by William Oday
Unlike him, they were all insiders. Instinctually aware of the invisible web of power and procedure that governed their artificial realities.
The cloying stink of over-used aftershave wrinkled Anton’s nose. The latest slide of the lengthy PowerPoint presentation had caused on uproar amongst the room’s occupants. The hum of feverish conversation buzzed in his ears. Subordinates scribbled on notepads as they recorded their superior’s directives.
The incessant babbling made it hard to think.
Anton’s hand slipped into his left pocket and found the familiar disc deposited there. Minted nearly a thousand years ago, the silver Dirham of Genghis Khan was an invaluable reminder of what one man might achieve.
He rubbed it between thumb and pointer finger. The worn edges of the ancient script almost as familiar as the lines of his own palms. One side read “The Just. The Great.” Many might argue the former, but none could diminish the latter.
Holding history in his fingertips focused his mind. The small movement was a daily meditation during the development of MT-1.
Anton’s shoulders held no stars. The front of his dark, rumpled suit coat displayed no ribbon rack, no medals. Nothing to proclaim a record of service to the world.
That would change.
One day, history would venerate him. Whereas these self-important imbeciles wouldn’t merit so much as a footnote. They would be forgotten. In many ways, they were already relegated to oblivion.
Anton looked around the room and caught the eyes of one man seated at the far end of the table, Senator Charles Rawlings, Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. The bespectacled elderly man held Anton’s gaze for a moment then turned away.
The senator was the reason for the meeting. The reason for Anton’s attendance. Rawlings was twice as smart as the others and yet half as smart as he believed himself to be.
None of them were on Anton’s level. He was different, in ways both evident and not. The size of the sideburns that carpeted both sides of his face only hinted at the differences.
The white-haired man giving the seemingly endless presentation leaned on his cane while waiting for the buzz to die down. He’d introduced himself hours ago at the beginning of the presentation. The Director of the Office of Net Assessment, the Department of Defense’s internal think tank. The old goat had held the position for over forty years, since the office’s inception under the Nixon administration. His title didn’t officially hold the weight of many of those seated around the table.
But power often came from unexpected places.
Anton himself was proof of that.
The white-haired man cleared his throat a few times until he had everyone’s attention. “Which brings us to the final slide.” He flicked a remote and the enormous display on the wall behind him showed a new slide.
It was astonishing how PowerPoint could dull even the most vital of topics. He pointed at the monitor. He shuffled closer and touched the screen, leaving an oily mark. The smudge highlighted large red numbers.
His voice came out brittle but confident, like a bible printed on antique parchment. Like a revelation.
“We’ve run the sim with every variation we could think of. The result is the same. Under the most optimistic set of conditions, only one thing changes. The timing. And that by no more than a handful of months.”
A dead silence descended on the room. Half the people in it turned to Senator Rawlings. He, of course, already understood the predicament as his office had coordinated with the Office of Net Assessment in directing the study.
The other half turned to yet another gray-haired man seated adjacent to the empty seat. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Four gold stars clung to each shoulder. The general’s cold eyes narrowed as he digested the information on the screen. He finally looked back to the ancient presenter. “What exactly are you saying?”
The old man pushed thick bifocals back up the bridge of his nose. His rumpled form straightened for an instant. “I am not saying anything.” He pointed to the large, red numbers on the screen. “The data, however, is shouting that we’re running out of time.”
The general squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. He resembled a child closing his eyes, hoping the bad things would disappear. He finally opened them again and blew out a slow exhale. The colorful assortment of ribbons, medals, pins, and stars on his jacket settled. “How can this be?”
“General, your people have run war games that concluded we’re headed for large-scale, persistent conflict over dwindling natural resources.”
“Yes, but if what you’re showing us is true, you’re talking about the end of the United States of America.”
The old man nodded. “Our simulation accounted for a far larger set of initial conditions than anything previously run. Depletion of the fresh water supply. Diminished biodiversity. Climate destabilization. Exploding sovereign debt. The end of cheap oil. We accounted for these and a thousand other pressing issues.”
“Are you saying we’re doomed?”
“The data is saying that we are approaching a peak of many correlated and undesirable trends.”
The old man tapped the red numbers.
“And this is the destination.”
The general chopped a knife hand at the screen. “This is the land of the free?”
Senator Rawlings stepped into the silence that followed. “Listen, we’ve dug this hole for ourselves over the span of many decades. The days of perpetually kicking the can have ended.”
The nation’s highest military officer bristled at the patronizing tone.
Anton vaguely remembered how Senator Rawlings had made the general’s confirmation hearing an extended and contentious affair. There was bad blood there, and neither man appeared to have forgotten.
The general glared at Senator Rawlings and then turned back to the old man. “What is the least disruptive solution?”
“My staff have been crunching scenarios for months, and, well, they’re all bad.”
“Give me options.”
“We are about to leave my field of expertise,” the white-haired man said. He pointed across the room, and Anton felt the world pivot into place. His time had come. “Let me introduce you to Dr. Anton Reshenko.”
Anton stepped forward and smiled as he stroked the mat of hair on one cheek. Yes, real power wasn’t always in the obvious place.
Real power came from one, and only one, place. The unbowed will of an extraordinary man to achieve his destiny.
He walked to the head of the long table and stopped behind the empty chair. He yearned to grip the headrest. Perhaps even to spin it around and take a seat. But these people still mattered. He looked around the room and was pleased to feel the focus of every man and woman present. The deserved weight of their desperate hope. He gave himself a moment to appreciate the spectacle.
To acknowledge destiny.
The day he had worked so long for, so hard for, had finally arrived. It would’ve been a lie to say it didn’t feel inevitable.
The world was his, as he knew it always would be, in the end. Insurmountable problems required men of unparalleled stature to solve them. The world needed him, and he would humbly deliver salvation.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Anton said, “I’m here today to tell you about the Darwin Protocol.”
2
The Last Day
Venice, California
MASON WEST cracked an egg into a sizzling hot pan and stared as it bubbled and turned white. The rich scent of melted butter enveloped the kitchen. He pushed at the gelatinous puddle until a spongy yellow form emerged, something that somewhat resembled scrambled eggs.
Breakfast wasn’t his usual gig. He had a long and sordid history of blackened toast and burned eggs.
Arms came from behind and wrapped around his torso. He twisted back and breathed in the morning scent of the love of his life. Elizabeth. She was the woman he didn’t deserve. Years could blink by with the right person.
“Morning, honey,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her lips, faintly tasting the earthy sweetness of roasted coffee.
“The same to ya, handsome,” she said with a wink.
Mason wondered for a moment if it was an invitation. Maybe she’d changed her mind about leaving early for work? He slid a hand down and cupped it around her curved backside. Her brow lifted in that what are you up to way. He planted another small kiss and gave her a squeeze in that you know what I’m up to way.
She nibbled his lip and pulled back. “Easy, tiger. You’re gonna force me to call in a sick day.”
“Okay by me.”
Mason’s daughter lumbered into the kitchen with headphones on, her head bobbing to a silent beat.
“Gross, guys,” she said. “Seriously. Get a room. You have one, right down the hall.”
Mason looked at her and the shock of having a fifteen-year-old daughter hit him for the umpteenth time. Any resemblance to the chubby little angel that used to giggle in his arms was more his projection than hers. But Theresa was still his baby girl, no matter what.
“No headphones at the table,” Mason and Beth said in unison.
Theresa pulled them off and set them on the counter.
“Morning, uncomfortably expressive parents.”
Beth poked her tongue out at their daughter and replied, “Oh, don’t be a square.”
“Very funny, Mom,” she replied as she flopped down at the breakfast table. “Whacha burning for breakfast?”
Breakfast?
The acrid bite of scorched yolk wafted through the air, and he turned to verify the scent. Mason examined what remained in the pan. Black, crispy charcoals changed the breakfast plans. “Cereal. Looks like a milk and cereal morning. How about toast?”
“Can I get it only slightly burned?”
“No promises.”
Beth unwound herself from his embrace and grabbed her unfinished coffee from the mottled gray granite counter. “It appears your father has breakfast well in hand. I have to go in early.”
“What’s up, Mom?”
“Jane’s a little off. It’s probably nothing, but being so close to term makes me extra cautious.”
“What’s wrong? Is she okay?”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine. Don’t worry, honey.”
Theresa’s face communicated her unspoken worry.
Jane was a fourteen-year-old chimpanzee at the Los Angeles Zoo. She’d been rescued as an infant from the bushmeat trade in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Beth’s heart was as soft as warm butter for the animals in her charge. And it was as hard as carbon steel for those that mistreated them.
She’d been a volunteer back when Jane arrived at the zoo. Nobody expected the sickly, malnourished chimp to survive, but Beth didn’t give up. She brought the little chimp home every night for nearly a year to ensure Jane received around-the-clock nurturing. Theresa in one arm and Jane in the other. They were almost sisters in some ways.
Mason had thought she was a cute infant, but that was it. Except that wasn’t it because she turned out to be a Bili chimpanzee, the largest subspecies ever discovered. Now, Jane was nearly six-feet tall and weighed a hundred and ninety pounds.
She was a wild animal. Not a pet. She couldn’t be trusted. However, the single time he’d reminded his wife of that fact, she’d given him an icy stare that couldn’t have been a clearer version of back away from my baby!
Choosing to live, he hadn’t brought it up again.
The family dog trotted in with a haggard, slobber-matted giraffe stuffie in his mouth. Now here was an animal you could trust. Mason had trusted Max completely with Theresa from the first day he’d joined their family. He exemplified the best of the Bullmastiff breed. Loyalty and intelligence. A gentleness balanced with an eye toward protecting his pack.
Max nuzzled his nose against Beth’s waist and looked up with rapt attention. His lower eyelids sagged a little, so he always looked concerned. She smiled and scratched his neck. “She’ll be fine, Max.” She looked back to Theresa. “Both of you, don’t worry.”
That was apparently good enough for Max, as he dropped the giraffe on the tile floor and proceeded to hump it without regard for who might be present.
Theresa grabbed the giraffe and tried to tug it away, but Max clung to it while his hips gyrated wildly. “Does no one understand the concept of inappropriate kitchen behavior?”
Max paused in his machinations and straightened up to lick Beth’s hand. Did he somehow know Jane wasn’t doing well? Mason didn’t think it was likely, but his experiences had taught him enough to not reject the possibility.
He’d seen firsthand the power of the primal brain.
“Sorry to change the subject, ladies, but it just so happens that I had a client cancel this weekend. Had to leave town for whatever reason. So, I think we should visit Tito and Mamaw.”
The darkness hanging over Theresa melted. The sun shone again in her smile, and just as quickly in Mason’s heart.
“Yes! It’s been forever,” she said.
Beth slung her messenger bag over a shoulder. “Tito said several chicks hatched last night. They’re up to their eyeballs in adorable furriness.”
Theresa bounced in her chair. “We have to go!”
“It’s settled then,” Mason said. “The West family escapes the metropolis tonight.” He set a bowl of cereal in front of Theresa. Brightly colored blobs of whatever it was that passed for cereal swam through organic, low-fat milk.
Max left Beth and sat next to Theresa. Mason demanded she not feed him at the table, but she slipped him food anyway. It wasn’t simple teenage rebellion because she’d done it since he was a puppy. Beth did it on occasion too, so it was a three-against-one issue.
You had to pick your battles. Some weren’t worth the effort or injury.
Beth planted a kiss on Theresa’s forehead. “I’ll let them know we’re coming.”
Every weekend at her parent’s acreage in Ojai was a good one. It gnawed at her that they’d only been out to visit a couple of times in the last year. But their family had never been busier. Between his clients, the demands on Beth at the zoo, and Theresa’s burgeoning social schedule, free weekends were a scarce commodity.
But her parents weren’t getting younger. And besides, they were long overdue for a weekend away. As much as he loved the city of angels, sometimes he needed a break from heaven.
Especially living on the west side of Los Angeles. He loved Venice. The bohemian flavor. The easy access to the beach. The taste of life under a sun that warmed the air year round. But it felt like being surrounded at times. With the ocean to their backs, they had ten million people between them and the outside world.
Trapped in paradise.
It only made sense if you lived it.
Beth looked up at him with a shadow of concern in her eyes. “Walk me out?”
Mason wrapped his arm around her and tried to remember she needed to get to work. “Sure.”
Theresa gagged loud enough to be certain they heard. “The Crayfords don’t want to see your PDA either.”
Mason tossed her a smirk. “Quiet. Or we’ll continue in here.”
3
They stepped out of their gray with white trim, single-story Craftsman, unconsciously hitting the first and third wood steps down off the front porch. The middle step was loose and a lawsuit waiting to happen. It was on Mason’s list, but a lot of things were on his list.
The smell of freshly cut grass drifted over from the Crayfords’ front yard. Their new electric mower and perfectly clipped, deep green grass evidence Otis had already been hard at work that morning. Even in his mid-eighties, he still insisted on keeping up with things himself.
Yellow Gerbera daisies filled a flower bed below their living room window. Bright petals gave the yard a cheery glow that Mason always appreciated. Especially since
he and Beth didn’t have a green thumb between them.
Though the bed was looking overgrown and riddle with weeds. Otis took pride in his yard, but his wife’s illness had taken a toll on them both.
Mason helped out where Otis would allow it. He’d trimmed the apple tree in their backyard a few months ago. He made sure their garbage, recycling, and yard waste bins made it to the curb and back every trash day.
The early morning sun warmed his face as he accompanied Beth to her old, rusted black and dulled chrome Kawasaki Vulcan 750. Spock, she called it. Any normal person would’ve tossed it into the junkyard years ago, but Beth gave the twenty-year-old bike all the care it needed to keep going.
It was a point of love and pride for her.
He didn’t like that she rode Spock on the freeways. He’d tried to force her into something with more steel wrapped around it. But then she’d forced him to drive her to work in his Bronco a few mornings. Right into the belly of the morning commute.
What a complete nightmare.
The bike cut her commute time in half. That ended opposition towards her riding. The spoken kind, at least.
Beth was a natural fixer. On a work day, she’d be elbow-deep in elephant dung trying to solve a medical issue. On the weekend, she’d be in the garage keeping Spock alive.
She tossed her bag into the stow compartment, and slung her helmet over a handlebar. She turned to Mason and fell into his arms. Her face burrowed into his chest. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Theresa, but Jane’s not doing well.” A tear pooled on the inside corner of her eye. “I can’t lose her. Not another one. Not again.”
He lifted her chin to pull her eyes to his. She loved Jane. But he knew it was more than that. Some pain never really faded. Years could be seconds to the heart.
“You aren’t going to lose her,” he said. “You’re the best veterinarian in the world. And you love her like your own child. She couldn’t be in better hands.”
