Herculanium (3 page)

It didn’t matter, because this glory was only meant for one.

Micky peeked behind the curtains to see stagehands scrambling through last-minute preparations. The wandering spotlights focused solely on a lone podium at the center of the Sequoia’s elevated main stage. Security guards began herding the milling crowd toward the stage, while the entrance doors were sealed shut. The crystal chandeliers dimmed to half-light, while microphones and speakers squealed painfully to life.

Darienne stood in one corner of the room, just to the right of the stage and beneath a spotlight. She decided to give Micky a wide berth. The last thing she wanted was to get in the way of her best friend’s most important assignment. Micky had downplayed the importance of this event all evening, but Darienne knew better. In this crowd, she had to keep visual contact with Micky. If she lost her for even a few seconds, she would not be seeing her for the next two days.

Richard Peryson could count the exact number of steps from where he was standing backstage all the way to the podium. He spent days rehearsing the steps, molding it into a routine he didn’t have to think twice about. He gently groped his suit pocket to make sure his announcement was secure and ready for its reveal. He also was not alone now, for his corporate partners had finally joined his entourage. There was one American, two Russians, one East Indian, and a Japanese. He looked at each of them and gave a warm, reassuring smile.

This event was years in the making, and was about to crescendo.

A stagehand parted the curtain to their area and motioned everyone to come forward to the stage.

“Let’s go, people,” Peryson commanded with routine authority. “Welcome to hell.”

The lone podium microphone was not a device anymore, but a cosmic bullhorn, a monolith of thunder. It jutted out like a missile from a silo, black as obsidian and as cold as an ice cube. He really couldn’t see anyone or anything in front of him, because the harsh spotlights bleached out any discernable shape or color.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with resolute calmness. “I would like to thank all of you for attending tonight’s press conference. My name is Richard Peryson, CEO of McGinnis Promotions. I am joined on stage tonight by representatives from our scientific and corporate partners, without whom this endeavor would not have been possible.”

Peryson pulled out detailed index cards from one pocket and fanned them out in his palm.

“There has been much speculation about the Olympus project now for well over a year, and the time has come for its unveiling. Our goal, from the very beginning, is to promote space exploration, but not only for scientists, but for the layperson as well. Besides housing laboratories and other technical facilities, the Olympus Space Station is also a fully functional resort. Civilians can now fly to space and vacation in orbit above our very planet. You can view a sunrise and a sunset from a window never before possible, and for the first time in human history, we can rise above our world, much like the gods this station was named after.”

He constantly shifted his gaze from the index cards to the crowd, giving the illusion of an impromptu speech. He hated reading from teleprompters; he was robotic enough as it was.

“We’ve invested in a small fleet of commercial space shuttles to ferry people back and forth. Like the old maritime voyages, when seafarers finally overcame the challenge of crossing the vast ocean, we now can traverse the void of space and inch closer to colonizing other moons and planets. Simply put, this is just the first step to our destiny in the stars.

“However, our work is not yet complete. That’s why we are all here tonight. We’ve embarked on a search for the perfect ambassador to launch humanity into a new Space Age, someone who represents the ideals and achievements of the human condition. We’ve developed different lotteries and contests to choose this one person, and I am here to tell you that it was not an easy task. We had everyone from scientists, musicians, politicians, athletes, poets and artists apply, to average citizens like you and me. While all of us will eventually make it to space, there can only be one person who can officially inaugurate the space station’s grand opening.”

Peryson reached into his pocket and pulled out the fated envelope. He stared at it briefly, before raising it up and showing it to his colleagues on stage, and then to the crowd before him. Flash bulbs exploded like a Fourth of July celebration. He gently dug his index finger into the envelope flap and slid it open.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the media, and to the world at large, after an extensive search around the world, the person we have chosen to inaugurate the Olympus Space Station is…”

Peryson paused, then stared out into the audience.

“…is Mr. Preston Jones. Preston Jones.”

“This is Micky Suarez reporting live from inside the Bay Imperial Hotel in San Francisco. It had just been announced that professional basketball player Preston Jones was chosen to inaugurate the Olympus Space Station later this year. How would I describe the atmosphere in this room? Pandemonium. This selection has drawn mixed reviews from the crowd at large, with many attendees from the scientific community leaving in protest. But approval seems to come from the loud majority that is Preston’s fans, and the partying has just begun.”

She paused and looked behind her. “I was just told that Preston Jones was not inside the hotel during the announcement, but was viewing it in his hometown of Sacramento, California. He is, however, supposedly on his way to meet with NASA and corporate officials to discuss the details of his latest achievement. We will have more for you at 11:00. Back to you at the studio.”

* * *

All the cellphones in Preston’s suite erupted simultaneously just seconds after the announcement. Max Lee was on top of the world, pumping his fists while screaming until his throat burned. Even the security guards gave each other high-five’s in approval. Inside Trench Arena, the crowd rose from their seats and roared with applause, as one of their homegrown products would soon represent their city to the world—and beyond. Fireworks erupted from the ceiling while helium balloons were released from the rafters. Glitter fell like crystal rain upon the fans, shimmering within the scanning spotlights and making the arena look more like a federal penitentiary in the middle of a break-out. The arena speakers quaked in unison to a thunderous rap beat, barely drowning out the screaming fans whose hands were cupped tightly around their ears. A banner slowly descended at center court, unfurling to reveal the message, “Congratulations, President Jones.” The team mascot danced up and down and joined the team’s cheerleaders, inciting different sections of the crowd into an even wilder frenzy.

Preston Jones sat frozen on the sofa, his eyes blank and his jaw cemented open. The TV screen flickered in harsh, wavering highlights, but his eyes remained transfixed and unblinking. He wanted to stand up, but his legs felt like steel girders bolted to the ground. It wasn’t until Max literally tackled him to the ground that Preston have any feeling in his body.

“You won! You won!” Max babbled in broken sentences and danced around like a monkey in a circus. He gripped Preston’s hand in a power handshake and gave him a deep hug. He stared deep into Preston’s eyes, which had yet to come to life.

“I won, Max,” Preston whispered. He looked at all the smiling faces in the room, and it finally hit home: Preston Jones was going to outer space! Against all odds, he won and was going to an intergalactic Disneyland.

“Oh my god, I won. Son-of-a-bitch, I won!” He broke out in a raucous laughter and hugged everyone in sight, wiping joyful tears from his eyes. He jumped on top of the sofa and raised one fist in the air in triumph. Forget all the past victories and championships, he thought;
this
was now the big time. He started rapping his favorite lyrics and walked around the room with a swagger, while the TV screen continued to broadcast the press conference.

“Pres, we have to go to San Francisco right now,” said Max. “The Bay Imperial just called and they want to meet with you.”

“I have to call my wife first. She’s probably having a heart attack right now. And my mom…!”

“Do it from the limousine. The McGinnis people have arranged for us to fly to San Francisco International for the post-announcement party. They’ve chartered a private jet and it’s warming-up on the runway.”

“Max, I want to ride the limo to the City. I don’t want to go on an airplane.”

“What’s the big deal? Sacramento to San Francisco is barely half an hour. We’ll be there before our butts get warm.”

“I don’t want to take any chances. You’ve heard about all those big stars dying in small airplanes. I just made my biggest score, and I don’t want to blow it. No planes, period. Especially now.”

His agent stared back in disbelief. “What’s gotten into you? You’re a grown man, for heaven’s sake. Since when the hell were you ever afraid of flying? You’ve flown all over the world. You just became a fucking astronaut, and now you’re telling me you’re afraid of flying?”

“They’ve
already
chosen me, bro. It’s not like they’re going to take the offer back if I show up an hour-and-a-half late. Just make sure that limo is gassed up. Besides, the ride will give me enough time to think about everything. I need to let this soak in.”

Max shook his head and retrieved his cellphone. “This is Maxwell Lee. Cancel the jet in Sac International. We’re taking the limousine in to the Bay Imperial Hotel. Inform McGinnis Promotions that we’ll be there in about two hours. That’s correct, two hours. We have some personal business to attend to. Thank you.”

Max clicked his phone off and crossed his arms. “You happy?”

Preston hung his arm around Max’s shoulder and smiled. “I have a feeling that this is going to be one of the few quiet moments we’ll have for a long, long time. I need this, Max, and so do you.”

“Fine,” said his agent with a sigh, “You know that camera guy for Jimmy Sals is lurking outside somewhere to get a reaction from you. Are you up for some more questions? Do you want to make any statements to your fans outside?”

“Nope. They can all drive to San Francisco and get it from us there.”

Max again retrieved his cellphone and typed a number. “This is Lee. Please bring the limousine around to section G. We’re heading out. Keep the area secured and clear. No one gets close, you understand?”

Preston smiled and motioned Max to exit the door. “After you, partner.”

“Actually, I should be saying that to you.” The security guards walked ahead of them as the door was swung open. Like countless times before, Preston disappeared from his fans deep inside his entourage. The TV screen continued to broadcast the press conference uninterrupted, begging for questions that needed to be answered.

* * *

“Tell you what, mister; this drink’s on the house.” Phil stared at Allan with a smile and slid a beer towards him on a coaster. Hotel management had just declared all drinks in the Orchid Lounge to be half-price, in observance of fan-favorite Preston’s selection. Drink orders came and went continuously over the counter, and the lounge was soon going to be out of alcohol if the pace kept up.

“I feel bad for you. But hey, somebody had to win, and somebody had to lose. It just wasn’t your night tonight. It just goes to show you what people think is important nowadays. A jock can fill a stadium
or
a space station with people and their money, while teachers and scientists can’t.”

Allan slumped over the same stool that he watched the announcement in. Alcohol swam freely through his body in swirling waves and currents, and he was lost in an ocean of vertigo and nausea. But a piece of his mind still dwelt in the present, and his disappointment and anger had free reign. Bombs, death, mutilation, revenge; his eyes and fingers twitched uncontrollably with each thought.

“Phil, are you familiar with Newton?”

The bartender now kept his distance from Allan, the stench of vomit wafting from his breath. He could barely hear, much less understand, his comments.

“’Newton?’ You mean like a fig newton? I only have are peanuts, buddy.”

“Every action has an opposite and
equal
reaction. Basic Newtonian law, basic law of the universe. I am a scientist, and I am a humble servant of the universe. I know now what I have to do.”

“What was that? Come again?” Phil strained to hear him as he was pouring a drink for a customer. There were so many people crowded against the bar that his attention repeatedly shifted from one face and order to another. Allan’s voice was just another murmur in the crowd.

Allan gripped the brass railing that ran the length of the counter with all his might. He could feel a puncture wound opening deep inside his chest, the stench of flavored stomach acid tinting his every exhalation. After two painful convulsions, the tides rose. He cupped his cheeks and gritted his teeth to contain the volcano inside him, but to no avail. For a few seconds, he was a human sprinkler, and a shallow pool of pinkish, lumpy liquid oozed down his chin and onto the counter.

Allan was done for the night.

“Holy shit! Somebody clean that up!” Phil glared at the counter. “You’ve had enough for tonight, man.” The once-pressing bar crowd quickly backed away from the area. As fellow bartenders scrambled to clean the countertop, Phil scanned the crowd for Allan.

But his stool was empty.

Phil stood in his spot, trying to remember what he thought he heard Allan Henderson say just moments before: Fig newtons, and every action had an equal and opposite something-something.

What exactly did he say?

Clayton parked the KMNL news van directly in front of the Bay Imperial’s main entrance, surprising some of the bell boys as he drove it a full two feet onto the raised curb. He considered this vehicle to be his own child, and he never trusted anyone else to drive it.

Mickey and Darienne stood just inside the lobby doors, sharp silhouettes against a well-lit reception area. They appeared to be standing next to a tree, and it wasn’t until this tree walked out the door and waved did he realize it was Micky’s agent, Lilian Hirsch. He didn’t care for her much; for his taste, she was just too cocky, using clients like Micky to network and make money.

“How are you this evening, Mr. Smith?” she said, tapping the passenger-side window and motioning for Clay to lower the glass. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Good evening, ma’am. Just fine, thank you.” He gave her a mock smile in return. Micky and Darienne came up immediately behind her from the entrance.

“They’ve switched locations again, Clay,” said Micky. “They’re going to a post-announcement party at some veterans’ hall in South Bay. Preston Jones is supposedly on his way over right now by limo. It’ll take him a good two hours to get there.”

“We’d better get going, then. No doubt that’s where everyone’s headed right now.”

“Would it be alright if Ms. Hirsch came with us, Clay?” Micky was almost apologetic in her request.

“Child, I’m sure Mr. Smith wouldn’t mind taking me along. I am, after all, the person who arranged for everyone to get in. You may want to get permission from Mr. Smith to bring your friend Darienne along. But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, just the same.”

Darienne turned to Micky in disbelief. She had only met Lilian that night, and she couldn’t think of anything she may have done to provoke her. Micky in turn gave Clay a subtle wink.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hirsch, but Darienne’s seat is already reserved,” he declared. “In advance. Let me clear some equipment in the back. I’m sure we can find some kind of space for you, though.”

Clay unlocked the van’s sliding side door and motioned for Darienne to come in, as Micky took her usual place of shotgun in front. He lifted his jacket from the seat directly behind his, pretending it had already been reserved for Darienne in advance. He then feigned rearranging and removing miscellaneous gear from the seat next to hers. Lilian stumbled awkwardly in last, carefully watching each high-heeled step, as she lifted herself into the tattered and worn seat. It was normally reserved for coolers, miscellaneous equipment, and overflowing grocery bags.

“Be sure to slide that door shut, Ms. Hirsch,” said Clay as he pulled the van out into the traffic. “It has a tendency to slide open on the freeway and suck things out. I’ve lost a lot of equipment that way.”

Away from Lilian’s sight, Micky struggled to keep her mouth shut from laughing. Darienne nudged the back of Clay’s chair with her knee, in appreciation.

* * *

The Bay Area came into full view as the limousine sped past the city of Vallejo and climbed over the Interstate 80 West hump. What was nothing more than scattered blurs against a silhouette of rolling hills just moments before had given way to an ocean of Christmas lights that seemed to mirror the night sky. The smell of sea air wafted from the car’s vents, and the hills themselves came alive with teetering house lights that defied gravity. Despite the darkness, Preston could feel the ocean was near, just below the horizon. There was no fog that night, just a shimmering view of the world as if seen from a crystal wineglass. As the limousine entered the outskirts of the Bay, his favorite smooth jazz station came to life. It was the perfect music for whatever lay before them.

“I love this view, Max,” said Preston as he pressed his face against the tinted glass. “We used to go to the City a lot when I was young. We’d go clubbing, check out the Wharf, Golden Gate Park, and especially Japan Town. This is nicer than that view of Lake Tahoe when you first see it off the road.”

“I can see my house from here,” said Max, looking through the window opposite Preston’s view.

“Don’t be a smart ass, Max.”

“No, I’m not kidding! I really can see my house from here. It’s up that hill right there. I used to go that amusement park up the freeway, until my folks passed away and we had to move.”

“You miss them a lot, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I miss family, period. I haven’t had much time for anything else lately, except doing my job. I know I can be hard-headed sometimes, Pres. I just want to be successful, I want
you
to be successful. I won’t be in this business forever, so I just want to earn enough to have peace of mind.”

“You’ve done wonders for me, man. I don’t know how to thank you.” Preston placed his hand on Max’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.

“You’re the one with the talent. I wish I could go around the world and be recognized, make tons of money and have beautiful women come after me. As it is, I’m just the man in your shadow.”

“You know it’s not really like that. I’m a happily married man who just happens to have some skills with a rock.”

“God, I hate it when you try to be humble,” said Max with a grin.

“No, think about it. You take away all the media, all the endorsements, all the money, and what you basically have is a pick-up game of basketball. And in this game, the object is to dribble a rubber ball around some people and drop it inside a metal ring that I can easily jump up and touch. Do you know how insignificant that is compared to the rest of life?”