He takes a swig of fish oil while the guitar player tunes his instrument. The drink slides into his stomach, coating him with good feelings. Hundreds of helpers stumble around the toy factory. They’d cleared out the center and stacked machines on top of each other to make room for a round stage. Jack couldn’t care less about toys.
There won’t be a Christmas next year.
In fact, he decided he’d move into the toy factory. The tower is nice, the views are sweet, but there’s just no room. The toy factory is more his style. After Christmas, all this equipment will go out on the lawn. He’d make the place his own.
“Nope.” Jack shoves an orange-hat helper down the steps. “You’ve already been up here; I recognize the hat.”
There are at least fifty orange hats.
“You know what, why don’t all of you get off the stage?” he says to the band. “I’ll go solo. First guitar, then drums, then trombone or something…”
He can’t play any of those instruments. The helpers cheer, but they’re faking it. He could fart into the mic and they’d applaud.
Sir?
“Oh, Freeda. Just the annoying voice I was thinking about. You reading my mind?”
No, sir. I need you in the tower.
“What you need to do is download a blues harmonica into these hands.” He looks around and points at the helpers. They laugh. They have no idea why.
Sir, now’s not the time to be playing games.
“These aren’t games, Freeda. This is musical genius. I’ve got a lot of living to do; I want to start it off on the right foot.” He shakes his right foot and gets a laugh. It’s sooo easy.
Sir, there’s a problem with the meltdown.
“What kind of problem?”
Something you should look at, sir.
Jack doesn’t like vagary. If she couldn’t handle this, he’d delete her—have Pawn write another artificial intelligence, one that could take care of the end of warmbloods while he got the band together.
“I’ll be up in a sec.”
Can’t wait, sir.
Jack throws the guitar down and kicks the drums over. He storms up the ramp, thinking that maybe he’ll have Pawn build Freeda a face. He needs something to yell at.
He takes the elevator up. Super-chilled air rushes inside when it opens. “What is it?” he shouts.
Sir, there appears to be—
“Hold that thought.” Jack slides up to the fountain. The fish scatter. He thinks net and a fish net squirts from the floor. “Pawn did a super job with this place,” he says to himself, combing the waters and trapping at least a dozen fish. “It’s all about finding the right people, Freeda. You get good people, you get results.”
That’s what I want to speak about, sir.
Jack empties the net on the desk, throws his feet up, and begins munching. He spins in the chair, looking across the open field at the giant live oaks on the far side. He thought he hated the tower—he really wants to hate it—but just can’t bring himself to do it.
The views are just too sweet.
“It’s settled.” He bangs the desk, squishing the last fish. “I’m staying in the tower, Freeda. We’ll bring the band up here. It’ll be a little tight, but I think we can do it. We’ll need a bouncer to keep things in order, ’cause things are going to get nuts. I’m thinking Templeton—”
He snaps his fingers.
“May’s the perfect hammer with that big, spongy gut and those bohemian arms; that woman was made to bounce—”
Focus, sir! You need to listen! You cannot run off and play. I need you to stop acting like a child.
Jack raises his fist.
That’s why you died the first time.
He freezes.
Died the first time. Her words have an echoing effect. No one ever spoke that way to Jack. But, then again, she’s not real. She’s an artificially constructed intelligence. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have all this pressure to succeed, to be happy and make people like you. It’s a lot.
Jack knows.
I’m the one that’s real. I have a body, a brain, and memories. I am real.
He thinks about this a bit more. He can prove he’s real and she’s not. As long as I remember who I am… wait.
He didn’t have memories at the shelter, but he was still real, still awake. It’s not like he wasn’t real until Freeda uploaded his memories.
As long as I have a body… hold on.
He didn’t have a body for two hundred years. He was a DNA-script stored in the root. Was he not real then, but is now?
I’ll answer that question later.
“You’re right,” he says. The words sound funny. He forces himself to say them. “My bad.”
Jack shoves the desk. It slides across the floor and shatters the fountain. Water spills and fish flip around. He closes his eyes, imagining something more appropriate for the room. There’s a ripple in the air. When he opens his eyes, there are floating monitors, tables, maps, and data; there are numbers and words.
Voices mutter in a dozen languages.
A chair rises from the floor. The armrests swell with little control panels at his fingers. The back of the chair fans out, worthy of a throne.
And in the center, where the fountain used to be, is Earth. It’s six feet in diameter, tilted on its axis, and slowly rotating. Pinpricks of light are all around it, merging into a mass of golden hue where populations are dense. Toward the north, they become less frequent.
The North Pole is dark.
“Let’s do this,” he says. “Brief me.”
Thank you, sir. Let me start at the beginning. Pawn seeded the thought of Christmas gift-giving into the warmblood population shortly after arriving in the United States in the early 1800s, and for a long time, he was the primary producer and distributor of toys, exactly as you planned.
“Thank you.”
At first, it was simple toys, mostly wooden. As the years passed, they became plastic, but still simplistic. Regardless how modest they were, whether they were wood or plastic, everything was embedded with slave technology that would allow us to eventually control every toy we’ve ever manufactured.
The lights extinguish and begin to slowly reemerge on the globe, illustrating the spread of Christmas toys. The planet, once again, becomes fully illuminated.
Nonetheless, Mr. Frost—
“Pawn.” Jack slides toward Earth. “His name is Pawn.”
Freeda pauses.
Jack eases around the floating image of Earth, not knowing what to do with his hands. He tries to put them behind his back—he’s seen very important warmbloods do that move—but his arms are too short. He opts for resting them on his belly.
What’s exciting, sir, is that we are, for the first time, launching neural-integration technology that will communicate with warmblood nervous systems and, ultimately, brain activity.
“Yeah, I know, the eyeTablets. Stupid name.”
Sir, your original plan was to use slave technology to gain control of products such as automobiles, phones, weapons… everything, sir. It was brilliant.
“I know.”
However, the recent technology revolution has spawned a new opportunity, sir. Warmbloods now have smart phones and computers. Everything in the world is networked. With these new developments, the neural-integration technology will allow us to know warmblood thoughts. We’ll connect with their nervous systems. We control them, sir. They’ll be puppets.
Jack stops circling the globe and looks up at the star-speckled ceiling. “Do I eat boogers?”
Sir?
“Do I eat boogers?”
Freeda stammers. I just… I’m not sure where you’re going with this.
“You just explained my plan like I’m a booger-eating first grader.” He begins coasting around the room, hands locked over his belly. “I designed everything on greed, Freeda. No, I didn’t know how you were going to do it, but I know warmbloods and, as a whole, they have one thing in common: self-indul
gent, ravenous, gluttonous, insatiable greed.”
He hesitates. Willie comes to mind. He’s the only exception.
“They like to get stuff, Freeda. They like to have it, to own it, to stuff it in closets, attics, and basements. They rent storage containers so they have more room for more stuff. They won’t stop, Freeda. Ever. They’ll build and collect until they figure out how to get to another planet, and then they’ll fill that up with stuff.”
He takes a breath.
“The eyeTablets sound great. I mean, marching those stupid warmbloods off a cliff sounds like my kind of party. But here’s the deal: I don’t want to wait twenty years. I want them gone now, so go with plan B, the one that turns slave technology into miniature nuclear reactors.”
He points at the planet flickering with light.
“We’ll use it to convert matter into energy but utilize the evaporating-microscopic-black-hole method to displace the energy somewhere else in the universe, preferably another galaxy, so we don’t blow up our solar system. I like our sun.”
What about other solar systems?
“Why would I care about that? Anyway, slave technology will become microscopic eating machines that devour all the warmblood stuff: cars, buildings, kitchens, and clothes… it all disappears. There will be chaos, mass destruction, and sadness. They’ll sit in the dirt, cry, destroy each other, and eventually starve, and I’ll sit back with a tub of sardines and watch. No more Christmas, Freeda, and no more warmbloods. All before summer.”
He calls for the elevator.
It’s a horrible plan, sir.
“Remind me not to make you so honest next time.”
We’ll have no control. There’s no guarantee it’ll work.
“There’s no such thing as a guarantee, Freeda. Warmbloods invented guarantees. So do my plan. Do it now.”
There’s a risk, sir.
“My God, do you not run out of excuses? What risk?” Jack looks at the stars. “You better not say it’s not working. I’ll go ape on this place if you say that after two hundred years it’s not working.”
It’s working, sir. I’ve already contacted over forty-two percent of toys in the world.
“I don’t see the problem.”
It’s too fast, sir. If it doesn’t work, the humans will figure it out and come after us. And they’ll find us, sir. An anomaly could easily undo two hundred years of work.
“A what-aly?”
Something out of the ordinary, sir. Something unexpected.
“You’re right.” Jack rubs a layer of fuzzy frost off his chin. “If only I had a supercomputer to analyze everything beforehand.”
I advise we move slower.
“And I advise you do it tonight. Any other questions?”
Jack glides around the tower, tapping his lower lip. All the monitors are filled with loathsome warmbloods arguing, complaining, whining, fighting, and lying. They’re so stupid and they smell funny. Waiting would be a crime.
Two hundred years is long enough.
He pretends to check the time. “You have an hour to get things popping. I’ll be in the factory. My fans can’t wait.”
You should talk to Pawn.
“Why?”
In case he knows about the nuclear reactor plan. It would reduce the chances of his tampering.
“Why are you asking me? You’re in his head! Just look!”
He’s become skilled at hiding thoughts.
“Do I have to do everything?” Jack throws up his arms. “Why would he do that? Why would he not want this to work? He doesn’t love the warmbloods.”
His words are lifeless. Even he doesn’t believe them.
“Pawn loves me.”
Of this, Jack is sure. Pawn would do anything Jack asked him to do. And his hatred of warmbloods is as pure as Jack’s. He knows this because he told him to hate them.
I have my doubts.
“All right!” Jack shoves his fist into the Earth. The image shatters like an empty shell. The useless pieces melt away.
The elevator waits for him.
First Pawn. Then party.
-------------------------
Joe stays near the fire.
Sura can’t sit still. She needs to walk, to keep moving.
Outside the firelight, there’s nothing but baked earth and distant mountains. The North Star blinks its pattern of colors, signaling the falseness of this reality, that none of this really exists. It’s all in her mind.
Wake up, Sura.
She keeps walking.
The mountains never get closer. The bonfire is just a spot of light glowing on the plain. Joe shouts. His voice travels effortlessly across the emptiness. He’s waving.
“I’m coming!” Sura shouts.
Joe takes her hand when she arrives. His hand is freezing. He takes a shaky breath and holds up the pocket watch. It’s almost eleven o’clock. He presses the button on top.
The golden string appears.
Joe slides his hand into it, pulling it open. Sura steps through the exit, where she’s greeted with the smell of damp foliage. It’s dark beneath the canopy. They move slowly, the mulched path dampening their footsteps, and pause at the entrance to the garden. Music thuds somewhere distant. It doesn’t sound very Christmassy.
Joe’s grip tightens.
They step into the garden and walk along the perimeter path until they reach the exit. Sura’s heartbeat thumps in her throat. Joe exhales a long, cold cloud. Sura focuses on calming breaths.
The fountain is shattered. Large chunks of the statue are all that remain. A thin layer of ice has formed over the pool of water. Jonah was destroying it when they arrived.
The bad son has returned.
Joe squeezes her hand. She can feel him trembling. He puts a finger to his lips for silence and holds up three fingers… two… one.
They stumble across the road. The Christmas lights hang from the gutters and shine around the windows, not a dark corner in sight. They sneak along the house and pass the basement doors where the music rumbles. Templeton opens the back door. His robe is firmly pressed, the sash tightly knotted. His rigid lips part, his jaw opening like oiled hinges—
“Get in here, children.” May shoves him aside. “Come on, hurry.”
The doughy woman climbs down the steps, holding her robe with one hand. Sura resists hugging her and takes the steps two at a time. May chases them into the kitchen while Templeton closes the doors.
Sura doesn’t resist once they’re safe, sinking into May’s soft, cookie-smelling embrace. May pulls Joe in, too, and she holds them tightly, making shooshing noises.
“All right.” Templeton’s hard-soled shoes click on the floor. “Enough with the pleasantries. You must go to Mr. Frost.”
“Why?” Sura asks.
Templeton retrieves two coats from the rack and drapes them over his arms like he’s delivering the king’s clothing. He tugs at May’s elbow. When she finally releases Sura and Joe, she turns around to wipe her eyes. Templeton puts his hand on her back and whispers in her ear.
May nods.
“You need these.” Templeton gives Joe the puffy blue one and pulls a stocking cap down to his eyes. He holds the white coat for Sura.
She hesitates. “Why does he want to see us?”
Templeton appears stiffer than usual, but his expression is soft and confused. He glances at May before saying, “The world is not safe tonight, Sura.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s all very complicated.” Templeton sighs.
May can’t hold back any longer. She smothers the teenagers in another embrace, her thick arms quivering each time she exhales a breath loaded with sobs. Templeton watches, coat hanging at his side.
“What if I don’t want to go?” Sura asks.
“You don’t have to go,” Templeton says. “You can turn right, go wherever you want.”
He lifts his free hand and traces a circle in the air.
If we sail in that direction
long enough, her mom had said, where do we end up?
Sura asked what would happen if they turned right, but her mom seemed to believe they’d still end up right here and now.
Sura doesn’t want to go, but calmness falls on her. She’s exactly where she needs to be. She doesn’t know where she’s going or why, she just needs to be here.
So let’s not run.
Templeton has to peel May’s arms off them. She covers her face, inconsolable. Joe’s complexion has paled. Templeton holds up the coat again. Sura slides her arms into the sleeves and pulls on the wool hat. He squeezes her hands. His fingers are not stiff and cold like she’s always imagined.
The elevator door slides open. Four helpers waddle out, all wearing yellow hats.
Sura bumps into Joe.
“It’s all right,” Joe says, arm around her. “They belong to Mr. Frost.”
Templeton kneels down and fastens spiky rubber soles to the bottom of Joe’s boots. He does the same to Sura’s shoes. “For walking,” he says.
May cups Sura’s cheek and then Joe’s. Templeton grips her shoulders, but she maintains control, despite the tearful slicks on her cheeks. Her hand feels so much like home.
They step inside the cylindrical elevator. The helpers surround them, the tips of their yellow hats reaching their knees. One of them reaches for the buttons. The door slides shut; May’s face is the last thing Sura sees before her warped reflection looks back.
Joe takes her hand.
Her stomach rises as the elevator sinks down to the cold regions.
The yellow-hats talk like machine guns. They fire words at Joe. “Yeah,” he answers. “We can run.”
Before Sura has a say, the door opens.
The frigid air steals their breath, waters their eyes. Sura holds onto Joe and follows the blurry, yellow hats racing in front of them. The spikes on the bottom of her shoes are flexible, grabbing the icy floor.
They run through a door on the right. The humidity rises. It’s a warmer room. An earthy scent fills her sinuses, reminiscent of the garden. Joe leans against the wall to catch his breath. Sura wipes her tears, rubbing the feeling back into her cheeks. There are rows of glass tanks and a metal table in the center.
“Oh!” She backs against the wall.
There’s a body on the table. It’s shaped like an elven—short and fat but covered with green hair. It looks like an autopsy, but the chest slowly rises and falls. She waits for it to sit up or look at them.
Claus: The Trilogy Page 46
