Patrick’s heart pounded in his chest. In any other circumstance, he would use the opportunity to seduce the buxom young nurse—something her slow movements seemed to be soliciting. The anxiety of Carlos’ imminent arrival made him eager to escape, so he signaled her as politely as he could to move things along.
The treatment, once the nurse got the hint, was thankfully short. Patrick practically leapt off the examination table and sped back to Alias, who was already standing next to the door, ready to beat a hasty escape.
“This way,” Patrick signaled, “leading them away from the likely path the doctors would take to bring in Carlos. They moved through the labyrinth of hallways and stairwells at a quickstep. When they finally approached the dormitory floor, where they both would be staying that night, slowed their pace and moved as quietly as they could.
Patrick wouldn’t be able to get to his father before news of the fight did. Alias appeared to understand this—and its implications—as well. Alias reach over and put a sympathetic hand on Patrick’s shoulder.
“I’ll tell my mom and dad a good story about self defense,” Alias offered.
Patrick was under no delusion that Alias’ testimony would have any effect on the berating he was sure to get from his father, but he appreciated the sentiment. He also liked Alias’ willingness to lie.
Back in his quarters, Patrick now drew a deep breath in front of the virtual yogi. He didn’t want all this logged in the yogi’s database, lest there be another system hack and his public image further embarrass his father. The rumors that would surely fly would be bad enough.
For all of the power and influence of the Ellies, all the great families lived in an unstated fear of the cyber-hackers, who penetrated the InfoSystems, OmniComms, and other “value-added services” in order to blackmail the Elites. The hackers shrewdly traded on the ridiculous social mores the Ellies had invented for themselves, and it was a lucrative business for the dispossessed with the skills to do it and escape.
“Thank you for sharing with me today,” soothed the Yogi. “Your schedule calls for you at the Forest Hall conference room. Shall I send the room a message confirming your attendance?”
Patrick was surprised to learn that the Seniors hadn’t already cancelled his invitation to afternoon tea and subsequent negotiations. “Yes, Yogi. Please send a confirmation message.”
“Certainly, Sir. It appears there is an hour break in your schedule at 18-hundred hours before the Christmas Gala. May I encourage you to check in again so you are balanced for the event?”
“Thank you, Yogi. I will consider that,” Patrick replied, putting on his cover-shirt.
“Your day will improve, Sir. Remember to be a positive force with others in the world, and things will work out.”
“Thanks again, Yogi.” With a wave of the hand, the yogi pixelated and vanished from the V-plat. Patrick stopped for a moment at the door, took another deep breath, and prepared for the afternoon negotiations with the Goodwells and the aftermath of his questionable judgment.
Chapter 9: Negotiations II
(Alias Goodwell)
Alias Goodwell along with the rest of his family encountered Gilbert Calden in the common area that connected their suites. A wrist-plat blinked busily on the sycophant’s arm while a small entourage of servants in tow and one of Sherman’s more interesting-looking guards on hand. Shaking Alias Sr.’s hand again—and again effusive in his praise—Calden led them up a large marble staircase to a massive, circular room boasting white marble floors, lush plants, and tall Corinthian columns holding up a gold-leaf ceiling. Half of the room’s walls were floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the compound’s well-groomed central plaza. Beyond the garden, a vista of mountains and the desert plains beyond stretching into the distance.
A massive, gleaming dark-wood table stood on an elevated platform in the middle of the room, ringed by embroidered cushioned chairs. Everyone took the seat with their name floating on the V-plat units built into the table. Alias sat down next to Minister Goodwell, and Patrick down sat next to Alias. Carlos Templeton again positioned himself next to Jasmine as Calden signaled for a young girl in a silk tunic to bring over a tray with melon-infused iced water and began introducing Minister Goodwell to the Consortium executives.
To Alias’ chagrin, another half hour of greetings and niceties—formalities unknown or long-since abandoned in the badlands for decades—followed.
Not again, he groaned silently, seeing it as another sign if self-importance by the Ellies.
They then made him endure a complete re-cap of the discussion from the night before in Ogallala. Then afternoon tea, a small bright spot featuring finger sandwiches with real cheese and real ham, honey-cinnamon cookies and more spiced-milk coffee for dessert. Melon-infused water was always fresh in his tall clear glass.
As more young girls in silk tunics carried away the ornate lunch plates, he prayed that he would not fall asleep from boredom in the afternoon discussions. He wanted to be on his toes in the uncertain event they discussed something important, so he sheepishly asked for another coffee.
The afternoon was long and exhausting, as he feared, but not for boredom. In fact, he was caught off guard by the breakneck pace of the negotiations that unfolded.
When they’re done fucking around, he thought, they don't fuck around.
Although he had come to their headquarters unconvinced of his role—still trying to reconcile the petroleros’ cynical motives with Minister Goodwell’s quest for a more peaceful, spiritual world—he found himself negotiating details as if he were fully bought in. His hosts came and went from the discussions, except Caldwell, who stayed on hand throughout to ensure they had everything they needed—maps, calculators, demographic data, etc. Farid Sherman and his men—the Ellie’s hired muscle—stayed at the door the entire time, pretending not to pay attention, but his presence reminded Alias to be suspicious.
He then caught Ali Ibn al-Rashid gesturing to Gilbert Calden.
Time to split us up.
His sister Jasmine and Minister Goodwell were assigned to what the Ellies termed “the creative team.” Without a pause, the jovial group split off to an adjoining room to delve into defining the vision for a new, permanent church—a rebirth of fidelity to Christ’s teachings about peace—and order—on earth. A place for the masses to escape and maybe to reconcile the harshness of basic survival on earth for a place of comfort and relief in the afterlife.
Alias and his mother were put on the “business team.”
They’ve done their homework, he had to admit.
Patrick accompanied Alias to the table where Thomas Baumgarten and Saanvi Raman waited to bend them on finances, logistics, security, and compensation. In the first few minutes, Alias realized that Patrick’s place was to provide the presence of a friend, while the Consortium execs did their business.
Even Alias’ mother, whose affinity for data had kept the big top ministry afloat, was dizzied by the array of maps, calculations, demographic estimates, and forecasts. Alias liked to think he followed in his mother’s footsteps, but he was teetering on overload. He tried to slow things down by taking long, strategic pauses, leaning back in his chair with a ponderous expression on his face whenever he came across something he didn’t like—or understand. He got up from the table twice to fetch his own refreshments, leaving the young tunic-wearing servants in bewilderment. He even feigned discomfort with the buck-knife on his belt, just so he could lay the weapon on the table. Farid Sherman and his guards stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed, signaling it was a futile gesture.
Saanvi Raman and Thomas Baumgarten pushed to define the scope—and cost—of their shared vision. A new, permanent church run by the Goodwells, but bankrolled and ultimately controlled by the Gang of Seven, proxies for the Chief Regent and the IEC. Baumgarten feigned interest in finding a way to meet the costs of the church’s loftier needs: stained glass, vaulted ceilings, comfortable seating, and technology upgrades to improve the sermons
in the big-tent. Saanvi focused on finances and logistics so as to play the spoiler. With her petite build, almond eyes, soft features, and low neck-line, Alias almost looked forward to her interminable objections and preconditions.
They were hours into it when Alias looked at his mother and realized they had actually made a lot of progress. The Consortium committed to put seven million Kroners toward the construction of a new church in nearby Park City. Millions more would go into churches in cities, townships, and cross roads shantytowns—mostly in the Desert Plains Territory, but eventually stretching into almost every province and territory in the Commonwealth. Before the main church in Park City was even finished, they would be operating near most of the Consortium’s far-flung sites—factories, industrial compounds, mines, and transportation hubs. They would reach westward to the Northern and Southern Rocky Mountain Territories. Northeastward to the Great Lakes and Ontario provinces. Southeastward into the Ozarks and Southeast Coastal Provinces and westward into California-Sur.
Saanvi then offered some unconvincing reason to excuse herself from the table, and Alias rose to offer his goodbyes, prompting a warm hug and kiss on the cheek. She was almost immediately replaced by the more icy Tatiana Trapinksi, a pale Russian woman with piercing blue eyes, angular features, a thick accent, and silky straight hair that fell onto her shoulders. Alias forgot all about Saanvi as soon as she leaned in for an introduction with two-cheek kisses. As she pulled away, Alias happened to glance at Patrick, who stared at him with an enormously satisfied grin, and Alias couldn’t help but feel embarrassed.
Tag-teams. Prob’ly not necessary, but at least they gave it some thought.
“Tatiana, My Dear,” Senator Baumgarten said affectionately, “we were just about to finalize the phases of church construction and hiring new ministers. Please sit down and join us.”
Trapinksi sat down next to Alias as Baumgarten unexpectedly bid his farewells and left the room.
This is a little ridiculous.
Moments later, Rashid arrived, and the advocate-and-adversary roles switched. The beautiful Russian threw out grand plans for expansion, while the Muslim from the Caliphate reigned in the excesses. Knowing the game by now, Alias and his mother played the part—with smiles and disappointed expressions—but focused on what they would actually need to make this new church self-sustaining and the other things they knew Alias Goodwell Sr. would want.
In the end, the Consortium would quintuple the salaries of Goodwell’s current ten ministers and fund twenty more to operate the smaller churches. The Ellies reluctantly agreed to pay two million Kroners a year for traveling health clinics and soup kitchens, as well as subsidies for homeless shelters in the churches. They would provide a fleet of vehicles, including all-terrain cheetah auto- cars and one camel lorry for each facility. Plus, two civilian-model bull-shark jump-jets and fifty piper aerial drones would be at their disposal.
The Consortium would pay for security, though Minister Alias Sr. wasn’t entirely pleased with the number. The church would have to meet some of its own security needs by creating morality-patrols from its base of parishioners, and those patrols might also be called up to help IEC forces maintain law and order.
Meanwhile, the creative team meanwhile, had already worked-up a sketch for the building: a cathedral made of the same shining glass and pearlescent tiles used on the Nautilus. It would be open to all the lowly urchins who passed by with their noses glued to their windows. Alias Goodwell Sr. and Jasmine waved giddily for them to come see their accomplishment. Any misgivings his father had felt over the deal had seemingly melted away.
“Look at this church, Camila,” Minister Goodwell beamed. “This is what we’re going to build. All of our dreams. And we even have a name: ‘The Church of Heavenly Peace.’ What do you think?”
“It’s an appealing design,” Camila smiled.
Alias didn’t care a bit about the building or the name, except that the petroleros had sold his father on the deal, and at least the design wasn’t so awful as to turn away the masses they would need to make this work. Colonel Shikai, who had been sitting beside Minister Goodwell, noticed Alias’ detachment and got up from his chair and encouraged Alias to sit beside Minister Goodwell and partake more visibly in the spectacle. Alias abided with a courteous smile, but every manipulative gesture from the Ellies was starting to make him more uneasy.
Rashid then joined in, encouraging Alias and his mother to lay-out the high-level details of the deal. Alias’ father half-listened, nodding cursorily as he gazed with pleasure at the holograph-design of his new church. His mother, satisfied with their work, and noting Alias Goodwell Sr.’s disinterest, decided to join his father in admiring the image. Alias plodded ahead, if only as a formality, though he looked often at Rashid to validate their shared understanding of the arrangement.
At last, Alias lowered his voice and leaned in toward his father to whisper the annual sum that their family would receive. It was more money than Minister Goodwell had ever seen in his life, and based on his father’s new, unconstrained grin, everyone else in the room knew too. The guaranteed money was a fortune, and the incentive package—for growth in membership, reductions in crime and absenteeism among parishioners, and increased productivity by informants from the ranks of church members—was breathtaking for any urchin from the Wilds. Minister Goodwell patted Alias on the shoulder for a job well done, gave Camila mother a tight hug, and offered Rashid a grateful smile and nod.
The framework was in place, so Rashid snapped for Calden to bring in champagne.
“I would like to welcome the Goodwell’s and their ministry to our family,” Rashid announced, raising his crystal glass. “…To a long and prosperous partnership.”
Alias’s father stood up to meet Rashid’s glass. “Who could argue,” Goodwell added, “against bringing the Word of God to our toiling brethren, who wander desperately in the Wilds with so little to find in the way of human kindness or generosity?”
The group of Ellies went silent, and the smile on Rashid’s face became strained.
Probably not the right crowd for talk about the plight of the ‘toiling masses,’ Alias thought to himself, hoping his father wouldn’t snatch defeat from the jaws of victory with careless words.
“To peace and prosperity!” Ashley Templeton held up his glass for a second, distraction toast. The Gang of Seven members lifted their glasses to the new deal, and the shimmering clinking of crystal—a new sound in Alias’s ears—made Alias woozy with fear and delight.
“Wonderful,” Rashid added. “I think then we can go enjoy the wonderful banquet Mr. Calden has arranged for us. …And then the gala.”
Alias’ father and mother exchanged hugs, kisses, and toasts with the petroleros, congratulating one another on their common success.
“The galas,” Patrick leaned in to promise, “are always the best parts of these things. A little compensation,” he said, “for enduring the hours of tedium.” Alias found Patrick’s tone curious—as if Alias were now part of the Ellie’s bizarre word of scheming and leisure.
“Let the hook-up fest begin,” Patrick grinned. “Merry Christmas, Alias!”
Chapter 10: The Gala
(Jasmine Goodwell)
Jasmine Goodwell awoke early Christmas morning, her mouth feeling like it was filled with cotton and the sour taste of bile. Her headache couldn’t compare with the burn in her churning stomach or her eyes’ pleading desire to close again. She looked over to find Carlos Templeton annoyingly asleep beside her, and she quietly made her way to the toilet in the hope of finding some relief.
She sat on the commode, waiting for the onslaught, and thought back on the day before. It had been a whirlwind bigger than any duster she had ever seen. She knew her life was going to change forever, though she had no idea what exactly lay ahead. The only certainty was that she wouldn’t make it through the rest of the trip and back to the big-top church in Ogallala without vomiting. A tinge of guilt and dirtiness flickered in her mi
nd for everything that had unfolded with Carlos Templeton, eldest son and heir to one of the Commonwealth’s most important Ellie families.
It seemed to her the day before, during the negotiations, that everyone knew she had given herself to Carlos within hours of her arrival at the Nautilus complex. The brawl between Carlos and Patrick Baumgarten outside her door had caused a stir among the Ellies, and she worried they all would somehow hold her responsible. She pined that she jeopardized her father’s great deal with the petroleros. Even just embarrassing him when he was trying to appear unsullied was bad. Casual sexual encounters in the Wilds were widely overlooked, even by her mother and father, but she knew the stakes were higher here, and the Ellies somehow always held the high ground.
Jasmine had tried to sideline herself during the day’s business discussions, but with the tug of humiliation after the fight, she chose to tend to Carlos as soon as he appeared, limping, in the room wearing a leg brace. She conspicuously avoided Patrick Baumgarten, hoping her concern and demonstration of loyalty to Carlos might offset the harsh judgements of the Ellies. With Alias clearly siding with Patrick, though, she knew the Ellies had successfully divided her family—an outcome worse than any disapproval the Ellies might heap on her. She couldn’t help herself, and she was struggling to muddle through.
After the long, drawn-out, and tiresome negotiations over the terms for Consortium support for her father’s new church, she had fled back to her suite to unwind and get ready for the banquet. As she sat in front of the ornate, gold-leaf mirror in her room, tying her dark hair back with a crimson bow that matched the nicest formal dress she had ever seen—provided courtesy of the Consortium—she also wondered if she had become just another pawn in the Ellies’ interminable schemes to enslave the masses, just as Minister Joshua had always warned. Maybe Carlos’ interest in her was completely contrived to serve the schemes of the Ellies.
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