by Greg Dragon
Never one to let a need go unmet, the chief had advertised nationwide for the 2066 First Annual Old Time Motorcycle Rally, with the opening day set for the day the Sturgis Rally ended. Each succeeding year attendance grew. He expected a half million bikers to arrive at the reservation next week for the 2095 rally.
But Chief Red Bear wanted something for everyone. So he had organized buffalo hunts to keep the four herds on the reservation down to levels the reservation’s prairie land could sustain. Families enjoyed 100-mile long wagon train rides that transported them 240 years back in time as they hit the trail in replicas pulled by animals some of them had never before seen.
Something for everyone, Chief Red Bear thought while he scanned the large calendar covering half of his oak desk. April to October was the busiest period.
Every April 1 brought in the fools willing to endure the remnants of chilly high prairie winters and each Halloween brought out the jokers whose costumes betrayed their foolishness. The frigid Dakota winter now ran from at least the first of November to the first of April as the unpredicted mini ice age entered its second decade. During winters, local residents prowled the casino’s games of chance and buffet tables for the daily off-peak season specials.
For others, the draw was entertainment year round, mostly bands, singers, and comedians who had peaked long ago.
Not that the chief hated whites and wanted to take revenge by parting them from their money. He even considered one white “my best friend.” He smiled when that one’s face appeared on his visionphone.
“Dr. Graves wants to speak to you. Are you available?”
“He must have gotten the bill for the gambling credits we extended to Mrs. Graves last month. Put him through.”
“Chief Red Bear, the time has come.”
He had never seen his friend looking so desperate and helpless. “For what, Dr. Graves?”
“To sell out. I need you to buy my land and house. Now. Today.”
Chief Red Bear always turned down gamblers who wanted to trade property for “more credits because I’m about to get hot.” His gaze traveled to the large tintype of his ancestor standing next to an ancestor of Dr. Graves.
He focused on the photograph’s peace pipe. A long plume of smoke drifting from its bowl had been captured because of the minute long exposure time required for the archaic photographic process. The eagle feathered Native American was passing the pipe to the buckskin-clad white man. They smoked it to seal the sale by the former of forty acres of prairie land to the latter. For Dr. Graves to abandon his inheritance seemed unthinkable to Chief Red Bear; it bordered on sin.
“Whoa there, partner. It can’t be all that bad. I’ve told you before that you have to stop being Dr. Gloom and Doom.”
Dr. Graves’ tale lasted three minutes and ended as he shed crocodile tears. “You’re my last hope of ever getting Elani back again. I can’t live without her.”
For the chief, it was not a matter of losing money if Elani never returned to his casino. His hotel already needed expansion. The Graves’ home could be rented out as a lodge to show business types seeking an isolated getaway from the madness inflicted by managers and fans. But he did not want to lose the one he considered his best friend.
“I really hate for you to go…”
“Please, chief, it will take much too long if I have to sell to some stranger. Besides, who wants to pay the realtor’s commission?”
Chief Red Bear punched a button to summon his lawyer. Its once shiny red surface had faded to pink from being pushed thousands of times. “Okay. The paperwork will ready for you to sign in an hour.”
* * *
Every guard nodded, smiled, and greeted Dr. Graves without performing the routine searches required at their checkpoints. Dr. Graves rushed through the fourth door held open for him and into Chief Red Bear’s seventh-floor office.
It was larger than Dr. Graves’ home. Buffalo heads and hides and other artifacts from the chief’s ancestors adorned one wall, autographed photos of performers at the casino and the chief’s collection of “scalps” of the casino’s biggest losers a second wall. A third wall held a large monitor that could be subdivided into small rectangles to display what each of the 179 security cameras monitored twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.
The fourth wall let the sun flood the room with light through nothing but glass, quadruple paned to withstand the high prairie’s long, frigid winters. The view allowed the chief to survey much of the southern part of his kingdom, which soon would include the towering redwood grove eleven miles to the south, as the eagle flew.
The lawyer fidgeted with an electronic pen by the desk. Chief Red Bear stood by the window. He motioned Dr. Graves to his side and then pointed at the redwoods.
“Everyone said your father was crazy when he planted those redwoods. They said they would never survive the climate here.”
“What did they know? Those trees were the rejects from the trees he genetically modified for his mission to colonize Mars. The best specimens were to be planted on Mars to help transform its atmosphere.”
“I know. Even though that mission failed, the redwood trees that he planted here have helped me to succeed.”
“Oh? How?”
“By the time I was elected chief, they were about 100 feet tall and I could barely make them out from this office. How tall are they now?”
“The last time I measured them, the tallest one was 214 feet high.”
“Every time things got tough and I felt like quitting, I would come to this window and stare at your redwood grove. And I would remember what my father told me when I was small: ‘Son, if our neighbor can make redwood trees grow taller than anything else around us for hundreds of miles, then you can grow this reservation into something great to help our people.’ Do you really have to move away? You’ve become more important to me than those redwoods. I did not realize it until after you called me this morning.”
Dr. Graves turned away from the pleading, moist eyes. “I have no choice in the matter. It’s all Bud Lee’s fault.” He turned to the lawyer. “What do I need to sign?”
“I ran a current market analysis on your land and dwelling. It came in at 4,897,381 credits. Is that fair?”
“Yes, yes. Now, where do I sign?”
The lawyer handed him a digital pad. “Here.” He pointed. “Because your land was bought directly from one of Chief Red Bear’s ancestors, there are other documents to sign. Sign here…and here…and here. State law requires me to tell you that this transaction has been visually recorded to verify you as the signer.” The lawyer nodded and edged toward the door. “That should do it. Once the deed has been recorded, you will receive the agreed upon amount.”
“I need it today.” Dr. Graves planted his flabby rump on the huge oak desk and jumped after its sharp corner mashed flesh into his pelvis.
“But I don’t think that we can…” The lawyer paused when the Chief waved his hand. “Which bank do you want the funds transferred to?”
“My bank located in Switzerland. The transaction is to be off the books. That should be no problem because of the autonomy that the Native American reservations have finally been given. Chief Red Bear has transferred funds to it before for me. He will give you the routing numbers.”
“But…”
“Get everything ready for the transfer and come back here after Dr. Graves has left for the day.” The chief waved his reluctant helper out of the room.
“Yes, sir.” The lawyer waited until he was in the hallway to shake his head. Such an off-the-books transaction meant the Feds would not be receiving their eighty percent capital gains tax on the sale. A good real estate lawyer could argue the sale was exempt because the Graves’ property was surrounded by the reservation. Scenes of sitting in a courtroom seated next to such an attorney played out in the lawyer’s mind.
Back inside the office, Dr. Graves pulled out his FSIN card and waved it at the computer embedded in the desk. “Book me on the ne
xt flight from Rapid City International to Laredo, Texas.”
“Authorize transaction,” the Chief said. “Charge it to me instead.” He turned to Dr. Graves. “Laredo? You tracked down Elani to there?”
Dr. Graves marched to the door. “No. I have to check on some donations that I sent there. Then I’ll go on into Mexico and leave from there. Doing so is much less complicated than leaving from America. Mexico is so much friendlier when flying internationally.”
“But I was hoping you might spend a few days here at the hotel as my guest.”
“Perhaps some other time. Oh, I almost forgot. Take good care of my hoverbot. He began crying when I told him he has to stay behind. Even artificial emotions can be such a bother sometimes. They’re getting worse than human emotions.”
14
When Tim awoke, the bed four feet from his was empty, its sheets and blankets rumpled, its pillows on the floor. Relieved for a break in what Tim now labelled The Never Ending Conspiracy, he stumbled to the bathroom. During the longest and hottest shower of his life, Tim replayed how he had tried until midnight to reason with Bud. But the harder he tried, the more convoluted Bud’s conspiracy theories became.
Forget Dr. Graves, Bud, The Club, and everything else while I’m at it. If I had any sense, I’d chuck all that and SLD and move here. What a feast that buffet was last night. Casinos always need a good PR man. I’m their boy. Tell me what you want and I’ll have press releases on the way to every daily in the country before you know it. Not convinced? I’ll work for room and board until you are.
Tim’s daydream faded while he rode the elevator and images of his wife and two children crowded out living an easy life working for the casino. Sights and aromas of the breakfast buffet took control. When he exited the serving tables stretching the length of the dining room, his tray overflowed with buffalo steak and eggs, a bowl of something called grits, a plate of fresh fruit, and a stack of buckwheat pancakes swimming in melted butter and maple syrup, imported from a New England Native American tribe, food unrestrained by nonexistent food credits.
It took him a few minutes to find Bud, hunkered down at a corner table, one of the 582 in the Wild West themed dining room. After setting down his tray, Tim fired imaginary six-shooters at murals of Sitting Bull, Wild Bill Hickok, Calamity Jane, and Crazy Horse.
“I’d almost given you up for dead.” Bud did not look up from his ring computer.
Tim slowly chewed a forkful of buffalo steak. When Bud frowned, Tim pointed at his mouth, swallowed, and took a sip of wheatgrass juice, all calculated to buy time without conversation.
“Last night you said you needed to sleep on it before deciding whether we go back out to talk to Dr. Graves again. I think I fixed your truth meter so his computers won’t detect it.” Bud tossed the pen sized device to Tim, who wondered if it would ever work again.
“His hoverbot will remember exactly what we handed over when Dr. Graves asked for our devices yesterday.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, he won’t even open the door if we go back out there.”
“At least we let him redact like your dumb DIPPER rule requires. He knows what’s coming. Now we don’t even have to show him the manuscript after it’s finished, unless…”
“Unless what?”
“I land an agent who gets me a publisher. Then the publisher’s lawyers can worry all about that redaction stuff. Here. I made up a chapter outline for the book. It starts off with me, of course.” He handed him a paper as he moved to the buffet.
Tim read it until a waitress refilled his coffee cup. “Excuse me, but are you for real? They have droids now with real human skin.” He gazed at a face he thought rivaled Pocahontas’ beauty.
She pointed at the wedding band on his finger. “Nice pickup line, sir. I’m afraid I don’t compete with wives.”
Tim’s face turned crimson.
“Oh, I love turning white men into red ones.” She laughed. “Yes, I’m real.” She winked and walked away.
Bud returned to the table. “Well, what do you think of it?”
“Not a bad outline.” Tim turned to soak in the relaxed atmosphere. In SLD, the thousands of seated diners would have been crammed into a room a quarter of the size of this one. “Why did you ever leave here?”
“I already told you, because Dr. Graves fired me.”
“But you could have gotten a job here at the casino or hotel instead.”
“It’s not what my father wants.” Bud shifted on his chair and stirred his small bowl of oatmeal. “I only took that job with the Graves to get away from my dad and his plans for me.”
“What plans?”
“My father wants me to work for him”
“I wish my dad ran a business like that for me to step into. He worked the docks as a longshoreman.”
“And marry the daughter of his business partner in China.” Bud tapped his ring until a smiling face hovered above it. “This is her.”
Tim’s eyebrows arched. “Wow. Not bad.”
Bud shut off the hologram. “It is too bad. My marrying her is just another business transaction for our fathers. I…I want to live my own life.”
Tim thought of his own son, two years younger than Bud but possessed by the same kind of desire to be independent. “You better book us a couple seats on the next flight back to SLD. We need to talk to your father. If he thinks it’s okay for us keep going on this book, then I’m in.”
15
“Sir, our records indicate that you needed to use gas calmer on your flight to South Dakota,” the blonde flight attendant said. “Unlike that other airline that you flew on your trip from SLD to Rapid City, we here at Midwest Airlines are more proactive. To ensure your comfort during your flight back home, our onboard chef android has prepared this for you.”
Tim stared at the plastic glass in front of his face. “What is it?”
“A special tonic of non-GMO, 100 percent organically mixed herbs in a solution of High Prairie Spring Water, the brand of water that buffalos, deer, antelope, and prairie dogs prefer,” the flight attendant held the drink under Tim’s nose. “I use it myself sometimes,” she whispered. “Especially if the satellites forecast any solar winds or incoming meteors.”
Its sweet intoxicating odor helped Tim to swallow it in two gulps. He turned to thank the flight attendant, but she was now twenty feet further up the aisle offering the same concoctions from the cart that she pushed.
Because their tickets were purchased four hours before the jet left Rapid City International, he and Bud filled the last two empty seats. Bud flew in first class, Tim at the rear of the plane, near ten bathrooms that emitted stinky odors after users exited them. Tim’s seatmate, a sixteen year old girl, proved talkative.
“Was this your first time at the rez?” She combed her long black hair with her left hand as she gazed into the hologram of her face projected by the computer embedded in the gold metal stud above her right eyebrow. “Or did you do the Mt. Rushmore, Black Hills trip?”
“The rez? What’s that?”
She stopped combing and told her computer to project the album of 273 photos she had taken during the last week. It displayed them on the back of the seats in front of her. “You know, The Cheyenne River Standing Rock Reservation, the rez. That’s what the kids who live on it call it.” She expanded one of the thumbtack sized photos until it became two feet square. “That’s Randall. Isn’t he wonderful? He lives on the rez.”
Tim studied the photo of the full blooded Sioux. “Looks a little bit too old for you.” He remembered similar talks when his daughter attended high school.
“He’s only twenty. I’m almost seventeen. After I finish school next year he’s getting me a job at the casino. Then we can get married.” Her faraway look told Tim that although her body was 80,000 feet above Colorado, her heart remained in South Dakota, stolen by Randall. He wondered if the theft would prove to be permanent.
“It was my first time there,” Tim said.
/> “We go back every summer.”
“Every summer? Wow. What do your mom and dad do?”
“Oh, he’s an engineer for a company working on that Mars Colony thing. Mom owns a nursery.”
“Really?” Tim glanced at the man seated across the aisle. Lining up a story about the Mars Colony seemed wise because he was certain Chan Lee would withdraw his support of son Bud’s “best-selling expose,” how Bud now described the book. Tim nodded at the man. “That your dad over there?”
“No. He and mom always stay for the motorcycle rally. It’s the same every year. The first week we ride the wagon train. That’s how I met Randall last summer. He’s one of the Indians that attack the wagon train. Dad loves shooting blanks out of some old rifle at them. After he first met Randall, he told him that if he wasn’t careful he would use a shotgun to chase us into a church. Isn’t that so silly? I can’t get pregnant. I got fixed when I was born.” She patted her abdomen. “Dad and Mom put the credits they got from the government for having me sterilized into a trust fund that I get at age eighteen. Daddy says that the returns and interest have made it grow to almost a million credits by now.”
“So you don’t like motorcycles and left early?”
“I have to get back home for summer school so I can graduate early and move to the rez to live with Randall forever and ever.” She told her computer to expand dozens of photos of Randall in white T-shirt and blue jeans and costumed as a 1800s Sioux warrior mounted on his black stallion.
Two more possible stories churned inside of Tim’s head. One could detail how “the rez” in South Dakota offered something for everyone: wagon train rides, motorcycle rallies, buffet lines as long as a football field (well, almost a third of a football field, Tim thought while reining in his hyperbole), and a casino with every game of chance and even on site Gamblers Anonymous counselors, if the betting got out of control.
The second story could be about the first wave of Fixed Babies coming of age. A lead paragraph took shape while Tim nodded at the photos of Randall: The first of the so-called Fixed Baby Generation is coming of age. Who are they? And more importantly, where are they headed?
