Futureland: Nine Stories of an Imminent World

“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?”

“I would buy your stocks for RadCon and forget my quest for financial support.”

Kismet smiled again. “If only I were going public. But alas, dear M, MacroCode has evolved past the primitive whims of the stock market. Our roots are deeper than any econsystem.”

“Then,” Akwande postulated, “I have no interest in your magic beans.”

This response brought laughter to the would-be Tsar’s lips. Never in any vidclip, photograph, or written report had Akwande seen anything intimating that the madman was capable of laughter.

“You see?” Kismet said. “Your appreciation resonates with mine. You surprise me with your acuity and challenge me with your observations. And you understand people. Why spend all your time on the plight of those most of whom do not even know that you exist? Help me to organize off-planet colonization. Make a difference in history.”

The offer filtered past the radical leader’s resolve. Unbidden, the notion of power came to him. Rather than fight for ideals he could create millions of real jobs with the flash of an eyescan. Akwande never felt at home among the fanatics and madmen of the Radical Congress. He did not enjoy a research of conspiracies and the poverty pressed upon him. He wanted a comfortable life for his wife and children, good schools and a woody lane. But his desires could not eclipse the fact that the Malians died, and others too, by the thousands each day.

“I haven’t seen your famous tennis courts, Doctor.”

“What?”

“Your tennis courts. The DataTimes says that you still play from time to time, between national buyouts.”

“Do you understand what I’m offering you?” It was more a threat than a question. “I’m willing to run my faux-petrol project out of any nation you elect. I haven’t paid that much for even an American president.”

“I understand you, Doctor. The problem is that you don’t understand me.”

The monocle flashed on and stayed that way for ten seconds or more. M Akwande was pleased to think how many resources he was tying up. He imagined that somewhere in the mysterious Blue Zone, databases of language and slang were studying his question about tennis courts. Maybe specialists were being consulted. His own personal history was being scrutinized.

Finally, “Do you play tennis?” Kismet asked.

“As a young man I did. I was very impressed with the Williams sisters and how they stormed the tennis world.”

“As was I. But I was more interested in their father. There was a man of vision. He created champions. Creation comes before all else.”

“I wasn’t very good at it,” Akwande continued. “Tennis, that is.” He was thinking about the nine months of training that began a week after he left Ptolemy’s cell. Six hours a day of play, another three of special exercises, and endless hours of concentration meditations. Specialized strength-enhancing and flexibility-increasing injections, electronic acupuncture treatments — all paid for in cash or in kind. There were no electronic trails, no one knew who didn’t need to. Even Aja was unaware of his scheme. The only evidence was a trace of body-enhancing chemicals in his bloodstream. And to cover even that, all of the leaders of RadCon6 had entered a quasi-secret training program where body enhancing drugs were requisite. They were preparing for another period of violence, it was leaked, and the leaders were expected to fight side by side with the rank and file.

“Yes,” Kismet said. “You played when you went to Howard. Not a bad record, really. You could have gone pro.”

“I couldn’t sell you my freedom, Doctor. Such a betrayal by any RadCon leader would set us back a century or more.”

Kismet did not answer. Maybe this silence was meant as some kind of threat, Akwande wasn’t sure. But he decided to act as if it were.

“But maybe we could make a wager,” the radical leader offered.

The ruler’s one eye searched for the trick. “A wager?”

He’s a half-assed gambler, XX Y, co-chair of the Sixth Radical Congress, had said. He’s always entering into contests of skill and knowledge but never games of chance. He’ll bet a billion dollars against a blow job. One time he poisoned a dude and then bet him the antidote in a contest of memory.

Who won? Akwande asked. He was breathing hard after an hour of returning serves from a state-of-the-art servo-master.

Guy fell on his knees and begged Kismet to ask what he wanted. The MacroCode/Infotel merger was signed that day.

“A bet,” Akwande said.

“What kind of bet?”