by Robert Berke
Memorial books had been printed and were arranged on tables set on either side of the entry door. Each table also had a portrait of Elly Smith with a candle beside it that would burn during the service. Funeral flower arrangements of yellow roses, and white orchids and lilies were arranged in front of the podium and down the aisle between the chairs.
The decorator and her crew had just left leaving Kitty alone in the spacious hall. Kitty marveled at how the room had been transformed so completely. As she bent to fix a leaf on one of the arrangements lining the aisle she was struck at how difficult a task it must be to make roses look so sad and somber.
Kitty herself had also been transformed working with Sam Takahashi and Myra on the arrangements. Sam and Myra were busy with Smith's legal and business affairs. Neither of them had time to select floral arrangements, or decide how the chairs were to be arranged, so she made the decisions that had to be made. Nobody but she knew of the dozens of hours she had spent on the internet looking at pictures of memorial services so that she could exercise her own judgment and not be mislead by the designers and technicians she had hired. She even went to the library and borrowed books on etiquette. She spent an hour speaking with the minister who would officiate. And now, it looked as if the t's were crossed and the i's were dotted.
Earlier in the day, Myra had taken Kitty to a salon to have her hair done. The stylist cut her hair along it's natural contours, he explained, so that she wouldn't have to worry about it falling out of place during the service. All afternoon, Kitty tested this theory and it was true, her hair fell back into place with a simple shake of her head or brush with her hand. She wondered why she had never had a haircut like that before and then remembered...it cost $600.
Kitty also had a new black suit hanging in her closet. She only had it on one time, when Myra's seamstress was altering it for her. She remembered the cool soft feel of the silk against her skin when she had it on and suddenly, she realized that she was tired. Where is Mr. Takahashi? she wondered as she dozed-off in one of the slipcovered chairs.
Myra woke her up just a moment later with a hand on her shoulder, "come on dear, I'm going to get you home," she said as she led Kitty down to a waiting limousine. "Tomorrow's the big day."
Kitty slept well through the night and awoke refreshed and excited. Takahashi however, had tossed and turned all night. He was wired and fidgety. He had confirmed all but one of the speakers and reviewed their notes so that there would be no surprises. Bayron, however, was no where to be found and Takahashi had already called off the search party. It was clear to Takahashi that Dr. Bayron did not want to be found. Takahashi was thus working out contingency plans in his head. What if Dr. Bayron did show up? What if he didn't? What if he showed up drunk? He had to let Smith know. Myra let him into the lab where Hermelinda was seated in front of the monitor feeding her baby while faint cooing noises were coming from the speakers.
Smith's camera picked up Takahashi first. "Sam!" a tinny but distinctly human voice burst forth from the speaker. The apparatus had been worked on so much that the voice had developed a real timbre and warmth. It didn't sound exactly like Smith. There were still some non-human, electronic edges in the voice, but it was close. "How's the world's best-paid party planner? Is my show ready for prime time?"
"Elly, everything's in order. Everything looks great. But, I gotta be honest with you, we can't find Dr. Bayron. I haven't been able to review his speech notes and that's making me nervous."
The "ha-ha's" that came from the speaker resembled an actual goodhearted chuckle. "Relax Sammy. Bayron's been eating his heart out about this whole thing. He's nervous as hell about speaking in public. He's probably just sequestered himself somewhere to make his speech perfect. He'll be fine. He won't let me down. You don't have to worry about what he's going to say."
"I'm a lawyer Elly," Sam replied somberly, "its my job to worry. And today I'm sober enough to worry for us both."
"Go have a drink, my friend," Smith said jocularly, "you've done your job and it will all be over soon enough."
The morning had come far too early for Julian Waterstone, the Gazette's oldest working reporter.
In his small house on Nott Street his alarm clock rang with an insistent series of loud beeps at 8:00 a.m. Julian's arm, spotted with age and wrinkled, reached out from under the blanket and lethargically pressed the button for another 9 minute snooze.
My life is a fiasco. I wish I were dead. I wish I could just stay in bed. I wish I could just crawl under a rock and disappear. He dozed back off into some kind of not-quite-sleep when the alarm clock again beeped its insistence that he get out of bed and start his day.
His arm hurt. He didn't know why and he didn't care. His back creaked and he had to use his arms as support just to get out of bed. He considered that to be the price of living to be over seventy. Getting older does not beat the alternative, he thought. My friends who are already dead have no idea how lucky they are to be at peace.
Julian wished he could just be dead with them, but God wouldn't let him die. He tried not to wake up too much. He preferred to be a little bleary. He took a shower, put in his dentures, and dressed. As he walked out of his front door he said his daily prayer: "please, God, don't let anyone talk to me today." But his prayer was quickly denied. As soon as he got to the curb, his neighbor went jogging by with a friendly wave and a hearty, "Hiya, neighbor!"
Julian smiled and waved back, but both the wave and the smile were lies. Have a heart attack and don't ask me to deal with your stupid cheeriness, was what he really wanted to say.
I am a relic. I don't know why they still pay me. Not only aren't I any good at this job anymore, but I haven't given a damn about it in over 30 years. Seriously, he thought to himself, I haven't given a damn about reporting in more than 30 years. I wish I was dead. Elly Smith. That guy was a complete ass. Why does he get to be dead and not me? What did I do to deserve this.
Julian had won awards for his reports from Korea, Vietnam and Washington, DC. When he hit 60 years old and no longer wanted to travel, they let him work locally, reporting from City Hall, and covering the crime beat. At 70, they suggested that he cover the obituaries and the social scene-- an assignment Julian called the last-gasp hospice of dying journalism careers. And he didn't care. He couldn't stand to retire and he didn't want to work. Obituaries was both his salvation and a constant reminder of how much he just wished he was dead.
The Smith memorial service. What a crock of shit. He would have to make it seem like Elly Smith was some important person. He wasn't important. He was just rich. But the readers already knew that. He'd try and get some quotes about what a wise and generous man he was and how loved he was and how much he would be missed. 10 paragraphs because of his stature in the community. He didn't have to go, he'd written the same obituary for 20 self-important corpses in the last two years alone and they were all exactly the same. He was only going there to pretend that he still had some journalistic integrity.
As he pulled into the parking lot, he remembered the two other times he had been at the SmithCorp Building. The first time was to cover the building's dedication. The second was just a few years ago when SmithCorp hosted a symposium of scientists, philosophy professors, clergy men and some other kooks and weirdos to discuss the ethical implications of "living machines."
Julian wrote 10 paragraphs about the symposium which were edited down to two paragraphs and presented next to an ad for a penis enlargement clinic on page 5 of section B. Apparently, all that was important was who was there and what they ate. Julian thought the topic was interesting and thought that one day he might even write a book about it, but he had forgotten the whole thing rather promptly. He did remember one presenter, a fellow named Bayron who had taken the position that a "soul" is merely a religious term for self-consciousness and any machine that is aware of its existence could be said to have a soul. Julian had waited for one of the other geniuses at the symposium to jump up and down and take offense-- maybe o
ne of the priests-- to this idea since it would by implication suggest that once a human being has lost self-awareness then that person could be said to be living without a soul. Julian doubted whether he had a soul. I'm not self aware-- I am only aware of mediated representations of myself. Thus, I have no soul.
Now that he was dead, Elijah Smith would become nothing more than a mediated representation of who he once was. Smith's entire existence would be reduced down to whatever words Julian Waterstone decided to write in his obituary while the real Smith would be buried in the ground with his dead body. What Julian Waterstone wrote in the Gazette would take over and become the truth about Elijah Smith, regardless of its actual truth. Waterstone knew that his words would necessarily redefine the deceased in the way people wanted to perceive him and that this posthumous fiction would serve only to the negate the complex man that he probably was. With every obituary he wrote, Julian Waterstone carried the guilt of having lain the final executioner's blow to whatever legacy the deceased himself perceived that he would be leaving behind.
Julian wondered if he had written that book when he had first thought of it whether he would still be hauling his ass around to symposiums and memorial services at the age of 75 for fear of loneliness and obsolescence. He wondered if this fellow Bayron would be there. He would have liked to ask him a few questions.
Julian parked in a handicapped spot close to the front entrance of the SmithCorp Building. He put his handicapped parking card on his rearview mirror and thought that the close-in parking was a damn small reward for having suffered more than 25,000 days of shit. He took a sip of coffee from the travel mug in the center console of his Buick and slipped his press-card dangle around his neck. He turned in his seat, put his feet on the ground, and his hands on his knees to push himself up and out of his car.
My damn shoulder hurts, he mumbled to himself. But he didn't really care.
Kitty had assigned herself the job of giving everyone who came in a memorial book and helping them to find a seat. Friends and family had a section, employees had a section. Guests of honor and speakers were to be escorted to the front. Members of the press had a section in the back.
Kitty was thrilled when she saw Julian coming toward the door. She knew that he might not want to be recognized. Some men could not let it be known that they had ever been to the Moviestar Topless, much less frequented the place. She had seem him drop in from time-to-time in the late afternoon in a wrinkled suit. He would order a beer and sit quietly in the back, never getting a lap dance and never wanting to talk. Nonetheless for some reason she was thrilled to see the familiar, if not necessarily friendly face.
Julian recognized Kitty, but couldn't remember where he recognized her from. Kitty wanted to spare him the embarrassment of reminding him where he knew her from and simply told him that indeed they had met several times before. She told him to sit up close with the friends and family and Julian said that he was supposed to sit in the back because he was with the press. Kitty said to Julian that she personally considered him a special friend and that she would be honored if he would sit in her seat near the front.
Julian was amused by the special treatment he was being given by this beautiful, elegant, and sexy woman and politely obliged. He slipped his press pass off and put it in his pocket as he went and sat up close to the stage. It'll be nice to be able to hear, he thought as he settled into the seat Kitty had directed him to. If every moment in my life was like that, he thought, maybe I wouldn't want to be dead all the time. It's nice to have the attention of a beautiful woman, even if only for a moment. Then it struck him where he knew Kitty from and he chuckled to himself. He suddenly regretted the many times he had refused her offer of "a little company" at the bar when he realized how the small piece of attention she had just afforded him had already made his day. He turned in his seat and smiled at her. She smiled back and gave him a little, flirty wave. He winked and nodded his head. How could he have forgotten? He always thought she was the prettiest one there.
As the guests took their seats, Takahashi was up in the lab talking to Smith.
"Elly, Bayron is still not here," he said.
"Well that's a disappointment, but life goes on," Smith said with no hint of concern. "No one will probably notice if he doesn't speak. No one really reads the programs at these things. If he doesn't show up, we'll hire an investigator tomorrow. But I'm sure he'll be here." Smith was secretly glad that Bayron had disappeared. Bayron was the one keeping him off the internet, after all. And worse, had lied about it. "By the way, speaking of investigation. I know you've been busy with this service, but have you had any opportunity to look into those names I gave you?"
"Yeah, actually I have. I think you're going to be pretty shocked. Is this the best time to discuss that though?"
"How did you find the time to do the research?" Smith answered with a question of his own.
"Believe it or not, remember that stripper you met at the Moviestar Topless? You hired her to babysit me?"
"Kitty?" Smith asked, drawing the name out of his now-infallible memory.
"Katherine O'Malley," Takahashi corrected. "Yeah, believe it or not she practically pulled this whole thing together herself. I think you're going to be pleasantly surprised. I actually had some time to start doing some real digging; and like I said, you're not going to believe what I found out. The first guy was pretty easy. 'Kovaretsky' is Sergei Kovaretsky. He was the Politburo's Secretary of Defense when the Soviet Union collapsed. Now, he's either a businessman or a politician or a mobster, depending on who you ask."
"Sounds like an interesting guy," Smith interjected.
Takahashi continued. "Anyway, he's a rich and dangerous guy. We know that. Probably not as dangerous as the second guy on your list, though. This, Vakhrusheva fellow was former KGB, very high up. Might still work for the Russian government or military, very mysterious character. Rumor has it that he is also on Kovaretsky's payroll."
"The muscle, I'm guessing," Smith mused.
Takahashi nodded agreement, "Now the most interesting of this triumvirate is your Ashkot. Now Ashkot is probably Yuri Ashkot who was a former general in the Soviet military who was the head honcho in charge of a good chunk of their nuclear arsenal. No bomb got built, moved, aimed, tested or anything without his nod. And that's when we get into some real serious mythology. Supposedly there were three secret codes built into every nuclear launch facility constructed under his command. One code was provided to the Secretary General, the other was provided to the Secretary of Defense, Kovaretsky, and the third, "Code Number 3" was known only to this guy Ashkot. In other words, the Soviets could not launch a nuclear warhead without his say-so. Sort of the ultimate fail safe. Again, unconfirmed, but apparently that's a big part of why there have been no nuclear attacks by terrorists or rogue nations. Even though a lot of missiles and other hardware got out on the black market, almost nothing can be launched without Code 3."
"Wow. That's crazy." Smith said recognizing the scale of his understatement. For the first time ever he felt glad to be locked away in a box with no face to show his expression or subtlety of voice to betray the fact that he was already familiar with "Kodeks nom tri": Code Number 3.
"Get's crazier, pal," Takahashi continued. "Apparently, about five years ago, Ashkot disappears. Literally disappears. Off the Radar. Destination unknown, in the wind, now you see him, now you don't. Hiding? Dead? Kidnaped? Abducted by aliens? No one knows. This guy is potentially the most powerful man on earth. He has the key to unlock a huge, HUGE, nuclear arsenal. These loonies that might have obtained a black-market nuclear weapon from the former Soviet Union would pay billions--maybe trillions--to get the information that's in this guy's head, and he's...," Takahashi put his hands together at the fingertips and pulled them apart quickly, "...poof!"
"Any idea what that might have to do with me?" Smith asked even though he already suspected that Ashkot was alive, at least in part, and living within him, giving him dreams of Russia and fee
ding him names.
"I've got no idea Elly, but I do know these are dangerous people we are talking about."
"Well, I guess that's really all I need to know. Forget about it for now. We've got my funeral to attend to."
Takahashi got up to leave, but Smith spoke again, "Oh, and Sammy, not a word about this conversation to anyone at all."
"''Nuf said," Takahashi replied comfortingly.
Julian listened intently as the Reverend went through the religious part of the service, pausing often to make reflections and share some stories from the Bible. Julian enjoyed the Reverend's words. He had attended many funeral services and, so far, this one had been quite nice. The Reverend had given him some food for thought. Nice words. Maybe, he thought, they just seemed extra nice because he was in such a good mood now. He glanced back at Kitty again and she gave him a little wave. Late arrivers were still trickling in and she was handing out the programs and pointing them to their seats as they did so.
The Reverend introduced a Ms. Myra Shiltz as Mr. Smith's longtime personal assistant and close friend. Julian took a few notes. Wonderful boss, caring person, great sense of humor. SmithCorp succession, who will be in charge, shareholder's don't have to worry. Charity work, scholarship fund in Smith's name, blah, blah, blah. That's funny, Julian noted, she's not crying.
The Reverend came back and announced a change in the lineup, Dr. William Bayron was unable to be here so Smith's private nurse, Hermelinda Posada, would speak next.
Hermelinda explained the course of Smith's disease, how the shafts that the nerves go through had started to harden making it increasingly difficult for his brain to communicate with the rest of his body. Julian took notes in shorthand: very painful disease, loss of body control, muscle's waste away, eventually, the nerves in the brain don't work. Smith put up a brave fight, invested heavily and dedicated much of SmithCorp to the advancement of a cure, contributed to the research. Julian stopped listening and writing notes when it occurred to him that this speaker wasn't crying either. He took a look around the room.
