Magic, Machines and the Awakening of Danny Searle
Page 6
“Sort of. We can’t exactly transpose a CPL program into Prometheus’s physical nodes, but until the N5s are ready, we can certainly get you ready.”
“In other words, this is training for me.”
“Think of it as your flight simulator.”
“Wonderf—” The plane dropped and I left my stomach a hundred feet up.
“Let’s see about getting below this.” My father decreased the throttle, and we descended from sixty-five hundred to forty-five hundred feet as ghostly tendrils, illuminated by the green navigation light, coiled at the end of my wing.
“At least we’re out of the clouds,” he said, turning up the cabin heat.
“Yes, and now it’s raining.”
“I see that.” He adjusted the throttle. “So, what’s your plan with Danny?”
“You mean, if we make it back alive?”
“Sometimes a woman doesn’t even know she’s interested in you until you show a little interest in her.” He pointed a Maglite flashlight out his window.
“What are you looking at?”
“We’re starting to get heavy. We’re icing up.”
“Should we look for an airport?”
“Not in the middle of the Long Island Sound.” He put the flashlight away. “Might as well keep going.” He turned on the landing lights and, from our wingtips, white light beamed pointlessly out into the black void. “It’ll be a lot warmer on the deck.” He eased the throttle back and pushed the nose over, the windscreen filling with tiny, distant whitecaps.
“Do we have to go straight down?”
“This is just a rapid descent. I can’t tell you how glad I am Mohamed isn’t here.”
“I’m sure he feels the same way.”
With the altitude dial spinning down, my father stopped and looked at me.
“What?”
“You mind taking your feet off the pedals?”
“Oh, sorry.” I planted my feet flat on the floor.
“I ever tell you about the Doolittle Raiders?” He drummed his fingers on the control column as we passed through one thousand feet.
“No—who cares? You ever plan on pulling up?”
“I think we’re about”—he eased us out of the dive and I compressed into my seat—“there.”
Now it seemed as if we were riding on top of the waves. Rain blasted us. Wind tossed us.
“That’s better,” he said. “And I believe we’ve already shed the majority of our ice.”
“Sure, it’s being washed off by the waves.”
“Think of it as windsurfing at a hundred and sixty knots.” My father smiled as we bounced along. “Don’t worry: there’s still a good five hundred feet between us and the water.” He tapped on the altimeter. “You know, I was thinking that tomorrow we should—”
“Boat!” I hollered.
Lights glared through the windscreen, the engine whined, and my father, hand on the throttle, steered us toward outer space. Straining against gravity, I looked out the back window at an explosion of lights. A second later, pure blackness.
“Was that the Long Island Ferry?” I asked anxiously as we leveled off.
“I think it was a freighter. Lit up like a baseball stadium, though—see that?”
“Yes, I saw it. And there’s no way that thing’s right.” I poked at the altimeter.
“It’s right. When you consider that that ship had to be at least two hundred feet tall, and with all those lights, it probably just looked a lot closer than it really was.”
“Sure, and when you consider your altimeter is off by three hundred feet. How’s that funny?” I shook my head, but then started laughing too. No doubt it was the effect of adrenaline. “For a second, I thought those were the north shore’s bluffs,” I said. “The lights came up so fast.”
“I know. I bet we woke a few souls up on deck with that flyby.”
“That’s for sure.”
Within minutes, the darkness below became a freckling of house and street lights.
“Dry land,” I said. “Now if we can just get down there in one piece.”
“The very next order of business. Gabreski Tower,” my father radioed. “Three-Four-Three-Echo-Bravo, five miles north at one thousand—request straight in for landing on one-niner.”
“Three-Echo-Bravo, cleared for direct in to one-niner for landing.”
“Three-Echo-Bravo—cleared for landing, one-niner.”
“Professor, how’s the weather out there?”
“Not bad, Jim. Though…” My father glanced at me. “We did almost hit the Long Island Ferry.”
“Flying under the radar, are we?” Laughter.
“Ran into a bit of icing. Thought we’d go down and wash it off in the waves.”
“Gotcha. Well, our runways are clear of both ice and boats. Sustained winds—ten knots from one-sixty. Have a safe landing.”
“Thanks Jim. Three-Echo-Bravo.”
“I thought you said it was a freighter.” I looked at him.
“I did, but the Long Island Ferry sounds funnier.”
“And that was my joke about washing the ice off in the waves.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t aware I was violating your copyright. Hey, so, you never told me your plans with Danny.”
“Could you please just get us on the ground?”
“You should ask her out tomorrow. You have to come by anyway—”
“I know, to get started on Prometheus. I will—to both.”
My father lowered the landing gear and we flew straight into the narrow vee of Gabreski’s runway lights. Our wheels touched down with barely a chirp and we followed the blue lights back to where we had started. My father cut the engine, flipped a few switches, and the instrument gyros spun down like tea kettles removed from the stove. Silence. Almost painful.
I unbuckled my shoulder harness, cracked the cabin door, and just sat there.
“Good to travel.” My father slapped me on the chest. “Good to get home.”
5
The next morning, on my way to 7-Eleven to pick up milk and eggs for my mother, I stopped by Zak Murphy’s Garage where my best friend, José Martinez, worked.
I parked out front and struggled to get my door open.
“You should really get someone to look at that,” José said, greasy rag in hand as he emerged from one of the bay doors.
“Well, let me know if you know of a good mechanic.” I pulled on the handle and threw my shoulder into it. It opened. “Last night, my father nearly flew us into the Long Island Ferry,” I said as my feet touched down on the sandy pavement.
José removed a Winston from his breast pocket and leaned against the cement wall. “I hate those tiny planes. Remember the time he flew us out to Block Island and we ran into that bird?”
“I remember.”
“Put a nice dent in the wing.” José lit his cigarette, blowing out a nearly spherical plume of smoke. “Your dad sure was pissed at that bird.”
“I’m sure the bird wasn’t too thrilled with him, either.” I looked up at the pale blue sky and took a deep breath of the familiar, somehow comforting smells of cigarettes, gasoline, and tires. Inside the garage came a crash of metal on metal. “Owen?” I asked.
“Yeah, and he’s been busting my balls all morning.” José expelled a lungful of smoke and looked off distantly—his best Clint Eastwood.
“I have to pick up some stuff at 7-Eleven, but my mother said she’d make breakfast. Interested?”
“Hell yeah.” He took a final drag of his cigarette and snuffed it out on the wall. “Down to six a day.”
“Hello ladies,” Owen bellowed from under the hood of a green Cadillac. He pointed a droplight at us. “Por favor there, Senior José, we’ve got lots of work to do.”
“No hay problema—fire me.” José made a beeline straight for the washbasin at the rear of the garage.
“But if we don’t get this Caddy done before my dad gets back…” Owen wiped his hands down the sides of his overalls.<
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“I’m getting breakfast. Isn’t there a law against starving your employees to death?” José lathered up his forearms with Lava soap.
“Well, we’ll see what my dad has to say.”
“Take it easy. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”
Owen slammed the door of the telephone-booth-sized office at the back of the garage, rattling the fan belts on the outer wall.
“Will he really call Zak?”
“No way. He’ll wait until we leave and then start hunting for porn on the computer.” José tore off several feet of paper towel from a roll and dried his hands and arms. “All that idiot does around here is change oil and unscrew a few bolts—I do everything else. He’d never risk me getting fired.”
“Any complaints about the bikes?” I looked in the direction of our tarp-covered Honda CBR 600s—neither of which had moved since the end of the summer.
“As long as I keep fixing these hunks of junk, I could store a nuclear bomb under there, for all Zak cares.” José ran a comb through his hair, finding his reflection in the only clean spot of the soap-spattered mirror. “Your dad talk you into that job yet?”
He paused, caught my expression, and laughed.
****
After we stopped at 7-Eleven, José and I walked into my mother’s apple green Victorian, the little sister of my father’s lumbering giant (or so that’s how my mother tended to phrase it).
“I send you out for milk and you bring me back this handsome young man. I should send you out more often. Good morning, José,” my mother said, leaning against the sink, the sun radiating through the drapes behind her, the smell of cinnamon, lemon, and coffee in the air.
“Good morning, Dr. Cipriani, you’re looking fit. Sexy jeans.”
“Why, thank you, José.” She spun around.
“Would you two cut it out?” I put the bag down hard.
“Easy on the eggs.” My mother tipped the bag and peeked inside.
“The girls make the bus?” I asked.
“Yes, and they left you some artwork.” She pointed at the finger paintings on the stainless steel refrigerator. “Picassos, both of them.” My mother opened one of the cherry wood cabinets and took out three glasses. “José, how’s our beautiful Jenica Patrascu doing?”
“Jenny? Jenny’s great. She’s in a new department and has two nurses working for her now.”
“Good for her.” My mother filled the glasses with orange juice and brought them over to the table. “Did Tyler tell you about the new love in his life?”
“He sure did. Some dude named Danny.” He laughed as my fist hit his shoulder.
“Believe me, Danny could never be mistaken for a dude,” my mother told him. “Danny is muy caliente.”
“Well, I might know that if he ever brought her around.”
“I’m working on it,” I said.
“I think Tyler’s a little worried about the age difference.” My mother held up a frying pan. “French toast?”
“I never said anything about age.” I glared at her. “I don’t care how old she is. Besides, it’s only a few years.”
“French toast sounds great,” José said. “And I think an older woman is sexy. Jenny likes to talk dirty when we’re—”
“Stop,” I said. “Don’t talk about that stuff in front of my mother.”
“She doesn’t mind, do you?”
“But I do,” I said.
“I had a little talk with Danny last night, by the way,” my mother said as she began battering slices of bread. “She told me how impressed she was with everyone at QBL—especially you, Tyler.”
“Now I know you’re full of it. I haven’t even done anything yet.” I got out the silverware and plates.
“Sometimes he’s such an idiot.” My mother shook her head at José. “The only thing that concerns me, though, is that during our conversation, David Levinson, the magician, called twice.”
“He’s just an old boyfriend.”
My mother rolled her eyes at José.
“Yup, he’s an idiot,” José replied, taking a seat at the table.
“You know, I saw him—David Levinson—last year,” my mother said, now frying the bread. “Out in Vegas— at the AMC mathematics conference. A group of us went to see him.”
“Any good?” José asked.
“Outstanding. It was more of a theatrical production than a magic show, but really amazing.”
“How’d Danny sound when she spoke to him?” I asked.
“They only spoke briefly, but I’d say deferential—respectful.”
“That doesn’t sound good to me,” José said. “What Tyler needs to do is sweep her off her feet.” He looked at me. “Maybe you could serenade her with your guitar.”
“Could you imagine if I showed up at Quantum Bay with my guitar? My father would think I had lost my mind. It’d almost be worth it, though, to see his face.”
My mother laughed heartily.
A few minutes later, she turned off the stove and brought over a plate piled high with French toast. She gave each of us four slices and sat down.
“What does Dr. Cipriani have to say? The other Dr. Cipriani,” José asked.
“About Tyler and Danny?” My mother handed him the maple syrup. “I’m not sure you should go by what he has to say when it comes to women.”
“He sure seems to have you right where he wants you.” José squinted as if he might get hit.
“That street runs both ways, young man.”
“Oh? How exactly does that street run? You ever do a three-way?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I blurted out, trying to swallow a mouthful of food.
“Is that something you and Jenny have been talking about?” my mother asked.
“Seriously.” I wiped my mouth. “Next subject.”
“All right,” José said. “Tyler tells me that Dr. Cipriani, the other Dr. Cipriani, has been manipulating Danny.”
I glared at him.
“In what way?” My mother’s narrowed eyes turned toward me.
“Well”—I frowned at José—“to start with, he manipulated her into taking the job. And how about the fact that he put her on the spot about watching the twins?”
“How did he manipulate her into taking that job? By paying her what she wanted?”
“By not telling her the real reason that he hired her.”
“He hired her because she’s smart, capable, and interesting. Besides, how do you know she isn’t the one manipulating him? She’s into philosophy, isn’t she?”
“So?”
“Well, here’s this young woman, without even a college degree, who suddenly has the ear of Dr. Aiden Cipriani. That sounds kind of suspicious, doesn’t it?”
“But she didn’t plan that.”
“Just like your dad didn’t plan to have a competent bookkeeper walk into his office who might just happen to be the cure for his son’s lazy-butt syndrome. It’s called serendipity—fate, luck, karma.”
“Shit happens,” José said.
“Exactly. Your father isn’t manipulating her any more than she’s manipulating him. She understands how fortunate she is. The question is: why don’t you?”
“You mean with the A.I. XPRIZE?”
“Of course I mean with the A.I. XPRIZE.” My mother gathered up our plates and brought them over to the sink. “Look, it’s not like I can’t empathize with the two of you and your epicurean quest to hike up the Appalachian Trail or sail around the world, or whatever, but do you really think that that kind of low aspiration will win over a girl like Danny? You think she’s going to remain interested in you when you’re penniless and living in the woods? The problem is, Tyler, you want to be a rebel, but you have nothing to rebel against.” She began rinsing the plates.
José folded a napkin into a football and flicked it through the goalpost I was making with my fingers.
“I just don’t like being manipulated,” I said. “And I mean ever since I was born.”
I flicked the football back at José and hit him square in the chest.
“When Jenny and I have kids,” José said, “we’re going to avoid all the mistakes our parents made.”
“Brilliant,” my mother muttered.
“First you’ll need to figure out how babies are made,” I told him.
“Just remember an opportunity like this won’t wait around forever,” my mother said to me.
“And neither will Danny,” José added.
“That’s right.”
“All right, I get it, I get it.”
José hit me in the face with the football.
The two of them burst into laughter.
“So,” I said, once they had finally calmed down, “you think Danny will only be interested in me if I’m successful?”
“No.” My mother snatched the football away before I could launch it back at José. “It’s about maturity. It’s about being yourself.”
“Which is what I’m trying to be.”
“No, you’re not. You’re trying to be the opposite of whatever you think your father and I want you to be.”
“What if they’re the same thing? Besides, shouldn’t I be the one to decide who I am?”
“It’s not a decision. You are who you are.”
“And people can’t change?”
“To a degree, but we all have innate abilities that are pretty well embedded. Look at José. He’s an excellent mechanic. He’s found his calling, and that makes him happy and proud. Look at that man’s confidence.” José drew his shoulders back. “Now what woman could possibly resist that?”
I roared with laughter and after a beat my mother and José joined in.
“You simply need to evolve into who you were meant to be,” my mother said.
“But doesn’t that mean I need to evolve away from who I am now?” I stared at her. “You want me to disappear?”
“Clever.”
“You don’t agree with my logic?”
“Actually—” She tossed the football into the wastepaper basket at the far end of the kitchen. “That sounds awfully philosophical. Guess who you’re evolving into now?”