by Hugo Navikov
I used to make movies about cyborgs. Now I am one. Hehhhhhhhhh …
Now that you see me, Planet Earth, you will understand better what I am about to tell you. I am a man with billions of dollars that, other than for the fine care I receive from the best—and best-paid—medical staff in the world, are completely useless to me. That’s why I want to give one billion dollars to you.”
His servos put that horrible smile on his face, thoroughly horrifying viewers even as they remained compelled to watch this poor, poor man who just said he was going to give them a rich, rich mountain of money. The AD and film interns—as well as the doctors and nurses present—looked at one another in perplexed wonder. Mickey looked down at his feet, refusing to give any of the game away at this last minute.
Once again, in case you can’t understand me with my machine-driven speech, I want one of you watching right now to have one billion of my dollars. We can even leave it in an offshore account in my name if you like, to keep the taxman at bay. I promise I won’t go to any ATM and take any of it back. Hehhhhhhhhh …
Why am I making this offer? Why did I buy fifteen minutes of airtime, half of which has ticked by as I told you things you already knew, to make you this offer? And, most of all, you must be wondering: What the hell is this offer in the first place?
Reasonable questions all, and I shall give you my reasonable answer right this moment: I want one of you, or a team of you, or a small army of you, to kill that Gigadon. It means a great investment of time and money, certainly, but not the rest of your lives if you go down there with the intention to kill this [BUZZ]ing thing. And not a billion dollars of money, either. How you get out there and how you get to Gigadon is your business, and I and my Foundation do not want to hear your plans.
The only thing I want from you is for you to bring me the carcass of Gigadon. I want the whole thing, the whole goddamn corpse; I want scientists to get as much out of this bastard as humanly possible. But even if they don’t and it’s left for the gulls, I will pay only the party who brings it to my coast of Guam, and I will pay only if my team of ichthyopaleontologists and marine biologists agree that what is brought forward is the prehistoric beast captured on that very, very popular video.
And, assholes of the world, don’t bother making a hoax version; Gigadon is more horrible than you can imagine when you haven’t seen him up close and personal, and you will just make a fool of yourself. And do jail time—yes, you will. I have funded the campaigns of many judges in California as well as here in Guam. Not bribes, because I didn’t ask for any particular return on my investment. But I do think a scumbag trying to steal from a pile of flesh would not receive leniency in that judge’s courtroom. I do not own them; but I certainly share their concern for fairness about who goes to prison and who does not.
But enough of that. The Marianas Trench and, within it, Challenger Deep, are under the jurisdiction of the United States of America, as is Guam, where I will die within five years, my doctors tell me. So, at my request, the U.S. government will allow any registered party, whether it’s one person with a harpoon or fifty people with ten exact copies of Ocean Victory on their ship, to hunt Gigadon starting one week after Registration Day, which is one week from today.
Why one week? The question really should be: Why waste a week? The answer to the last question is that I want to be fair and let all the competitors get down here. And the answer to the first: It’s because five years is my maximum time to live. With the Rube Goldberg mélange of tubes and computers and machinery keeping me alive, I could get an infection and die an hour later. A power outage in one of Guam’s south Pacific megastorms would be the end of me. Anything could happen at any time. And while that’s true for everyone, I’m the one who can hear the tapping of the Reaper’s scythe as he walks the corridors of this hospital.
What I’m saying is that I want to see Gigadon dead and gone from this world, just like the rest of the dinosaurs. Why not all the others down there, too? I want all to please feel free to kill every unnatural monster down there, but even mighty Megalodon is a timid and tiny flower compared to Gigadon.
Gigadon. I curse you to hell, devil’s beast of the deep.
There was still three minutes left according to the red LED clock on the wall opposite Bentneus, put there so he could see how much time he had to go on the broadcast.
I haven’t much time left—literally … hehhhhhhhhh … but my system is breaking down … I will decline most shockingly as the remainder of my body refuses, part by part, to obey the orders given to them by these remarkable machines.
So listen carefully, record this, write this down: Registration Day is in one week, on the first of April. Yes, that’s right, April Fool’s Day. But it’s not on that day because I’m making a fool of you. You will absolutely get your billion dollars if you succeed in this task. No, the fool is going to be that monster, that lousy abomination of the deep that killed me.
Registration Day will be held on the grounds of Governor Joseph Flores Beach Park starting at dawn and continuing as long as it takes to register all those who arrive before 11:59 p.m. Chamorro Time Zone. You can boat in and dock near the beach. You can fly in to Won Pat International. You can ride a goddamned magical unicycle. The only rules are time of registration; length of the hunt, starting at 12:01 a.m. CTZ on April 8, one week after Registration Day and two weeks from tonight; and you have to bring me the whole [BUZZ]ing fish. I don’t care how you do it, the same way you don’t care if your billion dollars is in twenties, hundreds, or old hundred-thousand-dollar bills with that weaksauce Woodrow Wilson on them. That’s the kind of stuff you know when you’re filthy rich. I guarantee you’ll like it … hehhhhhhhhh …
I have thirty seconds of airtime left. Everything you need—registration forms, government crap, maps, everything is on the website KillGigadon.com. Go there, then come here, and avenge my pathetic death.
Goodnight, and death to what needs killing.
Everyone in Bentneus’s hospital room and probably 90 percent of the people who watched the whole address were stunned speechless. The doctors and other medical staff were wide-eyed but with their mouths remaining shut by will alone. But two female interns looked at the bedridden man, and the waterworks started. The AD behind the camera just kept nodding as he stared off into nowhere.
And Mickey clapped. He didn’t start with a slow clap, showing how ironic and cool he was; he went full bore and applauded Jake Bentneus, loudly, for turning it up to 11, going to infinity and beyond, and letting out a full-throated, revenge-fueled barbaric yawp that would never, ever be forgotten.
***
“Welcome back. Well, wow. We’ve seen it and heard it from the man himself. Jake Bentneus is offering a one-billion-dollar bounty to anyone who can find, kill, and bring back the body of the sea-monster dinosaur Gigadon. We’ve assembled a panel of experts to tell us what we just all watched and provide their fine-tuned analysis of this historic—pre-historic? ha ha—telecast and reward offer. Jim Blabenfus of K2TV in Casper, Wyoming, can you help our viewers understand this better?”
The studio cameras were pointed at the leftmost panelist, a bow-tied and suspendered man, who had twice received the Agriculture Roundup’s “Ranchy” Award for his reports on misfiled paperwork at one barley farm’s box supplier. Two other experts were also sitting at the curved desk to the anchorman’s left. Blabenfus cleared his throat and looked down at his notes, which viewers could see consisted of exactly one line of black ink. “I think the most important thing to understand about this event is … um …” he trailed off as he checked his notes. “Is that the ‘Steven’ he mentioned in the opening where he talks about other Hollywood filmmakers is most likely Steven Spielberg, of Hook and Amistad fame.”
“Excellent point,” Judith Bombast said, she being the author of several books on current events, including How to Spot a Muslim and Why You Should Spot a Muslim. “Following the thread of what Jim was saying, Bentneus was most likely mentioning the Jewi
sh hero Steven Spielberg in a bit of an ironic manner, but also with respect, letting him know that he did not consider Spielberg ‘beneath’ him somehow in talent or success.”
“That would be pretty ridiculous. Steven Spielberg is one of the most successful film directors of all time,” said the third panelist, a mild-mannered reporter named Clark Kent—not that one, as he was always saying. And people believed him easily since this Clark Kent was a 350-pound black gentleman who wrote the popular sports column “This Week in Semi-Professional Badminton” for the Watauga Democrat of Blowing Rock, North Carolina. “But yes, I think Jake was very clear that this was not the case.”
The host nodded at Kent’s comment and turned to the camera to say, “We’ll continue with our usual level of professional analysis when we return in just a moment. Keep it here on FOXNews.”
***
After the camera crew had packed up and gone, Bentneus’s media advisors called in to give him the good news of his 98 percent share of the viewership measurable worldwide (Bentneus was required by what his staff called “Jake’s Law” to respond with, “What was that last 2 percent doing?”).
So people had heard the message. Good, good, good. But would they have the guts, the balls, the money to have a realistic chance at catching and killing Gigadon? Bentneus knew that, obviously, slum dwellers outside Rio de Janiero wouldn’t have the resources to put together a deep-sea mission (but if they somehow did and won the billion dollars, he’d say God bless and here’s your check); however, those with realistic chances included the Americans, the French, the Japanese, not to mention the independent ocean research institutes in Sri Lanka, Madagascar, and of course from his own final homeland right here in Guam.
His false stomach couldn’t have butterflies, and even if it did, he wouldn’t be able to feel them. His artificial heart didn’t race, his pseudo-lungs didn’t draw shallower breaths than it always did, and he didn’t even have a sphincter to tighten up; but Jake Bentneus was excited as hell. The rods and catches on his mouth and cheeks showed his uncanny-valley smile.
“Knocked ’em dead, Jake,” Mickey said, coming out of his corner now that everyone else was gone. “That big fat son of a bitch is as good as dead.”
“Hehhhhhhhhh hehhhhhhhhh …” Bentneus wheezed. “Now. I have a question for you, Mick.”
“Shoot.”
“Would it be a conflict of interest for you to captain a team of vessels very likely to take the prize? You’re my right-hand man, but organizing a media buy hasn’t given you any particular advantage over anyone else. Your abilities as a mission chief have only been strengthened by the Muir thing and Gigadon murdering me.”
Mickey hated it when Jake said that last part, but he accepted the compliment graciously, then said, “You’re gonna have a team in the hunt? I don’t think my being on a team would be any ethical problem, but you having a ticket to the Gigadon lottery would be a big ol’ conflict of interest. Like Gigadon big, if you’ll excuse the comparison.”
“Hehhhhhhhhh … no, it’s perfect. And no, I’m not pulling a stunt like entering my own team to win my own money back. All the money can kiss my colostomy hole. What I’m looking to do is provide support to the right people to get that goddamn thing.”
“For science,” Mickey said, and they both wheezed with hilarity.
The servos on Bentneus’s face returned it to a serious expression. (A blank one, actually, but definitely not a smile.) “We’ve got two weeks.”
“That should give anyone with enough scratch a chance to get over here.”
“Yes. But that’s not what the time’s for, Mickey. We’ve got two weeks to get Sean Muir out of prison.”
***
Like a mistreated dog, Sean Muir had gotten used to chains.
Hands in cuffs that were chained not only together but also to a chain going around his belt. Chains from his belt went down to cuffs on his ankles. If he tried to run—there was nowhere to run, but if he tried—he would exhibit the speed and agility of a man who had been on the toilet running with his pants down to answer the phone.
Bars, too. He was so used to bars after four years that he didn’t even notice them anymore, the way you notice the side of your nose only when you think of it first. His cell didn’t have bars—it had a swinging metal door that blocked any view. (Not that there was anything to look at, but if.) But everything else had iron bars: doors, walls between anything and anything else, windows, any portal to somewhere; they were all barred.
Sean Muir was at one time baked brown by the sun from sailing across oceans to find the sweet spots the ships’ equipment told them might be a thermal vent on the bottom. But now he was a ghastly, ghoulish white from not seeing the sun for so long after the incident a year earlier that had earned him a place in solitary. He got an hour a day for exercise, but although he at least got to see the sky, the walls were too high for him to see or feel anything of the sun at that time of day.
Sean’s attorney had managed to get him full access to the prison library interlibrary loan to check out books, photocopies of articles from journals, and even DVDs from libraries anywhere in the country, all of which were mailed to him. (He was escorted—in chains each time—to a tiny viewing room and watched the videos taken by old friends and former colleagues that kept him up on the latest sightings and evidence for or against his and others’ more interesting theories and speculations.)
After much legal wrangling, he was also allowed a manual typewriter, a supply of ribbons, and paper, paid for by a bank account belonging to his friend and crew chief, Mickey Luch, into which Sean had transferred money during the short time between his conviction and sentencing. (His ankle had sported a flashy GPS transmitter then.) It was good to have access to that money—not that there was anything that he wanted to buy in the prison commissary, but he was allowed to conduct his business by postal mail only, which he knew must make him look like some kind of Unabomber-esque neo-Luddite, if he wanted to submit essays and articles for peer review by the editorial panels of oceanographic, marine biology, and ocean geology journals. However they disagreed on his pet area of research, no matter that he was in prison for a heinous crime, his peers in the academic world still greatly respected his meticulousness and logical argumentation in interpreting established research and cutting-edge discoveries to support his speculations.
He did wonder, sometimes, who would really consider him a “peer” anymore outside of the research journals’ editorial boards and contributors. For the last four years, his true peers had been murderers, rapists, and category-fluid paranoid schizophrenics. (It occurred to him that the final category might apply to some academics, too.) That aside, he had published regularly, more than a lot of tenured faculty, about the same subjects that he had obsessed over since that long-ago submersible dive with his professor in graduate school: thermal vents, dinosaurs adapted to live at the bottom of the deepest oceans, how the animals might be coaxed into swimming at depths where they could be better studied.
***
As Doctor Frankenstein said, “They laughed at me in school!” After Katherine had died, his “crackpot” theories—those self-same papers respected by his former colleagues—were held up as evidence that he had lost connection with reality. The prosecutors, who would ultimately triumph, made his publication record into a mark against him, showing his obsession, they said, with wild ideas. According to the district attorney’s office, the incident that killed Katherine Muir was murder, not an accident. No, he had gone off the deep end and murdered his wife by sabotaging the equipment and then claiming an injury that morning that conveniently kept him from performing his appointed test dive, tricking his wife into taking the submersible down to her death.
Sean was jealous of her, they said, because she also published and was considered his partner in more ways that just being his spouse. He was afraid she would take the limelight off him when the “magic dinosaurs” (as they repeatedly called them) were discovered, they said to explai
n his motive. When his fingers were examined upon his arrest and extradition a few days after the aborted expedition returned to Guam, the doctors back in the U.S. said there was no sign of injury. “Broken” and “dislocated” were intentionally conflated in the minds of the public, and then in the minds of the jury.
Sean’s lawyer argued, correctly, that dislocated fingers set and splinted almost immediately after the injury wouldn’t show evidence of trauma. However, when this was brought up at the trial to dispel the notion that Sean had planned to switch places with his wife, the prosecution had already planted in the minds of the jury the idea that this clever, educated man would have had little trouble arranging things to look like an accident.
No, he was a madman—although one who should go to a maximum security federal prison, not be treated or even held in custody at a facility for the criminally insane—and when madmen start thinking everyone is against them, they eliminate the closest enemies first, the prosecution claimed. In Sean Muir’s case, the jury was told, Katherine Muir was that closest enemy conspiring against him, so he murdered her.
The credulous jury was swayed by this argument and also because “Doctor Muir” was a member of “elite academia,” where reality was unwelcome if it conflicted with the “ivory tower” and its elaborate and ridiculous “theories” that did nothing to better the lives of others. Dinosaurs hiding out in the ocean? Preposterous! Complex life springing from nothing because it eats from vents farting out sulfurous chemicals? Fishy, indeed! In other words, the whole research program stank to high heaven, just like Doctor Muir’s excuses and fabrications regarding his wife’s death.
