Futureland: Nine Stories of an Imminent World

“Okay,” he said. “You got a story there. Four more or less healthy young men out of fifty-seven million in Greater New York, who know each other, die in a few days. That’s not natural, that there’s man-made, I agree. So what do you want from me?”

“I want to know why and who, hopefully before they kill me, too.” Spellman’s words were tough but, Folio thought, bolstered by the synth.

“It’s a tight fit, Charles. A conspiracy of some sort. What were you guys inventing that would scare somebody into this?”

“We aren’t inventors. I mean, we don’t work with electrics or chemicals or anything like that. We thought that that kind of work would slow down the process of pure thought. It’s all just ideas, notions. Like at our last meeting, Brenton asked if we made a pole maybe ten million miles long and then push it from one end so that ten million miles away a glass was knocked over, would that act exceed the speed of light? You see, if the pole moved as one unit, the glass would be knocked over almost simultaneously, in less than a second.” The young blond man lifted his head with pride.

“That’s the kinda stuff you expect to get you rich?” Johnson asked.

“Well, maybe it’s not so smart, but that’s the process of invention. You use your mind.”

Johnson’s blue eye was covering all available data through a wireless transmitting station embedded in the prosthetic baby finger of his left hand.

“Is this club of yours registered under the name Seekers?”

“No. We’re not registered.”

“Why not? It is the law that all intellectual property be catalogued with the feds.”

“We were worried that the government would sequester our ideas.”

“They only do that if the ideas are dangerous. Were any of your ideas threats?”

“No. No. Just things like that pole and some political questions. But most of them were pretty conservative. I mean, nine of us are International Socialists.”

Johnson put his fingers together, making a tent under his blue and brown eyes. D’or came in with two steaming plates of bok choy and tofu under gleaming sheaths of oyster sauce. Spellman put up a hand to wave away the food but D’or ignored him. Folio accepted his serving and bided his time using his blue eye to map molecular patterns in the steam. He considered the young man in front of him.

“What brought you guys together?” he asked at last.

“What do you mean?”

“How did you meet? How did you get together?”

“About half of us knew each other from school. Trent State. Lenny Li and Brenton both went there, and me and Mylo. Laddie did too. Mylo knew Billy from boarding school and Laddie was my friend from the gym. He was a lawyer for IBC. I think Derrick was a friend of Mingus.”

“Who is Mingus?”

“Mingus Black, he worked with Derry for a while. A real success story. You know, black, Backgrounder parents — but he worked his way topside and made it as a lawyer. Now he’s into buying up leases for Red Raven Enterprises mainly, he really works it. He was one of the four guys who bought up the Tokyo leases and moved those half million Kenyans to Japan.”

“Who else?”

“Fonti Timmerman and Azuma Sherman.”

“They from Trent?”

“Azuma went there one year and then transferred to Harvard. He did a leverage with Laddie at Macso. It was a real beauty too—”

“What about Fonti?”

“Him and Brenton were friends. He’s just a programmer but he’s real smart and he knows how to read crystal code. He went to City College.”

As the pale antique dealer gave names, Folio recorded them off the Ether with his blue eye and baby finger. He didn’t read the whole files into his mind because he was concentrating on what the kid had to say.

“No Jews,” Johnson said.

“What?”

“No Jews among your group.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Just an observation.”

“There are no Jews in International Socialism. Zionism is incompatible with social evolution.”

“You got a black kid in there,” the detective suggested.

“We’re not racist, we’re modernists in the modern world.”

“Then why not go all the way and accept Jews who agree with your beliefs?”

“A Jew can never fully accept International Socialism,” certainty worked its way into the wan kid’s words, “because of the deep symbolic knowledge his people have hoarded over the last six thousand years. They can never give up their primitive notions of how the world should be organized.”

“No place for them?” Johnson asked.

“Not in our group.”

For a moment the detective considered refusing to help the kid. Why bother saving this fool? he thought. But then he remembered that he’d been sleeping behind D’or’s counter for the past eight days and that his store of general credits was almost depleted.

“Five thousand credits and you’ll have to move out of your apartment.”