by Carol Caiton
The Blue Link
RUSH, Inc.
Book 1
By Carol Caiton
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Carol Caiton Ware. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission.
The Blue Link
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
MAP
BOARD OF DIRECTORS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
MEMO
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
EPILOGUE 1
EPILOGUE 2
EPILOGUE 3
Author's Note
Preview of Soul to Soul
MAP
BOARD OF DIRECTORS
Malcolm Speeridge – CEO
Mason Ingersol – Attorney
Ethan Vale – Chief of Security
Simon Yetzer – Statistician
Michael Vassek – Systems Programmer
Elliott Longstreet – Architect
Oliver Pace – Accountant
CHAPTER 1
The linking system at RUSH, Inc. was its heartbeat, the foundation upon which everything else was built. Some considered it a work of art—a masterpiece of psychological achievement refined beyond anything in its class. Others considered it the work of Satan—an ambitious scheme to ensnare and debauch an already perverted society, cleverly protected by legal loopholes.
It had taken a rotating team of seasoned psychologists, working together for nineteen months, to develop, build on, and perfect the bones of the linking system. At its core, the fundamentals of human behavior had been debated, intensely analyzed, and, at length, painstakingly expanded to factor in the five senses. Then the whole of it was radically dissected, a multitude of nuances filtered into each abstract, and the end result was a one-of-a-kind, comprehensive study that all but guaranteed perfect compatibility—physical, emotional, and sexual—between two or more individuals.
Daniel Zeman, Psy.D., and soon to be resident psychologist at RUSH, then focused on mapping out a questionnaire that would serve as both an application for membership as well as for employment. At face value the questionnaire followed a pattern similar to that of a dating service, querying likes, dislikes, and personality traits. Unlike a dating service, however, it moved on to address deeper, sensitive issues, becoming a thought-provoking, often difficult exercise as it searched out, probed, and explored the human psyche. Innumerable questions appeared to have no common connection, yet functioned as a means of discovery, unearthing the human temperament at a profoundly intimate level. As a result, the wants and needs of the applicant—physical, emotional, and sexual—could be linked with a complementary individual on a paradigm for which there existed no equal. The questionnaire took approximately eight hours to complete, and enrollment—or employment—was contingent upon the ability to pass a variety of qualifying markers.
RUSH, Inc., however, was not a dating service. It was a venue for the practice of physical intimacy amid a lush horizon of creative backdrops—a sophisticated, multimillion-dollar rendezvous setting for adults. It had been conceived, designed, and built by seven men for the convenience of safe sex with a specific class of woman and an emphasis on the division of roles.
Simon Yetzer was one of those seven men. A statistician by profession, he began merging baseline data in unconventional combinations while in his mid-teens until eventually, he devised a way to estimate the potential profit or loss given a particular investment over a specified period of time. Upon graduation from college with a degree in economics and a second in applied statistics, his portfolio stood as his resume and smoothly opened whichever door he chose to pass through. His name and talent made the rounds of financial circles and, as fate would have it, he was singled out by the United States government with an offer that captured his interest enough to accept.
But Washington had been yet another stepping stone. It was there that he met Michael Vassek, the youngest of RUSH's seven business partners.
Ironically, upon meeting one another each felt an immediate hostility toward the other—a novel experience for Simon. He'd never shaken hands with someone and felt instant dislike. By contrast, insofar as Michael Vassek was concerned, Simon decided it probably wasn't a novel experience at all. Vassek was a cocky eighteen-year-old with too much ego and an attitude problem. Michael, on the other hand, pegged Simon as a rigid asshole who needed a personality overhaul. Resentment between them rose like a ripple of energy whenever an assignment necessitated working together—not a frequent occurrence, but not unusual, either.
Michael Vassek—known as Michael Rawson at the time—had been the adopted son of John K. Rawson, a wealthy four-term senator with influential connections. Simon hadn't been the only person to wonder if Michael wheedled his way into a cushy job by riding his adoptive father's coattails. But the young man turned out to be the government's newest wonderboy—a computer genius with the ability to work his way through encrypted code as though perusing a first grade primer, then slip in and out of any system he was called upon to access and come back with the desired information.
During the course of several years, Simon was forced to acknowledge the younger man's talent. Time and again he found himself reluctantly intrigued by the kid's ability to produce actual data—real-time statistics that were accurate to the minute they were retrieved—from a supposedly impenetrable source. That wasn't to say his opinion changed—merely that the analyst in him was able to appreciate Michael's intelligence.
Their mutual animosity, however, came to an unexpected end one bitter night in December, five years after their initial meeting. Following two days of freezing rain and drizzle, Michael walked the slick streets of Georgetown, maneuvered around sleet-encrusted cars, and approached the steps of Simon's duplex. Without a coat, dressed in jeans and a Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt that might have caused trouble had he been in a different part of the city, he pressed on the bell, then stood and waited.
No more than a few seconds passed before Simon opened the door and stared as his eyes landed on Michael. He could think of no explanation that would account for his long-standing adversary to be standing on the front porch, r
inging his doorbell. But his respect for the younger man's intelligence had grown considerably, so whatever the reason, he decided it was probably a good one.
Opening the door in silent invitation, he stood back while Michael, with an equally silent nod of thanks, stepped inside, surrounded by an aura of chill.
They stared at one another for a while, two tall, broad-shouldered men inside the cramped confines of a five-by-seven-foot vestibule, Simon's neatly trimmed dark hair, slacks, and gray sweater a sharp contrast to Michael's windblown, streaky blond hair and well-worn jeans. For the first time he saw no resentment in Michael's eyes and set aside his own antipathy to look back at him and wait.
"The senator's dead," the younger man finally said, but without elaboration. And as explanations went it packed a punch, yet said nothing at all. John Rawson had suffered a stroke three years before that left him paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair. He hadn't been expected to live long, but why, of all people, Michael chose Simon as a sounding board was a mystery.
Then suddenly he understood. He hadn't worked the sociopolitical ladder, but it was wise to keep one's eyes and ears open in the nation's capital. He'd harbored some suspicions with regard to the senator's reasons for taking in a fifteen-year-old homeless street kid. Yes, Rawson had been a philanthropic figure, supporting several less than popular charities. But adopting a vagabond teenager whose livelihood had probably depended on drugs or prostitution raised a red flag in Simon's mind. What were the circumstances that had brought them together? And why a street kid? Why not go through normal adoption channels? He'd suspected something sordid beneath the publicized story, and suddenly realized that Michael had somehow read those suspicions the day they'd met, sparking the years of hostility between them.
Conversely, those same suspicions set Simon apart as the one person with whom Michael could speak once the senator had passed on.
With a single nod of his head, Simon conveyed his condolences and said, "Come on in."
The discussion that followed hadn't been an easy one. Questions were asked, answers were given, but irregular intervals of silence followed intermittent slices of conversation. Finally, after a time each began to relax with the other. Then a floodgate of ideas erupted when Michael tossed out an off-the-wall comment that caught the attention of both—a comment with the potential to become something rather extraordinary. Five hours and two pots of coffee later, the groundwork for RUSH, Inc. had been sketched out while icy sleet tapped at the windows outside.
The most unexpected development to come from that night, however, was the forging of a friendship as robust as their earlier animosity. The brainstorming session they'd stumbled onto formed a bond that grew into the partnership they now shared with five others. The timing had been right, the partnerships solid, and two years after Michael set about bringing Dr. Zeman's questionnaire to life in the form of computer code, his off-the-wall, multimillion-dollar comment was yielding a profit.
Simon stepped into his office carrying a take-out cup of black, unsweetened coffee and set it on the desk beside his keyboard. When he sat down, however, he wished he'd brought back something to eat as well. It would probably be a couple hours yet before he could leave for the night.
He booted up his computer, typed in his password, then followed it with a secondary security code. When both were accepted, he opened a file that gave an overview of the corporation's activity during the past seven days, then another that allowed him to compare the current statistics with those from previous weeks. And when called up individually, he could pinpoint a particular venue's strengths and weakness, then report his findings at the weekly board meeting.
By five o'clock on any other Wednesday the report he was preparing would have been completed and he'd be at the food court enjoying dinner. But today had been broken up by a series of interruptions and at five forty-five he was only slightly more than half finished.
He noted the surprising increase of client enrollment in the Pleasure Points class and was jotting down the difference when three things happened at once, all working in tandem to seize control of his computer and freeze his progress. One minute he was analyzing data, the next he was locked out of the system.
The first of the three was a soft chime that signaled a communication from the corporate database and was meant to draw his attention had he not been seated at his desk. The second, a small window that opened in the center of his monitor, prompted him to acknowledge receipt of the communication and typing in his password would override the lock, allowing him to continue working. But the third—the root cause of the interruption—was a slow-flashing icon in the lower right corner of the screen. A small square button with contoured edges, it was an icon every man at RUSH waited for, the reason each of them paid exorbitant membership fees to be registered with the linking system. It represented a match, one of sexual compatibility with a woman, and Simon's reaction to it echoed that of every other man on property. He might be one of the seven partners who owned the company and managed daily operations, but the acquisition of a link sent the same pulse of anticipation through him, the same sense of satisfaction and triumph.
He shifted his gaze to the bottom corner of the monitor, prepared to rearrange his plans for the weekend. But the moment his eyes settled on this particular icon, his sense of triumph fell away. Hands suspended above the keyboard, he stared, his mind grappling to accept what he saw even as he tried to deny it.
The icon was blue.
He watched it blink a slow, steady rhythm, half expecting it to wink off, then reappear in a color more familiar. —Amber. Ninety-nine point nine percent of all links fell within the amber range, connecting two sexually compatible people in a brief, casual pairing. Even green would have been more plausible—unlikely, but easier to accept. Blue, however, wasn't supposed to happen. Blue was supposed to be a hypothetical glitch in the system—Dr. Zeman's obscure experiment buried deep in the framework with little chance of surfacing.
Eyes fixed on the bottom corner of the screen, he eased back and settled in his chair to stare at the unthinkable. Centered on the small blue square was a miniature white symbol of the Roman goddess Venus. On each side of the square rested a smaller, circular button, also blue. If he pointed and clicked on the one illuminating a plus sign, a woman's file would download to his hard drive. If, however, he clicked on the minus sign, the entire communication would disappear and be routed to the next relevant male in the system.
Simon had accepted his share of files. They weren't so numerous that he or any other man passed up the opportunity. And except for one—the only one on record to have earned an unfavorable rating—every experience had fulfilled his vision on that bitterly cold night when he and Michael had consumed enough coffee to keep half the neighborhood awake. The system worked. RUSH was a successful operation.
But the memory of that one experience came to mind now. The icon had intrigued him because the symbol of Venus had been centered on a field of green. He recalled wondering if the interlude would be more intense, more satisfying than amber, and he'd accepted it.
Unfortunately, that particular link had ended badly. Instead of the intense experience he'd been hoping for, two weeks into it he learned that the woman with whom he'd been paired wanted more than the status-1 green they shared, throwing a curveball into the works. The sex had been satisfying . . . better than satisfying, actually. But she'd wanted an emotional attachment that exceeded the parameters of a status-1 green.
Consequently, what should have been a private interaction between two people became an emotional flare-up that hit the grapevine with a vengeance. The gossip it generated was enough to turn a simple stroll to the food court into an ordeal he dreaded. And because of that experience, he'd decided to reject any future green-class icons that might come his way. He could reject this blue as well. Amber was the color upon which RUSH had been built—the concept that powered the machine and kept it in continuous rotation. A link on any level of the amber range was amicable
but passive—expedient without sacrificing the courtesies afforded to a conventional relationship. In an environment where sex was the endgame, respect and attentiveness toward one's partner were imperative. Mindful of that, both parties came together in mutual anticipation, then parted, gratified on a sexual stratum that might otherwise cost weeks of investment in a hit-or-miss tangle of emotions.
Amber accommodated a wide assortment of elaborate settings and provided an ongoing variety of partners with whom to fulfill a multitude of fantasies. It assumed no strings, no surprise expectations, and, unlike blue, neither monogamy nor emotional intimacy factored in with any significance. Simon presently held two such folders and they fell in easily with his lifestyle.
Still, eyes on the monitor, he hesitated—not because he planned to accept the blue, but rather because of the sheer phenomenon of having received it. Green was rare enough. But blue . . . . Of the several thousand links yielded by the system to date, this was the first of its kind to appear. And the two black bullets positioned above the icon compounded the phenomenon. He was staring at a status-2 blue.
The gravity of what stretched before him began to penetrate and he leaned back, idly considering the possibilities and implications.
Blue embraced the entire spectrum of circumstances that amber eschewed. It represented permanence, emotional involvement, monogamy and domesticity—a family, for Christ's sake. What did he know about family? It was about making life choices and, more to the point, if the success of RUSH could be attributed to the integrity of its linking system, then he was staring at a remarkably accurate prediction of his future. If he chose to accept the blue, a lifetime of emotional and sexual fulfillment was all but guaranteed and knowing that gave him pause.
This woman, whoever she was, hadn't applied for one color while hoping for another. She'd gone straight for blue. There would be no surprises, no changing the rules in mid-play. She wanted the recipient of her icon to know exactly what she was looking for. And that being the case, if he were so inclined, he could take this chance, gamble with his future, and feel secure in knowing he'd come out a winner. —Maybe.
