“Yeah. And as soon as they see that the everyday prod and Backgrounder looks to me they start offerin’ me money and power. Lordess did it, Randac too. They make it seem like they’re the ones helpin’ me, makin’ me rich. But really it’s me that did it, me and the people who wanted me to beat Zeletski.”
“But you took the money, babe,” Pell said. “You said you were goin’ to Luna Land.”
“ ’Cause I’m through with boxing. I figure the money they paid me to fight’ll pay Daddy’s med bills and the Randac money’ll pay for our new fight.”
“What’s that?”
“People look at me to fight and win because I’m a woman and men think they’re better. People wanna see the underdog win. Everything and everybody in my life is that. You—”
“Me?”
“Yeah. When you saw the chance to get outta Common Ground you made it strong. Daddy’s fightin’ right now against the Pulse. The government wants to make money off his addiction and let him die, but he won’t.
“But most of all I think about my mother. All she ever was was a prisoner. Trapped with those other girls. Made in some laboratory. But she still got away and made a life for herself even though the whole world was against it.”
Tears sprouted from Fera’s eyes. Pell squatted down next to her and hugged her head to his chest.
“That’s what I been thinkin’, honey. When people see me fight they feel good, but it doesn’t help ’em. I keep thinkin’ that I should get out there and fight for real, like you and Daddy and my mom. I could use Randac’s money and the FemLeague lovin’ me so much to run for some office, to go against the people usin’ me to keep people sufferin’.”
“Be easier livin’ on Madagascar,” Pell said.
“You could go there, baby,” Fera said. “I’d understand if you wanted to take it easy.”
“No, Fera,” Pell said, kissing the knuckles of her right hand. “I’m with you down to the nub, down to our last dollar and dime.”
She was the first woman to make a man bow down for sure, Groucho T, the Internet philosopher, said. He never got back up again.
Doctor Kismet
1
“Welcome, M Akwande,” the monocled man said with a bow. He stood atop an enormous ornately carved dais made from a single block of pure green jade.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Akwande said, nodding graciously. “It’s so good of you to come to my humble Home.” There was a momentary flash of light behind the darkened monocle lens. Kismet’s robe was deep green like his throne, its hem reaching his bare feet.
“Home is beautiful beyond compare, Doctor. But no place which serves as both residence and sovereign nation could be called humble.”
Kismet descended the six stairs from the dais down to Fayez Akwande’s level. Two naked young men rushed to assist but he dismissed them with an almost imperceptible gesture. Immediately the sexually enhanced Nordic teenagers genuflected and moved backward in the same fluid motion.
The monarch spoke.
“Less than fifteen miles in any direction, Home is smaller than many cities in size. Add that to the puny population and you have the smallest, weakest nation in the world.”
M Akwande noticed that Kismet did not claim poverty for the large island off the western coast of Mexico. It was rumored that the eccentric CEO of MacroCode International paid a trillion international credits for the island, created in the great earthquake of 2006, and its claim of nationhood.
“Between the saltwater crocodiles and the patrols by land and air I’d venture to say that Home is the most secure nation in the world today.” On his part Akwande was all in black — his loose cotton pants and shirt, his skin. The only flashes of white on the guest were his teeth, his eyes, and an uncarved bone pendant, about three inches long, that depended from a silver chain around his neck. The day before in New Jersey, his wife Aja had placed the pendant on him, a queen knighting her people’s savior.
“Are you hungry, sir?” Kismet asked, his visible eye losing interest in speculation about his domain. “Maybe a drink?”
“A drink would be nice.”
“Then, come.”
Akwande was a tall man, six foot five by the old measuring. But Kismet was a head above that, maybe more. He took Akwande by the elbow and led him toward a wide corridor enclosed by forty-foot crystal walls. The semitropical sun blazed around them but the air was cool and exhilarating. Two naked women followed noiselessly. To the left and right were magnificent elevated views of Kismet’s heaven on earth. Imported oak and eucalyptus forests, miles-long abstract mosaics achieved by flowers and multicolored leaves. The reproduction of an ancient Phoenician fishing fleet docked in the world renowned Harbor of Gold. There was even a small desert. To the right lay Atlantis, his capital, one of three cities on the island. The red and ochre construction of stone, iron, and glass was home to thirty thousand of his subjects. The buildings had underlying structures of Synthsteel and could withstand winds of three hundred fifty miles an hour. It was said that they could withstand a nuclear attack.
To the left was a clearing that contained drab green domes and long brown barracks. This, Akwande knew, was Sparta, the soldier city. Not far beyond was a circle of blue, a mile in diameter. There was nothing that Akwande could say for certain about the makeup of the Blue Zone, as it was called. Somehow Kismet had designed a camouflage for his research center that defied visual or electronic investigation. One could make out shapes and movement but it was like looking into a blue prism through mist. No one entered or exited the Blue Zone without permission from Kismet or the ranking head of operations, who held the sinister title of Dominar.
Wild birds and strange animals could be seen in the clearing directly below, through the transparent floor. Kismet and Akwande walked in silence for ten minutes before reaching an iron door. The young women ran ahead of them to push the doors open. They exerted strength that Akwande would not have attributed to ones so small and soft-looking.
His surprise must have shown because the doctor said, “Surprise is the joy of life and the secret to survival.”
“Is that one of your scriptures, Doctor?”
Kismet smiled and motioned with his head for Akwande to precede him onto a large outside landing. He was met with an almost aerial view of the Pacific Ocean.
“It’s beautiful.” The words escaped Akwande’s lips before he could stop himself.
“The view has that effect,” Kismet agreed. “High above the world, looking at the mother of all life, feeling her power and her indifference. Here we stand as near as possible to understanding the truth of our mortal predicament.”
As he spoke the women rolled in a table and chairs hewn from the sinewy, twining trunks of banyan trees.
“I’ve always believed that truth was a conviction tempered by humanity and the mind, Doctor,” Akwande said, regaining a sort of emotional balance. “Not a thing.”
Kismet smiled and the light flashed behind his monocle again.
“What is your pleasure, Professor?” the absolute ruler asked.
“Come again?”
“How shall I entertain you? There’s a wonderful tenor residing in Atlantis at the moment. Also a portrait artist who may be the greatest talent in the history of the art. A painting for Aja?”
Hearing his wife’s name issue from this monster’s lips disconcerted Akwande. But then he realized that this was Kismet’s intention.
“My wealth is all in my work, Doctor,” Akwande said. “And, anyway, if I found myself on an unemployment cycle I couldn’t bring a painting to Common Ground.”