Chapter 6

      Urian, having caught a few minutes of needed sleep, rolled over on his bed, stretched, looked at his watch, and rose.  He walked to is vid-phone and called Skitter.  “Everything okay up there?”

     “Same ol’, same ol’,” replied Skitter.

     “Good.  Gonna take a walk.  Need some air.”

     “Careful, Boss.  You know the aphrodisiacs are blooming.”

     Urian half smiled.  “Yeah, and what am I going to do with that?”

     “Don’t be looking my way.  Trying to quit.”

     Urian pressed his face into the lens.  “Here’s a wet one, you depraved animal.”

     “Always the Boss.  Always the Boss,” quipped Skitter.

***

Urian exited his quarters, walked a short distance down a hall and placed his eye close to the seemingly innocuous flat wall.  A pinpoint light read his iris and the word “Accepted” appeared above the light as it faded.  The wall suddenly became transparent, opening his view onto some other-worldly landscape.   He stepped forward, as the wall returned to its apparent normal appearance behind him.

The air was tinted with reflective dust, as swirls of conical formations created a landscape of mini-tornadoes, lifting the leaves and branches of the desert plants and twisted cactus into shadows of undulating rhythms.  High above, breaking through the atmospheric dome covering that stretched for hundreds of kilometers was a hazy sun.  Urian squinted through his goggles, then stepped up through the titanium portal, turned, and allowed the door to settle back into its airtight cavity.  The whoooosh, of the seal left him standing on sand that danced about his feet, the tiny molecules making wave-like caresses of his shoes, then rushing back to the ground, remaining quiet, like children or pets waiting for approval.

He walked a short distance to a rock abutment and sat.  Stretched before him was a bridge of titanium cables and slats arching across another crater.  On the opposite side stood a solitary structure, its metallic surface pulsing like a mirage as the sun bore down.  Urian pulled from his pocket a small recorder and activated it.  “Twenty-three October.  God, it’s beautiful out here.  Hard to believe these plants and flowers survive, but they do, like me.  Another two years and retirement. 

Even though you can’t hear me, Marsha, I’m going to keep this little diary going so when this is all over, there’ll be something to help keep me from forgetting.  You know how I am sometimes.  Car keys, and… anyway… so much happening now.  Outside here, no cameras.  Some privacy.  So many questions I should have answers for, but I don’t.” 

He looked toward the structure beyond the bridge.  “Quill means well, I know, but his ambition, his… determination… it’s scary sometimes.  Picking me to assist was an honor, you know, back then.  I’ve had quite an education, but…”  He turned back to the door leading inside.  “Self pity is hard to avoid.  This confinement makes my five-year underwater tour of duty seem like a vacation.  At least then, we had shore leaves. 

Here… oh, almost forgot.  It’s been awhile.  I got back from Station III and the guys threw a ‘welcome back’ party.  Aluminum containers of virtual caviar, virtual stuffed eggs, and not so good, virtual champagne.  Better than the creamed swill I eat most of the time.  It was nice of them, you know?   Going to be a ravenous animal when I get off this rock.  You ready for that?  You ready for me to… sorry.  Not good to dwell on pleasures too much.  Anyway, miss you.  Miss you a lot.”

Urian switched the recorder off and leaned back, resting his head on a tuft of red and gold grass.   Reaching up, he twisted the lens of his goggles until the density rendered the sky above viewable, and the sun but a round circle.  Staring at the myriad clusters of stars, his thoughts were of one focus—So many questions… so few answers. 

From the other side of the bridge, a lens slowly followed Urian as he rose and moved back toward the door to his life below the surface. 

A hand gently moved the roller-ball control.   A monitor showed the camera’s point of view of Urian as it slowly receded into the layered solar panels of the metallic structure.

As Urian walked toward the suspension bridge leading to the Quill building, he removed his shoes and let the warm sand carry him further into reverie.  It was times like this he wished he’d never left his Malibu Canyon retreat. Stepping out into another night that defied blackness, save the pinhole dots in the sky, brought Urian to thoughts of distant love.  He missed Marsha, more than he dare admit.  He remembered dark nights he’d spent with her on the beach of the pacific. 

He reached the edge of the bridge and noted the reflective surface lit well by the full moon.  He replaced his shoes and walked across the crater toward the door that few were allowed to enter.  Quill liked his privacy, and being the owner of the project, no one challenged his rule:  entrance by appointment only, the phrase that now greeted Urian at the titanium door.  He stood but a moment, about to press his forehead into the iris reading pad that allowed entrance, when the door slid up into the ceiling and he stepped over the threshold onto a transparent floor that gave the illusion that one was seeing below as a satellite’s point of view.  

He remembered many years before being intrigued by the Google Earth site on his computer, allowing the overhead GPS satellite to zoom into any city on the globe one wanted.  Now, as he walked into the foyer of Quill’s palace of sorts, he noticed Quill’s virtual reality system, void of any archaic GPS tech, had arranged to show directly below his feet the familiar hills of Malibu Canyon and his home tucked away between two small knolls.  The horses were standing at the fence, as they so often did at night, waiting for what neither Marsha or Urian could ever figure out. 

He continued across the enormous foyer, now seeing below the swimming pool area.  As if on cue, the image was zoomed in and he saw his Marsha swimming nude in the turquoise lit waters, enjoying alone what they had in the past enjoyed together.  Reaching the holographic double doors of the main living space, the overhead speakers came alive.  “Like my little surprise, Urian?”

Urian looked up at the speakers.  “I’d have liked it even more were I seeing her alone.”

“Oh, come now, Urian.  What’s a little loss of privacy between friends.  She is staying trim, though, you really should congratulate her.”

“I will on the next communication.  Thank you for caring… Mr. Quill.”

“My, my. You’ve refined your sarcasm voice quite well.  Well, hurry on now.  I even arranged some iced Kilian vodka for you.”

As Urian moved forward, he only glanced at the other hallway which led to Quills private lab, a room appropriately called, “A2’s Room,” a part of the building off limits except when accompanied by Quill.  Urian proceeded through the holographic doors and continued across the transparent floor that now was a vast window to the universe, as if on a space platform of glass surrounded by nothing but the solar system.

The memory of his Marsha swimming was still on his mind, but as he stood before the window looking out on a moonlit desert with the bridge leading back to his lab, he lifted his oversized shot glass, threw it back and said, “Got any more of this, Mr. Quill?”

An image gradually began to take shape as hundreds of thumbnail images spread across the ceiling, misted downward, as if at the ready to become whatever was needed on a moment’s notice.  Right now, a handsome man in his fifties, complete with overworked pale skin against a charcoal brown suit and butter yellow shirt, moved behind the bar and produced a tall frosted bottle of Kilian vodka.  “Sorry, had to leave for a few minutes to repair some transmitters that screwed up my order.  Can you imagine?  You were about to be subjected to Smirnoff, even though its vintage now.  I know, not good.  So…even with my little Nanobots doing their duty, never leave a job for others to do, when you can do it yourself, right?”

“Right.”

Quill poured Urian another shot of the premium vodka and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” said Urian. 

“So… you were sounding a bit tense before.  I mean when you contacted me.  Troubled, are we?

“A bit more than troubled.”

“Well, Urian, I’m sure whatever is bothering you we can correct, yes?  After all, we’ve worked together a long time now.  How long has it been?”

“Six years, Sir.”

“Six, yes.”  Pouring himself a glass of vodka, he mused a moment, then, “Not much has changed, you know, I mean with the exception of the Keyhole Project, the rest of the world has been going about its wars and pursuit of wealth and power… just about the same ol,’ same ol,’ wouldn’t you agree?”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, come now, Urian.  It’s 2027 and World Idol is in its fifteenth year on that OST network, raising the blood pressure of forever-adolescent mentality, while that creative project Echo Life continues to struggle against the overpowering mediocrity of the planet.  Of course, I’m not surprised.  But, I digress.  Please… How did we discover these few at The Godard that are worried about their privacy?  Americans gave that up long ago when that Trump chump was in office.  What’s their problem, really?  Some kind of false modesty?  Temporary at best, or we get rid of them and find replacements.”

“I did promise I’d recommend…”

“And I’m aware of your recommendation of two hours.  Give it to them but keep the scans active.”

“I don’t get it.  That’s not giving them private time, Sir.”

“Why would we truly give up the very time that is most productive to our project?  It’s what they do when they think we’re not watching that will accelerate the program.  They won’t know the difference, and that makes a win, win opportunity.”  He sighed.  “Mind work can surely raise the appetite.  I’m hungry as a rhino about now.  You?”

Urian was still caught up in thought over the deceit Quill had proposed.  “Sir?”

“The porterhouse.  Let’s get carnivorous for a change.  I just invited you here tonight to give myself an excuse, you know.”

Urian downed his vodka and followed the image of Quill as he walked across the room through the wall.  Urian veered to his left and entered the dining room through the door. 

Before him was a twenty-foot oval glass tabletop, seemingly hovering over the floor—no legs, no supports of any kind.  Just glass poised over a glass floor that continued to reveal the universe in starlit splendor.  As they approached the table, Quill said out loud, “Deon, we’re ready.”

They sat opposite one another as more mist settled about the table from the above thumbnail images covering the domed ceiling.  Rapidly, Deon, a butler type, materialized, along with the two-place setting of sparkling crystal and clear glass plates, followed by the side dishes of vegetables and steaming charbroiled porterhouse steaks.  “Not bad for an R and D outpost, eh?” said Quill.

Urian nodded.  “Not bad.”

“The one bleeding is yours,” said Quill.  “Researched and developed especially for you.”

“For me,” said Urian.  “Your last invite would be pretty hard to top, you know.” 

Quill stared at the plate.  “We’ll see.  Try it.”

Urian picked up his knife and fork as he realized the glass plate, table and floor made him feel like he was floating in space.  “The blood and juices make your mouth water.”

“Just like regular food, right?” asked Quill.

Urian nodded.  “Just like regular food.”

“That’s the idea, Urian.  It’s only your biological body that needs the nourishment, and that is provided by your ‘aluminum barf” you once called it, right?”

Urian nodded and smiled.

“So, once in a while, a bit or VR food is good for the nanobots.  Makes them feel useful.  It’s like Christmas for them to know you’re coming to Quill’s house.  Your thoughts alone woke them up, immediately causing them to take positions next to every nerve fiber coming from all five of your senses, replacing them with new, virtual ones you desired for the view, the ‘improved’ memories, and finally, the steak.  Wonderful thing these little giants, yes?”

Urian let the juices slowly slide down his throat, then acknowledged Quill.  “Still amazes me.  No side effects is even more puzzling.”

“Ten years ago, a few.  Your injection?  All the best, my friend.  You’re just three months into this new paradigm, but…”  At that moment, Quill looked up, as if listening to something.  “Oh, dear… You’ll have to excuse me.  I’m needed in London.  I’ll be back before you’re ready for dessert and coffee.  Enjoy.”  With that, Quill misted upward and evaporated. 

Urian sat for a few moments, afraid to take his next breath.  After a few minutes, he smiled to himself, and began eating the impression that looked, smelled and tasted like real steak.  He knew what Quill meant when he said, “just like regular food,” but still, having only experienced it twice, it was weird.  As he ate, looking at his watch periodically, remembering Quill’s promise to be back before dessert, he mused over their past association.

To Urian, it seemed like yesterday when he had experienced his first demonstration of Quill’s advanced technology.  He had been recruited by the best, from NASA to GCI, (Global Counter Intelligence).  Even GCI, with its built-in paranoia policies to keep watch on not only the fledgling New World Party, but the United Countries, as well, were not as technologically advanced as NanoSpace, founded by Mr. Quill—a title identity in the financial world as highly regarded as Mr. President was to Congress.

He had amassed untold wealth as the largest replicating corporation in the Nanotech industry.  His accomplishments were so advanced that patent reform had to be introduced for legislation in 2020 to accommodate scientific discoveries that had no reference point of comparison. 

Now, self-exiled from his public company and having not been seen in over seven years, it was rumored that he had taken up a lifestyle like that of another historical icon of wealth, Howard Hughes.  Popular belief was that he had bought the twenty-five-hundred square miles of Nevada desert (representing one of the largest single-owned pieces of real estate in America) created the vast magnetic field known as The Quill Reflection—a two-way mirrored dome covering his property—and having created a year-round artificial environment, would never be seen again.  Anyone trying to see inside only saw themselves in the mirrored effect.  Now considered one of the Ten Wonders of the  World, many a tourist plane flew overhead, forever shaking their heads in disbelief. 

No one was ever seen going in or coming out of The Quill Reflection.

NanoSpace—the company now thought of as the go-to cash cow of Wall Street by untold numbers of philanthropic organizations, continued to realize high profits under the leadership of his former President, and now CEO and Chairman, Oliver Chambers.  They continued to produce the majority of medical nanotechnology for the world. 

Quill’s choice to “borrow”—as he had been quoted by his CEO as saying—the top echelon of scientists to work privately on his pet projects, had proved more successful than even his genius predicted.  Now, with scientists working in undisclosed labs around the world, Quill enjoyed a sense of accomplishment government regulations were still not prepared to accommodate, or permit, depending on which party was in office.  Capitalism and democracy, being the sacred cow that the political machines of the world wanted to preserve, left him alone.  After all, he was the prime example of what the opportunities of America and the United Countries provided—and they liked his annual tax payment immensely.

Urian wiped his mouth, sipped some wine, sat back and sighed—a bit of indigestion starting to percolate.  There was still the little matter of the brain feeling satiated, sending the message to the digestion area, and the digest buddies getting upset when looking around and seeing nothing coming through the pipe line.  Quill says he’s still working on that.  Nanobots, Foglets, Virtual Reality, PseudoVision…He smiled to himself.  I wonder how much of Quill is still the same man I’ve been honored to work with all these years?  He looked at his watch again.  It was 1 A.M. 

Walking through walls was common for Quill, but London?