“He did control it.”
“It’s some computer that his father created.”
“It’s a lie,” Voltaire said with wide eyes. “He seemed like an idiot, and he always told that lie, but no such machine existed. He was in charge all along. And he willed control of his entire business and all of his fortunes to you. You are one of the richest men in the world. There, there, close your mouth. That’s why the Colonel blames you. She thinks you’re in control. And that’s why Russ wanted a fake Larry installed until he could figure out a way to change the will in his favor. Unfortunately, the will is locked by law and can’t be changed without express approval from you.”
I couldn’t register what Voltaire had said. It felt so surreal. “Is this what this is about? This is why you saved my life?” I asked. “You can have all his money. I don’t want any of it.”
Voltaire nodded as though he approved of my words.
And then it came back to me, how Larry invited me along to the business meeting before his death, the mysterious pieces of advice he alluded to. Was he trying to prepare me to take his place? But me? I was the worst possible candidate to leave all of this to. I was always a follower, always a person who supported those in charge. I never aspired to more. Voltaire’s revelation was so crazy, I couldn’t believe it. The only thing I ever wanted in life was a family.
“A lot to mull over?” he wondered.
“I don’t get it.”
“Neither did anyone else. I didn’t expect it.”
“I don’t want any of it. I just want out.”
“That’s what Larry said when he found out about us.”
“About you?”
“The crimes his father committed,” Voltaire said. “But when it came down to it, he couldn’t leave it behind.”
“What kind of crimes?”
“You’ll see. But for now, we have other matters to discuss.”
“Other matters?”
“Do you like the GEAs?”
Why was he asking me about the Global Entertainment Awards? “I’ve never watched them.”
“Why not?”
“Not interested.”
“My whole life, I grew up watching them. We were forced to. You see, we were told our hair was being shorn off to make hair for the rich and famous. We were told our lives were worthless apart from making the wealthy look more beautiful and handsome than they were. So every year, we had to watch these celebrities show up with hair cut from our own heads. I was envious of them. So envious.”
We watched footage from the GEA opening ceremony, the stars arriving on the red carpet. We arrived at the airport shortly afterwards, driving around the side to Larry’s private airplane in his private landing strip.
Voltaire went off to talk with his brothers and sisters. Another member of his family let me into the airplane, a huge jumbo jet with two floors. Larry often used this plane to ship his film crews. Multiple compartments had been installed for his private parties. It was a slick silvery color, a hybrid between a commercial plane and a military space jet. I was given one of the bedrooms and lay down to rest.
I wished I could have talked to Larry, asked him what was going through his mind. It was strange to think of myself as one of the richest men in the world. Memories from my childhood flooded me. I thought of my biological father beating my sister and me. My mother would scream, “Shut up! Shut up! You both deserve to die for crying so much! You idiots! You’ll be killed and no one will care. Do you think anyone will miss you? No one will care!” More blows, blood spilling everywhere. We’d both be punished by having our meals taken away for days at a time. I remembered competing with my sister to see whose stomach could make louder grumbles. It was always a happy event when my biological parents went traveling for business. Cousin Baochai would bring cans of Spam and we’d cook them, pretending they were a grand feast. Spam pizza, Spam steak, Spam burgers; we imagined what the food would be. We paraded around the house and made all sorts of noise, not having to be afraid of waking anyone. I used to be jealous of other kids who’d get nice lunches packed for them. I’d be even more jealous of the students who could afford to buy whatever they wanted at the school cafeteria. There were so many things I wanted when I was younger. I pretended like I didn’t care about anyone or anything, hiding behind the camera, recording all the things I’d never been able to enjoy. It was my only comfort.
Gene Liang was the name I was born with, the name I cursed. That name came to represent everything I hated and despised in my life. I wanted to shed it. When I joined the army and they gave me a chance to input any name I wanted, I picked Nick Guan, mainly because Guan Yu, a hero of Chinese literature, was one of my favorite characters. According to history, Guan Yu formed a new family with Liu Bei and Zhang Fei and swore a blood oath in the Peach Garden to become brothers. He was a warrior who valued loyalty and honor above all.
I swore to myself that I would start over, make my own way in the world and never look back on the past. That was the beginning of the end of my relationship with my sister, Kelly. But the onus of shedding the past became an albatross in all my relationships. I’d gotten so used to family members treating each other horribly, I had no idea how to do it properly myself. Even when it came to eating, I’d greedily eat as fast as I could, afraid someone else might eat it. Little kindnesses could be seen as vulnerabilities. As for hugs and warm embraces, they were absent and I had a hard time showing affection to women, even Linda. She basically had to retrain me in the art of family, what it meant for people to love each other rather than be at each other’s throats.
I struggled so hard to make it in the world. Working on Larry’s movies took up too many hours. But when I turned to a company job, I found out climbing up the corporate ladder and becoming a good automaton was beyond me. I couldn’t get used to the instability of it all and hated the miniscule cubicles with managers who’d yell at us for every infraction. “You think you deserve a job. There are a million people out there who would kill for your job!”
I failed at being a husband and a worker. I was laid off like all the other employees, hired and fired at the whimsies of corporations that didn’t care. Rather than opening up to Linda, I hid in a shell, got petty and cruel, argued with her over nothing instead of being grateful for what I had. Linda was a saint. I was so thoughtless, so unnecessarily mean in my verbal attacks. It was what I’d grown up with and I latched onto it as a defense mechanism. Poverty brought out the worst in me. Where Spam had been a welcome boon in my childhood, when we resorted to artificial meat under different brands, I got sulky. How could it be that after all these years, Linda and I couldn’t eat whatever we wanted? The travesty of it made me angry and I refused to eat anything she cooked. She couldn’t understand, thinking she’d done something wrong. I felt too petty to tell her what I was feeling. The misunderstandings compounded.
On TV, everyone paid lip service to the American Dream; the affordable suburban house with a decent job and the ability to raise a family in a safe environment. There were even some who complained that middle-class life caused disillusionment because it was too easy and boring. I had to wake up at five every morning, strap on armor, hope I didn’t get shot, and seal up our apartment so we didn’t get robbed while I was out working at a minimum-wage job which I’d gotten solely because I was a war veteran. Meanwhile, celebrities were worshipped and sports stars were treated like Olympians while the poor were hidden away so the media could project an image of invincibility to the world. Us, the indentured servants of the world, in plain sight, paraded when spectators came by, then told to get into place and play our notes in an insane harpsichord of broken chords. No one minded that the symphony sounded like a tune from hell as long as they were getting fat.
And now, an unexpected twist in things.
An irony of life.
Larry willed me everything.
I was rich. Richer than anyone I’d known or envied. And the odd thing was, I’d never aspired to it. Never even
imagined it.
I kept on wishing Larry was there so I could talk to him, ask him what he was thinking. I tossed in bed, unable to fathom what he’d done for me. I couldn’t believe it. No one ever did kind things for me. No one. I mean, I used to dream that someone would come along when I was young, tell me I’d accidentally been abandoned by a great family who had now come to claim me. But that never happened. The only people who had ever shown me true kindness were Linda and her family. They treated me like I was one of their own and I’d betrayed them with my insecurities, pushing Linda away when I should have held her in my arms. I was an idiot and accepted a life of solitude as payment for my idiocy. I didn’t deserve a family. But for Larry to have done this. I-I just couldn’t believe it.
This inheritance would have conditions like Voltaire and the Colonel. This was not bloodless money. But Larry’s act was more than I deserved. There was so much more I needed to find out.
VII.
Voltaire and his white-haired army were raptly watching the GEAs on a holoscreen in the middle of the plane. They’d removed many of the chairs and about fifteen of them were present. The screen was state-of-the-art technology that made it seem like the celebrities were right there in front of us, even though we were on deck and they were in Los Angeles. The ceremony had just begun and audiences could swap through one of the 30 live hosts, each with a distinct style. The same applied to type of music, type of scenery, as well as camera angles that could be customized by all for their viewing pleasure. “In the category of best naked body, we have—” the broadcaster was saying.
“Get a nice nap?” Voltaire greeted me.
“No. Can I speak with you? Privately?”
“You may speak freely. This is my family and I have nothing to hide from them.”
They were watching me, curious to hear what I’d say. All of them had a venomous vitality about them that I knew could be triggered to tear me to pieces. I had to be careful how I responded. “I have a journalist friend who I was going to tell about the hair and Larry’s death. I can still do it. If you help me to reveal this to the world, we can tell everyone your story.”
Voltaire and company snickered. “You think we seek justice?” he asked.
“Don’t you?”
“You think we seek the pity of a public who never cared whether we lived or died? No one will care about our story. No one,” he emphasized. “It’ll just be news for a day to them that they wonder over, then forget.”
I approached closer. “I think it’ll be more than that. You have real hair. That’s one of the most significant discoveries in history. They can figure out what went wrong, and at the least, make sure any wrongs they’ve committed get righted.”
“Oh, the governments of the world have known for a long time what’s gone wrong.”
“They have?”
“Of course they have.”
“What was it?”
“Everything,” and they all laughed again like they were watching a comedy and their laughter cues were lit up.
I didn’t understand. Didn’t they want things to get rectified? This was their chance. They could spread the word about any wrongs done to them.
Voltaire gazed directly at me. “What do you think about the Mars expedition?”
“I don’t know. It seems really expensive, especially right now.”
“But it’s captivated the world, no?”
“I guess so.”
Voltaire laughed. “It’s all fake, a charade to amuse people.”
“What?”
“A few of my spies found the media and visual effects departments creating the show. Did you know they’re located in Vancouver, not Mars?”
Suddenly, I heard screaming. Behind me, several of the men brought forward an actor that I recognized all too well. It was Jesus Christ played by James Leyton. At least the beard and the hair matched.
“Is that—?”
“Indeed. I promised you a storm. And now I will deliver it. I’m going to kill everyone wearing a wig at the Global Entertainment Awards. Then, I’m going to take over the broadcast of the Global Entertainment Awards and kill Jesus on live TV.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Last time someone did it, they changed the world. Pontius Pilate created Christianity by crucifying Christ and revolutionized the course of mankind for over two millennia. Will it be any different this time around?”
10. Cycles
I.
All eyes were on the Global Entertainment Awards. At first, I’d hoped Voltaire had been exaggerating or posturing. But then, the murders began on live television. There were gunshots and bombs going off. Scalps were being sliced and tattoos were torn apart by guards with huge machetes. The strangest part was that the networks weren’t cutting away from the carnage even though people were gushing blood, limbs were sliced off, and famous celebrities were being mowed down. Whoever was in charge of the media kept the feed live, audiences still able to alter the camera angle, zooming in and out of angles they wanted to see. Some of the corpses received particular attention with ratings in a side column indicating which visual spheres were garnering the most views. The editing was so precise, it felt like I was watching a movie rather than real-life footage.
“You can’t do this,” I protested.
“Why not? Is their life more precious than ours?”
“They didn’t hurt you.”
“They fueled the trade that killed countless of my brothers and sisters. And now it’s our turn.”
“What will this achieve?”
“In our world, entertainment is the only reality. Even wars are filtered by men like you. Did you ever stop to think about the ramifications of your edits?” he asked me.
I’d edited out a lot of dead bodies and explosions. “No.”
He handed me my Pinlighter. “Record us.”
“What?”
“Don’t play the hypocrite,” Voltaire warned.
“He’s not God. He’s just an actor,” I protested.
“The public can’t tell the difference,” Voltaire answered. “Turn it on.”
When I hesitated, he lifted up his chopstick. I felt foolish being held up by a chopstick, but I knew what they could do and complied.
His brethren put on masks of the faceless goons. They held James Leyton securely in front of me. He’d been struggling at first. But as soon as my camera was on him, he composed himself. My signal got picked up by one of the computers on board, syncing them together.
James Leyton became Jesus on camera and had a solemn gesture on his face as he pronounced, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”
“Oh we know alright,” one of them declared, prominently showing off the brand logo of Zhang Zhang on his arm.
They took off Leyton’s wig and started cutting off his scalp. Even though I didn’t like the show and had never bothered watching an episode, I couldn’t help but shudder at the sacrilege and the mockery of it all. The actor remained tranquil, or at least clung to it until the pain became overbearing. At first, it was a discomfiting gesture, followed by clenched brows. Within a few seconds, he was howling, unable to control himself. Blood had splattered everywhere and as the screaming intensified, he shouted, “Father! Into your hands I commit my spirit.” A knife was thrust through his mouth to silence him for eternity.
I shut off the camera, wanting to delete the memory from my head.
Voltaire put his arm on my shoulder.
“Now we take care of another impostor.”
They brought the fake Larry in. I dropped the camera and refused to film, rushing back to my room. I couldn’t watch Larry be killed twice, even if this one wasn’t real. A minute later, there was a chime on my door. I ignored it, but it rang multiple times.
“What do you want?!” I asked.
The door slid open and it was Beauvoir. “You shouldn’t let it bother you so much,” she said.
“It’s a massacre!” I answered.
“Murdering people on live television?”
“That’s what we’ve been driven to. It’s the only way to get people to take notice. Do you know what happened to that man who tried to enslave you at the cricket races?”
“No.”
“He’s in a coma because he suffered too much brain trauma during your match. He might as well be dead. Do you regret what you did?” she asked.
“Different situation.”
“How?”
“That was for my survival. What did Jesus ever do to you?”
She smiled and said to me, “I wondered after you. You were so beat up when I first met you. Cricket matches don’t suit you.”
I took a deep breath and kept my eyes away from her. “How is Tolstoy?”
“Good. Busy. He has lots to do in Gamble Town.”
“This is twice you saved my life.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were going to cut me up if you hadn’t sent Voltaire.”
“I couldn’t just let them kill you.”
“Thank you.” I stared at my Pinlighter. “The only thing I’ve ever been good at is taking pictures and shooting movies. I can’t believe I just shot a murder.”
“I like your movies.”
“You’ve seen them?”
She nodded. “After you left, Voltaire asked me to learn as much about you as I could.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised by the revelation.
Right when she was about to answer, Voltaire came up from behind her. “Beauvoir, Tolstoy needs to talk to you. Call him.”
Beauvoir nodded and slipped away.
“How many dead?” I asked.
“The death of every celebrity is worth 10,000 corpses,” Voltaire replied and it was sad to admit that people felt closer to the stars than their own family and friends. “We’ve almost arrived. Get yourself ready.”
Bald New World Page 20
