Descendant

by Jeffrey A. Levin

  I absolutely hate to admit it, but Proto is right. She’s always right. A vacation would be a very good idea. So when I get a call from a guy out of my past, Derek Nuze, I decide to take him up on it. Derek is an edgy sort of a guy—one of these people that makes you realize life can be interesting. But we did have a past, and it wasn’t particularly good.

  “Cigar, sir?”

  “Make it a Sultan,” I say, watching the tall, curvaceous waitress with legs like the song “Stairway to Heaven” prance away. I wonder whether I could ever cheat on a memory. If ever I could, this leggy siren would fit the bill.

  Perhaps it was at that moment that I realized I still wanted Maya more than ever. Long legs and a nice pair of tits wasn’t going to change that.

  But I’m on vacation, right? Derek chose the café in Casablanca because of its longtime dramatic and wistful quality. After all, I am in Morocco—in a place that is actually called Bogart’s. I remember taking a film class once, and we were studying Casablanca as a romance movie that could never be duplicated. Think about it—Bogey and Bacall. What a concept! I reflect. Yet as I sit alone in the famous bar, I feel an itch. Perhaps it is a craving or a longing that I can’t quite satisfy.

  I hear a beep coming from my Three Plus hologram phone (TPH3). Suddenly a six-and-a-half-foot hologram stands next to me. It’s a splash from the past—my old fake buddy Derek. Actually, his simulation stands before me. “Be there soon! Slight delay!” I switch off the hologram at the same time the leggy waitress saunters in carrying my favorite beer, ET Blues, an incredible ultraspacecraft ale.

  “Enjoy!” she says, flashing her dark brown eyes at me.

  I know you aren’t going to believe this, but ET Blues is actually derived from the oldest recipe on this planet. “I’ll bet Indiana Jones would really enjoy this,” I say softly to myself. It comes from a five-thousand-year-old recipe that originated in ancient Sumeria. Originally it was established by the Sumerian Akhadian Hittite people, who were working on detailed cuneiform tablets. The menu at Bogart’s advertises ET Blues as being derived from the primitive Hymn to Ninkasi. I take a sip, followed by a long gulp. “Ahh! The ancients must have been really thirsty,” I say to a few empty chairs.

  Other than the name Bogart’s, the Moroccan café lacks color and imagination. To tell the truth, it is pretty nondescript, with the exception of an adjacent room that sports exotic fabrics, rugs, cushions, and poufs. All for show, I guess. I try to imagine Bogey and Bacall smoking cigars and ciggies here, perhaps at the very same table. I keep thinking a character by the name of Hoagie will appear and play the piano.

  “Gotta love it!” I muse.

  My thoughts turn to Derek. Our past? Derek’s father was a newscaster for a major national channel in the American Isles called “Nuze Today.” It was supposed to be a credible reporting station but somehow morphed into a Hollywood-style cheesy gossip channel. Anyway, Derek’s dad was divorced and primarily lived out East. But on occasion he would stop by and visit Malibu Isle. I remember the guy. What a creep! And Derek? Chip off the old block. Why am I seeing him then? Pure curiosity. Well, plus a buried lie that lingers in my soul like a stinking dead fish. I think you know what I mean.

  So what’s the problem? In a word, Dulce! I remember how Derek’s dad insulted my father. Brian Nuze reported, “It has been allegedly stated that famous scientist Ben Eisenstein is a major player in some strange dealings occurring in Dulce.” I didn’t know it then, but I would find out that my dad was a researcher. He wasn’t the guy who was doing the planning; Ben was more into the information-gathering and researching of the scientific components.

  “Major player?” What in the hell is Brian Nuze talking about?

  “Mikey! Hey, man!” says a booming voice; Derek is waving his hands like a windmill.

  “I can’t believe it! Derek Nuze in the flesh!” I shoot out.

  Derek is one of those guys who has to be cutting the tech edge all the way. He is wearing what we call techry. Yeah, I know; it sounds stupid! It was simply jewelry and technology mixed together. You know, rings that are telephones, necklaces that are able to display the latest news directly in front of you on a translucent screen—those sorts of things. Let’s not forget those bizarre-looking black-and-taupe eyeglasses from Africa that kinda look like a dangerous python; to a techry, these are a mandatory part of your overall absurd look.

  “Mike, man, you look good! How’s life treating you? Babes everywhere, right?”

  “Not quite,” I say dryly.

  The leggy waitress with the killer bod saunters back in, showing Derek to my table. “Whew!” Derek says, faking a pat on her derriere as she departs, accompanied by a new lewd gesture—a middle finger to the nose.

  The waitress turns around, flashing a disgruntled look.

  “What’s your name, honey?” Derek ejaculates.

  “Noy B.!” she says with a ’tude.

  “And what does that stand for?”

  “None of your business!”

  “Gotta love the Moroccans!” says Derek. “They’ve got style.”

  Derek is one of those guys in the movie business that made it big by taking advantage of technology. You know, lots of VR stuff mixed with erotic videos—cheap shit. His innovative use of interactive, game-changing holograms skyrocketed his audience, making him one of the wealthiest producers in Hardwood, the movie capital of the world. Like his dad, Derek is a loudmouthed narcissist who doesn’t mind living on the edge.

  “Hey! What am I drinking here, water? What’s going on!” Derek bellows.

  The waitress gives him an increasingly disgusted look as I point to my beer.

  “Anyway, it’s good to see you, Mikey. Are you staying out of trouble?” Derek says, sporting a crafty, smart assed, I’m-just-too-cool smile.

  The waitress sashays over to our table, leaning over and exposing her ample bosom to Derek as she plunks down a Tangierian teat.

  “On us,” she wisecracks.

  How perfect! Derek doesn’t even know that he just got “Sarewed!” I think. This is the way Moroccan chicks get revenge on obnoxious foreign buffoons. Derek just got totally dissed. Actually, the Tangierian teat is a drink that Berber mountain marksmen gave to the Moroccan sultans back in the day. I don’t have the heart to tell Derek that someone in the kitchen just pissed in his beer.

  Anyway, our devious waitress moves closer to Derek, revealing more of her scintillating cleavage. Then she turns quickly, wiggling her sculpted derriere, torturing my phony buddy Derek into submission.

  “I’d sell half of my company for a piece of that!” Derek smiles luridly, like the Assbyte he is.

  “Just half?” I smile, holding up my glass. “C’mon, one more big gulp of that Tunisian teat!” I exclaim.

  We laugh.

  “To salty women!” I toast, holding up my foamy glass of ETB.

  “To me and you! And to our renewed friendship!” Derek proclaims, nearly downing his glass in one swig. “To foamy, sassy glasses, huge masses, and tight asses!” Derek says as we wildly clink our glasses together. I watch as he gulps down another tasty portion of piss beer.

  Derek leans in toward me. “Hey, I hope bygones can be bygones!”

  Actually, his abrupt change in manner startles me. I mean, how can a guy switch from tits, ass, and a cold one of pissy beer so rapidly? Yet his face is sincere, and I surmise that he has probably rehearsed that line many times over. The problem is that he sort of opened up a vile wound that I’d sooner forget.

  “It’s history,” I say unconvincingly.

  “It’s bad history,” he adds.

  I take another swig of ETB. Derek downs his Tangierian teat.

  “Listen, Derek,” I say calmly. “I’ve lost a father and a girl that I loved very much, not to mention a good friend. I’m such a loser!”

  “Yeah, the richest man in the world is a loser
, right? You’re a winner in my book, Mikey. C’mon, now! It’s all okay.”

  I am not sure how long the moment actually takes, but it seems like eternity. I almost feel like saying, “Here’s to you kid!” As I glance around the room, it occurs to me how absurd this entire contrived masquerade is becoming. Here I am, in this infamous, fake cliché of a room. I am drinking with a high school bud I don’t really like much. We are surrounded by mosques, medinas, exotic carpets, and a young girl with some sort of primitive middle school hold on us.

  “Fuckin’ A. My life’s a nightmare, man. I’m a first-class fuckup, Derek.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong Mikey? Did I say something? Hey, man, I’m sorry!”

  Have you ever had a moment where you felt yourself swirling into some sort of volcanic abyss? This one came in a flash, and I had to get out of it fast.

  “I want to know one thing, Derek, and I want you to tell me the truth, okay?”

  The room seems to be swimming in a sort of surreal, hazy fog. All I can think of is Maya, and then I remember!

  It was just a moment. Actually, it was less than a moment. It was a microsecond of a horrifying recollection. You know what I’m talking about, right? You’re drinking a beer, and suddenly a memory comes into your head like an unwanted, stealthy thief.

  Flash! I see Maya’s face! I see Derek’s creepy expression. I study them, together. We are right outside of our high school. They are talking about something serious. I just left the school. They are standing by a tree, and Maya is crying—bawling, actually.

  Flash! What the hell is Derek doing talking to my girlfriend? Derek’s face morphs quickly from serious to a punk-ass grin. I remember Nuze staring at Maya the same way he glared at our waitress’s cleavage. I feel sick.

  My heart is beating like a crazed drummer. Then I think of Nuze and Maya; it occurs to me how desperately pathetic I have become.

  “Did you screw Maya? Did you screw my girlfriend?” I shout, pounding on that stupid wooden table in Bogart’s. I pummel the wood so damned hard that Humphrey’s picture slides off its nail, causing quite a commotion. Yet Bacall’s portrait stares right at me. Derek’s jewelry lights up like a geek party; even his glasses start to blink! Horrified, I peer downward, seeing the glittering pieces of glass spread all over the floor.

  Bogey’s line “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship” keeps rolling strangely in my mind, like a skipping old record making that horrible scratching sound.

  I glare at Derek. My face feels like a stone-cold sheet of ice.

  “What do you think, asshole?” Derek gets up from the table. He is blinking like a serial douche bag.

  “Party’s over. Ya know, Eisenstein, you are a loser!”

  CHAPTER 41

  October 27, 2387

  1:53 p.m.

  I desperately needed to get back to the hotel—an establishment called La Mamouniak; it’s not a bad place if you don’t mind high-priced hookers in the halls, elevators that only go up, not down, and brigades of soldiers right outside of your hotel. Yeah, you’re right; the place is a shit hole!

  Let’s see, I’ll call home, call my pilot, and then tell him to shoot over to Mohammed V. International Airport. Walking inside the hotel is a blur. I grab one bag and hit the streets with my hand up. Thank goodness a Marrakesh cab is ready and waiting by the cab stop, in front of the hotel. I can’t help but think how primitive most of these cabs are, especially in Casablanca. Many cities throughout the world move smoothly along with progress. But we find ourselves still in a primitive-minded city with no teleports, no carjets, No air screens—nothing!

  The cabdriver must think he is a candidate for the Nasjet circuit. I watch as he darts in and out of traffic as if we’re moving through a time portal; he attempts to invisibly squeeze through the carts, the bikes, and the prehistoric motorized vehicles.

  I sit timidly in the blackened, squalid seat, squeezing my bag as I watch my life remain in constant jeopardy. I seriously wonder whether or not we will actually make it to Mohammed V. We pass a very busy market displaying some interesting twenty-first-century architecture. We zoom past the Villa Des Arts and the endless array of multicolored ceramic mosaic roofs.

  “My G_d! What century are we in?”

  The driver laughs. “Worst airport in the world!” he squeals.

  “I see my jet… It’s over there!” I exclaim, feeling somewhat relieved.

  “Oh, you’re some kind of big deal,” the driver proclaims, smacking his lips. “Beeg tipper.”

  “Just put me right next to that plane, okay?”

  The cab squeals to an abrupt stop and no sooner than he hit the brakes, smoker man is out on the runway, opening the door with his hand outstretched, palms up.

  “Got to get goin’, boss; trouble on the horizon.” Bo gestures over to the west, toward the city of Casablanca. “Terrorists from the outer regions have been spotted. Word has it they’re moving in this direction.” He throws my bag in the back. “Let’s go! Where are we headed?”

  “Salzburg! Bruner Breunig’s place … you know—the big shot.”

  “This new plane, the Lockmonster SXT-566, has the force of a rocket, boss; you must have spent a pretty penny for it.”

  “It needs a steady pilot, Bo; don’t forget that.”

  “Why Austria, if I may ask?” Bo inquires.

  “He’s an inventor. Bruner’s invented a few rather unique specialized robots that he says will revolutionize the entire AI field.” Bo glances back at me momentarily. “Sounds like a gothic nightmare to me, boss.”

  “Sounds like ka-ching!” I say, smiling.

  Bo shakes his head. “God help us!”

  The plane shoots through the clouds. “We’ll be flying around twenty thousand feet soon. Should be smooth sailing. Not a long trip, boss—less than an hour.”

  I take out my glasses and review some of my notes. News scrawls across the screen. “Terrorists are attacking Morocco … Airport shut down!”

  Close call, I think.

  “Bruner is with working on evolving cyborgs. According to him, he is developing custom robot hybrids—incredible stuff, Bo. I mean, they can defy gravity. These Brunbots can read minds, jump into the air and virtually never come down, and, well … these bots can think creatively on their own!”

  Bruner’s house looks like a medieval castle, drawbridge and all—very secluded. He is boxed in, with the mountains to the north, a beautiful chain of lakes to the south, and an old, eerie cemetery to the west separated only by an acre of glorious animated wildflowers that attract birds, bees, and a number of perky little hummingbirds. To the east lies a series of gorgeous, somewhat dangerous, waterfalls with huge drop-offs, within one hundred yards of his house.

  Bruner Breunig is one of those overachieving men who has more degrees than toes on his feet. Breunig’s included architectural design, mathematics, and astronomy with a special concentration in quantum physics and Breunig theory. He also has won the Nobel Prize in science, specializing in robotic evolution. In short, the man is not only a genius; he is an innovator.

  The Salzburg region certainly fits him. It’s bold and right in the heart of Europe. Salzburg, of course, is the home of Mozart, Beethoven, Strauss, and Schubert. Breunig himself plays many instruments and loves talking about classical music. However, he likes composing more than anything. Breunig loves hiking with a passion. He frequently leaves the house all alone, heading in the direction of the Groisvendediger mountains. Bruner passionately loves fine wines. He has endless conversations with his cronies regarding interesting artwork and existential poetry.

  But his specialty and his avocation is his knowledge of innovative technologies. His company, Breunig Evolving Cyborgs and Robotics, has made him billions, and word has it that he is interested in some sort of merger with Proto and me.

  However, the major question is, is he
friend or foe? Of course, that remains to be seen.

  I can feel the plane’s descent. From the east, I see mountains, waterfalls, and one castle. For all practical purposes, Bruner Breunig is literally the king of his castle.

  Our plane lands at his runway amid a mild drizzle slight fog lingering from the mountains that border his house. Bo does a perfect job of placing the plane down with pinpoint accuracy in Bruner’s runway. Bruner himself has a number of planes and rocket shuttles that routinely take him to his luxurious space station abode in space. Actually, we live in the same neighborhood, about four space coves over. I wouldn’t say we are within viewing distance, but with a medium-sized telescope, I could probably see him in his spacious rotating living room.

  Upon landing, I am received by his wife, Johanna, and his only daughter, Jana, both Nordic blonde beauties.

  Bruner reaches out his hand. “Welcome!”

  Bruner is a big, barrel-chested man with a full gray beard. He isn’t big enough to be called Santa, but he’s ominous nonetheless. His much younger wife, Johanna, welcomes me with a hug. “It’s so good to see you, Michael. We never see you in our space home. We have to wait for you to come all the way down to our humble abode in the mountains.

  I turn toward Bo, who is holding some beautiful flowers.

  “Here you go!” Bo declares with a smile.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Johanna says, shaking Bo’s hand.

  Bo smiles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. What a wonderful place you have!”

  “I don’t believe we’ve introduced our little daughter,” Johanna states.

  Peeking out from behind her mother’s dress is their young child, Jana. Jana smiles shyly as she reaches out her diminutive hand in the direction of Bo and me.

  “Let’s get out of this drizzle. I’ve prepared just a little snack before you do your business, okay?”

  We all nod our heads dutifully.

  As we sit down to the table, I notice the wide variety of flowers outside the window. “Who’s the gardener?” I ask innocently.