Futureland. Part 7

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 gla.s.s 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 t.i.tle 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."

Common Ground, a section of every city in the world; the place where unemployed workers have to go when there is no other refuge. Beans and rice to eat and a doorless sleep cubicle were the bare essentials of those consigned there.

"There is no Common Ground in Atlantis or anywhere else on Home, Doctor," Kismet said. "Here is the home of leadership, art, and science."

"The leader being you."

The shadow that pa.s.sed over Kismet's face brought both exhilaration and fear into the heart of the co-leader of the Sixth Radical Congress.

"Iced tea?" Kismet asked.

"I could use it."

Kismet turned toward his paradise. Akwande looked also, but his thoughts were not on Eden. Instead his mind's eye conjured up another garden, a garden of dried dirt labored over by skeletal bodies, cried upon by millions of dying Malians. Behind the ocean's roar he heard the hiss of a billion flies feasting on the open sores of human suffering. In his repose he thought of those he'd met who would never rise again.

The iced tea arrived carried on a silver platter by a nude and completely hairless black woman. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were full and firm.

Well fed, Akwande thought.

His eyes met hers but found nothing.

"Maybe s.e.x," Kismet suggested.

"Excuse me?"

"Maybe you would like to see a live s.e.x show. We could set the stage right here. I can supply any number of performers. You could join in if you wanted. All of my performers are tested and guaranteed for perfect health."

The woman still stood before the guest. Akwande realized that she was waiting for him to choose his gla.s.s. He did so.

"I haven't come for fun, Doctor."

"No? That's really too bad. Because you know fun is all that makes life worthwhile. If you can't enjoy life, why live it?"

"I prefer to leave that question unanswered, sir," Akwande replied. The tea was the best he'd ever had. He tasted pomegranate, citrus, and mint amid a floral bouquet. He wanted another gla.s.s before the one he drank from was empty.

Kismet smiled. His one eye seemed to notice everything.

"Maybe you would like a different kind of s.e.x show," Kismet offered in response.

"I told you--"

"A white woman, maybe," Kismet stuck out his lower lip and moved his hands in circles indicating that he was throwing out possibilities. "A hardworking secretary, plucked freshly from her secure everyday existence, brought here and raped--for you. Ravished and humiliated--for you."

Akwande wouldn't have been able to suppress the laugh even if he wanted to. It was a deep and musical laugh that sounded more like master than guest.

"You laugh?"

"No offense, Doctor. It's just a sign of relief."

"Relief?"

"You are the great Doctor Ivan Kismet. Your corporations control the greater portion of the planet. Your Infochurch rivals Catholicism in membership. It is said that you can master any intellectual system in days, at most.

"And yet I see that even you are capable of misreading the human heart, that even you can misjudge a man's motives. As I said, I do not mean this as an insult. It's just that I had been told that I would be in the presence of a G.o.d. It's a relief to know that you are a man."

Kismet's monocled eye flashed twice. He studied Akwande, or maybe the images transmitted electronically to his brain. His body jerked from a small spasm and then he smiled.

"What do you want, Fayez?"

"Justice," the co-chair of the Sixth Radical Congress said, beginning a long practiced speech. RadCon6 had made a great investment of time and money to bring him there. Two men had died while on investigating missions. Fayez himself spent six months in a bug-ridden hotel waiting to be allowed a one-hour interview with Ptolemy Bent at Randac Corporation's maximum security research facility in Madagascar.

All of that and he had less than a whisper of a hope that he might be successful.

Fayez Akwande felt as if he had been working toward this moment his entire life. He'd always worked to free the minds and bodies of black people around the world. As an archaeologist he pressed to prove superior intellectual and scientific advances in ancient and prehistoric Africa. As the congressman from Newark he fought to increase awareness of the widening gap between rich and poor. And now, as the co-chair of RadCon6, he meant to engage the most powerful man in the world, to force him to bend his will for the good of Africa, Africans, and the African diaspora around the world. He felt that if he could turn Ivan Kismet toward his own goals, the rest of the world must surely follow.

"Justice," he repeated, "and the offer of our friendship."

Kismet nodded. A loud bird screeched somewhere nearby.

"You offer me friendship?" Kismet ridiculed.

"And the opportunity to use your power for history," Fayez said. He had more to say, but his advisors had suggested a slower approach.

"I do what I want," the absolute ruler said. "You would see that if you let me entertain you. The ancients struggled to make gold out of lead. I can make a dog out of a cat, a Hindu G.o.d with six arms, an advertis.e.m.e.nt for Flapjack computers lighting up on the dark moon. I don't need friends."

Akwande had seen the ad. Maybe the rest was also real.

"It's not love we offer, Doctor, but respect for you. Millions are starving--"

"I command more of the love and support among the people that you profess to represent than you could ever imagine." Kismet's tone was derisive. "The black ma.s.ses have taken to Infochurch like bears to honey. My message that G.o.d is a riddle and the world of science filled with His clues has captured more imaginations than any King or X or radical a.s.sa.s.sin." He eyed Akwande maliciously at the last word.

"We do not a.s.sa.s.sinate," Akwande said simply.

"Three of your slayers were stopped on this island." Kismet clasped his hands together and squeezed.

"Not mine, Doctor. That was RadCon5. They believed in overthrow. I believe in change."

"For change, my friend, you need power. I am power--but I am not yours."

"Then why am I here, Ivan?"

"You're the one who asked for the audience."

"And you accepted. I find it hard to believe that you would waste time on someone you didn't have an interest in."

Again Kismet smiled. Again the flashes behind his monocle.

"He wears a monocle that's electronic, it has a light that sometimes flashes," Akwande said to the twenty-six-year-old convicted killer, Ptolemy Bent.

"When does it flash?" the lion-haired youth asked. Ptolemy's intelligence was accepted as the greatest in recorded history.

"At odd times. But almost always when he is posed with a difficult problem."

"And you say his weight changed after 2031?"

"Yes. He went from 195 to 202. I only mention it because he had maintained 195 for a dozen years."

"And when did he start wearing the monocle?"

"A year before the weight change."

RadCon5 had studied Kismet for years in order to plan his a.s.sa.s.sination. Later, RadCon6 continued the study, for more complex reasons.

Kismet also had a change in gait in 2031. RadCon's doctors said that this was due to the weight gain, but Ptolemy was not sure. He told Akwande that he didn't know which leg, but one of them held the computer that informed the eye.

"It's the future of intelligence," the young man explained. "Chromo-circuitry custom designed for the receiver, and a highly advanced computer built into his body. A computer this size, five or six pounds, could retain nearly all of the information in any particular field with a faster-than-thought delivery system."

"So he's virtually omniscient?"

"The monocle receives information from either the computer or a remote source. That way he can also be in constant communication with his network. No one could outthink him, all other things being equal."

"What does that mean?"

"He might receive information that he doesn't understand. He might receive false information. But considering advances in AI systems that isn't very likely."

"Which leg would the computer be in?"

"I don't know. But you could tell by the way he lands on it in vigorous exercise. A little more of a jolt on the heavier side."

"You want me to ask him to do jumping jacks?"

"I'm just telling you what I know, M," the youth replied. "There's only so much I can do locked up in a cage."

"I know. I'm sorry. Keep strong, brother."

"I am a collector, sir," Dr. Kismet was saying.

"And what is it that you collect?"

"The fruit of human advancement, the best of the best of mankind." Kismet's use of the old term referring to humanity was a serious breach of good manners, further proof of his megalomania. "The finest art and relics of the pinnacles of history grace my lower halls. Atlantis is populated with the greatest scientists, artists, and artisans of our times."

"You claim to own people?"

"Not own, collect. We are very civilized about it. We supply a domicile and a stipend, all stipulated in a mutually agreed upon contract. They are free to travel and seek profit through personal endeavors. All I ask is to be able to request their labor at various times."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"I want you in my collection, M Akwande."

"Me?"

"Don't be modest. You were a great coup for the Sixth Radical Congress. Without you they would have spiraled into anarchic disaster. It was you who redefined their political agenda. This after an impressive career in archaeology. And, if I am not wrong, you were ranked twelfth in the world as a Go master at the age of twenty-one."

"You are well informed, Doctor. But why settle for twelfth when you could seek out the prime Go master?"

"Ton Li. He lives on the island, of course," Kismet said, waving a spurious hand. "Boring fellow, really. He knows little beyond strategy. And precious little of that outside the confines of his illegal ivory board."

Ton Li had defeated Akwande in just six hours of play. "I am not for sale," Akwande said.

"What if I told you that the scientists in the Blue Zone had discovered a certain combination of oils, rendered from three distinct legumes, which replicate, almost exactly from a combustion standpoint, the attributes of petroleum?"