by Ted Weber
Is that his golden rule? Waylee directed her response to both Luxmore and the president. “What about all men and women being created equal? That governments should consent to the will of the governed?”
Luxmore ignored her. Mustel’s eyes widened. The president laughed and shook his head. “Well, Jefferson was certainly a great man, but what does that have to do with what we’re talking about?”
A thousand angry hornets buzzed inside her skull. “Excuse me?”
Pel gave her the cease and desist look. She fought for control.
The president’s smile disappeared. He glanced at Mustel, then back at Waylee. “That was impolitic of me. We’re all on the same side.” He stepped closer. Smoky-smelling cologne wafted into her nose. “I do appreciate your passion.”
Waylee couldn’t help but smile. Sweat trickled down from her armpits.
“Perhaps you’d like to join my campaign. I’m sure we can make use of your talents.”
“I’d be honored, Mr. President.”
“Al.” His teeth glittered. “I do hope you enjoy the rest of the evening, and I look forward to toasting the New Year with you.”
Waylee smiled in the coy way she imagined Miss Cosimo would do.
“Now if you’ll excuse me.” The president and his cadre of followers greeted a Supreme Court justice.
Luxmore remained. He threw out a claw and gripped Pel’s forearm. “Let me give you some advice, boy.” His voice was like liquid nitrogen.
Irritation and fear fought for dominance of Pel’s face.
“Learn to control that woman of yours,” Luxmore said, glancing at Waylee. “Think your uncle would be so whipped? And buy her a pair of tits. Those things barely register.”
The words spilled out of Waylee’s mouth before she could question them. “Go fuck yourself, Luxmore.” If she had a drink, she would have thrown it in his face.
Luxmore laughed. “If you were mine, I’d break you like a second rate horse.”
Waylee saw his trophy wife approaching, and raised her voice so she’d hear. “If you were mine, I’d cut your shriveled balls off and shred them in the garbage disposal.”
He laughed again, then pointed his finger in Pel’s face. “Your uncle’s a great man. A fellow visionary. Will of iron. You’d do well to follow in his footsteps.” He turned and led his wife by the arm toward the nearest bartender. She glanced back at Waylee, confusion on her face.
“Maybe we should go,” Pel said.
“Hell no. Things are just getting interesting. Wait ‘til everyone’s drunk.”
Aides cleared away the chairs by the stage. A dozen white-coated and mostly white-haired musicians entered from a hall door and stood with their horns and standup bass, or sat behind a piano or drums.
After five minutes tuning up, the band launched into a swing number. Guests strode to the newly liberated floor. Their dance steps were even more ancient than the musicians.
The music was catchy as hell, and Waylee couldn’t stop her foot from tapping, but she stayed off the dance floor. All she knew was a sort of free-form flailing, and with high heels on, she’d risk disaster.
She tried to interview more guests, but they edged away as if she carried some tropical contagion. But by the time midnight neared, they lined up to examine the girl who’d argued with the president and threatened to cut the balls off an even more powerful man.
The formerly suspicious Ms. Baddelats placed a hand against the small of Waylee’s back and nudged her away from the crowds. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed seeing someone put down His Royal Highness,” she half-whispered, struggling to maintain her balance. “We’ve simply got to get you on the board somehow.”
“His Royal Highness?”
She rolled her eyes. “Bob Luxmore, who do you think?”
“Did you hear the things he said to me?” Waylee clinked a glass of Scotch against hers. “Cheers.” She minimized her sip. “He must have ruffled your feathers too.”
Ms. Baddelats wrinkled her nose. “He’s an arrogant little prick, for starters. If you’ll pardon my French. Not to mention the way he parades that plastic bimbo around.” She took another sip. “He is a visionary, I’ll give him that much. Built the company. Developed long-term strategies that made his investors, myself included, quite an extraordinary amount of money.”
“Like partnering with governments to transform the Internet?”
“A huge initial outlay. But worth it in the long haul.”
“Because MediaCorp used their control of the Comnet infrastructure to take control of the content, where the real profit is.”
Ms. Baddelats waved over a middle-aged server carrying a tray of fluted glasses filled with ice cream, syrups, and fruit. “It was like a blitzkrieg,” she said. “Once Wall Street noticed we’d be sole gatekeeper, our stock went through the roof, and we leveraged that to buy all the right companies, and it kept cascading.”
The server arrived with the dessert tray. Ms. Baddelats downed the rest of her drink and traded the empty glass for an ice cream concoction. She plucked out another one and held it toward Waylee. A spoon protruded from the whipped cream and mixed berries on top. “Parfait?”
Waylee hadn’t finished her drink, but had to relinquish it to accept the parfait. “Thank you.”
The server drifted away. Waylee let Ms. Baddelats take the first bite, then copied her tactic, lifting a spoonful of whipped cream and a couple of blueberries into her mouth. It tasted surprisingly fresh. “So now, if you’re an independent content provider….”
Ms. Baddelats waved her spoon like a metronome. “If you’re not affiliated with MediaCorp, and you want your movie shown or your game played or your article read, you rent the bandwidth, buy ads, and try to pass the costs to your customers. If you’re too cheap to pay, there’s still some old Internet routes, but good luck finding anyone willing to wait hours for your material to load. Brilliant business model, they say.” She dove back into the parfait.
Waylee suppressed her anger. “So it seems. I assume the free immersion suits are also a long-term strategy?”
She looked up. “I asked him about that, right after your little argument, actually. Why President Rand knew about this planned suit giveaway but the company board didn’t. Bob downplayed the short-term costs, talked about targeted ads to the users, but the real goal is to move more people onto BetterWorld.”
“Makes sense, MediaCorp even controls the currency there.”
“Yes, but I have to admit, I’ve never taken a shine to it. I have been fighting to put age restrictions on BetterWorld, time restrictions too, but unfortunately I’m in the minority. How is the next generation going to manage the world if they’ve grown up in a womb of make believe?”
You are my new best friend. “You are so right. But I assume Luxmore wants the whole planet immersed in BetterWorld?”
Ms. Baddelats shuffled her feet. “As soon as we make it more hacker-proof, he said. Apparently it has security issues.”
Charles. She fought not to smile. “He’s pretty involved in politics.”
“Perhaps overly so.” Ms. Baddelats poked her spoon between the remaining berries to reach the ice cream beneath.
“Do you think he’ll run for president after Rand’s next term?” She knew the answer, but wanted video comments.
Ms. Baddelats looked up from her parfait and snorted. “Oh, heavens no. What an enormous waste of time that would be. No, he’s content to pull strings behind the scenes to get his way. That’s the real reason I don’t like him. The man scares me. You wouldn’t believe the influence he has.”
Waylee started to ask for details, but the woman was on a roll. “He’s both CEO and Chairman of the Board, plus the largest stockholder. That’s really too much control, considering we’re now the biggest company in the world. At the very least, he should step down as Chairman. But ‘you don’t put shackles on visionaries,’ he says if someone dares suggest it. Balderdash, I say. If you ask me, the man’s got a N
apoleon complex. You ought to hear him in the boardroom, talking about bettering humanity. His version, mind you, not mine, which is more about being a decent Christian.”
She hooked her fingers into quote marks, somehow managing not to drop anything. “‘We can create a world where those with ability can do anything they imagine. We must work with politicians to ensure that moochers, obstructionists, and naysayers don’t get in the way of progress.’ How is that a core business model? How does that help starving children?”
Ms. Baddelats seemed done with her tirade, so Waylee asked, “Can you force him out?”
“If there’s a way.” She patted Waylee on the shoulder. “Wish me luck. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
She handed the remnants of her parfait to another server and took careful steps toward two of her colleagues.
Holy crap, I might have a friend in high places.
The music stopped and the president returned to the stage. “I’ve been given the honor of counting down the last seconds of an exceptional year and bringing in an even better one.” He peered at his watch. “Ok… ready?” and he began counting.
“Three… Two… One… Happy New Year!”
The jazz band played “Auld Lang Syne” and guests drank and cheered and blew on noisemakers.
Waylee didn’t pay attention because she was kissing Pel. Without him, she wouldn’t be here. She’d probably have killed herself by now. Their kiss lingered and lingered, heat rushed through her veins, and she wanted him right there in front of everyone.
She realized people were staring. Including President Al. “Mingle some more, darling,” she whispered, and kissed Pel’s earlobe. “Back to work.”
As the band pounded out some sort of zoot suit leg-shaker, Waylee fixed her eyes on the president and strode over. She slithered past a blockade of irritated guests, then the president dispersed the circle around him and waved her the rest of the way in.
President Al smiled when she arrived. “That was quite a kiss.” He teetered a little on his feet.
Waylee decided to exaggerate her buzz. “I’m drunk.”
He drew closer. “You’re allowed. It’s New Year’s.” She could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“I believe you promised me a toast.” Estelle would want a dance, but of course that would be scandalous.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“I meant… uh, something more personal.”
From somewhere inside, man-neurons widened his eyes and lifted his eyebrows. He shooed his photographer away and raised two fingers to the young blonde aide.
The aide turned to a small table and hurried over with two glasses of ice and a half-full bottle, “Glenmorangie” at the top of the elegant label, “30” beneath. She poured them each a drink.
President Al peered at the amber liquid in the glass, then sniffed it. “This Glenmorangie was sitting in a cask before you were born, waiting patiently for this very moment.”
“To America,” Waylee proposed.
“America.”
They clinked glasses and drank, Waylee fighting her instincts and sipping, President Al gulping half the contents. Smoke turned to honey and lingered on her tongue.
Where to begin? “So how can I best help your campaign?”
His eyes roved across her body, just for an instant. “What do you want to do?”
She gave him the coy Estelle smile. “Well, I’m definitely a people person.” She wasn’t lying there.
He took another sip, eyes fixed on her. The aide pretended to look away.
“And I love video. Your media advisor seems quite an expert.”
President Al snorted. “I’m surrounded by so-called experts.” He sipped again. “It’s refreshing to talk to someone real.”
Estelle would beam at a compliment from the president, so Waylee gave her warmest smile. “Thank you.”
“I tell you, the toughest part of this job is looking in a camera and spouting out a bunch of B.S. to keep my poll numbers up.”
“Then why do you do it? Why not just say what you think?”
The aide stared at her, as if she wanted her to move along but didn’t dare say so.
President Al finished his Scotch. “Are you kidding?” He held up his glass and shook it. “First thing they teach you in politics—control the message.”
The aide refilled their glasses.
Time for more material. “And that must be easier with Bob Luxmore on your side.”
He nodded, then frowned. “I heard about that little outburst earlier.”
Uh oh.
“He does have a temper sometimes,” he continued. “I hope you’ll excuse him.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “Fact is, our country wouldn’t be where it is today without Bob Luxmore and people like him. He’s a pioneer, like the old railroad builders and industrialists.”
“And he’s been your number one supporter.”
He swirled his glass, the ice jostling together and plowing aside the liquid. “It takes more than one person to win an election.”
He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the sound bites. “Yes,” she said, “but MediaCorp does what you want, covers what you want. That’s a pretty big advantage, considering they control the entire Comnet.”
He raised an eyebrow but nodded. “We just happen to agree on a lot, share a common vision. I don’t sit on the board like your fiancé’s uncle. I don’t tell their anchors what to say.”
Two possible tacks. She picked the first. “What’s the common vision?”
His eyes sparkled. “A golden age where personal rights are respected, and great men—and women—are free to create wealth that lifts the economy and benefits everyone.” He drank again.
“Like the Comnet?”
“Yes, the Comnet’s a great example. Sure, the previous administration paid for the lines in exchange for free government access. But mostly it’s been a private venture, and my administration hasn’t interfered.” He glanced at his watch.
You can’t go yet. “But you share information, right?”
“As a matter of national security, of course. Their resources are incredible. You should know that.”
“Like how incredible? My fiancé never tells me anything.”
He smirked. “Let me put it this way, we’re headed toward a world where MediaCorp knows everything about everyone. It’s inevitable. Everyone’s on the Comnet except an Appalachian mountain man or two.” He laughed.
Waylee felt sick. “And the free immersion suits will help, I assume.”
He nodded. “And wait until they perfect neural implants.”
What?
“So of course we’ve got to work together, ferret out terrorists and criminals.” He looked at his watch again.
Waylee licked her lips to keep his attention. She decided to boil the water. “But aren’t you worried? How sure are you Luxmore’s not playing both sides? You know, sharing information with your opponents to hedge his bets?”
The aide tensed. President Al’s eyes narrowed. “I understand you’re mad at him, but we’re on the same side. We help each other out.”
He admits it at last!
“Luxmore works for you, then?”
He threw his shoulders back. “He’s a smart man, and I’m probably the closest he has to a friend.”
“So MediaCorp persuades the public to support you…”
“Staying on message, we call it.”
She suppressed her anger. “And like you said, they’ve got the world’s biggest database. Luxmore must know everything about you. What if he leaked something damaging?”
“About me?” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t. Which is good—he can turn anything into a public issue. Name a person alive who doesn’t have skeletons in their closet.”
Her stomach churned. “Sounds like quite a partnership. The sky’s the limit, it sounds like.”
He finished his drink. “Like I said, maybe he has some anger issues, probably his first wife’s fault, but yes
, I consider him a good and loyal friend.”
The First Lady stomped over and grabbed her husband’s arm. “There you are.” She cast suspicious eyes toward Waylee/Estelle. “And who is this?”
President Al introduced her, then said, “I’m afraid I have more mingling to do. Thank you for coming, Estelle, and please give your information to my campaign manager.”
The First Lady glared at her as they left. Everyone else seemed to glare at her too.
If only she could keep this persona, the things she could do. By tomorrow, though, word of tonight’s antics would get to the real Estelle and the gig would be over.
19
January 1
St. Mary’s County, Maryland
Pelopidas
We did it! In the back seat of an electric SUV, Pelopidas squeezed Waylee’s hand. She squeezed back, harder.
Their taxi driver had dropped them off at a house in Greenbelt, and an elderly couple, friends of Shakti, picked them up on the next block to transport them to their next temporary digs, a cooperative farm in St. Mary’s County. Shakti, Dingo, and Charles had already moved there.
The old man, Peter, wore actual suspenders and sported a long white beard. Sunshine, the woman, had grey hair and a plaid house dress that might have been fashionable a hundred years ago in rural Iowa. She volunteered that she and Peter were not in fact a couple, but “got along well enough.”
Waylee leaned forward. “So you’re activists in the People’s Party?”
Sunshine, riding shotgun, turned and smiled. “Maybe not activists like Shakti. But we do what we can to promote a more peaceful and sustainable world.”
Waylee nodded. “Sweetchious.”
Peter, behind the wheel, spoke when they hit the interstate. “Was it worth the risk?”
“It was fucking incredible,” Waylee shouted. Her breath reeked of bourbon or whatever she’d been drinking.
Sunshine frowned.