Transmat World: Chapter 1, Episode 2
Tujunga, CA; Thursday, March 14, 2137 A.D.
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It’s like taking medicine, Vince thought, the longer you put it off, the worse things get.
He opened the door with reluctance.
Sunbeams cleared the tops of the Verdugo Mountains and made their way through skylights between the solar panels. They spotlighted stray dust motes and disowned cat hair as he crossed the foyer and entered the living room. Henry and Nancy Miller quit talking in low tones and looked at Vince.
“What’s going on? Why’d you guys stop talking? I didn’t do — ”
“Vince, I was explaining to your mom, I’m not working at the Jet Propulsion Lab anymore. I resigned.”
Hank’s hair had more salt than pepper these days, but his face looked more relaxed than Vince had seen it in a long time.
“Dad, I don’t know what to say. I thought you liked that job. I thought you liked the people you worked with.”
Vince had always been proud of his dad’s working for the lab, even though several buddies at school had the same bragging rights. Jet Propulsion Lab was Pre-Hit. It was like a continuity check with a treasured past that was now gone from his life.
“I do … I did, but they were doing things I didn’t agree with and wouldn’t listen to me. Don’t get me wrong. Jeff Cantelli, Bruce Foster, Lori Ngo, all those great people I worked with, we’re still friends but … well, an intractable difference of opinion on a critical decision tree branch in the program popped up, so I decided to work on my own.”
“In other words, they wouldn’t do it your way, so you split. I guess now’s not the time to ask for an electric bike to ride to school next year,” said Vince.
“Always the smart aleck. Why don’t you explain that shiner while you’re being so glib?”
His mom got the squinty-eyed, inquisitive look, “Vince, what happened to your face?”
“Ran into a door.”
“Did the door have a fist attached to it?” Hank said.
“As a matter of fact, it did, briefly. Okay, yeah, I got into an altercation. This jerk with a critical streak.”
“Who hit first?” Hank said.
“He did.”
“Damn, Son. How many times do I have to tell you? You see a fight is inevitable, hit them first, make sure they’re down, and then be the first to report it. They always assume the other guy started the fight if you report it first and, as a bonus, you don’t get hurt.”
“Okay, Dad, it’s that ‘inevitable’ part that’s tricky, and besides, it sounds downright mean and calculating. Not that it’s not good advice. It just isn’t me.”
A classical jazz riff and mid-air holo of a man in a business suit with a 3D subtitle “visitor” announced someone at the door.
“Go put ice on that eye,” said Nancy, moving toward the door.
Under the curious supervision of Lord Greystoke, Vince fixed a plastic basin of ice water in the kitchen. Two minutes were spared for face soaking before he came out to see what was happening.
“And my son, Vince,” said Hank, sweeping an open palm in Vince’s direction.
“Nice to meet you, Vince Miller. I am Frederick Beasener, consultant to the Board of Agreement,” said Mr. Beasener.
“Wow, the Board,” said Vince. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Beasener.”
He had never met anyone connected with the Board. The revered and charismatic Chairman of the Board, Neal Pratney, was always on the news blogs announcing a program or invention to help get mankind into space or to prevent future disasters. The Board was behind the longevity treatments and funded the first space habitat, the Stephen Hawking. As a kid, Vince watched the construction on 3D vidcasts. Finished a year ago, the massive project was now cooling down to habitation temperature in orbit.
“Please, call me Frederick,” said Beasener, holding a bowler hat in his left and shaking Vince’s hand with a cool, firm, steady grip.
Nancy offered coffee and cheesecake all around, except to Vince, who could have cheesecake but no coffee on a school night. Frederick begged off, saying he ate earlier and was still stuffed. Vince thought it sounded practiced. The talk soon turned to business. Vince’s financial concerns eased as he realized the Board was offering a grant for Hank to continue investigations into the possibility of teleportation.
This did not distract Vince from thinking Frederick Beasener one of the oddest people he had ever met. He showed little emotion, but when his passive countenance energized, it was with comically pronounced exaggeration. Vince ascribed it to a strange and mysterious brain malady. A subject one should never bring up in public and only with politic nuance in private. Bert’s insensitive blathering about Vince’s fake dyslexia served as a case in point. Beasener never used contractions. And a bowler hat for God’s sake.
