NEW WORLD TRILOGY (Trilogy Title) (2 page)

April 14, 2052

Ikaros walks towards the baggage claim area at JFK airport after suffering an early-morning, lower-orbital flight direct from Tokyo, albeit a short one.  He had to check out of his hotel by 4 a.m. and only slept briefly beforehand mainly because his head was full of too many concerns about the next leg of his tour; consequently, he was exhausted during the flight and couldn't do anything much except vacantly watch bits and pieces of foreign language films without really reading the subtitles, glancing every now and then at the view of Earth below — the  scene presented from such altitudes is something he's become used to over the past few years since taking his first ever flight, yet it never ceases to remind him to consider the severe and worsening circumstances that so many are forced to endure on the surface, which still looks so deceptively tranquil and beautiful from a distance.

Waiting patiently, he stands looking blankly at the baggage on the conveyor belt for a few minutes, then focuses on the little Japanese boy next to him who tries without success to jump onto it while being restrained by his impassive mother who's checking the inbox on her mobile.  This prompts Ikaros to look at his own and finds that he's just received a message from a stranger.  He skims it with sceptical curiosity. 
Henry
Clay
? 
"Who the …?"
… a big fan … a synthetic oil tycoon from Texas … discuss a proposal … something that may interest you … 
"What?  Yeah, right.  Get the hell out of here!" he spits sharply, clearly forgetting where he is and loud enough for the little boy to overhear and look up at him with a grin; this is all tracked by his mother, who gives Ikaros a sharp judgemental glare as though she's about to scold him like an infant.

"Ah, sorry.  The, ah …" he offers clumsily while pointing to his phone.  Slightly disturbed and embarrassed by the interaction and not wanting to draw any further unnecessary attention, particularly from a parent who may have misrepresented the context but who still has a small amount of cause for anger either way, he quickly distances himself from them and hides behind a large tour group while deleting the message dismissively and wondering just how this Henry got his number, never having been contacted by a 'fan' on his phone before.  Then, with relief, he spots his trolley case just before it passes him, leans down, picks it up and begins to make his way towards Customs, merging with the large stream of returning citizens and incoming visitors, many of whom Ikaros rightly assumes have half-baked 'covert' plans to overstay their visas — as is also assumed by the customs officers, no doubt.  What Ikaros knows, but many of this type of visitor doesn't, is that, just about invariably, they'll more than likely be sorely disappointed with what they find, realise the nature of their ignorance, and even end up fleeing before long like so many others have before them.  This thought would have made Ikaros grin sardonically at some point in the past, but not anymore; today he just observes the scene and tries his best to keep his thoughts hidden deeply behind an inscrutable visage, less prepared to give desperate people a hard time about what they do now that he's seen what he's seen, and for so long.

Two hours later

In his hotel room on Manhattan Island, Ikaros sits comfortably in his small bath with his eyes closed, thinking about various random things, including the weird conversations he heard on the plane that can only seem suppressive these days in a just-under-the-surface fearful kind of way to maintain the sense of normalcy.  After this he also remembers another disappointing conversation he had with a reporter in Osaka, examines a few hopes and fears he has about his impending interviews, and then takes refuge in going over his itinerary for the next two weeks.  Thoughts about Henry's message enter his mind; slightly more intrigued this time, he reflects on the situation for a while and considers various possibilities that could explain it.  "A synthetic oil … a Texan?" he whispers.  "What could he want with me?"  Overcome by tiredness, he loses focus and, within moments, begins looping back randomly over some obscure events that quickly morph seamlessly into dreams that allow him to believe that he's still awake.

Sixteen minutes later

The old-fashioned ringtone of his room's phone irritatingly penetrates Ikaros's dreams by replacing the voice of some sarcastic and aggressive reporter with increasing severity until he's eventually brought out of his sleep poised and ready to punch him in the face.  Still confused, he pulls tightly with both hands on a clump of hair until the roots tingle, but doesn't make any move to race to the phone; instead, he methodically gets himself out of the bath, grabs the towel from its hook and begins to dry himself while the phone rings out and he thinks about getting a New York breakfast, whatever that may mean.

Four minutes later

The phone rings again.  This time Ikaros is standing by the window looking out at the surrounding buildings.  He turns around and leans down to the bedside table and picks up the receiver.  "Who's this?" he asks curtly.

"Ah, Ikaros, is that you?"

"Yeah, who is this?" Ikaros repeats in a soft voice with a mild Australian accent.

"I'm Henry.  Did you get my message I sent earlier?"

"Ah, yeah … I did," Ikaros replies, surprised to hear from him.  "Um, how did you get my phone number … and the, ah, hotel?"

"I'm sorry about being so forward, Ikaros, and I know you don't know me personally, but, like I said, I think I've got something you may be interested in …
very
interested in."

"I can't imagine what, though.  You're an oil man, right?"

"Synthetic oil.  That's right."

"Yeah, well … I'm not in the oil business."

"Hell, I know that.  To be honest with you, Ikaros, I like your philosophy and …"

"You
like
my philosophy?  How could that be?!" he asks, more than slightly perplexed that a Texan tycoon of any kind could ever like his 'philosophy.'

"What I mean is, you do what you want … you
really
do what you want, which at some level anyone's gotta respect."

"Unless, of course, I were a homicidal maniac."

"Well, yeah … admittedly.  But you also keep the big picture in mind.  Although I can relate to that in my own life, I have to say I've made a lot of safe choices over the years, or at least what many would call 'good business choices' or something, which I don't exactly regret as such, but I just know it's not enough … now more than ever.  I think you know what I mean, right?"

"I'm pretty sure I do, yeah."

"And although many of these choices have made me a wealthy man …"

"A
wealthier
man."

"Yeah, okay, Ikaros, I'll accept that.  I still think there have to be things done in this world that are bolder than just the good choices, and particularly the desperate choices.  I mean, if we're ever gonna make the necessary changes."

"Or at least try."

"Let me ask you…  Are you happy with the way things are heading?"

"Who could ever say they are?  I'm not interested in saving or restoring the status quo; that would be ridiculous … particularly these days."

"Mm, there's a certain brand of insanity that keeps that long-dead horse animated."

"It's animated but dead?!  Look, I'm not really interested in standing here listening to what you've come to realise about the world.  What's your point?"

Unintimidated, Henry laughs heartily at the other end of the phone, and Ikaros notices from the tone and manner of it that Henry finds his audacity curiously appealing, which makes Ikaros want to hear him out.

"Okay, Ikaros, have it your way.  I'll cut to the chase.  I've got a multi-
billion
-dollar funding offer waiting for you down here, and I'd really like it if you could find the time to pop in on your stateside tour at some stage so we can go over the details, see if you'd be interested in taking it on or not.  It's pretty basic: I provide you funding so you can do your programme
your
way … no interference, period.  And no one need know about it except you and I.  I'll make sure of it; you can count on that.  How does that sound?"

Ikaros remains silent while staring down at the traffic below.  "'Multi-billion' isn't what it used to be, you know?"

"This multi-billion is; I can assure you.  Don't concern yourself about that.  What I'm talking about is more than enough.  Having said that, I know my 'sales pitch,' as it were, won't impress you, so what I wanna do is send you my details and everything you'll need to verify that I'm who I say I am and that I'm genuine; then you can decide what to do with that from there, okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine.  Um … I'll have a look and think about it.  That's about the best I can do, though." 

"Wouldn't expect anything more from you, Ikaros.  I'll let you go, then.  Have a nice trip.  And it's been nice talkin' to you."

"Yeah, you too.  Bye."  Ikaros throws the phone casually onto the bed and looks out the window, leaning his head against it to get a better look at the buildings and the busy intersection a bit further down the street.  He knows that this trip may be the first and last chance he gets to see Manhattan with all its over-exaggerated pretensions about being a retro-techno hybrid, a multi-cultural and economic hub, and a model city.  It's obvious to many that it still sentimentally and vainly clings on to its former glory and lives in denial about its path into the likely futures.

Chapter 2

Houston, Texas: eight days later

Having made his way through several states, stopping at a number of cities for what seemed like brief moments in a blur of almost-constant travelling, disturbing encounters and observations, Ikaros sits in a taxi looking out the window at the streets of Houston, tired from all the conversations with interviewers from local and online newspapers, magazines and radio stations, all of which were small, often 'underground' media outlets, yet in total are still able to disseminate to millions of people locally and around the world.  Although remaining cool for the most part, the near relentless and sometimes subtly hostile assault on his politics and philosophy has already taken its toll.  He remains convinced that the majority of the interviewers so far haven't come close to grasping his main points despite his efforts, which he's the first to admit haven't been his best due to the sense of hopelessness about his prospects of persuading them of his points of view, anyway. 

This is something he can't kick: as far as he's concerned, it seems that their perceptions are largely tainted by curious yet currently accepted ways of thinking 'critically,' or that they're smothered by the peculiarities of weird fringe ideologies he has little time for, but both of which he realises are to be expected; knowledge of this, however, does nothing to temper his growing disappointment.  Even when he meets with a journalist that appears sympathetic on certain points, too often they soon reveal themselves, often making a cheap political jab to the ribs that takes matters off track to such an extent that Ikaros starts to wonder how he can promptly extricate himself before exploding into a fit of rage and making too much of a scene, particularly in the more incarceration-obsessed states; he knows there's too much at stake for tension relief like that, which is why he started doing breathing exercises and progressive relaxation throughout the day long before arriving in New York.

The taxi driver interrupts his train of thought.  "What are you in Texas for, then?"

"Huh?  Oh … just business.  Kind of, anyway."

"Well, Texas is the reason!  You've come to the right place, that's for sure.  I can assure you of that."

"Really?"

"I can tell ya, there's more multi-millionaires and billionaires per capita that have come out of this place this century than any other, and that's not to say that we weren't doing well before that.  Know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I remember hearing something about that," he responds quietly.

"Texas should … well, I'm not alone in having the opinion that Texas should be an independent republic again like it was from eighteen thirty-six to forty five, you know?"

"It was a republic?" asks Ikaros ignorantly.

"Hell, yeah.  You didn't know that?"

"No, I missed that one."  Ikaros is unsurprised.

"Well, you're forgiven, being an Aussie.  Anyway, joining the Union was a mistake.  Many of us have always thought so.  Actually, a gigantic mistake that we're all paying for now.  I mean, I don't think the divisions went far enough: of the six, New York's pretty much the best, but they're just a bunch of east-coast, prig fools.  They just think …
assume
that they're better than the rest of us, but we're the ones that…  Who do you think's got the biggest GDP?  Won't give you any of God's green money for guessin'
that
right!"  The driver chuckles to himself smugly.  "I'm second generation Mexican-Texan.  This is my home, and I've worked damn hard here and so did my parents, and I'm not the only one who feels like the rest of the carved-up country, not just the six so-called 'united' states, but the rest of those losers as well, are still just usin'
our
resources,
our
profits, just like goddamned parasites — 'refugee' and 'poor' are just euphemisms.  Why the hell?!"