Invisible things, p.14
Invisible Things, page 14
“Don’t even say it,” Brett stopped her. If she didn’t say it, he wouldn’t have to repeat it to senior party members later.
“All right. Then here’s a free one, directly from Dwayne Causwell himself. Won’t cost anyone anything.”
“Finally,” Brett said, sighing, and lifted his pen to his notes once more.
Nalini paused before this one. Looked around the limo’s interior before leaning forward to say the whole sentence. “A public, prime-time debate about the nature of the ‘gravitational phenomena.’ ” And when Brett stared at her, completely lost, Nalini leaned in and, in just above a whisper, said, “You know. The invisible things.”
“Okay, we’re done here,” Brett Cole said loudly and started working on opening the door before Nalini could go any further. Where he would go once he got out of the limo was unclear. But Nalini stopped him with her words before he was forced to explore anything else.
“Fine. But they’ll just blow up the ship.” The comment wasn’t even made to him. It was made under her breath; Brett shouldn’t even have heard it. And that’s why, when he heard it, he believed her.
“You can’t possibly mean that. Come on: Do you really believe the majority wants to leave? To abandon all we’ve been given? What our ancestors have accomplished over centuries? For some half-baked plan to run away to a planet where we have nothing? That we’d abandon the New Roanokan Dream?”
“Are you willing to bet they won’t?”
The crowd in Grand Circle Square Park standing around the Ursula 50 was all male, all in full riot gear, all with the amount of ease appropriate to people standing next to a portable nuclear reactor. Chase watched as one of the men absentmindedly reached for a cigarette from his breast pocket, only to have his co-worker smack the lighter out of his hand. “What the hell is wrong with you?” seemed to be the question yelled, though Chase couldn’t tell for sure from his park bench.
Lease Luxury Lofts! declared the sign in front of the high-rise behind him. Scenic Park Views! it insisted. Its manicured veranda opened right out onto the park, offering a view of Grand Circle’s green field and the marble fountain just beyond the Ursula 50’s fenced-in perimeter.
“We’re a little early for our tour. Take a seat, let’s commune a bit.” Bob strolled to a park bench and sat down. Chase had no idea what was so important about going to look at empty apartments. Particularly because Bob simultaneously insisted Chase could stay with him as long as he liked, going so far as to offer to repaint the chosen guest room. But Bob seemed to know what he was doing; he seemed to have this place totally down. Chase knew that he, in contrast, had absolutely no clue what he was doing or going to do, so following Bob came naturally.
“If you do find your ex-wife, what will you do then?”
“Get on with our life.” It was a simple question for Chase. Every day since she’d disappeared, he’d been a train on the wrong track. “Just get right back on the right track. I got a sweet plot of land to build on, water rights. Do the whole white-picket-fence dream out in the country and let the world rot without us.” From his wallet, brought with him because he felt naked without it, Chase removed the picture that’d been there since before she left. “This is her. Ada H. Sanchez. Middle name’s Hibiscus, but she hates it.”
“Hibiscus. That makes sense.” Bob took a sip of his latte, and Chase said yeah, though he didn’t know what there was to make sense of.
“She was born east of Taos, but moved to Riverside, California, in middle school. She’s trained as a painter, so maybe, I don’t know, she could be selling landscapes at the mall here, like at home. Or working as an art teacher, or—”
“Chase. I got it. Don’t worry. It’s in motion.”
Beyond them, a rough perimeter of guards assembled more wooden horses around the Ursula, each barrier about thirty meters from the ship itself. In their thick riot gear, they fumbled with the pieces, struggling to manage them with padded gloves.
“Get a load of these guys—they’re totally buying into the threat. Nobody’s going to blow that thing up, right? You’re not going to try to tell me this Ethel lady’s that crazy?” Bob took a sip of his Starbucks and stared at Chase for any answer he could find. But Chase just shrugged, because he didn’t have one. “Granted, I’m no engineer, but the Ursula’s the same model cryoship that the Delany was, and I don’t remember anybody saying anything about a self-destruct button.”
Bob kept looking at him, and Chase didn’t know what to say, so he thought about it some more, for Bob’s sake. “The Admiral did say something about ‘scuttling,’ I think? When we were training? Like, something about a ‘last resort,’ in case we got kidnap—”
“Hey, now! Advice: We don’t use the k-word here, chief. It’s the C-word, ‘Collected.’ When in Rome—got it?” Bob turned to look around them, the whole time a wide disarming grin fixed in place. But he didn’t see anyone listening.
“Chase, you have to understand, we got ourselves a serious situation here. Your Admiral? We haven’t heard or seen her since the arrival. And I hate to tell you this, but it looks like she’s in a bit of trouble. The guys at the office, they’re saying she’s been taken hostage by a rabid partisan element. Terrorists, basically. And who knows what nonsense they’re filling her head with. It’s all political, this game they’re trying to play.”
“Is Admiral Ethel okay?” Harry was in the hospital. Lloyd Talbot was…squished. Chase was starting to feel abandoned.
“I hope so. But the people that have her, the Party People? I’m not gonna lie: They’re fanatics. I’m not saying they’re all bad people, but a lot of them are basically stir-crazy in here. And Dwayne Causwell, the chairman?”
“The old Black science-guy from the Delany?”
“That’s right, the guy from the Delany—poor bastard lost his shit before we even landed. Most of the PoPs, they’re first- or second-generation New Roanokans, so, basically, they just got here. And they simply don’t value working within the system. They’re people who never gave it a chance. That little fiasco at your landing, the rioting? That was all their fault. Normal people stay home and comfortably watch things like that on TV. So, now, the PoP? They’re looking at this as a huge opportunity. But here’s the thing: That could be our huge opportunity. We nip it in the bud, we can write our own ticket. Even if your Admiral pulls off the leaving thing—and that’s a huge if—it would take time. A long time. How we get to spend those years matters.”
“I—I mean, that’s smart thinking. But I’m just here to help Harry. Get in, get out. And, most of all, get my wife.”
“You think she’ll go with you?”
“Hell, yeah! Of course. I mean, sure, she left me, but she left a couple times, and she always came back. And I mean, sure—we had some finance issues, some inheritance stuff. But that’s all resolved now, so I know she would have come—”
“What kind of job did you have?”
Bob’s question snapped out like a released spring, and Chase had no idea how it was related to everything else he was saying. “What?”
“I said, ‘What kind of job did you have?’ Back on Earth? You mentioned money problems. You know, when your wife left you.”
“I’m an Independent Tour Administrator. Own the limo myself—or the bank does, but almost,” Chase said, finding himself reluctant to share more. “Mr. Bremner—Harry—he’s my client.”
“Okay. And what do you do there, exactly? What are your duties, as a ‘Tour Administrator’?”
“Well, a lot of things.”
“But primarily.”
“I chauffeur high-end clients. I got a commercial license. Bonded and everything.”
“So you drive a limo. And your wife left you.”
“Yeah, but there’s other stuff. I mean, I do other stuff. I’m highly respected in my local extraterrestrial-research community.”
“Listen, Chase. I’m going to help you find your wife. But I’m going to help you even more than that. Because this is your lucky day. This is that chance, the one everyone dreams of. Here’s the deal: We can’t let them—those PoP radicals who’ve kidnapped your Admiral—take over the ship. They’re extremists. And if they try a power grab, nobody gets the bounty that ship offers. What we’ll have instead is a civil war in a fishbowl.”
“Sure, Bob. I’m your only hope in the universe. Pull the other one.”
“I’m dead serious, Chase. It’s all about the Founders Party. They run things: everything. And they’re having a generational shift: They need fresh faces. They’re old, which is why they need me. And you. They don’t even have a governor right now, just some nobody interim till the special election. Honestly, I’m thinking of running.”
“Okay. Well, good for you, I guess.”
“No—good for you. After this morning’s broadcast, you—Captain Eubanks—are the official face of the Ursula 50.”
“Look, I ain’t no captain.”
“Chase, you can be whatever you want here. It’ll be musical-chairs time in the party soon. And I intend to be the one sitting down. Because—you and me? If we play this Ursula thing right? We could do big things. I already floated the idea of getting my hands on the Ursula’s drones to the higher-ups—you should have seen them salivating. They’ve got your basic toy-store drones, but nothing like what we have. Policing, surveillance—even pizza delivery—having a monopoly control on those floating toasters would be priceless around here. Hell, with what you guys brought, we could start a tech revolution right here in New Roanoke. Can you imagine that? And it would benefit everybody, but especially you and me. How do you think your wife would like that?”
Chase looked at Bob to see if that was a joke. If it was, Bob didn’t seem to know it.
“Man, I’m not trying to be staying around here.”
“Of course you’re not. But till then, you got to play the angles. You’re either swimming or you’re sinking, that’s how I look at it. So here’s the smart move: We get you hugged up with the Founders Party. Nothing crazy, just to show everyone that the Ursula’s fate is a bipartisan concern. Which it is, right? All honest. You do that, and I’ll see about getting you on the party payroll. In line for the perks. You got something people want—a connection to that ship. Now’s the time to turn that into everything you need for as long as you’re here.”
“But can you get me Ada?”
Bob looked at him for a second, then stood up from the bench. Chase thought he was just going to throw his paper coffee cup in the trash, but Bob kept walking. Back toward the luxury high-rise, motioning for Chase to join him. He entered the building, walked past the elevators to the lobby door marked Property Manager, and buzzed an intercom.
“You really think you can help me find Ada?” Chase asked, again.
A voice came through the intercom: “Come right in.” Chase heard her, and it hit him, and yet, when the door swung inward, when he saw the woman, Chase still had to ask:
“Ada?”
“Hibiscus,” she said. But it was Ada Sanchez standing there. It was Ada who froze when she saw him.
“Ada?” Chase said again. She was there. It was her. Right there in front of him. Not saying anything. Just staring at him.
“Funny meeting you here,” she finally said, without humor.
Vice Deputy Party Chairman Brett Cole assumed the most challenging part of the Ursula 50 referendum negotiations would be getting the senior Founders Party members to agree to negotiate at all. Despite his reservations, he relayed Nalini’s requests by mouth to senior Founders Party leadership immediately, and when no one yelled at him, he spent the rest of the day pondering that unexpected outcome. Eventually, Brett decided that this must mean the idea of a referendum vote was actually kind of good. Possibly, fast-track-promotion worthy—not that Brett didn’t enjoy being Vice Deputy Party Chairman. And he was starting to believe that, when you thought about it, the whole referendum thing was actually his idea, and he should put it into a written proposal to ensure he got credit for it, as opposed to some cynical opportunist, like Bob Seaford, who was clearly trying to ride this to the next rung.
Not only could a vote resolve the issue of the Ursula 50 (and surely in the party’s favor), it would also send a broader message to the public that the Founders Party was the true party of the people, and that the Party of the People was their enemy. There was nothing to be gained from using the state power of eminent domain to take the Ursula outright when the same goal could be reached in a way that left the voters feeling empowered. And if they lost, Brett suspected the party would eventually figure out another way to ensure that this spaceship was in good hands.
The following morning, Brett woke before dawn to write out his formal proposal. In a public referendum, the Party of the People’s position could be presented in a light that focused on the underlying selfishness of the PoP request: To seize property for themselves over the needs of the many. Hoarding valuable technology that had the power to make life better for all the citizens of New Roanoke. Tech that might possibly even save lives, Brett guessed, and therefore lifesaving technology. And if PoP’s grander plan worked, if they could somehow manage to evacuate all the citizens who would refuse God’s love by returning to the purgatory of Earth, how could that not lead to the collapse of the New Roanokan economy? The economy. Did these radicals even think of the economy? And how could any true New Roanokan stand for that?
Brett put all this into his proposal. He even added a subsection on possibly announcing an across-the-board tax cut based on revenue from any resulting inventions after they stripped the Ursula 50 for its treasures. Some sugar for the base, in case internal poll numbers looked soft.
Brett Cole put all that in there, then sent the proposal through the appropriate channels. And then he waited. For three days.
No response. There was no “No” from up above, there was no “Yes,” there was no anything. The final dossier Brett had submitted, a thick, bound report with a glossy cover, held a detailed outline of what it would take to conduct a statewide election. The cost and logistics of polling stations and organizing volunteers, the procedure for certifying Founders poll-watchers, the cost and scope of canvassing before the vote and coordination of phone surveys to judge the effectiveness of party messaging. Brett felt that he’d really put himself into it.
But despite all that, if Brett hadn’t hand-delivered copies of his masterpiece directly to the personal assistants of all the committee chairs’ offices, he would have guessed they hadn’t received the documents.
Then, one morning, after four days without word from the higher offices, Brett’s opposing attaché from the PoP called. After offering unwanted sarcastic small talk, Nalini Jackson said, “Tell your overlords to go to the Grand Circle Square at eleven a.m. tomorrow. To the Ursula. We want to show you something.”
“Ms. Jackson, if it’s a threat you want me to relay, let me say—”
“Not a threat. It’s an invitation.”
So Brett conveyed it as such. Discreetly, back to each of the personal assistants of the people who mattered, one more time. Not even asking if their bosses had read the proposal, just telling their assistants the time, the place, and that they needed to be there. For something.
And, again, Brett got no response. No follow-up call, no office drop-in. Not even from Bob, with one of his trademark ribbings. None of the senior officials seemed willing to acknowledge that they were giving any attention to the situation. And so Brett began to fear that this was because, as long as they ignored it, Brett himself would be the only one held accountable if things went wrong.
The next morning, Brett made it to the Grand Circle Square Park subway stop on time, rising aboveground to see the Ursula 50 parked where it had been for over a week. But now there weren’t just a dozen guards around the ship’s perimeter. There was an entire army in waiting.
Hundreds of them: the national guard, which was fairly sizable in spite of the fact that there were no other nations nearby to shoot at. And Brett looked among them and felt a sense of relief. Not because they could actually protect him from some physical threat, but because he knew that their appearance meant that, even if the elders were not responding to him, they were clearly listening.
At 11:01 a.m., when nothing had happened, when neither Nalini nor any PoP proxy had shown up, Brett knew for sure that the Party of the People was just playing games, as always.
But by 11:02 a.m., he discovered that the Party of the People really wasn’t playing.
Without warning, the Ursula 50’s aft and starboard thrusters rumbled to life a full thirty seconds before fully igniting, giving the soldiers adequate time to evacuate the area. But they didn’t, or at least they didn’t get far enough away. The force of the propulsion units knocked their boots from under them, sending dozens of armed men sliding along the concrete until they could get up again to run to a safer distance. It was a smart move given that the thrusters around the rest of the ship soon came online as well, pulsing their energy outward before turning the force down.
In a fury, the Ursula 50 rose off the ground.
Even at the distance at which Brett Cole himself was standing—which was considerable, and chosen out of supreme respect for his own anxiety—he could feel the gusts of air pushing him back as the explosive force lifted the ship slowly higher. One story, two, three stories above the park’s lawn. Up into the air like a child’s balloon. And then the ship slowed and stopped there, a hell-storm of fire shooting out directly beneath. Bobbing slightly as it maintained its position in the wind.
All the soldiers remaining stared up, necks craned and arms limp at their sides. With desperation visible even from a distance, their commanders struggled to regain order, to get them back into formation, to get them to lift their rifles and point them high. But there was nothing else the guards could do except witness it hang there beyond their reach. Then watch the ship as it calmly dipped, of its own control and volition, back down to the ground. So precise that the SS Ursula 50 came to rest perfectly aligned with the wooden stage once more, as the planks swayed and shuddered beside it.
