The Echo Chamber

by Rhett J Evans

  Charlotte wasn’t worried about the plane though, not yet. It was probably nothing.

  She rode her horse to the other side of the hill, and her eyes scanned across the humped forms of the zebu cattle.

  “Five new calves this morning,” said Moyenda, the chief ranch hand, pulling his horse alongside hers. “And they look steady. Good heifers this year.” He grinned and gave her a wink.

  “Hot damn, I hope so,” Charlotte replied. “If they survived the night, then the calves should be nursing well. Lord knows we need a strong year.”

  “I think that’s all we can do for today.” He let out a satisfied whistle. “And I hear Njemile be cooking up something real good right now too.”

  “You’re hungry? You want to pack it in already?”

  He shrugged playfully. “I’m a simple man. You paying the bills ‘round here. Rich, white lady from the fancy city calls the shots. Not Moyenda. I do whatever she thinks is right, always.”

  “Don’t ‘rich lady’ me. We’d be underwater if it wasn’t for you,” Charlotte responded. “How do you say, ‘you’re so full of shit’ in Chichewa?”

  Moyenda laughed, deep and honest, and they rode back over the rolling hills that composed the lion’s share of the ranch’s three thousand acres. The afternoon sun soaked the yellowing pastures and warmed their shoulders as they arrived at the ranch house. Charlotte had fretted the design of the building, which was a mix of African aesthetic and western sensibilities, was too ostentatious for this stretch of the lake. The big European-style resorts were to the north, and she deliberately chose to be out here. But there was no denying the ranch house drew attention to itself, with its vaulted straw-thatched roof held in place by a series of magnificent, red beams. The wood grew only around the Mulanje Mountain to the south, where its peak was always shrouded in cloud. It felt like a mystical place. They say it inspired Tolkien’s Lonely Mountain.

  The Mulanje Cedars were also endangered and illegal to harvest. She didn’t know that back then. That was a time when she still wore mascara because she didn’t realize the humidity here made applications pointless. Charlotte had simply asked for the ranch to be beautiful in the Malawi and African traditions, albeit with the comforts and amenities of her former life in the States.

  “Just do whatever the bitch wants,” she once heard her interior designer scream at a contractor, when she thought no one else could her. “Charlotte fucking Boone says she wants the kitchen lighting to drape like wilted flowers in an African Art Nouveau garden, make it so.”

  Her designer had been a ruthless, fast-talking, clipboard-carrying force of nature in a short, pencil skirt, but even she knew not to contradict Charlotte. In the end, the actress paid top dollar, and when she found out the timber for the ranch house came from illegal harvests, Charlotte simply made a large donation to the government’s conservation fund. That’s all she figured she could do. Money was no object to her at the time.

  Njemile, the ranch house caretaker, was in the kitchen that evening, and even though the large stone chimney was originally intended as a decorative flourish, she regularly put it to work. A large pot of bubbling nsima porridge hung over a small blaze as Njemile lathered a skillet of colorful chambo filets with goat’s butter.

  Charlotte and Moyenda tramped into the kitchen, and the aroma of simple food cooked well was thick in the air.

  “Looks wonderful tonight,” Charlotte purred. “Can I help with anything?”

  “Tomatoes, Miss,” Njemile pointed at a pile of small, cheerful fruit on the countertop. “Dice them up for me please.”

  Moyenda slid a hand around Njemile’s waist and planted a kiss on her lips.

  “You know you could dice them onions over there, Moyenda,” Njemile said, when he pulled away. “Don’t need to be women’s work all the time.”

  “I need to go water the horses,” he replied, raising his hands like he had no choice. Then he added something in Chichewa that made Njemile’s eyes roll but she smiled at him anyway.

  “Do we have enough plates out for everyone?” Charlotte asked.

  Njemile and Moyenda exchanged glances, and he removed his wide-brimmed hat suddenly looking serious.

  “Thako and his wife left today,” he said. “He wanted to be closer to his mom’s family. They were hit hard by bad rains last year. I been waiting for a good time to tell you.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid to give me bad news,” Charlotte answered, though she knew deep down this wasn’t always true. She knew the ranch hands worried about her temperament. And with good reason.

  Your career is over, Charlotte had once shrieked at an eighteen-year-old girl from New Hampshire. Poor girl had come to L.A. and ended up in Charlotte’s entourage with a wide-eyed dream of breaking it big herself. She was chewing pink gum with glitter in it, and as they were getting out of a limo that night, a bubble burst and got snagged in Charlotte’s hair. Then they were in a bathroom stall together trying to pull it out, Charlotte hurling abuses until the girl ran out with tears streaming down her face.

  Moyenda raised an eyebrow at Charlotte. “We need to talk about finding more hands, Miss. You see the herd is growing. We’ve been lucky.”

  This was a sore spot. Charlotte hated looking for new help. That was when there was the most danger. The danger of letting new people in. New people who might talk.

  “Yeah. Fine,” she responded with a sigh, then she turned to Njemile. “I’ll probably eat in the library tonight, so you don’t have to lay out a plate for me.”

  “You been feelin’ okay? All the hands would like to see you, and you’re not around much at dinner these days,” Njemile remarked, concerned lined in her face.

  Charlotte tried to smile in response, but it came across melancholy. “I’ve just been thinking about things since the news came out last week.”

  “About the American president? Good riddance. Do you think you will go back now?” Njemile asked, and Moyenda shot her a warning look. Njemile was trying to act casual, but there was no hiding that the news of the U.S. president’s death had set off a frenzy of speculation around the ranch.

  Charlotte’s eyes glazed over for a second, and then she shook her head.

  “No. I’m never going back.”

  Then Charlotte walked back to the library and shut the door behind her. She slid her socks off so she could feel the plush rug under her toes then poured herself a glass of gin before curling up on a couch surrounded by bookcases that stretched to the ceiling. They comforted her. The gin, and to a lesser extent, the books.

  Charlotte once hosted a friend at the ranch from her old life, from when she lived a short drive from Malibu and the world still carried boundless potential—from when she graced the covers of magazines and didn’t ride horses because black cars could take her anywhere she wanted to go. She had never loved that life either, not particularly. She was not the party girl she had worked so tirelessly to portray herself to be. But at least she had been adored back then.

  Her friend visited after the ranch house was built, and she had looked at the library with its oak bar, its clay fireplace, and the portrait of Charlotte’s father hanging over the mantel, and her friend accused her of trying to live out some colonialist fantasy. Her friend said the world could still use Charlotte Boone, that she was disappointing everybody by hiding. They argued for a while, and after that, Charlotte didn’t have anyone from her old life come visit.

  She had never had many close friends to begin with. Not real ones. Despite whatever entourage pics she posted on Instagram. Too cold, too calculating and demanding, too adept at lying—that’s what the papers used to say about her. Those characterizations haunted Charlotte. And they were all true.

  She sipped her gin and stared appreciatively at the titles on the spines on her books. Then she pulled a tanned zebu hide over her shoulders and had drifted off to sleep when there was a knock
on the library door. Through the skylight overhead she saw the first stars of the evening begin to twinkle, and a moonbeam shone on the dustiest books at the ceiling.

  Moyenda walked in.

  “Sorry to bother you, Miss, but we’ve been lucky again today.”

  “How is that?” she said sitting up, not fully awake. She ran her fingers through her long, auburn curls and found the nap had not done her hair any flattery.

  “We need an extra hand because Thako left, and today new help arrives.”

  Moyenda stepped back and revealed a white man standing behind him. He wore a grey shirt smeared with grease stains, and his face and arms were tanned to a golden bronze. There was a look about him that Charlotte didn’t quite have a word for at first but she would figure out later. Healthy. There was an illustriousness to his skin and to his posture. He could have been in his early twenties or his mid-thirties. It was hard to guess.

  The stranger looked serious at first, almost grim, but as he stepped into the library his eyes connected with Charlotte’s and he flashed a grin at her that was so wide she thought he might break out laughing. His brown eyes seemed to sparkle. There was something radiant and almost immodest about that look, like he was gazing upon some long-lost friend or family member. Charlotte was used to people having surprised, even emotional, reactions to meeting her given her celebrity, but this was different. This felt familial.

  “His plane broke down on the edge of the reserve,” Moyenda continued. “He said he is good with animals and could use a place to stay till the rains come.”

  Charlotte eyed the man up and down, and then she rose to pour herself another glass of gin from the oak bar.

  “I don’t need much,” the stranger offered, stepping forward. “Just food and a roof, and if I could be paid enough to buy some gas at the end so I can get airborne again, that’s all I would need. My name is Orion.”

  He extended a hand towards Charlotte, but she kept her fingers wrapped around her glass.

  “You fly around with no money and no gas? Doesn’t sound like a smart strategy for a pilot.”

  Orion didn’t mind the insult. In fact, it only made him grin wider. But it wasn’t a cold smile or even a secretive one. It was…well, joyful. Everything about his visage seemed to beam mirth from some deep unseen place in his soul that the rest of us anxiety-ridden people never get to see and never really understand. He didn’t look like a liar, she conceded that. His warm countenance seemed to leave little room for guile. But she found his presence here, at this time, unsettling.

  Her face must have clearly indicated her annoyance. Moyenda suddenly looked sheepish.

  “I’m sorry, Miss. I thought it a blessing he showed here today. I should have asked before bringing him here.”

  “It is quite a coincidence,” Charlotte said, raising an eyebrow and letting her skepticism hang heavy over the room.

  Orion laughed, and it felt like he was laughing at her. It felt like he found the untrusting look on her face amusing. But still, the sound was so clear and genuine and inoffensive that his cheer was nearly infectious.

  “I understand why you’re jittery, Charlie. I get it. I had no idea who was living here, and I’ll never tell a soul. I know that’s what you’re afraid of. A celebrity of your caliber has got to maintain her privacy, especially in these troubled times.”

  Charlie. It made her bristle.

  “And I didn’t mean to get Moyenda here in trouble,” he continued. “I twisted his arm to bring me here. So let’s make it right.”

  Orion reached into a pocket and tossed her a set of keys, which she caught as a flash of protest flitted across her face.

  “That plane is all I have in this world, and you can hold onto those keys until you trust me. I’ll stay till the rains come and beyond, however long you need. You’re in charge. You’re the boss.”

  She looked at the keys in her hand.

  “And what if I never trust you?”

  “Well, then I guess you get to keep the plane.”

  He was charming, no doubt, and his eyes took on a boyish glint as he made this offer like he was holding in some private joke—as if he’d be quite glad if she never returned his keys and kept him there forever. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, just a sliver of a second, her stomach lurched with the possibility that this man was important. Like he saw past her sharp tongue to what was underneath, somehow, that he knew her—the part of her that cried the night she overheard the interior designer call her a bitch or that other day when she sent the bouquet of roses to the girl from New Hampshire with the bubble gum. And maybe something else, more urgent, was there too. But then the feeling between them passed.

  “We have a no electronics policy here on the ranch. You want to communicate with the outside world, you can send a letter or go into town. You like Sharebox? Great, do it somewhere else. Do you have any headsets with you?”

  Orion shook his head. “I’m not a big technology guy.”

  He can’t be trusted, she reminded herself. It’s too much of a coincidence for a white man to be so far inland in Africa, at this ranch of all the ranches on this continent, and in these days that were so full of intrigue as the world crumbled into ash. He stumbled upon the one ranch where she, a white foreigner and a former Hollywood starlet, had chosen to hide herself from the hungry eyes of a vengeful people.

  He would need to be watched carefully.

  She pocketed the keys and then shook his hand.

  “Okay,” she said. “But I would prefer if you call me Miss Boone.”

  Before

  Catalina looked pissed. But she kind of always looked that way. Her coworkers liked to joke that she had “resting bitch face.” She laughed along when someone first brought the observation up at a team lunch event where she had two drinks, so now they thought it was an okay thing to comment about all the time.

  It wasn’t though. It bothered her.

  Her work was really the most important at Sharesquare Industries, and she knew it. And she was the smartest, though she had not been to schools with the same pedigree as everyone else in the room. The other women in the office had learned long ago that being too brilliant and too direct often flustered their male colleagues, so they always began their talking points with phrases like “I really don’t know what the right answer is, but perhaps we could try…” Or “there are a lot of great points here, has anyone considered…?” But Catalina was no good at that kind of talk. She didn’t like pretending she didn’t know what the right answer was.

  “Did you guys hear about that blog post someone made in the sales department about sexual harassment?” Catalina offered, breaking the silence in the meeting room as they waited for the CEO. “Sounds like some heads are gonna roll.”

  “I know the heads of those sales teams,” Devon responded, leaning back in his chair and looking at the ceiling. “They’re good guys. Really high performers. This ‘metoo’ shit has gotten way out of control. Those girls are ruining peoples’ lives.”

  Cat couldn’t help but stifle a groan. Devon was the only leader at the company over the age of fifty. He was hired from one of the older, now unfashionable Silicon Valley companies. Bringing him on in a senior role was a nod to investors who fretted that the CEO and his inner circle were too junior and lacking the polish and maturity needed to run a growing company. But it wasn’t Devon’s age that bothered Cat—not even when he walked around the halls in his socks to make himself seem younger. Rather, she found his ideas retroactive.

  Devon put one hand on his sizeable gut and another picked at the bald spot on his head, and Catalina just hated him. She knew she didn’t do a very good job of concealing it, either. She hated how adept Devon was at taking credit for the work of others while always managing to deflect blame. She hated that he loved to hear himself talk, and yet, everyone seemed to listen to him more than they did to her. She hated that h
e was almost certainly paid far, far more than her.

  Mike’s eyes rose from his phone and met Catalina’s, knowing Devon’s comment was likely to trigger her. Mike noiselessly mouthed “let it go.” Cat bristled.

  Let it go.

  It seemed like everyone was always telling her that.

  Like she should let it go that Devon’s project would be nowhere without her. It was her team that had spent the past two years developing Diana—the world’s most advanced artificial intelligence. She was the only executive in the Valley with graduate degrees in both human psychology and computer science, a genius uniquely positioned to marry the philosophical needs of the project with the technical challenges. It was her AI breakthroughs that made Devon’s project—a virtual reality social network—conceivable.

  Then there was Mike. Poor Mike. He was in his late twenties, like Catalina, and he wore plaid shirts every day and had a beard that he hoped looked wild and rugged, but which he actually meticulously maintained each morning. His team was working on the CEO’s vanity project. Not content with owning over 99 percent of the world’s income and their giant Bay Area houses and summers yachting off the coast of Italy, a cabal of the valley’s wealthiest techno-capitalists were on a crusade to defeat their one, last collective enemy: death. Mike was tasked with mapping the human mind to a computer, to effectively “download the brain” into a space where it could live forever.

  “Any progress on your whole, mad-scientist program?” Devon asked, turning his attention to Mike and blinking at him expectantly.

  “We’ve made some,” Mike answered with a shrug.

  “You know the human brain is more powerful than any supercomputer ever built, and it’s not even a close race,” Catalina said. “The brain outpaces the number of possible calculations a computer can do on the order of a billion billion. Computers have these limitations handing off functions between hardware and software, but the brain’s neurons have been mastering their craft for billions of years of evolution.”