The Genius Wars

by Catherine Jinks

  Vern was her husband. He didn’t talk much, but he had a bladder problem. After he had climbed over Cadel four times in one hour to go to the toilet, Cadel agreed (in a hoarse mutter) to swap seats with him. So Vern ended up on the aisle, and Cadel found himself trapped by the window, unable to escape Jan’s endless chatter about swelling feet, sore ears and dehydration. ‘You should get up and walk around,’ she suggested, more than once. ‘Otherwise you’ll get a blood clot.’

  Cadel dodged this steady stream of advice as best he could. He buried himself in a glossy magazine. He slapped on a pair of earphones and stared hard at the miniature TV screen in front of him. He pretended to fall asleep – and then he did fall asleep, only to be wakened two hours later by Vern’s reverberating snores. After that, he didn’t sleep again. He was too cramped, and worried, and miserable. There were so many things to keep him awake and fretting, apart from the air-safety issue, and the fragile nature of his own disguise. He was anxious about Saul and Sonja. He was concerned that his plan to trick Raimo Zapp might fail. He was nervous about getting through US Customs, and even more scared about what might await him outside Los Angeles airport.

  Most of all, however, he was troubled by what Gazo had told him. To be accused of talking like Prosper English … what could be worse? For years Cadel had been actively rejecting the lessons he’d learned as a child. Yet he seemed to be reverting to his old patterns of behaviour. Was Prosper’s influence impossible to eradicate after all? Was it like a clinging vine, rooted so deep in Cadel’s past that no amount of hard work could rip it out?

  It’s because I’m stressed, he decided. When I’m dealing with Prosper, I end up acting like Prosper. Which is another reason why I’m better off on my own, just now.

  God forbid that he would ever find himself using and abusing other people the way Prosper did.

  Breakfast was served about two hours before the scheduled end of the flight. Although he wasn’t hungry, Cadel forced down a small wad of scrambled egg and half a sausage. Then, as the plane gradually descended, he pressed his nose against the window and watched California unfold beneath him. Jan kept asking him if he could see Disneyland or the Hollywood sign, but he ignored her. He wasn’t much interested in the scenery. Instead he focused his attention on the plane itself: on its speed, its heading, its hydraulics. He watched its flaps rise and its wheels drop. He listened for any telltale bangs, and checked the air crew’s faces for signs of panic.

  The landing, however, passed without incident. A smooth touchdown was followed by an uneventful trip along the runway. Cadel didn’t leap up when the seatbelt signs were extinguished. Instead he chose to disembark with the stragglers, sensing that the first passengers to go through customs might endure closer scrutiny than the last ones off the plane. He waited until Jan and her husband were well ahead of him, then joined the tail end of the crowd that slowly made its way down corridors and along moving walkways, until it reached a forbidding row of glassed-in booths.

  Here, at last, were the US Immigration officials.

  Cadel’s heart began to pound as he surveyed these stone-faced men and women. He couldn’t help thinking that they would be more suspicious than the staff at Sydney airport – if only because he was arriving, rather than leaving. What’s more, each booth was fitted with equipment that scanned both eyes and fingerprints, and Cadel wasn’t sure about his status in America. The chances that he’d left his fingerprints behind as a toddler were almost non-existent; nevertheless, he approached his designated booth with a dry mouth and sweaty hands.

  The woman behind the counter accepted his passport without comment. As she studied his photograph, he sniffed glumly, trying to look as sick as possible.

  ‘Here on vacation?’ the woman suddenly fired at him.

  Cadel nodded.

  ‘Visiting family?’ she asked.

  ‘A family friend.’

  ‘Is that who you’re staying with?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Cadel had declared on his immigration form that he would be living at Kale Platz’s house during his trip to America. It wasn’t a complete lie, because Kale was still part of the investigation into Prosper English. The FBI had been monitoring Prosper’s activities for years, and Kale had visited Australia at least twice since rescuing Cadel from Prosper’s seaside mansion. Kale and Saul Greeniaus were in regular contact, frequently exchanging tips, warnings and personal updates. What’s more, the FBI agent had sent the Greeniaus family a Christmas card, with his home address printed clearly on the top left-hand corner of the envelope.

  So Cadel was quite sure that Kale would be happy to hear from him. In fact it was possible that the FBI had been already been warned about Cadel’s disappearance. And if that were true, then he didn’t have much time – because Kale Platz had seen him dressed as Ariel. Two years before, when Cadel had walked out of Prosper’s house into police custody, he had been wearing exactly the same skirt and earrings and hairstyle. It wouldn’t be long before Kale remembered that. It wouldn’t be long before the FBI started checking passenger manifests and CCTV footage.

  All I need is a couple more hours, Cadel thought. Just a couple more hours, and then I’ll turn myself in.

  His plane had touched down at 9:15 a.m. He was therefore convinced that he would be enjoying Kale’s hospitality by mid-afternoon – and if Kale decided differently, then US Customs and Immigration could take it up with the FBI.

  ‘Yeah,’ he added, in husky but confident tones. ‘I’ll be staying at my friend’s place.’

  ‘Could you place your right index finger on the screen, please?’

  Cadel obeyed. He had his photo snapped, his eye scanned and his fingerprints taken before he was waved on. No electronic alarms were triggered. He wasn’t asked to step into a back room. Clearly, his biometric details weren’t on file in the United States.

  And if the woman who interviewed him had any niggling doubts about his gender, she kept them to herself.

  Cadel proceeded towards the baggage claim carousel. Here he picked up his green bag, which he’d checked in as a precaution. (He’d decided that it might look a bit odd if he went all the way to America with only carry-on luggage.) There was a queue to get through the Customs checkpoint, but no one wanted to inspect his meagre possessions, and he soon found himself waiting in a taxi rank, surrounded by cars and concrete.

  The cabs didn’t look like Australian cabs. The drivers didn’t have Australian accents. Everything seemed intensely foreign, yet oddly familiar; Cadel felt as if he were in a Hollywood movie. He was so dazed and disoriented that, when asked where he wanted to go, he forgot to disguise his voice. He forgot about coughing and sniffing and mumbling into his handkerchief, and blurted out Raimo Zapp’s address without making the slightest attempt to sound like a girl with the flu.

  It didn’t matter, though, because the cab driver was completely uninterested in his passenger’s true identity. There was only one thing that concerned him: whether Cadel had enough money to pay for a trip to Canoga Park.

  ‘Thassa long way,’ he warned Cadel. ‘That will cost you – oh, more’n fifty bucks.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Cadel had three hundred and seventy-five American dollars in his wallet, courtesy of Gazo’s bank account. ‘I’ll need you to wait for me at the other end, too. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yeah. But it might be a hundred. A hundred plus.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘You got the money?’

  ‘I’ve got it. Could we go?’

  Cadel was growing nervous. He didn’t want to linger near the camera-infested airport. He was also worried about his appearance, which seemed to be having a bad effect on the cab driver. Did Cadel really look so untrustworthy? Was there something dishonest about his face or his clothes or his voice? Why did he give the impression that he couldn’t pay his bills?

  It was only later, after they had traversed Los Angeles, that Cadel realised what the problem really was. Canoga Park lay in the San Fernand
o Valley, more than sixty kilometres north-west of the airport. To get there, the cab had to cut through endless stretches of suburban sprawl, passing strip malls and shopping centres, parks and schools, flyovers and construction sites. Though he didn’t see any beaches or movie stars, Cadel did see all kinds of things that he’d never laid eyes on before: billboards ten storeys high, advertising new television shows; streets and streets of beautiful houses with gardens so perfectly manicured that they looked like film sets; a white church the size of a parliament house, occupying an entire hill; block after block of stores that were covered in Spanish signage. He saw diners and pet salons, yellow school buses and black-and-white police cars. It was all so new and dazzling that it kept him confused and off-balance for quite some time.

  But as the meter ticked away, he gradually began to understand one all-important fact. In Los Angeles, the wealthy people were so immensely rich that, by comparison, the poor people seemed somehow poorer. And after taking such a long tour through neighbourhoods where every house looked like a miniature Greek temple, or Renaissance palace, or Georgian country seat, Cadel quickly realised – upon reaching Canoga Park – that he had arrived in one of the less prosperous parts of town.

  Suddenly, he understood his driver’s concern. The problem wasn’t Cadel’s youth, or his cheap clothes, or his lack of luggage. The problem was his destination.

  Gazing out at dusty yards and peeling paint, it occurred to Cadel that a lot of people in Canoga Park wouldn’t be able to afford a one-hundred-dollar cab fare.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Raimo Zapp’s house came as a big surprise.

  It was a small, shabby place that seemed to be cowering behind a two-car garage. The front yard was unfenced, and badly in need of a mow; apart from the neglected lawn it contained only a shaggy palm tree and a letterbox. The aluminium windows were all firmly shut, as were the venetian blinds that hung rather crookedly behind them. Pale stucco walls were streaked with grey stains, and paint was peeling off the shutters.

  Cadel had expected something a little more flash, despite the fact that Raimo’s neighbours were all living in similar houses, on a street that had a dusty, depressed air about it. Surely a visual-effects genius didn’t have to scrape around for spare cash? Surely Prosper’s bribes must have been temptingly substantial?

  Only later did it occur to Cadel that Raimo had probably been spending his money on the latest computer graphics equipment – which could cost hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of dollars. All over the world, techno-geeks were constantly skimping on things like food, clothes and deodorant so that they could buy the latest gadget or game. Cadel could understand this compulsion perfectly.

  ‘I’m going to leave my stuff in the car,’ he said to the driver. ‘If you wait here, I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.’ Seeing a mistrustful frown reflected in the rear-view mirror, Cadel added, ‘There’s a laptop in this bag. It’s worth a lot more than my fare, so I’ll definitely be coming back for it. Okay?’

  A grunt was the only response from the man behind the wheel. Now that the money issue had been resolved, nothing seemed to perturb him; on his way to Canoga Park he hadn’t so much as blinked when a monstrous truck had veered into the lane just ahead of his cab, almost clipping its front fender. The bewildering tangle of freeways hadn’t fazed him in the least, and he hadn’t asked a single question during the entire course of the trip.

  Nevertheless, Cadel had decided not to push his luck. Changing clothes in the taxi might have been a little too weird for the driver to stomach. And although Cadel could have changed in a big shopping mall somewhere – ditching his old cab as a girl before hailing a new one looking more like himself – he was pretty sure that an American shopping mall would be full of cameras.

  As for using a more isolated bathroom, it simply wasn’t an option. Deserted football fields weren’t usually supplied with working taxi stands, no matter what city you were in.

  So he had decided to approach Raimo as Ariel, despite being extremely concerned about a prolonged, face-to-face encounter. Would all the sniffing and coughing be enough to disguise his voice? Was Raimo the kind of computer jockey whose inexperience with girls would leave him so dazzled by a display of jewellery and make-up that he wouldn’t see through them? It was difficult to say – especially since Niobe was part of the equation.

  Cadel didn’t know if she was still around. If she was, it was doubly important that he conceal his true identity. And even if she wasn’t, she might very well have told Raimo about him. Or Prosper might have told Raimo about him. Either way, it was possible that Raimo might recognise him if he turned up as Cadel, in his usual sneakers and t-shirt.

  On the whole, Ariel was a safer bet. Therefore Cadel marched up Raimo’s driveway in Ariel’s high heels, with Ariel’s ponytail bobbing against the back of his neck and Ariel’s skirts swishing around his ankles. He tried to remember what he had learned at the Axis Institute about disguising himself. Transformation isn’t as hard as you might think, if you’ve got the right attitude, his teacher had once told him. Whether you’re making yourself visible or invisible, the thing about a disguise is that half the time you can hide behind just one prominent feature. A big nose. An awful tie. Even a giant pimple. People will be so busy noticing whatever it is that they won’t pay much attention to the rest of you.

  Cadel decided that his fake cold might serve as a distracting focal point. And as he pushed the doorbell, he wiped his nose on his handkerchief, aware that someone might be inspecting him through the peephole in the front door.

  At last he heard footsteps from somewhere inside. They grew louder and louder, before stopping abruptly. There was a scraping, jingling noise, which he identified as the sound of a security chain being fastened.

  The door opened a few centimetres, revealing two luminous brown eyes magnified by a funky pair of orange-rimmed glasses.

  ‘What do you want?’ a reedy voice inquired.

  ‘Oh – ah – are you Raimo?’ asked Cadel. His own voice was so shrill with nerves that it had a convincingly feminine pitch to it.

  ‘Why? Who wants to know?’

  ‘I’m Ariel.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ariel. I’m Warren’s friend? He told me he sent you an email.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘Okay …’

  ‘He wanted me to give you something.’

  The orange glasses disappeared for a few seconds. There was more scraping and jingling, then the door creaked open further. Cadel found himself staring at a man of about his own height, who was dressed in a black t-shirt, tight black jeans, and pointytoed snakeskin boots.

  ‘Ah’m Raimo,’ said the man. His short body and long limbs made him look vaguely like an insect. So did his all-black outfit and his small, bony skull, which was clearly visible beneath a close-cropped layer of peroxided hair. Despite the bags under his eyes, he didn’t seem to be very old – perhaps in his mid-twenties. ‘You better come in, ah guess.’

  Cadel obeyed, trying not to look as scared as he felt. It was like walking into a freezer, thanks to the power of Raimo’s cooling system. With every step, old sweet wrappers crunched beneath Cadel’s shoes; there were hundreds of wrappers strewn across the shag pile carpet, which was a bright, almost fluorescent green. The house reminded him of Com’s place, because it had stale-smelling air and grubby paintwork. Com’s place, however, had been damp and mouldy, with small windows and high ceilings, whereas Raimo’s house was a 1960s box, cramped and unadorned and full of filtered glare. What’s more, there were no walls of old computer equipment. Raimo’s technology was all cutting edge, except for his collection of antique pinball machines. Cadel was hugely impressed by those – and by the more modern arcade games, as well. He couldn’t believe how many of them had been jammed into the front room, which otherwise housed only a bar fridge, a wall-mounted flat-screen TV, and a novelty chair shaped like an enormous red hand.

  Raimo sat down on the palm of this hand, leanin
g back against its fingers.

  ‘So what’s the story?’ he inquired, folding his arms and crossing his legs. His tone was imperious; he had a southern accent. ‘Suddenly ah get an email outta the blue from someone ah never met, saying he works for Andrew Hellen and asking if ah kin place a body scan. Like ah’m some sorta distribution point. What is this, a set-up? Huh? Are you trying to finger me – is that it?’

  Cadel played dumb. From the very beginning he had cast himself in the role of ignorant messenger, sent on a mission that he didn’t understand. ‘Hey!’ he squeakily protested. ‘I’m just doing Warren a favour. I don’t know what it’s all about.’

  This, of course, was a lie. Cadel had devised the whole scenario. Though the email sent to Raimo had supposedly been written by Hamish’s friend Warren, it had actually come from Cadel – who had secured Raimo’s email address from a certain Los Angeles utilities database. While impersonating Warren, Cadel had offered Raimo a scan of Nicole Kidman, feeling sure that such a prize would be irresistible. Cadel’s message had also warned Raimo that a friend would bring the scan to Los Angeles and collect payment for it; there could be no question of dispatching such an enormous file through cyberspace, where it was bound to go astray. I know there must be a market out there I just don’t know where it is, Cadel had written. I figure you can pay me a percentige of the Fee & I can keep a look out for more good scans we could have an arangemint.

  He wasn’t sure whether Raimo would take the bait, so he’d tried not to sound too crisp and professional. The spelling mistakes had been deliberate – as had the somewhat grandiose style. In striving to come across as a greedy teenager, Cadel had even used various computer-gaming terms, describing Ariel as his ‘avatar’, and commiserating with Raimo for having been ‘seriously ganked’ by the computer graphics industry. Andrew Hellen says you got XP with black market scans, Cadel had explained, and my friends going to LA so why not?