by George Lazăr
On another occasion Bolden had appeared interested in the fate of the personnel working for The Guardian Angel.
“Judging by the sums of money you take from me, I am sure you must pay them very well. Why do you always change them? I understand, you want to avoid routine, but aren’t you going a bit too far? I always see new faces.”
“When you work for someone who has cheated death, it is better you don’t stick around for too long,” said the colonel. “There’s no theoretical basis for this, just experience, but it’s like you’re contagious. The longer anyone spends around you, the greater the risk to them. So we rotate staff between clients. It limits their risk and exposure.”
“What about you? Why aren’t you affected?”
“I’ve been around you from the beginning, long before your improbable survival created this dangerous disequilibrium. It gives me some kind of immunity.
“But you’re right. We do pay the staff well. Maybe its not so much given the risks of the job, but there are perks. Each gets two or three sessions with the Device, depending on how long they stay with us.”
Bolden’s favorite time of day was the afternoon, when – due to his persistent requests – he was allowed to personally manage his businesses. For two or three hours they let him answer his correspondence, give orders and make decisions. Green Clean stock continued its market-making rise as thousands of containers filled with expensive and dangerous waste from earth floated peacefully in geostationary orbit, waiting only for the completion of the Electromagnetic Catapult that would launch them on their final voyage to the sun.
In the evening, before he went to sleep, he imagined himself an actor in an absurd play. There were times when feelings of uselessness overwhelmed him, as did the sense of isolation in the impenetrable fortress The Guardian Angel had constructed around him. But uncertainty was his greatest tormenter. Was he really cheating death, or was he the victim of a sophisticated scam?
He couldn’t meditate on that question for too long because the doctors always introduced a light, sleep-inducing substance into the air vents after a few minutes. Still, he found ways to remember his questions for later.
“When the people inside the airplane died... their chances of dying were different, right? Some of them might have lived for a hundred years more. What should I understand from that? That I am somehow privileged? Or that I bear some sort of curse meant to bring death to the people around me?”
The colonel laughed. “Privileged! That’s a good one! Look, the probability of death doesn’t apply differently to different people. Their money or their knowledge certainly doesn’t make the difference, just as Newton’s Law of Universal Gravitation doesn’t apply differently to, say, rich people and poor people – the gravitational force of attraction exerted is the same. I’ve called it ‘probability’ for lack of a better word and because it sounds more... scientific. But in reality, we don’t know what it is. I could’ve called it fate, destiny, fortune, luck.
“You are the one who generates the events, so you have gathered more potential as you have moved from one level to the other. The probability has a magnitude and a direction. It’s a vector. That means you can add it or subtract it. It interacts just like in any other system of forces.”
“But what does this have to do with the people in the plane?”
“Sometimes, more probabilities gather in the same place, like in the case of the people inside the airplane that crashed. It’s true, every one of them was supposed to die somewhere else and at some other time. Their added probabilities gave out a chaotic system, without a clear resultant. What counted was the probability of your death. It was bigger, much bigger than any one of those who were around the place where you should have been. Fortunately, there is a certain degree of inertia. An event meant to kill you can’t be made to happen instantaneously.”
“Otherwise you couldn’t possibly intervene,” Bolden said.
“Otherwise we couldn’t possibly intervene,” Folder repeated. “It’s as if you were in the jaws of a crocodile, and that crocodile is in the jaws of another, bigger, crocodile. And so on, like an endless row of ever-bigger crocodiles whose jaws close one by one, trying to crush you. We pull you out before the first pair of jaws closes in on you; at least that is what we have done until now.
“Only you, not the people who happen to be around you at the time. Look, the attack on the aircraft was planned well in advance. The jaws had begun to close, and nothing could stop them. That’s the only way in which you can consider yourself privileged, because you are alive. But you are also cursed, because you determine other people’s deaths. Even now, as we speak, we think it is possible that other events have started unfolding, like waves the form far off shore before crashing into the beach. They’re responding to the disequilibrium your life creates, and they’ll keep being created until you die.”
When he returned from his stroll, he had massage sessions. They rotated masseuses, so there was little familiarity, but in the early days Bolden tried chatting with them. That ended after one man, an Asian with a gentle face, spent the whole hour briefing him on the imminent conflict between South and North Korea, where the southward flow of refugees had increased to the point that border guards now simply shot illegal border-crossers on sight. Bolden wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
He was allowed to read from the vast library they had purchased for him. Before entering the Guardian Angel’s protection program he wasn’t used to spending his time like this, but he quickly discovered the joys of reading, although even the books were especially made, with thick, soft pages in which it was impossible to cut yourself. He had been told that the ink used to print them was also a special, nontoxic one.
He watched the news regularly, another change from his previous life. In those days he didn’t car much about the concerns of others, but his isolation had changed his perspective. He found himself concerned with hunger in Africa, earthquakes in Asia and volcanic eruptions on the West Coast of America. He listened to the experts who were prophesying a new world crisis.
He became agitated and started falling asleep with difficulty, dreaming of global crises that would crash the stock markets, dissipating the personal fortune that kept him alive as if blown by hot, dry winds.
The doctors supervising him didn’t understand what was going on until they correlated the sensors that were monitoring his vital signs with his daily activities. They called Folder, who came to him alarmed.
“Don’t worry,” he told Bolden, once he found out what was worrying him. “You’re safe, even it the world comes undone. Your fortune is larger than ever, and your investments are extremely diversified. There isn’t the slightest chance for bankruptcy.”
Even so, the colonel forbade him to watch the news. For a while he gave up managing his business, after the colonel had convinced him that it was much better to leave such details in the hands of the executives he paid so handsomely to run his operations.
Several times he asked for and received luxury prostitutes. They let him drink a little wine, if only to relax him from thinking about the unseen eyes monitoring his adventures. It spooked him nonetheless, and he conducted the trysts in darkness, mostly to protect his identity from the call girls. He spoke as little as possible, but didn’t stop the women when they were in the mood to tell their stories. Eventually, he noticed that tens of thousands of dollars for “sexual services” had been added to his weekly Guardian Angel .
“Isn’t that a bit much?” he asked Folder, somewhat sheepishly.
“In these conditions, I’d say it’s rather cheap. Each girl has signed a one-year contract for her exclusive services. Each went through all the required medical tests and they’re all in quarantine and under surveillance for the term of their contract. You have a small harem at your disposal.”
After a while, Bolden insisted on getting back into managing his company, Green Clean. He checked in on his computer, but when he asked for a video conference with his board
of directors, Folder put the kibosh on that idea, worried that a hostile competitor might intercept the signal. Bolden thought that was paranoid, and told Folder to his face.
The proportions his business had taken on worried him. His people had contracted immense quantities of waste in advance. Furthermore, some of the beneficiaries, who were restless, had already started sending it in advance, despite clearly established deadlines. The anti-pollution laws had become so severe in many countries that they would have rather paid storage fees and penalties. Following in the footsteps of The Green Party, more and more ecology organizations had acquired political force and popular support. The Greens, once they had entered the German government, had exploited their position and obtained an increase of the fines for breaches of environmental pollution laws. The immediate export of waste had become profitable.
Construction of the electromagnetic catapult wasn’t going according to plan. They had to carry the necessary construction materials and components to the orbit, for which there was no available transport capacity, largely because so much of the lift capacity had been taken up by containers full of radioactive waste, highly toxic chemical residues or deadly viruses from military laboratories. The people managing the Space Elevator wanted to see all of these leave the silos of the floating island on which the terrestrial end of the gigantic structure was fixed.
In an effort to fix these problems, Bolden issued a string of orders through his private communications channels, but he only made matters worse.
His doctors, of course, immediately detected his of stress. His sleeplessness increased as his appetite disappeared. He lost weight, and his daily workouts exhausted him quickly. Folder came at once, and immediately intuited the source of the problem.
Bolden was in the middle of a massage when Folder arrived. He immediately kicked the massage therapist out of the room, tossed a file onto an empty chair. Bolden had never really seen Folder this angry before.
“We’re losing time, Ian. If you go on like this, stressing out over business decisions, we can’t be of any help to you. And everything we have brought about becomes completely useless. You have completely overstepped the medical parameters I laid out for you. You have to stop right now. If you haven’t understood that you are hurting yourself, here are your scientifically measured data. The contact with the outer world is hurting you.”
Bolden leaned up on his elbow.
“Stop what?”
“Stop communicating with the world out there, in any way and about any issue! It’s not good. You’re exhausting yourself too much.”
They had had a similar discussion when he had asked him to give up his video channel. This time however, he wasn’t ready to yield.
“Out of the question,” he said peremptorily. “In fact, I don’t think it’s in your best interest. Green Clean is in big trouble. Over a million tons of waste has piled on the orbit and I don’t know what to do with it. They haven’t worked on the Catapult for weeks and they’re putting forward the argument that it doesn’t bring in money while lifting waste does, although...”
The colonel motioned for him to stop.
“Let me put it differently. Yes, your company is in trouble, we know that. Ever since you started interfering, you have only managed to complicate matters further. You’re committing blunders that may have unpredictable consequences. First,” he lifted a finger, “erratic behavior like this is how you ruin your company and destroy your fortune. Second,” he lifted another finger, “the stress you are creating for yourself is already showing up in your biometrics, which increases your chance of illness and absolutely sabotages your general health profile. And third,” he lifted his ring finger, “if you succeed in pissing away all that wealth of yours, Ian, you lose our protection. Which means you die. Have I been clear enough?”
“What is it that you want?” Bolden asked. “I have to manage my business somehow. It’s true, I’m not feeling great, but I have to pick between two evils. In fact, I have to choose between more than two evils. I’ll try to get some more sleep, but get off my back.”
The colonel sat down on the massage therapist’s chair, on the file from which the corner of a medical chart was sticking out. He spoke to him in a more restrained tone.
“Giving up control of Green Clean isn’t the same thing as tossing it to the wolves. Your team there has managed pretty well on its own, but the situation they face has become increasingly chaotic. We’ll name an administrator, give the company a little bit of help. All I need for you is a signature on this proxy.”
Folder handed him a piece of paper. Bolden stood up from the table and tried to read it, but his eyes stung.
“So that is what you wanted all along,” he said sadly. “To take my company.”
“You’re totally missing the point, Ian. The company is still yours. No one is taking anything from you. Look at the proxy, man! It says so explicitly!”
He pointed to the paper in Bolden’s hand. “It says you can return to the company’s management at any time and that no matter what happens, your decisions take priority. We’re doing this to make things better, and I guarantee you, we’ll succeed. It’s important for you and for us that Green Clean remains profitable.”
Bolden reluctantly picked up the pen the colonel handed him. He scribbled his name on the lower part of the page and handed it back to the colonel; who slipped it back into his briefcase, got up and left the room without a word.
Life returned to its familiar pattern – food, physical exercises, walks, sex, sleep, reading and relaxing movies. He lost track of time.
They didn’t take the computer out of his room but, since he didn’t have a business to run, he no longer used it. During one of his visits, Folder switched it on to show Bolden a news channel. Green Clean’s stock had doubled in value after the Army announced its decision to cede up to five hundred tons of its daily lift capacity to Green Clean. Bolden meant to ask Folder about the state of the electromagnetic catapult, but the good news wasn’t over yet. The Chinese had started building their own Elevator – and they’d just granted Green Clean a license for five hundred tons of daily lift capacity. Even if the Chinese Elevator was ten year from completion, the stock market reacted promptly.
“How did you manage?”
The colonel shrugged his shoulders slightly and flashed a mysterious smile.
“We know a few people, and we picked out the right administrator. I’ve told you everything was going to be all right. You’ve become extremely rich, Ian. Forbes named you one of the ten richest people on Earth last week. Did you hear about that?”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
“Anyway, my main reason for coming here today is some Guardian Angel business,” Folder said. “First, we’re adjusting our weekly charges again, hiring some addition staff to take care of you. Not that your bank account will notice the increase, and you certainly won’t feel it.”
“How would I know?”
“Exactly. Second: All this money you’re making is making you irresistible to the media. They’re desperate to interview the world’s hottest investor.
Oh, there is another problem – the media, they’re desperate to talk to the new greatest investor... But we are keeping things under control.”
“How?”
The colonel waved his hand carelessly.
“We bought you some television channels, electronic newspapers, radio networks, everything we could find on the market. The rest we offered advertising contracts – on condition they leave you alone. A bit expensive, but I think it was worth it.”
Bolden brightened, as if a weight was being lifted off his shoulders. The survival of his company meant his own survival. But optimism was hard to sustain.
“I feel like I’m locked in a prison,” he told the colonel during one of their after-lunch walks. “Like an inmate on death row. I don’t think I’ll last much longer. Even the terminally ill are allowed to live their last days in freedom.”
Th
e colonel didn’t seem at all surprised.
“I expected you would react that way. I’m impressed that you managed to hold out this long. We organized a Calming Zone for you here, something we thought would lessen probability. It’s a theory we tried with another Level Four, and we think it works: if you eliminate possibilities, you eliminate probabilities.”
“You mean it doesn’t have to be like this?”
“We can’t keep you locked up here forever if you can’t take it anymore. We’ll shift to lighter surveillance, let you resume your old life, move back to where you used to live. Do whatever you want, but I don’t recommend your getting involved in your business again. Things are going well for your finances, despite the global economic crisis. So travel, socialize, take up a hobby. But understand that we’re going to intervene unconditionally, immediately and aggressively the moment with see a 10 percent with a sustained upward trend.”
“And this theory about eliminating possibilities as a means to protect me ... has it been verified?”
The colonel stopped, making him stop too.
“Proof’s in the pudding. You’ve been here almost a year without a serious incident. That’s a great year for a Level Four.”
Folder looked around him.
“We’ve protected you with restrictions. But if you want to leave, to change that approach, you’re free to do so. In fact, that’s my recommendation. I know it feels safe here, but natural law adapts to conditions. If we don’t change our approach every now and then, nature will find a way to kill you, even in the Calming Zone.”
Bolden looked up at him in disbelief.
“Routine can be a threat too, you know,” the colonel said. “The probability, the natural phenomenon, the supreme being, the thing that is trying to kill you, it adapts to everything. So we’ll throw it a curve. If you survive to Level Five, we’ll probably arrange another Calming Zone for you. And so on. The best moment to exact the change is when you ask for it.”
“Why?”
