The Last Relicuin

By Hargus Montgomery

In the 22nd century, part of the world chooses history.  When Alexander Kane, son of a powerful senator, marries a museum dweller, the young couple becomes the target of a worldwide struggle between the cities and museums.  

Crossing borders into the 12th, 18th, and 20th centuries, The Last Relicuin unravels a mystery that pursues one family through three periods of history. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kerious Pye Series LLC
• Release date: Sep 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989965484

Hargus Montgomery

Hargus Montgomery is the author of the Kerious Pye Series (The Seventeenth Pocket, The Bureau of Dangerous Matter), The Last Relicuin, and Units. 

Book preview

Also by Hargus Montgomery

The Last Days of Kerious Pye

The Seventeenth Pocket

The Bureau of Dangerous Matter

Standalone

The Last Relicuin

Watch for more at Hargus Montgomery’s site.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Epilogue

About the Author

History Never Surrenders (web links)

Back Cover

Copyright © 2013 by Mark Pedriani

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form, or any form developed in the future without written permission of the author or his heirs.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Published by Kerious Pye Series LLC

[e-mail]

www.HargusMontgomery.com

Also available in trade paperback

(ISBN: 978-0-9899654-0-8)

Cover design: Kerious Pye Series

Cover images: Musée de L’Armée, Paris, France; Museu de Cera, Barcelona, Spain; Milwaukee Public Museum; tkachuk/Shutterstock

For my daughters

Jennifer, Kate, and Gab,

and my wife Kath

Every museum dweller owes a profound debt of gratitude to living history museums and historical re-enactors of the past.

Curator Carmen Eldridge

Helena, Montana

Federal Museum Administration

50th Anniversary

ONE

An hour before sunrise, Alexander Kane listened to the elevator car slide down sixty-three floors. When the blue number flashed below ten, he tugged the hood of his sweatshirt down over his eyes. Bowing his head, he walked quickly towards the Lake Bluff shuttle. Only six blocks from his apartment, the lakeshore was inaccessible by foot.

Sleep-deprived early or late shift workers ignored the hooded figure, but a few all-night partiers glanced his way as he waited on the platform. The syllables of his name filtered through their whispers. He walked further down the quay. When the shuttle doors opened, an acrid, false-citrus smell fouled the air. The car had arrived straight from its night sterilization run. Seconds later, standing on the boardwalk above the lake, he looked out into the darkness as the deafening hiss of the shuttle faded behind him.

The son of a senator, Alex Kane tried to keep a low profile at the University of Chicago. He left his apartment on Saturday mornings to escape college, but he was drawn to the lakeshore ruins for reasons he never completely understood. Standing alone on the glass-covered boardwalk, he would try to forget the gleaming city skyline behind him. As the sun rose anew over miles of open water, no one spoke except the mysterious figures on the piers below, unheard, far outside the glass enclosure.

The first time he visited the boardwalk, Alex never expected to see a living object on the abandoned piers. As a figure moved in the darkness, each of the low, green pier lights blinked in slow succession until the person stopped to take his place. A sweeper told him the figures were retired museum dwellers. Dwellers were the only people who would risk going out in the open air.

The Kanes were an old Metro Party family. From the time he was a young boy, Alex had been taught that museum dwellers were troubled souls. They were to be pitied, avoided, and in large numbers, feared. The oldest dwellers were not welcome in the cities. While some retired, others were repatriated by force, often as the result of court orders sought by their families.

After a few visits, Alex learned that the retired dwellers were museum fishermen. Fishing had been prohibited in the mainstream for over a century. Like birds, fish were considered super-immunes, capable of transmitting a host of diseases. Dwellers received an exemption, but they were transported to the lake well before dawn, and kept out on the piers where no mainstreamer would venture. An hour after the sun rose, caretakers transported them back to segregated housing, out of sight of the city population.

Fascinated by the strange visitors, Alex would focus his binoculars on individual people. Spaced twenty yards apart, their lips moved as if they were talking, but they never turned their heads towards each other. The old people moved only when they drew a fish up out of the mist covering the lake. Alex tried to interpret the hand gestures the dwellers made when a caretaker came out to take away the fish.

Before he visited the lake, Alex assumed humans couldn’t survive in the old city below. When cities abandoned contaminated streets, the Metro Sanitary Infrastructure encased every habitable structure for hundreds of square miles. The new city rising above old foundations was sealed in Steriglas. The interior atmosphere was filtered and climatized, but retro viruses, bacteria and radiation remained in the old city streets and spread out over the open waters of the lake. Caretakers and dwellers wore NBC biosuits on the piers, but when the caretakers walked back to the shelter, the old fishermen took off their large orange hoods, preferring to breathe the open, contaminated air.

After three months of seeing only bright orange suits, Alex noticed a white suit with a blue diagonal stripe walk out of the shelter. He trained his binoculars on the new visitor. The person walked slowly, stepping carefully around the large open cracks on a pier with a red number six painted into the crumbling concrete.

Something in the way the biosuit moved made the figure appear female. She passed several dwellers before stopping next to one fisherman seated on an overturned bucket. Taking something from the pocket of her suit, she knelt down and tilted what appeared to be a small bottle into a cup sitting close to the dweller. She did the same for two other dwellers nearby.

Alex planted his elbows on the railing, steadied his binoculars and dialed up the magnification. Her head moved when she spoke, but the hood blocked her face.

The old dweller didn’t seem to know the visitor was there. He didn’t turn when she poured the bottle into his cup, and he reached back for the cup without ever looking up.

The woman stayed for nearly half an hour, talking most of the time. All the while, the white-haired old man stared out over the mist. Before she left, she bent down, touched the man’s shoulder, and then walked back up the pier towards the shelter.

Something about the slow, feminine walk looked familiar to Alex. He trotted to the end of the boardwalk where the angle offered a glimpse into the corner of the shelter below. The glimpse was enough. When the woman lifted up the hood of her suit, he knew the face immediately. He had lived with the image most of his life. The face of the woman was that of his own mother. She stepped further into the shelter, out of sight.

Alex turned the binoculars back out to the dweller, then once again back to the shelter. Only caretakers appeared in the window. He thought of running to the shuttle. The shelter was only one stop away. If he hurried, he might catch her before she left. But Alex Kane did not hurry. He let the binoculars hang on his chest, and looked back over the lake. He knew his mother did not want him to see her. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her. The wife of the most powerful anti-museum politician in the nation, maneuvering his way towards the White House, should not have been walking on the abandoned piers, outside the glass, talking to the dwellers her husband swore to defeat.

TWO

In the days following his sunrise visit, Alex tried to think of one innocent reason why his mother would risk leaving the glass, before dawn, without security, to visit a dweller. His parents spent the past decade travelling the country, leading rallies to support a bill that would permanently close all museums. Their single-issue campaign was moving public opinion. Proposed House Resolution 202724, commonly referred to as the Closure Bill, was attracting support in metro hubs throughout the nation. Anti-museum sentiment advanced Steven Kane to national prominence. His long-term plan to seek the presidency was on track and gaining speed. Alex was certain that his father would never approve of his wife’s secret excursions. Senator Steven Kane controlled every public appearance and every word released to the press. In the midst of his quest to become the Metro Party’s presidential candidate, he could not tolerate any kind of political embarrassment.

Determined to confront his mother, at least once each day Alex began walking through the nine blocks of tunnels to his parents’ home in the Calatrava Tower. He never reached his destination. His teenage years had been one endless argument with his father. During increasingly bitter exchanges, his mother stood between them, struggling to maintain an uneasy truce. The politician’s career dominated every aspect of their lives. Media consultants were regular houseguests, trying to reshape the candidate’s wife and son into a suitable White House photo. Lynn Kane always cooperated, dutifully playing the role she was given. But the more his mother complied, the more Alex revolted. His uncombed, self-cut hair, and purposefully chosen, second-hand clothing frustrated image consultants, and proved a constant annoyance to the perfectly groomed Senator. Alex’s unkempt appearance drew inquiries from the press about drugs or financial difficulties. His mother pleaded with him to compromise. She tried to explain that his father’s mission was bigger than both of them. Her carefully hidden trip outside the glass was completely out of character. The perfect political wife was not only risking her husband’s career. She was threatening her marriage.

After considering all the risks, Alex finally decided he had to know more about the old man on the pier before confronting his mother with a secret that might ruin her life.

Arriving an hour before sunrise, Alex chose the south bluff shuttle stop, further away from the piers, but with an angle allowing his binoculars to point into the shelter.

The events of the past weekend repeated. He studied his mother’s every movement, never taking the binoculars from his eyes. She walked to the same man, poured something into his cup, spoke, unanswered, for the better part of half an hour, and then left, with the same touch on the man’s shoulder. All the while, the old dweller stared at the water, never acknowledging her, even when she touched him.

Alex didn’t have to watch her take the suit off to be sure it was his mother, but he watched anyway. She stepped out of the suit without talking to the other caretakers, handed one of them an envelope, then disappeared.

He waited several minutes, allowing his mother time to leave before he boarded a shuttle to the shelter. A two hundred dollar fee for the disposable suit came as a shock, and explained why more people didn’t venture outside the MSI. He walked back to the shuttle stop and withdrew cash to avoid the appearance of the charge in his bank records.

The smell of Lake Michigan came through the mask’s filter. It was very different from the smell of man-made ponds inside the glass. In the sideways, morning sunlight Alex studied the dwellers as he walked along pier number six. They didn’t look up. He searched the mist below the pier, wondering what the dwellers could see that kept their interest. The water was invisible. It could only be heard, lapping against the broken concrete, or as a soft splash when one of the dwellers threw his bait out over the mist.

Counting sitting bodies, he stopped behind the man his mother had spoken to a half hour before. How is the fishing today? he asked, smiling through his mask.

The exposed mop of white hair turned back and up. The deep creases on the old man’s face stunned Alex. They didn’t exist in aging mainstreamers.

Let us stay a little longer, the old man said.

I’m just a visitor, Alex explained, glancing away from the wrinkles so he didn’t appear to be staring. I don’t work here.

Yah don’t, the old man said, turning back towards the water. Good.

Are you catching fish today?

The white hair turned again. You sure you don’t work here?"

No. I’m just visiting. I like to watch. You know. Fishing.

Yah like to watch fishing, the man said with a new tone in his voice. He turned back towards the lake and looked down into the mist.

Alex didn’t respond, because he sensed he had said something wrong.

You gonna tell if I catch one? the man asked in a quiet, hoarse voice.

Alex thought for a moment. He remembered the caretakers carrying the fish away. No, he said, guessing at the right answer.

They don’t let us eat ’em, the dweller said without turning. You eat wild fish?

Alex thought about the question. He kept his first answer to himself. The second one came from years of being a politician’s son. I think that’s illegal.

Not inside, the man said.

It took a moment for Alex to realize the man was talking about the museum. They taste different? he asked.

The old man choked out a breath of laughter. He turned his head around and wiped his mouth with the orange sleeve. Who the hell are you?

Sorry, Alex said quickly. I didn’t mean to bother you. I was just curious. He took a step back.

The wrinkles cut deeper as the man squinted, staring through Alex’s mask, right into the younger man’s eyes. You gotta name? the dweller demanded.

Alex.

Ok, Alec. You got any lightnin’?

A match? Alex guessed.

Hooch.

Hoch?

Whisky, yah know. Or don’t you glassers drink. Take evrathin’ in a pill, do yah?

Not me.

Then bring me some hooch. For this bear-piss they call coffee.

The man turned back and watched the water.

Alex wanted to ask him about his mother, but hesitated. The old dweller had a different way of talking. They were saying the same words, but they didn’t understand each other.

I saw you had another visitor today, Alex said, forcing himself to ask. Did she have some….hooch?

You ask questions like a bad cop.

I’m not a cop.

Glassers, the man hissed.

Alex knew the term from watching countless political debates. Museum dwellers referred to mainstreamers as glassers, because from the outside, the miles of MSI enclosures looked like a nation under glass.

You wanna talk, the man said. Bring some hooch next time. And come next Sunday. I get enough talkin’ on Saturday.

Ok, Alex said. May I ask your name?

Hooch. Just remember that.

Ok, Hooch. It was nice to meet you.

The man didn’t respond, and he didn’t turn around. Alex walked carefully over the failing concrete pier, wondering if the other dwellers had heard his conversation. He planned to be on the pier the next Sunday, before sunrise, with a bottle of hooch.

THREE

On Sunday morning, before paying for his biosuit, Alex walked over to one of the caretakers. He pointed outside the glass towards pier number six. Before he could ask the question, she said, That’s Jacob Wyeth.

The woman stared up at him. These people don’t get many visitors, she said. Why are you here?

Alex looked at the woman. Her hair was fixed high on her head in a formal style Alex had seen only in old films. Her skin made it obvious that she used aging vaccinations, but he guessed from her motherly, disapproving tone that she was in her sixties. The nametag on her white blouse read Mrs. Dottie Denning.

I’m a student, Alex answered. Just curious about the museums.

Denning is my married name, the woman said, pointing to her nametag. My parents would never have named me with a double d."

Alex nodded and smiled. He had never heard the name Dottie.

If you want to talk to someone, Mrs. Denning said. You might want to choose somebody else. Jacob can be prickly.

Alex smiled. I found that out. But I like him. Where did he come from?

Unless you’re family, I can only tell you what’s in the public record.

Alex paused. He didn’t expect that answer.

You’re too young to remember, she said. But it was in the news.

Alex thought of his mother talking to someone who was in the news. His father would never permit it.

He was a museum cop, out west. North Dakota. Some kind of frontier museum. Or settlers. Or some whacky thing. She pressed her lips tight and shook her head with a look of confusion. Anyway, two drug smugglers got into the museum. Jacob shot both of them. Killed them.

"He killed them?"

At the trial, he said it was self defense. It went to court. That’s the only reason I know. Public record. You remember that now. She held up a finger with red nail polish. That’s all I’m telling you. Public record. No more.

Sure, Alex assured her. He was glad anyone was willing to talk about the man. She seemed anxious to say more, but looked around before continuing. He won, she said in a softer voice. But not really. I mean, he didn’t go to jail. They put him in a home. But that wasn’t the worst.

She glared at Aex but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if he should ask more.

Oh, no, she continued after allowing him only a couple seconds to ask. The drug cartels took revenge, you see. Killed his son three months later. Right here, in the Chicago hub.

Alex looked outside the glass at pier number six as he replayed the old man’s conversation from the week before.

That one’s a tough bat. Mrs. Denning pointed towards the pier. But I feel bad for him. He lost his wife too. She stayed behind. Died while he was here.

Is he ill?

"Now what did I tell you, she scolded. That’s medical. Can’t tell you anything about that. If anyone asks, you tell them I refused to talk about that."

Can you tell me why he’s in the home?

I just did. It was after the trial.

He didn’t retire?

Hardly. Now that’s enough. She walked past him towards the suit he purchased. Put that on, and don’t ask me more questions.

Alex thanked the caretaker. Before he walked into the airlock, she advised him to do a better job of hiding the alcohol bottle or she would have to report him.

When he reached Jacob Wyeth, Alex turned his back towards the shelter, masking his actions as he set the small bottle of alcohol on a flat spot in the concrete. It’s scotch whisky, he said. I’m not sure if that’s right.

It’s not, Jacob answered without turning. But thanks. Pour it, please.

Alex leaned down and poured the bottle into a small hole that had been cut into the lid of the cup.

Jacob sucked loudly at the hole, then turned back towards the lake.

I read that you were a museum police officer, Alex said, trying to keep a casual tone.

Why?

Why what?

Why did you read?

I don’t know. I’m curious. You know. About the museums.

What do you do, Alec? For work, I mean.

I’m a student. I study history.

Study.

The old man repeated the word in the flat tone Alex didn’t understand.

What period was your museum? Alex asked.

Seventeen and ninety.

Where?

West. Before it was the west.

I’ve seen pictures of that region.

Picture? The old dweller choked out another laugh. "You are a picture."

Alex didn’t respond. He knew the tone was insulting, but wasn’t sure what he said to provoke it. He didn’t want to go further in that direction, so he said nothing and watched Jacob suck at the cup.

I didn’t even know museums had police officers, Alex finally said, fearing the conversation might end.

The dweller didn’t answer.

I guess crime happens everywhere, Alex added. Even in the past.

I wasn’t there to arrest dwellers. The old museum cop raised his voice for the first time. I was there to protect ’em.

From drug smugglers? Alex took a chance.

That’s how they break a region. If you hook enough dwellers, they start leavin’. History ain’t good enough for ’em. They need a pill. Like you.

I don’t take pills.

Sure yah don’t.

What’s it like? Alex asked. Living in a museum.

What’s it like. Wyeth repeated the words again. Well, Alec. It’s not like one of your picture machines.

Alex guessed he was referring to the VSI chambers in every residence. Anyone could do anything in the virtual chambers. Mainstreamers attended classes, meetings, went on dates, played sports, and had sex, with or without fertilization. The choices were endless. And each new generation of synaptic interface made the sensations more real. Alex had met a few older mainstreamers who remembered playing physical sports. They told him virtual sports were much better than the real thing.

How old were you, Alex asked. When you went to the Academy? He wanted to know if the Museum Academy was like college.

Eighteen.

Right from high school, Alex said, nodding. He said it out loud, but he was talking to himself. "Why did you choose that?"

My grandpa was one of the last relikins.

Sorry. Is that like a fraternity?

"Relikin." Jacob spoke loud enough for the word to move over the mist towards the next pier. He shook his head then whispered to himself, God-damn-glassers. Grabbing the cup, he sucked loudly, then tipped it up to get the last drop. It ain’t a real word, he said in a lower voice. "Yah see? It’s a legal thing. Means someone who’s too god damn stupid to know he’s in a museum."

You mean your grandfather lived in a museum?

Never knew it. Died ignorant.

Alex saw the wrinkles stretch on the side of the face that was visible.

And happy.

Alex thought he heard the old man clear his throat or chuckle. He couldn’t be sure.

Sorry, Alex said. "But…how could he not know?"

Because there was no glasser like you to tell him. The old head turned full around. That’s why I went in. Yah get it? For people like him. He turned back to the water. Just didn’t work out, he whispered.

Alex decided against asking about the shootings. The questions seemed to be pressing the old man.

After a few seconds Alex heard I had enough talkin’ come from the bowed head. He started to turn, but then stood for a while, hoping the conversation might start again.

The old dweller fished and didn’t say a word, until Alex started to walk away. Take that with yah, he said, pointing to the bottle. I’m not a rummy, yah know. Just like a little when I fish. Helps me remember home.

Alex picked up the bottle and tucked it in his pocket. As he walked slowly up the pier, and as he stood in the shelter taking off his suit, and while he walked to the shuttle and rode it home, new questions formed and multiplied. In the days and nights that followed, the same questions grew bigger and more complex. Alex knew all the answers were with the dweller fishing on pier number six.

FOUR

Two weeks remained before the final exams that were Alex’s last hope of staying on academic probation. The last-chance sophomore ignored them, choosing instead to spend his time searching for the missing parts of the story behind Jacob Wyeth. Some Federal Museum Administration databases were locked. Other sites demanded personal information that would have eventually filtered back to someone in his father’s office. A few open-access news articles confirmed the caretaker’s story. Jacob Wyeth was a former FMA law enforcement officer. He did shoot two people while he was on duty inside a museum in North Dakota. The FMA determined that the shooting was a justified use of deadly force, but eleven months later, Wyeth was moved to Barnard Assisted Living and Rehabilitation Center under an Order of Involuntary Commitment. The news articles quoted Jacob Wyeth threatening to start an all out war against the people who shot his son.

Alex was surprised to learn that Wyeth had been at Barnard for eighteen years. When they were on the pier, the old man spoke about the museum like he had moved recently.

The caretaker mentioned Wyeth’s wife died inside the museum. A search of Wyeths revealed an obituary for a museum dweller named Rosalind Wyeth. The listing didn’t state a cause of death, but another news article from the same date stated that a woman named Rosalind Wyeth drowned in an accident on the Missouri River, which ran through a section of the museum.

Alex understood why the caretaker felt sorry for the man. He lost his job, his home, and his family. The man was bitter. But on the pier, Jacob Wyeth didn’t sound dangerous or insane. To Alex, he just sounded sad.

Wyeth’s story about his grandfather proved to be accurate, except for his pronunciation of the word relikin. A search for relikin brought results for relicuin. The term appeared repeatedly in FMA statutes. Relicuins was the title of an entire chapter in the original Federal Museum Act of 2067. A relicuin was defined as, …a registered, living human, historical relic, residing inside the boundaries of a museum. The statute provided a long list of rules and regulations to protect relicuins, but the protections were all obsolete. Relicuins had gone extinct around the turn of the century. Jacob Wyeth’s grandfather was one of the last.

Wyeth’s name appeared in the FMA alumni records for the graduating class of 2085, but his personnel records required an FMA password. While researching the alumni pages, Alex found a private, posted video of Jacob Wyeth’s Academy graduating class. The graduates were dressed in a variety of museum clothing. He guessed the clothing matched the region where they would be posted. Sixty years after the actual event, the excitement in the room leapt out of the glass screen. There were chants and songs from the audience, honoring the graduates. Alex couldn’t understand all the languages, but when each song finished, everyone hugged everyone else. He froze that image. Touching was rare in the mainstream, and face-to-face contact was regarded as a lethal threat. The sheer quantity and intensity of physical contact on the video came as a shock. He saw tears on people’s faces, and watched the liquid mix when they touched cheeks while hugging each other. The emotion was unlike anything he had seen or felt from his friends or his family. Replaying the video, he continued watching, pausing the images. Without knowing what was happening to him, he felt a thickness in his throat, and his breaths caught in his chest. He was beginning to understand that the images playing in front of him were not virtual. They were real. The people were actually doing what he saw and heard. The idea spread through him like a seizure. He understood what was happening. They weren’t just graduating. The people in the pictures were leaving their lives. Never to return. That thought froze him. His breath held, as he imagined leaving, everything, tomorrow. The next breath was a deep one, and he let it out slowly, trying to regain control of an impossible thought deep inside his mind.

FIVE

Take some florican, Alex.

Lynn Kane asked her son to follow her into the den. After she opened the front door, his first words were, I went to the boardwalk on Saturday morning to watch the sun rise. And guess what I saw.

It opens the perspective, his mother continued. You need to see things through other people’s eyes. Then you wouldn’t accuse them.

I’m not taking florican. And I’m not accusing you. I’m asking you. Why were you there?

Alex looked at his mother. It was impossible for him to see the beauty the press wrote about, but he did see the charm that made her popular. In the rare moments when she wasn’t campaigning, and they were alone, she was the loving mother he remembered from childhood. But those moments were few and far between, and usually spent asking him to try and understand his father’s responsibilities.

Lynn Kane benefited from the most expensive biological preservation medications, which made her appear nearly as youthful as her son. She looked at Alex and smiled at the well-worn carpenter’s pants and mechanic’s shirt with someone else’s name on the chest. He was shorter than her husband, but to her, Alex always looked bigger. His arms were thicker, and his face was wide, not fine and chiseled like her husband’s. His black hair was much longer and rarely combed. You think you’re annoying your father by dressing like that, but the press is calling it a style. Young people are imitating you. You might have to get used to that.

I’ll wait for an answer, Alex said, ignoring her effort to change the subject. As long as I have to.

They’re saying you’re better looking than your father. But in a rough way. I think I know what they mean.

I can find out other ways, Mom. I thought I’d give you a chance to tell me.

"Ok, ok, she said, waving her hand as if she could brush the idea away. You’ll hear what I say. But you won’t accept it. Take the florican first."

Alex shook his head. I’ll just go back to the piers and ask.

You’ll be picked up, his mother said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"You mean, he’ll order them to pick me up."

Your father doesn’t have to order anyone, Alex. Steven has friends in every agency in the city. They’re not going to let the son of a senator be mugged on the piers.

I’m safer there than I am here.

Don’t do this, Alex.

Then answer the question.

Your father is a patient man. But he has responsibilities. When the political risks are great enough, the balance will tilt, and he’ll do what he has to.

To his son?

To anyone.

I guess I always knew that. I always knew he was gutless.

You’ve never taken the time to look into your father’s mind. Millions of people depend on his career. He alone carries that weight.

He brainwashed you. Take some more florican, Mom. Open your mind so he can reach in and tell you what to think.

If your goal is to hurt me, go ahead. Go down to the piers, and see what you find.

I will.

And Alex. He doesn’t tell me what to think. I do what I have to, to protect my family. And that includes you.

SIX

His trip to the Calatrava left Alex with more questions than answers. After all the years she had placed herself between two angry men, he felt like he owed his mother the chance to explain her secret. But when he asked about Jacob Wyeth, a new, hard look appeared in her normally gentle eyes. She wasn’t embarrassed. She was dismissive. It reminded him of his father’s attitude when he ended their arguments by saying ‘you can’t win this, so walk away’. The words burned, and resentment stirred until the next argument. His mother’s refusal had the same effect on him. Instead of retreating, he would push harder. On Sunday morning, he walked briskly into the shelter, headed directly to the counter where he set his money down to buy a suit. Having given her a chance to explain, his conscience was clear. His very first question to the old dweller was going to be, How do you know Lynn Kane?

Sure you want to buy a suit? Mrs. Denning asked. He’s not here today.

Alex looked at the woman. Her hairstyle was completely different from the past week, so he checked her nametag. The name was the same. Jacob Wyeth? he asked. The man you told me about?

Mr. Wyeth’s health was failing. He was transferred to the hospital.

Which hospital?

I don’t have that information.

Who does?

Barnard keeps those records. But they won’t give them to you.

Was it serious?

I don’t know. When I didn’t see his name on the visitor list, I asked why. They told me poor health. They don’t say more. She paused as if she were about to say something more, then added, They could have been more polite about it.

The call to Barnard Home produced a blanket refusal. Alex restated the question in different ways. Could he send Mr. Wyeth an email? Was the hospital close? Who was Jacob Wyeth’s family contact? Each question met the same monotone response. They were not allowed to share a patient’s information. He had reached a dead end.

The Kane family home occupied three floors in the exclusive top quarter of Calatrava Tower. He found his mother on the second floor, in the dining room, advising the servants on the peculiarities of the night’s political dinner guest. Alex had seen and heard it all before. He met every member of Congress by the time he was fifteen. The décor, wall images, scents, china, crystal, menu, wine, uniforms and topics of conversation would all be carefully controlled. Members of Congress from both parties had been known to change their votes after attending a Kane dinner. Steven Kane expected his wife to attend every function and be the perfect consort. She would charm the guests with her warmth and grace, and at the appropriate moment, find an excuse to show the significant other something in the house. Steven Kane would work his political will on his pampered guest. His father explained to Alex that every politician wanted to be treated like the President, and none of them could resist that treatment. When Alex was seventeen, and well aware that his father was aiming at the presidency, he asked him how he was different from the politicians he invited to dinner. His father replied, They want to be treated like a president. I will be president.

Alex made no effort to lower his voice in the dining room. I suppose you know that Jacob Wyeth is gone.

Lynn Kane stopped arranging a renowned taxidermist’s arrangement of Gambel’s quail, which would serve as the dinner centerpiece, and possible gift, for Senator Theresa Dawson, an avid bird collector.

"Gone? his mother asked. When? What do you mean?"

The surprise in her voice sounded real to Alex. He thought she also sounded a little frightened, as if he told her someone had just died. He lowered his voice. Even when he was the most frustrated with her bewildering submissiveness, he took no pleasure in hurting her. Just disappeared. They took him to some hospital.

Why?

I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything.

He’s old, she said, turning back towards the centerpiece but not touching it. And I believe he’s had health problems before.

Why are you so good at lying to other politicians, and so bad at lying to me?

I’m not lying, she said, trying to shape a smile on her face.

Will you find out where he is? Alex asked.

If you can’t, Alex, I surely can’t.

Alex nodded. Her surprise had passed. She had moved on to damage control. You mean, you won’t.

It doesn’t matter what I say. She managed a fully formed smile. You’ll believe what you want to.

I believe that Senator Steven Kane could find out the location of anyone in the country, if he wanted to.

And the media would ask why, his mother continued the sentence, imitating her son’s sarcastic tone. That’s something you always forget. Your father has enemies who are looking for any excuse to ruin him.

"Then just tell me. Why would that ruin him? Who is Jacob Wyeth?"

He’s a repatriated museum dweller. He’s obviously sick. Lynn Kane turned from the table and walked towards Alex. Did you ever think that he might not want you around? Maybe he left because you’ve ruined the outing for him. The one thing he enjoyed.

Alex studied his mother’s face. She wasn’t surprised anymore. She was angry. The man meant more to her than she would say.

Who is he, Mom? Just tell me.

I told you. Stop thinking about yourself all the time and think of others. Think about who you might be hurting.

Ok, Alex replied. I’ll do more than that. I’ll figure out who’s getting hurt, and why.

If you don’t want to be here for Senator Dawson’s arrival, I suggest you leave.

Alex turned to leave, but then he spun around and pointed to the table. "You really like all this? Why do you do it?"

I think of other people, Alex.

SEVEN

On May 12th, his first exam was only two days away, but a more troubling deadline bore down on Alex Kane, keeping him awake at nights, forcing him to make an impossible choice. His father demanded that he declare a major, and choose a career by the end of his sophomore year. He had done neither. After trying classes in four different majors, none of them held his interest. His most recent choice, history, showed promise early but bogged down into an information sludge of bad videos and canned lectures. He was required to memorize long lists of dates that seemed to be plucked out of the air, and never stayed in his mind for more than a few minutes. History classes slowly blurred together, becoming as boring as the rest of his class schedule.

Boredom was nothing new to Alex. It followed him most of his high school years. Refusing his son’s request to attend one of a few remaining on-site high schools, the Senator enrolled Alex in one of the top virtual high schools in the world. When Alex signed into class from his house, students and teachers flashed by. As he wandered down the virtual halls, some fellow students aimed at his eye focus to say hello, but most did so only out of curiosity. They wanted to see Steven Kane’s son. When he paused the images to look at an individual, they all looked the same. His classmates were indistinguishable from the popular, wealthy and troubled television characters everyone watched. Cosmetic implants produced countless copies of media stars. When new friends gave him access codes to their private lives, he discovered they not only resembled the television characters, they lived their lives. His friends spent most of their free time plugging their images into various episodes, changing the dialogue and manipulating the plots, then watching themselves. When a real student in