by Hammond, Ray
Calypso was dimly aware of the cameras shifting behind the dais to find the best angle for a close-up as Tom took her hand and slipped the rings on her finger.
Then they were face to face for the first time. She tasted his mouth and found herself responding. As they held the moment for the cameras, the small assembly applauded.
When Tommy went scampering off again she knew why. He had begged to play a short interlude piece while the couple were led behind a vast Venetian screen to sign the official register of marriages that the notary had brought with him from Beverly Hills. By agreement they were also signing joint guardianship papers, hurried through the Californian legal processes, and there were also multiple legal and financial agreements to sign.
As witnessses Heather Garland and Mario Ginola rose to follow the couple, Calypso could hear the majestic opening chords and mighty descending bass notes of Sigfrid Karg-Elert’s Marche triomphale, a piece composed to celebrate the marriage union and to display the virtuosity and range of both organist and instrument.
Once all the paperwork was completed, Calypso and Tom returned to the centre of the huge room and into the full glory of the final reverberating chord of the Lutheran chorale. Waiters stepped briskly forward with trays of champagne, since bride and groom only had a few minutes to toast each other and to accept the congratulations of their guests. Even now, the recording of the wedding was being watched by billions on the networks. Shortly the floor manager would signal that it was time to walk out through the terrace doors and face the live TV coverage and the hundreds of guests gathered for the garden party.
Tommy suddenly appeared at their side, Jed under his arm. The synthesizer was now on automatic and was softly replaying Tommy’s performance of ‘It’s Our Planet’ to provide a coda. At this moment Calypso felt as if the planet were hers.
‘Cally?’
She bent and kissed his cheek, and he put his arm up around her neck and whispered in her ear.
‘Mummy . . .’
Then he got the giggles.
Calypso kissed him again and straightened up. ‘Well?’ she said to Tom, the single word asking so many questions.
He turned his head and looked deep into her eyes.
‘Well,’ he replied.
‘May I have some champagne, please?’ Tommy asked, in order to interrupt.
Tom smiled and allowed him a sip from his glass.
‘Hurrah,’ cried Jed.
‘Hurrah,’ echoed Roger.
Then came the signal from the great glass doors. Tom returned his glass to a waiter and took Tommy’s hand. Smiling, he held out his other hand towards his new bride.
Hand in hand, they walked out into the sunshine to greet the world.
Chapter Twenty-Six
His silver hair, craggy looks and genial demeanour had become familiar the world over but to the small crew waiting in the predawn desert the senior anchorman of the Tye News Network looked old, cold and miserable. As the generator-powered lights were switched on, the production assistant ran through her silent cue count, then gestured. The presenter suddenly turned on his most dazzling smile.
‘Good morning. I’m Bob Houston, this is TNN and these are the Ethiopian plains on the morning of Sunday, August thirtieth. Here in East Africa it is now five thirty a.m. and the people of one of the world’s poorest nations wait anxiously to see if the new climate-engineering technology promised by the Tye Corporation can finally bring relief from a seven-year drought. Many local people have stayed up all night dancing for rain – they call it a ngoma – and even as the light begins to arrive I can see black clouds over on the horizon. Let’s go now to one of the Halcyon weather planes over the Indian Ocean.’
*
Beneath the United Nations complex in Manhattan the section leaders of the Iambus team were watching it on the large wall screens of the Security Council’s private meeting chamber. Even though it was nine thirty on a Saturday evening in New York, none seemed eager to leave. They watched intently as the same weather plane transmitted aerial views of banks of low, moisture-laden clouds rolling towards the East African coastline.
‘For two nights now he’s been concentrating the output of four Solaris stations over the Indian Ocean,’ explained Rolf Larsson. ‘It does look like he’s managed to invert the atmosphere. The cold air of the ionosphere has suddenly been sucked downwards.’
There was no response from the group. They were all waiting for the moment.
The picture flickered and disappeared. ‘The damn networks again,’ muttered Al Lynch.
When the picture re-established, the location had switched to South Dakota where a group of Sioux Indians were engaged in a rain dance.
Deakin watched two middle-aged males in traditional costume and feather head-dresses attempt to recreate their forebears’ ancient dance of supplication to the rain gods. When they had circled a jug of water four times they would throw themselves on the ground and then drink the blessed liquid.
Deakin shook his head as the perspiring, overweight men parodied their heritage for the sake of the media.
*
Michel Geronde had risen magnificently to the occasion, deploying his army of chefs for almost ten hours in the cruise liner’s vast galleys. Now over 200 of the world’s elite and an equal number of their partners and senior staff were finishing off the banquet with his superb Nesselrode, a Russian iced dessert made with chestnuts, cream and preserved fruits, flavoured with rum.
At six other locations around the island, Geronde’s imported assistants were also producing meals for the hundreds of bodyguards, support staff, pilots and administrators that the VIP guests had brought with them to the tiny island. At all of these satellite banquets the diners could watch large wall screens displaying live broadcasts from the ballroom of the Treasure of the Caribbean so they too could feel part of the momentous events being celebrated.
It had been announced that the Tye Corporation was now leaseholder of over one and a half million square miles of Eastern Siberia, and a new corporate state – the second of recent times – had been created. The final cession documents had been signed earlier in the day here on Hope Island and President Orlov had made an emotional pre-dinner speech that praised Thomas Tye’s vision and informed the world that the Russian Federation was once again economically independent.
Then Thomas Tye himself had given a major performance. For half an hour he had addressed his guests in the ship’s enormous ballroom. He described to them his plans for Sybaria and the opportunities presented by climatic re-engineering. In due course, the entire world’s population could be adequately fed. Rain could be brought to arid regions and natural catastrophes averted. He focused, as always, on the benefit to the planet. All the delegates were starting to understand the full potential of his plans.
A full-motion simulation of the Phoebus Project and the Solaris energy-recycling stations had been made available on the networks to help the global population at large understand how their planet was about to be changed by the Tye Corporation’s new technology. Despite the degraded performance of the networks, millions of Tye followers had already managed to download this model.
As he reached his finale, Tom was standing directly behind President Orlov’s chair. He clamped both hands on his guest’s shoulders, glanced down at him, then back up to the cameras.
‘Take care of our planet, you hear?’ he declaimed.
The leader of a newly prosperous Russia was the first to reply ‘We hear’. Then he leaped to his feet to shake Thomas Tye’s hand. The rest of the guests also stood up as the TV cameras followed Tye back to his seat, threading his way through his smiling and applauding guests, shaking hands as he went.
Now, as the animated diners finished their dessert, the finely drilled regiment of waiters moved in to set a full glass of champagne in front of each of them.
Thomas Tye was seated at the centre of the top table, his new bride placed to his right. Next to her sat Tommy, very aware that he too
was a focus of attention. It was Calypso’s second formal event of the weekend and she had chosen a severe, tightly fitting black dress for this occasion. Since she had made her momentous decision two weeks before, her life had become a frantic whirl of network shopping and personal re-organization. The simplicity of her dress was thrown into sharp relief by the dazzling necklace of sapphires and diamonds. Almost every female guest there in the ship’s ballroom was displaying fine jewellery, although many had also integrated elements of the dress Equipage systems into their outfits.
Haley was chatting at the back of the room with her new friend from the Tye public relations consultancy when they heard a sharp hammering through the PA system. They looked up to see that a master of ceremonies, in a formal red coat, had appeared at the top table and was calling for attention. When the loud buzz of conversation subsided he pulled the microphone closer to him.
‘Your Majesties, Royal and Serene Highnesses, Mesdames and Messieurs Presidents, your Holinesses, your graces, excellencies, ministers, secretaries of state, my lords, professors, doctors, distinguished artistes, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your host, Mr Thomas Tye.’
Suddenly Haley’s view was obstructed by a wall of black tuxedos and elegantly bared female backs in front of her. She too rose to her feet but still could see nothing. With a grin at her equally diminutive companion, Haley slipped off her high heels and climbed onto her chair, her new friend following suit. Now they could see Thomas Tye bowing to acknowledge the tumult of applause. Haley noticed that the beautiful Calypso had also risen, turning to applaud her new husband, her huge smile suggesting real pride.
Haley opened her elegant new VideoMate and touched her sister’s screen icon. Felicity had issued clear instructions that she wanted to be with her sister at this moment – to share a more intimate, personal view than the one being provided live by TV cameras on the networks.
The two large screens at the end of the ballroom came to life, revealing giant close-ups of Thomas Tye and his bride. Tye raised his hands for silence and eventually the applause began to fade as the guests resumed their seats.
‘I am not going to make a second speech this evening,’ he began. ‘I only want to say three things.’
He paused and smiled down at Calypso. ‘I want to thank my new bride for all the love and affection she has already brought into my life and . . .’ he paused and looked at Tommy ‘. . . my son’s.’ He bent to pick up his glass.
There was a movement to his left as Marsello Furtrado also rose. Smiling widely, he leaned into the microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. This interjection was not scheduled, but will you join me in drinking a toast to the happy couple and their son?’
The room rose again as the guests stood and raised their glasses in salute. Then the banqueting hall rang with applause once more.
Standing on her chair again, Haley noticed that Thomas Tye had reddened somewhat at the unexpected salutation. He shook his head at Furtrado in mock annoyance, then lifted both arms again. Almost instantly, the room was quiet.
‘And the second thing is . . .’ he put his hands up to both his ears as though he was receiving information in his small diamond-decorated earpieces ‘. . . I am pleased to announce that the final total pledged for our Ethiopian Appeal has now reached . . .’ he paused ‘. . . One hundred and eighty-seven billion dollars.’
The sum flashed up on both screens.
The diners whistled and shouted, revered heads of state and global icons alike – all letting go. The TV cameras transmitting the event to the world meanwhile captured some delightful celebrity ‘off-guards’ as the great and the good revealed themselves to be every bit as excitable as ordinary people. At the far end of the top table Haley could see Josh Chandler’s brilliant smile adding to the sparkle. She had learned earlier that Tye Media Arts was to produce his next film.
‘So now, all that remains is . . .’ Tye nodded theatrically to the disembodied voice in his ears, then turned and pointed to one side.
Again the image on the screens changed. This time they could see rain pounding on an empty street and the camera pulled back to reveal torrential downpour bouncing off the tin roofs of a small township.
A double-deck caption appeared at the bottom of the screen.
Awasa, Southern Ethiopia
7.30 a.m. 30 August
The room erupted again and Haley found herself jumping up and down on her chair as she applauded. ‘He’s bloody done it,’ she yelled, partly to her sister, partly to her dinner companion and partly to herself.
Tye made no attempt at controlling his guests this time. He too turned and stared at the transmission.
Suddenly there was a flicker and the screens went black.
*
Death did not stop just because Thomas Tye was throwing a party and Doctor Mohammed Ebrahimi was duly grateful for that. He was in charge of the graveyard shift of grief counsellors in the LifeLines Operation Center – the shift he preferred as it gave him the opportunity to assist next of kin all across the American continents with difficult decisions about reserve floors, closed-casket outcomes and any pre-emptive bids that might be forthcoming.
He helped a trainee close a rapid deal with a middle-aged lawyer in Atlanta for the sale of his son’s principal organs – little was going to be available from above the neck since the teenage joyriders had tried to jump a rail crossing and had driven under a train. Then he walked out of the communications and counselling area of the LifeLines Center to stretch his legs and get a cup of coffee.
As he allowed the soundproof door in the glass partition to slide shut, he yawned, scratching idly at small ovals of hairy brown flesh that protruded through the gaps in his bulging shirt front.
Ebrahimi glanced up at the atlas on the wall displaying LifeWatch mortality alerts. The team maintained this display as a powerful graphic reminder that death waits for no one whatsoever and that NOKs will always be calling in. Above it were duplicates of the two display counters that regulated and stimulated all counselling activity next door. The first of them showed how much money was currently in play in the various auction systems that Easy Zee Zee had built. The second counter showed how many NOKs were currently holding network connections open while they waited for the chance to consult a counsellor and complete terms for an auction. Currently there were fifty-seven people waiting and the longest any had been kept waiting was twenty minutes. Ebrahimi frowned. That was far more NOKs than usual and, as a result, his team’s response times were deteriorating. He looked over his shoulder at the counselling centre. The heads in the many cubicles there all seemed fully engaged in discussions.
As Ebrahimi glanced back at the map display, it seemed as if the rash of white dots, currently at their peak on the nightward side of the planet, was growing denser as he watched. Each light indicated receipt of an upload alert from a LifeWatch that could no longer detect its wearer’s vital signs.
He hurried, almost ran, over to the system supervisor’s desk and pushed the diagnostic query button, watching the display system cut out and begin its reboot. As it did so, it ran a check of its input, processing and display systems. The white lights began to reappear on the world map as the test was completed, but now so densely that the pixels were almost fusing into continuous smears of white light.
Ebrahimi heard a system prompt and he looked down at the small desk screen. Diagnostic check complete. All systems 100% function.
The thanatologist leaned forward and flipped the output to display the network loadings at the LifeLines server hub. It showed a bandwidth usage of almost nine terabits. Their previous highest bandwidth requirement had been less than one, and that had been when an outbreak of Lassa fever in the Philippines a month before had briefly doubled the number of recyclable assets available for auction.
Ebrahimi stepped back from the system controls and looked up at the counters. The number of people waiting to talk to a counsellor was now 1,481 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 5 . . . 6. The co
unter was becoming a blur. He reached into the desk and punched a number at random: 755. He sat down and forced himself to switch to counselling mode. The woman was in her early twenties, of Chinese extraction, calling from San Francisco.
‘Mrs Young – I am Doctor Ebrahimi. How can we be of service?’ he began.
The NOK had been crying while she waited, but now her head snapped up. ‘His LifeWatch just cut in,’ she began. ‘It injected everything all at once.’
‘I am so very sorry to hear that,’ responded Ebrahimi automatically. ‘Please hold.’ He punched another number: 814.
The image showed a black man in his thirties, with a small girl seated on his lap, clinging to her father’s shirt front. He was crying silently, his tears falling on to her head.
‘It was her LifeWatch,’ sobbed the widower.
Ebrahimi cut the feed off before the man could say anything more and punched up connection 1370. This time he was looking at a wailing Indian woman in a black sari. He closed the screen and looked up at the map display again. Nearly 5,000 people were now waiting to talk to them.
‘What’s going on, Mohammed?’ It was Irene Desmond. She let the door to the counselling room slide shut.
Ebrahimi raised his left arm and examined the ostentatious gold Rolex Daytona LifeWatch on his wrist. He quickly undid the security clasp and eased the bioconnectors out of his skin. He let out a long sigh as he laid his personal health protector face down on the desktop in front of him.
‘Better take off your LifeWatch, Irene,’ he advised.
*
The sparks arcing across the frayed wires couldn’t be extinguished. Theresa kept shaking a kitchen towel at the rhythmic clacking glints, but they wouldn’t stop.
She opened her eyes and tried to see in the darkness of her room. The tapping continued as control of her consciousness was restored to her and her senses returned. The noise was coming from her window.
She turned her head to the clock. It was 3.42 a.m. She sat upright and immediately realized that she was still slightly drunk. It had already been a long weekend. She swung her legs out of bed, switched on her reading light and found her robe. The tapping at her window had stopped. Whoever it was had seen her light go on. She ran her fingers through her short, auburn hair and rubbed at her face.
