Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Post-Apocalyptic
“Well, guv ...” Charlie took a deep, theatrical breath. “For the plan that Carpe Diem and I suspect will maximize our profit, we’ll need a fund of between forty and fifty million.”
Involuntarily, and without Charlie’s theatricality, Dearborne echoed Charlie’s intake of breath. “Jesus God,” he said.
Charlie threw up his hands. “Understand that there are ways of making this less risky,” he said. “Every time the market moves, I’m going to be hedging our position. Every minute, practically. And in a volatile market, I’m going to be able to make a lot of short trades that should keep our cash flow positive.”
“Jesus God,” Dearborne said again. He gave a glance at his bowling trophies, as if for reassurance. “What if the Fed acts?” he said. “What if the Federal Reserve decides to lower interest rates?”
“I don’t think it’ll happen,” Charlie said. “The chairman’s too bloody conservative. But just in case, I’ll hedge by shorting Eurodollar puts. If the Fed cuts interest rates, then Eurodollars will rise and I’ll make a packet when the puts fall in price.”
“Mmm,” Dearborne said as he steepled his fingertips and sought communion with his trophies.
“Vince,” Charlie said as he leaned forward and sought Dearborne’s uneasy eyes with his own eyes of brilliant blue. “I’ve been a good lad these two years— I’ve been risk-averse— haven’t yet steered you wrong.”
“True,” Dearborne admitted. But the acquisitive glimmer in his eyes was dull, uncertain.
“You know what
Carpe Diem
means in Latin, Vince?” Charlie asked. “Seize the Day. This day
must
be seized, and soon. Because if we seize it now, I can give you profits that would make those twenty-four millions look like your kids’ milk money.”
Dearborne bit his lip, fiddled with something on his desk. Looked anywhere but at Charlie.
Move, you bastard!
Charlie thought.
You think I spent all those hours playing golf just for the fun of it?
Slowly, a calculating gleam returned to Dearborne’s gaze.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll make some calls.”
*
Before Charlie even left Dearborne’s floor at the Tennessee Planters & Trust, he used his cellphone to call Deborah, his assistant at Tennessee Planters Securities, and had her begin to place his trades. Then, from the old Otis elevator as it creaked its way to the ground floor, he called Megan Clifton, who ran the “back room”— the settlements office— at TPS.
“Megan Clifton.” Her low, cool Southern voice sent a little tremor up Charlie’s spine.
“It’s on, love,” Charlie said.
The low, cool voice dissolved at once into high-pitched excitement.
“Oh, yeah!
Whoa, Charlie, you’re a
genius!.”
“Better get ready for a long, busy day,” Charlie said. “But for later, I suggest that we call the caterers now and have them deliver dinner for two to my place. There’s some Bollinger in the fridge, and I can warm up the spa.”
“I will make the call as you suggest, sir.” Megan’s cool professional voice was back.
The elevator moved uneasily back and forth as it adjusted itself to the ground floor, overshooting a little bit each time. The doors opened and revealed that the elevator was at least a half-inch too high.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Charlie said, and snapped the phone shut as he stepped into the lobby.
He didn’t work in the same building as the bank. His own office, and that of TPS, was in a different building, a modern steel-and-glass office building two blocks away. Tennessee Planters Securities— originally Bendrell Traders— was a separate firm which the bank just happened to control, having picked it up for the cost of its office furniture after Bendrell went smash in the wake of Black Friday in 1987. The bank also just happened to provide TPS with most of its operating capital, including that which TPS used for proprietary trading and for meeting its margins.
The separation between the bank and TPS was more than just physical. There was a difference in culture as well, between the cautious, conservative bankers in their mahogany offices, and the traders with their glass-walled cubicles and blinking computer monitors. The bankers were wedded to prudence, to circumspect accumulation of capital, to
safety.
The traders were after the money, and knew that big profits occasionally required big risks. The bankers dealt with long-term loans, with gilt-edged stocks, with thirty- or twenty-year mortgages. The traders’ deals sometimes were constructed so as to last for mere
hours.
Successful bankers drove Lincoln Towne Cars and belonged to the country club. Successful traders drove Ferraris and spent every night at the disco.
Successful traders also made a
lot
more money than successful bankers.
Charlie Johns had done his best to bridge the gap between the two cultures. He knew that traders could offend their conservative bosses with their flash and their style— not to mention their profits— and so he took care to present a facade that was more in harmony with Tennessee Planters & Trust than with TPS. He bought his suits from the same tailor that Dearborne used, though his natural style ran more toward Armani. His Mercedes E320 was a calculated degree less ostentatious than Dearborne’s S500. Ferraris and Lamborghinis were too flash, even if he didn’t drive them to work. He joined Dearborne’s country club, and he lost regularly to Dearborne at golf. He had lunch with Dearborne once a week, and consulted Dearborne on trades that he had the authority to make on his own, just to make Dearborne feel his opinion mattered.
And he made Dearborne money. Which was probably better than anything at cementing their relationship.
And, if Carpe Diem and Charlie’s own instincts were anything to go by, he was about to make Tennessee Planters enough money to gold-plate their office building.
By the time Charlie swept into the TPS offices, he had called his three largest clients and convinced them it was time to commit to some major action.
He grinned as he boomed through the big glass doors and gave a jaunty wave to the salesmen and traders sitting behind their desks. Once he was at his desk, he shorted nearly forty million dollars of S&P contracts. As a hedge, he shorted ten million dollars’ worth of Eurodollar puts, just as he’d promised Dearborne he would.
It was a
great
way to make a living.
FOUR
This morning at eight o’clock, another pretty severe shock of an earthquake was felt. Those on the 16th ult. and since done much damage on the Mississippi river, from the mouth of the Ohio to Little Prairie particularly. Many boats have been lost, and much property sunk. The banks of the river, in many places, sunk hundreds of acres together, leaving the tops of the trees to be seen above the water. The earth opened in many places from one to three feet wide, through whose fissures stone coal was thrown up in pieces as large as a man’s hand. The earth rocked
—
trees lashed their tops together. The whole seemed in convulsions, throwing up sand bars here, there sinking others, trees jumping from the bed of the river, roots uppermost, forming a most serious impediment to navigation, where before there was no obstruction
—
boats rocked like cradles
—
men, women and children confused, running to and fro and hallooing for safety
—
those on land pleading to get into the boats
—
those in boats willing almost to be on land. This damning and distressing scene continued for several days, particularly at and above Flour island. The long reach now, though formerly the best part of the river is said to be the worst being filled with innumerable planters and sawyers which have been thrown up from the bed by the extraordinary convulsions of the river. Little Prairie, and the country about it, suffered much
—
new lakes having been formed, and the bed of old ones raised to the elevation of the surface of the adjacent country. All accounts of those who have descended the river since the shocks give the most alarming and terrific picture of the desolating and horrible scene.
Account of Zadock Cramer
“Hey,” the kid said. “Heard you got arrested.” He slid into the seat opposite Jason at the cafeteria, plopped down his plastic tray with his plastic-looking sloppy joe.
“Not arrested,” Jason said. “Not exactly.” He was trying to remember the kid’s name. All he could think of, for some reason, was “Muppet,” which did not seem likely. Could it be Buffett? Moffett? He had curly dark hair and a compact, strong body, and wore a striped shirt, boots, and jeans.
The cafeteria juke box, which had been playing something by Nirvana, switched to Garth Brooks. One of the little cultural contrasts that came with the neighborhood.
“What did you do to get Eubanks after you?” Muppet asked. His two friends, one of whom was the son of the Epps who ran the feed store, plunked their sloppy joes down on either side of him.
“Took a ride down the water tower on my skates. Down the rail, I mean.”
“Cool,” said Muppet. “I’d like to do that.”
Young Epps grinned at him. “If you did that, Muppet, you’d break your neck.”
His name actually
was
Muppet, Jason thought. How about that?
“You would have died,” Jason confirmed. “I’ve been skating for years, and it was a rough ride.”
The others looked at him with a degree of admiration. Jason realized that they thought he had ridden the whole tower, all the way from the top.
He thought about telling them the truth, then immediately dismissed the idea. After all, he
would
have ridden the entire rail if he had the chance.
“What did Eubanks do to you?” asked Epps.
“Yelled at me some. Took me home so my mother would yell at me, too.”
“That bastard,” said Muppet. “He’s so wack.”
“Wack,” Epps agreed. “He spends his day following teenagers around hoping to catch us at something. If he followed grownups around that way, he’d get his ass kicked off the force.”
Jason looked at the dark-haired kid sitting across from him. “Is your name really Muppet?” he asked.
Muppet gave an embarrassed grin. “That’s what everyone’s been calling me all my life,” he said. “But my name’s really Moffett. Robin Moffett.”
“Robin?” His other friend, the one who wasn’t Epps, seemed surprised. “Your name is really Robin?”
“Yeah.”
“Robin Hood? Robin Redbreast?”
“Robin Lawrence, Moffett” Muppet said.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Jason.
Muppet looked at Jason. “What did your mom do?” Muppet asked. “Did she ground you or anything?”
“No. She took away my skates, and she said I couldn’t use the Internet for the rest of the month.”
“That’s tough. ’Course, there’s no place to skate anyway.”
“I know. And I can sneak some online time when my mom is at work, at least for email, but I can’t stay online too long, because if she calls there’ll be a busy signal, and if the busy signal goes on too long, she’ll know what I’m doing.”
“You and me can come over to the store,” said Epps, “and use the computer there. It would have to be after hours, though.”
Jason looked at him. “You’ve got an Internet connection?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Jason smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
His future, suddenly, did not seem quite so bleak.
And all he had to do to secure a place in the community was to take a little ride in a police car.
*
Seven Indians were swallowed up; one of them escaped; he says he was taken into the ground the depth of 100 trees in length; that the water came under him and threw him out again
—
he had to wade and swim four miles before he reached dry land. The Indian says the Shawnee Prophet has caused the earthquake to destroy the whites.
Lexington Reporter
“Verily I say unto you,” said Noble Frankland, “There shall not be left here one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down.” He nodded into the microphone as if it were a member of an audience. “That’s Matthew 24:2. What could be plainer than that?”
He leaned closer to the microphone, raised his voice.
“Not be left one stone upon another! That
is the voice of our Lord! And what he said came to pass, for in the Year 70 a.d. the Temple
was
thrown down!”
Frankland scanned the rows of dials and potentiometers before him. His station, steel-walled, bolted down to a concrete foundation he had poured himself in Rails Bluff, had been designed so as to be operated by only one person. He and his wife Sheryl were the owners, the chairmen, the programming directors, the disk jockeys, the talk show hosts, the advertising managers, the engineers, the electricians, and usually the janitors as well. They did it all, together with a little volunteer labor from Frankland’s parishioners.
Money rolled in, from the syndication of his daily Radio Hour of Prophecy program, and from the Tribulation Club members across North America. But it was all spent as soon as it arrived, on maintaining the station and his small church, on the supplies necessary to survive till the arrival of God’s Kingdom, and on the weather-proof, disaster-proof bunkers he’d dug on his ten Arkansas acres in which to house the supplies till the Tribulation Club members needed them.
Frankland leaned closer to the mic again.
“And what else did our Lord tell us that came to pass?” he asked. “Wars and rumors of wars!— verse six. Famines, pestilence, and earthquake!— verse seven. Betrayal!— verse ten. False christs and false prophets!— verse twenty-four. And that’s only the Book of Matthew! You want more? Let’s look at Luke 21:10!”
His stubby, powerful fingers ran down his notes, ticking off the quotations one by one. Citations spilled from his lips in a cascade of verses, interpretations, commands. The Spirit was rising in his heart.
It usually took him a while to get warmed up. It was harder when he was talking on the radio, because he didn’t have the feedback from a live congregation before him. Alone in the steel-walled studio, Frankland had to
imagine
the audience before him, imagine their responses to his calls, the love they sent him, a love hot as a flame, that he used to kindle the Spirit.
“The Word of God isn’t hard to understand!” he said. At his sudden burst of volume the needles jumped on the peak level meters, but this was no time to drop his voice. “It’s in plain language. Just
read
it, Mr. Liberal God-just-wants-us-all-to-get-along! I’ve got news for you— God
doesn’t
want us to just get along! God doesn’t want us to be
nice
! God doesn’t think that obedience to the Antichrist is
just another lifestyle choice
! God wants us to
obey his word
!”
The needles on the level meters had just about maxed out, and Frankland, concerned that some of his listeners’ speakers, if not their eardrums, might be about to explode, decided it was time to attempt sweet reason. He lowered his voice.
“But let’s just look at the evidence,” he suggested. “Let’s look at Matthew 24:29. ‘Immediately after the tribulation of those days shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light. ..’ And then
afterward,
in verse 30, the Son of Man appears in the heavens, in clouds of glory, to bring His Kingdom!”
“What do you think of
that,
Mr. Pre-Tribulationist Rapture Wimp!” Frankland realized he was shouting again. “The Tribulation happens
first
! It’s right there in plain English! And if you don’t believe
that,
if St. Matthew isn’t
good enough
for you, let’s look at the
Book of Revelation
!”
The hell with his listeners’ eardrums! What was more important, eardrums or God’s Word?
The Spirit had taken command, as the Spirit so often did. And as the Spirit rolled on, the words flowing from his mouth without his conscious thought, he wondered if his colleague, Dr. Lucius Calhoun of the Pentecostal Church of Rails Bluff, was by any chance listening and resented the characterization of “rapture wimp.” He hadn’t meant to offend Dr. Calhoun, to whom he sold air time at a bargain rate and with whom he agreed on just about everything but the timing of the Rapture in relationship to the Tribulation. But when the Spirit took hold, Frankland just couldn’t hold back. It was all so
obvious.
“The arm of prophecy smiteth the wicked,” he said, “and exalted shall be the prophet among his kind.”
In the back of his mind, Frankland wondered if that last phrase was actually in the Bible. The unfortunate truth was that he was not very good at memorization, a fact that put him at a serious disadvantage as a preacher. The stock of biblical quotes he could summon from memory, without the notes he usually kept handy, was not very large.
Perhaps that is why he had not made it to the big time. His Radio Hour of Prophecy did well enough, and he was thankful that he had been allowed to bring people to God in this way, but he had always hoped to graduate to television, to gain the huge audience that worldwide syndication could bring. Yet despite several attempts to make the leap to video, he’d never quite managed it. He looked all right— he was a big sandy-haired man, and his overbite wasn’t
too
large a problem, even though it did have the tendency to make him look the least bit like a rodent— but the sad fact was that he and television had somehow never connected.
The closest he’d come had been a three-month stint as a TV preacher in El Dorado, Arkansas, before his move to Rails Bluff. First, the program director had asked him to vary his message a little, to talk about something other than the end of the world. Frankland had tried to comply, but somehow when the Spirit seized him, the Spirit swerved right back to the Apocalypse.
And the other problem was the biblical quotes. “You can’t go on making this stuff up,” the program manager had told him. “People in Arkansas know their Bible.”
It had been useless to explain that it had been the Spirit talking, not Frankland. Who was the program manager to question the words of the Spirit? But Frankland’s Video Half-Hour of Prophecy was canceled anyway.
“The seals produce the trumpets and the trumpets produce the bowls!” he proclaimed. “What could be clearer? What do you have to say to
that,”
he demanded, “Mr. Roman go-to-confession-once-a-week-and-every thing-will-be-fine Catholic?”
People needed to wake up, that was for sure. The signs were all around. The world was going to come to an
end,
practically any second, and the people were going to need instruction as to what to do, how to behave.
He didn’t know how long he would be permitted to continue. Once the Tribulation started, the servants of Satan were bound to try to silence him.
“And who is this prince?” he asked. “The prince is the little horn of Daniel! It’s all so
clear
!”
Frankland was ready for the servants of Satan when they came. He had a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun clipped under the desk in the front office. There was a pistol in a drawer here in the studio, and another in his truck.
And, in the concrete bunkers he’d poured for the members of the Tribulation Club on the back of his property, there were a lot
more
surprises for Satan.
Cases and cases of them.
He brought his hand down on the control panel in front of him, thumping it with his fist as if he were banging a pulpit. Needles leaped on the displays.
“What more do you people need to
know?”
he demanded.
*
Charlie sipped at his Cohiba, letting the smoke of the Cuban cigar roll over his tongue. He let the taste soak into his palate for a moment, then tilted his head back and exhaled.
“And the hell of it is,” he said, “we’re going to make a fortune while the economy of the entire world goes straight down the tubes. Firms will go bankrupt. Careers will be wrecked. Millions of people will lose their jobs. We may even see a war or two when economies crash in the Third World.”
“You mean like in Arkansas?” Megan said.
Charlie grinned and sipped his Remy Martin. Under the water of his spa, he slid the bottom of his foot along her smooth bare thigh. She smiled back, then took a taste of her own cigar.
They were sitting opposite one another in the spa on Charlie’s second-floor deck, overlooking his yard and pool. Pulsing jets of water massaged their backs, feet, and legs. Wind chimes rang distantly over the throb of the spa’s pumps.
Charlie tilted his head back against the plastic headrest, looked at the few stars visible through high banks of cloud. “There’s a market in everything nowadays,” he said. “Currency, commodities, metals, bonds. There’s a market in
markets
.” He tilted his head down and looked at her. “With all our short positions, we’ve just placed our bets on the market in catastrophe.”