Descendant

by Jeffrey A. Levin

“The roses are from Badener!” Bruner interjects. “Be careful, though; they’re all quite prickly.” For just a second, I wonder if Bruner has inherited Copernicus’s ability to humanize flowers.

  “Bruner,” Johanna scolds, “you don’t have to be so harsh, do you?”

  We all laugh. “I think I like the baroque Austrian roses better. They’re much fuller than the others.”

  Johanna leads us into the house and toward her bright kitchen. Flowers are everywhere, and the aroma in the house is magnificent. In short, Bruner seems to live in a utopia of his own making. Where is this leading? I muse. After all, I’ve seen demigods build so-called Utopias before—not always wisely either.

  After gorging ourselves with a delectable fried veal escalope mixed with some very filling knödel, we move on to the dessert, which is an exquisite fluffy and wonderful apfelstrudel.

  “I’m going to have to roll out of here if you don’t stop feeding us,” I muse.

  Johanna smiles. “ We wouldn’t be doing our jobs as host and hostess if we didn’t offer our best!”

  “You’re a lucky man, Bruner!” I say, pushing myself away from the table.

  “Onward!” he bellows. “Time to go down to the Bruner catacombs!” Be careful, though! We have some very low ceilings down in the bowels of Breunig Manor,” Bruner boldly cautions.

  “Sure! Lead on!”

  Bruner is a man of action—one that you simply have a hard time saying no to.

  At first I find it difficult to manage the elaborate array of tunnels and niches that lead downward to Bruner’s wine cellar. They are rather curved and queerly narrow, not to mention concealed and gloomy.

  “You’re not trying to kill me, are you?” I finally inquire nervously.

  “No, not today! Although if I were, it would have been a good idea to fatten you up first!”

  Bruner laughs until he starts coughing.

  “Are you all right, Herr Bruner?” I inquire.

  “Of course,” he says with his usual bombastic swagger.

  “These are some pretty elaborate passageways, Bruner.”

  “Really? Well they’re not as good as the Saint Stephens Cathedral, but they’ll have to do! Remember, Michael: this is not just a wine cellar; It is my passion!”

  “What’s the difference?” I ask.

  “My Bordeaux is a white wine—a fine claret… like the French enjoy. It is my dream one day to build a French château and fill it with precious jewels, wine and gold.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “I’ll hide it inside a fourth-dimensional wall so no one can steal what is mine.”

  Bruner turns around and winks.

  “After we have shared a port or two, I have something to tell you! These catacombs are called the Icyths, by the way; it’s my way of commemorating Christ and all of his hardships.” He winks again.

  “Cata Turbas!” I exclaim.

  “Yes, we are among the tombs,” Bruner chortles.

  Finally we come to a halt.

  “Dear God, this is amazing!” I say.

  Bruner plops his large hand on my shoulder.

  “We have fine Austrian salon wines, or, if you prefer a dominant white grape, such as what Gruner Veltliner grows. Or perhaps you want the red wines from Blaufrankisch… very good!” he says, followed by a quick “Don’t mind if I do!”

  Bruner swishes his glass, tasting the fine, fastidiously crafted wine.

  “Or perhaps you would enjoy some pinot blanc Wielsburgunden wines, although those are generally blended.”

  “Too many choices,” I interject. “Besides, I’m still thinking about your French château cloaked within a fourth-dimensional world. I’ll speak to Proto about it.”

  Bruner laughs his famous barrel laugh.

  “And you think I’m joking,” I say with a smile on my face. “Anyway, there are never too many choices when it comes to exquisite port… but you, of course, know that.”

  As I stare at Bruner, who appears as if he is in heaven—you know, down in the catacombs, showing off for an Eisenstein with his gaudy, finely crafted wines. My thoughts wander.

  What is Bruner really up to? One has to wonder. After all, Bruner is not just a scatterbrained inventor; he is also a schemer and conniver. Honestly, I truly wonder what kind of mischief he is truly capable of.

  “I think the Austrian salon wines will be fine, even if they are developed by Gruner Veltliner,” Bruner sneers. “I do allow competitors down in my wine cellar!”

  Bruner pours me a glass of his finest Austrian salon. “A man of such breeding as yourself will enjoy such a finely discriminating wine boasting a robust flavor. Now, for the crowning point of our day, let’s go just a little bit further down into the underworld, where you will meet some of my best creations.”

  “Meet?” I repeat.

  Bruner beams cunningly as we make our way downward toward the meandering and serpentine catacombs. I sense the dank and moist air, not to mention the pungent reeky scent of artificial creation leaking through the tunnels. We move onward toward Bruner’s Frankensteinian cotegian—the contemporary word for “cutting edge”—labs.

  Bruner leads us down two more flights of stairs toward his laboratory. “Is this where your lair lies?”

  “Yes, this is where G-d Bruner keeps his creations!” Bruner winks.

  I force a smile. “I see.” Truth be told, I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to see.

  “Each and every one of my creations is lifelike; actually, once I turn on the switch with my remote, they’re as real as you and I.” Bruner’s eyes dance with unbridled narcissism. I peer over at Bruner’s lockers, noting the names Socrates, Plato, Da Vinci, and, yes, a host of Eisensteins. All my relatives have now morphed into insentient AIs.

  The thought that there is a cyborg named Eisenstein gives me the creeps. “So what makes them different?”

  Bruner takes out his keys. “Let’s just say that they can think. They have consciousness and they know who they are; just ask Goethe!” He flashes a wicked smile. “My Goethe is wickedly funny. I like to tweak even the geniuses.”

  Bruner pulls out a rather precise life-sized replica of Goethe.

  “He’s authentic enough,” I assert eerily.

  “That’s fine; go ahead and touch him! That’s real skin, real eyes, real ears. For all practical purposes, he is veritably real. He can play chess, and he can win! He can use just about every instrument known to man, and his mathematical and scientific skills are impeccable. Now, ask him a question.”

  “Okay, what year were you born?”

  “1749, Michael. Now please ask me a more difficult question,” Goethe pleads.

  A sardonic grin flashes on Bruner’s face.

  “So lifelike,” I muse.

  “Of course, Michael, that’s because I am alive.” Goethe winks.

  “I invite you to ask my friend Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe something a little more difficult,” Bruner suggests, reaching for his pipe. “Yes, nothing but the finest, Michael. This tobacco is called Austria Tobak Bmb-Landabak II.”

  “Why II?” I ask.

  “Because everyone else smokes number I. Only the best, Michael; you should know that,” Bruner professes arrogantly while puffing proudly on his hand-carved German pipe.

  I do my best to fake a smile. “What is your favorite quote?” I ask Goethe.

  “All right, Michael … let me see. How about, ‘All truly wise thoughts have been reflected upon already thousands of times; but, to make them truly ours, we must think them out again, honestly, ’til they take root in our own personal experience.’”

  “Thank you, Johann,” I say politely, staring at a gloating, Bruner Breunig.

  “Do you have a female cyborg?” I inquire.

  “Please don’t call them cyborgs in front of them; you may hurt
their feelings. After all, they are as human as me and you.”

  “I wouldn’t want to do that,” I assert. “Absolutely not.”

  “Now, this is an exquisite version of a female—an original. She’s not famous, just someone that I met the other day,” Breunig remarks rather cunningly.

  I wait patiently while we proceed to a locker marked “Female.” I observe as Breunig pulls the cyborg out of the locker.

  I stand there aghast, in total horror and shock. I glare at the robot and then stare, horrified, at Bruner.

  “What? Is this your idea of a cruel joke?”

  “Michael, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Where did you find her?” I demand, nearly shouting. I can feel my own body swell with rage, piquing like an enraged, emasculated bull. I want to kill him!

  “Please, Michael, settle down. I just met her once at the art fair in town.

  “What fair?” I scream frantically.

  “The Johann Wolfgang Baumgartner Art Fair. She is absolutely ravishing, so I requested a self-portrait… and, of course, I took it home. Why? I mean, I’m sorry if I offended you; it was just a girl that I met. She went by the name … oh goodness, I’ve forgotten it.”

  A long silence ensues. “Where is this fair, and is it still going on?”

  “Yes, of course,” Bruner responds pompously. But I don’t—”

  “Don’t know what you’re doing! You’re a reckless, harmful, irresponsible monster!”

  “Why, you impertinent ingrate!”

  “Her name is Maya!” I scream. “What have you done with her?”

  Bruner stands alone, floundering in a wall of ignorance. “You moronic, arrogant…” I begin running madly toward the meandering stairs, leaving Bruner wallowing in his own self-righteousness.

  I crash into a wall, falling, and then I reach up. I feel the tepid blood leaking downward onto my shirt. I feel the explosion of adrenaline driving incoherently through my body as I rampage upward toward the light.

  I yell, “You insipid hack!” Yet I don’t think he hears it. I’m sure he is still below, coddling his grotesque human creations. I should be angry, but instead I feel exhilarated. Maya is alive!

  I trip on one of the stony stairs, falling to my face. I place my hand over my mouth, feeling my own warm blood leaking down my shirt.

  “Maya is alive,” I repeat. “But Bruner? I’m not done with you!”

  CHAPTER 42

  October 29, 2393

  6:33 a.m.

  My head aches, and my brain feels like a computer being simultaneously uploaded with millions of fragments of information—bad information.

  Insults! Anger! Running through catacombs! There was light! Finally, I was outside.

  Is it real? Is Maya right here in Salzburg? Does she know that I am here? How? Did someone tip her off?

  Consciousness is coming back—the bridge between torrid sleep and reality.

  A rude awakening! Where am I? No! More images! An art fair … That’s true, isn’t it? I am really here! Looking…

  No Maya!

  Focus, Michael! Focus! I can see myself…

  I knock over artwork as I run. I don’t know why—clumsy me!

  I hear whistles. Austrian cops are all around. Then I see it—a picture of the Red Queen, as clear as day! I reach into my pocket. I buy it and walk away, breathing hard. My head hurts badly—very badly! They’re looking for me. What have I done? Where’s Maya? She must be here somewhere, but where?

  I’m knocked down and handcuffed. I’m yelling—screaming at the top of my lungs as I’m thrown into a cop car. Everything turns black.

  I open my eyes and realize it is the morning of the following day. Where am I?

  I look around. My God, is this still a dream? It has to be. Something’s very strange. I’m in this carved canopy bed, with silky, fluffy adornments all around me. It’s a huge Austrian king-sized bed—a Doppelzimmer.

  My head still hurts. It’s coming back to me! My nightmare has become a reality. I glance around. Where is the picture of the Red Queen?

  I sit upward and look for signs. Where am I? I stare out the window. Another beautiful garden. I see my reflection in an ornate mirror on the wall. Is someone playing a joke? I look like hell. There’s a knock on the door. A tall, slender young lady wearing glasses walks in. She stands right beside me.

  “How are you, Michael?

  I scratch my head. I’m tempted to touch her to see if she’s real.

  “I’m fine, I guess. Who are you? Where am I?”

  “You are in the home of the president of Austria. My name is Hana Dorner. I am the president’s assistant.” She holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  I shake hands and then point to my head.

  Ms. Dorner smiles kindly. “Here are a few painkillers.”

  “How did I get here?” I ask, feeling sick and exhausted.

  “You had a difficult night, Mr. Eisenstein.”

  Hana Dorner adjusts her glasses and then clears her throat. “You were taken to an Austrian jail last night for disruptive behavior. In case you don’t remember, you were charged with resisting arrest. Your behavior was … let’s just say inappropriate, earning you an evening in our best confined domain.”

  “Oh, dear God, I’m so—”

  “It’s all right now, Mr. Eisenstein. Because of your … well, reputation—and, of course, your last name—your behavior was reported all the way to the president’s office.”

  “This is truly a nightmare.”

  “Yes, we know.”

  “The picture! Where is it?”

  “It is in our custody, Mr. Eisenstein. It will be returned to you shortly. The president, Ms. Isabella Reinstadler, is in a meeting, but she is anxious to talk to you. Any questions?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’ll wait … thank you.” I attempt a smile. “And sorry for the terrible inconvenience.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  I watch as she scuttles out the door.

  I meet the president, Miss Isabella Reinstadler, by the great fountain in Residenz. The president’s home is carefully chosen, modeled somewhat after their so-called White House, which was destroyed by terrorists in the twenty-third century. Isabella’s residence is fortified by both physical walls and an iron dome referred to as the Eisenstein Wall, which consists of the most complex quantum-interfacing network in the world. Yes, my father’s fingerprints are no doubt on everything—perhaps even Isabella, I muse.

  I was told to wait inside a gated interior courtyard surrounded by large, gorgeous hybrid flowers of all colors and sizes. However, what concerns me most is the president’s name. I’ve heard it many times before, but for the time being, I can’t quite place it. Have you ever had a thought—perhaps an idea, or maybe even the faintest glimmer of a recollection—that sort of dissipates into thin air? A kaleidoscope of memories and voices have surged and been stored in my subconscious.

  The president has on a simple dress—all white with black trim. Her outer adornments—even her jewelry: black diamonds from the remote regions of Africa—all look familiar.

  What is it that makes me feel so uncomfortable around her? I wonder.

  “Michael, I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you finally.”

  “Thank you, Madam President.”

  Perhaps it’s her voice? When and where have I heard it before?

  Have you ever listened to words bouncing in your head that keep reemerging no matter how much you try to block them out? “Pieces and puzzles” kept popping into my head like a stealthy burglar in the night.

  “I’m so sorry for the way I… well, arrived here,” I state meekly.

  “We all have our moments,” Isabella proclaims, smiling. “I’ve had a few faux pas myself,” she reassures. Her manner
is gentle and her face is kind. Her eyes flash at me like two animate objects reaching inside of me like well-crafted laser beams. I’m odd that way; my brain stores information like a disjointed computer. I prioritize as information comes in. But the answer to her identity is firmly lodged inside my brain, somewhere.

  “Let’s do a little walk-talk,” she says in a low whisper. “I can give you a little tour of my humble home.”

  It is her voice, I ruminate. It’s melodic, yet strong and articulate. I recollect her sultry tones like I’d remember a thief entering my quiet home.

  Isabella gestures toward the fountain in the center of the courtyard. “It was built in the 1660s, over seven hundred years ago. Its style is baroque; it’s one of the largest of its type north of the Alps.” Her voice takes command of me again. “Michael, did you know that your father and I were close? It was you father that helped Austria after the attacks from the outer regions of Neo-Luddist terrorists. Without him, we wouldn’t have been able to survive.”

  I try to concentrate on what she is saying, but instead I hope to capture a memory—a fleeting image from my youth.

  I nod. Dear God, I muse. This isn’t her, is it?

  “I didn’t know that, Madam President,” I utter softly. Strange memories flood my head. I sense a blockage—a repression. My brain has been purposely hiding something from me. I feel a faint fluttering inside of me, as if my body and mind are seeking my recognition of the truth.

  “Please call me Isabella. After all, your father talked about you incessantly back in the day. I’d say it was more than twenty-five years ago, when I was only a lowly member of the cabinet. If it weren’t for you, father, we would have been obliterated. It was Benjamin who helped us develop the technology we needed. Our survival depended upon it.”

  Have you ever had an epiphany? I mean the kind that blows your socks off and sends your mind reeling into a very dark place?

  The sound of her voice! I was only fourteen at the time! Mystery woman. Puzzles and pieces…

  This isn’t just anyone. The voice on the TELEE X that I heard more than twenty years ago was hers. This is the lady that my mother spoke about in hushed tones. This is the woman whom my father spent so much time with when I needed him as a child. This is the woman with whom my father had an affair!