The Brave New World 59 Deep-Fry Tricks & Techniques

During that time, Li Yang learned what had happened to Jake's family since they moved from his apartment block. Both his parents had died: his mother of cancer, his father of a heart attack. Jake's older brother was now living in California: he'd told Jake that if he was to live in poverty, he preferred to do that in pleasant climate. He had last been in touch at Christmas the previous year.

And so Jake came to be living with his grandparents, who were very happy to have him there: he helped them out with various tasks that had become a burden in old age. He'd had a job too, as a grease-monkey in a a neighborhood car repair: he'd shown such talent for fixing up cars that he'd gotten two raises within a year.

However, that job had vaporized the previous month. Car repair was a bad business to be in after all cars had been immobilized following the catastrophe. Consequently, the owner of the repair shop set it on fire and then collected on the insurance, automatically dismissing all employees without having to pay them any severance money.

Jake was without work until just recently. But now he was collecting sc.r.a.p for one of those private mints that were springing up all over the place. They paid good money for whatever he brought in. Unfortunately, that good money would turn into bad money the moment the new currency was introduced.

Since that was due in just a couple of weeks, Jake's job definitely wasn't a long-term career prospect. But at least he'd be getting guaranteed income payouts along with his grandparents. Did Li Yang have any idea of how much money was involved?

Li Yang did not. At this point in the conversation, the front door opened and Jake walked in. His face lit up when he saw Li Yang.

"Yang!" he shouted.

Li Yang jumped up from his seat and they hugged each other, laughing. But almost instantly Jake stiffened and moved back a step and said:

"I hope you're not bringing bad news. Is that why you came here?"

Li Yang finally got to tell his story. And unfortunately, it did contain bad news: his mother had died. Jake had moved a few months after Li Yang's little sister was run over by a car, so he already knew about that.

But his grandparents didn't, and were really distressed to hear about it. Someone dying of sickness - that was natural. A little girl dying after being hit by a vehicle was a different story: a cruel one. They instantly asked Li Yang to stay for lunch.

It was a meal composed of the now-familiar MREs. Right after that, Jake invited Li Yang up to his room, and that was when Li Yang told him about his New World plans, and the impending move south.

"I'm totally blown away, man," said Jake, and looked it. "Wow! I know a couple of guys at the mint also got hold of some stuff from the cube. But they gave it up when they were registering the mint. They didn't want to lose their license to operate it in the event they got found out. You know you'll lose your GIM if you get caught, right?"

"They can put their GIM right where the sun don't shine," said Li Yang, using a phrase he'd often heard from Rose Fogerty. He hadn't told Jake she was dead, too; they'd shared enough death news already.

Jake looked at him and laughed.

"You know, I wish I was going with you," he said.

Li Yang smiled.

"You can," he said.

* * *

"You can't do that, sir," Lea Panatella said to Carlton Brock.

Brock turned red with anger.

"The f.u.c.k I can't," he said. "I can and I will. I am the governor of U.S. territory in the New World. I'll build a fleet of battleships. I'll sail across the ocean. I'll find Jerry f.u.c.king Hard wherever he hides. And when I do, I'll cut off his f.u.c.king hands and wipe my a.s.s with them while he's still screaming, right in front of his eyes. And then I'll hang him by the b.a.l.l.s from the tallest lamp post or tree or whatever I can find at short notice. And I'll leave him hanging there till he dies."

"Oh," Lea said. "I didn't realize you meant the New World."

"Of course I meant the New World. Though I'd like a chance to do it here, too. Maybe more subdued in scale, like getting the s.h.i.t beaten out of him. I think I could arrange that."

"Better not, sir."

Carlton Brock sighed, and said:

"You're right. Pity. Forget what I said about hanging him up by the b.a.l.l.s, too. That's far too lenient. I'll have to think of something better than that."

Brock's anger was caused by the news brought by John Gregson, captain of the Great Western. The historic ship had just returned from Ireland. It drew crowds as it progressed up the river to its berth. People had actually cheered as it went by, and Brock moved quickly to get the most out of it.

He drove down to the port even before the ship had docked, and informed the growing crowd that sending the ship had been his own initiative. He reminded everyone that he was watching over the nation from his highly elevated seat, and that they were to take no bulls.h.i.t from the current U.S. president, Mark Penny, in any shape or form.

The crowd had been highly appreciative of his remarks, and Brock was in an excellent mood when he greeted John Gregson right after the captain left the ship. He congratulated Gregson on having gotten rid of the couriers in 'that Irish s.h.i.thole', and instantly offered him the job of commanding the future U.S. fleet in the New World.

"You're the guy for the job, John," Brock had said. "All those admirals we got here can't operate without fifty different radars and a hundred staff to do all the actual work."

Gregson had been very pleased. But then he handed Brock a resignation letter from Jerry Hard. Under intense questioning, he revealed that Brock's favorite bodyguard had betrayed him: he had signed onto a New World colony project with a shadowy British organization called The Empire. No, Gregson didn't know anything about The Empire apart from the rumor that true to its name, it had imperial ambitions. He also didn't know where Hard was now; the former bodyguard had left Galway even before the Great Western had sailed.

"There was some kind of a lord there, sir," Gregson told Brock. "I heard he was the owner of the local football club. They left together."

"I'll rip both of them new a.s.sholes," Brock had snarled. It was a sentiment that grew in strength as the day went on. And now, looking at Lea, Brock was. .h.i.t with a new inspiration: he really should get one of those medieval torture books. He recalled there was this special procedure for frying people alive in a vat of boiling oil. It had been a real crowd pleaser in the Middle Ages, and if he remembered correctly the trick was to lower the victim into the oil very slowly. Otherwise, the fun was over all too soon.

Yes, that was much better than hacking at someone and getting blood all over one's clothes. Much more sophisticated.

"The only good Jerry Hard is a deep-fried Jerry Hard," Carlton Brock said musingly, causing Lea to raise her eyebrows inquiringly. But he didn't satisfy her curiosity. Instead, he said:

"Lea, there's something I need you to do for me. Very delicate, very confidential. Are you up for something like that?"

"Of course, sir," said Lea Panatella, and delicately pressed her right t.i.t into Brock's chest.

"Good, good," said Brock, equally delicately moving back. "I need you to find out what Kirk Lander is up to. You know, that senator from California that I'd always liked. He refused my offer of a governor's post a while later, the a.s.shole. But I still like the guy. Much more than that other senator from California, that What's-Her-Name."

"Libby Placek."

"Correct. I much prefer Kirk. So I want you to find out what he's up to. I remember you grew up in Sacramento, right? Get your network going over there. I want to offer this guy a job again, a better job. Governor of the entire California in the New World. And I won't have him turning me down again. If he does that, I'll have no choice but rub whatever's he's got going over there into the ground. And I don't like doing that kind of stuff to people. I'm a nice guy."

"Of course."

"So find out what he's up to, and let me know. Just be discreet."

"I will, sir," said Lea Panatella. She leaned forward for one last delicate t.i.t-press before smiling and leaving.

Brock watched her go with a fond eye. What a girl! Perhaps he could ask her to look into this medieval deep-fry business? No, better not. It could offend her fine sensibilities.

But he would. Oh yes, he'd make sure to acquire deep knowledge of the whole procedure before he hunted down Jerry Hard.

"f.u.c.k you, Jerry," Brock muttered to himself. His stomach rumbled; it was time for dinner.

He would make sure to have a side dish of French fries.

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