Corrida (Part 1)
This story was originally published by Freedom Forge Press in 2013.
Corrida, a moon named for the constellation from which it came, was as decrepit as Calhoun Inc., the company that acquired it at auction. If someone didn’t buy it, the Republic vowed to blast it out of the sky, deeming it a constant reminder of government’s failure to prevent its “twinning” Earth’s orbit path fifty years ago.
“We’ve got one last chance at solvency,” Major Calhoun responded when the last two shareholders demanded to know why the company’s remaining capital had been invested in the inglorious purple eyesore. “I’m thinking 2063’s version of Woodstock —a historical, intergalactic fuck-fest venue dressed up like a island paradise. Can you see what I see?”
Morgan grabbed a lock of his black hair and wagged his head back and forth. “Licenses, insurance, food inspections, accommodation inspections, regulations ... We don’t have that kind of money. The damn place is four hundred thousand miles away.”
“Transportation,” Sarah chimed in, “that obstacle alone will bankrupt us.”
Calhoun slammed his gavel on its wooden block. “Okay, that’s enough negativity.” He rummaged around in his brief case and hauled out a handful of papers he waved in the air. “The Republic’s on board with my vision, you dumb asses.”
Morgan lifted his head and peeked through his fingers. “Is that a government contract?”
“Yep. And a big small business loan comes with it, and design consulting, and an advance against profits for three years. And a lease for Republic Hop-pods for your transportation obstacles, Miss Sarah ‘the Cassandra’ Elliot. Our profit margin? Thirty per cent.”
Sarah and Morgan exchanged alleluia smiles. “Well, good-bye Coney Island and hello Corrida!” Morgan said.
***
The final inspection of hotel complexes, surrounding pools, tennis courts, gold courses and the like, was scheduled six months after the contracts were signed. “Can you believe it?’ Calhoun said as they sat in the dark watching a virtual tour on a five foot by five foot screen at the Republic Small Business Office.
“It sure is beautiful,” Sarah said as the camera panned the beaches. She hit pause to linger on the shots of honeymoon cottages shaded by swaying palms. “Are those private lagoons?”
“Hot tubs designed to look like lagoons,” Calhoun said.
“When do we leave?” Morgan said.
Sarah picked up a suit-case sized purse. “I’ve got everything I need. Let’s go.”
“We don’t. That’s the beauty of this deal.” Calhoun turned on the light and handed them each an envelope with a check inside. “The Republic’s hired and trained the staff, bought the uniforms, stocked the refrigerators and the bars, and all we do is sit back and collect our shares.”
Sarah put her purse on the floor, next to her chair. “What do I have to do? Buy a ticket? I own a plush resort and I can’t step foot on it. That sucks.” She felt Morgan’s elbow in her ribs.
“Remember where you are,” he whispered.
***
They left Calhoun pressing the flesh of Republic Development bureaucrats and repeating ‘wonderful’ and ‘excellent’ as he moved down the reception line.
“What the hell’s going on?” Sarah said as she and Morgan walked toward a gazebo where white-uniformed waiters served them lunch.
“My guess is, they want a private face on another government-owned business operation. Silent but highly visible partners. Smile pretty.”
It wasn’t a difficult order. The Republic set a magnificent table. Asparagus tips, tender roast beef, crisp lettuce salad, and cheesy rolls. Raspberry ice-cream. For two people who’d survived on weeny-bean soup and day-old baguettes since graduation, fresh food, linen napkins, translucent china, and polished silver bought a lot of patriotism.
“I could get used to this,” Sarah said. This was the soft purr of a Rolls Royce motor and the smell of new leather. But their new digs overwhelmed her, a sprawling two-story white behemoth with a wrap-around porch.
“It’s the mayor’s old residence,” Morgan said. “I recognize it from the news. Complete with security detail and electrified fences, I see.” The Rolls rolled past black-suited men who wore reflective sun-glasses, posted at strategic intervals along the drive-way.
“A fancy prison is still a prison. Check out orders disguised as an invitation.” He handed her a satiny card embossed with the Great Seal of the Republic —a globe flanked by a lion and an eagle. “A six AM photo shoot for The Big Apple Weekend Magazine and a luncheon interview with Eleanor Pace, travel Editor. No RSVP needed because refusal isn’t an option.”
“Does it really say that?” She took the envelope and scanned the calligraphy.
“No, but it might as well.”
“The price of success, young man.”
***
From Earth, Corrida looked like an amethyst bracelet bead to some, an apocalyptic shadow to others. Love it or hate it, the stories about the orb were as interesting as the writers and artists who told them. Morgan's twin brother, a songwriter living in Pacoima, noted the rise of the Republic’s power coincided with Corrida's arrival, alleging that it had stolen the power of the moon and had caused pervasive Lunaphobia. “The tides have changed,” Marvin had said when Morgan scoffed at the notion. “It's a geological fact.”
For the hundredth time he'd explained to Marvin that correlation wasn't causation, but Marvin was an inveterate conspiracy theorist and still believed in Bigfoot. Sarah idolized him. “My Lord Byron” she called him. He dedicated songs to her, and died angry with the Republic Healthcare doctors who'd denied him Thermycin —the only effective treatment for the HN5 virus. And Morgan’s second worst fear after another pandemic had become reality. He was at the mercy of the Republic’s unrelenting regulations and couldn’t secure a license or a government contract to sell real estate.
Dear Sir: Screw you and your business degree
Maybe that's why so many folks still enthusiastically applauded Corrida’s existence. It had become a symbol of a free frontier, a parallel, pristine Earth. The media hype only fed the mythology of the Second Eden. According to Calhoun, tickets were sold out two years in advance and they were filthy rich though a spade had yet to turn a dirt clod.
What a difference a year made.
“Shouldn't we have a business meeting or something?” Morgan asked Calhoun as the anniversary of the opening drew near.
“You got the P & L statements and the tax returns,” Calhoun said, “You know we’ve nothing to worry about. Sarah's not worried, is she?”
“Just bored. We can only play so much golf and pose in pretty clothes. She misses her family, and there’s always a phony-baloney reason why they can't come to visit.”
“Let's take a walk,” Calhoun said casually, and they headed down the driveway toward the gate with ever-present security personnel six feet behind them.
“I don't want to alarm Sarah, but you can take it. Things are getting rough society wise. Go five miles past the gate, and you're likely to wind up robbed or worse.”
“Holy shit, you're talkin’ another HN5 outbreak.”
“Republic bigwigs are weathering the pandemic just fine. They can always leave. It means a big bonus for us, of course, but there’s a quarantine.”
“Quarantine, hell, we need vaccine. A bonus is no good if we’re dead.”
A security man approached them when they got ten feet from the gate. “If there's anything you need, I'll get it for you.” His right hand rested on the holster at his side.
“Yeah. Yeah. I know,” Calhoun said and walked toward the house.
“We need some Thermycin,” Morgan said.
The uniformed man scratched his head. “Some what, Sir?”
“Never mind.” Morgan caught up to Calhoun. "Has the government actually moved to Corrida?”
“The president didn't televise a bon voyage party, so I don't know anything except the hospitals are turning away HN5 patients. Supplies of Thermycin are low and desperate people do crazy shit.”
Morgan steered Calhoun to the garden, his favorite spot on the estate, where he and Sarah went to talk privately. Considered safe, the security detail was content with surveiling them from the porch. “You ever been to Corrida? Physically.”
The older man sat down on a granite bench top with a black and white swirled marble seat. “Not me. I telecommute.”
Morgan sat beside him, head down, hand to his cheek, just in case the staff could read lips at two hundred yards. “Shit, Calhoun, HN5 can’t reach us there. We’d like to see paradise before we’re too old to enjoy it. Don't you have owners rights, you know, like the right to an on-site inspection or something?”
“The place runs itself. Just like the Republic officials promised. Trust me, if they thought you were in danger, you’d get Thermycin. I guarantee it. Just sit tight.” Calhoun took one of his trade-mark Havana cigars out of his suit’s breast pocket, the ones that looked like nine inch Tootsie Rolls, and a matchbook from The Steak Out. Morgan took his dates there when he was in college. It was good to know it was still in business.
Morgan took the matchbook and held it in front of Calhoun’s nose. “How come you can leave and we can’t? You’re not quarantined? Is the HN5 bad, or isn’t it? What would those goons do if we just walked outt’a here, shoot us? I wouldn’t mind eatin’ in a restaurant now and then myself.”
“I get it. It’s cabin fever. Hazard of the rich and famous. I’ll talk to Ganzini and get you a car and a driver. Security’s a bitch in public places, but it can be arranged.” He held out his hand and Morgan dropped the matchbook into his palm. “It’s all about the branding. Me? I don’t have the public exposure like you and Sarah —America’s darlings. She has her picture taken wearing a Yves St. Laurent Retro, and every two-bit billionaire in Europe runs out and buys one just like it. Enjoy your privacy while you have it. This next year gonna be nothin’ but public appearances. We’re talking Chicago, Europe —where the bulls really run, Mr. Wall Street Wanna-be.” He gave Morgan a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “Anything else before we chow down?”
“Ahh, just a question about the roses.”
“Roses?”
“Yeah, the roses and forests and hibiscus and magnolia —scads of green plants and hills and hot tubs that look like lagoons —they all take gazillions gallons of water. Yet, in all the P&L, tax documents, shipping manifests, and invoices, you sent over there’s not one mention of water. Wikopedia says Corrida has no lakes, rivers, oceans or icecaps. So where does all the water come from for skiing, and fishing, and surfing?”
“Well…” Calhoun scratched, then smoothed his bushy white mustache. “Ever hear of a well, city boy? I’ll get the particulars and get back to you.” Maybe he was the first to notice the omission. He knew real estate. But he expected a development guru like Calhoun would have caught it too. “I’ll contact our people and tell ‘em to update Wikopedia.”
“I’ll get my lap-top and we can contact them together. I’d like to meet our people.”
“Sure. Sure.” He took out his cell phone and hit speed dial. “Is Mr. Samuelson available, Beth? Major Calhoun here.” He winked at Morgan. “How ‘bout a Skype conference on Sunday, then? Okay. Okay. Monday at ten. You hear that, Morgan? It’s a roger. Be ready to travel by seven.”
“Who’s Samuelson?”
“The Republic accountant in who handles our account. It’s not like the President knows any of the details. He’s got a country to run, you know.”
“Yeah, and golf to play.”
***
A fruitful conversation, Calhoun described it to Sarah. Still, dinner was as strained as the apple purée poured over the gingerbread cake. She watched her partners avoid eye contact and resist all her efforts at small talk. “Come on, guys,” she said, “we’ll be okay. News reporters say the HN5 outbreak has run its course and in another week the quarantines will be lifted for coastal cities. That's us, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what I hear,” Calhoun said, and signaled a steward for more coffee.
Morgan tapped his water glass with his butter knife three times in an anachronistic display of approval and offered a lackluster toast. “To good news.”
“Will you look at the time,” Sarah said, giving Morgan a pre-arranged signal that she wanted a fruitful conversation of her own.
Morgan laid his napkin aside and stretched. “I better walk off some of these carbs.” He headed for the garden, knowing Calhoun was about to get an earful about the lack of female companionship in the compound. He could talk guy shit with the Republic goons, but all the maids and photographers wanted to talk about was soap operas. And how come she couldn’t have her family visit or talk to them on the phone? Letters weren’t good enough. Her mother had RA and she was worried. Did her brother pass the bar exam? Calhoun didn’t know what a handful Sarah could be when she got going. On a trip to the Grand Canyon, he and Marvin calculated she’d complained non-stop about the lousy service they’d gotten at Denny’s from Gila Bend to Phoenix. God, how they’d laughed at her, and she’d sulked until they bought her a pecan roll at a Stuckey’s.
He sat on ‘their bench’, in a natural alcove along a hedge row, and smiled to himself as he remembered Marvin riding shotgun and nodding and saying un-hunh and that’s right as they listened to an oldies station. Above him, Corrida disappeared in a violet gauze as the moon waxed full. “It's not true,” he heard someone whisper behind him. “No, don’t turn around. They’re watching you. There is no Samuelson. No meeting. Calhoun dialed Security. I talked to him while you were washing up for dinner. The news reports —the quarantines. All bullshit.”
“I don't believe you,” Morgan said cautiously.
“He dialed me, ya’ jerk. You’re shut up in this fancy doghouse, but I leave after every shift and I’m telling you, your life ain’t worth the thirteen cent bullet they’ll use to blow you away.”
“That’s not Calhoun’s style. He doesn’t even swat mosquitoes. I’m gonn’a report this, you son-of-a-bitch.” He stood up and walked along the hedge, sticking his hand through the branches and rustling the leaves. “When and if I find you.”
He heard a long, heavy sigh. “Do that and you’re dead tomorrow morning, ya’ fool. Sit down.” Morgan went back to the bench and eased onto the stone that an on-shore La Jolla breeze had made cold. “Calhoun's in bed with the big boys and he just designated you and Ms. Sarah enemies of the Republic. You’re gonna be eliminated. From the way you look at her, I don’t believe you want that to happen.”
Perhaps Calhoun had seen the way he looked at Sarah too. “Why would we be branded traitors? We’re loyal citizens.”
A black-gloved hand set an envelope next to him. “I leave it to you to tell Ms. Sarah her family’s dead. If you’re not back here by ten o’clock, I’ll write your obituary, goofball.” Morgan heard fading foot falls and smiled to himself as he picked up the envelope. At least Moses’ talking bush delivered its message with a little panache —his just babbled nonsense. Sarah’d laugh her ass off when he told her.
But when he got to his room and removed copies of death certificates for Sarah's parents and her brother from the bush’s envelope, he cringed. Death was the only reasonable explanation for their absence. And the bush knew about Calhoun’s call. How? No one was within ear-shot. Unless Calhoun was wired. Something wasn’t right. His mind raced back to the New year’s Day Outback Bowl —again South Carolina’s Gamecocks smoked Michigan’s Wolverines. Coach Griffith said 2035 would be another banner year... “He’s got his dates mixed up,” Sarah said. “It’s 2036.”
He’d laughed at the time. What did women know about football? She’d called him a sexist. They’d had a long discussion about whether feminism was dead. And he’d forgotten he was at the 2034 game and had heard the interview gaffe before, albeit through a beer-induced stupor. Maybe Griffith did get it wrong.
He booted up his computer and entered 2036 Outback Bowl. No matches. Was the game cancelled? He entered the same info for 2035. No matches. Had the Internet been cancelled? He entered his identification codes to review the reports Calhoun had sent. ERROR, the message box read, ACCESS DENIED. He checked his printer. One document in queue. He saved the document to a flash drive, and opened it. The records appeared on his screen. His world was being systematically erased. Moses paid attention. He’d better do the same. He’d show the evidence to Sarah and hope she’d believe they were in danger. If not, he’d go alone.