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

by Dean C. Moore

  Rake hung back in the connecting room to the kitchen, which served as Rumfeld’s staging area for mending broken meal-preparation tools, eavesdropping on the conversation in the kitchen.

  “You can’t keep putting those drops in Rake’s food. It’s not right,” Minerva, the head housemaid, said. Up until now, Rake thought Irene was simply seasoning his food for him.

  “Don’t carry on.” Irene said, keeping her hands moving in rhythm as she kneaded the dough.

  “It’s reprehensible,” Minerva blurted.

  Irene broke rhythm. “I know, it’s awful,” she finally admitted with a sigh. “I’m going to hell for this. But Lady Harding expects it. Rake’s just not colorful enough to fit in with this lot. We have to up his quirkiness. Besides, as the gasbag, he’s an international sensation. Lady Harding can’t keep up with the requests for a private audience.”

  “God help us if a troupe of professional actors gets in here. There goes our job security,” Minerva groused. She left Irene to fend for herself with the meal preparations. She had to make sure the maids were keeping the rooms in tiptop shape, after all, Rake thought. Fireplaces needed lighting in over seventy rooms, blinds demanded drawing, beds made… It took a small city to attend to the landed gentry’s every need. No wonder these English believed in their aristocracy. Let the middle class disappear around the world; they had never surrendered the safeguard of low-wage virtual-slavery as a backup.

  Rake nearly tackled Irene in an effort to get to his food, playing up how much he relished Irene’s cooking. “You’re the best, Irene. The best, the best, the bestest. I never had food so good.” He spooned it into his mouth as if learning to eat in a civil manner was one more thing he’d failed to master.

  Irene watched the way he was messing himself up, not to mention her table, and smiled softly. She wiped his lapel. He could be such a dear when he wanted to be.

  Little did she know, the onslaught of the Harding household had just begun. The all-out assault was less than a week away.

  THIRTY

  It was dusk, and the band of workers toiling in the gardens of the Harding estate were largely done for the day, leaving them time to ply their second trade as Robin Hood and his merry men. The rich guests expected to be hijacked during their mad dash for the property line, adding to the drama of the evening’s festivities, and the workers aimed to please.

  Ravinar, in the role of Robin Hood, signaled the trebuchet as Lady Oswald’s car sped by. The timing had to be precise. But his instincts were good.

  The modified medieval implement of war released, and sunk its hooks into the luggage strapped to the rear of the vehicle. When it rebounded, it snatched all four suitcases away from the car, tearing easily through the bungee cords anchoring them to the vintage vehicle.

  That left the luggage on the roof of the car to be liberated.

  Another of the gardening crew, in character as Lady Marian, stationed proximate to the second trebuchet, signaled.

  With timing every bit as rehearsed, the ax-man swung his weapon at the line tethering the trebuchet. The siege device’s arm sailed along its arc.

  When it was done flinging its claws, the central arm had to spin back on itself several times in order to reel in the bounty from the roof of the car. But they met with success on the first try.

  Lady Oswald’s car arrived at the fork in the road, one route blocked, forcing them to take the path to the right. “That’s suspicious,” Lavender said.

  Lady Oswald fanned herself. “Nonsense. Takes a lot to maintain an estate this size. Lady Harding is entitled to the occasional dust mote on all the eye candy.”

  Seconds later they were driving by the flower beds. “My God, smell those flowers!” Regina exclaimed.

  The sisters promptly rolled down their windows. “Divine, simply divine,” Lady Oswald said. “I told you the road block was nothing to worry about. Clearly just making sure we didn’t miss this. Nicely done.”

  ***

  TWO HOURS EARLIER

  Friar Tuck directed the 18-wheelers dragging two segments of magnetite tubing on flatbeds destined for the European Space Union into position.

  The truckers steered the vehicles and dumped their cargo to make attachment of the tubes easy, the trucks’ original drivers, bound, gagged, and blindfolded in the seats besides them.

  Then they drove into the forest where the trucks were camouflaged by the rest of the “merry men.”

  Heavy tractors dumped soil over the tubing to make the tunnel look natural, blending with the landscape.

  The rest of the merry men smoothed out the dirt and planted the shrubbery growing over the tunnel. By the time they were finished, it was arguably quite the upgrade.

  Up along the fork in the road, prior to arriving at the tunnel, the grounds people blocked off the other route leading out of the estate. Along the desired route, flowers not in full bloom were replaced with flowers that were.

  ***

  “Do you remember that tunnel?” Lady Oswald asked her sister.

  “No,” Regina replied. “Maybe they wanted to give the workers some place to carry on that was easy to hose down afterwards.”

  “I guess that explains it,” Lady Oswald said, fanning herself from the front seat. She threw a glance at the driver, realizing her faux pas. Her driver showed no sign of being offended. Then again, he was trained to ignore their conversation, to be deaf, dumb, and blind to all things pertaining to the landed gentry. That included their frequent slights against the working class.

  Seconds later, they were charging through the tunnel. What made them gasp was the complete absence of light, except for what could be seen in the distance. The three sisters screamed in unison.

  A blink of the eye later, they were out of the tunnel, absent all their jewelry, having been magnetized to the magnetite tubing of the tunnel.

  “My earrings are gone,” Regina said.

  Lady Oswald turned to examine her in the back seat, and confirmed.

  “Your necklace!” Regina gasped.

  Lady Oswald felt her neck. “Well, I never. However did they do it?”

  “The tunnel, of course,” Lavender explained.

  “I didn’t feel anyone touch me,” Lady Oswald said.

  “The walls of the tunnel must be magnetic,” Lavender suggested.

  Lady Oswald slammed her fan shut. “Hardly seems worth going to all that trouble just to fleece us of costume jewelry. Not like we weren’t expecting something.”

  She returned to her fanning. “Damn, they’re good. We could use better thieves on our staff, what with the way this economy is going. I see Lady Harding is ahead of the learning curve, as always.”

  ***

  Robin had gotten herself outfitted for a horseback ride with the help of a Harding estate stable hand. She was enjoying the sensuality of staying atop her magnificent mount, a retired thoroughbred, as she gallivanted willy-nilly throughout the estate. Once again, female Robin was enjoying certain physical pleasures and sensations that the old male Robin would likely have found underwhelming in the extreme. Yet even from within her altered mindset she felt in no way prepared to deal with what she was seeing before her. The gardeners and grounds people had concocted an elaborate game of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, all with the intent of snatching the luggage and valuables from guests leaving the estate. She followed the drama on horseback, watching first the trebuchets in action, then the magnetized tunnel, which she rode through in time to see the jewelry clinging to the undersides of the galvanized steel, and workers doing their level best to separate the jewelry from the magnets.

  How is it, Robin, you can get your mind around the future better than most anyone, but the present itself eludes you so? If you’re hot-wired to see what people are evolving into, why can’t you see the evolutionary advantages of whatever is going on here with these people? Some flaw in your own character? Some blinders you refuse to take off? Does the sheer fact that you chanced upon this scene tell you that your unconsci
ous is trying to get your conscious mind to reach the same realization it reached a long time ago? Which is what, exactly? That to be deep you should also be a little shallow? That to bear the crosses of the world, you should also be willing to be as carefree as a loon?

  The last time you encountered this degree of surrealism you were inside Milton, the Coma Man’s, mind. And it was clearly emblematic of his annealing process, as his psyche used the most economical techniques at its disposal for putting his scarred and fractured mind back together. Have these people found the same path to salvation? Maybe the whole point of creating such a reality around oneself is that thereafter nothing can quite shock you into submission. Nothing can truly seem out of place. Maybe this is the shockproofed psyche taking form before your eyes, the one we will all need to survive the future. Maybe its essential character is that it involves as much silliness as heavy-handedness, as much profundity as meaninglessness… maybe the surreal character of this reality is Zen mind at work with all its essential paradoxes.

  Robin sighed. And maybe, Robin, you’re trying to salvage their lives from the garbage heap same as you are the Renaissance types, attempting to lend meaning where there isn’t any.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Robin stepped out on her balcony, regarded the ragamuffin in the garden staring through binoculars, presumably to get a better sense of his mark so he could run some con on them.

  Immerse myself in the madness surrounding the Harding estate, huh? She shook her head. Remind yourself, Robin, to give him your lecture on sacrificing his life on an altar of pettiness. She sighed and turned to find Drew looking over her shoulder. “The Harding estate regulars use madness to escape the pain of rational reflection on where their lives are going,” she said. “If the madness brings joy and a sense of fun, moreover, to what end the self-persecution?”

  Drew eyed the plane flying overhead beaming Robin’s own personal death ray at her. “Maybe that thing has robbed you of a sense of humor.”

  “I hardly notice its effects. Nowadays, I draw more on the vortex this property is sited on.”

  Drew groaned. “Minerva. The woman’s mad, you know that?”

  “Not about that, she isn’t. I can even tell the difference in the quality of energy. The mind ray generates a kind of psychic ADHD, but little beyond that. The vortex promotes actual spiritual growth in tandem with enhancing my abilities.”

  “Actual spiritual growth, hmm?” Drew said, turning away from their bedroom balcony to face her. “Can’t wait to see that.” He doubted she caught the sarcasm. She was just way too full of herself, these days. But then, so was he.

  What he’d do for a little of the Harding estate madness right now that she so vehemently eschewed.

  ***

  From his cover behind the bushes, Aaron gazed through his opera glasses at Lady Harding. She sped off in the backseat of her convertible limo, her claustrophobic/agoraphobic chauffeur at the wheel. Ermies had briefed him about the man. His story was in all the papers. Everyone in all of England wanted bragging rights for laying claim to him.

  Aaron would love to be so in demand, instead of on the outs, forced to fend for himself, even as he drummed up information on the Hardings.

  He grabbed a tomato from the garden and bit down on it. Maybe this gig wasn’t such a bad deal. He seldom ate so well back at the warehouse. Ermies crammed them all with junk food to keep them wired, plus caffeine and cocaine for the older kids, who needed an extra jump. Aaron hated how that made him feel, anxious in his own body. Out here, under the sun, and the purgative of all these vegetables, which had cleaned him out very well, he felt a lot better. He thought strategically instead of running around with his head cut off like a bloomin’ chicken.

  He stole into the garage through the door that had been left open.

  “Phew!” Aaron exclaimed. He caressed the curvy lines of the classic cars. The fenders. The hoods. The fancy chrome wheel covers. The hood ornaments. He’d never before seen cars that looked more like works of art. They must have been very expensive.

  Aaron ducked behind the car he was standing next to as a man carrying a tray came out. He stopped before each vehicle, as he made his way towards Aaron, cleared his throat, whistled, then moved on, apparently determined to serve the food on the tray to someone.

  The wind circulating through the garage made keening sounds, and unsettled unseen items, sending them to the floor. It all seemed just a little too suspiciously on cue to Aaron. He put two and two together. “There are ghosts haunting the garage that need to be appeased with appropriate sacrifices,” he said into a personal recorder. “One more chance to upsell.” As he heard a tool fall off a workbench with the latest gust of wind, Aaron’s eyes darted around the garage, afraid one of the ghosts was going to get the jump on him.

  The instant Tray Man stuck his head inside one of the smoke-windowed cars, Aaron pocketed the recorder and fled into the garden for cover. “You thought you had it bad, Aaron,” he exclaimed on the run, panting. “At least you don’t have to feed soul-sucking ghosts hungry for your hide to boot.”

  Fighting to catch his breath, he settled in behind the cover of the corn, the garden’s tallest plants. He yanked a cob off the plant and bit into it raw. The hard chewing shook free another insight. He depressed the button on his recorder: “One more thing. Lady Harding was fighting her hat and her hair in the convertible as she drove off. Another problem she might need us to solve for her.”

  ***

  Jaap propped his back against the base of the statue as he read The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever, recalling how he’d lifted it from the pocket of some fine gentleman on a London street, who had been dressed in a woolen overcoat, looking all mysterious and, quite frankly, like he never took the time to read anything recreational.

  He spoke the first lines out loud: “He called himself Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever because he dared not believe in the strange alternate world in which he suddenly found himself. Yet he was tempted to believe, to fight for the Land, to be the reincarnation of its greatest hero....”14 Glancing up from the book at the Harding estate, he said aloud, “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

  When he heard a disturbance in the courtyard, he set the book down and picked up the spy glasses.

  He scrutinized Grandma Harding through them. “What a wacky bird. Complete loon.”

  The garden sculpture he perched behind was proving formidable enough to conceal his sleek form, probably well past his adult years. He gazed up at the full-figure statue of a curly-haired male, one arm raised, carrying something on his shoulder.

  He returned his gaze to the grande dame. She was hand-feeding butterflies. They fought to land on her, rested on her shoulders and up and down her body, and awaited their chance to jump in her palms. She looked like one of the Duchamp paintings at the warehouse Ermies was forever trying to pawn off on unsuspecting customers. Not that anyone ever fell for it.

  Focusing, Jaap realized the old woman had sprayed herself with faerie glitter, which the butterflies mistook for beads of water they could suck up through their proboscises. It was a pretty cool trick.

  “How are my angels this morning?” the old coot said over and over again. “Take away all my sins as you fly, fly away, my little darlings. Bless you. Bless you, all.”

  Jaap pressed the button on his recorder. “I definitely found the weak link in this household. This old woman is nuts. All those crazy useless items you couldn’t get anyone to buy. Bring ‘em on over. Just make sure they sound ten times as useless as they actually are. She thinks butterflies take her sins away, if that’s any clue.”

  ***

  Jaap snuck through the open door to the kitchen, and lingered in the shadows. He watched the fat cook sneak one chocolate after another from creative hiding places throughout the kitchen while she baked up a storm. She must have had twelve dishes going at once. Her technique reminded him of a tornado let loose in the kitchen. But her chocolate cravings, not her dizziness, wa
s what set his mind to pondering. A wicked smirk slithered across his face like a snake readying to strike.

  ***

  Jaap pulled the wedding dress off Ermies’ pile of bric-a-brac. He held it out in his hands. “Didn’t think gorillas got married.”

  Next step: Suzie.

  He tracked her down in her usual spot, at the back of the warehouse, where it was coolest. Suzie liked things cool.

  “Suzie, I need your help with this.”

  “Sure,” she said, taking the garment.

  “What do you want me to do with this dress?”

  He whispered in her ear.

  “You’re a strange one, Jaap.”

  Jaap walked away, mumbling to himself, “As it turns out, that’s about the only thing that’s bankable about me.”

  ***

  Ferrero paced the roof of the Harding estate castle—well, one of the roofs—surveying the grounds in all directions. It was his job to make sure his gardens were a sight to behold from all vantage points. Even fly-overs. Lady Harding did not like to be upstaged. If Parliament spent less time gossiping about her and more time solving pressing problems, she’d be genuinely hurt. Holding up the economy was her department. Applauding her for it was theirs.

  To his chagrin, his gardens were infested by human-aphids, chewing through his vegetables and fruits. One was even climbing a coconut tree in order to cleave a coconut with a machete for his friend to catch below. Did that kid have any idea how hard it was to get a coconut true not to kick the bucket in England, far less yield coconuts? He considered the austere measure of calling in an air strike... and decided better of it. He would just fly down there and attend to matters himself before things got any more out of hand.

  Ferrero jumped in the ultra-light which he kept for skittering across the estate, landing briefly, before flying off again to survey another patch. Horses were always an option, but it was a big estate. Most people don’t realize that a marathon runner could easily run a horse to death simply by training it to try and keep up. Sturdy animals they weren’t. And this estate was big enough to keep him up at nights anguishing over how he was going to keep abreast of it all. It was bad enough Lady Harding had all the workers in his employ hiding out in the forests of the estate playing Robin Hood and his merry men. Robbing the guests on their way home from the soirees was considered a de rigeur part of the dinner theater. They all wore costume jewelry to the affairs in homage to the poor Spanish and Greek gardeners, so they could have something to exchange at Christmas. The last thing he needed was clan warfare brewing on the estate between this latest infestation of street urchins and the illegals. That would put an end once and for all to his highly vaunted and talked about gardens.