by Greg Dragon
“One-way? Whom does she know in Atlanta?”
“There are 129 contacts from her high school graduating class, fourteen from her college, and one sister who recently moved there.”
“Sister? Dial her for me.”
One thousand five hundred and two miles by car to the southeast, Elani’s sister answered her dashboard phone as she drove home from Atlanta International Airport.
“This is Tabitha.”
“I’m Dr. Graves, your sister’s husband. Is she there?”
Tabitha turned to her sister, who shook her head and pressed a forefinger against her lips.
“Uh, I haven’t really been in much contact with her. Anything you want me to tell her if she shows up here?”
“I finally came up with an even better plan for us to have children. It took a tonic to get my brain working properly.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t tell me any of your personal business.”
“Elani has refused for years to have incubator children. All she had to do was donate an egg. Every female comes equipped with 70,000 or so of them.”
Tears fell onto Elani’s lap.
“Okay. If Elani does happen to show up, I’ll tell her to call you.”
“Tell her I love her. Please.”
Dr. Graves shut off the phone. “Another tonic, hoverbot. Or else I won’t get any sleep. Why did she leave me? Why is she so mean to me all of the time?”
Remembering the doctor’s last bout of sleeplessness, the hoverbot glided to the Happy Box to mix a triple strength sleeping tonic. He wondered if his master needed a terminal tonic instead, one to give him a permanent solution.
5
After much discussion, Bud convinced Tim to visit someone who could vouch for him. The first glimpse of their destination, a decaying building in Venice Beach’s poorest neighborhood, fed Tim’s doubts. It needed paint and a new roof.
They arrived at Bud’s church as his pastor wheeled his bicycle out of his office. His secretary robot stopped him.
“Two visitors are entering the narthex, Rev. Tully.”
He retreated to his office. “Tell them I can’t meet with them now and to make an appointment.”
Bud poked his head through the doorway. “Hey, Pastor Tully. This is the day that…”
“The Lord has made.” Rev. Tully gulped. Not only did he have to contend with his most irritating church member, but also a down and outer. The stranger’s worn clothing and disheveled hair signaled someone in need. “Hi, Bud.”
“Remember how I asked you to pray about my book? Here’s the answer to our prayers.” Bud introduced Tim.
Rev. Tully sighed. He parked his bike against a wall of his 50-square-foot office and listened to Bud describe Tim’s qualifications. “I see. Bud, I just have a few minutes. Why don’t you wait in the outer office and I’ll talk with Tim? Then I have to leave.”
Bud left and sat next to the secretary robot equipped with artificial empathy. His tone of voice and mannerisms betrayed a human in distress, most likely by the conversation about him in the next room. “Is there anything I can get you, Bud? A tranquility soda, perhaps. It contains non-GMO ingredients to calm one’s nerves.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
The robot’s right arm extended to its maximum length of nineteen feet and opened the small cooler’s lid. Its arm slid back into its plastic socket. “Help yourself.”
Bud chose the largest sized container. Half of its sweet liquid went down his throat before he sat down. “Can you search Pastor Tully’s sermons for any on conspiracies and make me a copy of them?”
“Certainly. Please give me your computer.”
Bud slid a silver plated ring from his finger and handed it to her.
Fifteen feet away, Bud’s destiny came to light for his pastor. “So he wants you to ghostwrite it? Interesting. If it sells well, I might have some work for you to do for me also.”
Tim relaxed for the first time since Bud had mentioned his pastor. All right. Maybe I’ve hit a string of paydays. Thank you, Jesus, thank you, thank you, Jesus. “That sounds great. Like you and Bud said, ‘this is the day that the Lord has made.’ God must have ordained our meeting today.”
Rev. Tully’s religious garbage meter, fine-tuned after thousands of encounters with pious people, alerted him. It amazed him how people could verbalize religious words without a life to back it up. “Please cut to the point.”
“Does Bud have a license to drink or use any drugs? Because of client confidentiality laws, it’s illegal for me to ask him.”
“Not that I know of. I can’t ask him that sort of thing either because of those laws.”
“Is he all there, up here?” Tim pointed at his head.
“Yes. At least I think so.”
“Does he have a vivid imagination?”
He nodded. “Sometimes. Why?”
Tim detailed how Bud said Dr. Graves planned to rule the world.
Rev. Tully cocked his head. “Maybe much of what Bud told you is true, but he drew the wrong conclusions.”
“What do you preach here?” Tim scanned the walls for a license from the Bureau of Churches.
“If you’re wondering if we are state approved, the answer is no.”
“But that means you have to pay corporate taxes. Do you at least still get income tax exemptions for your givers?”
“We lost the tax exemption for givers because a BOC undercover agent secretly taped one of my sermons on 1 Corinthians 6. The bureau accused me of being intolerant against fornicators, idol worshippers, adulterers, homosexuals, thieves, drunks, slanderers, and others who I said needed to repent based on Scripture. Over half of my flock left when their tithes and offerings were no longer tax deductible. I lost some others when we could no longer afford to heat the church during the winter.”
“But how do you survive?”
“We rent and our landlord is gracious. She sometimes trades our rent payments for repairs we make. You probably noticed how this place needs lots of them.” He stood and guided his bike into the outer office. “I have to work another job, too. In fact, I was headed to my other job when you two showed up. Sorry, but I have to be going.” He donned the mandated protective gear and walked his visitors to the nearest stairway descending to the subway.
“Your pastor is amazing,” Tim said as he and Bud boarded the train bound for San Bernardino. “Not many like him around any longer.”
“I knew he would convince you.” Bud ordered the computer embedded in his ring to on mode. “Play pastor’s sermon on conspiracies for Tim. Transmit it to his smart watch.”
Tim held his watch next to his ear and Bud his ring to his ear as the sermon began. Unauthorized noise would get them ejected at the next stop, so they set the volume to minimum. Tim enjoyed the pastor’s baritone voice:
“Many over the millenniums have lived in fear of conspiracies, especially during the last 200 years. You name it, there were freemasons, the Illuminati, the Bilderbergers, the top one percent of the wealthy, the Council of Fifty, the International Council of Churches, The Vatican, and on and on ad infinitum, all of them plotting to take over the world. But what does Scripture say about conspiracies?”
Bud elbowed Tim to get ready for what he believed would be the coup de grace, the grand slam walk off home run in the bottom of the ninth inning, the Biblical passage to convince doubting Tim of Bud’s story:
“Look at Psalm 31:19 and 20: How great is your goodness, which you have stored up for those who fear you, which you bestow in the sight of men on those who take refuge in you. In the shelter of your presence you hide them from the intrigues of men, in your dwelling you keep them safe from accusing tongues.”
Bud’s grin shrunk and pursed lips hid his teeth as the sermon continued:
“Now the word intrigues is also translated as conspiracies. So God’s goodness is great for those who fear Him instead of men. As a result, He even hides them in His presence, safe from any and every conspiracy; whether it’s some
elite powerful group or some back biters at work or school who gossip about you.”
A pout replaced Bud’s upbeat mood by the time the train lurched to a stop at the first San Bernardino station. He stared at his feet as they exited it.
“Don’t worry, kid,” Tim said after the sermon ended. “My source believes more like you do than what your pastor said, so you haven’t struck out yet. In fact, some of his stories are even wilder than yours is.”
6
San Bernardino’s buildings extended deeper into the earth than those straddling earthquake fault lines to the west. Bud had never travelled so far underground.
“What level does your source live on?” The free fall sensation produced by the express elevator reminded Bud of the amusement parks of his youth.
“On 35-U.”
“Wow. That’s really deep. I’ve only been as far down as a 2-U level before.”
“That’s nothing. There’s another thirty levels below where my source lives.”
They exited the elevator and wound through corridors so narrow they seemed more of a maze than hallways to Bud. The 30-watt light sources embedded in the walls cast little light on the subterranean shadow lands. After they reached the source’s doorway, Bud felt more disoriented than when he had ridden The Adventure to Infinity and Beyond ride at Disney Universe at age six.
“Brent, open the door.” A series of five knocks relayed the long ago agreed on code.
On the other side of the door, Brent Fulsome tensed. He fingered one of the door’s five deadbolts and clutched the chair propped against the handle with his other hand. “Computer, scan hallway and identify who’s out there.” He turned to the one he interacted with more than humans.
“Two males are at the door. One resident is leaving her apartment. No others sighted. Shall I unlock the door for you?”
“Not yet. Is one of them really Tim Beheard?”
“Yes. The one who knocked matches facial features of human with that name who has visited here.”
“What do you want, Tim?”
“I need you to check out my client’s story. You’re going to love it.”
“No way. I told you to never bring anyone else here.”
“I have a bag of food.”
Brent’s mouth watered; his stomach growled because his food credits had run out two days earlier. “Computer, what’s in the bag?”
“Various food items. They appear to be from an eating establishment.”
“What’s your friend’s name, date of birth, and federal number?” Brent asked.
“My name’s Bud Lee. Born January 12, 2075. Federal Social Identification Number is 5A7-Q1-8N5T. Can we come in now?”
“Hold your pants on. Computer, run background check on him.”
“He appears to be clean. He has no employment or contract work with any government agency that I found.”
Hunger trumped paranoia.
Brent ordered his computer to open the door. Instead of shaking Bud’s outstretched hand, Brent yanked the bag away from Tim and dumped its contents on the small kitchen counter. He sorted the ready-to-eat items into a foot-high pile of popcorn, peanuts, pretzels, and candy, leftover munchies for the pot smokers at Barneys, while Tim rebagged the rest of the items. Some of the first handful shoved into Brent’s mouth was swallowed without chewing.
His frayed short pants and torn white T-shirt made Brent appear to be more of a scrounger than one who could help him, Bud thought. Brent’s five foot, eight inch, wiry body that appeared to contain no fat reminded Bud of his grandfather’s physique. “I don’t mean to interrupt your meal but Tim and I are on a tight deadline.” Bud leaned toward the door.
“Computer? Give further information on Bud Lee.”
“Data given by strange human matches a Bud Lee from Pasadena.”
Land of the rich and famous, Brent thought. Wonder if he’s part of the one percent? “Okay, what are today’s date and your favorite food, Bud?”
“6/3/2095. Buffalo.”
“Buffalo?” Brent gagged on bits of peanuts and pretzels. The gooey mess dislodged after Tim pounded on his back. It landed on Bud’s shirt. “Sorry. I haven’t been this hungry since the famine back in the 2050s. “
“You went through that?” Bud tried to wipe off the bits of saliva and food clinging to his shirt.
“Not voluntarily, Einstein. I was one of the last world population peak generation babies when it peaked at ten billion in 2049. Then the Great Famine hit because thirty percent of all crops were being used to produce biofuels. Because of that, the earth was back down to 8.2 billion people by 2069. Now we’re down to 7 billion thanks to the U.N.’s two-child rule.” Condensing factoids into short diatribes was Brent’s favorite passion, especially for someone who appeared to be even more naïve than Tim.
“But that famine was caused by global warming. The biofuels were helping fight global warming, right?”
Brent groaned. “Where did you find this one, Tim? He sounds so environmentally correct he probably even drinks biofuel.”
“Uh, is that why you wanted to know my favorite food?” Bud asked.
Brent pinched Bud’s cheek. “No. I was trying to check to be sure if you’re human. They have androids now with real human skin so I can’t tell for sure by touching you. Sure, your skin feels real. But if you ask a droid what their favorite food is, sometimes they hesitate just long enough to give themselves away. You didn’t hesitate. Besides, I doubt if any of the National Security Agency’s android programmers would program their spy androids to say they liked buffalo. That’s way too weird.”
Brent’s computer interrupted. “Background checks complete. Shall I continue with description?”
“No. Bring it up so only I can look at it.” Brent tapped his glasses to set their embedded screen on private mode. “Wow. You have quite a lineage. It says there are Knights Templar, Illuminati, and Triad connections to your ancestors. What’s your dad do?”
“He runs an import export business, mostly between here and China.”
“No lie? His ancestors probably traded with the first Knights Templar. Your dad imports illegal aliens, huh?”
Bud’s hands became fists. “No. He’s legit.”
“Okay, okay, partner. No offense intended. I’d offer you a Chill Out chocolate bar but I’m all out of them.”
“Well, that’s not funny.”
After searching for any missed ready-to-eat items in the bag, Brent handed it back to Tim. “Put away the rest.”
“Okay, boss.” Tim grumbled when he found the refrigerator and shelves empty and decided not to stock them. He calculated that the pile of goodies on Brent’s counter would keep him from starving until the first of the month.
“So what do you need to know, Tim?”
“Ask Bud. I’m starving because I didn’t get to eat any breakfast at Barney’s.” Tim took the texturized vegetable protein from the bag, placed most of it in the microwave and turned its dial to Well Done. Four seconds later the escaping aroma as the door popped open made him smack his lips. He dumped the smoking TVP onto a slice of stale rye bread, drenched it with all eight ketchup packets, and bit into his sandwich. A piece fell onto the floor.
Brent laughed as Tim devoured the dropped morsel. “So what’s the connection between you and Tim? When I did his background check, I never found any links of his ancestors to the kind of conspiracies yours were in.”
“I need to convince him about someone I worked for.”
“Good luck with that. Tim is Mr. Skeptic. What’s the name of your employer?”
“A couple named Dr. Graves and his wife Elani.”
“What’s his first name?”
“They never told me.”
“Where do they live?”
“Next to Cheyenne River Standing Rock Indian Reservation in South Dakota.”
“Computer, run background check on his employer.” Brent gestured for Bud to continue. “What did you do for them?”
“A litt
le bit of everything. The important thing is that he had me do the legwork to set up a group he called The Club.”
“Is that that think tank kind of thing? I know someone who applied for it. I’ve been wondering why she didn’t get accepted. I helped her do her resume.”
Bud smirked at Tim. “Who knows? There were thousands of applicants. Maybe the computer who reviewed them didn’t like your friend’s background or your background. It checked into any associates of the applicants.”
“Wow. Your Dr. Graves is a man after my own heart. Can’t be too careful these days.” Brent glanced sideways at Bud. “Is some of what you’re cooking for me, Tim? What I ate was appetizers. I’m still hungry.”
Tim put the small uncooked portion of TVP into the microwave. “Sure. Okay if I take a shower before I cook it up for you?”
“Just keep it down to thirty seconds. My water credits are getting real low again.”
“Right.” Tim stepped into the bathroom. After undressing, he wet the small bar of soap and covered himself with suds until the bar dissolved. Then he hopped into the two-foot-wide shower and ordered thirty seconds of water, which left soap residue in his hair.
The last swallow of Carbo Fizz exploded in Brent’s stomach as it reacted with the salty food, and its gas exited his mouth as a belch. “Excuse my manners or lack of them, Mr. Lee. It’s pretty obvious you don’t normally hang around Mole People like Tim and me.” He wondered how many credits Bud’s tailored pants and shirt had cost. And his shoes, top of the line leather, probably came all the way from China on one of his dad’s boats. Brent’s smelly bare feet made him self-conscious. “Computer, you have any data yet?”
“Elani Graves. Born 2055. BS in nanotechnology. MS in hydroponics. She quit doctoral program in genetic engineering before its completion. Married in January 2078.”
“What about her husband?”
“No data found for Dr. Graves.”
Brent stopped trying to hide his bare feet. He sprang to the computer station that overshadowed everything else in his apartment. “You sure? You’ve always been able to find out something on everyone I’ve ever asked you about before.”
