Walter Mosley - Futureland - Nine Stories of an Imminent World

“Maybe you would like to see a live sex show. We could set the stage right here. I can supply any number of performers. You could join in if you wanted. All of my performers are tested and guaranteed for perfect health.”

The woman still stood before the guest. Akwande realized that she was waiting for him to choose his glass. He did so.

“I haven’t come for fun, Doctor.”

“No? That’s really too bad. Because you know fun is all that makes life worthwhile. If you can’t enjoy life, why live it?”

“I prefer to leave that question unanswered, sir,” Akwande replied. The tea was the best he’d ever had. He tasted pomegranate, citrus, and mint amid a floral bouquet. He wanted another glass before the one he drank from was empty.

Kismet smiled. His one eye seemed to notice everything.

“Maybe you would like a different kind of sex show,” Kismet offered in response.

“I told you—”

“A white woman, maybe,” Kismet stuck out his lower lip and moved his hands in circles indicating that he was throwing out possibilities. “A hardworking secretary, plucked freshly from her secure everyday existence, brought here and raped — for you. Ravished and humiliated — for you.”

Akwande wouldn’t have been able to suppress the laugh even if he wanted to. It was a deep and musical laugh that sounded more like master than guest.

“You laugh?”

“No offense, Doctor. It’s just a sign of relief.”

“Relief?”

“You are the great Doctor Ivan Kismet. Your corporations control the greater portion of the planet. Your Infochurch rivals Catholicism in membership. It is said that you can master any intellectual system in days, at most.

“And yet I see that even you are capable of misreading the human heart, that even you can misjudge a man’s motives. As I said, I do not mean this as an insult. It’s just that I had been told that I would be in the presence of a god. It’s a relief to know that you are a man.”

Kismet’s monocled eye flashed twice. He studied Akwande, or maybe the images transmitted electronically to his brain. His body jerked from a small spasm and then he smiled.

“What do you want, Fayez?”

“Justice,” the co-chair of the Sixth Radical Congress said, beginning a long practiced speech. RadCon6 had made a great investment of time and money to bring him there. Two men had died while on investigating missions. Fayez himself spent six months in a bug-ridden hotel waiting to be allowed a one-hour interview with Ptolemy Bent at Randac Corporation’s maximum security research facility in Madagascar.

All of that and he had less than a whisper of a hope that he might be successful.

Fayez Akwande felt as if he had been working toward this moment his entire life. He’d always worked to free the minds and bodies of black people around the world. As an archaeologist he pressed to prove superior intellectual and scientific advances in ancient and prehistoric Africa. As the congressman from Newark he fought to increase awareness of the widening gap between rich and poor. And now, as the co-chair of RadCon6, he meant to engage the most powerful man in the world, to force him to bend his will for the good of Africa, Africans, and the African diaspora around the world. He felt that if he could turn Ivan Kismet toward his own goals, the rest of the world must surely follow.

“Justice,” he repeated, “and the offer of our friendship.”

Kismet nodded. A loud bird screeched somewhere nearby.

“You offer me friendship?” Kismet ridiculed.

“And the opportunity to use your power for history,” Fayez said. He had more to say, but his advisors had suggested a slower approach.

“I do what I want,” the absolute ruler said. “You would see that if you let me entertain you. The ancients struggled to make gold out of lead. I can make a dog out of a cat, a Hindu god with six arms, an advertisement for Flapjack computers lighting up on the dark moon. I don’t need friends.”

Akwande had seen the ad. Maybe the rest was also real.

“It’s not love we offer, Doctor, but respect for you. Millions are starving—”

“I command more of the love and support among the people that you profess to represent than you could ever imagine.” Kismet’s tone was derisive. “The black masses have taken to Infochurch like bears to honey. My message that God is a riddle and the world of science filled with His clues has captured more imaginations than any King or X or radical assassin.” He eyed Akwande maliciously at the last word.

“We do not assassinate,” Akwande said simply.

“Three of your slayers were stopped on this island.” Kismet clasped his hands together and squeezed.

“Not mine, Doctor. That was RadCon5. They believed in overthrow. I believe in change.”

“For change, my friend, you need power. I am power — but I am not yours.”

“Then why am I here, Ivan?”

“You’re the one who asked for the audience.”

“And you accepted. I find it hard to believe that you would waste time on someone you didn’t have an interest in.”

Again Kismet smiled. Again the flashes behind his monocle.

“He wears a monocle that’s electronic, it has a light that sometimes flashes,” Akwande said to the twenty-six-year-old convicted killer, Ptolemy Bent.

“When does it flash?” the lion-haired youth asked. Ptolemy’s intelligence was accepted as the greatest in recorded history.

“At odd times. But almost always when he is posed with a difficult problem.”

“And you say his weight changed after 2031?”

“Yes. He went from 195 to 202. I only mention it because he had maintained 195 for a dozen years.”

“And when did he start wearing the monocle?”

“A year before the weight change.”

RadCon5 had studied Kismet for years in order to plan his assassination. Later, RadCon6 continued the study, for more complex reasons.

Kismet also had a change in gait in 2031. RadCon’s doctors said that this was due to the weight gain, but Ptolemy was not sure. He told Akwande that he didn’t know which leg, but one of them held the computer that informed the eye.

“It’s the future of intelligence,” the young man explained. “Chromo-circuitry custom designed for the receiver, and a highly advanced computer built into his body. A computer this size, five or six pounds, could retain nearly all of the information in any particular field with a faster-than-thought delivery system.”

“So he’s virtually omniscient?”

“The monocle receives information from either the computer or a remote source. That way he can also be in constant communication with his network. No one could outthink him, all other things being equal.”

“What does that mean?”

“He might receive information that he doesn’t understand. He might receive false information. But considering advances in AI systems that isn’t very likely.”

“Which leg would the computer be in?”

“I don’t know. But you could tell by the way he lands on it in vigorous exercise. A little more of a jolt on the heavier side.”

“You want me to ask him to do jumping jacks?”

“I’m just telling you what I know, M,” the youth replied. “There’s only so much I can do locked up in a cage.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Keep strong, brother.”

“I am a collector, sir,” Dr. Kismet was saying.

“And what is it that you collect?”

“The fruit of human advancement, the best of the best of mankind.” Kismet’s use of the old term referring to humanity was a serious breach of good manners, further proof of his megalomania. “The finest art and relics of the pinnacles of history grace my lower halls. Atlantis is populated with the greatest scientists, artists, and artisans of our times.”