The Braintrust: A Harmony of Enemies

by Marc Stiegler

  Dash frowned at Ping. “I still have not heard what she did to him. Jam?”

  “Tell her,” Ping demanded. “Don’t mumble.”

  Jam looked at Ping. “He won’t show up here.” She delicately took a sip of tea and looked at Dash. “I broke his nose.” She took another sip and looked at Ping. “He wouldn’t dare come after me here.”

  ***

  Jamal passed through the metal detectors aboard the Elysian Fields and hurried toward his luggage. A security woman stared at the x-ray screen as his bags passed through the machine, then at him, then back at the screen. He was suddenly glad he was wearing Western clothes, from the obscenely colorful Hawaiian shirt to the stupid flip flops his heels kept stepping sideways out of. Ridiculous! He raged within, but he smiled placidly, like a harmless tourist. Idiots! Of course, they were all heathens, so what could he expect?

  The woman in the security uniform frowned at him. “There’s a knife in there, right? You’ll have to pull it out and show me.”

  He pushed the earplug from his phone deeper into his ear and asked the phone to retranslate her question. “A work of art,” he explained. As the phone translated for her, he continued, “Hundreds of years old.” He hoped the translation sounded proud, because he was. His chura was indeed a work of art, handed down from his father and his father’s father. He opened the bag and removed the weapon reverently. “Should I withdraw it from its sheath?”

  The woman sighed. “It’s just short enough to pass our standards, so I’m not going to confiscate it. You understand?”

  Jamal nodded vigorously, almost bowing. “Thank you. You are a kind person.” Idiots! Still, it was fortunate he owned a chura rather than a longer peshkabz. It would have been annoying if his knife had been confiscated. He would have had to kill his wife with a Western kitchen knife. It just would not have been proper.

  Jamal grabbed his bag and hurried to catch up with his younger brother Amu, who was standing next to his best friend Marjan. He was delighted to have Marjan along on this journey of honor. Not only was he as big as a water buffalo, but Marjan also happened to be Jameela’s brother.

  Upon reaching his companions, he dropped his bag on a chair and unzipped it. He held the chura in his hands, reluctant to put it back in the bag. The elephant-tusk hilt was old and worn, but Jamal had polished it religiously every night since that night. The night she’d broken his nose. And although the chura was designed as a stabbing weapon—the curved blade tapered to a reinforced tip, originally designed for penetrating a knight’s steel armor—he had also sharpened the blade’s razor edge. Though the blade remained sheathed, in his mind he could see that edge, and taste the blade’s hunger for his wife’s blood. He grabbed the hilt to pull it forth.

  Marjan hissed, “Are you crazy? Don’t pull that out here!” He looked around fearfully. “There are video cameras everywhere!”

  Jamal squeezed the hilt, furious and determined to do as he would, no matter what Marjan said. But a dollop of sanity returned. He caressed the handle for a moment, then tucked the sheathed knife into his waistband and pulled his Hawaiian shirt over it.

  Amu pointed to a passageway off to the right. “I think our rooms are that way.” As he turned down the passage, he pointed again. “There’s an available hooker!”

  A woman with long strawberry-blond hair wearing a cherry-red bikini top and a black microskirt tottered down the hall on red wedgies. Seeing a man come out of a room, she waved. “John!”

  John, seeing her, smiled and held his arms wide. The woman demonstrated extraordinary grace and balance as she ran on her high heels. They wrapped each other in a tight embrace.

  Amu was irritated. “This ship is full of hookers, but they all have customers all the time.”

  Jamal growled. “Forget the hookers, Amu. We’re here on holy business.”

  “But this is the only chance I’ll ever get to have a Western hooker!” He tapped the pocket where he kept the twenty-dollar bill his uncle had given him. “Well, two hookers. I have enough money for two.”

  “Stay focused! You can look for hookers after we find Jameela.”

  “I guess,” Amu grumbled.

  A teenage brunette in a purple G-string and sneakers passed them going the other way. Amu watched forlornly.

  Now Marjan complained at him. “Keep your eyes on the directions.” He looked up and down the hall. Vidcams were angled at both ends of the passage.

  The ever-present vidcams launched Marjan into an old complaint. “I still don’t understand how you expect to trap my sister, kill her, and get away without getting caught.”

  Jamal smiled for the cameras. “And I keep telling you, I hope to get caught. I am eager to be recognized as I fulfill my mission of honor.” He paused. “You’ve read the descriptions of the BrainTrust as thoroughly as I have. They don’t have jails or real courts or any way of punishing people except by making them pay money.” They turned down another corridor and into an enormous elevator. Amu punched the button for their deck. “After they catch us, what will they do? Their own writings tell us they will send us back to Pakistan for judgment.”

  “Where they’ll put us in jail for forever when the BrainTrust demands justice.”

  “Where they’ll send us back to our own village. We’ll be celebrated as heroes,” Jamal countered. He tapped Marjan on the shoulder. “I understand your fear, my friend, but it is baseless. The BrainTrust is not some mighty nation, able to bend our government to its will. It is just a bunch of big boats full of infidels, infidels so deep in sin that even infidel countries view them as heretics. The BrainTrust may request that a Pakistani judge treat us as he would a heathen, but our country will insist on showing the world it is an independent sovereign state. Once we get to Pakistan, we’ll be home in a week.” Home, and basking in their victory against Marjan’s humiliating sister.

  ***

  Dash paced back and forth at the front of the empty conference room, pushing her hair back time and again. The introductory slide of her presentation showed steady on the screen, except that from time to time she clicked rapidly through the slides to find and scrutinize a particular image and silently mouth the words that went with it. She was scheduled to defend her detailed proposal for human trials in a few moments. Three senior members of the medical research department would tell her what she had overlooked and leave her with a lengthy list of tasks still to be done before she could even dream of starting.

  She was deep in review of the patient selection process when she heard someone tap on the frame of the open door. She half-jumped out of her skin.

  Amanda.

  “Here early, are we?” Amanda made a droll face. “Well, I was much the same the first time I went through one of these trials-by-fire.” She dropped into a chair and thumped a thick sheaf of paper onto the table. “Your proposal.” She tapped the paper. “I find I still prefer reviewing these proposals on paper, even after all these years. Someday the admins are going to sneak into my office, hijack my printer to the dumpster, and leave me helpless.” Her eyes were alight with laughter. Dash wished she understood the joke.

  Dr. Austin Williams joined them moments later. His skin was much darker than Dash’s own, he was heavyset, and he had short curly black hair and a jovial expression. Dash suffered a moment’s panic. Her first meeting with him had taught her to fear his gentle eyes. After the niceties of polite conversation had been fulfilled, he moved swiftly to questions that were sharp and insightful. Which was fine, but those questions all too frequently focused on the aspects of her plan for which she had fewest answers. She found herself having to thank him for embarrassing her—a most uncomfortable situation. He smiled kindly at her as he slid into a seat, but she was not fooled.

  The last member of the committee popped into the room at exactly the appointed moment for the meeting to begin. He moved with hurried grace, as if he had somewhere else he needed to be if only people would let him get on with it. Dash had come to realize that this was a correct
interpretation of his situation most of the time.

  Dr. Galen Blanchard was only a couple years older than Dash herself, she suspected. His thick black eyebrows were perhaps his most striking feature, set in a pale European face. Dash rather thought that Byron might grow to be like him in a few years. They not only had many physical similarities, they shared the same level of intensity and focus. Galen spoke in such quick clipped phrases that she had trouble following him. Amanda had explained that he had been born in France but grew up in New York City, and therefore could not help himself. Dash’s earlier meeting with him had been very brief. He had transferred a page of notes to her tablet, apologized, and gone off to address the next item on his agenda. The notes had been useful, though she had thought they might have been more useful still with a little explanatory conversation.

  Dash knelt next to the corner of the table and picked up a pink box. “Welcome, and thank you for coming.” She placed the box on the table and opened it for their inspection. “I brought donuts, if anyone would like one.”

  Before the others could move, Dr. Blanchard plucked a glazed pastry from the box. “Thank you,” he mumbled as he took the first bite. “No breakfast.”

  Dr. Williams took a lazy moment to consider the array before selecting a solid chocolate donut. “I don’t know that we’ll be here long enough to finish these,” he said in a way that Dash found ominous, “but thank you for the thought.”

  “Of course,” Dash answered stiffly.

  After Amanda demurred, Dash began her presentation. “First let me talk about the design of the telomere replicators. The CRISPIER, as you know—”

  Dr. Williams coughed. “Excuse me, Dr. Dash, we are all very interested in hearing your presentation, but why don’t we pass Amanda’s delightfully archaic paper copy of your proposal around and sign off before we get into the details?” He smiled broadly. “Amanda’s been following your development of the plan quite closely, has she not?”

  Dash stared at him. “Yes…”

  “And I have read it thoroughly. On my tablet, of course,” he said, looking at Amanda with humor. “Blackie, I’m sure you’ve read it in penetrating detail as well, haven’t you?”

  “Of course,” Dr. Blanchard said abruptly. “I have notes—”

  “Yes, certainly,” Williams interrupted. “But did you find the plan fundamentally sound?”

  “Well, yes.” Blanchard looked flustered.

  Williams pulled himself to the table. “Well, then.” He pulled an old-fashioned ink pen, black with a hint of gold inlay, from his pocket with a flourish. “Let us get on with it.” He handed the pen to Amanda, who signed the top page of the document. Williams pulled the document over to himself and signed, again with a flourish. “Blackie?” he asked, shoving the pen and paper his way.

  Blanchard stared at him for a second, then smiled. “Of course.”

  Williams took the pen and the paper and laid them in front of Dash. “These are yours.” He straightened. “Now, I’m sure your presentation would be even more enjoyable over drinks, perhaps in Ten-Forward on Gplex I. That would be a more suitable venue than this barren conference room. Any objections?”

  Blanchard jumped out of his seat. “That sounds very nice, Dr. Williams, but I really have to—”

  “Of course,” Williams interrupted soothingly. “You have to go.” He waved to the door. “See you for Akston’s progress report this afternoon.”

  Blanchard said on his way out the door, “Dr. Ambarawati, I’ll send you my notes for your consideration.” And he was gone.

  Williams turned. “Amanda?”

  “I think a drink would go quite well with the rest of our discussion.”

  “Dash?”

  Dash was still trying to grasp what had happened. She had the required three signatures on her proposal, so she guessed it was approved. “I… Yes, that would be nice.”

  Amanda rose from the table. In the tone of a teacher enlightening a student she observed, “Dash, please note: the review and approval of a research proposal of this nature has to be serious, but it does not need to be formal.” She looked into the distance at phantom people she had argued with in the past. “At least not here.”

  Dash gave her a partial bow. “Yes. Thank you, Bu Amanda.”

  It turned out that her presentation was, indeed, better discussed over drinks. Even if her own drink was just a Coke with a cherry on top.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Little Trouble

  It ought to be remembered that there is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things. Because the innovator has for enemies all those who have done well under the old conditions, and lukewarm defenders in those who may do well under the new. This coolness arises partly from fear of the opponents, who have the laws on their side, and partly from the incredulity of men, who do not readily believe in new things until they have had a long experience of them.

  Machiavelli, The Prince

  When she arrived in the cafeteria with Byron by her side the next day, Dash saw Jam sitting alone at their normal table. Dash asked, “Where’s Ping?”

  Jam shrugged. “She said she’s bringing a surprise.”

  Dash sat down. “Well, I hope she hurries. I have a meeting with a member of the Food and Drug Administration shortly.”

  Byron looked at her in astonishment. “The FDA is coming to hear about your work?”

  Dash shrugged. “When Bu Amanda told me about it, she was surprised too. Her comment was, ‘Nothing good can come of it.’”

  Byron looked excited. “I don’t see why not. Maybe they want to fast-track your therapy for certification.”

  “Bu Amanda thought it was more likely they wanted to sabotage me. She pointed out that the FDA did not even acknowledge aging as a condition for which treatment was appropriate until 2031, when a public outcry arose because the media found out that people were actually living longer if they illegally took a well-known decades-old diabetes medication rumored to have longevity properties. Bu Amanda recommended that I be polite to the FDA, but get them off the BrainTrust as quickly as possible so I could get back to work.”

  Byron could not help arguing. “Regulators are not all bad. Sure, they get carried away sometimes, but…” his voice faded as he looked at the approaching Ping.

  Ping was pulling a black metallic set of interlocking tubes from a back harness. She shook the metal tubes several times; they popped out of their original positions and locked into new ones. Soon the assembly was taller than she was. She hoisted one end onto her shoulder. After swaying under the burden for a moment, she adjusted her balance and pointed it toward the windows.

  “See my Big Gun?” she asked excitedly.

  Jam pursed her lips. “I see a BT12 PGM Autolauncher with both IR and radar targeting.”

  “That’s what I said! It’s my Big Gun.”

  Byron shrank down in his seat as if trying to use the table to shield himself. “Could you please put that away before someone gets hurt?”

  “Don’t worry, I left the missiles in the armory. It can’t hurt anybody.”

  Dash countered. “If you swung it the wrong way, you could bash someone in the head. I second Byron’s request. Please put it away.” As Ping’s face turned sorrowful, Dash softened her tone. “It is a very pretty Big Gun. I have no doubt it would be quite effective for, uh…”

  Jam finished the compliment. “Blowing up small boats and slow aircraft.”

  Ping pushed a hidden locking button with her thumb and shook the weapon back down to backpack size. “We’re ready now.”

  Byron was slowly turning purple. “Ready for what!? You got that out of an onboard armory? What are you doing with an armory on the ship? If you shoot a gun in these steel passageways, the bullets’ll ricochet off the walls and kill a dozen people!”

  Jam interceded. “Which is why the guns are locked in an armory. In a Condition
Red Defense of Ship, the armory is unlocked. The crew, including Ping and myself, can retrieve our assigned firearms. And any residents who brought their own guns aboard can fetch them as well, for the duration of the emergency.”

  Byron pushed. “So people can just wander the passages with guns?”

  This time Ping replied. “Only during Condition Red. And of course, the tourists on Elysian Fields are not allowed to bring guns on board at all. Only the crew and residents are allowed to participate in the defense of the ship. Letting tourists have guns would just be crazy.”

  This left Byron speechless for a moment, but it did not last. “Defense of Ship? Defense from whom?”

  Dash gave him an answer she thought he might appreciate. “Defense from the Red Party that runs your federal government, for one. If you remember your history, the President-for-Life was planning at one point to put soldiers aboard and forcibly evict everyone from the BrainTrust.”

  Ping hissed, “Piracy, plain and simple.”

  Byron shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”

  Dash’s phone rang. She glanced at the text message she’d just received. “I have to go.” She looked remorsefully at the other tables where people sat eating and chatting. “I guess I’ll eat later. I need to meet our guest from the FDA.”

  Jam pushed away from the table. “It would be good to stretch my legs. May I come with you?”

  Dash motioned for her to come along. The two of them departed, leaving Ping smiling brightly at Byron, who glared back and demanded the last word in the argument. “Physical assaults like that just don’t happen in modern times.”

  ***

  Dash and Jam walked outside onto Chiron’s sun-washed boat dock, and Dash pointed to a yacht docked at one of the slips. It seemed tiny, though Dash supposed that just about any yacht would look small tied up alongside a BrainTrust isle ship. “That must be his boat.”

  As they approached the dock, Jam looked at the yacht in puzzlement. “Why did he come in a boat? Why not a copter?”