Chris Jordan - Torn

My captor studies her nails and sighs. “Colorado. Ever been? They have these mountains, really serious mountains. Eldon likes to conquer mountains. Me, I could care less.”

Colorado.

“You’re Rulers,” I suggest.

My captor giggles nervously. “Well, duh! Where else would we get fifty million bucks to buy a little old airplane? Not that it’s old. You know what I mean.”

“Let me out of here!”

My captor runs a frail hand through her mop of curls. Looking like an elfin version of Harpo Marx. A female Harpo who can’t stop running her nervous mouth. “Yeah, well that’s what I’m here to discuss. Maybe letting you out if you’re cool with it. Eldon thinks I should negotiate, you know, girl-to-girl or whatever. Did I mention the really comfy leather seats? If you’ll promise to behave you can come into the cabin, which is way better than first class. You can even have a glass of wine if you want.”

“I promise.”

“Yeah, but you would, wouldn’t you? Promise anything to get out of this doggy thing? I know I would. It must suck in there, you don’t have any legroom at all. The thing is, we’re like totally on your side.”

“You’re on my side?” The woman must be deranged. They drugged me, jammed me into a dog kennel, and they’re on my side?

She nods, serious as a heart attack. “Totally. We’re trying to facilitate the situation.”

“What does that mean?”

“The whole succession thing, it’s gotten totally out of control. The whole point of being a Ruler-well, one of the points-is we don’t attract attention from government drones. Like we make tons and tons of money-Eldon made almost half a billion last year, isn’t that amazing?-but we always pay our taxes. So they leave us alone. But this,” she adds, indicating my cage, “stuff like this, they might get the wrong idea.”

I’m speechless. The wrong idea?

“Because the thing is, we’re going to help you get your son back,” she says. “That’s what you want, right?”

“Oh…my…god,” I gasp, convulsing.

“You knew he was alive, right?” she says, sounding concerned. “Oh wow, I guess maybe you didn’t know for sure. Well, he is. I haven’t seen him myself, but everybody says he’s really cute and smart and everything. Are you okay? You’re not going to puke are you? You need to like, take a breath or something.”

She unlocks my cage.

Evangeline stands at the leading edge of the glass atrium that juts out from the Pinnacle like the prow of a great ship. Far below, dense clouds roll in slow, majestic motion. Waiting for her loyal faction of Rulers to assemble, she sips a healing potion of rare green tea from a paper-thin porcelain cup. The tea is outrageously overpriced. Evangeline should know-she owns the company, an herbal remedy outfit that promises to cure all disease, reverse aging, and delivers, well, a cup of pretty good tea. Five thousand dollars an ounce, and legal. Why deal in illicit drugs when unregulated herbal remedies generate more revenue, without the risk? For years she has invested heavily in high-end herbal products, as well as a successful chain of luxury rejuvenation spas. She knows the market. Money flows to Evangeline, and she believes that wealth buys her health. It pays for the exotic emollients that soften the faint scar lines of her numerous cosmetic surgeries. Surgeries which make her look decades younger, as seen from a middle distance. Close-up her complexion has the quality of a theatrical mask, an effect of which she’s keenly aware. For that and other reasons, she confines her appearances to video whenever possible. As Arthur so clearly understood, video imagery, which can be endlessly repeated and manipulated, has always been the key to indoctrination and mental dominance.

A gentle gong sounds. It is time. She glides across the atrium, enters the private studio that was originally designed for her husband. A thronelike chair with a back-screen projection of mountain peaks at dawn. A simple, powerful image inspired by the designs of Leni Riefenstahl, who knew a thing or two about the triumph of the will. Long ago, Evangeline learned how to control the lighting and cameras, enabling her to dispense with a crew and give her complete control. She positions herself in the throne, checks the resulting image in the studio monitor, and then strokes the touch-screen, activating the connection to the secure video conferencing room where her faction has gathered.

“Greetings from the Pinnacle,” she purrs. “Together we face the new day with a new mind.”

The ritual greeting, originated by Arthur Conklin, often shortened to “new day, new mind” by his followers. Evangeline prefers the complete phrase, a subtle reminder that she alone speaks for her husband. Gazing at the conference-room monitors, she names those in attendance, noting their generous contributions to the cause. Seven of the most successful Rulers, all originally recruited by Evangeline herself, and rewarded for their loyalty with key positions within the hierarchy. Four males, three females, each keenly aware that the organization is about to undergo traumatic change. Each determined to emerge with more power, more wealth. True believers, every one of them.

“The great mind still lives,” she assures them. “We spoke not an hour ago, and once again he has made his wishes clear. First, he insists that the truth of his condition be shared with his most trusted followers.” Evangeline pauses, takes a deep breath. “Needless to say, this information must not be passed on to those at a lower level. As some of you are already aware, Arthur’s body is failing. The years of dialysis have taken their toll, as we all knew they must, and he has decided not to undergo another transplant. In my weakness I begged him-” She pauses wiping a nonexistent tear from her eye. “I begged him to live, to survive at whatever cost, but as always, Arthur knows best. He wants you all to know that he does not fear physical death. He experiences no pain, and contrary to certain malicious rumors his brilliant mind remains clear. He remains focused on the future and he believes absolutely that soon he will truly face a new day with a new mind.”

She pauses, letting her words sink in, reading the faces. Of course they already know about Arthur’s condition. Several show signs of relief, having heard the malicious rumor that the founder is virtually brain-dead. And so he is, to all intents and purposes. The true state of affairs matters not; so long as Evangeline claims otherwise, they will choose to believe her.

“I’ve called you together this morning to impart great news,” she says, her reedy voice lifting. “Like Arthur’s true condition, this information must not be shared until the time is right. Hear me and share my joy. Even as the founder and the one true Ruler fades away, his successor is amongst us.”

With a great flourish she keys the video feed from a secret, highly secure location called the Nursery. A live image appears on their screens, triggering gasps of astonishment from the faction. One of the females is seen to shriek and can barely contain her exuberance.

“You are looking at the new form of Arthur Conklin,” Evangeline informs them. “By DNA, by blood itself, the boy is two generations removed. In the primitive way of thinking, he is a grandson of our founder. But the bond is much, much closer than mere DNA. As so often happens, true genius seems to have skipped a generation. Our tests confirm the boy has Arthur’s level of intelligence, and Arthur’s amazing talent for mathematics, and many aspects of Arthur’s unique, charismatic personality. Given the correct environment, he will evolve into the One True Voice that guides us, our Ruler of Rulers.”