A pair of men in white robes and sandals greeted me, smiling brightly as if they were welcoming home a long-lost relative. Not the reception I’d expected when I arrived unannounced. They were unarmed, at least as far as I could tell, and had no pretense of being security guards.
“Welcome to the Jewel of the Liwa Oasis,” one of them announced, arms spread wide. “Your presence has been requested on the rooftop terrace, Mister Moxon.” Well, there goes the element of surprise.
“Please,” the other said with a stately, sweeping gesture, “follow us. Sultan Darmaki has been expecting you.”
Expecting me? Now I was more suspicious than confused.
Navigating our way through the lavish front courtyard, we weaved our way through the worker bees, and into the main building. The entrance had no doors; it was a series of towering marble columns that beckoned anyone to pass through, but subtly reminded them that they were very, very small. As we rounded one set of stairs after the next, ascending towards the rooftop, it had occurred to me that there wasn’t a single interior light. Unlit iron torches were fixed to the walls and fireplaces rested in alcoves, which would no doubt serve as the only source of illumination once night fell.
I stepped onto the terrace at the top of the stairway, and was surprised to find more than just Darmaki awaiting my arrival – sprawled out before me was an all-star cast of the world’s most notorious living weapons. I recognized each of them from the simulcasts. They were the ones who had battled throughout the world (the survivors, anyway), carving a bloody swath across densely populated areas, and increasing infrastructure spending in their wake.
Overhead, intricate latticework was overgrown with ivy, providing shade for Darmaki’s guests; they lounged beneath, where mounds of velvet cushions offered comfort as servants supplied fruit and wine on silver platters. They were laughing, drinking, sharing stories...I wasn’t walking into a top-secret gathering of super villains and evil masterminds – I’d just crashed a garden party.
A few glanced in my direction, but most were too engrossed in food and conversation to be bothered with my presence. The Japanese man I’d confronted in New York sat cross-legged, a bottle in each hand. He chortled at a husky Maori woman who sat across from him; she was miming someone getting shot in the head and falling limply on a pile of pillows.
Sultan Darmaki strode past his guests, hands resting in his pockets. “Mister Matthew Moxon,” he said with a wide grin, “to what do I owe this pleasure?” The bearded man with cropped black hair standing before me was nothing like the photographs I’d seen. Darmaki was dressed in freshly-pressed khakis, a white dress shirt and loafers – not the traditional ankle-length robe of the Emirati.
“Just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d swing by for a cocktail.”
“Absolutely, my friend,” he said without missing a beat. “Make yourself comfortable. My home is your home.”
“I appreciate it. But I thought maybe we could speak alone?”
“By all means,” Darmaki said with a nod. He strolled across the terrace, past the overhang and onto the exposed front balcony.
As I followed I glanced at his attire. “I’ve never seen you without your kandura.”
“It is my day off,” he said with a smile. “They’re only required for formal occasions.”
“Oh, all right. I just figured since you were The Sultan of—”
He cut me off with a hearty laugh, throwing his head back. “No, Mister Moxon, I am not ‘the’ Sultan. That is my first name. Sultan is a very common given name in this part of the world – like ‘John’ in America.”
“Ahh, okay.” I scratched at the back of my head, glancing away. Well that was embarrassing. “Sorry about that. Not my cultural ballpark, I’m afraid.”
“No, not at all. It is a common mistake. I sometimes correct people, but other times I let them believe what they want. It can be helpful when booking a hotel or securing a table at a restaurant.” He winked and smiled again, even brighter than before. I knew he was a homicidal maniac, but I was actually starting to like this guy.
We reached the balcony overlooking the courtyard, where a servant awaited us with a tray balanced on his palm, carrying silver goblets and a bowl of fruit overflowing with grapes and bananas.
Knowing I was unable to drink whatever was in the glass, I scooped it up just to maintain appearances, leaning carefully against the white marble balustrade.
“So what are we toasting?” Sultan asked, raising his goblet.
“You tell me,” I replied, clinking the rim of my glass against his. “You’re the one throwing a party that’s tearing up half the modern world.”
“Ahh, that,” he said, with what sounded like a hint of embarrassment. He took a quick sip and set his goblet down on the edge of the railing. “I know, I feel badly about the damage I have caused. It is a nuisance, but unfortunately, it is also a necessity.”
“It was necessary that you destroyed big chunks of New York, Stockholm, Cape Town, London...? The people in those cities are not at war with you, Sultan.”
“No, they are not. But the cultures of those cities are at war with themselves. You see this?” Sultan tugged back the sleeve of his linen shirt. His wrist-com was exposed – the only piece of modern technology I’d seen since I’d arrived at his palace. “What does this mean to you?”
I cocked an eyebrow.
“I know, I know,” he said with a smile. “I am difficult to deal with – everyone tells me so. But please, my friend, humor me for just a moment.”
I shrugged. “Communication.”
He replied with a reluctant half-nod, as if what I’d said was only a partial truth. “For you, perhaps. But for many in the modern world, this is a distraction. A device that replaces conversation and human interaction. Thoughtful reflection has been replaced with mindless games and digital consumerism.”
The last time I’d had a conversation that began this way I was visiting my grandmother at her nursing home. It was rare to interact with a technophobe these days – it was such an ingrained part of Western culture that even the elderly were at least moderately tech-savvy. “Newsflash, Sultan: it’s been going on for decades. It’s pretty normal to spend a good chunk of your time in a holoforum.”
“Just because something is common does not make it normal,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “And that is the curse of technology.”
“Curse?” I said, laughing under my breath. “I’m using my billions to re-build The Fringe and other parts of the world that you’re destroying – without technology it would take years to accomplish what I’ve done in just weeks.”
A storm began to swirl behind Sultan’s dark eyes. I’d struck a nerve. “Technology is a false idol, Matthew Moxon. It promises to solve the issues that plague mankind, but at what cost? What have we given of ourselves in exchange for these so-called ‘modern miracles’ and scientific discoveries? Ten years ago superhumans were a fantasy. Mythology even. Nothing more than bedtime stories you read to children, or the comic books you place so much value in. Now we are here – we are a reality. But thanks to people like you and Cameron Frost, we have become commonplace.”
“I’m not sure that I’m following,” I admitted. As he continued his impassioned argument I was growing more confused.
Darmaki jammed a finger out across the courtyard. “Look into the horizon. Do you see the storm coming?”
“I see sand,” I said flatly. “And blue skies.”
Sultan took great care in unbuttoning his sleeves at the wrist, rolling the white linen fabric to his elbows. He extended his hands, palms open to the horizon. One hand suddenly burst into flame, and at the exact same moment the other froze, sending slivers of ice from his fingertips up his forearms. With the slightest of gestures Sultan sent streams of fire and ice swirling up and into the distance, darkening the skies. Charcoal clouds started to emerge; rolling, low-hanging cumulus that blanketed the coppery desert in shadow, threatening with a flash of blue-white and the crack
of thunder. Then came the rain.
“I just gave life to hundreds of people,” he stated, swelling with pride. “I provided water that will sustain a village for weeks. That is a miracle, my friend.”
“So the ‘miracles of science’ are overshadowing your superhuman rain clouds?”
“Your rain clouds,” he was quick to correct me. “Your cloud seeding program helps nourish so many that the devotion of my followers is beginning to wane.”
“I’m providing more than water,” I explained. “I’m giving people hope.” I glanced over the balustrade at the workers toiling below; scrubbing, raking, trimming hedges – they worked tirelessly under the scorching midday sun, and I suspected it was in exchange for no more than the approval of their demigod. “But,” I added, “I’m thinking you like your followers a little on the desperate side.”
He spread his hands wide, smile stretching beneath his dark beard. “Devotion stems from desperation, my friend.” He leaned over, gesturing towards his followers. Those who caught a glimpse of him dropped their equipment, mouths agape. A woman fell to her knees and wept when she thought he was gesturing specifically at her. “When your technology feeds and clothes these people, and provides them with the conveniences of the modern world, all of this will end. There will be no need for my powers once your program has reached this region.”
He’d been doing his homework. My cloud seeding program was well-known, and had been rapidly spreading across Africa and much of rural Asia. Darmaki had no way of knowing about my other projects, which included a roll-out of 3D printers which would soon provide clothing, blankets and rudimentary shelter for much of central Africa. And with water and shelter would come hydroponics farms, providing a near-unlimited supply of food. Once my programs reached the Middle-East, the people in this unbelievably poor region would be fed and clothed, giving them a measure of independence. And with independence comes freedom.
“And you’re grumpy because you won’t have free labor to trim your hedges and feed you grapes?” I asked.
“I’m ensuring my future,” he quickly replied. “If I cease to possess my abilities, I will have no safeguard against the oppressors of the West.”
I’ve been accused of some crazy things in the last year, but ‘oppressor’ was nowhere on the list. “How will my cloud seeding sap your powers?”
He looked at me with a slight tilt of the head, bringing a hand to his bearded chin. It wasn’t condescension – at least that’s not how I read it. It’s as if he was genuinely baffled by my lack of understanding. “You know surprisingly little for someone with so many resources at your disposal. Do you not understand the nature of our abilities? I was given these gifts by a higher power.” He gestured grandly at the now-dissipating clouds in the distance, which were being lanced through by rays of desert sun. “And now I am that higher power. I was put here to provide for my followers. But my abilities are fed by belief...not just my own, but the belief of others.”
It made sense. Superhuman abilities are linked to brainwaves; it’s why a cerebral dampening unit can nullify them by sending out a scrambling signal. Not much else has been gleaned besides that, simply because there hasn’t been enough research done on the subject (and what little research had been done was wildly inconclusive). Electrical frequencies inside our cerebral cortex are affected by virtually every type of stimuli, from music to scents to visual information. Could the relative proximity and thoughts of others – devoted followers, to be exact – actually feed a superhuman’s brain, amplifying their abilities? “The more people who believe you’re a god, the more powerful you become.” I had to say it, if only to hear how crazy the words sounded when spoken aloud.
“Exactly.” He nodded in perfect agreement, as if I’d just said ‘the sky is blue’, and not something completely bizarre and theoretical. “And as your technology infects my region of the world, fewer will require my care and protection. My powers will begin to wane.” His voice levelled off to a chilling monotone. “I am not willing to let this happen.”
“You want me to stop my program,” I said matter-of-factly. “Stop seeding clouds.”
No, no, no – you misunderstand me, my friend.” He waved off the notion, suddenly more affable. “I wish to negotiate. I would like to purchase the technology from you.”
“And then what, you just sit on it?”
He raised his goblet as if in a toast. “Then I own patents. The rights to the cloud seeding technology will be mine, and no one can follow in your footsteps.”
“This can’t go on forever, even if you get my tech. Someone else will pick up where the Moxon Corporation left off, and start cloud seeding before long.”
“How long has the internal combustion engine been around for?” he asked.
“The first car was made in 1886,” I said without missing a beat, as if was a contestant on a television game show. It was a nervous tick; if my mouth had a chance to blurt out a useless factoid it would do so without consulting my brain.
He smiled. “Ah, you are quick with dates. Very good. A miracle of engineering, but hardly the most efficient innovation, as I’m sure you know. It should have been replaced by the electric car not long after its creation, and yet...”
“Oil companies made sure that didn’t happen.”
His smile widened. He bared his teeth this time, and it shifted smoothly from friendly and jovial to disarmingly predatory. “Decade after decade the rich held back the technology, and it was easy. People are sheep, Mister Moxon. They fear change, reject what is new – even if the benefits are considerable. All they require is a nudge in the right direction.”
I could almost hear the clacking of dominos colliding, toppling over one piece at a time. Everything was falling into place. The unsanctioned Arena Mode tournament did more than provide a reason to fear and distrust me – it was a reason to fear and distrust my technology. If the Cerebral Dampening Units proved to be ineffective (which was already the case in most industrialized countries) then surely the rest of the Moxon Corporation’s inventions could be called into question. My cloud seeding technology could be painted as an environmental risk, or hazardous to the population’s health with no more than a week of PR gimmicks. And with my technology slandered, the door would swing wide open for Darmaki’s god-like ability to produce rain from his fingertips. Close to a billion people lack access to clean water. If he could tap into just a fraction of that number, his power would, if his hypothesis was correct, amplify to unstoppable levels – assuming he wasn’t there already.
“So that’s why you wanted to keep me out of custody? So we could do business together?” It was the part of his plan that seemed erroneous. “I don’t know if these camels deliver a newspaper to your front door now and then, but I won all of Cameron Frost’s estate in the lawsuit. According to Forbes I have ten times your net worth, so there’s nothing you can offer me.”
“I did not realize you were so...comfortable, Mister Moxon. Financially speaking.”
“Yup,” I nodded confidently. “I’m comfy as fuck.”
“Well put,” he said flatly. “So, we have arrived at an impasse.”
“Seems like it.” Darmaki wanted to continue the attacks, forcing my company’s value lower and lower with each passing day. Eventually I’d be so strapped for cash that I would have to give in and accept his offer. Though even after The Moxon Corporation’s free fall on the New York Stock Exchange, I was still far wealthier than he was – and even if I’d lost every cent, there was no way I was going to sell the cloud seeding patents.
“Now the negotiation begins.” He entered a voice command, causing his wrist-com to produce a hologram. It was Peyton. A dozen images cascaded through the air, displaying candid photos of her; recent photos, as if a private detective had taken them over the last several weeks in The Fringe. One had been taken at the opening of Excelsior: there I was, standing amidst the crowd of shoppers, while Peyton embraced me, her pink hair cascading over my back.
I
clenched my teeth so hard I thought I’d grind my molars into dust. “Listen carefully, asshole: you’re not going to touch Peyton Lockridge. If I ever catch a photographer outside of Excelsior taking her picture again, I’ll reach down your throat and tear out our intestines.”
He remained unfazed. “Hmm. That was very...descriptive. Although once again, my friend, I think you misunderstand my intentions. I am not going to touch Miss Lockridge. Or should I say, ‘President and CEO of the Moxon Corporation’, Peyton Lockridge. I am merely going to negotiate with her.”
I barked out an acerbic laugh. “For the technology? Good luck. Money means nothing to her.”
“I am not going to offer her money. I am going to offer you. For your life, she will be willing to trade anything, I would imagine.”
“You’re wrong,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat.
“Am I? Because I have put a considerable amount of thought into this matter.” He took a final sip from his goblet and leaned casually, as if we were old friends exchanging pleasantries. “If I had taken her, you would have never negotiated with me. You would have staged some elaborate attack on my compound, fighting impossible odds to save her life.” He let out a light chuckle. “In the end you would have failed – that much is certain – and the two of you would be dead. It would be years before I could secure your technology.
“Having her true love as my prisoner, with his life hanging in the balance? This will not even be a negotiation. She will be offering me your entire company on a silver platter within sixty seconds.”
I took hold of my goblet and raised it to my lips, pretending to sip the ruby liquid inside. “You think I’m your prisoner, then? That’s interesting.”
“You have no powers.” He chuckled again. “No superhuman abilities. I saw the battle at Fortress 23 in Canada, and aside from your alleged problem-solving abilities, you have nothing.”
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