Weekend at Prism: Volume Two in the Macroiglint Trilogy© 2016 by John Patrick Kavanagh
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For more information contact:
Riverdale Avenue Books
5676 Riverdale Avenue
Riverdale, NY 10471.
www.riverdaleavebooks.com
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Cover Art by J. Lionne-Demilunes
Digital ISBN 978-1-62601-297-4
Print ISBN: 978-1-62601-298-1
First Edition July 2016
What They’re Saying about Camden’s Knife
Tense, involving, Camden’s Knife is a smart near-future thriller with a startlingly real sense of plausibility. In a world that’s falling apart, can one ordinary person make a difference? Tremendous stuff! Kavanagh can write!” —Hugo Award-winner David Wingrove, author of the Chung Kuo series and the Roads To Moscow trilogy
Praise for Sixers
(Previous Title of Camden’s Knife)
”Terrific.”—Scott Turow, author of Presumed Innocent and Burden of Proof
“(a) well-wrought debut…both engaging and fun to read.”—Publisher’s Weekly
“A stunning debut novel…skillfully crafted…gripping and disturbing…an important new voice.”—Rave Reviews
”A writer to reckon with…engrossing and well-written.” - West Coast Review of Books
“This is a brave, wonderful book.”—Arthur Shay, Speaking Volumes
FOR DAVID LERSCH
mac∙ro∙glint noun
1. AN EVENT OR THING, esp. in THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, OF SUCH GREAT SIGNIFICANCE THAT ITS EFFECT(S) REVERBERATE THROUGH ALL STRATA OF SOCIETY
2. A CULTURAL GAME CHANGER
3. AN UNMATCHED, UNIQUE PHENOMENON
mac∙ro∙glin∙tor, mac∙ro∙glint∙al, mac∙ro∙glint∙ly, mac∙ro∙glint∙ness
slang: AN INTENSES ORGASM; A COUP D’ETAT; AN UNSTOPPABLE FORCE; AN UNEXPECTED TURN OF EVENTS
Prologue
Monday, January 2nd
Jip Spotswood was exhausted. And though John Zeiger had texted “Don’t worry about the deadline—just knock it off when you get your thoughts together,” he wanted to write the essay as soon as possible while the crushing enormity of the past 72 hours was still weighing on him.
The broadcast of the festivities had run more than two hours past the 7:00 p.m. scheduled signoff due to the deluge of facts and accompanying speculations Walbee believed need be shared with the close to five billion viewers who’d tuned in. But around 9:20, after the plug had mercifully been pulled, all he wanted to do was hop in the limo for the short ride to McCarran to board the PEG Gulfstream awaiting its final pair of passengers.
He and his partner didn’t speak a word until they arrived at the stairs of the jet and made their way into the cabin.
“How about we talk tomorrow?” Scanlan offered.”I need a little rack time.”
“Me too.”
There were only three other passengers, the trio spaced as far apart as the configuration allowed, two of them dozing. One of the flight attendants said, “Good evening. Get buckled in,” while the other added, “Really enjoyed the show. You guys did a great job.”
He’d downed a small goblet of Shiraz before the jet lifted into the dark desert sky, and then another 20 minutes later. Falling into a dreamless sleep, he might have stayed in it for twelve hours but for being gently shaken awake with the advice, “Mr. Spotswood? Mr. Spotswood? You’re home.”
Once inside the safety of his condo, he’d skipped the typical back-at-home routine—starting a wash of the whites, checking all seven rooms for signs of a breaking and entering, taking a quick shower, examining the plants, queuing up some music—in favor of brewing up a twelve cup pot of Kenya AA and having a yes-no-yes-no dialogue with himself concerning the possibility of reaching into the freezer for a mood enhancer.
Now he sat at the desk in the den, a steaming mug off to the right, staring at the blank gray monitor screen, the cursor leisurely requesting a title.
My Weekend At Prism
The Agony, The Ecstasy, The Truth, The Lies
& The Aftermath
Try something more pithy, Jip.
My Weekend At Prism
The Truth, The Lies & The Aftermath
He took a sip, then another.
Of which you know precisely what?
My Weekend At Prism
The Aftermath
He leaned away, blinking a few times, then rubbing his eyes.
Your weekend? Keep it objective, son.
He looked to the refrigerator door, wondering if the stash held the answer. Standing and stretching, he made to turn, to ease into the kitchen then the fridge and removed the flat black leather case she’d left behind hidden in a frozen pizza box.
You’ve been down that road before and you know exactly where it led.
He sat down, draining what was left of the Double A. He looked to the door again, but only briefly. Returning his attention to the screen, he lowered his fingers to the keyboard and gradually removed letters, one at a time, until he arrived at what seemed to be the right take.
Aftermath
Saving the file as the same, he clicked Shut Down.
After pouring a fresh cup, he sat at the island savoring the slight bump the caffeine was providing. Glancing to the refrigerator, he wondered if he should…was there even the remotest of possibilities that he’d, he’d…
Nah. But he’d leave it right where it was for the time being, as Reynolds had suggested. Maybe that quick shower he’d skipped would untie some of the knots.
As he headed for the master bath he noticed the blinking lights and message numbers on the answering machine.thirty-eight greens, 13 yellows, one red. He pressed the upper prompt.
“Honey? It’s Cassandra. Friday morning around 9:30. I tried your trans but it seems you’ve apparently blocked me. However, I know your ego will cause you to check into home base, which is why I know you’re listening to my voice this very moment.
“I also know that somewhere in the distorted emotional realm which you believe reflects reality is some fanciful belief that I will or perhaps already have tired of your puerile, schoolyard bullying, childish denials and totally immature refusal to understand the true nature of our relationship.
“I’m not a needy adolescent girl seeking the validation she never got from daddy. I’m not one of your growing number of writer groupies dreaming of what it would be like to catch the eye, then capture the body, of the big shot famous author. I’m not some pink cotton candy you purchased at the carnival then discarded because it was too damn sweet.
“I am the woman who loves you…and the woman you love in return.
“Starting tonight and continuing through the weekend, you will step onto a stage, a world stage that no man has ever commanded. Hundreds of millions of women will meet you for the first time, and I have no doubt that many of them will instantly fall for your indisputable charms…just like I did that day at the wine store. All of them will fantasize about what it would be like to be Jonathan’s girl…just the way I did.
“Trouble is, which none of them could know, is that you’ve already found the girl of your dreams. Trouble is, you haven’t yet apparently realized that fact yourself.
“My plane leaves later this morn
ing. I’ll contact you from the air. Until then, keep three things in mind. I will not be denied. I will not be denied. I will not be denied.”
Click.
Chapter One
Friday, December 30th
As the stretch eased onto the expressway, Spotswood gazed out the rear window at the scattering of lights sparkling across the city’s skyline. Between the predawn winter darkness and close-to-zero temperature, they seemed brighter than he could ever recall. Or maybe it was because, as his mother used to tell him, “It’s probably just because you’re excited.”
That would be putting it mildly. Ahead of him in Las Vegas, at the newly opened Prism Resort & Casino, was easily the most spectacular adventure he could have ever imagined embarking upon. The $100 Million World Standoff! Tournament, hosted by Standoff! creator and Prism’s owner Franklin Potcheck, was far and away the grandest sporting event ever to be held in the history of games and gambling. The Saturday evening entertainment, a battle of the bands between the world’s reigning superstars, Christie Cramer, Billy Blair & The Alliance versus relative newcomers but the extraordinarily accomplished Pandora’s Obsession (not to mention a stellar lineup of special guests), had already been acknowledged to be The Biggest Rock Concert Ever Held In The History of The Universe, the sobriquet he’d personally popularized. The estimated electronic audience—which had been pegged at only two billion viewers just weeks earlier—was now speculated to eventually tally north of the four billion mark. And he was going to be dead-center-ground-zero to observe and report on the extravaganza from the best seat in the house: The Anchor’s Chair.
Prior to a fortuitous meeting with his buddy Dave Stonetree, he’d already gained entrance into Potcheck’s inner circle via his post as Arts &Entertainment Correspondent/Editor-at-Large at pinkiefinger.com, the world’s second busiest social media site, of which the entrepreneur was also the majority shareholder. But it was after what he now fondly referred to as My Lunch With Stoney that the pieces seriously started falling into place. While casually discussing some of the various possibilities Potcheck and his partner Ben Walbee had been kicking around for the opening of the 19,000 seat Oasis Theater, he’d mentioned his best friend’s magnificently brilliant, detailed proposal for the headlining show. While he didn’t think it stood a raindrop’s chance in the Sahara to work for his sponsors, he knew its sheer audaciousness would at least amuse their grandiose sensibilities.
And it did. In spades.
Activating his transpad, he accessed Pinkiefinger’s popular NewsGlance feature to see if anything else was going on around the planet aside from the insatiable interest in the tournament/concert’s approach.
International led with the expected announcement that recently-elected American Pope Peter I would soon be departing Vatican City in favor of taking up residence at the elegant, four square mile retreat Sanctuary Creek northwest of Chicago. He cited his familiarity with the area as a native son, parish priest in and subsequently archbishop of the Archdiocese of Chicago, not to mention the facts that the Windy City was the home base of the Sanctuarian Party and that the lavish 23 room mansion on the SC grounds was a trifle more spacious than the Papal Apartments in Rome.
The news was met with more than a bit of disdain by Martin Cardinal Elliot, the leader of the rival American Conservative Party, who quickly issued a press release stating: “It comes as no surprise that His Holiness would choose to dwell in the lap of luxury rather than live a modest, humble life such as that of his predecessor and namesake. I will pray that as he reigns during his first and probably last three year term that he will devote as much attention to his flock as he does to the well-heeled, indigenous favor-seekers who will undoubtedly come to knock.”
Pyongyang announced that it would present a delayed broadcast of the World Standoff! Tournament’s four matches, on the conditions the victor was Ronnie Young Chang and that it was conclusively demonstrated Chang was Chinese (as the player claimed) and not South Korean (as some pundits speculated). Beijing’s Ministry of Information denied having any part in the decision.
The repatriation of Iceland was proceeding much more smoothly than had been anticipated following the island nation’s virtually complete evacuation earlier in the year under the threat of multiple volcanic eruptions that could have turned it into the Second Atlantis.
National led with the struggles Jamie Castillo, United States Attorney for the District of New Mexico, was dealing with concerning the prosecution of United States vs. Hanson, Lee and Lane. While plea deals had been reached with 19 other co-defendants in the alleged massive art fraud concerning the handling of Combat Art Estate of James Lisle Davidson (aka J. Lionne-Demilunes), the three remaining defendants, Garrison G. Hanson, Larry L. Lee and Trisha S. Lane, were pushing for a “speedy trial (to be) judged by our peers.” Though a grand jury had recently sanctioned the additional charges of kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder (of Davidson), Castillo was running out of time to choose and swear in a trial jury, now at risk of having all of the charges dismissed without the legal possibility (due to double jeopardy) of them being re-filed, much less adjudicated.
The rest of National was devoted to coverage of the Standoff! hoopla. The final results of the Wall Street Journal/Pinkiefinger poll boarded on astonishing:
• 98% of households would tune into at least one of the scheduled18 broadcast hours, including 91% who would watch at least part of each of the three days’ segments. 82% stated they expected to view at least 10 hours while 64% speculated they’d watch “all of it” or “practically all of it.”
• 53% stated they would attend or host a party to watch the first match and/or opening concert, 87% the second and third rounds and/or the Battle of the Bands concert on New Year’s Eve and 91% the final round and/or the highlights shows.
• 86% of respondents agreed that they had or knew someone who had placed wagers on either the Tournament or The Battle of the Bands, 47% adding “betting on both.”
• Pandorasobsession.com and Pinkiefinger.com (which jointly held exclusive rights to sell all authorized World Standoff! Tournament and Battle of the Bands items, along with all Pandora’s Obsession and CCBBA clothing and other memorabilia, reported a running average of over 83 million dollars a day in sales over the past three weeks (worldwide) including related merchandise and estimated an additional $380,000,000 in sales before the final match.
In a related article, Publisher’s Weekly speculated that based on its latest data, sales (all formats) of Jonathan P. Spotswood’s pair of “on tour with” accounts of two week stays with CCBBA and Pandora’s Obsession, Wheels Up and Inside The Box, were on track to become the top two best sellers of the year in America, establishing a number of new industry benchmarks.
Did I really just read what I think I did?
He’d received some short emails over the past month from his agent Tori Sprightly saying the books were doing really well, but between long days focused on prepping for The Gig and many nights devoted to Cassie, he hadn’t paid the messages much mind. He was about to reread the blurb but instead shut off the trans when he felt the limo come to a stop at the far end of the main runway of City Executive Airport beside one of PEG’s G-950s.
The air stairs were raised as soon as he boarded and the engines began to rev before he’d taken a window seat in the first row. Because of the unusual outfitting of the cabin—obviously designed for the use of a single couple not concerned with business meetings—he couldn’t tell if anybody else was aboard aside from Davina “Wings” Oudot, but as the craft sped down the blue-lit path, he really didn’t care. He was already 14 hours behind schedule and desperately wanted to literally get the show on the road.
A few minutes after liftoff, she delivered a Mimosa and a platter of exquisite artisanal breakfast snacks on a pewter tray, passing it across before sitting beside him.
“Thank you, Wings. I don’t recall phoning in with a special meal request.”
“As if you needed to? Here at
Franklin Air, we have dossiers on all of our frequent fliers.”
She was a throwback to the glory years of flight attendants hip—the 1960s and 1970s—when flying was said to be much more enjoyable and the stewardesses considerably more…stewardess-ish. He’d read up on those times for an article on the agonies of present day commercial carriage, incredulous that back then some DC-10s and 747s came with piano bars, tables placed between facing sets of two seats in coach outfitted with primordial video games, not to mention complimentary hot meals on flights lasting only two hours.
Also back then, the airlines weren’t shy about touting the beautiful women on hand to serve the passengers, one even using a sexually charged come-on in televised and print advertisements featuring a lovely lass inviting (the predominantly male) passengers with the line, “I’m Patty. Fly me.”
Wings had it all. A pretty face, complimented by sparkling eyes and a mane of puffed-up brown hair along with a killer figure accentuated by her tailored skirt-jacket uniform. But even more appealing was her attitude. Instead of the ennui-laced, no eye contact drudgery many of her sisters brought to the office, she conveyed a sense that she was happy to be there, along with a playful sassiness when circumstances merited—and a pealing laugh that could melt lead.
He picked up one of the offerings and studied it a moment, unable to pinpoint the precise ingredients.
“White Baltic Smoked Salmon from Denmark,” she advised, “with a creamy dill and caviar sauce over a thin slice of imported scamorza cheese inside triple-crushed Russian black bread…imported thrice weekly from St. Petersburg.”
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