by John Zakour
It was like discovering Atlantis (only a little more ostentatious).
The outer layer was a ring of interconnected small buildings (and I use the word “small” only in relation to everything else), which encircled the centerpiece of the estate, a giant multi-leveled pyramid made of sparkling metal. Had it not been the middle of the night, I think the glare of sunlight off the building would have permanently burned my retinas. As it was, it was like looking at the dazzling facets of a giant, utterly perfect jewel.
The entire estate was shielded by a translucent force-field that, from the inside, was a gentle shade of purple, which I’m sure was not coincidentally a perfect match to Ona’s complexion. The field shielded the compound from the rain and as I looked up, I could see the droplets of water beading and sliding down the length of the energy-created hard surface, sizzling a bit as they slithered, like tears of grease and spittle on a griddle.
“This is kind of eerie,” I whispered.
“It is a bit pretentious, isn’t it?” HARV replied inside my head.
“I won’t go blind if I stare at it for too long, will I?”
“I can’t say for certain. The clinical trial is still in progress.”
The computer auto pilot took control of our hover and brought us gently toward the main building.
“Nice pyramid,” I said.
“Ziggurat,” HARV replied.
“Gezundheit.”
“The building is a ziggurat. A pyramid is a structure comprised of a polyhedron base and four straight, smooth triangular faces. A ziggurat is a pyramidal structure that is built in successive stages. The pyramid is primarily Egyptian in origin. The ziggurat is Mesopotamian, although similar designs have been found in ancient Aztec and Mayan cultures.”
“So…nice ziggurat,” I said.
“I think so too.”
“How much do you think a place like this goes for?”
“Let’s put it this way,” HARV said. “On the landing pad ahead, the third directional light from the left, that bulb costs more than your house.”
“Well, it is a nice bulb.”
I’ve mentioned earlier that Ona Thompson is the richest woman on the planet. To explain exactly how rich she is and where her wealth comes from, we need to go back again to her father.
As previously noted, Dr. David Thompson was best known for two monumental creations. The first was his four daughters. The second was a little more infamous.
The tabloids of the time dubbed it the D-Cubed, which trivialized it to no end but the name seemed to strike a chord with the general public so it stuck. Thompson, himself never formally named the device but rumor has it that he referred to it as TEOATI, which stood for “The End of All That Is,” which was fitting because what he created was a doomsday device.
Very little is actually known about the device but rumor and legend say that it began with just a theory on Dr. Thompson’s part, a hypothesis that a machine could be created that would literally un-make worlds. The theory stayed with him, in the shadows of his brilliant mind for months, maybe years, buzzing around like an annoying fly until he finally gave in to the spark of destructive inspiration and sat down at his computer drawing board to follow it through.
Many years later, it was complete. Dr. Thompson had designed an immense machine that was capable of creating an imitation black hole strong enough to rip a planet apart, reducing it in a matter of minutes to its atomic skeleton. He hadn’t actually set out to create a doomsday device. He’d just followed the wanderings of his brilliant mind and risen to the nearly impossible challenges that it posed. But in the end, there it was, the design for an honest to goodness end-it-all device.
Needless to say, when word of the device’s existence reached the ears of the World Council, they were none too pleased. They feared that the plans would fall into the wrong hands. And truthfully, when you’re talking about an actual doomsday device, any hands are the wrong ones. So the World Council acted quickly (one of the few times in its history).
First, they set out to verify the existence and functionality of the D-Cubed. But, like the protectors of a modern day Holy Grail, they didn’t want any one person to gaze upon the complete plans, for fear that the divine knowledge would stick in their mind. So they dispatched a team of twenty-five of the best scientists to examine Dr. Thompson’s designs. Each scientist was given only a small component of the blueprint to analyze so as not to learn too much about the device. The scientists confirmed, as much as they could, that each component that they had individually examined was viable and potentially functional. Therefore, the Council surmised, the D-Cubed itself may indeed be real.
So when faced with the existence of a potential threat to the entire world and all humanity, they did what any good capitalist government would do. They threw money at it.
The World Council, with the backing and support of the world’s one thousand largest corporations, pooled its resources and made Dr. Thompson an offer he couldn’t refuse. They paid him more money than had ever been paid before in the history of history to not build the device. And the conditions of the deal were that he had to destroy all copies of the plans for the D-Cubed.
Including the ones in his head.
Dr. Thompson agreed. He destroyed all work referring to the D-Cubed and then voluntarily underwent a minor surgical procedure where doctors removed the small portion of his brain that contained the theory and plans for the D-Cubed. Looking back you really have to admire the guy’s bravery. He was after all being asked to undergo a partial lobotomy but he did so willingly. His actual words, upon hearing the World Council’s offer/demands, which were netcast live around the world were simply: “As you wish.”
The whole period was probably best captured in a single photo, taken in the hallway of the hospital a few minutes before Dr. Thompson underwent his surgery. In the image Thompson is hugging the Quads, who were five years old at the time. He is kneeling, head bowed, eyes closed. One arm is around Twoa. The other is around Threa. Ona is hugging him from behind. But it is his embrace with Foraa that is most poignant. Her tiny body faces him. Her arms are at her sides. Like her father, Foraa’s eyes are closed, her head down, gently resting against the bowed head of her father. The poignancy of their expressions made the image an icon, forever ingrained in the pop culture psyche of the era. It’s also the best-selling Father’s Day card of all time, which is a little crass, I know, but clearly indicative of the image’s popularity.
The operation was a success and Dr. Thompson, now a fabulously wealthy man went back to his home, his daughters, and his work and was supposed to live happily ever after.
Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out that way.
The brain surgery left Dr. Thompson brilliant but somewhat addled. He had constant lapses in memory and developed some odd physical ticks. He retreated more and more into his secluded lab, ignoring his daughters and burying himself in his work. He died tragically in a lab explosion five years later.
And then things really got interesting.
By the time of Dr. Thompson’s death, the Quads were on the cusp of maturity. They were brilliant, but bored super-human pre-teens and, as mentioned, each sister, in an effort to distinguish herself, had developed her own personal style.
With their father’s death, they were left with an immense fortune but without a guiding parent, and that’s where the troubles really began. It seems that Dr. Thompson’s familial memory skills were one of the casualties of the surgery that excised the D-Cubed knowledge from his brain. As a result, when he rewrote his will not long before his death, he apparently forgot that he had four children and left his entire fortune to his “child”…Ona.
So Ona inherited everything, thus beginning one of the most infamous and long-running displays of civil litigation in modern history. Twoa and Threa (each only ten years old) sued Ona claiming that they were each due one quarter of the estate. Foraa filed suit claiming that she wanted no part of the estate. Twoa and Threa then filed addi
tional suits saying that they were now due one-third of the estate. Ona meanwhile, having more than enough money to defend herself, hired nearly fifteen percent of all attorneys left in the world after the Great Lawyer Purge (as well as an army of undercover attorneys a.k.a. greeting card salesmen) and stalled the suits in every conceivable way. The legal battles have been running now for over a dozen years. Honestly, I’ve lost track of it all. It’s become one of those things that’s always around but you don’t need to follow everyday.
It’s worth noting that, even without a share of their father’s fortune both Twoa and Threa have managed to earn tidy livings from their celebrity status. Both of them are holovision stars. Twoa’s adventures as a super hero and crime fighter are recorded and netcast three nights a week on the Entercorp True Crime site. Threa hosts a weekly “meditations with the fairy queen” show on the fantasy site where she spends an hour showing off different parts of her mystical fairy realm and answering relationship questions. I’ve never seen either of the shows but I understand that they’re relatively popular, especially with teenage girls and gay men (two highly coveted demographic groups).
Foraa has done her best to stay out of the public eye (to the extent that such a thing is possible for a Thompson Quad). She lives in New Vegas and preaches about the evils of wealth and the material world to anyone who will listen (which pretty much scares away most interviewers). Still, she has garnered a bit of a following and her lectures are a popular attraction on most New Vegas tours.
“What about the legal battle?” I asked HARV as our craft neared the landing pad. “Has anything happened there lately?”
“The cascade of claims and counter-claims continue within the courts,” HARV replied. “There had been some rumors that the Quads were negotiating a settlement sans their attorneys but those have been officially denied by all parties.”
“Which means, of course, that they’re probably true.”
“Yes, probably.”
“A settlement would certainly be big news. The end of an era. I wonder if that’s why we’re here.”
“To witness the settlement? As if life would be that easy.”
We landed at the designated landing pad and were ushered into the main mansion by the polite, bodiless voice of the computer. HARV dissipated his hologram before we landed so as not to draw attention to himself. And, as usual, for the duration of our visit, he would mostly communicate with me either by whispering silently in my head or, when stealth and silence wasn't a priority, through the traditional interface that I wear on my wrist. Very few people in the world know that HARV is hardwired directly into my head. The secret has helped me out on a number of occasions so I like to keep it as quiet as possible. Plus, if truth be told, it's not something I brag about or even like to think about too much.
“Thank you again for coming so quickly, Mr. Johnson,” the computer said. “Ms. Ona is awaiting you in the great dining room number seven. If you’ll permit me, I shall vocally escort you to your destination.”
“That will be fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Could this computer be any more sycophantic?” HARV whispered in my head. “The way he ass-kisses, I suspect that he was originally programmed for proctology.”
“It’s nice to have a polite computer…for a change.”
The computer led us through Ona’s mansion and I was grateful to have the guidance because I’d never have found my way without it. The mansion’s décor, at least for this portion of the hallways, was done through random probability holographic projections, an interior design style that had come into vogue a few months earlier (when Ona started using it, of course). The system holographically decorates the living space according to one of a myriad of preprogrammed design motifs. It can be early Victorian one nano or lush forest the next. Ona, not surprisingly had chosen some envelope-pushing motifs. The arctic tundra wasn’t too bad but the Peruvian mudslide made me a little uncomfortable and the “burning building” effect (complete with realistic smoke odors) made me queasy but I managed to keep my composure.
“I don’t suppose Ms. Thompson has any decorative motif programs that are more sedate?” I asked the computer.
“Sadly, none are available at the nano,” it responded. “The decorator program is linked to Ms. Thompson’s body and brain patterns so that it reflects her current mood. Apparently she’s somewhat agitated at present.”
We walked through a doorway as the simulated walls blew apart from a holographic nuclear explosion.
“I’ll say.”
We arrived at the end of the hallway and the computer indicated that our journey had ended by adding a slight golden glow to the closed door before us.
“We’ve arrived,” it said. “I’ve alerted Ms. Thompson so please feel free to enter.”
“Thanks,” I said as I gently turned the knob. “I appreciate your help.”
“It was my pleasure serving you, sir.”
“Gates,” HARV whispered in my head. “I think I’m going to hurl my chips.”
I opened the door and gently entered the room.
Remember all those suspicions I’d had about how taking this case was going to be nothing but trouble? Well, my estimation of the trouble turned out to be way too conservative. I knew it in one glance.
The space was a formal dining room, sumptuously elegant and (not surprisingly) enormous. The table was set and the food that was waiting to be served looked delicious. But that’s where the good news ended.
All four quads were there (and none of them were what one would call happy). Ona was the first to greet me. She stood by the table, arms crossed, clearly agitated, angry and a little on edge.
“Well, it’s DOS well about time you showed up,” she said.
Twoa (the super hero) was beside her, hovering a about a half meter off the ground. She was in full costume: a tight red crop-top, white miniskirt and a long blue cape. There was a grim, steely-jawed look of determination on her face.
Threa (the fairy queen) was in the background just a little, away from the table, as though she’d been pacing before I entered. He long green robe danced around her gently as though moved by a breeze (which I couldn’t feel). Two tiny nymphs flitted around her head, sparkling with pixie-like glitter. She was crying, not sobbing or anything, but she had those heroically strong tear-stained cheeks that you read about so often in fantasy fiction.
But it was Foraa who embodied the trouble. She was wearing a thick black, faux-leather jacket, short skirt and black tights. Had the room been any darker I wouldn’t have been able to see her at all, she was so shadowy. She was the only one of the quads at the nano who didn’t look angry or overwrought. As a matter of fact she looked rather content.
But that didn’t help matters much because she was also lying dead on the floor.
“As you can see,” Ona said, “we have a problem.”
4
I knelt beside Foraa and put my hand gently on her neck, being careful not to disturb anything. I felt no pulse and her skin was slightly cold to the touch. I knew she was gone but I had HARV confirm it. He scanned her through the subtle contact of my fingertip.
“No pulse, boss,” he said. “No breath sounds. Her body’s cooled a bit already. She’s been dead for an hour at least.”
“I suppose you had to check for yourself, huh?” Ona said. “My sisters and I have a combined IQ higher than the California GDP, but you couldn’t be certain that we could tell a live body from a dead one?”
Foraa’s expression was sadly serene yet beautiful in a quiet way (in a stark contrast to her sister). Her skin was the patented Thompson Quad shade of purple, but it was unpainted and unblemished. The beauty that was fast fading with death was all natural.
Her hair however, was… something less than natural. In true black-sheep rebellion, Foraa had dyed her hair the deepest shade of black I’d ever seen within the earth’s atmosphere. Miss Clairol #666, Black Hole Oblivion, it was so dark, it didn’t even look like hair anymo
re. It was more like a stylish spatial wormhole atop her head where all light and color ceased to exist.
“Good thing she didn’t do her eyebrows as well,” HARV said.
There were puddles of red wine on the marble floor where she lay. One was near her mouth, a few tiny droplets still clung to her lips like dark berries on a bush. Another encircled her hand like a bloody pond around a delicate purple island. Her hand was palm down and cupped ever so slightly into a subtle dome. This caught my attention, tickling an odd thread in my memory.
“Her hand looks a little strange,” I mumbled.
“I agree,” HARV whispered. “A rather unnatural position.”
I zeroed in on the memory. It brought me back to my early days on the street as a PI, dealing with con men and street hustlers.
“You know, it’s almost like she’s doing a card trick,” I said.
“A what?”
I reached for her hand without thinking and made the first of my many mistakes during the investigation.
“It’s like she’s palming something. I wonder…”
“Boss, don’t touch…”
I lifted her hand, ever so gently from the puddle.
“DOS,” I said aloud.
There were symbols drawn in wine beneath her hand. Foraa had clearly scrawled them on the tile just before her death. She had cupped her hand gently around them before she died, not to hide them from sight but to keep them from being erased by the puddle of wine that had formed. By lifting her hand, I had broken the seal around the symbols. I had removed the dam and the wine puddle rushed past its unnatural banks. The symbols disappeared in nanos.
“Oh, jeez,” I said. “That was probably important.”
“The last thing Ms. Thompson wrote before she succumbed to death’s icy embrace?” HARV whispered, “yes, I would suspect so.”
“You didn’t by chance happen to…”
“Record it? Of course I did,” HARV said. “I got it through the eye-cam. I’m analyzing it now.”
