by Greg Dragon
“Only one of them volunteered for an implant, so I drugged the rest to sleep.”
“My, my.” The professor wagged his finger. “You have been a naughty boy. Elani went along with all of that?”
“No. I drugged her also to keep her from interfering. Then I extracted 10,000 eggs from each of the three women Club members and Elani and millions of sperm from the three men. Because I had no further need of the six of them, I placed implants in them that were programmed to suppress their memories of me, Elani, and each other.”
“But what if the implants are ever detected?”
“I used organic chips designed to biodegrade and exit the body as waste material after one week. The computer said one week’s worth of memory suppression impulses from the chips would produce permanent memory loss of what I needed to have erased from their minds. But when I doubled the impulse rate for the two Club members who were attracted to each other, they experienced unexpected side effects.”
Professor Adams stopped puffing his pipe. “They killed themselves?”
“No. But they are now mentally defective, fit only for the looney bin.”
“Collateral damage, but minimal. Very wicked on your part, but ingenious. Your father would have been proud of you. What did you end up doing with all those eggs and sperm?”
“I let the computer pick the choicest eggs and impregnated them with my sperm and I impregnated some of Elani’s eggs with the choicest sperm from the three male Club members. I was certain Elani would be pleased by my initiative, but when I told what I had done, she became irrational and left me.”
“But why did you sell your home there in America and come here?”
“I had no choice. My former manservant Bud Lee came back accompanied by some second rate hack writer trying to confirm the existence of The Club. I suspect they are writing a book about it. The fools came to the wrong conclusions based on their limited knowledge and even more limited intelligence. So I took the frozen embryos into Mexico and used some of the proceeds from the sale of my estate to pay a lab to grow them to maturity. It’s only a matter of months before our children are born and placed in homes that adopt them. We can even track their progress while they grow up. The technicians have agreed to implant chips in each one of them, so I can always know their whereabouts.”
“How many children?”
“Oh, only about 1,000 of them or so. My computer program eliminated all of the inferior embryos from the process and destroyed them. What remains are the cream of the crop. My computer monitors the embryos’ progress daily in case any more of them prove to be defective. Mustn’t allow any such to be born. Earth is already polluted with billions of defectives.”
“All of that is none of my colleagues’ concern. What they wonder is why did you travel from Mexico to the Caribbean to Africa and then France before coming here? That gives you the appearance of a terrorist.”
“I withdrew most of my money from my bank in the Bahamas. I left a small amount there, so the IRS can impound it to collect what they think I owe them from the sale of my house. The bulk of my money is safely hidden away in a Swiss bank. It took some doing, but I obtained a false identity and passport to enter Switzerland from Africa. Then I used my real passport to enter England from France.”
“Very clever of you. Well done. Even my friend at MI-18 has no record of your travel to Switzerland. I always said you would make an excellent spy.” Professor Adams pulled a Bible from the bookstand next to his chair.
Dr. Graves recoiled when he recognized it by its cover. “A Bible? You haven’t been reading it?” The professor’s wry smile further unnerved him. “Have you?”
“If you are going to conquer your enemies, you must first study what they believe.”
“But… reading the Bible?” Dr. Graves shuddered as he stuck his finger down his throat and pretended to vomit.
“Ah, here we have what the serpent said to Eve in the Garden of Eden: ‘For God knows when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’ Isn’t what Satan said simply marvelous? I so love him in his role as the serpent and his craftiness. What an inspiration to us all.”
He closed the Bible and stared at the ceiling. “You’ve done well. Someone has to ensure that superior offspring are brought into this world to save it. Our destiny is to become like God by deciding for ourselves what is good and evil. Only then can we at last create a world in our own image, a perfect one, free of defective humans. Your father would be proud of you. I know I am.”
30
Having enjoyed his freedom of journeying around the world, Tim renamed his subterranean apartment “a dungeon.” There he worked twelve to fourteen hours a day trying to organize his notes into an outline for the book he had been commissioned to ghostwrite. After four days, he gave up and borrowed a copy of Bookwriter 2088 from a friend.
“It’s the best there is,” the friend had said as he handed Tim the one inch square disc with the software program. “I’ve written over thirty books using it so far.”
But how many copies of them have you sold? Tim thought as he thanked him.
Tim set up shop at the corner of his one-room apartment devoted to his computer. Moose joined him by leaping onto the small card table, her paws grazing his cup of coffee, genetically modified to deliver four times the caffeine of ordinary coffee. She stretched out in front of the monitor for a nap.
Tim completed the Writing a Nonfiction Book tutorial in an hour. Then he spent the next eight hours typing the names of Dr. Graves, Elani, the six Club members, and Bud Lee and a description of everything he knew about each of them into the program’s template. As the ghostwriter, Tim’s name would be missing from the finished product. That did not bother him, but the two choices offered after his daylong efforts did.
He read them aloud to Moose: “Produce (fill in desired number) word book. Produce outline for (fill in desired number) word book.” Enough of a work ethic remained in him, so he chose the latter option. He typed in 100,000 for the word count. Two minutes later he printed out a fifty-two page outline.
“I love the smell of graphite in the morning.” He sniffed the stack of papers and tossed it on his bed stand and ordered his computer to turn off the overhead light. “Now all I have to do is fill in the blanks. Smooth sailing from here on in, Moose. Computer, wake me up at six a.m.”
“But doing so will give you five hours of rest. At your age you require at least –”
“Shut down. You’re burning up my energy credits.”
31
Bud straightened his tie after he parked the hovercycle he had rented at the Rapid City International Airport. This time, Dr. Graves has to answer my questions, Bud thought. I’m not letting him snow me again.
If he didn’t cooperate, Bud planned to order Tim to include a dramatic scene of how the gallant Mr. Lee gave the evil genius a final chance to confess. Either way, it was a win-win situation for Bud and his readers. The sound of laser saws and nail guns as he walked to the front door ended his daydream of signing his books at SLD’s largest bookstore.
Bud found the door ajar, so he pushed it open and entered the home where he had toiled for the Graves. Gone was everything familiar, replaced by workers intent on transforming half of the den into a bedroom. One of them stopped Bud.
“Sorry, sir, but the lodge isn’t ready yet.”
“I’m looking for Dr. Graves. Is he home?”
“He was the former owner, right?”
“Former owner? But...”
“He sold out to the tribe. They’re making this into a lodge for guests who drop lots of credits at the casino, you know, high rollers.” The carpenter pretended to shake and then roll a pair of dice. “Listen, I got to get back to work. We’re under a tight deadline to get this ready by the weekend. Maybe the office up there at the casino can help you out.”
* * *
Bud waited an hour before Chief Red Bear let him enter his office.
�
��Ah, Mr. Lee, what brings you back to the casino? Are you looking for a job, or are you here for a little fun and relaxation? We have a buffalo hunt scheduled for tomorrow. Dr. Graves told me how much you like buffalo meat. Our hunting expeditions come complete with the necessary reservation hunting licenses, guides, and weapons of your choice. Perhaps you would prefer a buffalo gun like those used by buffalo hunters in the 1800s?” A hologram of a weapon floated in front of Bud’s face. “We can also butcher and freeze what you shoot within five hours and ship it home on the airplane with you.”
He rubbed his hands together. Reeling in a customer to buy one of his services was more fun than angling for the trout in his reservation’s waterways. Noticing Bud’s hesitation, Chief Red Bear sweetened his offer. “Because you are a former employee of Dr. Graves and Elani, I can even give you a thirty percent discount.”
Bud sat in a chair covered by buffalo hide. Its soft hair tickled his sweaty arms and hands. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not here for buffalo, Chief Red Bear. I’m looking for Dr. Graves. I need to talk to him.”
“Is it about a reference?” He pulled an envelope from his middle desk drawer and tossed it onto Bud’s lap. “Dr. Graves left one for you in case you returned. He’s quite perceptive. He always seemed very discerning of what those around him really wanted in advance of their asking for it.”
Bud looked at his name on the front of the envelope.
Chief Red Bear spun his swivel chair around until he faced the redwood grove to the south. Turning his back on those he lied to always eased the process. He called Bud to his side and then pointed at the towering trees.
“Dr. Graves sold out lock, stock, and barrel, like the old timers used to say. I tried my best to talk him into staying here, but he would not listen. Now all I have is this view of those redwood trees to remind me of him. He was my best friend, you know.”
I’m surprised he isn’t part of your rogue gallery. Bud glanced at the photos along the wall of those who had lost vast sums at the casino and the fake scalps nailed next to their likenesses. If Dr. Graves had his way, my scalp would be hanging on the wall of wherever he’s hiding, Bud thought.
“He left no forwarding address, so I’m afraid I can’t help you out.” Chief Red Bear spun his chair back around and slapped his desk with both palms. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for a tribal council meeting tomorrow.” He waited until Bud entered the hallway and the redwood door to his office latched before ordering his computer to send an email.
“Address encrypted email to Dr. Graves. Text is as follows: Hi, Doc. I just had a visit from your former employee Bud Lee. He seemed very anxious to find you. Even your glowing reference wasn’t good enough to send him on his way happy. I think he’s out for blood. Your blood, if I sensed his real motives. I told him you left me no forwarding address. I really hope things are patched up between you and Elani. I’ve never seen a man love a woman like you love her. If you get tired of England, pay us a visit. You can stay in the penthouse here free of charge. I miss you. I’m sending this via my email account in Switzerland to confound any snoops who might read it. To be safe, please use cypher number seventeen to decode this email.”
* * *
By using the detailed printed outline as a blueprint, Tim was halfway through writing The Club within a week. He had decided to cut the book’s length to 325 pages. According to Publishers’ Daily, books of that length were currently selling the most copies worldwide.
With his recent sales of his travel articles and the ease of using the outline, Tim became convinced Bud’s book would be a success. Maybe not the best seller Bud envisioned, but successful enough to generate ample royalties for the ghostwriter. The first interruption since he had begun dictating the book to his computer came at lunchtime.
“This is Tim.” He blinked at the strange face on his visionphone’s screen.
“I’m Jennifer Clydesdale, Mr. Beheard. I read your fabulous article about your trip down the Nile and was wondering if I could talk to you about it over lunch today?”
His stomach growled as he imagined a complete meal away from his dingy confines. “Sure, if you’re willing to buy.”
“Of course. That was my intention all along.”
* * *
She chose a bistro within walking distance of his living complex and wrinkled her nose while Tim devoured the day’s special, a hamburger made of texturized vegetable protein and a side of chili fries, to which he added hot sauce before each bite. She pecked at her chef’s salad with manners matching her lilting British accent, Tim thought. Her short brown hair framed an oval face that belonged to a pixie from a fairy tale, instead of a fan, but his free meal dulled his suspicions.
“So you would not recommend that I retrace the exact route that you took down the Nile?” Jennifer pushed her half-finished salad to the center of the glass topped table.
“Not until they clear all those blood thirsty pirates out of the Sudd. But you could always start off at Lake No instead.”
“I see. May I leave you my card? I must be going.” She pulled a blue colored card from her purse. “Good writers very rarely make good editors or proofreaders. And those to whom you submit your work to are likely to reject anything having too many errors.”
Visions of Bud rejecting the first draft of the manuscript haunted Tim as he read the business card’s white letters: Jennifer Clydesdale, Copyediting, Critiques, and Proofreading. Reasonable rates. Contact: JenniferC 12,[email protected].
“How much do you charge to critique books?” He dropped the card into his shirt pocket.
“I normally charge 1,000 credits per each 80,000 words.”
Tim glanced at his smart watch and asked for his bank account balance. He frowned as the amount flashed on its screen. “How many words can you do for 250 credits? It’s all I can spare until I finish the book and start collecting royalties from it.”
She took an herb cigarette from a gold-plated holder and lit it. “Because you were so gracious to tell me about the Nile in person, I’ll give you a cut rate deal. But you must not tell anyone else or they shall all be clamoring for the same treatment. How about if I were to critique 30,000 words for your 250 credits?”
“Sounds fair enough. I need some feedback so I can polish it up before I deliver it to my client. He is the real picky type. You don’t how much I hate doing rewrites. That’s a real pain in the...” He paused as her nose twitched. “Before I forget, all of this has to be kept strictly confidential when you read it. I’m just the ghostwriter. No one can know that or what’s in the book until after it’s been published.”
She blew a smoke ring and smiled. “No problem. I always act the part of the professional. How else can I expect repeat business?”
32
“Really, Elani. You’ll be quite happy once our children are born.” At times, the solidgram of Dr. Graves’ wife seemed real to his weary mind. The shrill ring of an antique black phone brought him back to reality.
“Who can that be?”
No longer needed, the solidgram of Elani faded as he picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Professor Adams here. Can you come around to the manor? I have the first part of the manuscript in which those two hooligans are writing fabrications about you.”
“I’ll be right up.”
In his haste, Dr. Graves left the front door of the cottage open and neglected to pull on his raingear or grab an umbrella. With his mind focused on how Professor Adams could have obtained the manuscript, he did not notice the steady drizzle.
He must have bribed that flaky writer whom Bud hired, Tim what’s his name, to get a copy of it. Oh, I hope the bribe was not too great, because I must repay Professor Adams for his kindness.
His feet splashed in the puddles on the dirt path connecting the guest house to the manor.
No, Professor Adams is much too clever to resort to something so uncertain as a bribe. Perhaps he hired a hacker to steal it fr
om his computer. Oh, no. That may have cost even more than the bribe would have.
A row of oak trees sheltered him from the wind during the last stretch of the muddy path.
I give up. What does it matter how he obtained it? The main point is the old sly fox did. I can’t wait to read it.
Dr. Graves shivered while he pounded on the manor’s front door. His impatience and chill set his feet to moving in a dance taught to him by Chief Red Bear when they were children.
Gerald opened it and stared at what he thought resembled a drowned rat. “Please, sir, step inside. I will fetch you some dry clothes. Please remove your muddy shoes and I will also bring you a pair of slippers to wear while I clean your shoes.”
Dr. Graves pushed past him. “No time for all of that. Where is Professor Adams, in the library?”
“Yes, sir.” Gerald dodged the muddy tracks Dr. Graves left as he trampled through the dining room, down a hallway and into the library. Most unseemly of him, I best announce him after the fact.
When the butler caught up to him, Dr. Graves sat on the hearth, his backside so close to the fire that its heat produced steam from his soaked pants, long-sleeved shirt, and tangled hair, hanging the same as a dirty mop needing to be rinsed.
“Forgive my tardiness in announcing Dr. Graves’ arrival, my lord.” Gerald bowed in front of Professor Adams. “I fear he was in such a great hurry that I could not keep pace with him.”
“It’s my fault, Gerald. I am the one to blame for his haste. Please bring us some hot tea and biscuits.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Gerald paused outside of the library and stared at the messy trail Dr. Graves had left on tile and carpet. Glad this was one of the maid’s workdays, he took a detour to the laundry room to inform her of an unexpected cleanup.
Back in the library, Dr. Graves skimmed the first pages of Tim Beheard’s and Bud Lee’s “expose of a sinister plan to control world events.” As he finished reading each page, he tossed it into the fire.
