Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5)

by Dean C. Moore

  “I’m guessing they’ve always been there, the way night follows day,” Santini said.

  “Put that thing away,” Mort groused. “I have enough horrors to contend with in our time.”

  Gretchen collapsed into a chair, wiped her eyes, grieving the loss of Lupey as if it had just happened. Santini guessed she didn’t like feeling helpless, was angry at herself for not being there to step in, as irrational as that sentiment was, no doubt, even to her.

  Mort glared at her. “I think she’s a secretor. You know, one of those people who overdo everything.”

  “Easy there, big guy,” Santini said. “In case you didn’t notice, that’s a few billion people impacted over the last seventy years, the cost of their lives rising steadily beyond their reach, on account of that day. Seems worthy of some kind of reaction.”

  “Maybe it would be good to find me somebody to pound. I am feeling a little antsy,” Mort said.

  Gretchen composed herself, and rose from the chair. “Come on. Maybe we can find one of these miracle workers with a portal into the past and future. We can rescue these inventions, no matter when they were made, and when they were covered up.”

  “Now look, here, Sister Gretchen,” Mort interjected. “We have a day job, and as much as it pains me to do it, preferring the retired life, I do gotta eat. More importantly, I gotta drink. And booze, the poor man’s ticket to heaven, isn’t so cheap any more.”

  “I have a small dowry,” Gretchen said modestly, “I was saving for when Santini and I got married.” Santini’s eyes went wide. It was the first time he’d heard mention of marriage. He supposed he should have been offended, it being a forgone conclusion, but he seemed strangely comfortable with the idea. She said, “It should see us a good many years into the future, provided you confine your drinking to what’s in our subjects’ refrigerators.”

  Mort hesitated. “Deal. In these depressed times, who isn’t an alcoholic?” He blazed the trail to the front door. “Well, come on. I’m anxious to enjoy my retirement. Even if it comes at the expense of enduring this carnival of freaks.”

  Santini realized the dead scientist on the floor lived in the Oakland fringes, like LL before him, supporting Gretchen’s theory that steep prices were forcing the creative types into regions they wouldn’t have before considered going.

  Santini and Gretchen smiled wanly at Mort holding the door for them. Gretchen grabbed her box of paper formulas, holding it like her father’s ashes, and stepped gingerly toward the door.

  Pausing before the dead body, Santini tipped his hat, and said a few last words. “May you hold off going to heaven to help us on our quest from the other side, so no more meet their ends like you. We’ll take all the help we can get.”

  Gretchen nodded, pleased by the last-words ceremony.

  Santini planted his fedora back on his head, and strode toward the door.

  Outside, they got a rude reminder that they were indeed in Oakland, and not Berkeley.

  A group of gang members were assaulting an old woman for her social security check.

  Mort pulled out his .44 Magnum. Santini was already reaching for the earplugs he kept in his pocket. Mort blew three gang members away, one with each shot. Standing that close to Mort, even with the earplugs, the report of the gun was like a cannon going off in Santini’s ear.

  The other gang members fled, as they gave return fire. Mort gunned the rest of them down, five more altogether. It didn’t matter if they hid behind the door of a car, or a telephone pole. When he couldn’t get them with the .44, he reached into Santini’s pocket and satisfied himself with The Judge. One shot per customer, as was his style. No wasted bullets. And no wasted time. He had his retirement to think of, after all, and it wouldn’t be fair to curtail that in the name of the public good. That just wasn’t his style, either.

  “I feel a hell of a lot better,” he said, handing Santini back his gun.

  “There was a time when that kind of clean up made one hell of a difference,” Santini said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mort complained, “I get that the nature of social work is changing. I can still enjoy the simple pleasures.”

  Santini reached the old woman in time to feel for a pulse, and catch the last heartbeat. He closed her eyes for her, made the sign of the cross over her forehead. “May you forestall your visit to heaven to help us on our way, and to see no others like you follow.”

  “You make a damn fine priest,” Mort said. “I’m glad Sister Gretchen’s not the only one around here with a soft touch. There are certain things I’m no good at. I admit it.” He took his cigar-cutter out and a cigar, and trimmed the edge of the cigar. Lit it up, surveyed the mean streets of Oakland he loved so much. “Smell that smog. All those heavy metals get in your body, puts iron in your pecker, keeps the muscles and bones strong.”

  Sister Gretchen shook her head. “The things we tell ourselves.”

  Where to next on this magical mystery tour? Santini wondered. The way things were going, the next eruption could come from anywhere. He was beginning to realize the creative types had fled far and wide in their desperation to stay alive and do their thing. Maybe far far beyond Berkeley and the Oakland-fringe.

  “We’re going to need more than a shortwave radio to keep track of them,” Santini suggested.

  Gretchen nodded, understanding, without further explanation, though she had no answer for him.

  FIVE

  “Good of you to venture across the pond,” Lady Harding said, allowing Robin to take her hand. Robin gazed back at the pond on the estate grounds, not remembering having come that way.

  “She means across the Atlantic,” Drew whispered under his breath, his English accent coming to the fore like a float attached to a fishing line, momentarily submersed by the weight of the anchor of all his American ways. In a normal volume directed at Lady Harding, he added, “I’m afraid she just speaks crass American.”

  Lady Harding giggled furtively. “Well, that should make her popular with the boys. They love all things dirty.”

  Robin didn’t mean to be rude, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off the estate grounds, manicured to perfection. “You’ll have to show me around the gardens. I’m a nature lover,” she confessed.

  “If you have a few days,” Lady Harding said. “It’s a safari.”

  “It’s a few thousand acres,” Drew said under his breath, embarrassed.

  “You have your own national park?” Robin said.

  Drew explained, “She isn’t English landed gentry, mother. I’m so sorry.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Harding said. “I love showing commoners how good we have it, and what a pain in the ass all this wealth is. When I’m done, you’ll be happy to let us keep it all. I’ve been curing envy for generations.”

  Robin noticed Lady Harding looked well-broken in at sixty-some. Maybe supporting the weight of all those lavish clothes had taken its toll. Maybe the touch of arthritis she noted came from bowing, and curtsying, and glad-handing, and the repetitive motions common only to the ruling elite. Play nice, Robin, it’s Drew’s family. And besides, she probably felt embarrassed herself, being previously married to some minor duke or lord from which she took her title.

  Her latest husband was from Dubai, chosen for the latest infusion of wealth into the family blood line. The steep price we all pay just to keep hanging on to the old way of doing things. And just think, Robin, if Drew had been born male instead of female, you’d be enjoying even greater wealth at his expense, thanks to equally old-fashioned rules governing inheritance. She decided to show some charity, considering the vagaries of life.

  “Just how big exactly is this castle?” Robin asked, eying the stately edifice.

  “Technically it’s a palace,” Drew corrected her, “built for comfort, not protection.” He could speak in a normal tone now without embarrassing himself, as Lady Harding had slipped into her car with the help of her chauffeur. Her arthritis forbade a walk the rest of the way. The car was an ultra-rare
(only five made) 1914 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost Labourdette. Robin had never seen solid white tires on a car before. The fenders rising over the tires were obviously inspired by seafaring ships. As it drove off, Robin couldn’t argue it held a lot in common with schooners setting out to sea.

  Drew, responding to Robin’s question regarding the size of the palace, said, “The mummified remains of a few drunken guests have been discovered over the years, the poor souls having lost their way inside the house.”

  “Ha-ha,” Robin said.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Designed for comfort, huh?” Robin said skeptically.

  “I suppose the notions of what constitutes ‘homey’ have changed over the years.”

  Drew led them in through the servants’ entrance, which Robin imagined was meant to dull the shock of transition from her world to the world of the uber-rich.

  Robin paused. “Drew, there’s a man ironing the newspaper.”

  “It’s to dry the ink so it doesn’t wipe off on the master’s hands,” Drew explained.

  “Just how many servants do they have?”

  “A few hundred. And please don’t refer to them as the servants.” Drew reined in his impatience with a deep breath. “There is a complex hierarchy of rankings that mirrors the ones separating the English royals themselves, and everyone is very proud of their station in life. Those that aren’t, will kill each other clambering up to the next level.”

  “How am I supposed to keep it all straight?”

  “Not to fear. I have books to help you boost your mind power,” Drew replied.

  “I don’t know if I can stomach this,” Robin confessed. “This is an anti-matter universe to the totally egalitarian world I advocate.”

  “You have no idea,” Drew groaned, already sounding fatigued by Robin’s predictable responses. “Just go with it, Robin. If you can surrender to every neurosis under the sun, you can surely try grandiosity on for size.”

  “I suppose acting the part of the ruling elite will do a lot more for my understanding of what it does to the human psyche than simply judging them a priori.”

  “Marvelous,” Drew exclaimed. “As it turns out, if you don’t lean on the staff for your every need, they feel very threatened, since you’re putting their livelihood in jeopardy.”

  “I suppose it is just a very colorful form of divine madness,” Robin said, trying to talk herself into her upcoming role.

  “Just as well you play along before they slip something in your tea to end your life before you threaten their way of life.”

  “I guess if this is to be a true vacation, that means a vacation from myself, as well.” Robin was becoming self-conscious of just how much she was firing up the rationalization-machine.

  “Bravo. I knew I could rely on your transcendental logic to see you through this.” Drew’s muscles hardened and his tone grew more acidic. He lit a cigarette, presumably to burn off the source of the agitation. Maybe he bore scars left from his childhood that were harder to hide now that he was back home.

  One of the servants, whose actual rank and title Robin had not been briefed on, appeared out of nowhere, holding a tray for Drew to drop his ashes in. Maybe he had been standing just outside Robin’s peripheral vision all along. Apparently, he intended to stand where needed until the end of time. He reminded Robin of the royal guards who never flinched or showed expression, guarding the queen’s castle, which they passed on the way to Lady Harding’s residence.

  “Dear God,” Robin exclaimed. She just couldn’t help herself. The idea of a man dedicating his entire life to holding out a tray to collect ashes.

  Drew just rolled his eyes. “I forgot it takes a trauma to get you to slip into character. Let’s hope this is enough of one.”

  SIX

  From inside the marble bathtub, if she could call it that, it seemed closer in size to what she customarily deemed a swimming pool, Robin surveyed the different parts of her body with shock and dismay: her hands, her feet, her hair, her upper back.

  There were people attached to each of the body parts.

  Worse yet, another aide scented the water for her, adding to the bouquet of natural floral and forest scents already permeating the water. Another one held out a solid-gold tray with chocolates, frozen into a bent forward position that made her want to wash in a tub of menthol. As if in mirror reflection, a matching servant perched on the other side of the tub, embroidered gold-tray in hand, offering champagne.

  Lucky for her, she suffered from only a mild case of ochlophobia. The full version didn’t kick in for crowds smaller than those found at an Eagles concert retrospective.

  Robin was finding it terribly taxing to smile constantly at them, for they seemed overly attentive to her ever-shifting mood. The instant she showed boredom, discomfort, annoyance, any of the emotions attached to the negative end of the spectrum, they took it as a sign to redouble their efforts. Their pace quickened, making it even harder for her to relax. Her own bleeding heart tendencies being what they were, moreover, she couldn’t stand them to think she wasn’t entirely pleased with their smallest gestures. They may very well be curing her of caring so much about anything; it was damn exhausting.

  Her lower back crimping, she adjusted her position in the bathtub. The instant she did so, she felt the soothing strokes of her back masseuse extending to the root of her spine. The coven of women about her gave excellent testimony to the merits of a world without men, she thought, as her hand masseuse unlocked tensions that had carried over from childhood cursive writing lessons, if not a past life. She had no idea these demons were still trapped in her body.

  The all-female entourage seemed capable of the loving attentions to which men just weren’t capable, not under this kind of sustained pressure (she had been in the tub hours now). For short bursts, maybe, but then they had to get back to saving the world like an addict needed to get back to his needle.

  In any other tub she would have turned into a prune by now, but someone had schooled her water lady in adjusting the osmotic pressure of the water by adding and subtracting mineral salts. Her skin just grew suppler the longer she soaked. Not that she was fully convinced science could explain the phenomenon. The art these women had at their disposal was running perhaps a few years ahead of the science.

  Robin sipped her champagne and bit into her chocolates so the two men doing the heavy lifting, looking eager to provide any service she desired, didn’t feel unappreciated. They had averted their eyes until they realized she enjoyed their lustful attentions. From then on, they were only too happy to comply by sneaking teasing suggestive looks.

  She moaned ecstatically with every little thing: the taste of the champagne; the chocolate melting in her mouth; any of her several masseuses hitting the sweet spot. With each sigh and muscle release, she relaxed further, learning in her own way how to please them with nonverbal cues. She was getting a better sense of how Drew’s ability to read people’s unabridged life stories without so much as a word passing between them was cultivated, at least from one facet of the crystal of his many-faceted life.

  Goosebumps popping up on her skin, even before she realized she was feeling cold, sent the water-temperature woman and others into a heightened state of activity reminiscent of Patton mobilizing on Berlin. The window-lady adjusted the window so the beams of the rising sun directed their warmth at her, while another one shielded her eyes from the harsh light.

  As she settled back into her new set-point of relaxation, evidently concerned she had plateaued, the cellist started playing. Up until now, she had had no idea he was even in the room. She wasn’t sure how it was possible to hide a cello, or the strikingly beautiful, curly-haired angel-faced man playing it. Perhaps it was the smoke and mirrors of their constantly shifting bodies and busywork, all carried out with an air of calm relaxation and self-effacing as to not counteract their efforts. Maybe he had only recently snuck in.

  Robin relaxed further, much to her surprise, already being several s
tages past the kind of comfort she thought possible inside her own body.

  The room morphed into a sauna, as someone dialed up the steam.

  The female coven gave way to cherub-cheeked Adonises, naked, and oiled, taking their place. They were olive-skinned, and appeared to be of Greek, Italian, Spanish, and Moroccan persuasions. Robin realized this was the influence of Lady Harding’s latest husband, whose cultural biases ran to harems of a different kind. Maybe he’d married her merely to have more of an English presence.

  She was several points on the ecstasy barometer beyond responding to their advances with anything but still deeper states of relaxation as they probed and prodded her with their divine phalluses.

  They lifted her out of the water as if gravity had ceased to be a factor, passed her between them. The orgiastic ritual had a strangely nonsexual flavor to it, as if this was just what massage looked like in this, the next rung down, in a purgatory realm given over to sensual pleasures.

  Maybe later she would feel guilty for betraying Drew, once the altered state had subsided, and this seemed less like advanced massage, and more like what it was. Maybe she would rage for being taken advantage of, though she couldn’t imagine why or how from her current blissfully unwound state.

  By the time the angel-faced cellist finished with her, and laid her in her bed, she was no longer sure she hadn’t hallucinated all of it.

  She slept for the next day and a half straight, not realizing her body was still this stressed from her successive go arounds with Hartman and Manny.

  ***

  Robin awoke as if from a fever. Her estate room startled her; it was nearly as big as the ground story of their house in the Berkeley Hills.

  She found herself passing her hands over the ornate features of everything from the furniture to the décoratifs artfully displayed on the flat table tops. Her “male” alter wouldn’t have bothered; rushing off to save the world was such a trying-all-day affair. But her female alter took strange delight in the sensuous curves of the ornate artwork, down to the picture frames. The handcarved combs and hairbrushes (which she used to bring out the natural flow of her increasingly long hair) echoed the sinuous lines of her body.