Skillful Death

by Ike Hamill

  “Because what they’re offering is the same amount that they’d pay to just use your program for a year. Think about how much they’re going to save by using your program. With the same number of engineers, they can double their productivity. How much do you think that’s worth? Don’t just think about Sterling Electronics, think about all the electronics companies in California. They’d all pay the same amount or more. If you sell outright to Sterling, then they’re going to license your program to everyone else. They’ll make millions based on your work.”

  “And I’ll be happy while I work on the next program.”

  “I won’t let you do it. Let’s go back and offer them ten seats. They can run ten copies of your program at a time, for the price they offered. I have a friend who can draw up a license agreement. You’ll see. They’ll jump at the opportunity. If they don’t, we can sweeten the deal by offering them quarterly upgrades. You just add a couple new graph types every few months and they’ll think they’ve won the lottery.”

  “Okay,” Bud said.

  “What will you call your new company? BudSoft?”

  “Dikiware.”

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  Good news begets good news. After settling the agreement with Sterling, Bud took out a small advertisement in several computer and electronics magazines. He arranged for a post office box, and had to pick up his mail daily to keep up with the requests for information about his program.

  Forwarded from his old boss at the repair shop, Bud received a letter from the radio manufacturer. They thanked him for his interest in their circuit, and offered him a contract to use his optimization in their next radio. Bud wrote a quick letter back accepting the deal. He included a pamphlet on his Dikiware circuit analyzer.

  The first version of Bud’s software sold moderately well. He sold installations to companies throughout Washington, Oregon, and California. The larger companies relied on their entrenched practices. Those companies utilized departments of engineers to accomplish what Bud’s software simulated, and those men generated dozens of arguments against changing the status quo. Bud didn’t press. For the first time in the U.S., he saw enough income to live well. He simply ignored the large companies, working instead for the younger, hungrier ones.

  When his real success came, it happened in a week.

  Bud sold three seats of his circuit analyzer to a man named Roger Turnbill, who worked for a company that made hearing aids. Their circuits were so small that the physics of the simulation required some tweaks. With their close traces and low voltages, the electronics didn’t behave exactly as Bud’s ideal components. Roger worked directly with Bud to customize the software, and Bud did the work for free. He was anxious to satisfy his customers and always welcomed an opportunity to improve his software.

  Roger didn’t last with the hearing aid company though. Just as Bud finished the improvements for him, Roger was hired by a large company who opened a new division. The company made kitchen appliances, but wanted to branch out into handheld electronics—kid’s games. With his experience with miniature circuits, Roger was a natural choice.

  Roger opened a new plant just south of San Francisco. One of his first calls from his new office was to Bud.

  “I need twenty seats, and a boatload of custom components,” Roger said.

  “Improving on your hearing aid design?” Bud asked.

  “No. I’m starting something new. This is all about integrated circuits.”

  Bud caught a flight that afternoon so he could meet with Roger’s new engineers. By the end of the day, he’d sketched out a dozen new components, and a list of features to suit Roger’s needs. The next morning, Bud contracted a public relations firm in Seattle to send out a press release describing the new features of Dikiware. Within two days of the release, orders poured in for the new version. Many of the established manufacturers were struggling with the same problem that Roger managed to articulate .They had to apply their existing workforce to solve the new digital electronic problems. Bud’s software eased that transition magically, and regardless of how high he set the price, they lined up to license it.

  Bud hired the best of Bernie’s students to help him implement the changes. With his new version in hand, Bud flew to offices up and down the coast to personally install and configure his software. He spoke the same language as the young engineers and established an instant rapport. But, with his maturity and sensible suits, he also meshed well with the managers. Bud would show up to install five seats, and make such a good impression that the order would increase to fifty before he left.

  When he banked his first million, Bud purchased a perfect new machine with all the peripherals and carried the boxes on the bus over to Edgar’s house. The computer was his gift to the man who had helped him discover his new career. In his first year of business, Bud took Dikiware from one employee to seventeen. By the end of his second year, Bud counted over one-hundred on his payroll. He expanded from software to hardware, designing and manufacturing tools to help engineers prototype their new circuits.

  Within five years, Bud had his first thoughts of retirement. He could never imagine finding the time or energy to spend all the money in his account. But working was never about money for Bud, he just couldn’t turn away from an idea that fascinated him. Two thoughts would collide in his head and he would become obsessed until he turned the concepts into reality. Always fascinated with how things were made, Bud turned his attention to manufacturing processes.

  He worked with small and medium-sized companies who already had a relationship with Dikiware. Those were the companies most likely to try out a new way to populate a circuit board. Bud liked elegant designs. He liked devices which could be completely disassembled with one tool, or preferably with no tools at all. He pushed to make devices small and efficient. Bud got his foot in the door of several manufacturers by simply being an evangelist for the latest techniques.

  Bud researched every new approach, sorted the good from the bad, and then spread the word about the best methods. Soon, people sought his opinion before they implemented any process change. Bud found himself flown in to review a manufacturing line before it was staffed, so he could weigh in and offer optimization. Bud was consulted on new designs before the prototypes were constructed, so he could offer suggestions.

  Companies who would never consider sharing their secrets would speak openly with Bud. They knew that the wisdom they would receive would easily exceed any secrets they gave away.

  By Dikiware’s tenth year, Bud’s consulting fees overtook the still-growing profits of the software division.

  Using all the knowledge gained from consulting, and everything he knew about computers, Bud invented a new manufacturing technique. Instead of implementing it immediately, Bud took the time to describe and document the process and apply for a patent. By licensing this new process to all the major manufacturers, Bud grew Dikiware to a billion dollar company. When his company hit five billion, Bud finally retired.

  54 HOME INVASION

  “SO THAT’S IT? THAT’S your life story?” I ask.

  “Well, those are the highlights, I suppose,” Bud says.

  We’ve been at this for days and days. Honestly, I’ve lost track. Like I said, phones don’t work up here in the mountains, so I haven’t bothered to charge mine. And the date on this computer seems screwy. It always reads January 19th. Who knows how many days I’ve sat here recording all the boss’s stories. I’ll have to do a lot of work to clean them up and make them into a coherent narrative, but that’s work for a later day. Right now, I’d be happy to just make some sense of the whole thing.

  I flip back through my pages of notes to the very beginning.

  “You said you were going to tell me the story of the beginning of your life so I’d understand why you were so paranoid, and why you were looking for a man who had fought an elephant and several other things.”

  “Possessed an unearthly skill, attacked a lion, been bitten by a snake, and fought
and beat an elephant,” he says.

  “Right, yes,” I say. “I’ve got all that written down.”

  “Good.”

  “And all this,” I say, gesturing to the computer, “is what you consider the beginning of your life, or did you overshoot in the stories a bit?”

  “I consider everything up to my retirement the beginning of my life, yes.”

  “Even though you described more than a century of events?”

  “Yes.”

  “If that was all just the beginning, how long do you expect to live?”

  “Not much longer, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m looking for a man who has a skill, attacked a lion, was bitten by a snake, and beat an elephant.”

  It’s like he thinks I’ll forget that list if he doesn’t keep repeating it.

  “I understand what those things have in common. They’re the hallmarks of the Providential, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But I still don’t understand why you’re looking for that man. That’s you, right? And I also don’t understand why you’re paranoid. You think there are other Providentials out there looking for you?”

  “I’m certain of it. You’ve given me proof of it.”

  “Back up a second. What’s the point of the Providential?”

  He just looks at me with a question mark wrinkled into his brow.

  “If they had believed you were the Providential, what would the village have done?”

  He looks puzzled for a moment longer and then the fog clears. “Oh, I think I understand your confusion. The name, the Providential, is my inexpert translation of the concept. The word is probably not the most appropriate. In the village, the Providential referred to the boy who was chosen by the gods to carry the spirit of the village. Now, I’m not superstitious or a religious man, so I don’t believe in spirits of any kind.”

  “But they do…the people in the village.”

  “Oh yes, they certainly do.”

  “And they’ve had other Providentials?”

  “Of course.”

  “And they’re still alive, right? You mentioned that they’re after you.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “And why would they be after you?”

  “In their mind, I’ve taken away the spirit of the village. It’s their fault, or rather the Constable’s fault, because he didn’t recognize who I was. They threw me in the river and cast me out. The Providential is supposed to leave with a great ceremony. He leaves to go out into the world and bring back the prosperity for another generation of villagers to thrive upon. Often, he brings back new people as well. The new people bring in new blood for breeding, so the old blood doesn’t go stale. They’ve had many Providentials before me, and they’ll have plenty after, but they need me to return so I can give back the spirit of the village that left with me.”

  “It’s like Tara with that box. I’m sure by now they’re breeding with neighboring towns. That can’t still be an issue.”

  “No, they’re not. They don’t have any contact with other towns. Only the Providential leaves, and only he returns. Sometimes he brings outside blood back, like I said. My mother was one such person.”

  “The Constable’s wife.”

  “Yes. You were listening.”

  “So why not just go back?”

  “I’ve tried. I can’t find the place. I’ve traced every river in eastern Europe from source to sea. From my memories, I made diagrams of the roads. I can see where it should be, but nothing is there. I assume that during the ceremony, someone would have told me how to return.”

  “So you wouldn’t mind finding this place, and the other Providentials are trying to take you back there. Why not just go with them?”

  “I have reason to believe that they don’t value my life. I was never recognized and I will be treated as hostile. I want to go back on my own terms, so I’ve been looking for a way to get there without being taken captive.”

  “So that’s why you were testing that magician kid? You thought he might be the Providential?”

  “Yes.”

  “You seem to be trapped between believing in this stuff and not believing in it. You’ve got me running around trying like hell to prove that there’s no such thing as paranormal activity, ESP, aliens, and anything supernatural. And, from your claims, your life seems to be filled with that stuff.”

  “Only if you believe in it. I think there are rational explanations to everything that’s happened to me.”

  “From your own narrative, you’ve lived at least four lifetimes.”

  “I would say just three, very long lifetimes.”

  “Okay, three then. It’s still two more than anyone else gets.”

  “There could be a man who has lived a dozen lifetimes. You’d have no way of knowing, unless he made it known to you. The world is a small place now, but a hundred years ago there were still deep, dark corners in which to hide. In another fifty, we’ll have so many people that it may be possible to hide once again. Look back over all my incarnations. My biggest mistake has always been that I don’t know how to turn down expansion. If I could have remained satisfied, I could have easily gone unnoticed as a naked boy in the woods, or a local shipper, or a town plumber, or an ore processor. Then nobody would have ever known how many lives I’d lived. Just by crossing one border, you can disappear and start again.”

  “So living over a hundred years but looking like you’re sixty is perfectly normal?”

  “I’m an outlier, yes. I’m definitely at one end of the scale, but certainly not supernatural.”

  This whole thing doesn’t make much sense to me. It’s like he has boxed himself in with faulty logic. If he brought this story to my job, I’d dismiss it immediately. I’ve met a lot of delusional people and their story always falls apart with a little probing. I’ve been holding back a bit up to this point—he is the boss—but I’m starting to think it might be my duty to break this story down a bit.

  “You’re confused? Skeptical?” he asks.

  My thoughts must be showing on my face.

  “A bit, yes,” I say.

  “If I came into your office, what would you ask?”

  He knows me well. That’s just what I was starting to wonder myself. I’ll start from the most pressing issue and move backwards.

  “You left without proper instruction. They need you back. Why would you believe they will kill you?” I ask.

  “Because if I won’t give the spirit back willingly, they must kill me to get it back.”

  “Where did you get the spirit?”

  “As the Providential, I was born with it.”

  “And they need it?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  “It ensures their prosperity.”

  “And there were other Providentials before you, and others since?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they were also born with the spirit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do they need it from you? Can’t the newer Providentials just bring back their spirit?”

  “I’m sure they have, but it’s a cumulative effect. They’re missing my piece, so their prosperity is limited. They need all the elements of the spirit from each Providential to be truly prosperous.”

  “And you can’t just give it back?”

  “I could. I refuse,” he says.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I believe it’s at the heart of my prosperity.”

  Bud’s been rich the whole time I’ve known him, but I never figured that prosperity was actually important to him. Sure, he’s careful with money, especially when I’m spending it, but I always thought it was because he didn’t like to be wasteful. He gives a ton to charity. I’m sure he gives even more than I know about. All his wealth seems like a happy by-product of his drive and creativity.

  “You’ve described fortunes accumulated and fortunes lost. None of your stories made me think that prosperity was important
to you,” I say.

  “If you’re thinking about the money, then you’re right. I’m not concerned about losing money,” he says.

  “Then what are you concerned about?”

  “With each rise and fall, I’ve lost love,” he says. “I lost Sasha, and Baron, and Maria, when I was cast into the river. I lost my friends, Varol and the rest. I lost Tara, and later, I lost Diki and Pemba. My wallet can be full or empty, but my heart can’t break again.”

  “And you believe that if you return the spirit of the village—a thing you don’t believe in—that your heart will break?”

  “Yes.”

  I always wanted something to believe in. I wanted a credible source with an incredible story so I could believe in magic, and phenomena beyond any rational explanation. The boss promised me the chance to investigate every corner of my imagination. He gave me the chance and the budget to seek out all the crazies, on the off chance that one of them had a real story to tell. But, after a decade of training myself to ferret out the boring truth, I can’t for a moment grant any credence to Bud’s story or beliefs.

  “You don’t believe a word of it?” he asks.

  “None of the good parts,” I say, with a smile.

  He moves to a bookshelf and grabs a row of books to set them aside. A safe is built into the wall behind the books. He swings the handle and comes back with a bundle of documents.

  “Here’s an old passport.” He hands me a small green book. It looks official and it has his picture, pasted in the corner and stamped with a seal. Bud looks exactly the same as he did, according to the passport, in 1973. “I don’t know why I kept that. It has an old name. Here’s a picture of Diki.” He hands me an old photo. It could be anyone’s kid.

  “You know how easy it is to forge documents,” I say.

  “Here are the results of a blood test I had a few years ago. They thought they were being helpful when they sent my blood out for a DNA screen. As you can see, from several factors they claim their machine malfunctioned. It reported an approximate age of one-fifty. They list the genetic origin as Belarus. That’s pretty close.”