Offspring (25 page)

“Are you in negotiation with another game company?”

Kendi’s eyes widened a tiny bit. “No!” he said a little too quickly. “I wouldn’t do such a thing. It might upset the generous deal I have with you, Mr. Brace. I’ve just been really busy with Grandma’s campaign and all and haven’t had much of a chance to look at the agreement.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Brace managed a weak smile and Kendi noticed a tiny line of sweat at his blond hairline.

“Speaking of the contract,” Kendi said, “I had a question about one part. This clause states that you’ll own the exclusive rights to use my image in any capacity. I’m not so sure about that one. The other—I mean, I’ve
heard
that other game companies don’t run things that way. I need to appear in the game itself, obviously, and in ads for the game, but I might need to use my own image somewhere else once in a while, you know?”

“Well, maybe we can pare that back a little.” Brace tapped his data pad, then beamed a change to Kendi’s pad. “I like your data pad, by the way. New?”

“A gift,” Kendi said.

“There. How’s that? Game and ads—that’s it.”

“Better,” Kendi said. “Where’s my stylus? I can probably sign right—oops! You forgot to take out the word ‘exclusive.’ “

“Sorry. Just strike it.”

Kendi took out his stylus, touched the tip to the agreement, then paused. “When’s the deadline for this, anyway?”

The sweat on Brace’s forehead became more pronounced. “Er, it’s not firm yet. We hope to start beta testing next year.”

Kendi nodded, though inside he was grinning wide. Brace was lying through his keen, white teeth. Ben had spent a little time on the gaming boards and uncovered plenty of rumors that “Dream and Despair” was actually almost ready for beta testing now. That meant HyperFlight had made the enormous mistake of starting production on the game before all the contracts were signed. Kendi, Ben, and Gretchen were in a position to stall the release indefinitely and cost the company millions of freemarks.

“You know,” Kendi said, toying thoughtfully with the stylus, “three percent royalty seems a little low. I know I’m not doing any of the actual writing, but it
is
my story. Ben did some research and found out that the—that other companies pay four percent.”

“Only for really famous celebrities,” Brace said. His eyes never left the stylus.

Kendi gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Sometimes I swear my name is a household word, Mr. Brace. But if HyperFlight doesn’t want to do that, I can understand. Times are tough. You can take the agreement back and ask your bosses about it, I guess. I’ll be out of town for a couple of months on the campaign trail, and maybe we can talk again when I get—”

“I think we can handle four percent,” Brace said.

“And raise the other rate, too?” Kendi asked. “Five point five percent on every copy sold after the first two million? Though I read somewhere that the breakpoint for books is the
first
million. I don’t suppose that—”

“Five point five after the first million,” Brace said recklessly. “And we’ll raise the advance to one point five million freemarks.”

“And make the same offer to Ben and Gretchen.”

“They’re minor characters,” Brace countered. “Half a million advance to each of them, royalties at two and two point five.”

“Three quarters of a million to Gretchen. Ben stays at half.”

“Done.”

Kendi signed with a flourish. “Thank you, Mr. Brace. I’m sure Ben and Gretchen will sign without a problem.”

Brace got up, shook Kendi’s hand, and moved toward the door. He seemed to be in a daze. Kendi picked up Ben’s hologram by the base and turned it over. The movement caught Brace’s eye and he turned in time to see Kendi scrape a tiny, translucent button off the bottom and crush it with his fingertips. Brace winced and his hand rose to his ear. At the last moment, he scratched his temple instead.

“Speck of dirt,” Kendi said. “I look forward to playing this game when it comes out, Mr. Brace. Do you think I’ll choose Gretchen or Ben as my love interest?”

“I really have no idea,” Brace said in a faint voice. He left Kendi’s office and quietly, carefully closed the door.

Jolanda Rondeau double-checked the pheromone tanks. Full. The motor on the ultralight purred like a contented lizzie-bat. Her mechanic made a final adjustment and gave Jolanda a thumbs-up.

“Thanks,” Jolanda said, and put on her helmet. “Tell Frank I hope he’s feeling better.”

“Will do,” the mechanic said.

Jolanda boarded her craft. The ultralight looked like the skeleton of a tiny airplane, one just big enough for a single pilot. Ahead of the craft stretched a fallen talltree trunk, which was so massive the top formed a nearly flat surface. The bark had been sanded off and platforms hung off either side. At one end, the monstrous roots made a tangle that reached three stories above the trunk. A small hangar had been built there. At the other end, the branches had been cut off, leaving a long, smooth expanse that made a fine runway. The fallen tree left open a strip of open space that would let small aircraft slip unhindered into the sky.

Jolanda goosed the motor and started down the runway. To her left she caught sight of the mechanic. He was a dark-haired man with bland features. Jolanda had never seen him before, but it wasn’t unusual to have a substitute mechanic now and then. She put him out of her mind and turned her attention to flying.

The takeoff was smooth, as it always was, and her stomach dropped as she grabbed fast altitude. Jolanda inhaled in the crisp, clean-smelling air that rushed over her face. Below her, the tops of the talltrees made a green carpet that stretched all the way to the horizon. Jolanda loved it up here. She could pretend she was the only person in the entire world, with nothing but sunlight above and leaves below.

Jolanda checked the navigation computer and nosed around until she was pointed in the right direction. Then she tapped a button. Behind her, a thin, steady stream of mist jetted from the pheromone tanks. The pheromones would disperse and spread, keeping the more dangerous carnosaurs away from Treetown. Jolanda checked the tanks and went into a grid dispersal pattern. Once she had flown this route twice a week. Now she did it twice a month. The city couldn’t afford any more than that. The irony was that tent cities had sprouted like mushrooms beneath the city, meaning more people walked the forest floor than ever. The inhabitants erected their shelters well away from the stomping grounds of the big herbivores, but the carnivores wandered more. Jolanda wondered how long it would be before a carnosaur chomped down some hapless homeless person.

The ultralight’s motor cut out. Jolanda froze, then hit the restart. Nothing. A tinge of fear thrilled through her. The ultralight went into a long, gliding dive. Jolanda hit the emergency anti-grav generator. A red light told her it was malfunctioning. The fear blew into full-blown panic. A scream tore itself from her throat as the ultralight skimmed over the trees and dropped down into the forest.

“You know who I want to slap? The guy who said that a crisis is an opportunity in disguise.”

—Irfan Qasad

Applause thundered over Kendi as he left the platform. Lewa Tan followed. Several people in the school auditorium chanted, “Tapers! Tapers! Tapers!” Kendi turned to give them a wave and a grin. The noise swelled, and Kendi trotted backstage, where Wanda Petrie was bending over to pick up the stylus she had dropped. The grin dropped off Kendi’s face as she straightened.

“Where now?” he asked wearily over the noise.

“Dellton,” she said, naming a small city south of Treetown. “You’re speaking at the military base there in an hour, so we have to get moving.”

“We’re always moving,” Kendi muttered. Ignoring this remark, Petrie took him by the elbow and led him firmly to the exit where the flitcar was parked. Tan went outside ahead of them for a quick look around. A rectangle of late summer sunshine fell onto the floor, radiating golden heat. Tan gestured from the door, and Kendi ducked into the back seat of the waiting flitcar. Petrie and Tan climbed in beside him, and Tan went up front. Gretchen had the controls. Even after signing the lucrative sim-game contract, she had continued to show up for her job as bodyguard. No words of thanks or explanation—just a clear and quiet determination to keep Kendi safe.

Kendi watched the trees drop away, then merge into a blurry green carpet as Gretchen took them up to speed. Spring had melted into summer, but Kendi had barely noticed. It seemed like all his time was spent in the flitcar these days, rushing from one speaking engagement to the next, giving the same speech over and over until someone handed him a new one. The in-between times were spent in the studios making commercial announcements. Kendi’d had no idea that standing in front of a camera and giving a short speech could be so complicated. It took forever for the staff to choose the right clothes, the right makeup, the right lighting, the right
mood
, whatever that meant. And then the repetition. Say it this way. Now say that way. We need more energy, Father Kendi. We need better enunciation, Father Kendi. We need more warmth, Father Kendi. We need, we need, we need.

The sun shone down heavily on the emerald talltree leaves. Kendi missed the talltrees, missed walking among their cool, green depths, feeling calm and protected from the hot summer sunlight. Up here in the campaign’s flitcar, everything was always hot and blue and gold. Even the flitcar’s environmental controls couldn’t keep the temperature completely even. Bright sunshine flooded the cabin with yellow heat and made Kendi’s skin itch with discomfort. He knew it was a nonsensical complaint from a man who created a desert every time he entered the Dream, but the Outback was
meant
to be hot. Bellerophon was supposed to be cool and temperate. The natural order had been upset.

Fatigue pulled at Kendi’s body and bones. He was always tired now. The speaking had turned out to be more strenuous than he had through. For the last three months, he had done nothing but speak and run, speak and run, speak and run. He had returned home every night only to fall into an instant, exhausted sleep. In the morning he was up before dawn, traveling for two or three hours to another round of speeches, more monotonous dinners of tasteless food, and endless flurries of handshaking before he could flee back home to Ben and Harenn. Harenn had finally convinced Kendi that she and Ben didn’t mind if he spent the occasional night or two away from home, that nothing interesting was going to happen this early in the pregnancy. Kendi had finally agreed, but he never slept away from home for more than three nights in a row.

Sometimes it felt like
he
was running for office.

Petrie’s data pad clattered to the floor of the flitcar. She made an annoyed chirping noise. “First the stylus, now this. I can’t seem to hold onto
anything
today.”

She retrieved the pad and called up a newsfeed. “gain. Kendi sighed. Petrie’s data pad ran feed stories almost constantly, and the drone of the caster had become part of Kendi’s daily life. A dinosaur farmer in Othertown supported Foxglove’s expansion plans. The search continued for a woman who had gone down in an ultralight glider crash. Salman Reza’s polls were up by three percent or down by two percent or up by four percent. Kendi wished the voters would make up their minds.

They arrived at the military base an hour later. Dellton was on the outskirts of the talltree forest that stretched across much of the continent, and the buildings were built on cleared ground. It was a military town, dependent on the base for most of its existence.

Petrie escorted Kendi to a small arena. Hundreds of human soldiers wearing the green and brown uniforms of the Bellerophon military occupied the bleachers. The Ched-Balaar soldiers wore green and brown head cloths and sat in neat rows on the ground, as was their custom. A handful of high-ranking officers had chairs or sitting areas on the speaking platform. Wanda Petrie made brief introductions. Kendi shook human hands, grasped Ched-Balaar palms, and completely forgot every single name.

A Ched-Balaar officer introduced Kendi, and the soldiers roared their approval as he took his usual position behind the usual podium. He smiled at them. Salman’s position on increasing military spending made her very popular with the armed forces. This speech would be easy.

The sun poured down heat as he praised Salman Reza and urged their support. The words streamed out of him, but he barely heard them anymore. He made the right gestures, gave the right inflections, created the right mood. He dropped a joke here, told a poignant story there, and when it was over, the soldiers rose and shouted or clattered like rolling thunder. Then it was more handshaking, more palm-touching, and back into the flitcar with Tan and Petrie.

“Now where?” he asked.

“Home,” Petrie said. “We’re done for now.”

“I’ve got news,” Gretchen said from the front seat. Her data pad was open and text crawled across the holographic screen. “The High Court handed down its decision about the mining rights a few minutes ago.”

Some of Kendi’s exhaustion vanished. “And? Don’t keep us in suspense, Gretchen.”

“Would I do that?”