I guess there's nothing to say but...this was really, really fun.
Critique your hardest, people! I want to be a smoldering pile of ash by the time you're done with this story.
Emile walked down the street. There were no more streetlights. Those that had survived the rioting had been ripped from the ground and tossed away like so many metal toothpicks.
There was no moonlight, either. The cloud that covered the Earth was so thick that even sunlight only appeared as a faint glimmer to break up the gray monotony. He glanced to the side to look at the houses he was passing. One of them still had a tennis court behind it. It was Marconi’s. It’s ironic, Emile thought, that one of the few houses to survive was Marconi’s. He shouldered his way inside.
John Marconi was sitting on the armchair, looking straight ahead. “You’ve come to kill me,” he announced. There was only flat accusation in his voice.
“Yes,” said Emile. “I have.”
He pulled out the .38 revolver he had tucked into his tuxedo. He kept it level with Marconi’s head.
“Good,” said Marconi.
It had all begun, thought Emile, with Artem Manimanovich, the nosy private detective. How anyone could be so bloody nosy was beyond him, but such was life.
Or had it begun before then? Perhaps with John Marconi’s birth, perhaps with the death of his parents, perhaps with the creation of the human race itself. Perhaps it had never begun, it had just always been.
On the day that Emile Montravista believed it began, he was with Inara. She was magnificently proportioned, and had wits and grace to match. A dress with a red bow around the waist festooned her body. They were eating when William, his butler, had called. “John Marconi to see you, sir,” William said, bowing deferentially.
“Excellent,” said Emile. “Send him in.” Adjusting his handkerchief, he waited for his friend. Inara looked up as Marconi entered.
“John,” she welcomed, “it’s good to see you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he replied. Emile stood up and shook Marconi’s hand.
“Good day,” he said formally. “Join us, please.”
Marconi waited until Inara had taken her seat before entering a plush chair himself. He had been courting Inara for two years now, but as far as Emile knew, nothing had come of it. Emile patted his ample waist. That pleasure had been all his.
“I received a visitor today,” said Marconi offhandedly. “A Mister Artem Manimanovich.”
“And?” asked Emile. “What of it?”
“Have you heard of him?”
“Only in passing. He is some private detective. Very good, or so I’ve heard.”
“Very good,” mused Marconi. “Very good…and very nosy. He has apparently been investigating me on his own time.”
“And there is…something…that you do not wish him to know?”
“Yes,” said Marconi.
William entered again. “Rajan Kuryok to see you, messieurs.”
“Send him in,” said Emile. The influx of visitors was putting him off his appetite.
A small man entered, young – barely thirty. Rajan already owned most of the world’s banks and had a say in the dealings of all the rest. Rumor had it that he had used part of his fortune to build a personal zeppelin in which he lived.
“Rajan!” exclaimed Marconi. “What happened?” The man was looking even more nervous than usual.
“A detective visited me,” he reported, and told them about his encounter.
“He asked specifically about my heritage?” asked Marconi, white as a sheet.
“Very directly,” the small man said.
“What sorts of questions?”
“Oh, did I know of the Marconi shepherds…apparently the descendent murdered them and ran away, and wasn’t heard from again. The police were baffled.”
“Yes,” said Marconi, “I remember that issue came up when I got the government contract. People asked questions, but the matter was dropped. Why is he bringing it up again?”
“Apparently he believes you are the descendent, and is trying to get proof.”
Marconi sighed. “How unfortunate,” he said. “How much will it cost?”
“Will…what cost?” asked the small man.
“How much will it cost for you to stop following me?” asked Marconi. “By the way, a tip: Rajan never wore his tie that atrociously. You’ve got to puff it out more, my detective friend.”
Artem Manimanovich sighed. After all the makeup and shopping, he had been given away by how flat his tie knot was.
“I,” said Artem, trying to maintain a sense of dignity, “am not some prostitute for sale. I do not have a ‘price.’”
Inara glared daggers at Artem. “What exactly are you implying?” she asked.
Emile grunted. “Perhaps,” he rumbled, “you should go.”
“Why are you so eager to avoid discussion of your childhood?” Artem asked.
“Because I’m tired of talking about it!” exclaimed Marconi, half-rising from his seat.
“Then why does it anger you so much?”
“Because I don’t need you prying into my childhood! I have a right to privacy!”
“Honest men,” reflected Artem, “do not need to keep secrets.”
“Get out,” ordered Emile. “Now.”
Artem got up and left. “Where were we?” asked Marconi.
After a moment’s reflection, Emile replied. “You were saying that there was something you did not wish…him…to know…”
There was an awkward pause. “You really did, then?”
“Did what?” asked Marconi, his face red.
“Kill your parents and run off,” replied Emile.
“Well…yes,” said Marconi. “In a manner of speaking.”
“In a manner of speaking?!” Inara asked. “In a manner of speaking?!”
“They wouldn’t let me leave,” said Marconi. “They told me I had to stay and help them. The Marconi family had always been shepherds, tradition, et cetera, yada yada yada. I said no and ran away. The next day, they killed themselves. The bills were piling in and there was no more extra help. The strain was too much for them.
“I made a stupid decision. I called the police – this was before I knew they had died – from a pay phone and told them that I had seen robbers outside the Marconi lot. I hoped that my parents would at least get some insurance money. Instead, their bodies were found and suspicion was raised. I was gone, so was five hundred dollars, and you can figure out the rest.
“I’ve spent my whole life escaping that ‘legacy’ and here that bastard detective is trying to uncover it all!”
“Couldn’t you…tell the world the truth?” asked Emile. “I mean, it’s not that bad of a story. Doesn’t reflect too badly on your personal character. Hell, it could even be turned into a success story. The next Hollywood film – Based On An Inspiring True Story and all that.”
“It’s not a strong story,” replied Marconi. “A weak alibi, as it were. My parents were pretty reclusive. There’s nobody to corroborate the story.”
William entered again. “Rajan Kuryok to see messieurs again,” he announced.
“Oh god,” said Marconi. “The bugger’s come back?” He pulled out a pistol.
“Wait,” said Emile. “What if it’s the real Rajan?”
Marconi put the gun away, slowly.
A polished shoe turned the corner.
A pinstriped trouser leg followed.
Then Rajan Kuryok stepped over the threshold. His tie was a beautiful Ascot, and the demi-inverted puff handkerchief fold suited him well.
“Rajan!” exclaimed Emile. “Sit down, sit down. How have you been?”
“What was the last thing you said to me at the Christmas party of 1997?” asked Marconi.
“Er…wasn’t it something along the lines of ‘We need to get the sub-database contract working before Elgar wets his pants?’” responded Rajan. “Why do you ask?”
Marconi relaxed. “A detective was impersonating you earlier,” he responded.
“Me?” asked Rajan. “I’m honored. What for?”
“To try and look into my history,” said Marconi, as though it were no big deal. “Anyway, you shouldn’t feel honored by this detective; he’s nowhere near half the man that you are.”
“Thank you, thank you,” said Rajan. “Anyway, now that’s over with, business calls. Elgar is after me again. We’ve got less than one percent prime rate and we’re doing nothing to take advantage of it. We have twelve million dollars right now; if we invest it we can double it in six years.”
“What’s the CPA?” asked Emile, sipping some wine.
“About six percent,” replied Rajan. “Also, with a required reserves of 0.025 percent, the money created should be four hundred eighty million USD.”
“Do it,” said Marconi. “Are the currency evals in?”
“Yes,” said Rajan. “Big Ten are investing in the euro, but that’s about to change when you release Red Aria. That’ll get a lot of investment in USD, which we can then change to the euro.”
“And the euro will gain value quickly?”
“Oh yes,” said Rajan. “I know for a fact that Big Ten are releasing a new product in the EU.”
“We should see these for ourselves,” said Emile. “We should go. I’ve got a jet that can be ready in half an hour.”
As they were boarding the plane, a voice called out. “Sir! Mr. Marconi!”
Emile turned. “It’s the detective again,” he said. Marconi nodded and continued.
“Mr. Marconi!” continued the detective. “It’s important! I just found out that –”
The rest of his sentence was drowned out by the beginnings of the ramp ascending. As Artem reached it, he pulled on Rajan’s trouser leg. Rajan lost his balance and fell off the plane, landing hard on the tarmac.
“Son of a bitch,” said Marconi. “That detective just killed him.”
The plane arrived at a hidden airport an hour later. Emile was angry.
“We need to have something we can pin on this guy,” he kept saying. Marconi kept responding, “No, we don’t, Emile. If we open this bag of worms – I mean, if we let the cat out of the can – if we start this investigation, my past will be disclosed and Artem will have won.”
“This isn’t about you!” shouted Emile. “This is about Rajan!”
“Please buckle your seatbelts,” said the cool voice of a stewardess, “we are about to begin descent.”
As Emile and Marconi walked into the building, a secretary came up to them. “Where is Mr. Kuryok?” she asked.
“I wish I could tell you,” said Marconi. “But I don’t know.”
The secretary cursed. “The economy’s shutting down,” she said. “The Red Aria reveal didn’t go as planned. Investors are bailing out of the dollar as fast as possible.”
“What happened to the Red Aria?” asked Marconi.
“Rioting,” explained the secretary. “Some jerk showed up with tear gas and a sign. Police weren’t able to stop him for half an hour until the squad arrived to deal with the tear gas.”
“Shit,” said Marconi. “Has the rioting spread?”
The secretary turned away. “Look at a news program,” she said. “Do I look like a television to you?”
According to MSNBC, the body count was at eleven thousand, and the President was considering declaring martial law.
CNN was reporting on a nuclear power plant having to shut down because of the rioters. “Toxic waste,” an expert was telling America, “does not mix well with violence.”
FOX News was talking about how the recent violence was the fault of the liberals in Congress. They were reporting on the story in a fair and balanced way.
Emile wasn’t sure when Marconi left. It might’ve been when C-SPAN showed the President’s reception of emergency powers, or when CNN showed the Base Corporation’s headquarters being invaded, or when, on national television, the portrait of John Marconi was carried from the headquarters and burned.
He didn’t quite know what happened right before the explosions started.
All he was thinking, as plaster rained from the ceiling, was that this was all John Marconi’s fault. The disaster might have been avoided if Rajan had handled the situation. Rajan would have been there if not for Artem. Artem wouldn’t have been there if John Marconi had owned up to his past.
And where do you fit into all of this? he asked himself. Are you completely blameless?
When the rumbling ceased, he went outside. There was a heavy smoke in the air. Particulate matter filled his lungs and he bent over double, hacking and wheezing. He put his handkerchief over his nose and mouth and began to walk.
It began to rain.
He walked into what remained of his house. On the ground was a red bow. The edges were stained a deeper crimson.
He began to cry.
That was when he decided to find Marconi.
Now the door swung open behind Marconi and Emile, the one in the chair and the one with the revolver, and Artem entered, trenchcoat billowing behind him. He already had his pistol out, cocked and pointed at Emile. “Step away,” he ordered. “Step away in the name of the law.”
“Bugger off,” said Emile, and cocked his revolver. “This is your fault too.” Artem fired just over his shoulder.
“That was a warning,” said Artem. “The next one goes through your head.”
Emile stood there, considering. Inara, Rajan, the whole world had died because of Marconi; was it not fair that he should pay? Was it not just?
“Do it,” said Marconi. “Just do it. Shoot me.”
Emile put the gun away.
“It’s over,” said Artem. His breath caught. “We’re putting the past behind us now. My wife…she’s dead, so many people are just...dead, they're all DEAD! We...we can't stay stuck in the past, we can't, we have to move on.”
