by Greg Dragon
“About time you answered. You aren’t going to believe this.”
Tim read the fluorescent dial of the clock on the wall nearest his bed. “It’s 3:08 a.m. You’re right. I can’t believe you’re calling me at this hour.” Tim shut his eyes when Bud launched into a synopsis of his trips to visit Ramon and Patrice. Tim’s half-awake mind understood enough of the tale to make him groan.
“Forget all the, ‘they’re getting married,’ stuff. Who cares about that? Let me see the picture of all six Club members.”
“I don’t have a copy of it.”
“What? We go all the way around the world so you can prove that The Club exists and then you don’t even get a copy of the only known photo of them all together?”
“Uh, there’s been a change of plans. Now we have to write the book as fiction.”
“Huh? I’m almost finished writing what you wanted, an expose. I’m on the last chapter.”
“Look, I’ve been thinking about this ever since Patrice told me about her engagement and decided to wait to call you until I got back to the States so I could be sure about making the book fiction. I’m sorry. But we can’t write anything that might ruin things for Patrice and Ramon. If we did, Ramon could get manic again and Patrice might go catatonic.”
* * *
Upset by his weeks of wasted effort, Tim did not return to his ghostwriting chore after he rolled out of bed an hour later. Instead, he checked his email for the first time in a week. After sending 394 emails to the spam folder, he found one from Jennifer Clydesdale entitled “Critique.” It read:
Your book, though interesting, contained problems with diction, grammar, punctuation, syntax, and word usage. In addition, the style used was rather inconsistent, even within individual chapters. But most importantly, what has been written is libelous. To be certain, I consulted our family solicitor in England and described the book’s contents in general, not specific terms. He assured me of his complete confidentiality and recommended that the book be rewritten as fiction. The names, places, and dates all must be altered adequately enough to ensure no readers will identify them as any real life persons or incidents.
The good news is that you can retain your style if you write the book as fiction. Your meandering way with words makes for an excellent yarn, but will not work for an expose.
After you have rewritten the book, I will be glad to provide you another critique. I presume money may still be an issue for you. Perhaps your client would be willing to pay for my services?
Your devoted servant,
Jennifer
Tim deleted the email and rubbed Moose’s chin. “No sense in letting Bud see this, huh, cat?” He reached onto the bookcase and pulled a box labeled Novel Writer 2081 from it. The software program’s cover promised “a maximum work of literature with minimal effort for the writer.”
Tim slid the disc into his computer and read the program’s options. He chose one labeled, “Turn Your Nonfiction into Fiction,” and transferred his manuscript to the program.
It took a half hour for the program to translate the unfinished book from one genre to another and another four hours for Tim to read the new fiction version. After reading the “spelling/punctuation/grammar/syntax/diction” check on the book, he fell into bed, satisfied that the new ending was better than his. While he drifted to sleep, he thought going through the manuscript line by line four more times as he decided on a new title for the book would be adequate.
Two weeks later, he emailed a copy of The Gathering to Bud.
37
Unsure of what Tim had sent, Bud asked the only one he trusted to read it. Fifteen and certain her brother would be “in big trouble with Dad,” unless the book sold well, Tami Lee read it straight through in one afternoon.
“It sounds fake, like a computer wrote it,” she said as she tossed Bud’s book reader onto his desk. “You sure a human being even worked on it? I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?” Bud asked.
“Why did you even bother to ask me to read it if you don’t trust me, big brother? All I’m saying is what Dad will probably say if he ever reads this masterpiece of yours. I can’t believe how phony it sounds. If anyone ever bothers to review it, they’ll give it zero stars or one star at the most. I know I would.”
* * *
When Bud went to Tim’s apartment unannounced, Tim met him at the door in a bathrobe and two weeks’ worth of unshaven whiskers. He seemed more bored than surprised by Bud’s visit.
“How did you like the book?” He asked in between yawns.
“Don’t give me that. You used a computer to write it, didn’t you?”
Tim raised his hands. “Don’t blame me. I signed on to write nonfiction, not a novel, remember? That’s exactly what you said you wanted at first.”
“Then rewrite it so it reads like nonfiction even though it’s fiction. My sister Tami is going to help you out to make sure you do it right this time. And we’re going to pay her out of your royalties, not mine.”
38
One Year Later
Dr. Graves flicked through a hologram show of his and Elani’s children. He stopped to comment on each one.
“Little Jules has certainly grown, hasn’t he, my dear?”
Elani the android smiled. “A chubby little oinker, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he reminds me of Ahomana. They all have such great potential.”
Dr. Graves daily monitored the 713 children who had grown to term in the Mexican laboratory. He had enjoyed choosing parents whom he considered worthy of adopting them. The other 326 offspring had been terminated after birth when the technicians reported their imperfections to Dr. Graves. He had concluded that the defects had come from The Club members’ eggs and sperm, not his or Elani’s.
His obsession proved useful, allowing Elani the android to slip away “on walks” that were sessions in Professor Adams’ lab to fine tune any quirks within or outside her human-like frame.
Thus far, she had required one update in the software that animated her.
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” Elani the android went to the cottage’s sole bathroom and locked the door.
Then she lifted the wooden toilet seat lid and banged it against the porcelain water tank in case Dr. Graves eavesdropped by the door. After pouring a cup of water from the sink as a slow trickle into the toilet bowl, she closed the lid and flushed the toilet. Finally, she stood by the sink and turned on the faucet to simulate the sounds of hand washing.
But instead of placing her synthetic skin under the tap, she lifted her blouse and pressed one of her porcelain ribs and then her plastic sternum in a series of varying pressures to allow the computer at Professor Adams’ manor to communicate with the receiver in her head.
“Contact initiated.” The computer’s artificial voice reassured her more than any human’s. “My readings indicate a slight malfunction of your body temperature regulator. If left unattended, your skin may begin to melt from the inside out. Report to Professor Adams as soon as possible to have problem corrected. I will advise him.”
The android combed her hair. Satisfied she had spent an adequate length of time to simulate urination, hand sanitizing, and hair brushing, she returned to the den.
“I think I shall take a walk.” She reached for the blue shawl on a peg by the front door.
Dr. Graves turned off his hologram player. “I’ll go along, my dear.” He patted his stomach. “I’ve been feeling sluggish. Maybe some exercise will return my bowel movements back to normal.”
“Okay.” Her software allowed her to disagree with humans only to protect her artificial origins and existence. She decided to let her creator handle the unexpected visitor, her dimwitted husband who had proven more boring than stimulating.
After completing a mile long circuit along the estate’s eastern boundary, Elani the android feigned thirst. “Oh, suddenly I’m so very thirsty. Can we stop by the manor for a drink of water perhaps?”
“
Certainly, darling.” Dr. Graves squeezed her hand. “You’re feeling a bit warm. Hope you’re not coming down with something.”
Professor Adams was pruning some of his prize roses in front of his home when they arrived. “Oh, I was not expecting the both of you.” Realizing his gaffe, he pretended to cough. “I thought you might come by alone to discuss the book I’ve been reading.” He pointed his shears at Dr. Graves.
“Book?”
“Quite. It’s called The Gathering. My great niece Jennifer sent me a copy of it that she found in a used book shop. The book’s plot is quite startling, science fiction with the emphasis on fiction. It’s author definitely does not understand science.”
“Very well. But first, Elani requires a glass of water before she returns to the cottage. Then I can have a look at the book.”
“Come on inside.” Professor Adams opened the front door. “I’ll ring Gerald to fetch us all some refreshments.”
* * *
The drops Professor Adams placed in Dr. Graves’ cup of tea put him to sleep in his favorite chair two minutes after he finished drinking it. Elani and the professor left him to snore in front of the fire and climbed the stairs to the attic’s lab.
The android lay on a metal table and closed her eyes as her maker powered down her energy source. Within minutes her defective part would be replaced, her body temperature drop to normal, and she could return home with the husband whom she would outlive.
She wondered if Professor Adams would then sell her or use her parts as replacements in other androids.
39
Second mate Bud Lee monitored the freighter’s heading and speed. He ordered the ship’s computer to maintain its course.
“How long until we dock?” Bud asked it.
“If we can outrun the tropical storm heading this way from the southeast, we will reach Cam Ranh Bay in three days, nine hours, and forty-one minutes.”
“Thank you, computer.”
Bud nodded at his captain and stepped from the bridge onto the deck. He was relieved that his father did not insist he toil at the company’s headquarters in Long Beach. Being a second mate stretched his comfort level enough; the nine months spent at a maritime academy to become one had seemed an eternity.
The warm Pacific breeze whipped by his face as he clicked on his ring computer and asked it for any updates on The Gathering.
“To date, 1,893 e-book copies have sold and 201 paperback copies have sold. Would you like to know the book’s ranking on Publishers Daily Worldwide’s lists for your book’s genre and subgenres?”
“No.” Any book that ranks in the millions isn’t worth tracking, Bud thought.
He wondered if he should have listened to Tim and held out until an agent agreed to pitch their book to one of the world’s “big nineteen” publishers. But with agents only taking on about one out of every 17,000 unknown authors who contacted them, Bud had been unwilling to endure any more delays.
“Getting an agent will take us too long,” Bud had told Tim. “By the time we finally find one, one of The Club members might regain their memories of it and write their own book about it before we do it as fiction.”
Bud daydreamed about his next book.
His inspiration and source for it was Minh Pham. Her face smiled in his mind when he fondled the ring in his pocket. A gift from his grandmother, it was the engagement ring given to her by her beloved decades earlier. Now, Bud would offer it to the one waiting for him in Vietnam. He hoped their wedding would be as joyful as Patrice Oldefarmer’s and Ramon Zappista’s had been.
His next book would be another joint effort, a biography of Minh’s ancestor, whose father had been an American soldier and mother a beautiful Vietnamese peasant. Bud’s sister Tami would be its ghostwriter because he was unwilling to share royalties with Tim again.
This time, Tami and Minh would receive them.
40
An owl returning to its daytime roost awoke the cat sleeping on the chair next to the front window. Moose poked her head through the curtains and watched the bird of prey burrow under the palm fronds of the lone tree in the front yard. Then she jumped to the floor, her claws echoing off of the tiles. At the bedroom door she stood on her hind legs and pushed it open with her front paws.
Tim’s snores and Bethany’s rhythmic breathing greeted the hungry cat.
Moose leapt onto the bed, meowed, purred, and walked on Tim until he stirred. Revived after a shower, Tim joined the cat for breakfast. His was a sixty-four ounce protein, fruit, wheat germ, yogurt, ice cube concoction blended by the Mega Blaster Blender Charles and Bethany had given Tim for his birthday and a bowl of Cat Chunkiness for Moose.
After breakfast, Tim pulled his electro cycle from the garage. A gift from Bud “for going the extra miles on my book,” the two-wheeled vehicle got Tim to work on time unless an accident blocked his route. Its pedals provided a backup Tim could pump with his legs in case the cycle’s batteries ran low on power.
Returning to work at the SLD Times after such a long absence had proven difficult at first. But as his beat worked into a schedule of being in the office eight to twelve hours a week, he adjusted. Traveling consumed the rest of his workdays. As the Times solitary travel writer, Tim could set his own schedule if he submitted stories by deadline.
Returning to Bethany was more of an adjustment. A counselor had managed to have them sign a “We Agree to Disagree” contract.
Gone was the ten-round knockdown, drag out fights, during which they used words to inflict wounds on each other’s souls. They had been replaced by shorter three-round matches during which husband and wife listened to each other. During one discussion, the two decided to save all of Tim’s royalty checks from The Gathering to help fund a trip to Africa to visit Karen.
It would be the first vacation for the four Beheards together. Tim claimed there was an elephant in Kenya whose recent dental work had mellowed him and would like to meet them.
41
Checking the trap line had not yielded much on this run. At the tenth trap, Brent Fulsome found a dead rabbit to show for his four-mile hike. Brent gutted it and put the carcass into his backpack. After resetting the trap, he walked and slid down a series of hills to a stream.
Hope the trout lines did better than the traps.
But the first three lines had nothing but hooks attached to them. The fourth held part of a trout’s head attached to a hook. Its skeleton lay on the bank.
“Damn bears.”
Brent baited the line’s five hooks. “Go ahead and fatten yourself up on our fish. You’ll make mighty fine eating when I shoot you during bear season.” He shifted the strap of his 60-year old 30.06.
It had taken six months for Brent to establish a routine and another seven months to accept its dullness. Living off the land proved not to be the adventure he had often craved for years. His cave provided a temperature of about 55 degrees if he travelled deep enough into it and protection from others.
Not that Brent objected to his fellow human’s presence. No, it was their crazy ideas of how to run everything, micromanaging every area of life until any similar to Brent retreated from society, most in small ways, a few as Brent had.
“You got to learn to accept the hand of cards the good Lord dealt you, son,” Brent’s mother had often said.
Brent looked heavenward after he entered a meadow allowing a view of sun and sky; a welcome relief from the shade of the forest. “Guess you were right, Mom. But could you at least put in a word to the Lord for me? I’m getting weary from this hand I was dealt.”
An hour later, he neared the cave. As always, he paused seventy yards from its entrance and scanned the bushes and trees near the opening. An out of place color stopped his search.
“All right, whoever it is behind those blackberry bushes by the cave, show yourself.”
A man dressed in jeans and down-filled jacket eased from behind the bushes into a clearing. He tipped the red colored cap that had given him away.
“It’s me, Dr. Farrington.”
“Doc?” Brent walked to the intruder. “What are you doing out here?”
“It’s Karla. I’ve heard rumors she’s still alive.”
“So what if she is? It’s none of your business. You best be leaving now.”
“You don’t understand. There’s still no cure for what killed her mother and what Karla has. If I could study how you kept her alive, maybe we can help out other people who have what she has. None of them has lived longer than Karla has after coming down with it.”
Brent nodded at the cave. “I keep her in the cave during daylight even if there’s no sun whenever it’s cloudy. And there’s no artificial light in there, only what we get from the fire.”
“Maybe we can build Karla a room to replicate the exact conditions of your cave.”
“Leave us alone. I told you enough. If you come back again, I might not be so nice.” Brent stepped into the cave.
Gentle sobbing turned both men’s heads toward a slender figure hovering beyond the daylight that illumined the first twelve feet of the cave’s mouth. A soft plea replaced the crying.
“Please, Daddy. I just want to go back home.”
THE END
Steve Stroble has worked as a reporter, editor, and audit report writer. You Will Be Like God is his seventh self-published book. He is currently working on a collection of short stories inhabited by characters similar to those in You Will Be Like God.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my alpha reader for the past thirty-nine years, Jean; and the beta readers for their feedback on the manuscript. Thank you to Donna Casey for the cover, Martha Hayes for her editing, and Carol Stroble for proofreading. Any errors that remain in these pages are mine.
