I really wanted him to—as I’m sure he had requested of many others—cut to the chase. “I—I’m not sure I’m really following. ”
“Veritas is control! Veritas is power! Look how it’s made. Look how it is set up. All I have to sell the consumer is these cheap glasses and a simple infrared transmitter. Everything else is rented, over and over and over. Look, in a few short years, every house in America will be receiving video on demand through their cable or through their phone lines, or over satellites. They will also receive Veritas. I will rent them the converter box. I will charge them a base monthly fee for the service. I will charge them each and every time they call up and order a particular program. They won’t be able to buy a program once, or make a copy of a program, and use it over and over and over without paying me again. If they want it again, they pay. That’s ultimate and total control. Control is power. Do you understand now, Einstein? Do you get that simple concept?”
I did my best to show wide eye understanding. “This thing could be, I mean like, you know, like being on-line, this thing could almost be addictive. ”
“Right!”
“You wouldn’t even have to charge that much each time to make a fortune. ”
“Right!”
“Gosh. ”
“Right. ”
“But what about the blind, and victims of strokes?”
“Oh, I am going to set up a non-profit foundation, funded by some of the profits from Veritas. ”
“There’s so much—so much that could be done. ”
“And listen, this is the most exciting. Don’t you now know—no— understand what it is like to be a 5th Century BC Athenian?”
“Well, yeah. ”
“Understanding. Empathy. Getting into the head of others. What else is going to solve conflicts? Bring people together? Get people to understand the sacrifices they are going to have to make to solve the world’s problems? With Veritas, with Truth, we are going to set the world free!”
I said nothing. I just considered the implications.
“So, are you astonished?” Rand said.
“Yes. ”
“So, can you help?”
“Well, I’ve got to understand this much, much more. But, just having this experience, seeing your problems, certainly my research relates. ”
“So, will you help?”
“Well, my job at MIT. ”
“How much do you make?”
“Pretty good. 43,500 a year. ”
“I’ll plus it by ten. No, let me round that out to 500,000. ”
“Half a million?”
“Half a million and you can do some good for people. How often is someone given that opportunity?”
I started to sweat. I looked to Anne. “Wh—What do you think?”
“Well, I don’t even know what you all are talking about, but it sounds good to me. You get to do your research. You can apply it for good. And you can earn enough money to buy me a great and very expensive Christmas gift each year. Where’s the debate?”
“Well, yeah. Okay. ”
“Great! Great! I want you to get started right away. Sit down here with Craig and he’ll explain everything in detail. Won’t you Craig?”
This whole time York had sat scribbling in his notebook. “Yes,” he said, not looking up. “Yes I can do that. ” Then he looked up. He looked up at me. “You’re at MIT?”
“Yes, I’m an associate professor there. ”
“Good school,” York said.
“Of course it’s a good school,” Rand declared. “I only hire the best. Now, let me quickly finish the tour, and then you two can get to work. As for you and me, Anne, how would you like to take a boat ride on the lake? After all this dry talk of men’s ambitions in a underground room, you must want some fresh air. ”
I could see Anne hold back a barb. I could see it in her eyes. But the corners of her mouth shot up enthusiastically instead. “That would be lovely. ”
*
The rest of the tour was quick and simple. Rand walked us through a door at the far end of the room. As we entered, we could hear lapping waves, the perfect accompaniment to the damp cold air in what seemed to be a storage room approximately 30 feet long. Instead of a far wall, the room ended in a ramp that descended down to an underground dock.
“This is all a cave?”
“Yeah. ” Rand answered. “Dug out by the bootlegger, reinforced with concrete. This is how he got the hooch out. Loaded here undercover into small boats; then taken to various points along the lake, where it was picked up by the trucks. Watch your step going down this ramp. ”
“Very dramatic,” Anne said.
“Yes,” Rand agreed. It has that appeal, doesn’t it?”
As we walked down a bank of lights came on automatically. There we could see docked, a 20 foot white, black and red airtrapper powerboat, the kind known to enthusiasts as a “hot boat,” its front sponsons reaching out like pinchers and its flat platform styling with its simple scooped-out cockpit, giving it a slick, no nonsense look.
“You asked about my boat, here it is. Had it built to my specifications. ”
“Doesn’t look very comfortable,” Anne said.
“Not built for comfort. Built for fishing. Got a Lowrance 350A fish finder, three bait wells, a custom aluminum poling platform, rod racks in the side panels. ”
When someone is going on like that, it is best to feed him. “What kind of engine is that?” I asked.
“That’s a Mercury 260 horse 2. 5 EFI engine harnessed by a 14 and a half inch by 23 pitch Power-Tech four blade prop. That’s a mean prop, I tell you. ”
“Why is the motor under that canopy thing?” Anne asked.
“That’s a hydraulic Land & Sea jack plate. ”
“That hardly answers my question, Andy”
“It lowers the engine into the water. ”
“Oh. Can it go fast?”
Rand looked at Anne and smiled. “Instead of facts and figures, let’s go for the feeling. Come on. ” He took her hand and led her to the boat. They climbed into the cockpit and sat on the driver’s bench, simply a padded area of the back platform, behind the instrument console. Rand leaned back and hit a switch on the jack plate and the big, black engine hydraulically lowered its prop into the water. Then he turned to the instrument panel and started the engine, then turned to me, standing alone on the dock.
“Get some good work done with Craig, and when I give you a break, we’ll have some fun with those babies. ” He indicated two Yamaha WaveRaider water jets. “Lots of fun. ” He pulled the boat out. Anne turned around and waved, they disappeared out a small opening towards the sunlight that was streaming in.
Chapter 18
Kill!
I walked back up the ramp wondering if there was anything to snoop in here. But, I decided no, I have my chance with York, I better not waste it. Back in the lab I found York sitting as he was when we first entered, huddled over and scribbling in a notebook. He didn’t hear me enter, or was ignoring me, for his eyes never left the notebook, his right hand never stopped its rapid scratching. I decided not to disturb him and instead moved around the lab, ostensibly checking out the equipment, but really looking for listening devices. I found nothing. There was a small FlexCam video camera; it looked like a small white cobra with a perfectly round hood and one mesmerizing eye. But it was connected to a computer that was off, and was probably used, I assumed, to scan and digitize images and textures to help “build” credible castles and true-to-life temples. Once satisfied that we were truly alone, I turned to York. “Well—Craig, is it?—I guess you better catch me up on your development so far. It sure is amazing. I congratulate you. I’m just floored by Veritas. ”
York stopped scribbling. But his hand still shook. He looked up at me. “If you’re not a genius, then how are you going to help me? It takes a genius, a goddamn genius, and the goddamn genius is dead. ”
“Well, possibly I was being modest in front of Rand. I know my
stuff. ”
York started to talk, without preamble, running down the history of the research and development he and Skinner had done—without mentioning Skinner—in complex, technical language. I understood enough, though, to know that Petey had made some good guesses. So I was able to seem intelligent when I asked a few questions. Questions that disturbed York, not for their content, but for the interruption of his flow. Each time he had to backtrack a sentence or two in order to start again.
Much had happen to York since I had first laid eyes on him in Portland, a little over a week before. He had become a young man even less connected to his ego than he was then. Sad. Sad flesh and bones bothered by mind. But it was good for my purposes, very good.
York suddenly finished. As if the text ran out. “Now,” he looked at me, straight backed for the first time, “fix it. ” It was half a challenge and half a plea
“Well—well let me think about this for a moment. It’s a lot of information to digest. Can I have some paper?”
York found some and gave it to me.
“Something to write with?”
York found a pencil, a stubby one, well used, and gave it to me. “Okay?” he demanded.
“Okay. ”
York collapsed back into his hunched position and began again to scribble in his notebook.
I made a few notes on my paper. Then started to make conversation. “So, where did you go to school?”
“What?”
I had startled him. “Are you all right?”
“Tired, very tired, been—been trying to crack this. Mr. Rand really wants it cracked. ”
“He seems a nice guy. ”
York just looked at me. Then began to scribble again.
“Do you ever go fishing with him?”
“No. ”
“Do you fish?”
“N—no. ”
“Me neither. So you didn’t tell me, what school did you go to?” What school? What school, York? I just wanted him to say it.
“Uh—Caltech. ” He started scribbling again.
“Really? Awful thing that happen there, wasn’t it?” Now I had the key, it was just necessary to open the gates. “I mean, Christ, tragic. 16 dead. ” York stopped scribbling. “You know, I knew some of the people killed. Well, you probably did too. I had done a conference with Dr. Thornton. Great guy. What a loss. ” He tried to start scribbling again. I stopped him. “And those two kids visiting their dad in the building that was bombed. Shit, what’s this country coming to?”
“Don’t—don’t talk about it. ”
“Oh, well, I’m sorry. It’s just, jeez, why? I mean why? What stupid nut case would do a thing like that?”
“I—I don’t… ”
“And that Skinner guy! What was his first name? Jim, I think. Very promising. ”
“Wahhhhh!” York cracked, ran to his cell, curled up on his bed. His whimpering was loud and loaded with pain.
I went over to him. Stood in the doorway. Dropped the Einstein persona. “Guilt. It’s like a goddamn fist in your chest, isn’t it, York? Like a goddamn fist that’s grabbing your soul and squeezing. Hurts. Won’t give you any room. Come on, York, give in to it, you might as well, it owns you now. ”
He started to cry. It was not cathartic. It was encasing. It was a cry that darkened all light.
“Killer!” I threw loud anger, screaming accusation at him. “Coward! Admit it, you killed them all, didn’t you? You made a pack with the black devil and you killed them all! Finch! Skinner! Thornton! Those two kids! But now, I’m here York. I’m here, and I’m your savior. But you’ve got to give yourself to me, York, you’ve got to do as I say, and then we—. ”
I did not hear. With York’s crying and my loud, angry words, I simply did not hear the heavy, running footfalls of Batsarov as he piled down the narrow, spiral stairwell, burst into the lab, and took giant leaps to reach me. He grabbed me around the neck from behind, squeezed his left arm tight, rabbit punched me with his right fist in the kidney, then kicked my legs out from under me and dragged me, dragged me back to the stairs. “I knew! You fuck! I knew!” I could hear through the pain. He slammed his fist against the side of my head. Ringing. Again! Stunned. He let go of my neck and gathered me up by the collar and pulled me up the narrow stairwell, yanking me hard against the rough concrete walls when my body would not naturally bend to the curve of the spiral ascent. He got me to the top and into the study, a half conscious rag doll. He picked me up and slammed me into the captain’s chair. I wanted to push out, attack back, but I couldn’t, I could only watch as he forced my arms behind me, pinning them between the curve of the chair’s hard wooden back and my own body. Then he placed his knee down hard on my crotch, and slowly applied the full pressure of his weight there, putting his two hands flat against my chest for balance. I was helpless. I was at his mercy—what little there was of it. “Who fuck you!?” he screamed. “Who fuck you!?” he screamed again, even louder.
What the hell had happened? How had—? Then I saw to the side of
Batsarov, the computer on the glass top desk. The monitor was on. It was showing a video view of the lab, empty, but the sound of York’s whimpering was echoing. Shit! The FlexCam! He had a way to remotely turn on the computer downstairs. And it was linked to this one. Shit! Of course, this was no study; this was a Goddamn guard’s station!
Batsarov continued to push his knee against my crotch. He ground it, moving it back and forth over the main member and my left testicle. Weirdly I wondered about Petey’s homing device. Could it stand the abuse? “Talk! Talk!” Batsarov yelled, sending sprays of spit into my face.
I managed to talk. I said with a growl: “Why don’t you go play with your own crotch. ”
He screamed! He brought his hands up off my chest and shot them around my neck. He squeezed. Tight. I thought, at first, just to get my attention. But, no, no, he was intending to kill me; I soon had no doubt about that. The pain in my arms and crotch was excruciating. I couldn’t move. But all that became secondary as my whole body took offense to the lack of oxygen, as panic spread, as fuzzy gray dots began to float and dance around the vicious, snarling head of Batsarov, hovering over me like all of Hate come for its due.
Laughter—light, lilting, sweet laughter; Anne’s laughter. Anne was laughing at me. Laughing at me! That was the greatest pain of all.
“Zhelyu!”
“Tom!”
It was Rand. It was Anne. They had come back from the lake. But they had entered from the living room? What did that mean? They had docked at the outside dock. I was thinking straight. Why? Oh. Oxygen. Oxygen was flowing again. Batsarov had let go of my neck. But he kept his knee in place.
“He is not who he says,” Batsarov claimed.
“What?” Rand demanded.
“He was in there making York cry!”
“Making York… ?” Rand was all confusion.
“Look! Look!” Batsarov was looking at his hands, the inside of his left forearm. There was residue of body make-up on both. He grabbed my head and yanked it back, revealing the scar on my neck. “This man on York’s boat!”
Batsarov was feeling triumphant. Rand was trying to make sense of it all. I was a mess. Batsarov knew it and released the pressure of his knee, but kept it on the chair, a one-legged man. From somewhere deep inside, somewhere training had taught me to find, I pulled at some strength and pushed my body hard and forward, catching the one-legged man by surprise. He hopped back, off balance. I ran. I told the pain to just fucking leave me alone, and I ran out of the study, into the living room, out the French doors.
“BAT! KILL!” Came the horrid sound of Batsarov’s voice as my feet hit slippery pine needles and I fell, tumbled, managed to pick myself up and ran again.
Of course I had nowhere to go. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to show panic, the panic of an amateur. Then they could recapture me, more confused than ever as to my intentions. Unfortunately Bat was not clued into this plan. He, in all his growli
ng, snarling, steel muscled, sharp-toothed reality, was simply trying to carry out his master’s command. KILL! It was not a course of action I particularly agreed with, but then, my opinion was not being sought. I would have to force it on them.
It was no use trying to turn the forest of pine trees to my favor by trying to dodge the shepherd. Even without the disadvantage of carrying a testicle that had been ground into applesauce, I never could have been competitive with Bat on an obstacle course. And it was no use stopping, picking up as heavy a fallen branch as I could find, and stand my ground prepared to whack the shit out of the monster—long before I could rise back up and position myself he would be on me. So I just ran, ran as fast as I could down the path towards the tram; ran watching out for lose rocks or clumps of pine needles that could trip me up; ran not worrying about Bat’s speed, Bat’s gain, Bat’s hot breath, Bat’s teeth; ran straight for the very edge of the promontory, steeling my muscles as if to jump, but suddenly dropping like a marionette cut from its strings instead, dropping hard and painfully, dropping with momentum I clutched at the ground to stop, dropping to hear the rush of Bat flying over me, to watch him sail down in a graceful curve to awkwardly hit hard the slope of the hill, roll once, twice, three times, slam his back and head into the side of a pine tree, squeal loudly, but continue to roll beyond that tree, down, down to the water’s edge where he finally came to a rest, his head slowly bobbing with the small waves left over from a speed boat that had just past, its occupants too busy having fun in the sun to have notice the last seconds of the now drowning dog.
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