calling Blaise an “Imp,” the slang for people with implants. Imps had become quite common in the past twenty years, with their numbers exploding during the prior decade due to reduced cost and increased availability. Several communities had sprung up around the world where the elite, often odd, thinkers gathered.
“That’s not unusual. If, however, I could tell you that you were drinking fruit juice with a straw, that you had a cut on your right hand, that your fingernails were too long, that you signed a book for a woman in a hideous green dress using a silver pen that wrote in black ink and that the woman had on a brown scarf that made her look like a Boy Scout in drag, and that the party had two bartenders, both were clearly of Hispanic descent, their names were Roberto and Martin, and would you like to know how many drinks they served?” Blaise paused.
“Why do you deny you have an implant?”
“Why do you deny the obvious?” he said.
“Which is?”
“That I don’t need an implant. I have tuned my mind so that it’s vastly superior to yours, and everyone else’s for that matter.” He downed the remaining liquid in his glass. Nelson noticed a gold and black ring on his right hand. It caught his attention because men rarely wore rings anymore. “And you have not convinced me to help you Baker-Boy. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“Let me buy you another drink . . . please.”
“The first was surprisingly adequate. Yes, I’ll have one more,” he said looking into the INU and noting the time. They’d been together less than fifteen minutes. Nelson signaled the waiter to bring another round. “But you shouldn’t. Does it bother you to eat more food than you need? What if we hadn’t conquered hunger?”
“But we have.”
“People like you could send us to the pre-Banoff days.”
“I need a program that can determine which books out of 1.6 million are worth keeping,” Nelson said, deciding it was foolish to spar with a man like Blaise.
“Because?”
“The government is closing the world’s last library of physical books.”
“And this is important why?”
“The books will be gone.”
“So?” Blaise asked with faux fascination while the waiter replaced his empty glass. “We already have everything that has ever existed digitized.”
“Yes, but‒‒”
Blaise took a large sip from his drink and pointed to it as if it were an hourglass.
“They can change those,” Nelson said slowly and quietly.
Blaise nodded, while rubbing his hand on his chin thoughtfully.
“Who are they? And why would ‘they’ do such a thing?”
“I have a theory. There are 2.9 billion people on the planet, yet most of the wealth is controlled by less than one percent of the population. Something like twenty million super wealthy.”
“Like our pal Deuce.”
“And you.”
Blaise laughed. “Me? No you’ve got me mixed up. Deuce is a trillionaire, and most of the folks you’re talking about are billionaires. I’m just an average poor old millionaire.”
“Yeah, I’ve read all about you. Public estimates peg your worth at six hundred million, but you’re a genius at DesTIn and concealment. Many believe you’re actually a billionaire with a substantial amount of billions.”
“And what do you believe, Baker-Boy?”
“It doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re in the super-wealthy one percent.”
“Then let me hear your theory about my little club of millionaires, billionaires, and Deuce.”
“My theory is that the one percent or, more precisely, the top one percent of the one percent, are actually running the world. The government, elections, and the other trappings of our glorious worldwide democracy are merely theatre.”
“An illusion?”
“Yes.”
“A good one.”
“If by good you mean that it is effective at fooling most of the population.”
“That is what I mean.”
“Does it fool you, Blaise?”
“Ah, but you forget I am in the one percent.”
“But are you in the one percent of the one percent?”
“That is quite a question for you Baker-Boy. Because if I am and you’re right that my club is secretly running the world, then you’ll probably not wake up in the morning,” Blaise smirked, then finished his drink. “Might not even make it home tonight.”
“I have no idea how much money you have Blaise, but I have two reasons to believe that you’re not going to turn me in to the AOI.”
“I’d love to hear them.”
“You’re too smart for that game, and I don’t think you’d get along with whatever kind of group is in charge. I think you know about it, but you prefer to stay on the outside and play the game.”
“A writer’s mind is a dangerous place to sit and think Nelson.”
“I also don’t believe Deuce would let me meet with you if you were going to have me killed.”
“Are you and Deuce that close, that he’d be worried about keeping you alive?”
“He likes my books.”
“Ah, yes, the books. So this global conspiracy of super-rich tyrants, what do they want with all the books?”
“I don’t know. But there is something in some of them, m
aybe a lot of them, that can damage those in power, possibly unravel the whole thing.”
“Do you ever look at the polls? Are you aware that the citizens of our sweet little planet are almost unanimously happy? Life is good. Seventy-five years ago, before the Banoff, this would have been considered a utopian world. We have no war, no hunger, no poverty, and disease is almost completely under control.”
“I know.”
“Disease is almost completely under control,” he repeated, “after billions of our ancestors died of Banoff plague! And we live without war and virtually no crime. Who cares about a few damn books?”
“They do.”
Chapter 12
Blaise remained silent for a moment as he peered into Nelson’s INU. Then he made some gestures above the pen-sized object he had set on the table earlier. “Tell me exactly what you want the program to find.”
“You’ll help?”
Blaise pointed to his empty glass. “You’re out of time. Talk fast.”
After Nelson’s explanation, Blaise frowned. “You’re asking me to design a program in less than twenty-four hours that is capable of assessing the level of contentious ideas contained in each book? One point four million books?”
“Can you do it?”
“If I could, I believe the AOI might pay handsomely for such a program.” His expression did not change. “Is Deuce sponsoring you?”
“I don’t know,” Nelson said, unsure and worried.
“You ask for something, a thing only I can provide. Do you not think I deserve payment for such a product?”
“Of course, but‒‒”
“But? Do you realize the danger? Do you imagine that your little Whistler will keep the AOI from descending on you with laser bullets, wiping the imprint of your life from the digital world as if you were never born?” His voice had not risen, he had hardly moved, yet the tension in his speech built like a frantic native drumming. “The books you’ve written will vanish and burn, along with your library. They can take everything with one click. Ev-er-ry-thin-g!”
“That’s why I came to see you.”
“Of course it is, but I am not a charity. I don’t give a damn about you, or your books, or a million books. I serve only myself. The world is only here to make me comfortable, do you understand?”
Nelson swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He simply nodded.
“Good. I can do this for you. I will give you everything, but you’ll pay me $10 million digis upon delivery.” He stared at Nelson.
Nelson nodded hesitantly.
“Are you saying yes? Because I’m not feeling confident in your answer.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Then I’ll seek payment from the AOI.”
Nelson could not conceal his fear. His eyes darted around the room as if agents might arrest him any moment. He licked his lips repeatedly.
“Don’t worry, I probably won’t mention your name . . . initially.”
“Maybe we should forget the whole thing. I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” Nelson finally managed to say.
“Too late for that Baker-Boy. I’ve already started work on it. I’ve got half of it designed in my mind. And besides, are you going to move a million and a half books, then find a safe place to hide them all because you aren’t sure which are the important ones? Or maybe you’ll try to do the separating by hand.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t think Deuce is going to help you. The AOI knows every time he takes a leak. He may have the world’s biggest fortune, but he’s a prisoner to the shadows.” Blaise stood. “A bunch of books aren’t worth the risk to Deuce. He learned that the hard way already.”
“You have so much money, why do you need another ten million?”
“It’s true, DesTIn has been good to me. It’s helped me stay within that one percent you’re so worried about. But my life style is expensive. It’s cheap to live average, that’s the design. But I am different, and I mean to walk that edge to a lighted place.”
“You’ve lost me.”
Blaise laughed. “Of course I have. Baker-Boy, you know nothing about me. What you read on the Field isn’t who I am.” He sat back down and leaned close, so close that Nelson could smell him, lime and salt-air. “I see visions you cannot imagine,” Blaise whispered. He scooped up the disc and pen-objects. “You’ll have the product in twenty-four hours, probably less. And the money will be ready?”
“Uh, uh,” Nelson hesitantly coughed.
“You get the money, or you’re going to have a torgon problem much larger than which books matter.”
He left Nelson sitting there with the drink check and terrifying thoughts of the AOI coming for him.
Driving home from the airport, Nelson thought again about what he’d seen on the screen at Deuce’s office, images of AOI raids and its secret prisons. There had also been scenes of executions, all by lethal injection, which really got to him. Hundreds had filled the air above them. Deuce wouldn’t tell him how he’d obtained the images, but they were frightening.
“Still want to steal library books?” Deuce had asked.
Nelson had heard all kinds of things about the AOI, even knew some things first hand, but seeing it happen was like discovering that your best friend was a serial killer.
“A peace maintained by that much death is a false peace,” Deuce had said. “You want to change the world, stick to writing books. Taking the ones that have already been written will just get you killed, and the peace will go on and on and on.”
Deuce had stared off as he said it, as if trying to wade through a complex world of betrayals and false illusions that Nelson knew little about, at least outside of books. But Nelson might know more than he thought.
Nelson shook off the nightmarish images Deuce had showed him as his tired mind returned to Blaise. It was true that the world seemed a wonderful place. Certainly in all of recorded history it had never been better. Even with the prisons and executions, they paled to the millions lost to wars prior to the Banoff. They were enjoying an unprecedented stretch of peace, along with full employment, almost no crime, and no poverty. Even the environment had not been in such good shape for at least three centuries.
Once Earth’s population had been more than halved by the Banoff, the carbon footprint of humans became manageable. Then, with the implementation of tough environmental laws, things had improved rapidly. Fossil fuels were phased out and banned, new rules made it illegal to manufacture anything that could not be recycled, and solar, wind, and other renewables powered everything.
Other than the AOI, which generally didn’t interfere with most people’s lives, there were few things to complain about. Lack of privacy was the most common gripe, although people generally agreed it was an easy trade for their utopia. Besides, no one alive really remembered what it had been like before the Banoff.
Nelson only knew from his grandparents and books. Back then one could assume conversations would not be monitored, and that every association and connection would not be tracked and analyzed. But as many said, and Deuce so clearly pointed out, that peace comes at a price.
There was another source of criticism against the Aylantik regime, stemming from the government’s policy of discouraging the formation of religious organizations. Many of the people in the raids Nelson had viewed in Deuce’s Seattle office belonged to religious groups worshiping in secret.
Ironically, it had begun just prior to the Banoff when the Catholic Church had collapsed in scandal. Within months of that shocking development, most governments around the world had revoked tax-exempt status for all religious institutions. Then, in the disarray following the massive deaths of the Banoff plague and the Aylantik-Pacyfik war, most churches, as well as just about every other institution, crumbled. The few remaining religious organizations were made illegal in the new constitution. The state allowed people to continue to worship however they saw fit, as long as it was not done in groups. The early Aylantik governmen
t took the position, still held seven decades later, that organized religions encouraged separateness. And while Aylantik was trying to save and unite a wounded and scattered world population, it had determined that separateness would only encourage war.
The Aylantik constitution also limited freedom of the media, but most saw that as a good thing. It had long been a less than trustworthy source of information. In the years since the Banoff, the constitutional restrictions, combined with instant communication and sharing through INUs, a lack of crime, and the absence of war, relegated the media to a few small and basically irrelevant phases on the Field.
None of that mattered to Nelson as the road took him home. He had less than twenty-four hours to secretly raise ten million digis. Impossible. And even if he did figure out how to get the money, he felt as if he’d just made a deal with the devil. Blaise Cortez might even be worse though, because he was real.
Runit would already be asleep. Nelson wanted to wake him and tell him all his news, but it would have to wait until morning. That is unless Blaise turned him in before dawn. If that did happen, he hoped they’d kill him in his sleep. Then what would death bring? One of the novels he’d written featured a man who died, but instead of blackness and nothingness the man found everything. He had appeared in a colossal, glowing world in which nothing existed except energy, love, and forms of thought. Nelson had never really been satisfied with his description of that vision. The book had actually been his worst seller, but it brought him his most loyal fans and his first notice from the AOI.
Much had changed in his life since then, since his eyes had been opened by the accidental writing of a cult classic. If the AOI had never bothered him he wouldn’t have known what he knew, and certainly he wouldn’t be trying to save the dusty old books from a forgotten library.
But they had bothered him.
As his car pulled into his driveway, so close to sleep, his final thoughts were of his sister as he typed into his Eysen, “If I die tomorrow, I know that an endless and beautiful world of light will be waiting. And in that place of everything and nothing, I will finally feel full.”