by Greg Dragon
“Is that a sweeper out there?” He pointed at what appeared to be a large gray blob to his still unfocused eyes.
“Yeah.” Brent guided him out an exit door and positioned him by the twenty-foot long, four-foot wide appendage that sucked the last jumper into the rebel sweeper’s cavernous belly.
When Brent returned to his passenger car, his every pocket bulged with sugar and cracker packets, enough calories to last the rest of his trip. He nodded while Rep. Turner lectured him during the final five miles to Phoenix Central Station.
“That was a perfect example of why we need to strengthen the Internal Terrorism Act. Those lousy anarchists didn’t even let us finish our meal. And look at how shook up my wife is.” He pointed across the aisle, where Toni held William’s right hand in both of her trembling ones. She had declared the window seat as “too dangerous” for him.
“Anarchists? I thought you trained your son to call them rebels.”
Rep. Turner lowered his voice to a nervous whisper. “I probably should not have let you know but that’s the new category we’re trying to get added to the bill that I’m co-author of. Instead of just subversives and rebels, we need to call the most dangerous terrorists anarchists.”
“Oh. You mean like Muslims who kill for Allah?”
Rep. Turner blanched. “Quiet, you fool. What you said is not religiously correct one bit. There’s a whole bunch of Muslims in my district. If they found out that I let you say what you just did, I would lose the next election.”
“So my freedom of speech means less to you than your getting elected again?”
“For someone who looks intelligent, you sure are stupid. You ever go to college and take any philosophy or government courses?”
“I got a degree in cave exploration and mapping.”
“That explains it. My degree was in government. Ever hear of Plato?”
“The Greek philosopher who wrote The Republic?”
“Yeah. He got it nailed down tight even though he lived thousands of years ago. If citizens don’t conform to what the State’s rulers decree, then they need to be educated to straighten them out. If that doesn’t work…” He ran a forefinger across his neck. “It’s like he said, it’s much better to have a bad dictator than it is to have a bad democracy. And that’s what we have, a bad democracy getting worse by the day.”
“So to protect the elite like you and your family from subversives, rebels, and anarchists, you get to carry Minder Blinders like the one William used back in the dining car? What about the rest of us?”
“It’s cheaper than having Homeland Security or Secret Service agents travel with us everywhere we go.”
“So if you revamp the Terrorism Act I’ll be able to get a Minder Blinder to protect myself too? After all, you’re inventing a whole new category of bad guys I have to defend myself against.”
“No can do. The anti-weapon lobby won’t allow that. Only a select few are authorized to carry it.”
“Arriving at Central Phoenix Station,” the announcement echoed. “All continuing passengers please exit to board another train because repairs need to be made to this one. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
“Well, nice to have met you.” Rep. Turner offered the limp handshake he reserved for political enemies.
“I sure have learned a lot while traveling with all of you.” Brent smiled as he thought of the document he had photographed when they first met. “Especially from that bright boy of yours. He’s a real pistol. Are you going to be waiting for our replacement train? Maybe we can talk some more?”
“We’re going by plane the rest of the way.” He stepped on Brent’s foot as he hurried to the aisle. “My wife says she’ll never ride a train again. Damn those jumpers. What’s this country coming to?”
11
Tim Beheard joined The White Knuckle Club and did not release his grip on the two arm rests supporting his sweaty arms until the jet reached its cruising altitude of 71,000 feet.
“This is your first time flying?” Bud asked. “Relax. It’s only a seventy-minute trip from L.A. to Rapid City.”
“I never had a reason to fly before I met you. I wish the plane wasn’t so crowded.” He gestured at the other 611 passengers.
“If you hadn’t mentioned your DIPPER rule for avoiding libel to my father, we wouldn’t be making this trip. I think it’s a big waste of time.”
Tim pressed the overhead switch to summon a flight attendant. “I’m not so sure. You notice how skeptical your dad is? Besides, my editor when I worked at the Times had an ironclad rule: two independent sources for every important fact in every story.”
“Hey, I know. Dr. Graves can be your second source. Make sure your device that tells if someone is lying is turned on while we talk to him.”
Tim saluted the one who “was always right no matter what,” his customer. “If it turns out that my second source is Dr. Graves, who is the villain of your tale, so much the better. If nothing else, I can at least pick up some background details about him.”
“May I help you, sir?” The pretty brunette flight attendant’s smile did not dispel Tim’s anxiety.
“Can I get something for my nerves?” He held up his shaking hand. “I can’t get it to hold still.”
“We have just the thing for that.” She tapped the overhead compartment and a mask attached to a hose as thick as a pencil dropped to face level. She helped Tim adjust it. “Breathe deeply. Think pleasant thoughts about your destination. South Dakota is beautiful this time of year. You’ll love it.”
Within thirty seconds, Tim’s worries about flying and finding the right sources were replaced by peaceful slumber. He did not wake up until the plane’s fat tires left part of their tread as black marks on Rapid City International’s two-mile long runway.
“What’s that?” Tim tensed as plane touched Earth. “Are we in a thunderstorm?”
Bud chuckled. “Welcome to South Dakota.”
Twenty minutes later, Tim enjoyed watching fields of corn and soybeans, and rangeland filled with cattle, bison, and beefalo roll by the shuttle bus taking them to Cheyenne River Standing Rock Casino.
He fidgeted while the question he meant to ask earlier spilled out. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. What exactly was your relationship to Elani? I have to know if I’m headed for a showdown with a jealous husband.”
“You’re a dirty old man. We were friends, nothing more than that. The poor woman was starved for conversation. Dr. Graves was always content to talk to his plants and computers and robots all the time instead of his wife.”
“Sorry. See this scar?” He pulled his graying black hair back.
“Yeah.”
“Got that when the husband of one of my clients thought I was going after his wife.”
At the casino they took a taxi.
“That’s the Graves’ place over there.” Bud pointed at a giant sequoia redwood grove a mile away.
“I thought redwoods only grew on the west coast.”
“His father planted genetically modified seedlings out here back in the 2030s.”
The driver dropped them at the edge of the Graves’ small ranch, which was surrounded by a forest of non-native trees. “Dr. Graves does not like visitors. You have to walk the rest of the way,” the cabbie said.
Because of the redwoods, no structures could be seen from the road. To Tim, it felt as if he had stepped into a fairy tale land while he followed Bud down a narrow winding dirt driveway snaking through the grove. An open space of two acres surrounded the house, greenhouse, and large garden, but crisscrossing shadows from the gigantic trees blocked much of the sunlight.
Before they reached the walkway, Dr. Graves opened his front door. “The computer said we have company. Hello, Bud. And who might this be? Your manservant perhaps?”
This really is from the Brothers Grimm. He’s the wicked witch and we’re his next meal. Tim took a step backward.
“This is my colleague, Tim Beheard.
”
“Colleague is it? My, my, I wonder what sort of mischief you are up to now.” Dr. Graves turned to Tim. “He always was an unpredictable employee.” He turned to the hoverbot. “Scan them.”
“Three electronic devices detected.”
“Please place them in the hoverbot’s basket for safe keeping,” Dr. Graves said. “One thing I value more than any other is my privacy. You don’t want to compromise that by recording our conversation, do you?”
Tim and Bud obeyed and then followed Dr. Graves into the den, alleged meeting place of The Club. Oh, The Club might be real enough to these two weirdoes but how am I going to know for sure without my truth meter to monitor Dr. Graves, Tim wondered.
The mood of the home seemed lonely, almost sterile.
“Do you prefer water or iced tea?” Dr. Graves broke Tim’s examination of his home.
“Water is fine for me,” Tim said.
“Kefir water or well water?”
“Kefir water? Never heard of it.” Tim blinked.
“It contains millions of bacteria beneficial to the digestive system.” Dr. Graves patted his stomach, bloated by the yeast growing there because of his over imbibing of kefir, which he cultured with cups of sugar and honey.
“Iced tea for me.” Bud sat down next to Tim on the twelve-foot long buffalo hide couch, a gift from Chief Red Bear.
“Black, orange, green, or herb?”
Bud fidgeted. Dr. Graves knew his preference. “Green, as usual.”
Dr. Graves settled into his easy chair and activated his favorite feature. “Massage setting ten.” The chair’s vibrator resembled a large cat’s purr as it massaged his backside from head to toe. He said nothing until the hoverbot delivered the refreshments. “So what brings you back? Hoping to see Elani?”
Bud swallowed an ice cube and endured its coldness after it lodged in his throat. Why couldn’t people leave her out of this? Weary after days of trying to convince anyone who would listen about The Club, Bud abandoned his planned questions. “No. Tim is helping me to do research on The Club. He has some questions for you.”
“The what?”
“The Club. The six people you made me travel all over the earth to find for you. I still have the hemorrhoids from sitting on so many airplanes and trains to prove it.” Bud stood, bent at his waist and patted his rump, which he aimed at the one toying with him.
“The Club? I’m afraid the only club I ever belonged to was a golf club many years ago.”
“You liar. Let’s go to down to your basement right now so I can show Tim your lab.” Bud stomped to the door that led underground.
“I’m too tired from working in the garden.” Dr. Graves yawned, a signal that this little game of intrigue had run its course, at least for him. “Go to the basement, you little fool. Checkmate. Game over. I win. You lose.”
“Excuse me.” Tim followed Bud as the overhead lights automatically flickered on in the concrete basement. He bumped into Bud, who stood on the bottom step.
“Where did it go?” Bud asked.
“What?”
“His lab was here with lots of equipment.” Bud moved to the boxes stacked along one wall. Some of them were empty, others filled with odds and ends from the upstairs living quarters. He examined each box but none contained any of the equipment he remembered. Even the stainless steel tables were gone. “Maybe it’s in the garage.”
Once again Bud led the way, but only the jeep, hover cycle, and neatly arranged tools sat in the garage. His head bowed when he returned to his tormentor’s presence, who surveyed his domain from his vibrating throne.
“You seem somewhat stressed out, Bud. Perhaps you could use a session on my massager to relax your nerves.” Dr. Graves started to rise.
Bud’s stare pinned him back into the chair. “Where’s Elani?”
Dr. Graves smirked. “I wish I knew. You planted so much discontent in her that she has left me.”
“All I ever did was being her friend. She was going crazy living here, stuck out in the middle of nowhere.” Bud turned to Tim and then the hoverbot, hoping for anyone to believe his version.
“The follies of youth.” Dr. Graves nodded at Tim. “You surely understand my situation, Mr. Beheard. While Bud gave you a guided tour, I checked up on you and discovered that you are separated from your wife. My computer told me her name is Bethany. How tragic. Perhaps I can design you a substitute for her?” He pointed to a corner of the den. “Elani, we have company.”
A ghostlike apparition formed, five and a half feet tall, slender, with matching light brown eyes and hair. Bud dropped his half-empty glass of tea. The image both drew and repelled him as he went to the kitchen to get a rag to wipe up the spill. By the time he knelt to clean up his mess, what he thought was a hologram had solidified. Background objects were no longer visible through it.
Fascinated, Tim walked over to meet it. She greeted him first.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Beheard.”
Tim reached to take her extended hand but pulled his back after they touched. “It’s cold like ice. And how did she know my name?”
“Oh, the new and improved Elani knows all, hears all, and sees all. Unfortunately, her body temperature matches the real Elani’s mood toward me. It’s the major flaw yet to be worked out. My process turns a hologram into a solidgram by freezing the air space inside of the hologram’s outline.”
Bud stepped closer, remaining at what he believed to be a safe distance, ten feet from her. “She looks so much younger than the real Elani. That’s why I dropped my glass. At first I thought you have found a way to reverse the aging process.”
Dr. Graves laughed. “A little poetic license on my part, dear boy. Speaking of which, are you ready to abandon the poetic license you are so intent on taking against me and my private life? For decades, I’ve gone to great expense to remove all mention of me from the internet. Your overactive imagination, if it ever is transferred to the printed page, would surely constitute libel. Your spoken accusations today were slanderous. My computer has recorded every one of them if we have to go to court.”
“No one said anything about us writing a book.” Bud stuck out his chest, a gesture he had avoided while an employee in this house.
“Come now, dear boy. I observed you scribbling in that journal of yours while you worked here. Surely you must have literary goals that include me. Why else would you and your so-called colleague travel all the way here from SLD to bombard me with your stupid questions?”
Bud squeezed the damp rag until tea ran through his fingers.
Dr. Graves turned to Tim. “Perhaps you can explain the complexities of the libel law to him. As a private person, a higher standard of protection applies to me. If I were a public figure, you could print lies about me and get away with it, but I am not, and don’t intend to become public about my own personal business. If either of you dares to show a reckless disregard for the truth…” His fist jutted at them and rotated until its thumb pointed at the redwood floor.
Now he’s acting like he’s Caesar, Bud thought.
Tim backed away from the image of Elani as it faded. He moved to within a few feet of Dr. Graves, where he squatted down to look into his eyes. “So for the record, you never formed a group called The Club? Bud showed me an ad for it.”
“Oh, is that what Bud has been rambling on about? Alas, it never fully materialized. Those who applied all proved unwilling to dedicate themselves to any meaningful interaction with Elani. I hoped they could be surrogate children for her. Each of the six who met here went their separate ways. Poof. No club.” Dr. Graves waved his hands as a magician might. “I did not want to talk about it after you first brought it up because it pains me so to think about what might have been.” His cold grey eyes narrowed. “Besides, it’s none of your business.”
“What about your putting implants into them? I heard Elani ask for a volunteer to be first.” Bud tossed the rag on the floor and folded his arms.
“Such an
imagination. Breast implants for the ladies? I thought you Asians liked females with small feet and small breasts.”
Adrenalin flushed to Bud’s head. “I know what I saw and heard.”
“The computer is detecting extreme anxiety from you.” Dr. Graves glanced at the monitor built into his chair’s arm rest. “Is anyone close to you ill, perhaps? My computer says that is the most likely cause of your anxiety.”
Bud walked backwards and plopped onto the couch. But no distance from his former employer seemed far enough. The solidgram may have had Elani’s appearance, but it radiated Dr. Graves’ personality, one always able to discern others’ weaknesses.
“His neighbor is at the healing center,” Tim said. “They’re really close.”
“Oh?” Dr. Graves tapped on the monitor. “The neighbor right next door to the west of your parents’ house? According to my computer, she is your oldest neighbor.”
Bud raised his head enough to see his tormentor. My parents’ house. He makes me sound like a little kid because I live with them.
Ignoring his mother’s often stated advice of, “A fool proves he is one by his anger,” Bud pointed at his tormentor. “See how he can find out anything about anybody? He demands his privacy, but respects no one else’s.” He nodded, hoping to convince Tim.
“But it’s all available information, for a fee.” Dr. Graves shrugged. “Stop being so paranoid. Ah, here it is, Roberta Kleindiest is your sick neighbor’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Oh dear, I’m so very sorry. She was taken to Level 5 Care.”
“What’s that mean? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s euphemistically called end-of-life treatment, I’m afraid. Such patients check in but they never get to check out of the healing centers. Very effective use of triage. My father helped to pioneer it.”
Bud’s head drooped as he tried to hide his tears and quivering chin.
“Oh, come now. You must be a big boy. At least she’s out of her misery. That’s enough, chair.”
