by PJ Manney
“You really think I’m the one?”
“I do, son.”
“Then . . . I’m your man. It’d be an honor, sir.”
In deeper than he ever thought he’d get, Tom wasn’t sure he’d be able to get out.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
They emerged topside in time to hear a bugle sound. Camp Week was over. A stretch limo sat at the mine entrance, and Josiah gave the chauffeur a look. The driver nodded back.
“Time to go, son. Hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of having the valets pack up our things. I’ll drop you at the airport.”
“I’m flying with Carter.”
“I know. We’re all set.”
Tom felt impotent as their car joined a caravan of limos, town cars, and SUVs on their way to the airstrip. Everything regarding the club and Thomas Paine had gone far too smoothly, as though they had dumped him onto a conveyer belt headed for a cremation furnace. A phalanx of Humvees ripped past toward the airfield.
“I noticed you invested a heap in aerospace, defense contractors,” said Josiah.
“Yes, sir.”
“Smart man. We love our war economy. Gives the country a big economic and emotional hard-on. Guaranteed profits. But if our plan comes to pass, take out that trash, boy, and dump it. They’re obsolete.”
Tom couldn’t suppress a smile at the irony. To end war, they would drug the world.
“I’m so happy you’ve accepted the call, so very happy. It’s a mighty big relief. I’ve watched a real degeneration of high-level political candidates over the years. They get dumber, more plastic and vacant every decade. I haven’t felt I had anyone I could pass the leadership on to in years.” He leaned in to whisper, “Really, I know it sounds like a senile old man talkin’, but I consider you like my son. Well, who knows . . . you don’t have a pappy anymore. Sounds like we got the makin’s of a fair trade. Can your new pappy give you some advice?”
“Absolutely.”
“Marry Talia.”
Tom laughed nervously. “Why? Are you my father concerned about my personal happiness? Or is it the Bible Belt?”
“Of course I want you to be happy! And unmarried, she’s a cultural detriment, even in a country stoned on bots. But married, she can’t be forced to testify against you, should we all ride to hell together. Gotta cover every base, son.”
“I hope she’ll have me. She doesn’t think she’s the marrying kind.”
With a very straight face, Josiah intoned, “Wait a couple of weeks and make sure she drinks plenty of tap water. She’ll be more amenable . . .” Then he burst out with a belly-deep guffaw. “Seriously, son, you’re a very confident man, but you gotta watch out for cracks in the sidewalk. Even if you can’t see ’em.”
“Any others?”
“Well, I know you’re makin’ deals this week. Keep a handle on your partner. He’s a brilliant operative and valuable in your corner, but has a tendency to dissipation and moral ambiguity.”
“You’re saying he’s what? A gay drunk?”
“No. I’m sayin’ he sits on every side of a fence, ’cause he don’t know where his house is. With Carter, you gotta make sure he remembers mi casa es su casa. Speakin’ of ‘su casa’ . . . Lobo . . . watch your back.”
Tom hesitated. “There might already be an issue . . .”
“What?”
“It seems like he’s got a game on the side. And he tried to suck me in.”
“Go on . . .” ordered Josiah, no longer jovial.
“Like you’ve checked me out, well . . . I’ve checked you all out. And he’s had a series of deals that seem . . . suspicious. I’m not so naive as to think there’s no insider trading here, and I don’t care if there is, but this is strange. Like he knows what’s going to happen and capitalizes on it to the detriment of his brothers. I think he’s got a scam going, and he’s putting his self-interest over that of the club.”
Josiah’s face set like stone. “Consider it checked.”
“To change the subject, if your plan comes to pass and I get elected, what position would you take in the new administration?”
Josiah relaxed. “I don’t want somethin’ with too much responsibility. Secretary of state’s exhaustin’. It’s a younger person’s job. How about VP? I’d look like the old man of the mountain sittin’ behind you durin’ the State of the Union address.”
Both men laughed.
“Actually, deputy chief of staff would be perfect. Don’t have the pressures of a real day job, but I’m officially on the inside. And I’m there when you need me.”
“How can you be so sure about outcomes even with the bots? Wouldn’t complacent consent depend on the loudest and most consistent voice getting through? How can you be absolutely sure you’re that voice?”
“You still don’t get it, son. I’ve been a student of human nature all my life, and as the tools that expose our minds become more sophisticated, my job becomes easier. We already have technologies that change how we view and manipulate popular opinion. In the old days, they were called ‘The Media,’ but then we used brain scans to see what parts of the brain react to different kinds of information, and we tailored a message directly to the part of your brain you can’t resist. And now, we have the most powerful technology ever created available for our exclusive use, and you’re investin’ in it—Prometheus’s Cortex 2.0. Someday we can upload and download memories. And what do we base all our decisions on except memories? They guide us to make the choices we do. People’ll think they had experiences they may not have, but those ‘experiences’ will color their decision makin’.”
“Clever to control the means to keep you in office. Like if you invested in vote-counting machines.”
“Been there, done that.” Josiah smiled contentedly, like a happy, plump Buddha as the car pulled into the airport. “But I’m not the right wing or the left wing. I’m the whole damn eagle. So I always win.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Cars and vans lined up, directed by staff to the gaggle of Gulfstreams littering the tarmac, ready to ferry owners around the country. Switching his internal vision to a satellite view, Tom monitored which members entered which planes and linked their destinations to his databanks.
As they drove by Bruce’s G750, Josiah lowered his window, his smiles and goodwill at complete odds to the conversation moments before. Lobo offered Tom a lift back to Malibu in his jet with Vera, but Tom explained that Carter was waiting for him.
A different Potsdam jet held pride of place in the center of the tarmac: a revamped Boeing Super 27, it was a supercharged 727 small enough to land and take off from shorter, private runways like this, but big enough to sleep ten in comfort, with large fuel tanks to fly anywhere in the world quickly. It was his family minivan, more suitable for his growing household than his old G750. He waited at the bottom of the stairs for Tom and helped him from the car.
As they hit the first stair, Amanda appeared in the doorway. She wore a plain white linen shift that skimmed her thickened body, and she was barefoot. Her short blond hair was growing out, black roots showing. She watched the two men climb the stairs. Tom concentrated on Carter until she revealed herself.
The jet’s interior was a study in sybaritic sophistication. Rich leathers, fur throws, soft silk carpeting for bare feet, fresh, aromatic flowers in crystal vases. In flight, the engines’ noise was so well baffled, the only sound was air speeding by the window at six hundred miles an hour. The cabins were arranged like a luxury penthouse with wings, including two lounges, a dining room, full kitchen, three bedrooms, and crew quarters. Full-wall HOME units entertained in every room. Who needed earthbound accommodations with mobile ones like this?
Tom was extremely polite to Amanda, but directed his attention to Carter and their business during the short hop back to San Francisco. Due diligence had begun while they were still at camp, with accountants and attorneys from both sides to converge at Prometheus the next day to dot i’s and cross t’s. Contract draft
s sat on a table, and Carter and Tom concentrated on debated provisions, while sending amendments back to their lawyers via their GOs. Amanda took the hint and curled up at the other end of the lounge, long, bare copper legs tucked under her, snuggling into a fur throw and pretending to read an e-book on her GO. Tom could feel her involuntarily staring at the back of his head.
After takeoff, he asked a pretty flight attendant to escort him to the bathroom. Alone inside, he ripped a plastic bag off a disposible razor and tossed the razor in the trash. Then he urinated, splashing a small amount of urine onto some toilet paper and wadded up the wet paper inside the plastic bag. He pocketed the plastic-covered clump and returned to his seat. After the men finished notations on the documents, Carter slid them into the file envelope they came in. Suddenly, Tom spilled his drink, and while Carter mopped his pants and the flight attendant cleaned the floor, he slipped the tiny cellophane bag between the pages and into the envelope. Amanda appeared not to notice.
“Would you do me a favor and fast-courier the papers to the boat tonight?” Tom asked. “The lawyers have their notes, but I’d like to keep track of our original ones, and Talia’s helping me process all this information, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. We can turn the plane around as soon as we land.” Carter asked the attendant to courier the envelope back to the Pequod personally.
Twenty minutes after takeoff, the S27 landed at NASA’s Moffett Field.
It was Tom’s first time back in San Francisco since emerging on the world’s scene several months before. As they drove city streets, he felt sympathy with the thick grid of electrical lines crisscrossed over roads to power streetcars and buses, lights and communication. He was a single neuron in the hyperconnected network brain of this world, in one of the few cities left where the network was so visible.
The limo pulled up to a large brick Tudor revival sprawled across two lots on the corner of Broadway and Broderick, two blocks from the Presidio, and only five blocks from Carter’s former Pacific Heights home. Broderick was a pedestrian walkway along the property’s eastern boundary, so the home’s three sides were open to space, light, and views, all of which were at a premium in this city. The moment the car stopped, a man and a woman, both in their fifties, exited the baronial oak front door. Their functional, neat clothing and attitude of cheerful deference indicated they were staff. Introducing themselves as Rosinda and Tony, they disappeared with the luggage. Amanda slipped by, claiming a headache, and wandered inside.
Carter guided Tom. “Welcome to Xanadu. Sorry if you still smell paint. Amanda insisted my bachelor pad was a baby death trap. Gotta love nesting,” he sighed. “But we keep ’em happy any way we can, don’t we?”
The interior was brighter than Tom expected. Dozens of lead-paned windows flooded high-ceilinged rooms with light. Huge glass doors opened north onto a flagstone veranda overlooking the Golden Gate, giving the illusion of having San Francisco Bay all to themselves.
Carter continued, “The executive summary is: It’s not too big and not too small and I’m sure you’ll be comfortable. We’re in the hallway, walking into the living room . . . It’s already baby-proofed, so don’t worry, you can’t hurt anything, either, even with your cane. Rosinda and Tony run this house like a nanofabricator, so anything you want, just ask and it appears . . . This is the dining room . . .”
The furnishings were museum quality. With the exception of some enormous, overstuffed sofas and armchairs that sloppy, twenty-first century bodies could slack across, there were no pieces less than two hundred years old.
It was a radical change from the previous Potsdam temple to hard-edged modernity, as though genealogy suddenly mattered. Carter’s child would inherit the family name and heritage of over twenty generations of American history. But what might have been a stuffy historical hodgepodge was instead fresh, irreverent, and consummately stylish, and it had to be Carter’s doing.
He recognized pieces from Carter’s parents’ house. As though he could read Tom’s mind, Carter grinned slyly. “My parents are so ecstatic I’m finally becoming a father with a proper home, they shipped half their furnishings to me. Unfortunately, my dear sister thought she’d be inheriting the ancestral pile, lock, stock and termite-ridden barrel. She’s spinning.”
Dinner was agony. While the food Rosinda prepared and Tony served was delicious, the hosts’ behavior was excruciating. Carter doted on Amanda, massaging her shoulders after he held her chair, kissing her forehead, asking her if she was all right every ten minutes. Amanda was subdued, even as she basked in Carter’s attention. However, she avoided acknowledging her blind guest. Every time his head swiveled in her direction to listen, an electric current seemed to flow through her, and she’d look away.
Her mood did not improve when Carter mentioned he would be traveling after he finished the deal with Tom.
“Where are you going?” she whined.
“New York. Then DC. Might be a few days. Maybe a week. It’ll be very dull for you—all work. You’d be better off here.”
After dinner, Amanda excused herself and disappeared upstairs. Carter escorted Tom to the library, where the two sat enveloped by a pair of enormous upholstered wing chairs, a Baccarat decanter of Louis XIII Black Pearl cognac and two snifters between them on a Philadelphia Chippendale piecrust tea table worth as much as the neighbor’s house.
They drank half the decanter’s contents and got quite chummy before Tom said, “I feel we have a certain rapport and . . . I trust you to tell me the truth.”
Carter’s eyes widened slightly and he leaned forward. “Anything . . .”
“What do you think of Josiah’s plans?”
That wasn’t the question Carter hoped for. His glass was almost empty and he took his time refilling it before answering. “I think he’s optimistic. While the outcomes are possible, there’s no experimental data to prove it will happen the way he thinks. This is the ultimate behavioral science experiment, and he’s not anticipating unintended consequences.”
“What consequences?”
“Like what happens when you emotionally neuter a person? Or a nation? Are we dead weight? Sitting ducks? Does the population go up? Or down? Does productivity go up? Or down? And I think anyone he makes captain of this ship . . . better be very careful.”
“Did you expect Josiah to offer me the presidency?”
“Well, there’s definitely been a lack of viable candidate material lately. And he certainly doesn’t think I’m up for it.” Carter snorted. “Not that I blame him. But I was surprised today. He has . . . unusually strong feelings for you.”
“I’ve noticed. But you think anyone who takes that position is fooling themselves?”
“I didn’t say that. But you’re going to need help, or you could end up taking the rap for the biggest crime against humanity since Mao Zedong’s purges.”
“Whom would you suggest?”
“Well, certainly not Lobo.”
“No, certainly not. But I’d value your help, Carter. With Lobo. And the plan. And the presidency.”
Carter eyed him warily. “I could do that.”
“So if you have doubts and fears, why are you involved in this?”
“Being on the inside is always better. More likely you’ll end up on top and the side you need to be on when it all hits the fan.”
“You can be on top and the wrong side?”
“Have you met Bruce Lobo?” snickered Carter. “He’s going to screw himself royally one day . . .”
Tom wondered how much Carter knew about Bruce’s scam.
“You asked me this week what I was proud of,” continued Carter. “Well, I know this: I want my child to be proud of me. The only way to do that is to make sure mistakes aren’t made that we can’t undo.”
Tom had to repress his disgust at the notion of Carter and Amanda’s child, growing in her belly upstairs. “Is that where Prometheus and its biotech comes in? So you can have your social experiment and correct it, too?”
Carter smiled at Tom’s quick mind. “If necessary, yes. That’s why it’s so valuable. And why I need more than just me at the top of it. If anything happens to me . . .” He stared moodily into his snifter. “I want you to know I value our friendship. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone like this in a long time. I had a friend . . . but he died . . .” He sighed and his eyes unconsciously darted up to where Amanda was—the master bedroom. But was it because he sought her out or was hiding something from her?
“Is something wrong?” asked Tom.
“No. Josiah’s brought you in deep. And it’s good to have you here. It gets lonely at the top.” Carter stared long at Tom, perturbed that so much couldn’t be conveyed to a blind man through the silent eloquence of body language.
Carter’s last statement had multiple meanings. Had he made the Peter-Tom connection? Or was he falling for Tom’s head game? He believed Carter at this moment. Or at least felt sure Carter believed himself. It was hard to decipher a pathological liar. These guys believed their own bullshit.
“Thank you for your honesty. It helps me see my way clear, if you’ll pardon the expression.” Tom stifled a yawn. “You know, I think I’ve hit the wall. Would you help me upstairs?”
Carter hid his disappointment. “Of course.”
They climbed the grand staircase, Carter’s left hand firmly on Tom’s right elbow. They passed the master bedroom door, and Carter glared at it, as though he tried to see through the polished mahogany. Fifteen feet away and outside Tom’s door, Carter paused, wrestling with some great dilemma.
Tom smiled. “So what are you waiting for?” he whispered.
Carter faced him. He gently touched Tom’s face, searching it for an answer. “I don’t know . . .” he murmured back. He grasped Tom’s bicep and pulled him close. Then his lips met Tom’s.