Futurecard

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PROLOGUE

In the bowels of a London building, the low hum of electronic machinery filled a spotless laboratory. The scientist pushed a shock of bright red hair from his moist, freckled brow and peered at the enhancing screen of his brand-new phase-imaging atomic-force microscope positioned an angstrom from the tissue. He pressed a button with a delicate touch; figures and numbers appeared, illustrating the adhesion of the nanoparticle to the surface of the rat’s retina.

The mass and color resolution remains realized and stable, he said nervously.

The immaculately dressed woman at his side ran her tongue across her perfect teeth. It’s still pulsating for a twenty-fifth of a second? Under no circumstances can we afford to cross the barrier between subconscious and conscious cognition.

Ma’am, before we go further, I have to say this is a breach of ethics. The principles of science…

Is it fixed at a twenty-fifth or not? she demanded coldly.

Yes, but —

"Excellent. From image to impulse to action." She snapped her perfectly manicured fingers under his nose.

The scientist shook his head from side to side. No, no, no. You don’t understand the consequences. You cannot do this.

Stop sniveling, she spat. We can and we will. You knew the implications when you allowed us to finance your precious Orion’s Light. We will do with it as we please.

No, you don’t understand! he shouted, pointing at the screen. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d raised his voice, and it surprised him. The alkane chains in the didodecyl benzene are deteriorating the tissue.

The woman looked at the image on the monitor — the inside of the rat’s eye. What are you saying? she said impatiently.

The doctor adjusted the magnification and peered into the imaging screen. "Look. There’s a sudden and rapid collagen drift. Acute macular occlusion has occurred after only twenty-seven days. This rat is blind!"

The woman drew in a sharp breath, then began pacing; the heels of her pumps clicked on the immaculate linoleum. Her eyes narrowed as she moved to look closely at the screen. Would the same thing occur in humans?

The scientist instinctively backed away to keep as much air as possible between them. Without a lot of tests, we can’t know. But the risk is too high.

But you said that you could program the device to self-destruct.

In the laboratory, in rats! he shouted again. We’re not approved for human clinical trials, not for one person, let alone —

Thirty days have September, April, June and November… so October thirty-one minus say two mailing days, minus twenty-one, plus the two days in November. Mass mailing on October sixth. Perfect.

The scientist stared at her, waiting for some hint of morality or at least rationality to surface. The look on her face hardened.

Prepare a batch that will destruct twenty-one days after absorption, she ordered.

He sighed with a small measure of relief. "I simply don’t understand why you want to do this, why he would want to do this."

She ignored him. I want a second batch with no self-destruct program. I’ll take a sample of that with me now.

His relief evaporated. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I won’t do it.

The woman laughed disdainfully. Doctor, you can either win the Nobel Prize for science in molecular nanotechnology or rot in obscurity — or worse. You know me by now, she warned. Have a care.

As the weight of the woman’s words sank in, a haunting image played in the man’s mind: his young brother unconscious on the floor of the boxing ring, left eye bloodied and swelling, while the scientist stood in shock above him, staring at the boxing glove on his own right hand. The glove had dealt a literally blinding blow, ending the promising career of the green-eyed rising star — the fighter known as Orion.

Slowly pivoting in his chair, the scientist slid over to the next workstation. Placing his right hand into a virtual glove, he silently manipulated protein images on the screen. After five minutes had passed, he removed the glove and opened the vacuum-sealed compartment in the device. He took out a small, shiny green sphere — a gel-capsule filled with a vitreous solution — and handed it to the woman. She clutched it to her breast next to the beautiful brooch she always wore on her lapel — a sparkling diamond archer with three brilliant emeralds across his belt.

Continue the search for your Orion’s Light, Doctor, she said. I believe that I have found mine.

She smiled with satisfaction and placed her free hand on his shoulder. He tried to pull away, but her surprisingly strong squeeze on his collarbone stopped him. She leaned down and kissed him lightly on his cheek, leaving a faint red imprint of her lips. He detected a scent he couldn’t identify — not perfume, for she wore none. He wondered silently, and more than half-seriously, if he’d just caught a whiff of evil.

PART I

CHAPTER 1

Gunshots cracked from the gondola above, blowing out the curved window and shattering the black London night. Glass shards rained down on the other capsules that hung from the four-hundred-foot-high Millennium Wheel like huge charms on a giant bracelet.

The well-dressed people enjoying a private party in my gondola dropped their champagne glasses and pointed up at the barrel of a rocket launcher, now aimed at Buckingham Palace a mile away on the opposite side of the Thames River. A moment later a spray of fiery sparks trailed the rocket as it whooshed across the sky, but the ball of white heat missed its mark and burst above the great palace.

I tore off my snap-on tuxedo, exposing my red, white, and blue suit, and did a handspring onto the buffet table, pushing down with all my might and launching an upward donkey-kick against the curved skylight in the roof of the capsule. The pane popped out in one piece and fell toward the ground like a huge sheet of ice dropping off an alpine cliff.

A woman cried out, Futureman! as I flipped over, crouched, and sprang for the frame above me. Bullets ricocheted off the steel, but I caught it with one hand and dangled. With muscles burning, I executed a one-handed chin-up to pull myself up and onto the top of the capsule. My hands shook.

Sirens whined in the distance as a gigantic searchlight flicked on from a river barge, cutting a swath through the night before landing on me.

More shots rang out, and bullets glanced off the steel frame around me. I balanced carefully and sprang for a higher piece of the frame. Catching a strut with both hands this time, I pulled myself up and onto it in a seamless motion and scrambled along the crosspiece until I was just below the terrorists. As the two men furiously loaded the rocket launcher, I jumped into their gondola, charging the one who balanced the weapon on his shoulder, knocking him over as he pulled the trigger. The launcher misfired and the live rocket sizzled on the floor.

I sprang out of the gondola and, grabbing a loose cable, Tarzanned across the radius of the wheel, letting go to land feet-first on a steel spoke. Holding my arms out for balance, I ran down the 38-degree angled pipe, timing a rapid hop over one coupling, then another, then one more, and finally sliding on the rigged slip-sheet to the rubber knee-stop that had been placed so I’d stop just short of smashing into a mass of six-inch steel bolts that jutted dangerously out from the hub of the wheel. Behind me, the rocket exploded, annihilating the terrorists and saving the day. The searchlight’s beam shone brilliantly on me as the crowd cheered.

How can we ever repay you, Futureman? a beautiful young blonde shouted from a broken window in a gondola above me.

I pulled a Futurecard from my wide red belt and answered with a grin, Futurecard. It’s the only way to pay!

Cut and print! Archie shouted into his microphone from the director’s chair perched behind camera one. Christ, Jimmy! He could have been perforated by that bed of bolts. You okay, Reb… Reb?

My senses were ultra-heightened from intense focus and adrenaline; the sound of my name jabbed at me through my earphones. I held my breath, still in that private place I call the jungle, where I had just done a wild dance to my personal rhythm. I expelled my breath slowly and breathed in again through my nose, chilling my nostrils, filling my lungs with damp night air. Exhaling, I slowly emerged. My hands still shook — a condition I’d acquired one fiery night at the age of eleven that was particularly exacerbated when I worked at my chosen profession. It embarrassed me and I tried to conceal my hands from the camera and the eyes of the crew.

Speak to me, Reb, implored Archie Ferris, my stunt mentor and best friend. I should have triple-checked the depth of the knee-stopper, man. I under-calculated how fast you’d descend the beam. It’s not the crew’s fault. It’s my fault. All on me.

I emerged from the jungle. It’s okay, Arch. It worked out slick, right?

Slick yeah, but barely. If you’d gotten hurt...

Been hurt before, still here, I said, turning to the camera. I steadied a hand as best I could, reached up and pulled my earlobe in what had been my boyhood gesture of goodnight to my mother, but had become my signal to Archie that I was satisfied with the stunt.

That’s a wrap! Archie shouted. It’s cold as a polar bear’s nuts in this town. Let’s go home.

* * *

It’s eleven hours and a whole culture from London to LA, and it’s not easy to get or keep my lanky six-foot body comfortable, even in First Class. I wore a long-sleeved cotton pullover and faded old jeans for basic comfort. My leather sandals lay by my bare feet. My hands shook sometimes when I flew, too, and I was doing breathing exercises to calm my nerves. I hate to fly unless I’ve personally supervised the takeoff or sat behind the controls, and I didn’t feel particularly happy 37,000 feet above the Atlantic, insulated from bitter, high-altitude hypoxic cold by a thin mass of extruded metal, copper wire, silicon chips, and spill-proof carpet. The well-heeled travelers surrounding me gazed at plasma screens transmitting movies, clacked the keys of laptops or tapped iPad screens, listened to books or music they’d downloaded, or stared ahead at nothing.

Archie leaned toward me and read from the editorial page of the Los Angeles Times as if it were a bedtime story:

One in Every Wallet: The Meteoric Rise of Futurecard. Joshua Hartley is one sharp fellow, as multi-billionaires usually are. He created a credit card with a long-term, super-low interest rate, targeted a slice of middle-America, and bombarded them with preapproved cards, offering five hundred dollars of free credit upon activation. In the first wave, four million of us dialed the 800-number, peeled off the activation tape, and rushed out to buy that longed-for barbecue, stereo component, or Kate Spade handbag. If the eager Futurecard holders had used their free credit, then cut their Futurecards in half, Joshua Hartley would have been out only two of his 20 billion dollars. Instead, the cards were coveted like Willy Wonka’s magic tickets, and America now has forty million (and counting) Futurecard holders, a booming economy, and a new cultural icon in Futureman, the ubiquitous real-life superhero mascot of the Futurecard advertising campaign. A hero of the Gulf War himself, Hartley has increased his personal wealth and that of Futurecard stockholders by galactic proportions and now finds himself a serious third-party contender for President of the United States.

One of our flight attendants, a woman with the smile and worry lines commensurate with having flown the miles and put up with the bullshit it takes to achieve transcontinental seniority, had been listening to Archie with one ear, while seeing to the comfort of nearby passengers. She stepped over and proclaimed, I’m going to vote for him.

What did you buy with your free five hundo? Archie asked.

A new bike for my stepdaughter, she answered with a smile. Safely stashed at the in-laws till Christmas. Every little bit helps these days, doesn’t it? Josh Hartley is the man.

Archie nodded as she held a trash bag open. He deposited the newspaper and she moved on.

How much you got invested in Futurecard? he asked me. They’re predicting a stock split this quarter.

I gave him a look of incredulity.

You’re Futureman, but you didn’t invest in Futurecard?

I don’t even have one of those things. I’ve got more money than I can spend now, I said, referring to the spoils from the incidents of the previous year.

Yeah, still stashed in bundles in that beat leather satchel?

You know, Arch, not once has that satchel interrupted my dinner trying to sell me goods or services.

Gonna vote for Hartley? he asked.

Nope, don’t vote, I said. You don’t either, usually.

I’ve been thinking about it this time. I like this guy.

He smokes cigarettes, I said. He’s an addict.

Archie popped open a can of Orange Crush from the private stash he always carried with him. As he poured it over ice into a plastic cup, I caught the scent of artificial citrus. Hartley had a moniker in Desert Storm, the Viper or something. Something intimidating, what was it? Archie pondered.

Pussycat? Koala? I offered.

I love koalas, the massive, sixty-six-year-old former Special Forces marine said. You know, you could actually go down in history as being responsible for putting Hartley in office, Futureman. You’re ubiquitous. Hawk the card, hawk the man behind the card. Maybe he’s the next J.F.K. and pretty young mothers will stop you in the street so you can kiss their babies.

Hopefully, nobody will ever notice it’s me. I hate advertising. I should have told Delia no, I said. Did I let myself get manipulated? No, she’s not a manipulator — that’s evil. Delia’s just… I sighed. Oh, Delia.

Archie sang, ‘She’s got you in a spin and what a spin you’re in.’ That’s from ‘Night and Day.’ Cole Porter.

Close. It’s from ‘I Don’t Know Enough About You.’ Peggy Lee and Dave something, Dave Barbour, I corrected. I wonder how Delia’s doing since the funeral.

It’s too soon to make a move on her, Reb. Ennis Shaw’s body is still warm.

Who said I was going to make a move? I’m not a barbarian.

Now that’s funny. Helen Keller could see right through you.

Some girls just have that special breeze and when it drifts your way… I said. Just like Pepe LePiu, your nostrils flare, and pretty soon you’re floating. Delia has that breeze.

Yeah, well, the last breeze you floated on was Ginny’s and it flattened you like a hurricane when she blew out of town, he said, waving a hand in front of me.

Ginny. Antonia Ginevra Gianelli — the woman who had pried open the rusty door to my heart, then retreated back to her life in Venice when I foolishly allowed it to close again, shutting her out. Our profound mutual attraction had been established in a course of events too brief, bizarre, and frightening for new love to overpower the aftershocks. It had proven impossible for me to comfort Ginny from her blood-filled nightmares, because I co-starred in all of them. And though she’d pulled back the cloak of isolation I’d hidden under for the twenty years since the blaze that had changed my life, her warmth and compassion had failed to remove it completely, and I’d let her go.

I’m saying that before you enter any romantic relationship, Archie said, "you should be wearing a full complement of protective gear. And I don’t mean you in the broad sense, like everybody should. I mean you, Reb Barnett, should have an air bag around your heart as standard equipment."

I didn’t reply because I knew Archie was right. My wiring was faulty and six months on the couch of my psychological electrician, Dr. Jan Chess, had only begun to untangle my circuitry.

What you care about either gets ripped from you or just vanishes, and then what are you left with? I said, less than optimistically.

If you’re Delia Shaw, you’re left with Shaw Advertising, lots of Futurecard stock, a couple of cool pads, and I’m guessing some hefty life insurance, Archie said. Just stay away from her a couple months, through New Year’s, a little past that. When she’s done trooping out to the cemetery every day and the intensity of the shock has worn off, you do something simple like drop off a box of peanut brittle. Don’t bring your guitar and start strumming those Duke Ellington melodies, unless you want to end up drying her tears with your dick on the first date. Or maybe there won’t be any tears. I met Ennis Shaw at… hey, you were at that party. You met the man.

I did. Very refined, very cultured, I said sarcastically.

Yeah, you couldn’t hear the band over his bright red suit, Archie said.

He was sucking down the Hennessey, too. Delia kept trying to switch him to Pepsi. I just can’t for the life of me picture that girl looking at that guy and saying ‘that’s the man for me’.

That’s how I feel about my Audrey, Archie said.

We’re talking about Delia Shaw, I said, not Audrey Hepburn, Arch.

You telling me other than skin color and accent you don’t scope the similarities? Which are you, blind or shallow? He held his hands out as if to compare them by weight, and held up the left. They’re both sweet, almond-eyed, and fragile as hummingbirds. His left hand went down and the right went up. But strong-willed and fierce. Passionate and compassionate. Strength counter-balanced by disarming vulnerability. He dropped his big hands. Audrey’s father abandoned her and her mother and they had to scrounge for food while the Nazis were taking over the world. I don’t know about Delia’s past.

I did, though I didn’t share what I knew. Never thought I’d hear you utter another woman’s name in the same sentence with your Audrey’s, I said.

Well, check this out. Audrey marries a big time Hollywood schmuck, older guy named Mel Ferrer, a self-aggrandizing, boorish turd, who everybody knows is wrong for her, but she doesn’t see it at the time cause she’s got that psychological gum stuck to her shoe — don’t we all — and she doesn’t even know it’s there. Fast forward five years and one kid later and Audrey finally extricates herself from the clutches of wrong man number one.

Archie held his hands out like, ‘see?’ So maybe Delia had gum on her shoe when she married Ennis.

How about I attempt to replace her gummed-up shoe with a glass slipper, Arch, you know, as long as we’re waxing prosaic about love and such? I said.

The gum doesn’t come off that easily, Prince Charming. The shoe either, Archie said. You know that better than anybody. I saw your hands shaking at the end of the stunt.

I get it, I’m damaged, Delia’s damaged, psychological gum, heart airbags, I get it. Arch, I said. "I’m to tread