by Ed Miracle
Philip stopped pedaling. “Fifty days since we announced Makers a month ago?”
“Right.”
Philip resumed pedaling. Twenty days to share twenty-five million more machines. Damn.
Tanner adjusted the video screen on his treadmill. “So what’s the good news, Art?”
“Mavens. People who connect with lots of folks. Mavens can spread a meme by sheer enthusiasm, like those viral clips on YouTube.”
“Marcy Johnson’s interview has been out there for two weeks,” Philip complained.
Art switched to pidgin. “Dat interview gonna kill you, Brah. You say more machines, more machines, but da lady say whatta bout da peoples? You gonna lose dat one, Brah. You gotta take it to da peoples.” Then back to English. “So far, we have less than a dozen new enclaves.”
“What about mavens?”
“Well, I’m trying,” Art said. “But our guy Philip Machen would be a perfect maven. He could show up anywhere, and people would gather to listen.”
“Before they lynched him,” Philip added.
“Depends,” Art said. “You gotta fire up the friendlies, Boss. Identify your base and get ‘em moving. Give ‘em reasons to join the cause. You could be the maven for a whole lot of folks, but you gotta put some skin in the game. ‘Cause it’s their game now, isn’t it? They’re the ones risking the consequences if they follow you. You’re just a trickster who messed with their heads and upset their routines. They don’t care if you play peek-a-boo with the federales. Lots of them think you deserve some jail time. But you gotta get out there and press the flesh, man. Touch some folks. Kiss dem babies. ‘Cause right now they could use one good messiah.”
“What?”
“Do it for real,” Art said. “Save their asses.”
Philip swung off the bike and paced away. He returned to glare at Art. “What sort of moral chameleon do you think I am? I can’t do that. Everybody’d know it’s a lie. It would only confirm the propaganda.”
“So don’t lie,” Art said. “Don’t claim to be any sort of savior. Just be one. A real messiah would save us now, before we’re dead.”
Philip clenched and turned away. “I’m not a fraud, dammit.”
If he started playing messiah, he wouldn’t be himself anymore. He’d be living a lie, the sort of malarkey he and his parents despised. The truth at any price, Son, including the price of your life. It was a bedrock tenet of his family. The Powerpods maneuver had gained him a foothold for Makers, but it had cost him Karen Lavery and thousands like her. The damage from more sleight-of-hand could ruin everything if it boomeranged. Yet if he waited for people to develop Freemaker sensibilities and share their way to new communities, the bullies and fear-mongers might grab all the Makers and co-opt the advent by force.
Maker copies aged and degraded at the same rates as their originals, so shelf life would eventually drive people to share fresh comestibles. But that could take months.
He sought the purple V on his wrist, which tipped into an A as he raised it. His secret A-for-atheist: a permanent reminder of the sectarian hatred that killed his family. And of his younger self squatting in the snow before a burning house, unable to stop the evil. But he was no longer a kid, captive and impotent. He had friends now, allies, and the latent testimony of 55 million Makers.
Art Buddha was right about showing himself, about taking a risk. Leonard Machen had never given up on the American public, never feared their potential for sectarian violence as Philip had. The only way forward was to find people who wanted to move in that direction. And to help those people. No more waiting. And no pretending. He had to let go of his expectations and accept the obvious. Only one person could save the Maker advent.
“Download Art’s manifesto,” he said to Tanner. “Then find the most active enclave. We need to go there.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sao Paulo, Brazil. Wednesday, May 20
Day Thirty-three
They landed at dusk, in a drizzle that blurred the great city around them yet barely lubricated the windscreen wipers. Tanner taxied their retired Federal Express cargo jet toward the customs apron at a deserted freight terminal. He followed the yellow line to a numbered space facing a rusty chain link fence, where he shut down the engines and opened the cockpit door. Winter huffed into the cabin, uninvited.
Outside, a single sodium-vapor lamp generated more glare than illumination. Two vehicles rounded the left wing: an official white sedan flashing an amber beacon, and a somber black van, an Airporter Special. Tanner lowered the aluminum extension ladder they used for a stair, and Philip descended to foreign concrete, acutely aware he was betting the future of the advent, and possibly his life, on the goodwill of people he’d never met.
Tanner joined him, dressed alike in navy blue FedEx uniforms, complete with captain’s gold sleeve markings, matching epaulets, and a winged medallion over the breast pocket. If the customs agent emerging from that amber-blinking car didn’t accept their documents, there was no way they could turn the plane around quickly enough to escape. Philip calmed himself and let his worries congeal where they would.
The customs inspector approached them in a reflective vest, limping a bit, and clutching a wooden clipboard.
“Bem vinda,” he said without enthusiasm. “Welcome.” He did not smile but nodded as Philip offered their passports and a fake transit order.
“We are dead-heading,” Philip said. “No cargo.”
The inspector nodded. He fingered their passports but did not open them. He looked up to the cockpit where Chuck Zarbaugh, their bald-headed flying partner, was hauling up the ladder and shutting the door.
“He stays with the plane,” Philip said, “for security.”
Customs scanned their FedEx form with a flashlight. “Tomorrow departing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No cargo?”
Philip nodded. “That’s right.”
The inspector indicated their overnight bags. “No drugs or weapons?”
Tanner held forth the bags, but the man ignored them and glanced over his shoulder.
From the black van, a stout figure emerged and stood a few paces away, his back to the glare and the fence, his face in the shadows. He clasped his hands before him like an usher.
Customs said nothing. He produced a pocket stamp, which he rolled onto each passport. He dated the marks and returned the documents. Then, without a second glance to the attending stranger, he limped to his car and drove away, bestowing amber flashes on the mists and drizzle.
“Mr. Machen.” The mystery man approached, dark and tanned, about fifty years old. He could be a peasant or a boss: strong-like-tractor, smart-like-bull. Despite his plain cotton jacket, an impeccable white shirt and tailored slacks bespoke a man of means. “Otavio Frias,” he said.
Philip released the breath he was holding. Otavio Frias was the Powerpods franchisee for Northern Brazil. During an email exchange on Monday, Senhor Frias had offered to assist them. Philip shook the man’s hand and hoped his sense of connection was mutual.
The drizzle gathered into rain, and the men hurried to the passenger compartment of the black van. Otavio shut the door and spoke in Portuguese to the driver. As the van circled away, Otavio rubbed his hands. He produced a thin, glossy book from his jacket, and offered it to Philip.
“Please, senhor. Will you sign for my wife? She is a fan.”
Astonished, then pleased, Philip accepted the book and relaxed into his seat. Someone had published his online Maker Advent and bound it in warm Brazilian hues. The cover featured a hand-drawn Maker at the pinnacle of a familiar Rio de Janeiro landmark, its dark cones spreading arm-like over the city. In place of the Corcovado statue of Christ.
Oh, shit.
He showed it to Tanner, whose eyebrows spoke faster than his mouth. “Whoa.”
“I can’t sign this,” Philip implored. “This is not why we came.” He returned the book. “Whoever printed this is trying to get somebody killed.”
Otavio nodded and brushed invisible crumbs of doubt from its cover. He tucked the book away and leaned closer.
“You should know what you are up against, senhor.” He searched Philip’s eyes. “What we are up against.”
Otavio must have influenced the customs inspector on their behalf because their bogus transit order could not have withstood scrutiny.
“Thank you, Senhor Frias. Your assistance is most—”
Otavio raised a finger to his lips, then indicated the driver.
“We will discuss your vacation plans at the condomínio, senhor.” He winked and turned away.
Philip folded his arms, tried to absorb Brazil through rain-dappled windows. Their van hurtled passed an idle checkpoint onto an unlighted frontage that conveyed it up a ramp. Heading west on the freeway, they accelerated into the spray thrown off by heavy traffic. Low buildings near the airport gave way to apartment clusters, fifteen or twenty stories high. In the distance, taller spires marked the bright, downtown hub of the city. But Philip had not come for lights or skyscrapers.
He was here for the slums, the favelas, and one in particular. On a hillside northwest of Guarulhos International Airport, five thousand impoverished and heretofore powerless residents of favela Xavier were holding off the Brazilian Army. Whatever the issues behind that confrontation, Tanner and Philip had discerned a brave and spontaneous Freemaker enclave defending its right to exist. These favelados, who had so little to lose and so much to gain, might show the rest of the world what a Maker enclave could become.
The van left the freeway and arced onto a tree-lined boulevard clotted with cars and darting scooters. Gradually, the pavement narrowed and roughened. Where it turned lumpy, there were no streetlights, just a dull glow cast by surrounding apartments, dozens of them. The road ended at a concrete wall and an open gate that admitted them to a turning apron. They disembarked under the gaze of three security cameras. Otavio waved to the guard inside as he led them through a vacant lobby.
“In Brazil,” he said as they entered an elevator, “we have five social classes. This condomínio is class C, mostly salaried workers, what you in America call middle class.” He pressed a button marked 12. “The wealthy elites are class A. Professionals and business owners are class B. The working poor are class D. The remaining thirty percent of Sao Paulo live in favelas which have no legal status and are controlled by gangsters or militias. Right now, the militias are winning.”
At floor twelve the doors opened, and he led them to an apartment at the end of a baren hallway.
“Please, come in.”
Off the common room with its chairs and sofas were a tiny kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bath, all painted white and floored with uneven parquet. A single bulb in the stove hood provided weak illumination. Otavio drew back a wall of curtains, revealing two windows and a glass door.
“Behold our neighbors.” He unlocked the door and led them onto a narrow balcony. Twelve stories below, an invisible stream of water swished and gurgled, bisecting a swath of inky black soil and debris. Across the divide, heaps of dark and tangled shapes arose, a crust of packing crates and boxes deposited on the hillside by successive tides of human backs and shoulders. Between them flowed meanders of greater and lesser darkness, punctuated by eerie blue flickers from video screens. Voices thrummed and music tinkled. A chilling breeze carried the scent of mud, of sewage, and of over-cooked food. “Favela Xavier, gentlemen.”
“Don’t they have Pods?” The place was darker than Philip expected.
“Hundreds of them, but only two Makers.” Otavio led them back to the common room, shut the patio door, and switched on the lights. “You have to understand, senhor Machen. They are prisoners.”
Philip traded glances with Tanner.
Otavio hauled a Cambiar from his pocket and tapped it. He spoke to it briefly in Portuguese. Satisfied with the response, he folded it away and motioned for his guests to be seated.
“When you live in a favela,” he said, “there are no services, no police, no courts, no rights. To the government and the other classes you are not legitimate, you are not gente. So the gangsters and the militias control everyone who lives there. No one leaves or enters without their permission.
“These militias,” he said, “are mostly cops, retired or off-duty. Regular cops don’t go there, but the militias invade with machine guns. They kill the gangsters, then impose their own rules. They extort money, demand information and favors. Makers threaten their authority and their profits, so they don’t allow them.
“Also with the traficantes, they still have their drugs and their guns, but cash is worthless and former clients stay home now, to make free cocaine. So the gangsters hide in their favelas and fight the militias just to survive. For themselves, they keep a few Makers. But both sides control who owns the Powerpods, and both sides forbid Maker cones.”
Philip sat heavily on the sofa, his plans for tomorrow deflated. “So, what is the Army doing here?”
“Ah.” Otavio inhaled his disgust. He sat opposite Philip, elbows on his knees. “That is our complication, senhor. To keep the militias out, our resident traficante, a thug named Kojo, has kidnapped the daughter of an Air Force colonel. Her name is Mariela Santos, and she is eight years old. Presidente da Silva herself has declared that if this little girl is not returned by Friday at noon, unharmed, the Army will crush favela Xavier.”
A long moment passed while Philip digested this. Even Tanner slouched in his chair. What could they hope to accomplish, now? Favella Xavier wasn’t the active enclave they were seeking. It wasn’t an enclave at all. How could they lead these people away from conflict and toward a sharing sensibility, during a siege? Philip rubbed his face.
Three knocks, light but firm, brought Tanner and Otavio to their feet. Otavio strode ahead and gestured for calm.
“It is not the police, senhores. I have invited a friend.” He peered through the peephole and unlocked the door. “You will like her, I think.”
A trim European woman in a blue medical jumpsuit entered and waited for Otavio to secure the door. Hawk-nosed and alert, she wore her dark hair in a bob and her face in a tight mask of done-everything competence. Otavio introduced Dr. Jacqueline de Beir, a Belgian physician who worked for the charity, Doctors Without Borders.
“Dr. de Beir would like to join us,” Otavio said, “if we go into favela Xavier tomorrow.”
Her keen eyes swept the room and registered their pilot uniforms. She moved past Tanner to confront Philip.
“I know who you are,” she accused. “I will not betray your presence in Sao Paulo.” She ignored Otavio’s gesture to be seated. “There is a fever, Brazilian dengue, endemic to favelas, often fatal. Tomorrow I will bring a vaccine to inoculate the children, who are most susceptible. And you, if you have not received it.”
Philip nodded.
“But what I want,” she said, “is Mariela Galena Santos.” She looked at Otavio. “You have told them about her?”
“Sim, sim,” Otavio said. Yes, yes.
“Then you will take me with you.” Her expression dared Philip to deny her. Noting the wrinkle of concern that creased his brow, she said, “I will be safer than you will be, senhor.”
Philip believed this, agreed to include her if they proceeded tomorrow, but warned her it might not happen. “Complications,” he said. She declared herself to be a realist, thanked him, and turned to leave. She lectured Otavio in curt Portuguese as he escorted her to the door.
He chuckled as he bolted it behind her. “She said I must make you do it.”
Philip scoffed, too tired to appreciate the levity. The problem of bolstering an existing enclave had become the impossibility of creating a new one within a prison camp. They should not waste their precious time. Yet, who but these favelados had a greater need for Makers? What good was the advent if it only helped prosperous North Americans?
“Okay,” he said. “This is going to require some coffee.”
Otavio described hi
s contacts within the favela and outlined his preparations for tomorrow’s giveaway. He still thought they could pull it off. After mentioning the food they would copy, he ventured a wry smile. “My wife calls it our loaves-and-fishes party.”
Philip stared. Had Otavio read Art Buddha’s manifesto, too? Philip shrugged and took a Cambiar from his valise, attached a screen and a keyboard, and began making lists. If they were going to do this, they needed a plan. They worked until midnight: brainstorming, debating and, finally, deciding.
TWENTY-NINE
Otavio’s Apartment. Thursday, May 21
Day Thirty-four
Otavio woke them at dawn—middle-of-the-night, California time—and had his cook serve them a black bean stew with rice and melon slices. No time for coffee or chit-chat before he led them downstairs and out through a security gate. Otavio wore the same cloth jacket as yesterday, but against a cold and lidded sky, he added rubber boots and a tarp hat. Philip and Tanner followed in gray pants, hiking boots, and hooded white sweatshirts.
They crossed the creek, single-file, over a downed utility pole, scrambled into grass and brush still dripping from the night rain. Downstream, atop the security wall of the next building, an armed soldier saw them. He turned his back. They continued up a footpath beaten through the foliage. It led into a canyon that widened before rising to steep rock cliffs on either side. From the heights, a mist swirled and dispersed, part liquid, part slum breath.
Otavio’s route forked at irregular intervals, branched up weedy paths between rotted brick walls or wood or cardboard. Like a child’s enormous Lego fantasy, two thousand rectangular boxes clung to the canyon walls. Painted brightly or not at all, the shacks seemed truncated, as if a mad barber had scissored their flat tops. Rivulets that gathered beneath the shanties became ropy veins that carved islands out of dense mud and rocks, before tumbling into the creek. Philip leaped from stone to plank to brick, until there were no more.
