“One thought.”
Both men wait, eyebrows raised.
“You can’t call it RailCell.”
Crickets.
“To me, rail implies slow, old. A train.”
“It will replace the trains,” my college friend says.
Yep, the name was definitely his idea. The scientist’s eyes shift back and forth slowly, giant fish in a bowl behind those glasses.
“True. It will replace trains, but it’s a faster, newer technology. And I wouldn’t use the word cell either. Feels confined. I hear ‘cell,’ I think prison, cramped, inescapable. Last thing you want for a transportation brand.”
“What would you name it, then?” There’s an edge to his voice now.
“I don’t know. I would come up with two dozen names and test them with diverse groups. It’s cheap to do these days with social media. If this thing’s going to be as big as you think, a global brand that could reach everyone on earth, the name is crucial. Maybe Pod something. The cars in the tunnels are like pods, right? Pods feel safe. Impregnable. Comfortable. And it sounds like new technology—nobody is going anywhere in a pod right now.”
“PodJet? JetPod? Jets are fast.” He nods at the scientist, who doesn’t react.
“Jets crash,” I say.
“Not anymore. I mean, they crash so rarely.”
“People think rarely could happen to them. Subways don’t crash.”
“PodTube?”
“Sounds like TV.”
“TubePod.”
I shake my head. “Sounds like part of a plant.”
“Podway?”
“That could work. Keep playing with that.”
THE WORST PLACE TO BE sick is on an airplane. Well, maybe not the worst place, but it’s bad, and I’m bad sick, in and out of the first-class lavatory, puking, leaning against the wall, waiting for the pain and nausea to pass or to puke some more. I never know which is next.
I slump back in my seat, pale and drained.
“Get some bad food, partner?” the guy across the aisle asks.
“Must have,” I mumble.
It’s not bad food. I’ve never had a migraine in my life. Never felt this sick. Something is wrong with me. Something bad. Heathrow to SFO. Halfway over the Atlantic. Eight hours to go.
I wonder if I’ll make it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Harper
VODKA BOTTLES DRUNK LAST NIGHT: .25
Hugely important decisions made: 0
Episodes of Sherlock watched: 2
I awake to my phone ringing, my agent’s number staring me in the face.
It was late enough last night not to return his call—my agent and I aren’t that close, after all. Not ringing him up this morning looks like I’m dodging him, though. I start compiling cover stories, mentally rehearsing them to see what might float.
Got a nasty bug, Ron. Bloody planes—you know—laid up all day . . .
Mum’s been ill . . .
Oh, Ron, my phone, dropped it in the gap where the plane meets the ramp, cracked into a billion pieces when it hit the tarmac. Then a luggage truck ran over it, then a fuel truck, which God bless the driver tried to swerve to miss my poor phone but hit another truck. The explosion was enormous, blew the plane over, right onto my phone. It’s still down there somewhere.
May have gone a bit far with that last one. Nothing says you’re lying like overselling it.
But none of them will really work anyway. That’s the downfall of the digital age: no one can ever really get away. Even if I’d lost my cell, or come down with something, or had to pop out to help my mum, I’d still have e-mail access at home and hers to fire off a quick “Yes.” It’s rude not to ring him back, after all the work he’s put in. He deserves an answer, and so do the publisher and Mr. Shaw.
Tapping at my phone, I fire off an e-mail, thanking my agent for all his efforts to get me this opportunity, but . . . I haven’t made a decision yet.
A response pops up almost immediately.
Thanks, Harp. Take the time you need, but I want you to know they’re in a hurry to get the ball rolling. I have a call with the editor in an hour, sounds urgent. Will keep you posted.
Vodka didn’t shake the decision loose. Time for new tactics.
MILES RUN: 3
Correction, in the interest of complete honesty—
Miles run: 1.5
Miles walked while pondering life and pivotal decisions: 1.5
Decisions made: 0
There are two voice mails waiting when I get back. Both Ron. I tap the first one and listen.
“Just got off with the publisher, Harp. Shaw loved you—of course. The editor wants to be able to ring him in New York this morning and say we’re a go. Aaaaand—they’ve doubled the advance—without me even asking. I might get a touch more. Something’s up, will find out. Need your answer soon, Harp. Great opportunity here.”
And the next message, not fifteen minutes later.
“Think I know what’s brewing, Harp. Heard through the grapevine that Shaw’s son, Grayson, is shopping a tell-all. New York publishers won’t touch it, but he’s got an agent here, and they’re making the rounds. Bidding’s going to be intense. Rumors are he has juicy secrets. Maybe even criminal accusations. Lives of the rich and famous revealed. Going to be nasty. Oliver Norton Shaw needs someone to tell his story, the true story, when this load of bollocks hits the shelves. No matter who writes it, the books will feed off each other. Great opportunity here, Harp. Ring me when you get this.”
Ahhhh. I will make a decision today. And I’ve decided how.
AFTER A TRIP TO W. H. Smith, I am eight pounds fifty poorer and the proud owner of a myriad of notebooks, writing utensils, and poster boards, which lie sprawled out on my living room floor. I’ve moved the couch around, pushed the tables and chairs to the walls. It’s a big studio now, a temple devoted to Alice Carter.
I’m going to give her the day, pour my heart into her story. If it comes, if it demands to be written, I’ll give Alice the attention she needs. If it’s a chore—as it has been for years now—I’ll put her on the back burner and make the logical choice.
That’s what a rational adult would do—after drinking vodka, of course. But I’ve done that, so I’m going to try this.
I’m feeling better already.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Nick
I’VE FELT FINE SINCE THE PLANE LANDED IN San Francisco. Well, physically okay. But I have this overwhelming feeling that I’ve forgotten something. That I’m not doing something important that I need to do. It’s like a nervous, nagging type of guilt.
But it’s a feeling, at least. That’s new.
I call the one person I think might be able to help me. Luckily, he has an opening.
“HOW WAS YOUR WEEK?”
“About the same.”
“Explain.” Dr. Gomez crosses his legs and gives me the Psychologist Look. It seems like all psychologists are either born with it or taught it in school.
“I feel like I’m just watching my life happen.”
“How so?”
“I don’t get excited when I should. Barely even get angry. Most of the time, I couldn’t care less what happens. I just feel empty. But . . . the past two days, I’ve felt like there’s something urgent I’ve forgotten. Something drastic.”
“Do you feel you’re in danger?”
“What?”
“In danger. A danger to yourself or others?”
“No. You’re not listening to me. I don’t feel enough to hurt myself. I’m not depressed. I’m not manic. I’m nothing. It’s like the wires in my brain are disconnected. Look, I’m not at risk of offing myself or anyone else. But I’m scared to death I’m going to just watch the best years of my life go by, like I’m staring at a fish tank.”
IN MANY WAYS, EARLY-STAGE VENTURE capital is a soap opera.
Most of the sets are the same. The same characters appear and reappear; they have dramatic reversals and suc
cesses, fade out for a while, then return with what they swear is the next big thing.
Secrets are kept. Rumors spread at the speed of light.
Companies get hot, and the hotter they are, the more excited—and nervous—investors become. And for the last few days I’ve gotten e-mail after e-mail insisting I meet with a young man who is white-hot around here, the talk of the town. Or the whisper, actually; they’ll talk once their money is in. But everyone I’ve spoken with has one very big problem with him.
His name is Yul Tan, and we sit alone in the conference room at my office, his laptop on the table beside a stack of folders. He isn’t nervous or overconfident, not a talkative type. He’s focused, all about his work. And it might be the most interesting work I’ve heard about in a while.
“I’m calling it Q-net,” Yul says, laying a piece of paper in front of me. “Stands for quantum network. The modems will work in existing computers. No wires. It uses quantum entanglement to move massive amounts of data at the speed of light.”
He gets into the details, a little too far into the weeds, but I don’t stop him. It’s incredible. A no-cost, high-speed Internet, no infrastructure required. This will turn the world on its head. The potential is virtually limitless.
“I filed the patents two weeks ago.”
I nod. “Smart. Especially before making the rounds. Where do you see this company in five years, Yul? What do you want to happen here?”
The answer that follows is the problem, the issue my compatriots have and perhaps part of their motive for me to meet with him.
Yul Tan isn’t terribly interested in commercializing the technology or in money at all, for that matter. He wants to open the patents up to manufacturers for free. He just wants to work on the software, making it more efficient, ensuring that his new network stays secure from hackers and anyone who might use it for ill purposes. In short, he’s the real deal—an honest-to-God good human being, out to make this world a better place.
But he’s dangerous to investors. They don’t mind if the company loses money early, or even if there’s no clear plan to make a profit at the outset—but the folks running the thing have to at least want to make money eventually.
I’m not sure Yul does. But I am sure that I’ll do anything I can to help him. The world needs what he’s created, and it needs more people like Yul Tan and more people who would help someone like him. I want to be one of those people. Maybe that’s what I’m investing in. Either way, I feel that flame again, the match that flares and then gutters quickly, but still . . .
At the threshold of my office, Yul pauses. “I have to ask. I have this feeling . . . Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so.” I would have remembered Yul Tan.
We go through the possibilities: conferences we’ve both attended, talks I’ve given, potential mutual acquaintances. Yul’s not trying to make a social connection or to become more familiar; he works at the problem, his head down, focused, like he’s solving for x in a complex equation.
But we don’t find the missing variable.
When he’s gone, I sit in my office, pondering. There is something familiar about Tan.
My admin, Julia, floats in and lays a sheet of paper on my desk. “Tickets. I know you hate the mobile app.”
“Tickets to what?”
“New York.”
“What?”
“The Shaw meeting. Did you forget?”
I rub my temples. I definitely forgot. Why would I schedule this the day after I got back from London? But that’s not the real issue, I realize suddenly.
For the first time in my life, I’m terrified of flying.
“Want me to cancel it?” Julia asks, arching her eyebrows.
“No. I’ll go.”
It would be rude to cancel. But . . . I wonder what my chances of landing alive are.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Harper
EXPECTED OUTCOME:
Zero to little progress on Alice Carter.
Decision made. I’ll write the bloody Shaw biography.
Agent informed.
Best night of sleep of my life.
Actual outcome:
Alice Carter story explosion.
No decision made. More torn than ever.
Agent annoyed.
Didn’t sleep a wink.
It poured out of me. Ideas. Characters. Storylines. Outline after outline. I wrote until my hand hurt. It was effortless, like I was possessed, as if I was writing books I’d written, or at least mapped out, before.
I’m up the creek now.
I sit on the floor of my flat, staring at my poster boards and notes.
Alice Carter and the Eternal Secrets
Alice Carter and the Dragons of Tomorrow
Alice Carter and the Fleet of Destiny
Alice Carter and the Endless Winter
Alice Carter and the Ruins of Yesteryear
Alice Carter and the Tombs of Forever
Alice Carter and the River of Time
What am I going to do?
On the kitchen counter, my phone rings.
I walk over and eye it from a distance like a dead but venomous snake I need to toss in the rubbish heap.
When it stops ringing and the voice-mail tune chimes, I step closer, tap the play button, and close my eyes.
“Harper, if you’re out, they’re moving to their second choice. They don’t want to do that. I don’t want them to do that. Call me.”
I put the phone back on the counter, drift back to the living room, and collapse into my nest of scribblings.
I lie there thinking about another story, unrelated to Alice Carter. It would be a stand-alone. A thriller. Or is it sci-fi?
I wonder if this is my brain’s desperate, last-ditch effort at keeping the kid in me alive, my subconscious’s last stand. Is this my last chance to pursue my dream of writing fiction? I turn over and scribble some notes, then draw on the poster board: a gaping dark circle, half a plane, torn open roughly, sinking in a lake under a crescent moon.
It’s not the type of story I would normally read—or write—but I like it. It’s different. It feels like a potboiler, a simple thriller, a race against time, but it’s really about the characters, and how their lives change. About decisions and how they are the keys to the future. Again, the ideas pour out of me. I don’t even recall falling asleep, sprawled out on the living room floor, the pen still in my hand.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Nick
MILD MIGRAINE AND NAUSEA ON THE FLIGHT TO New York, about a fourth of the agony I experienced during the last flight. Only vomited twice. Maybe it was the shorter flight. For the first time in my life, I’m scared that I could be really sick. I barely slept last night, my mind racing, weird thoughts running through my head.
I contemplate what might be wrong with me while an acquaintance, another investor, devours his overpriced poached eggs.
After the niceties, he gets down to the matter at hand, a promising company that will preside over a new world (his words).
“Orbital colonies?”
“Not just that. We’re talking asteroid mining, vacation spots—the most expensive real estate in human history.” He leans in. “And we can create as much of it as we want.”
He rattles off another half-dozen potential business models, a buffet of enticements for capitalists, then waits, seeing which bait I go for.
The migraine returns, a low pulsing that ratchets up each second, like a building symphony inside my head, playing chords of pain.
I close my eyes and mumble, “It’s sort of outside my wheelhouse.”
“Word is, you’re looking to branch out.” He leans in. “This is pretty far out there.”
I flag the waiter and ask for a cup of coffee. Maybe that will help.
“It’s intriguing,” I say, trying to hide the pain as I speak. “But I’m looking for . . . a change in the impact my companies have. I’m looking to do something, I don’t know, with more
social impact.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, not you, too, Nick. The whole world’s going crazy.”
According to my breakfast companion, the dispersal of the world’s great fortunes and the epidemic of undeserved wealth syndrome will be the ruin of the Western world.
“You want social impact, Nick? Think about this: there have been five mass extinction events on this planet. It’s a matter not of if but when the lights go out for good.” He tosses another piece of egg into his mouth. “We’ve got to get off this rock.
“How’s the survival of the human race for the greater good?”
IN THE CAB RIDE TO Oliver Norton Shaw’s home, my phone rings. Yul Tan. It’s 9:43 A.M. here, 6:43 A.M. in San Francisco.
Calls this early are rare in my world. Founders stay up late and sleep late. Investors spend the morning reading articles and sending e-mails, or having breakfast with acquaintances with warped world-views.
I hit the answer button. “Nick Stone.”
“Mr. Stone . . .” I told Yul several times in the meeting to call me Nick, but I sense that there are bigger problems at the moment. His voice is nervous, agitated, a stark departure from his composure at our meeting. “I, uh, I thought I’d get your voice mail.”
“I can hang up and let you call back, if you prefer.”
He doesn’t laugh. An awkward silence stretches out, and I wish I hadn’t made the joke.
“I’ve been thinking about you. Where we might have met. I can’t stop thinking about it.” He coughs. “Can’t sleep.”
Silence. This is typically the point at which I would politely get off the phone and promptly start calling people about things like restraining orders and making sure that home alarm really does work.
Instead I shift in the backseat of the cab, turning my head away from the driver. “Yes . . . I’ve been thinking about it, too. Do you have any idea—”
“No.”
I wait, but he doesn’t say another word, only coughs. I think he called me out of desperation.
Finally I say, “I’ve had these migraines—”
“Feels like my head is going to explode. Like I’m sick.”