Sycamore

by Craig A. Falconer

  Randy waved a finger in the air. “There’s no we, hotshot. Your money will be your money. The only advice I can give you is to deliver the benefits of your idea in the present tense. All good pitches centre around selling the benefits, and words like is and does do that better than will. Say “my idea changes everything,” not “my idea will change everything.” Even for the past, present is better. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s actually good. I hadn’t thought to sell the benefits as if they already exist.”

  “Can I help, too?” asked Sabrina.

  “Of course you can,” Kurt smiled.

  She put down her spoon. “Well, our teacher says it’s a waste of time trying to make someone want something. You have to make them think they need it.”

  “What subject was that in?”

  “Marketing.”

  Kurt turned to Randy. “When did they start teaching nine-year-olds about marketing?”

  Randy shrugged. “It’s good advice though.”

  “It is,” Kurt agreed. “Thanks, kid. So I’ll tell them that my idea will give them what they need.”

  “No! Remember what Dad said, too: tell them that it gives them what they need. Always present tense. And move your hands when you say the important words.” Sabrina sliced the air like a ninja.

  “Honestly, champ, I wish you could do the pitch for me. You’d walk onto the stage all adorable in a little dress and then just blitz the judges with marketing spiel and choppy hand-gestures. No one would know what hit them! At least you’ll be watching, though, right? It starts at 7.30 and my pitch should be about 45 minutes after that.”

  “What time is it now?” she asked.

  Kurt looked down to the clock in the bottom left of his vista. The time popped up. “Holy fu…Uncle Kurt has to go! It’s almost seven and I’m due there at quarter past. When did it get so late? I’ll go and say bye to JJ and ask him to clean this up since you helped make it.”

  Kurt ran upstairs and opened the bedroom door to find Julian lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. He was wearing earphones and looked pretty tuned-in to whatever his phone was streaming to his Lenses. Like Sabrina, he had their mother’s blonde hair. Other than that he looked like a younger, healthier, angstier version of Randy. Kurt saw nothing of himself when he looked at Julian.

  His bedroom was a mess but no worse than Kurt’s own. The walls were unusually bare for a teenager’s room and there was no TV, just space and dust where it had sat before he gave it to Sabrina when the UltraLenses rendered real screens obsolete.

  Replicating the experience of watching TV was one thing the Lenses did brilliantly. They effectively worked as two screens, capable of creating visual depth in the same way that humans did without them. Native 3D full-screen immersion wasn’t for everyone and was only compatible with specially-filmed content, so the Lenses offered a range of viewing options. Video could be displayed in a box of any size and at any angle so as to give the illusion of distance.

  Some people liked to watch a 42-inch screen ten feet from their chair; the Lenses let them. Others preferred a laptop-size screen at arm’s length; the Lenses gave it to them. All a user had to do was select the desired size on their phone and the virtual screen would stick to its set location. Kurt knew that Julian would see his video whichever direction he faced because his eyes had that unmistakable glaze of someone in full-immersion.

  He kneeled down by the bed and took out one of Julian’s earphones. “Yo, Julian.”

  “What the— Oh, hey Uncle Kurt. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got to run to the big contest. We made soup but your dad said you wouldn’t be hungry. It’s there if you want some, though. I came up to let you know I was here.”

  “Cool. I’ll be watching. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, kid. And do you think you could clear up the kitchen in a little while? Your sister helped me with the cooking and your dad’s not really up to it.”

  Julian sat up. “Why would you make a mess if you’re not going to clean it up? If you’re leaving then she can do it.”

  “I told her she didn’t have to. She helped make the soup.”

  “And the mess! It’s nothing to do with me. I’m not doing it.”

  Kurt sat down on the bed. “You know, I was only nine when you were born — the same age Sabrina is now. And I was your age when she came along.”

  “So?”

  “So she had two parents and four grandparents but I was still expected to help out. Now it’s just your dad trying to raise the two of you and you don’t give him any help. Do you not think maybe he’d like to sit down like this now and again, staring at the ceiling like there’s no one else in the world?”

  “He sits around the house all day! What do you think he does when we’re at school? Even you do more than him.” Julian lay down and put his earphones back in.

  Kurt pulled one out again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well you don’t work, either, but at least you’ve got your computer stuff.”

  “So you would rather I’d spent the last four years working at Tasmart or in some other dead-end job instead of studying? Is that your idea of how to get ahead?”

  “Other people work while they study.”

  “Other people weren’t building what I’ve been building until three and four every morning! I could have had loads of money if I’d spent that time working but sometimes rewards have to be deferred. You should be old enough to know that.”

  Julian sat up to bring his face level with Kurt’s. “What rewards? Your stupid homemade operating system isn’t going to suddenly take over the world. Stop pretending it’s anything more than a hobby.”

  “Maybe the OS was a hobby,” Kurt conceded, “but I’m not talking about that anymore. This contest is to find the best device or service to complement the UltraLenses. It’s really a publicity stunt for the SycaPhone but I’ve got something that will make their stupid phone obsolete before it’s even announced. What you can do with the Lenses now will seem like nothing once you see what I’m talking about.”

  “Why, what is it?”

  “Something that’ll win me a job for life at Sycamore. We’ll be all set. I’ll have more than enough money for all of us.”

  Julian rolled his eyes and lay back down.

  “You know what?” said Kurt, rising from the bed and moving to the door, “No. Not for you. For me, Sabrina and your dad. If you don’t worry about anyone else then why should anyone else worry about you?”

  “It’s alright. I know that no one has worried about me since she died. Not him and especially not you.”

  “Stop being such a little drama queen. You lost her that day, fine. But what about your dad? He lost both of his parents and his wife, and the ability to provide for his children.” Kurt saw that Julian seemed to be really listening, for once, so he kept going. “And his son blames him for all of it. How do you think that is for him?”

  Julian was quiet for a few seconds then looked up at Kurt. “Get out of my room.”

  Kurt slammed the bedroom door and noisily descended the stairs.

  “What the hell is going on?” asked Randy.

  “Your son is turning into an asshole, that’s what. Everything is always about him.”

  “He’s 14, Kurt. Of course everything’s about him. You can’t just go in and tell him you’re leaving so he has to do the dishes. Did you even ask how his day was?”

  Kurt ignored most of what Randy said. “When I was 14 I had to—

  “And Julian isn’t you! Everyone else isn’t golden-boy Kurt, alright?”

  “Why did I even come here?” Kurt shouted, inches from Randy’s face.

  Sabrina tiptoed out from the kitchen to see what everyone was yelling at. Kurt kneeled down beside her and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Watch the contest on channel 43,” he whispered. “Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “I promise I’ll win it. Just for you.”

  ~
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  Kurt’s anger took him beyond Randy’s rusty gate before he realised that he had left without collecting a bus fare. He was going to be late and the rain was back.

  Returning to ask for money with his tail between his legs wasn’t an option so Kurt continued into the soaking night. His quick feet arrived at the dead cat’s corner to find that the birds had been scared away by the rain. Kurt chose not to look at the cat for long but he couldn’t avoid the offensive smell, even worse now that raindrops were lashing the corpse and carrying its blood into the sewers.

  Fresh death was pungent and the air was full of it.

  His hurried walk turned into a run until he was clear of the smell. He slowed down and focused his gaze in the bottom-left corner of his vista to call up the clock again. Its warning that he was due backstage in ten minutes saw Kurt’s pace pick back up. He was a good runner — admittedly less so than normal, thanks to the squelching loafers — so arrived at the university’s ancient campus only a few minutes late.

  The plan had always been to visit Professor Walker before entering the auditorium. Everything else in Kurt’s plan had gone woefully wrong — it had decided to rain; he couldn’t afford to get a bus; birds had started eating cats; Julian had provoked him into snapping at Randy; he had made a foolish promise to Sabrina; it had decided to rain again — but he wasn’t prepared to budge on this. Asserting control in the present would give him a much-needed sense of control over the evening as a whole, however feeble such reasoning appeared to the more rational side of his brain. The ‘visit the kids’ section of the plan was a write-off but ‘visit the professor’ and ‘win the contest’ were still up for grabs.

  He was already late, anyway.

  Kurt buzzed his way into the building and knocked on Professor Walker’s door. He heard a muffled shout of “just a minute.”

  His eyes darted to a text notification as he waited. The message expanded. “Sender: Randy Jacobs. Good luck, hotshot. Just keep your head. Rx.” Kurt reached for his phone to reply but was startled by the door jerking open.

  “Jacobs! What the hell are you doing here? You should be backstage by now. And why are you so wet?”

  “It’s raining.”

  The professor studied Kurt’s face. “And my other question?”

  “Right. I just came to thank you for everything. Not just getting me the entry... everything else, too.”

  “Thank me by doing yourself justice out there. Right now I need to get going, and so do you. Walk with me.” Professor Walker reached for the large yellow umbrella behind his desk before following Kurt into the hallway. They ran down the Computer Sciences building’s four flights of stairs and arrived at its rain-splattered revolving doors. The professor held his umbrella over both of their heads as they went outside.

  The campus buzzed with excitement but the air between Kurt and the professor was silent. Normally the two were full of debate about some new app or piece of hardware; not tonight. As hesitant as each was to let the other know, both were nervous.

  They walked past the duckpond, gleeful rain bouncing on its surface, and Kurt thought of something to say that would take his mind off the contest for a few minutes. “I saw two birds eating a cat today.”

  Professor Walker came to a halt. “I don’t even know what that means. Are you alright?”

  Kurt continued for a few steps and with no umbrella to block his view he belatedly noticed the massive announcement written in the stars above the city: “#Sycamore #UltraLenses Talent Search: Live on Channel 43 NOW! ~ Brought to you by #Lexington.”

  Amos advertised the event as a Talent Search rather than a technology contest in an attempt to capitalise on the public’s insatiable appetite for televised talent shows and auditions. The professor seemed unimpressed with the message as he looked up to see what Kurt was staring at and quickly refocused on his protégé’s anti-evolutionary ramblings. “Birds don’t eat cats, Jacobs. Have you been skipping sleep again?”

  “Well, yeah, but I still saw it. The Lenses said they were common ravens. The cat had been run over and they were just standing there pecking away at it. One looked up at me when I walked past, like he was trying to send me some kind of mes—

  “Stop talking. Just stop. You need to get your head in the game. You know, if you win tonight I’ll have two former students working at Sycamore. I must be doing something right.” The professor resumed walking and pulled Kurt along with him.

  “You mean Minter?” asked Kurt, clearly displeased. “He’s a rat.”

  “Come on now, Jacobs, he apologised for all that. And he’s grown since then.”

  “Yeah, into a bigger rat.”

  “Fine. Let’s not talk about Terrance. How are you approaching the pitch?”

  Kurt was much happier talking about this. “I’m going to sell the benefits of my idea as if they already exist and be animated while doing it,” he said. It sounded good. “The only thing I’m still debating is whether to frame those benefits in terms of power and money or innovation and progress. What do you think?”

  “Amos has the final say,” said the professor, “so go for progress. The UltraLenses already have most of the market; now he wants to see what they can really do. That’s the point though, it’s about what the Lenses can do. Everyone else is going to be talking about what their innovation can do for Sycamore and trying to butter Amos up. Don’t be like everyone else. When you get on that stage and look Amos in the eye, ask not what technology can do for Sycamore but what Sycamore can do for technology.”

  It was more or less the angle Kurt had planned to come from. “Thanks, Professor.”

  “And remember that Amos likes to sail and he likes to fish. If you need to hook him, well, hook him with something about the sea. What are you pitching, anyway?”

  “The future,” came Kurt’s automatic response.

  The professor laughed. “You’ll have to be more specific than that with the judges.”

  “I will be, and you’ll hear the details when they do. You always said that patience was everything.” Kurt grinned at his favourite teacher and patted his shoulder twice.

  No other student, past or present, would have dared even dream of behaving so casually with Professor Walker, but he had grown to expect and more or less accept it from Kurt. He shrugged it off. “Patience might be everything to me but I’m not Isaiah Amos. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly and I stuck my neck out in giving the wildcard entry to one of my own students. I need you to grasp that.”

  There was a sudden urgency in the professor’s voice. Kurt sensed it and sought to reassure him. “Relax,” he smiled. “You chose well; I’m going to win. This thing is too big not to.” He felt sorry for Professor Walker caring about the integrity of a rigged contest but didn’t want to burden him with the explosive knowledge of the SycaPhone deceit.

  “And I’m rooting for you, Jacobs, but there are twelve other brilliant minds sitting in there desperate to impress Amos. Do you think any of them are 23-year-old kids who won’t listen to advice? I know how much you’ve put into this and I could give you tips on pitching the idea if you’d just tell me what the damn thing is!”

  Kurt considered the professor’s words but decided to continue the mystery. “Sorry, but I can’t tell you any more than you already know.” As he spoke they reached the auditorium’s side entrance, where all contestants had been due to arrive ten minutes earlier. He pointed to his wrist and then the door to excuse himself.

  “Fine,” said Professor Walker, more annoyed than he sounded. “But can you at least tell me why you can’t tell me?”

  Kurt nodded and opened the door. “If I told you what it was, you wouldn’t let me pitch it.”

  2

  A clipboard-wielding production assistant confronted Kurt as soon as he arrived in the backstage area. “You are so late!” she shrieked. “There won’t even be time for makeup.”

  “I don’t need make-up,” said Kurt, “just a towel.”

  “Fine. Stay here and
I’ll get one.”

  He waited in the empty corridor until his helper returned. “That was quick,” he said.

  “We’re rolling in three minutes! Run through to makeup and try to at least dry your face. There’s a mirror there but you seriously have to be in your seat like right now. You’re in the second row with the other contestants, eight from the middle. Whenever someone is called to the stage the rest of you are to move along one seat. Understand?”

  “I’m sure I’ll manage.” Kurt opened a door marked MAKEUP and entered the small changing-room. It was deserted but for a pretty girl of around his age and the stylist who was working on her. The girl had red hair and two too-cute freckles on her nose.

  He walked over to the wall-length mirror and saw that his hair and face looked even wetter than they felt. A furious once-over with the soft, Sycamore-embossed towel made him fairly presentable. As Kurt tried to move a detached eyelash from the top of his nose, his Lenses recognised their own reflection and a short annotation appeared beside his head in blue writing.

  “Kurt Jacobs. 23. Single. Unemployed.”

  Focusing on the words for three seconds would have called up more detailed social information but Kurt knew himself well enough to skip it. The girl with the freckles was more of a mystery, though, so he studied her eyes. She was wearing Lenses.

  “Kate Pinewood. 22. Single. Occupation undisclosed.”

  “Hey, Kate,” he said, holding her gaze. Nothing else appeared.

  Kate’s head shot round accusingly. “What the hell are you looking at?”

  “Nice. You don’t seem to be in much of a rush. What’s so special about you?”

  “I’m the last pitch,” she explained, turning back to the mirror. “I can sneak in at the end of the row anytime after the contest starts. Like it’s any of your business.”

  Occupation undisclosed. The last pitch. “So you’re the SycaPhone girl,” he realised aloud. “Best of luck out there.” A look of horror crossed Kate’s face. Kurt winked at her via the mirror. “Don’t worry, I’ll warm them up for you.”