by RJ Lawrence
"This way," Romero said. The three crossed the hall and entered the elevator, a staggering silence ushering them along. In the lobby, they found Dominic waiting, a broad smile stretching across his face at the sight of Claire in her new dress.
"You look outstanding," he said, as he clasped his hands together. "I picked this out myself and what a job I did."
She forced a smile.
"Where are we going?"
He shook his head while clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
"Everything is a surprise this evening." He smiled and put his hands over her bare shoulders. "Relax, you're off the clock. Enjoy yourself."
They left the hotel in a limousine, two of the soldiers with them, each dressed in dark suits.
Outside Claire's window, the little city brimmed with electricity, vibrant neon signs glowing warm and brightly amid a diversity of human beings. Lured by every imaginable trapping, people entered and exited strange looking venues, some of these places bold and obvious along the street, others low and hidden down narrow steps that burrowed below the city's surface.
As the limo worked through traffic, she saw all manners of buskers doing all manners of tricks, their inverted hats beside them, gathering up bills and coins of varying denominations. People gathered around the performers with clapping hands and big, affected eyes, their attention swayed only by the prostitutes, who whispered sweet promises in ear after ear, while tickling with gentle hands the insides of thighs.
They approached an intersection and idled before a single red stop light, which dangled from a wire hanging loosely across the road. As they waited, Claire surveyed the neighboring vehicles, cab drivers beeping their horns at crossing pedestrians, smart cars like toys next to monstrous trucks, which rumbled and shook, as they belched dark smoke from their rears.
Soon, the light turned green and the limo pressed forward with the rest of traffic. For a time, they cooperated with the flow, moving slowly and stopping, as the vehicles choked the streets. At last, Dominic summoned the driver with the intercom.
"Somchai, go ahead and take the outer roads," he said.
"Sir?" Said the driver.
"It's perfectly alright, Somchai. Go ahead now."
The driver hooked a quick left down a dark, narrow street and accelerated past the guttersnipe, which eyed the gleaming black vehicle through wild, bloodshot eyes. Dominic looked at Claire.
"The city is well protected on its interior," he said. "On the outer streets, however, things are more uncertain. Most know better than to molest this vehicle. On the other hand, there are some degenerates who are either desperate or ignorant enough to make a mistake."
He put a hand on her knee.
"You needn't worry, though. This vehicle is impervious to gunfire and I can have a hundred well-armed men at my disposal in a matter of minutes."
She looked down at his hand and then up to his face.
"That's good, I suppose."
He smiled and nodded.
"Indeed."
He removed his hand and sat back in his seat, while the limo navigated a series of turns that led them away from traffic. Soon the lighting turned faint and the roads grew choppy, as they entered shanty neighborhoods, where shadowy figures scuttled about in the darkness. Finally, they pushed through these discouraging areas and emerged on a lonely road, which ran a circle around the unlit edges of the city. Outside, a great pale moon hung low and heavy over the barren landscape, where scattered vegetation stuck up sharply from the dry, dusty ground.
"Lower the window," Dominic said to one of the soldiers.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea, sir," the soldier replied.
Dominic lowered his eyebrows.
"It's a fine idea."
The soldier nodded.
"I'm sorry, sir. Of course."
He lowered the window and a flood of warm air filtered its way into the vehicle. A pungent floral aroma permeated their nostrils, though Claire could not identify its source out in the thin, pale light. One of the soldiers sneezed repeatedly into a handkerchief.
"I'm sorry."
Dominic watched the man as he attempted to gather himself.
"Perhaps we should shut the windows," Claire said.
Dominic frowned.
"That won't be necessary."
He summoned the driver through the intercom.
"Somchai, please pull over for a moment."
The limousine crept to a halt, while the soldier's face contorted oddly against another fearsome sneeze.
"Please join Somchai up front," said Dominic.
The soldier nodded.
"Of course."
He opened the door and exited, leaving Dominic and the remaining soldier alone with Claire.
"Was that absolutely necessary?" Claire asked, as the vehicle pulled forward.
Dominic shrugged.
"Very few things are absolutely necessary," said Dominic. "In any case, the fresh air invigorates me. Don't you find it invigorating?"
She shrugged.
"It's fine, yes."
They drove on, the vehicle jerking occasionally against the old broken road, its passengers clutching the seats to steady their jostled bodies. Finally, the limo made a sharp turn and pushed back into civilization, where strange, ambiguous faces peered out from the dark edges of the road. Claire watched as tall shadows stretched out from the city's center, which glittered with all makes of lighting that were welcome and missed. Soon, her body began to relax at the illusion of safety, though in her heart she recognized it as such.
When they arrived at their first destination, a very excited-looking Asian man met them on the street. He addressed Dominic in French, his demeanor humble and polite. They exchanged pleasantries and then they entered the restaurant where they were seated amid others of similar stature.
Claire settled in her seat.
"This is the premier dining venue within 500 miles," Dominic said, his eyebrows resting high upon his forehead.
Claire offered a smile.
"It looks it."
Dominic nodded.
"Well, in this case, looks are not deceiving."
They sat in silence for a moment and then a tall, thin waiter approached the table.
"How are you this evening?" he asked. Dominic put a finger up and replied in French.
"Oui," the waiter said. He turned and walked away.
"Do you speak French?" Dominic asked Claire.
"No," she lied.
Soon their table overflowed with an array of foods, over which not a single one she had a say. She ate sparingly while taking notice of the restaurant staff, their faces painted with disgust, Dominic seeming oblivious to this along with many other things.
"Wealth has its privileges," he said, as he forced a slab of liver into his cheeks. "People seek it like children to fire flies. Their arms flailing, eyes tracing a glimmer here, a glimmer there."
Claire stirred her food with an odd looking fork.
"But is that what they really want?" Dominic asked. He waited for a response. "No," he continued. "It is most certainly not."
Claire dropped her fork and looked up.
"What is it, then, that people want?" She asked flatly.
Dominic smiled.
"I'd like to know your opinion."
"Happiness," she said. "People want to be happy."
He smirked, as if he'd pulled the string on an elaborate trap.
"People say they want to be happy, but it's not true. Not even remotely." He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap. "They know the things that would make them happy: a new job, exercise, reading, eating better, spending more time with their children, things they write on pieces of paper, things they can only manage for a day or two. But they don't follow through with any of them. Instead, every day, they take specific steps to promote unhappiness, because happiness is not what they really want."
Claire leaned back in her chair.
"What do they re
ally want then?"
"Stimulation, of course," he said. "This is the only thing anyone really wants. It's what drives husbands and wives into the arms of others, what makes people drink, smoke. It's why people eat fast food, play sports, play video games, read, drive fast, jump out of airplanes, buy new clothes. My goodness, it's even why people get angry."
Claire rubbed her eye.
"Why they get angry?"
"Of course," he said, as he folded his hands together. "Anger is the perfect form of stimulation, because it makes people feel powerful. It's an antidote to anxiety, to fear. It allows you to say the things you've always wanted to say to those people of whom you're most afraid. You stand up for yourself, put people in their rightly deserved places. It's an artificial form of power. It creates drive."
He withdrew a cigarette and lit it, the staff taking notice without interfering.
"It's also about the only form of stimulation you can easily generate yourself," he said. "It's really no problem. Just think about that specific something or someone, and you're there."
Claire leaned forward, the gravity of the argument dissolving her angst.
"I think most people view anger as toxic," she said. "Few would equate it with happiness."
Dominic grinned.
"But that's the point," he said. "People don't want to be happy. Why else would a person toss and turn in bed at night embracing feelings of jealousy and rage? These things happen. They say, well I can't control my thoughts. Of course that's not true. The other thoughts are boring. The angry thoughts are stimulating. That's why they're so addictive."
He sat up.
"Let me paint the picture," he said, as he furrowed his brows. "You wake up in the morning feeling sad, helpless. What can you do about it? Not much most of the time. But within minutes, you can find your feet by conjuring up a good bit of anger. Before you know it, you're walking with a confidence, a swagger. You're stimulated. It's easy. Wake up sad or depressed? Get angry about something. People do it all the time without knowing it. Every day, they read the news, looking for stories that will set them off. They want it. They scan headlines searching for it. They want to be mad at someone. At the world."
Claire shook her head.
"That's not what I want."
Dominic pointed at her.
"Exactly. The world could use more like you. Or, better yet, more of you."
He smoked his cigarette and tilted his chin upward to exhale.
"But, sadly, you will die, just like the rest of us. But you will leave children behind, yes?"
She said nothing.
"Oh, that's right, you have no children. What a pity."
He brought his cigarette to his lips and then stopped short.
"When people such as you die, it is a tragedy for humankind. And, this, you will change through your research. You will remove the expiration date from human life and give humanity the gift of endless longevity."
She peered at him through caving eyelids.
"Humanity? You mean if my research yields a cure for aging, you would share it with humanity? Or would you keep it for certain people? People with money? People with power?"
He shook his head slowly.
"The gift of eternal or even extended life is not for the masses. It's not like clean water or medicine, which anyone should be entitled to. This thing we talk about must be kept from the ordinary, the people who would waste it, abuse it to taint the world with more of themselves, exhaust its resources and for what?"
Claire furrowed her brows.
"Kept for whom?"
"For those who have spent their lives contributing with their minds, people we need more of."
She took up her fork and stirred her cold food.
"Think about it," he said. "How much different might this world be if we had someone such as Einstein for even just another 30 years? Instead, we get hordes of ignorant people, mass producing with six, seven, nine children. It's a downward spiral. The worst of us growing in numbers. The best of us becoming rarer and rarer by the decade."
He smoked again and then crushed his cigarette out on an empty plate.
"That sounds like passive intellectual genocide," she said. "Would you have administered polio vaccines based on a person's I.Q.?"
"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "This is the only practical way to employ our coming discovery."
She stirred faster.
"Just think about it, Claire. You're far smarter than I. This world is already too small for its current burden. What you suggest is to increase that burden. You speak of endless life. A world where people never age, where they live without disease, without diabetes, without pancreatic cancer or heart disease."
He withdrew another cigarette and set it afire.
"What comes next is starvation, land wars, laws over procreation. Who can have children, when, and how many? Society is forever changed. We lose everything."
He put his fist down on the table and the silverware rattled.
"No. We preserve our way of life by withholding this thing. We crack Pandora’s Box just slightly to siphon its gifts, without unleashing a plague upon the world. Without ending it entirely."
He sucked his cigarette and watched her.
"Dominic," she said flatly. "I could debate you. But what's the point? Why do you even care what I think? I know you will do whatever you will, with or without my approval. I know I have no choice but to fulfill my obligation and make this thing you want. And I know it's only meant for those who can procure it through means of money or power. I know all these things and yet I still have no choice but to do as you wish. Why waste your time preaching this nonsense to me? What does it matter what I think?"
He pursed his lips and summoned the waiter, who delivered a check and quickly walked away.
"In time, I believe you will see things as I do," he said, as he placed five hundred American dollars on the table. "You are one of the brightest people we've ever had at our facility, and I want you to consider staying on after your term has expired."
Her eyes trickled upward to meet his.
"I'm only interested in getting back to my mother and my life."
He gave a polite smile.
"If that is what you wish, that is what you will have. But, again, I believe you may feel differently in time."
With that, he stood.
"Let's move on, now. I've made other arrangements for the evening."
They left the restaurant just as they arrived, the two sitting next to each other in the limousine, the soldiers across from them, their eyes vacant, minds seemingly elsewhere. When they reached their next destination, a short, bald man raced to open the car door.
"Mr. Betancur, it is our privilege to have you this evening," he said, without acknowledging Claire. "We have some of our finest ladies performing tonight. I hope you enjoy the show."
Dominic shook the man's hand and they followed him through the door. Inside, a crowd of well-dressed people stood shoulder to shoulder before a large, empty stage. He placed them at a center table and gave a polite bow as he left. Claire evaluated the room. It was large and dark and only slightly illuminated by low bursts of orange incandescent lamps that glowed here and there, turning the guests into featureless silhouettes that spoke to one another in all manners of foreign tongue.
"I'd like to visit the bar," Claire said. "Is that o.k.?"
"Of course," Dominic said with a smile.
She stood and crossed the room, weaving through a crowd of well-dressed men, their necks whipping back toward her, as if towed by some exotic gravity.
She lured the bartender over and ordered a drink. When it came, she sipped from it lovingly, the alcohol sifting through her vasculature, warming her body. She saw a man in an expensive suit eying her from down the bar, his jaw square, a boyish smirk bleeding from the corner of his lips. She finished her drink and raised her hand to the bartender, but before she could summon him, the lights winked out, and the place erupted in noise.
The girl wore a black, strappy corset, her breasts spilling over the top like great jiggling boulders. The crowd gasped as she approached the chrome pole, which jutted from the stage floor like an ill-placed support column. In an instant, she scaled the thing and wrapped her legs around the cold metal, her long black hair spilling downward as she leaned back, the line of her cleavage square to the crowd. As her fans applauded, she traveled the pole with a practiced sexuality that seemed new and fresh and just for you. When it was over, she left the stage to an explosion of whistles and cheers.
A train of performers followed, each more talented than the last, each costume more colorful, more revealing. As the girls played their roles, energy built and flowed through the room, the men driven to the brink by the brazen display of sexual confidence, some of the girls winking shyly, others flexing and stomping the floor.
Finally, a beautiful red-headed girl took the stage. Last and most anticipated, she drew a prolonged introduction from the announcer and a raucous from the crowd. As the lights flickered pink, she took the stage as if it were built just for her, drawing another girl forward by a leash affixed to a vinyl neck collar. The room became feverous as she teased and tempted the young thing with tickles from a feather and sharp lashes from a leather flogging whip. Soon, she was rid of the younger girl, banishing her from the stage with a stern slap to the face. Then she commanded everything: the stage, the crowd, time.
When it was over, the lights picked up a bit, and many of the guests filtered out. Claire stood up on her high heels and wobbled a little, her mind swimming under the influence of several cocktails. A strong hand took her arm and steadied her.
"Are you alright?" Dominic asked.
