To Dream

by Lowy, Louis K;

“With what?”

  “The surroundings. It’s not exactly paradise.”

  “What happened to Oahu?”

  He shrugged. “You know how Ameri-Inc. is. Good PR is better than bad PR. Especially where space transportation regulations are concerned.”

  “If it’s not paradise, what is it?”

  “It’s a work in progress.” Once again Buster Panther’s boots crunched the dewy lawn as he walked away.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Date: 2250

  The Malalani

  Somewhere in the Libra Constellation

  Rebeka leaned against the deck’s railing and studied the view through the protection shield. The vista was a sheet of black pinpricked with glitter, swirling lights and contrailing teal streaks of dry flame. She thought of outer space as an infinite stream moving ever outward and ever inward. Eternal. That was her goal, to be forever. Rebeka magnified the protection shield’s lens and zoomed in on the orange dunes of an uncharted planet, 325 miles to the east.

  Rebeka’s mind turned to her first space cruise. She was around seven and with her mother. Because of Rebeka’s parents’ influence, the Planetary Contingent Commission had granted their private yacht roaming privileges far beyond sanctioned boundaries. In those days, they had had practically the entire quadrant to themselves. She never forgot the smile on her mother’s face and the sweet smell of her moonflower perfume. When her mother held her to her bosom and pointed out the planets, stars and herds of asteroids, young Rebeka was spellbound. They would have their differences in the future, of course, but not at that moment. Those two weeks were theirs—no nurses or nannies, no father with overzealous, probing fingers—just the two of them. As a tribute to her mother and their voyage nearly a century-and-a-half-ago, Rebeka named her spaceliner The Malalani.

  When their trip together had ended she was again shuffled off with her brother, Herb, to the pleasant, but business-like caretakers and tutors who managed their lives. It took Rebeka years of counseling to reconcile her anger and resentment toward her parents, particularly her mother, who refused to allow her plans to be hampered by her husband’s indiscretions with Rebeka. Coming to terms with that also came with insight. Rebeka grew to understand that her mother’s cold, calculating vision had an endgame to it: Rebeka’s father died in a sudden, terrible fall down the second floor stairs of their home.

  Rebeka was twelve when he had died. Immediately following the funeral her mother took control of her father’s empire. Within six years she had doubled the profits and had expanded the business to include not only tech development, but also healthcare, undersea and deep-space exploration. The accumulation of power was her mother’s life.

  Rebeka came to recognize that Herb and she, while not unloved, were commodities that could be handled in absentia. Her mother’s decision to treat them as chattel was smart, shitty, and begrudgingly admired by Rebeka, who came to believe that her mother was the most shrewd, calculating person she had ever known. Rebeka smiled—the one exception being Rebeka, herself.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  Startled, Rebeka turned to Xia. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Looking for you.” He dipped the mouth end of a Lewinsky in his cognac, put it to his lips and puffed heavily on the cigar. He wore a blue velvet night robe and matching slippers. A maroon ascot with printed acorns adorned his neck. A tasseled and brightly embroidered smoking cap covered his skull.

  “I was admiring the view.” Rebeka watched his eyes roam her body.

  He smiled. “So am I.”

  He said it with such genuine affection that a part of her wanted to caress him and feel the warmth of his arms embracing her. Was she falling for Xia? God, she thought, no! This was about sex. The last thing she needed was to actually love the man. Still, their time together sailing to Truatta had been more pleasant than Rebeka had imagined it. Xia not only was a good listener, but his business savvy was impressive. Of course, that didn’t surprise her. You don’t get into Xia’s financial position without economic know-how.

  But all that didn’t change the fact that she was irritated with herself for being moved by him. It was…human. No. She put that thought out of her mind. Her mother would have never allowed emotion to interfere with her plans and she wasn’t about to, either. “Did Herb say anything to you about my having off-galaxy tax accounts in sector four?”

  “No,” Xia replied, “and if he did, I wouldn’t have believed him. It’s suicide for you and Ameri-Inc. You’d be voted out for sure from running the company. You’re much too intelligent for that.”

  That eliminates Docobo, Rebeka thought. Her chief marketing officer was the last of the board members that she had leaked false info to. If he were the traitor, he would have contacted Herb about the off-gal tax scheme. Herb would have contacted Xia and tried to convince him to cut ties with me because I was headed to prison. She was glad it wasn’t him, but it left the question of who was working against her.

  “Rebeka, did you hear me?”

  “I’m sorry, Xia. What did you say?”

  “I said I’m enjoying this excursion more than I ever dreamed.” He stamped out the Lewinsky and kissed her hand.

  “It might not be so pleasant after we land.”

  “And that means?”

  “If I have to personally slice the throats of those insurgents upsetting my mining operations I won’t hesitate. We purchased the rights from them fair and square. The GTS is ours. I don’t care if that upsets you or anyone else.” She started to walk away.

  Xia clutched her upper arm, turned her around and brought her close. “Did I mention I absolutely adore you?” Rebeka pressed her lips against his. He penetrated her mouth with his tongue. Xia sighed. Or was that me? Rebeka thought, as he reached inside her blouse.

  ~~~

  “I’ve searched thousands of data files for hidden clauses. They produced nothing that we weren’t already aware of.” Jocsun was seated in his office at Ameri-Inc. headquarters, staring into the mini-cam levitating eye level in front of him. “I checked each file for variations of the word ‘clause.’ He wiggled his pointer finger at one of the quintuplet of dataserve icons embedded on his desktop. A holographic image rose and faced the floating mini-cam. “Check out the results.”

  Sitting at her dressing table in her suite on The Malalani, Rebeka studied the information in the cyclorama screen that had taken over the bureau mirror.

  “As you can see, it came up craps.”

  “Do you think Herb was bluffing?” Rebeka asked.

  “No.” The data sheet disappeared and the image of Jocsun replaced it. “He’s up to something and I’m going to find out what it is. I miss you.”

  “I know exactly what you miss.”

  Jocsun smiled.

  “Keep me informed.” Rebeka tapped the bureau mirror’s frame. Jocsun’s beaming face disappeared and was replaced with the bureau mirror. Rebeka studied the reflection, lifted an eyebrow and turned around to face the real thing.

  “Can you trust him?” Xia was exiting the bathroom naked. He was towel drying his hair.

  “As much as I can trust anyone.”

  “What was it that he misses?”

  “A fantasy of taking me to bed.”

  “A fantasy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you, my dear.”

  She stood and let her robe slip to the carpet. “He’s a commodity. Nothing more.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “Do you like rough sex?”

  Xia mashed his mouth against hers. She practically pushed him into bed and onto his back. Rebeka straddled him and rocked hard. He palmed her breasts. “Tighter,” she whispered. He clutched them with an iron grip. She groaned and pressed her hips into him.

  ~~~

  When Rebeka ended their call, Jocsun waited for the mini-cam to sink and dissolve into an icon on his desk before he stopped smiling. Carl slipped a black bucket hat from his head. He hung it on th
e hat rack near the front corner of the office where he was standing. The corner was positioned behind the mini-cam, out of sight from its view. He walked to the front of Jocsun’s desk, planted his butt on it and said, “Simple as one, two, three.”

  “Don’t be naïve. Rebeka’s smart. Smarter than you and I, and certainly Herb.”

  “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. She’s guided by what’s below her waist and that hasn’t got a brain the last time I checked.”

  “We’re all guided by something. Even you, Carl.”

  “Right you are.” Carl removed a vial from his coat pocket, opened it and offered the contents to Jocsun.

  Jocsun dipped his pinky nail into the powder. He rubbed the residue in his eye. Jocsun’s forehead thundered. He felt as if a year or two of his age had been wiped away. It’s the real deal, he thought, G-89—eighty-nine proof GTS. He went for another dip. Carl snapped the vial shut and whisked it in his pocket. “That was a sample.” He leaned into Jocsun, kissed him and whispered, “The rest comes after the funeral clause has been, shall we say, mishandled.”

  Other than Rebeka and Herb, and Herb’s spouse, Carl, no one had access to GTS on that level of purity except the highest government officials, Jocsun thought. With the supply of G-89 and money Carl had promised him, he could live for centuries as one of the upper crust of society. Jocsun was under no illusion, when Rebeka grew tired of him—and she would—he’d be thrown back in the trash heap of white-collar subservience. If he were lucky, he’d still have his job and enough lower grade GTS to live a slow death. He was nothing but merchandise to her.

  He smiled bitterly. He understood the concept so well because he had readily turned his back on his wife, his son and daughter, and their lousy condo when Rebeka came on to him. God help him, they were his merchandise. “One more hit, Carl. To seal the deal.” He returned Carl’s kiss.

  Carl smirked, but offered the vial.

  Jocsun again swiped the G-89 across his pupil. His discarded family, his mundane world of motorcycle jackets and Mohawk haircuts disappeared and was replaced with a glorious heat that swept through his veins. He felt himself getting erect. “Okay, here’s the deal. The clause in the old lady’s will—”

  “Malalani.”

  “Yes. The clause in Malalani Takáts’ will stipulates that the CEO of Ameri-inc. must maintain upkeep of her and her husband, Hebert’s, memorial gravesites in perpetuity and also periodically transfer their remains to a series of pre-ordained locations so others”—Jocsun laughed—“may have the opportunity to offer their grief. Failure to do so results in forfeiture of the CEO position, to be replaced with the next of kin, if one is available.”

  “Which is Herb.”

  Jocsun nodded.

  Carl glanced at the bulge in Jocsun’s pants, walked behind him and massaged his shoulders. “One question. Rebeka’s aware of that clause just as Herb is.” His hands moved to Jocsun’s neck. “How does that help us?” He squeezed slightly.

  Jocsun removed Carl’s hands. “I’m her lawyer. It’s my job to make sure the clause is carried out. We have a…special relationship.”

  “It’s special, all right.”

  Jocsun shrugged. “She trusts me.”

  Carl pressed his palms against Jocsun’s cheeks, turned Jocsun’s face toward his. “So do I, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll keep feeding her false info until the next transfer date elapses.” He handed Carl a paper. “These are a list of off-galaxy bank accounts. I’ll be checking to see that the timetable of GTS and money deposits we agreed upon is being upheld. One second off and the deal’s over.”

  “Everything will be exactly as we said.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Carl brushed Jocsun’s lips with his fingertip. “Don’t we all.” Carl removed a pair of large sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slid them over his eyes. He walked to the corner rack, placed the bucket hat low on his head, turned up his collar and quickly made his way out of the office to the emergency exit.

  Jocsun stared at the office door. His palms shook. Between Rebeka, Carl, and Herb he was walking a razor-thin tightrope. To stumble would be death, or worse. He slipped a tube of white-collar issued GTS from his drawer and squeezed the gel below his tongue. It wasn’t strong enough to stop his quivering hands.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Date: 2250

  Planet Truatta

  Mount Kwieetus

  I wait for my name to be announced before standing.

  “It’s my pleasure to introduce the 2022 valedictorian of East Miami Senior High School, Jay Bopari.”

  I stand. The applause swells. Cristina touches my arm from the row behind. I glance back, smile, and walk from the front row of the civic arena where the eleven hundred graduating students and their families have gathered. I step up to the podium. I’m scared shitless, but at the same time confident as shit. I glance out at the cheering mass of caps and gowns, sport coats and dresses as I stride across the stage. So many people, can’t locate my parents. I power on the tablet that I placed earlier on the dais and read my speech from it. I praise my father for his wisdom and my mother for inspiring me to pursue science…

  …The sun beats down on us. We’re in front of the arena.

  “One more picture with my handsome boy,” Mom says as she straightens my mortar cap.

  I stifle a smirk, or I think I do.

  “Jay, I’ll always be your mother; get used to it.” She wraps her arm around my waist. She’s beaming. I can feel it. It makes me feel good. No, great. Dad snaps the image. He shows it to us. I look goofy, but Mom likes it and tells Dad to text it to Grandma. He does…

  …I finger the sweat on my iced tea glass. I know what time it is, but I glance at my cell phone so my parents will get the hint. I want to get home because I’m meeting Cristina. God, I hope it’s another evening as awesome as the last one. Dad polishes off his Heineken. Motions for the check. Mom asks for a takeout bag for her cheesecake. I feel guilty for breaking up my graduation lunch, but I can’t get Cristina off my mind.

  In the parking lot the usual routine: Dad insists on driving, Mom insists he won’t because he’s had three beers. The result: Dad, pissed, ends up in the back seat with my diploma, cap and gown. I end up in the front passenger seat. I’ll never be like they are. Never…

  …Near the turnpike exit Mom glances at Dad in the rearview mirror. She says, “Pallab, wasn’t Jay’s speech wonderful?” Dad looks at me in the rearview mirror and smiles. He clutches the nape of my neck. I smirk, but a sense of pride swells inside me. I’m embarrassed because Mom reads beneath my expression. She rubs her fingers across my cheek. Strange, but I tell myself I’m going to remember this moment because I feel as if I’m moving beyond it, and my heart knows I’ll miss it. I hear a crunch noise. Loud. Awful. The sound seems as if it was born inside my eardrum. My mortar cap darts past me. Mom screams.

  J-1 awoke in a frenzy. His eyes widened. His chest pounded violently.

  He snapped upright and looked wildly around. It was night. It was chilly. It was far above sea level. The campfire had dimmed. Coco was next to him, motionless. The others were asleep except for Hob, who stood guard about fifteen feet away. Hob’s eyes were trained on him.

  The reality of where he was, Karatsu Pass, filled J-1 as the knowledge drained from him that he had experienced something unfeasible—images of himself, but not himself. Even though his databanks were telling him that it was impossible he knew what it was. A dream. But it couldn’t be, he thought. I go into a semi-slumber maintenance mode to recharge, quantify and adjust interpolations, but I don’t sleep. Humans sleep. Nonetheless, images haunted him: a woman, a man, a girl name Cristina. And there was that crunching sound and that horrible, horrible scream that frightened him into awakening.

  “Mechi, can I help you?” Hob said it quietly enough so as not to disturb the others. He took a step forward and aimed his electro-rod at J-1.

  J-1 waved to indicate
there was no trouble.

  Hob kept the weapon on J-1 for another two breaths and went back to watching the perimeter.

  J-1 lay back down, stared up at the stars and thought about his dreaming. A shiver ran through him. What if I was dreaming for a reason? What if something inside of me was crawling to the surface? He had a dark feeling that his dreams—nightmares—would lead to his non-existence. He cursed himself for sampling the GTS.

  ~~~

  With sunrise, J-1 buried his bleak thoughts and replaced them with a determination to find answers. While Norma disassembled her tent he limped over. Hob and Prudence stopped their own cleanup to scrutinize him. Bound and sitting cross-legged near the doused fire, Orson grimaced at J-1. Teague was away, scouting the premises.

  J-1 approached Norma. “May I speak with you?”

  “What is it, automaton?” Norma rolled the tent cloth. It shrink-wrapped into the size of a fist. She tucked it in her backpack.

  J-1 glanced at the others glowering at him, and whispered, “Can we converse in private?”

  “It better be important.”

  “It is.”

  “Automaton,” Norma said loud enough for everyone to hear. “You are hereby assigned latrine duty.”

  Hob and Prudence laughed. Orson continued to frown.

  “Prudence, a shovel,” Norma said.

  Prudence reached into her sack and removed a paperback-sized object. With four maneuvers it formed into a large sharp-edged shovel. She tossed it to J-1. Norma led him down a side path of dry shrubs located far enough away that no camp sounds could be heard. It dead-ended in a sour-smelling pit wide and deep enough to fit a person. J-1 stared into the hole. It was blanketed with feces and wiping material. His throat tightened from the wretched odor. He held his nose, and said, “What I want to speak to you—”

  Norma shook her head. “Un-uh. While you’re covering up the bottom of the latrine with fresh dirt.”

  J-1 released his nostrils and struck the shovel’s pointed blade into the stony ground. He dropped a small pile of soil into the stink pit.