by Bright,R. F.
“I’m not playing. I’m just being nice. That’s what people do.”
“Point taken.”
“Everything not a god-damn game!” he whispered in the clipboard lady’s voice. “Point taken? By who?”
“Me. I gained invaluable insight into post-adolescent . . . whatever you are. All you got was the girl.”
He liked hearing that, but didn’t let on.
“Now we’ll see her end-game.” Molly turned and yelled, “Lily! I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Lily swiveled onto the edge of her bed, licking chocolate from her fingers. “A surprise?”
“Nice hot bath!”
Lily jumped up and down, unwound her elaborate scarf from her neck and spread it diagonally across the bed, staking her claim.
Molly made a pensive face. “This is a good woman. A real asset.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. She’s playing this perfectly — intuiting the whole thing, too. Her physical properties are fantastic. She’s a knockout. A natural.”
“Really? She’s playing me?”
Molly leveled a scathing stink-eye at him. “What do you think she’s supposed to do? What do you think she’s equipped to do?” She tapped on his forehead. “Watch her shift. She’s been on defense, now she’ll start putting together an offense. Start creating options.”
Max fell silent; whatever he said would make him sound naïve.
“Why wouldn’t she, Max? Don’t be stupid. You’re the catch, and she can always throw you back.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Max.”
Lily ran around the bed, dumped the laundry bag and dug furiously for a pair of shoes.
Molly mumbled, “Sudden transformation?”
Max felt a stir of caution. “Trust her?”
“What’s wrong with you? This is a good woman. A normal woman. Any time you come into the proximity of a girl in your breeding range, she’s going to play you. No matter what. Think about it. You’re big and strong and ugly and no one is going to mess with you. She’s skinny and weak and beautiful and every man out there would take her if they had the slightest chance. And in the absence of those big brawny shoulders . . .” she clapped them as hard as she could with a scissoring sweep, “bending the truth is a legitimate survival tactic.” Molly gave him a clown-face grin. “Don’t be an ass, and nobody’ll get hurt.”
Lily danced toward them convulsing with joy. It spread to all three, but Molly’s laughing eyes were keeping score. Max scolded her, in the clipboard lady’s voice, “Not everything is a game.”
Molly said, “You folded like a paper hat.”
He made a sad but good natured face.
Lily pretended not to hear, being too caught up in her good fortune to pay attention — silence sealed her victory.
Elizabeth Klevens strolled triumphantly down New Hibernia Boulevard and swung a leisurely right down the first side street she came to. She stayed in the middle of that street, sometimes walking backwards a few steps to watch the Wall fade into the distance. An outraged mob could overwhelm her in a heartbeat, but she was starting to think she’d gotten away with what she had originally considered a suicide mission.
Relax!
Take a breath.
Relax.
A light-headedness shivered through her, a liberating come-down from the single-minded obsession to make her own justice, however savage. She took fewer and fewer glances back and soon came to an intersection. There were no trees, but two couples were talking on the far curb. She crossed straight toward them, passing without incident, but could feel them looking at her back. More laughing, but no footsteps. If this turned into a foot race, she’d have the advantage over any muscle-bound Irish cheddar-head. But she’d rather walk out of here entirely unnoticed.
The second intersection had a split personality. Her side was new, dusty gray concrete, and there were no trees. The other side had an old red brick-paver sidewalk and was lined with Dutch Elms. As she crossed, tribal instincts flooded in. She was leaving the very new and very foreign Leprechaun Nation, where the sidewalks were pristine but the trees were gone, and escaping into an unknown but familiar neighborhood. Her foot hit the wavy old bricks. She grinned ear to ear and passed under the ancient Elm’s winter canopy. She was right on the fuzzy edge of victory. And in this kind of neighborhood, just like the one she grew up in, no one could catch her. She’d fly through these backyards and woodlots and driveways and alleys and lose any man on foot. Any man!
It suddenly dawned on her that she was experiencing what the game theorists called the zone of proximal victory. She was living it right now. That expansive moment when you first realize you’re going to win. She shuddered with excitement, then slowed to a cautious pace.
Who owned these four and five bedroom houses tucked behind lawns and big porches? People with money once lived in these, she could easily see that. But the people who lived there now were — poor. Socioeconomic victims of a managerial class blindside! The aspirants. The facilitators. The fluffers. The tools. The cogs. The ass kissers. The whipping boys. The Executive Poor. Frightened pretenders living from ulcer to ulcer. And now, these houses were as run down as any tenement.
She had a place in the Lady Name Towers. Downtown. They were moving her to a new unit, in Geraldine, at this very minute. She needed to be with all the other programmers. Her tribe. People who thought like her, on her level. She worked for Tuke and that was all she had right now. A job.
Why am I thinking about these things? She could only focus on the present for a few seconds at a time. Concentrate. You’re almost there. She broke into a slow jog, but her mind continued to wander. The street lights blinked on and the whole scene changed. Shadows grew deeper and everything seemed highlighted in golden yellow. It was almost dark, but the days were growing longer. She could feel it. She slipped behind a telephone pole. She had to look back.
All clear, just her and her shadow.
There was simply nothing going on. The calm felt strangely out of sorts with her gut-wrenching escape, which was still in progress. It was too quiet. She stuffed the tiny machine pistol into her pocket, pulled off her trench coat and reversed it again, pulling the innocuous brown collar up around her neck. She reached over her head with both hands and released the ear flaps of the luxurious fur hat. They stood out from her head, and for a moment her shadow had two giant bunny ears. How silly. She pulled them down and headed back into the middle of the street.
But after a few steps she stopped and turned toward the Wall. There was absolutely nothing going on. Her sad brown eyes filled with tears. “Good night, my love,” she said, removing the hat and hurling it at the Wall.
37
Representative Thomka’s limo rolled up to Delmonico’s, the legendary Wall Street steak house. For the better part of two centuries, a long line would have formed at this time of the evening, but no more. Thomka and Murthy’s usual seats were far in the back, in an alcove that couldn’t be seen from the front of the house. Thursday, always slow, was their Delmonico’s night with a few tables of middle-aged men, like themselves, and an army of tastefully turned-out waiters. No waitresses.
Murthy loved Delmonico’s. It reeked of what he imagined, the good ol’ days, when this pristine relic would have been packed to its varnished rafters with brokers and bankers decompressing after a hard day of life-and-death paper shuffling.
“You know what I like most about this place?” said Murthy.
Thomka groaned. “What you like most changes every time we come here.”
“No, this time I’ve got it. There’s nothing new here. Not a hint of the new. It attracts us, by denying the new. Nothing’s more desirable than the new. By denying it, they’ve elevated themselves above desire itself. Brilliant.”
Thomka made the most astonished face he could. “How can you be that full of shit and . . . the world’s worst tipper?”
Murthy continued unabated. “You laugh, Al. But I went to the Chicago
School of Economics, and, like your pal Tuke, I’m an economist. I understand tipping. It’s not good for anyone.”
Their cocktails arrived and Murthy swirled his with a finger while studying his friend, who seemed peculiarly serene and worry-free. “You tracked down those stolen computers?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I’m being philosophical, too.”
“What do you think is happening?”
“They’re arming themselves.”
“Who’s arming themselves?”
“The smart ones. The Tuke people.”
“I thought we were the smart ones.”
Thomka beamed an amused grin at his friend. “We’re not smart. We’re clever. Two very different things.”
“Arming themselves with computers?” said Murthy.
“That’s what the smart ones would do. Wouldn’t they? Throw in a little patience . . . unbeatable combo.”
“If you don’t mind waiting,” groused Murthy.
Thomka couldn’t find anything new to be disappointed with in his intemperate friend. “But they haven’t been waiting,” he chuckled. “They’ve been building for three hundred years. Evolving. Never getting stuck in the past. Planning for the future.”
Murthy shrugged. “This Tuke character . . .”
“Oh, yeah. I want to call off this flushing Tuke out thing. Tuke is not going to respond like Petey expects him to. Flushing him out is going to backfire. It worries me. I’m told there’re people who protect Tuke, because he doesn’t protect himself. The KNim, or something like that.”
“A conspiracy? There’s my old Al.”
“I am not the old Al. Believe me. Turns out, I wasn’t who I thought I was. Fooled myself.”
Murthy sagged into a dead ponder. “I’m really worried about you, Al. You let this gamer play you.”
“He’s playing us all. And he’s going to win. Our game is not sustainable. We’ve never thought about the future. Unlimited growth on a finite planet is impossible. Suicidal.”
Murthy was relieved to see the food arrive, stuffed a chunk of porterhouse in his mouth, and mumbled around it. “It sustains me! Where’d you hear that shit?”
Thomka stared at his plate. “I’ve just realized how ridiculous I am. I stopped and took a look, and I see a miserable man with no possibility of ever being happy. Rich, yes. Happy, no. What’s the point?”
Murthy sucked his teeth. “I’m rich and happy!”
Thomka prodded his steak with a heavy silver fork. “If money is the measure of a man, how do we explain the two of us? In what universe could we possibly be as valuable as we are rich? We produce nothing. I just move stuff around that other people make. We balance imaginary debits with imaginary credits. It’s a distortion. And we’re the byproduct of that distortion. In what perversion of the value proposition would we merit what we’ve got? It’s a horrible distortion. When the system corrects — there’ll be hell to pay for people like us.”
Murthy struggled to swallow. “All you need is a banjo, a cigarette, put a hat out on the sidewalk.” He aimed a chunk of juicy beef on the tip of his fork at Thomka. “Say what you will about ‘clever folks’ but Petey, he’s no fool.”
Thomka tore off a piece of baguette and dipped it in a white saucer filled with a translucent green puddle of truffle oil. “Petey is a fool. He’s in a competition he cannot win.”
“A competition for what?”
“To be the winner with a capital W. The one and only. And he’ll do anything to win just for the sake of winning.”
“He’s a winner,” said Murthy. “Wait’ll I tell you this. Just set this up, like overnight. Signed the papers this afternoon. The Church bought the Central Bank. Everyone left that table absolutely . . . glutted.”
A spectacular smile froze on Thomka’s face.
Murthy talked as he chewed. “I don’t see where he hopes to profit, but that’s always been Petey’s strength. To zig when others zag. But it looks like all he’s bought is a mountain of debt. Debt that’s not likely to be paid off. And, of course, he gets the gold reserve. But the gold only covers the mandated ten percent of outstanding debt. He’s down ninety percent, on day one. I just don’t see it.”
Thomka turned dead serious. “What did he pay with?”
“Cash. Can you believe it? He had that much cash.”
“Mahesh, this world runs on debt — not cash. Thought you were an economist. Ninety percent of all the money in the world is in bank notes, covered by someone’s debt. Two abstractions on a virtual balance sheet. Our system isn’t going to fall because we ran out of money. It’ll fall because we ran out of debt. It’s all bits and bytes on a spreadsheet in some bank’s computer. Just vapor.”
Murthy shrugged his shoulders. “So how will Petey know if he’s won?”
“He already knows, Mr. Economist. You make your money on a deal when you buy. Buy right and the sale takes care of itself. Congratulations, Petey.”
Murthy paused to look querulous.
“You can say you were there when it happened. The finals. When it all came down to the last two players. Last two capitalists. Petey Hendrix and the Central Bank.”
“Who won?”
Thomka set his fork down, hung his head in his hands, and moaned. “It wasn’t the one left holding the bag.”
Murthy still didn’t get it.
Thomka patted him on the shoulder. “The bag full of soon to be . . . worthless cash.” His whole demeanor brightened. “That bag.”
Trooper MacIan roamed the old brewery hoping to avoid meeting anyone new. He nodded coolly at groups of young people clustered here and there, but kept an unapproachably brisk pace. There were delightful surprises around every corner. He was particularly drawn to the displays of old photos and posters celebrating the brewery’s past: executive portraits, anniversary groups, award ceremonies and magazine advertisements, many having hung in the same spot for more than a century. He’d grown up in this neighborhood, graduated from the local high school, but was completely unaware of the world inside these walls — walls he’d passed every day.
He was looking for a quiet place where he wouldn’t bump into Max, just to be alone for a while, but the halls echoed with laughter and shrill debate. He could hear every word and it made him anxious. He decided to go to the roof and turned up every staircase, took any fork leading toward the back of the building. Soon he rounded a bend and stopped dead. At the far end of a large open area with a high ceiling, an art nouveau staircase arched across an entire corner. It could not have been more exquisite or practical, an architect’s dream of an industrial paradise.
He climbed the stairs and walked out onto the roof. It was blustery and invigorating. Every inch of the acre and a half roof was equipped with all the mysterious projections and mounts one would expect. Copper vent stacks in every dimension stood like pipe organs with a turquoise patina. Oddly shaped cast iron plates were bolted to the parapets in strategic locations, their original function long forgotten. Many were now rigged with plastic tubing that disappeared down through the roof, or were used as battery holders, or mounts for a mismatched collection of solar panels, or small wind generators. At least half the roof was dedicated to a system of clear plastic tubes and pumps for an algae biomass generator. Turning algae into an inexhaustible supply of methyl alcohol in a brewery — perfect.
And the view from up here was spectacular. Looking less than a mile to the west, he could see downtown Pittsburgh’s Golden Triangle flanked by a lattice of bridges crossing the Monongahela River. How quaint, he thought. There hadn’t been a new bridge, or highway, or water treatment plant built in decades. There was no profit in such things.
He spotted a large, heavily reinforced patch where a water tower once stood. It would make a perfect landing pad for the Peregrine. A huge smile broke across his face as he hatched an idea: he’d let Max drive it here. Yeah, a driving lesson. Max was NPF material, and if he were checked out o
n the Peregrine he’d be a shoo-in for the fleet. He wondered why he was so eager to help Max. Max was a good kid, but was that enough? Hell yeah.
A rumbling at the base of the hill behind him drew his attention. In the sandy dusk he could make out a long train, burdened to its breaking point, crawling along the elevated tracks atop a massive wall made of cut stones as big as refrigerators. A series of trestles carried the tracks over the city streets that ducked under them near the base of the hill. The flatbed cars were stacked high with steel rails, surfaces polished by good use, and their companions — stacks of old but still valuable railroad ties.
MacIan’s joyful thoughts of Max dissolved into anger, which he tried to rationalize. The railroads had been built by thousands of Chinese workers, indentured servants of our legendary Railroad Tycoons. There might be some left-handed justice in their taking it back, but he knew better. These rails and ties would now profit no one but China’s own Tycoons — the Communist Misanthropes who held an even more venomous disdain for common people.
A delicious smell wafted across the rooftop. He followed his nose, stepping around hoppers, utility shacks, tool sheds and pulley mounts to a corner, where he found a small greenhouse. He could see a man inside dancing eccentrically, huge cigar bobbing up and down from his mouth. The man appeared to be singing, until he spotted MacIan and began waving.
“Who could this be?” thought MacIan. He’d failed to find some privacy even here, but this looked manageable. Probably a maintenance man, up here in the pipes and vents.
He moved to the door and knocked.
The greenhouse door opened and a cloud of sweet blue smoke billowed into the pure night air, revealing an older man wearing white coveralls in a colorful finger-painted paisley. “Come in. Come in.”
MacIan stepped in and the old man welcomed him with a cackling laugh and extended hand. “How ya doin’?” he said. “Brian Mendelssohn.”
