Herculanium (15 page)

Micky shook her head. “Actually, it’s not. I hate to burst your bubble, pal, but all this is just about opening a mall. It’s really nothing more than that.”

“Look around you; we are sitting in a space station eating space crap. We were brought here by an airplane. None of this impresses you?”

“Not really. Wanna to know why? We’re eating inside a food court. We’re not walking around in spacesuits, we’re not rocketing to another planet, and we’re not the first people to be here. We’re just in orbit above our very own planet, Preston, that’s all.”

“Fine, see things your way. To be honest, I feel sorry for you. It sounds like you’ve lost seeing the wonder in anything you do. When I play b-ball, money aside, it’s because I love the sport. Rich or poor, you’re always going to catch me shooting hoops somewhere. To you, reporting is just a job.”

Micky stared at her plate, trying hard not to let on that she felt the sting of Preston’s words. Preston sorted his food into small categories, then gently pushed the plate away to the edge of the table.

“Maybe you’re right,” he acknowledged. “We’re inside a multi-billion dollar mall, and they don’t even have a work-out gym open. I’d better rely on my protein shakes to keep me fit.”

He slowly lifted his tray as he stood up. “I’m going to see if they have other kinds of food here, besides this synthetic shit.”

Preston paused. “We friends now?”

Micky turned her head in his direction but stopped short of looking at his face. “No, but we’re not enemies, either.”

“Good enough.” Preston turned around and didn’t look back.

“Next season is going to be insane. Just think about my offer and get back to me. Better yet, I’ll be in touch in a few days. I’ve studied your records, I know how talented you are. I wouldn’t be in this business if I didn’t know talent. That’s why I know you’ll make the right decision.”

Max pushed himself away from his desk and looked out the window. Late morning fog had engulfed most of the Bay like pearl-colored mountains, hiding the classical vista of buildings and ocean. He wished all the clutter would burn off. He sure could use the sun to cheer himself up.

He leaned back on his recliner chair and pinched his eyes, his normal ritual for enduring a hard day’s work. In his absence of securing Preston Jones’ interests, his calls had backed up immeasurably. His existing clients were up in arms over deals missed, and potential clients were eager to sign-up with the miracle worker who got his friend in space. Max had never been this back-logged before, and it was causing him to doubt his choice of profession. “Fewer clients,” he chanted to himself. “Fewer, yet more profitable, clients.”

“Ms. Keisha, please hold all my calls. I’m going to be gone the rest of the day.” Max took off his telephone earpiece and gently placed it on the table. Sorting through different menus from his drawer, he decided it was a good time for some sushi and tea. An old reliable standard, it always calmed his nerves, especially when he argued with his wife about his hectic work schedule. Leaving his office now wouldn’t lessen his workload, but it wouldn’t harm it too irreparably. There was always someone new to sign up, or get rid of.

A picture of the space crew and passengers sat on a corner of his desk, one the few so-called accomplishments he showcased in his office. Max picked it up and stared at his friends. Preston and Micky stood alongside Richard Peryson on both sides, while he was a row back to their left. He really didn’t care where he was in the image, just as long as he was near Preston. Max’s distrust for Peryson continued to grow since the flight. Peryson had this demeanor of false reassurance and secrecy about him, as if he always had a hidden agenda just below the surface, waiting to be sprung like a trap.

As Max pulled out of the building’s garage and onto the street, a descending airplane shot into view. Looking up, he couldn’t help but wonder what his friends were doing in space at that very moment. Were they busy enjoying themselves, having the time of their lives? Or were they thinking about him as much as he was thinking about them? Above all, did it really matter what he thought in the end?

* * *

Micky flipped through her chicken scratch notes, vigorously scratched her scalp, then slammed her pencil down in frustration. A cloud of loose paper fluttered to the floor, adding to an already considerable mound of drafts and outlines. She wanted to prepare as much of the material as she could before going to the station’s media center and going to production. From years of experience wearing different hats of news production, she knew that any type of guesswork was unacceptable.

Her quarters looked like an art department’s experimental lab. Micky’s childhood skill as an artist paid off in her adult profession. Besides developing the copy herself, she also had the skill to storyboard the visuals for the cameraman. Looking over the boards mounted on her wall, she then paced back and forth while reading the copy out loud. She mentally tried to time the audio with the visual, sizing the media package in the story’s allotted airtime.

She normally had framed pictures hanging on her cubicle wall, inspiring her with new ideas. But in her windowless room within Olympus, not even the stars could motivate her. During the tour, all guests were instructed to never wander about the station without an escort. It was for “safety reasons,” they reasoned. The Mall of the Galaxy area would’ve been the perfect place to finish her assignment. Instead, today was going to be the very beginning of many restless mornings.

This was Micky’s most important assignment, and there was no way in hell she was going to fail.

“This journey began thousands of years ago, at the very dawn of human history. Driven by the passion of exploration, our ancestors had spread across the globe, taking centuries to build the world we know today. But gone are the days of exploring new continents and oceans. We are now about to set sail to explore the stars.

“I am sitting inside the monorail system of the Olympus Space Station, perhaps humankind’s greatest achievement. Not only are we at the precipice of human exploration, but of our evolution as well. What wonders lay before us in the great void? What knowledge and insight will we learn about the universe, and about ourselves? Only one thing is certain: where we go from here is determined only by our will, and by our imagination.

“My name is Michelle Suarez. Join me now as we explore the glory that is Olympus, the next step in colonizing space. If you think the view behind me is spectacular, just wait until you see what’s waiting for us inside.”

Micky continued to smile for a few seconds longer, then turned her head away from the camera. “Cut. That was much better. Took me enough takes to get it right.”

Project cameraman Hiroshi Sato lifted his head from the viewer and smiled. He barely spoke any English, but he could understand Micky’s orders from her voice inflections and her wild gesticulations.

“Your report is very good,” he responded, his thick accent coloring every syllable. “They will be very happy.”

“Have you seen the edits Dr. Gracie’s staff marked on my script?” Micky lifted a binder of paper, graffitied with red marker corrections and suggestions, and handed it to him. “They’re making my work sound like a National Geographic tribute, rather than a hard-hitting journalism piece. It feels like I’m writing a love song than news.”

Her escort sat quietly in a dark corner of the rail cabin, away from the camera and eager to make comments. “Ms. Suarez, perhaps you’re looking at this from the wrong point-of-view. Olympus is supposed to be a vacation spot where both science and recreation meet. It’s supposed to be a happy place.”

“Number one,” Micky said in cold rebuttal, “they’re paying me to do this, not you. Number two, they’re pitching this like it’s some kind of step in evolution, when we all know it’s just hype to make money. Number three, don’t ever—ever—tell me how to do my job. You’re disposable when it comes to project, not me. Maybe I should stick your ass in front of the camera and have you explain this mess to the world.”

The escort quickly fell silent, sinking back to the shadows of her little corner.

Mr. Hiroshi stared blankly at the ground as Micky went on with her tirade, pretending to be oblivious to their conversation.

“Hiroshi-san, let’s proceed to the Mall of the Galaxy. I think we have enough footage from the rest of the station. I want to shoot a framing sequence where we end the show where we began it. Can we do that?”

“Hai, Micky-san,” said Hiroshi with a smile.

Just as quickly as her anger rose, it quickly subsided. Micky turned to her escort and softened her gaze. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that I have less than two weeks to finish this piece, and everything feels like it’s against me. I’m not normally like this, you know. Only around deadlines. Can you please take us back to the station?”

The escort forced herself to smile in a mock grin and activated the monorail to return back to the station. Micky could tell she was still fuming from their conversation.

“I also placed a request to retrieve file footage of Preston Jones from earth. Can you please make sure to notify me the moment it arrives? It’s very important to this promotion. Like you said, this is supposed to be a happy place.” Micky smiled at her for good diplomatic measure.

The escort simply nodded and kept looking forward. She had had to put up with the star reporter all day, and she was at the end of her rope. The escort made it a point to make the return to Olympus a particularly bumpy ride back.

* * *

“This is unacceptable.” Dr. Gracie was beside herself. “We’re set to open in less than two weeks. Do you know how much time and money went into getting this fish bowl up and running from scratch?” Her frustration grew as the lag in response time and static prevented them from communicating clearly. “What you’re requesting is completely out of the question.”

Richard Peryson’s face flickered on the screen, his static-ridden voice already adding insult to injury. For a man who supposedly organized the success of the station, he was strangely absent from all the important meetings and manual labor work. Dr. Gracie resented anyone who made decisions about a project he never touched himself.

“I understand your reaction, Dr. Gracie,” he said with patronizing pity. “Believe me, I share in your sentiment. Unfortunately, this is out of my hands.”

“What do I tell my staff? Our investors? And what about our guests? Have you thought of them in-between your crocodile tears and mock sentiment?” Dr. Gracie caught herself pounding her desk in anger. “You’ve compromised everything we’ve worked for, everything we’ve accomplished.”

“Olympus will still open, Dr. Gracie, but we need another month.”

“This opening date was decided a year ago. Why change it now?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that at the moment. Please notify our guests of the approved explanation.”

“This is rubbish. You’re going to have to get your hands dirty and tell them yourself. I’m not going to do your work for you. As far as I’m concerned, our deadline is the same. My decision is not subject to debate, Dick. Gracie out.”

The monitor’s fading static fell on angry ears.

* * *

Preston woke up to a faint knocking on his door, barely audible but intrusive nonetheless. When he didn’t answer right away, the knocking was followed by a tonal doorbell.

“Who is it?” he bellowed, sitting up and pushing aside his covers. “Do you know what time it is?”

Kendra Adams stood a few feet from his door as he opened it, her arms crossed in a fig-leaf position and wearing her now-irritating happy disposition.

“I’m sorry to wake you so early, Mr. Jones. I realize professional athletes need their sleep…”

“This couldn’t wait until morning?”

“I just came to tell you in person,” she apologized, “that the gym is now open. And seeing as it’s never been used before, I—we—wanted you to get first dibs.”

Preston paused for a second, before rushing to his open luggage and retrieving workout sweats. He changed his clothes right in front of Kendra, giving the escort the thrill of a lifetime. She didn’t even bother covering her eyes, savoring every moment at seeing her idol in motion.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Preston as he pulled his tank-top down to his waste. “A man can only do so much to keep himself busy, ‘know what I mean?”

Kendra led Preston through an ascending series of corridors again, this time entering a previously secured area. The gymnasium was several floors above the living quarters, accessible only through a vertical catwalk capped by a small mezzanine floor. A bright red “No Admittance—Personnel Only” sticker sign hung squarely on the gym entrance.

“Would you do the honors please, Mr. Jones?” Kendra pointed to the sticker with its lone bent corner.

“Why, of course,” he said with mock gallantry. “Anything for king and country.” In a single, unhesitant stroke, Preston ripped the sticker off the door, crumpled it into a ball and threw it to the ground.

Kendra unlatched a small panel door directly to the right of the entrance and pressed a series of sequentially-coded buttons. Accompanied by a pleasant, continuous chime, the entrance doors split in half and disappeared into the doorframe. Preston stepped into the darkness, inhaling the unmistakable scent of oil, gears and rubber. This was definitely a weight room, minus the funk of human sweat. The bounce of a rubber-matted floor made him feel immediately at home.

Kendra entered behind him, again punching codes in a control panel located inside the room just inside the entrance. The room became illuminated in sections as overhead lights came to life in fractions. The darkness had given way to sheer fantasy.

Preston gasped in awe.

* * *

Max sat in the McGinnis’ Promotions reception area, simmering in anger and frustration. He had already received the call to come over immediately, and now, in the middle of this supposed emergency, he had been made to wait an additional half-hour.

“I demand to see him right now,” he yelled, aiming his voice in the direction of the hallway that led to Peryson’s office. “He was the one who called me at four o’clock this morning. If this is about my client, he’d better see me right now.”

“He is in conference call with someone right now, Mr. Lee,” said the receptionist. “I’m sorry for the wait, but he will see you as soon as he’s able. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Max casually glanced at the front door beside him, then quickly bound in the opposite direction, towards Peryson’s office. He scanned the nameplates on the doors as he hurried down the hallway, hearing the receptionist panicking and calling someone on her phone. He found Peryson’s office at the very end of the corridor. Just as he was about to grip the door handle and twist it open, the door swung open by itself.

Peryson backed away from the door and casually sat back in his chair.

“A bit impatient today, are we? I was just about to call you. Reception, please cancel that call to security,” he said, speaking into his intercom system. “Mr. Lee is in my office, right on time. Thank you.”

“What the fuck’s going on here, Peryson? I haven’t spoken to my client in five days. I don’t hear from him, and I don’t hear from you. I now get a call that there are ‘concerns’ about my client and Olympus. I get here as soon as your office opens, and then your fat receptionist keeps me on hold for half an hour. What the hell’s going on?”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Lee. There’s really no need for concern at all.”

Max dropped his body into a chair and stared at Peryson. “Well?”

“As a sports agent, I assumed you were always up against a fair amount of pressure. I’m surprised you don’t handle yourself with greater control.”