by Thomas L. Traband III
I've had better weeks. My car played dead, my girlfriend left me, I ran out of money and I threw a party. One of my problems stands out. Usually people associate parties with fun, lots of boose and lots of gratuitous sex. This is true of our parties except, - for the hosts- parties are serious business.
Yes, I did say ‘our’. It's my offhand way of introducing my friend, Rupert. We had been friends since grade school. I was the brain, he was the class clown. We pulled off some of the best practical jokes in recorded history at Mayfield Elementary. One time, while we were in sixth grade, we rigged the fire alarm system up to a computer, you know one of those pocket-sized, discount store things. We locked in an infinite loop, and stashed it in the bottom of a flower pot in the secretary's office. Rupert got himself chewed out as a diversion, while I buried the computer. The kids got the day off, but we got a week off. What we didn't understand at the time was why we got a reward from the principal, we expected him to be mad. Yeah, we were pretty naive in those days.
Rupert and I continued our reign of fun and revelry by throwing BIG parties. We behaved like spoiled brats on Christmas morning, we couldn't wait to throw our next fest. A following quickly developed among life's outcast and disenfranchised. You see, we were rebels. Rupert lived to punish society. He hated his name, he hated his family, he hated his face. In fact, he hated just about everything. His solution became an arrogant disregard for laws (natural & man-made), society and anything else that didn't immediately catch his fancy. Needless to say, he became very wealthy.
What no one knew was that Rupert was really very shy. Being noticed terrified him. This was one reason he had been such a good practical joker. Pardon the cliché, but he hid in plain sight. Rupert threw parties and led a high-profile life so he could choose what role to play and what persona he would reveal to the world. This way no one saw the true Rupert Jones.
As you may have guessed, I loved him like a brother and admired him like an archetypical hero.
Tonight's party promised to surpass our earlier efforts. We booked the hugely popular and unreachable innovative rock group, Meltdown (Rupert pulled some strings.). We bought five hundred kegs of imported beer, and invited a like number of guests. We expected at least twice as many at Rupert's suburban estate.
An estate is what it should have been. In Annandale, estates aren't quite the same as in Southern California. While the split-level house was well-furnished and maybe luxuriant, distinction belonged to the home automation and, most especially, the pool. I'll come back to the automa.
Hordes of people regularly show up, without the lure of Meltdown, just to see the pool. Imagine a three-step stone stair, hollowed out, the tops of the steps removed, and then imagine each step being an Olympic sized pool filled with water. As a victim of general physics and common sense, you'd point out to me that the water would only reach the level of the lowermost step. And I would respond, “Ah, that's what makes it special.” Science couldn't figure it out and Rupert wasn't talking. Not even I knew the secret.
Above the middle step, and with the top stair, a redwood deck had been built. On the landward side of the top stair, Meltdown's crew began seemingly chaotic preparations for tonight's show. I nursed my gin and tonic while watching their work, reminded of an ant colony under attack by a rival tribe.
I hated gin and tonics, by the way. I enjoyed drinking them of course, but I couldn't stand the taste. But, I had to drink them. You see, there are things in this world that one doesn't question. Drinking gin and tonics is one of those things.
I heard a crash as of some large object being dropped. Looking over my shoulder at the driveway and unloading zone I saw some of the crew apparently using a forklift to move some strange object. Their destination seemed to be the service elevator which led to the upper pool level. This strange object falling off the forklift caused the sound I'd heard.
“Careful with that cooling tower. You and me both don't make enough money to buy one a dese things,” shouted a burly guy who must have been the band's stage manager.
“Sorry, Ed, we'll be more careful. Let's get this thing back on the lift.” Three other leviathans helped the driver get the cooling tower back on.
‘So that was one of Meltdown's cooling towers,’ I thought. I'd read somewhere that they bring their own nuclear reactor on tour to power their shows. The reality was hard to accept. ‘Rupert must want to get his hands on the technology for that,’ I mused.
Rupert never talked much about his plans with people who weren't involved in carrying them out. He didn't tell me whether he was interested in getting that reactor, but I could make a good guess. With the reactor, the possibilties for improving his home automation would be limitless.
Everything in and beneath his home was automated. Doors opened and closed at the press of a button or were opened automatically if the CPU decided it was better for the internal climate. The CPU controlled all the functions in the house through robots and sensors. The vast array of sensors measured climate and people. Mood would be ascertained by monitoring of heart rate, respiration and galvanic skin response. The CPU would second-guess a person's actions and wants. A drink could be sent or a door opened.
An elevator connected all the many sub-levels in the house itself. All the hardware used in running this house was cached down here as well as offices, research labs and residential facilities. Everything necessary for running RJ International had been tucked away throughout the thirty or so subterranean levels. The whole complex connected to an office building just a mile from here. Rupert used the office for appearances. The real business occurred down here.
I lived in an apartment in Rupert's complex. It consisted of sixteen rooms on two levels. I had a hole cut between the two and a stairway installed. The furnishings were simple, but comfortable. Surrounded by this technology I needed something a little old-fashioned. Besides, I couldn't write when I had too much else to occupy my mind.
The band arrived at about 3:00pm for a sound check. I expected monsters, gargoyles or demons. These guys showed up clean-shaven in three peice pinstripe suits with well-kempt hair, manicures, even shined shoes. Their whole appearance was best described as business like.
I also expected them to be American. Maybe it was prejudice, but, when they spoke, it surprised me.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where the lads and I can change?” inquired one of them in a thick, but cultured Welsh accent. “We can't very well work dressed like this, eh?”
“Go in through this door,” I said, pointing at the sliding glass door, “and make a left. Use any of the bedrooms.”
“Thank you very much…”
“Manners. David Manners.”
“Thank you, Mr. Manners. I'm Pembroke, but call me RJ. I hope you enjoy the show. You will be there, won't you?”
“I wouldn't miss it.”
Pembroke flashed a charming, likable smile and I knew I'd be at that show. This guy had that kind of charisma that inspired men to follow him anywhere through any sort of peril. He followed the rest of Meltdown inside and I turned toward the elevator. I wanted to clean myself up before the night's festivities began.
Guests began arriving around 7:00. The few I knew asked about why the top section of the pool was closed and shrouded behind a curtain. They must not read, because every major magazine and newspaper carried stories on tonight's show. Lawsuits and restraining orders were filed, while every possible insurance company refused us coverage, all in an attempt to prevent Meltdown's performance. By the show business credo, however, the show must go on. No power on this earth could prevent Rupert from doing something once he got it in his head he wanted to do it.
Serving ’bots mingled through the crowd. They looked like dome-topped trashcans on wheels. Each had been programmed to mix any type of drink, provided they were stocked with sufficient raw materials. They responded to any language, as long as the drink was named in English, French, Spanish, German, Russian, Japanese or Mandarin.