Chapter 9

The sky was violent red splashed against a sparkling backdrop of purple-grace by the time Julian had made his way back to familiar territory. The hiss of the bus as it pulled away blew his bound hair in haphazard directions and sent a warm breeze up his pant legs. Along with the beautiful array of colors decorating the polluted sky, the night also brought a quick chill to the air that was absent one minute and then suddenly upon you. With no real precipitation, the accelerated cool was one of the only physical gages of a seasonal change. Fall was coming.

Julian walked along the sidewalk next to shop window displays where mannequins would soon be dressed in muted toned scarves and sleek black jackets. Autumn meant the return of a school year and thus marked a deadline for finding the missing Maxwell child. Even if Phineas no longer attended an educational facility, local officials were sure to notice him and bring him in on truancy were he found walking around or inside a shop. Then they’d know who he was, contact Maxwell himself, and, depending on how much information was exchanged, open up a whole new set of problems for the politician. Not to mention Julian could forget getting the rest of the money promised him for the job.

His stomach gave a slight grumble of discontent. Julian frowned at that, thinking over in his mind what the last thing he had eaten had been and when. Currently, he could only remember the half bagel with cream cheese he’d grabbed first thing in the morning. And for that matter, he couldn’t quite recall what he had waiting in those cabinets that would be of interest to his eager stomach once he returned. With the aroma of fresh food and the enticement of not having to wait, Julian decided to stop in at a restaurant rather than plug away at his work during the remaining hours of daylight.

He chose a relatively small bistro of sorts, the kind which offered a rather intimate setting where no two tables were much further apart than the space needed for a man walk between them. Clean white linens on the table, white cloth napkin folded by hand in the signature fashion of the restaurant chain, and complimentary water served in a stemmed glass gave a wholesome and charming atmosphere that Julian appreciated.

As he waited to be seated by the tall, blonde hostess, he gave a passing glance over the room. There were mostly men and women sitting down to a meal together, a few holding hands across the centerpiece as they gazed longingly into each other’s eyes. There were one or two families sitting down to eat, their children not possibly over the age of seven but each one seeming to understand the virtue of silence as they nibbled their chicken fingers without a fuss. The elderly gentlemen sitting nearest the bathrooms seemed the loudest in the room, their hearing fading while their laughter and enjoyment of company only seeming to increase. It bothered no one; the fond memories they retold of hard lives made worth it through friendship only added to the enjoyment of the restaurant experience.

The blond finally smiled up at him, her teeth the same bright white as the table linens. “Just you tonight?”

Julian nodded, his hands in his pockets. “Afraid so.”

“A handsome guy like you? What is the world coming to?”

Julian laughed a little at her polite manner of small talk as she led him back to his table, a small seat located nearly at the center of the room. Perfect for eavesdropping, which suited him just fine. Beside it, a young man sat with his son looking, rather concerned or perhaps disappointed. As Julian sat down, he caught a glimpse of the son’s face and saw a piercing shining in his eyebrow.

A nine year old boy with an eyebrow piercing? Julian took a longer glance in his direction, pretending to notice the door from which the waiters emerged with their trays. Short black hair, large golden eyes, but with an angular face without any trace of baby fat or otherwise youthful roundness. No, not a child at all but a very small man looking disgruntled at the tabletop, which came to mid-chest. The pair of them piqued Julian’s interest immediately. The short man looked like a miniature version of a teenage goth, fishnet undershirt showing from under a black T-shirt that had some Celtic symbol intertwining elegant letters of some Poe-type script. He wasn’t a midget: his arms and legs were in perfect proportion to his body. He even had the broad shoulders and triangle-shaped torso that was the signature of good upper body strength. He was a pint-sized beauty.

Julian returned his attention to the taller one, whom he’d first considered the other man’s father. He was certainly too young to be, both of them likely eighteen years old at best. This one had blonde hair that spiked up from the back to the front where his bangs then skirted down over his brow to draw attention to his hazy gray eyes. He had lovely long, dark lashes despite his fair coloring. His clothing was fun and busy, plaids and stripes running up his legs to an interestingly original belt and a toffee-colored hooded sweatshirt pulled down over his shirt, though the pink collar peeked through.

“'Koyo-ko’s late,” the blonde said with a sigh.

“You knew he wouldn’t come. I told you as much.” The gothic man’s voice was monotone, the words coming out with the hint of an accent. He was of eastern decent, Japanese gauging by the suffix his companion used.

The blonde’s smile made his face light up. He had a face made for smiles, even those that were seen but not felt like the one spread across his face at present. “Someday he’s going to come and you’ll fall out of your chair in surprise.”

“Hn.” The small man turned his head slightly and before he had time to avert his eyes, Julian found himself locked into a stare with the large golden orbs. Despite being caught, Julian held his look. Even though he’d never seen him before in his life, he couldn’t shake the sudden feeling of déjŕ vu. The man put his hand to his black-clothed chest, then, without a word or gesture, turned back to his friend at the table.

Julian felt strangely naked both within and now abandoned by the golden eyes. It was uncomfortable and intrusive, like he was being dissected down to his soul. He turned his attention to the ornately decorated menu resting in front of him, letting the two strangers have their privacy.

Having just briefly glanced at the menu, Julian noted the approach of a server. It was hard to miss him really. His pretty face not withstanding, the server’s spiked blonde hair was riddled with random stripes of blue. That compounded with the grease stains sprinkling his olive green apron made it very obvious the man was more commonly called for to clean tables or dishes in the back than to wait on tables during the dinner rush. He certainly lacked the cheerful disposition of a man living on tips. He stood beside the table, looking at the pad of paper in his hands as though his lines were written there as well.

“Hello, sir, welcome to Tulio’s. Our specials today are tomato basil manicotti and the chicken parmesan. Would you like a list of the wine specials tonight?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Julian folded his menu and set it close to the end of the table for him to pick up. “I’d like the braised beef and tortelloni with a glass of rubizzo sangiovese.”

The server nodded, writing it down in short hand on his pad. As he picked the menu up, Julian slipped the picture of his brother he carried with him out onto the table.

“You haven’t by any chance seen this kid around, have you?”

The server looked at the image for a moment. “Is he missing?”

“Yes. I was just hoping someone could give me a clue as to where to find him.” Julian watched as the server looked the picture over again then shook his head. “Well, thank you for your time.”

The server nodded and left towards the kitchen. Julian looked at the photo briefly before pocketing it; the eternally smiling face of his brother was becoming an eyesore after a day of flashing it around. It had come from a late spring photo shoot intended to be handed to whomever came around in search of an interview. Maxwell had, in his long run as a politician, always found it beneficial to have an approved photo for them to feature lest Phineas have a dopey grin, have his eyes closed, or be snapped mid stride out of frame, having found something more interesting to do. It happened often enough in their family photos, anyway, and Maxwell had seen no reason for his political agenda to be pushed aside by the public’s amusement at a photo featuring his son.

It came to mind that he hadn’t bothered asking Maxwell why Phineas had run off. It had seemed like the most natural thing for a teenager to do, something he himself had plotted over and dreamed about for most of his life when living in the estate. Phineas hadn’t had the same experiences as him, though. His relationship with their father was more amicable, though the man did expect a lot from him. Had Phineas wanted something the family image wouldn’t allow?

Julian felt very disappointed in himself. His own distaste for the man had made him ignore him as an avenue for investigation. He could detail any conversations they had had, any reasons Phineas may have left, and instantly narrow his search were there any key clues hidden within the explanation. Maxwell was keen, though. If something was to evade him, it would have to be from bias or the fact he hadn’t been a child in decades. He’d have to put his faith in that and hope there was a way to find a clue hidden away in their father’s memory.

Dinner came, was enjoyed, and despite his less than enthusiastic service, Julian left a fair tip for his waiter along with a business card. He noticed the interesting pair were still sitting beside him, having given up on waiting for their missing party and enjoying themselves now, though the small man seemed disinterested in food. He spared them only a glance, feeling that strange sense come over him again as he walked between their tables and headed out the door.

“Thank you, come back and see us real soon!” The bubbly blonde hostess said with a large smile.

“You bet. Thanks.” He grabbed a chocolate-mint and walked back out onto the streets, intending to walk off his filling meal before retiring for the night. It was much cooler now with all hints of daylight having vanished over half an hour ago. It wasn’t very long until he was at his own doorstep, closer than he had expected to find himself. Inside he quickly undressed and readied for sleep, a quick nightcap all he needed before sailing straight into a dreamless slumber.

The next morning’s ride to the upper levels was just as simple and uneventful. The trams were packed as the busy men and women on them stood still and silent as they made their way to work. Julian stood by the door, watching their faces out of curiosity. Some people, he felt, seemed familiar--people he might have known at one point in time from school. No one seemed to notice him, though, or if they did they didn’t feel like catching up on old times. That was fine by him. A quiet tram ride was beneficial for all. He had a lot of questions to organize and not much longer before he’d be there.

The upper levels were a sight to behold. Pollution was less pronounced there and buildings featured original architecture to spice up the skyline. There were parks that offered some retreat from the metal giants, outdoor auditoriums for any manner of spectacle along with artistic venues set up for the amusement of the rich and habitually bored.

There was a small religious gathering in the square outside the central tram station this time, little picket signs protesting this and that while catchy phrases were shouted. Julian blocked it out, having discovered long ago that most of those rallies were in general very derogatory towards himself and his lifestyle or the general rights and freedoms of other misunderstood people. He tried not to let them get to him, his biggest fear that of becoming a hypocrite and denying them the right to their opinions and beliefs. Still, in his heart, he did wish to see them horribly and disgustingly murdered in ways that would make them morally cringe and cry out for mercy at the thought of it. Those feelings were always what he attributed to being a Maxwell.

A Maxwell was calculating, sneaky, manipulative and selfish. He got what he wanted no matter who stood in his way and covered his tracks so completely that even he himself had to doubt his ability to have pulled it off so cleanly. James Maxwell had invented and perfected the art and passed it on to his sons. Julian was mildly curious as to which way it would manifest in Phineas.

The Maxwell estate wasn’t too far away from the core, a breezy bus ride or a hearty walk at best. The closer to commerce Maxwell could be, the more people there were in the area and the more strange people around the less likely his own would stick out. It also gave him the appearance of man with nothing to hide. Where most politicians lived away from industry and other realms of public interest, Maxwell embraced them. The noise, the annoying solicitors, the little girls selling cookies door to door to fund their extracurricular activities, it was all the perfect façade of a man with down to earth roots, though in truth the only thing grounding him was a sense of entitlement.

Julian hastened his way past the cafes and markets until he reach the obvious abode of one of the richest, and certainly most powerful, men in all of Solace. It was a very tall building, not unlike several others in the surrounding area. On the bottom floor though, rather than stores and coffeehouses, there was a large and very spectacularly furnished lobby. From the black lacquer of the metal walls to the works of art displayed on the framed viewscreens and the bold, red upholstery of the chairs and couches in the waiting area, the first floor was a ritzy example of the high-class lifestyles of the people working and dwelling within.

The stuffy man behind the chest high counter eyed Julian and a fake smile spread across his face. “Can I help you?”

Julian approached the counter, reading the nameplate resting on it: Doug. “Yes, thank you. Could you page Ashe Torim and have someone bring down the lift for me?” Julian held out his civilian indent card as a part of the buildings routine security clearance. Being aware of protocol usually dropped a person’s suspicions of you. “I’m here on business.”

Doug took the card, his eyes scrutinizing it longer than should have been necessary. “Mr. Vaughn is it?” He looked up from the card to give Julian a confused stare. “Is this some kind of test?”

Julian scowled. Perhaps he should have tried one of the back ways. “No. Just page Ashe, please.”

Doug nodded and picked up the phone, dialing to the main office. There was hardly a moment’s wait. No matter how busy he was, Ashe was always prompt to answer, as though he expected the interruption. “Ah, yes sir. I have a Mr. Julian Vaughn here to see you...yes...yes, sir, right away.” He hung up and handed the card back over the tall counter. “The lift will be sent down immediately. Door seven.”

“Thank you, Doug.” Julian pocketed his card and walked over to the elevator doors.

There were ten lifts in all, each set of five programmed for different functions. Doors one through five were your basic elevators with the push buttons for whatever floor you wanted. These only included floors one through thirty though, where businesses were likely to require patrons to have immediate access, such as law firms or places that frequently required the services of temp agencies. The other five lifts offered buttons for the first thirty floors but also had a key system for people wishing to access the floors above that. Each key had a certain clearance level that worked on a grouping system. For Maxwell’s purposes, a person with a keycard for his top offices, floor sixty-eight, could access all four of his business floors. Someone with a key for floor sixty-five though would only have clearance for the designated floor. None had clearance to his residence save those with the residential keycard.

Those elevators with the keycard system were also capable of being programmed to descend to the lobby and allow authorized visitors access. The lobby attendant would check for identity, call up to the office or residence, and upon approval open the lift doors for them to be assured the person cleared was the one going up. As predicted, the moment Julian approached the lift, the doors opened for him. He got on board and leaned against the handrail as the doors closed behind him, waiting to begin his assent to hell. His eyes lingered on the buttons though, a small smile spreading across his face. If there was one thing in all of Solace that reminded him of his father on a regular basis, it was the floor numbers on a lift. Only a man as cunning as his father could have looked at such an ordinary thing and made it something useful to his purposes, such as acquiring a secret floor.

And how does a man get a secret floor in an existing public building? He chooses one built by a superstitious man. A building that boasts seventy floors will have a button to floor seventy-one. Why? Because of the number thirteen. Seen as the unluckiest of numbers, it was common for floor twelve to be followed by floor fourteen thereby increasing the number of perceived floors by one. It was so common, most people didn’t even realize the number had been omitted. They also didn’t notice when a building boasting seventy floors only had buttons for seventy floors even without the thirteenth included. It took more perception than most people were equipped with and more thought than a quick ride in a lift gave one time for. So, in effect, Maxwell had relocated floor thirteen underneath his two-story suite just by moving two buttons in the maintenance-slash-emergency elevator up and getting rid of the false floor seventy-one. All it had taken was hiring on a new maintenance crew and having one of his men rewire the lift before they arrived. Less than a day’s work and he’d acquired a safe haven from law officials and the rest of the world that by all evidence did not exist.

Not that it was a place of much interest. It was completely sound proof, a buffer between his residential and political worlds. Inside was the hub of his surveillance, cameras extending into both places with streaming video playing on screens and being recorded to disk. There were archives of all his surveillance as well as all the necessities for running his underground operations in large computer banks. Both he and Ashe had offices there, all business needs spoken of and dealt with freely within their cozy womb of secrecy. There was also the white room, though. That was reason enough not to wander. Julian bit his lip and waited for the lift doors to part, hopeful it would not be floor “thirteen” that waited for him.

Happily, it wasn’t. Instead, as the mirrored doors parted, only the sparkling world of a high-class politician unfolded like a memory before him. Glossy walls with hanging tapestries, viewscreens displaying a spectacular view broadcasted from the top of the Central Office buildings, rich royal colors like crimson and amethyst carpeting the floors and runners of the halls and the finest imitation mahogany curving up to the second floor along the enormous stairwell. It smelled like berries, a mix of sweetness in the air that complimented the coloring but was light enough not to overwhelm the senses. In the background, Pachalbel’s Cannon in D played softly, almost too softly; it registered more in the mind than the ears through familiarity. And there, standing to the side in his usual rumpled state, was Ashe, hooded sweatshirt poking out from under his blazer and trainers peeking from the bottom of his trousers.

“Young Mister Maxwell, I hope everything is going well with your search.” His voice was even but pleasant, a mixture of amusement in his tone as well as business. He was a man of many talents, most of which went into every aspect of James Maxwell’s work, and his voice reflected the manner of a public representative without fault.

Julian smiled at him, though he shook his head in displeasure. “It’s Julian now. You know that.”

“Old habit,” Ashe explained. “Your father is busy at the moment. Would you care to join me in the study until he is available?”

“What makes you think I didn’t come here to see you?”

Ashe smiled at him, the smile that always made Julian wonder about the extent of his knowledge of all things, and gestured towards the study.

Julian followed him, though he needed no help finding it. He’d grown up in these halls. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited you. It’s not you or Phineas I’m upset with but I’ve ignored you both just the same. And now I’ve gone and lost one of you.”

Ashe’s pleasant smile offered some degree of comfort. “A little premature to be saying that, I should think. I’m sure Phineas is perfectly all right. When he decides to come home and hears all the commotion that’s been made over him, I rather think he’ll feel his intelligence insulted.” He opened the large, heavy doors to the study and allowed Julian to precede him.

Inside were tall bookcases along most walls carrying almost thirty bound materials on their shelves. They had cost Maxwell a fortune, which he had gladly parted with for the memorabilia. The favorite of his collection was by far the thinnest and least impressive: Fahrenheit 451.

Having downloaded the book himself, Julian could never quite tell what exactly fascinated his father so much. It was a part of their pre-cataclysm existence, though, a relic of a time when resources were viewed as inexhaustible enough that useful things like trees could be cut down and processed just to spread a bit of fiction to anyone willing to buy it. Were anyone to try and cut down a tree now in the city’s oxygen plants, they would be tried for treason against Solace. Barren land required more money and resources than any other aspect of city life to become fruitful. Since organic life was limited in many respects to people, the dead were used as fertilizer. Every tree and plant grown to help keep life on Earth was a part of the city itself and a treasure not to be thrown so casually away for entertainment. There were still “books” of course, same as a viewscreen could still be called a window. All electronic media was available to download from most store terminals, over the CommNet, or viewable from a library with correct authorization. It was almost unheard of for someone to not have a datapad on their person at all times, ready to access whatever information they needed such as written news media. Even in Maxwell’s study there was a terminal poised and ready to be accessed. It was limited and monitored but anyone with a datapad could access it remotely.

Julian sat down close to it in his favorite spot, a little red loveseat across from the liquor cabinet. “So, you think Phineas didn’t run away for good?”

Ashe shook his head, opening up a bottle of whiskey and pouring it into a glass for his young friend. He handed it to him then took a seat across from him in his high-backed leather recliner. “Phineas is not as rebellious as you were at his age. And Mr. Maxwell has made no difficult requests of him other than to sit still and shut up on occasion.”

Julian sighed and downed his glass quickly. Ashe was an angel and refilled it for him. Sober and at home were not high on Julian’s list of things to be and at least he was on his way over the sober hurdle. “I don’t know that I’d call Phineas the type to just leave for no reason, though. Even the crazy things he did when we were kids he did for a reason. Like the time he tied that pink ribbon on Mrs. Norris’s cat’s tail and managed to calculate her reaction time while the rest of us just thought it was cute.”

“That’s because it was cute. As was the toy he made for her that would always react faster than her to give her a challenge.” Ashe continued to smile knowingly. “I’m sure Phineas has his reasons and, just like then, you’ve simply missed them.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. Three brains are supposedly better than one. And even if I only get your help on the matter, that’s more than enough. Everyone knows you’re the brains of the operation anyway.” Which was hardly an understatement.

Ashe M. Torim had met James Maxwell in college some thirty years prior, the latter being charismatic but somewhat single-minded and the former seemingly looking for someone to stand firmly behind. The story went that Ashe had nominated James for presidency over the student body at their university and then proceeded to run his campaign even before informing his candidate. Maxwell had won by a landslide with hardly a raised finger, though without much faith in the strange man. It would mark the last time he doubted Ashe and the beginning of a profitable friendship. Out of college, into internships, he won his first election and never lost a race against anyone while still maintaining a crime syndicate on the side. And behind it all was Ashe, in charge of everything down to shopping for Maxwell‘s clothes.

The story was a little unbelievable, if only because it placed Ashe at nearly fifty years old. Though his partner in crime was graying, Ashe did not look a day over twenty-five. His black curls that spun in contained chaos around his face had not a single hint of gray. His large golden eyes were bright with wisdom and without the adornment of crows feet or wrinkles. Neither was there anything but firm, tanned skin from his head to his toes. If there was a sign of imperfection or age on his body, it was well concealed. Whether he had a great deal of work done to keep up his appearance or simply had the luxury of aging slowly and well was not apparent.

Still, this was the man that had changed more than his fair share of dirty diapers in his life, few of the asses he’d wiped being his own. He was the one who made sure nightlights were on and bubble bath solutions were always stocked. There was no denying his age, even if it didn’t show. There was an odd sort of comfort in that. There were too many things change in life as it was--at least his pseudo-father was as immortal in person as in memory.

Ashe gestured towards the CommNet with a long, delicate finger. “Everything there is to know, you can find through there. Phineas does little to cover his tracks. I’ve looked through the user logs myself. He frequented several places talking about lower level rim towns.”

Julian balked. “And no one bothered to give me a hint like that?”

“Mister Maxwell thought it too obvious a clue. If Phineas was going to just up and leave, he said, then he certainly wasn’t also foolish enough to leave a straight trail to his destination.”

“But then Phineas might have thought he’d think that and would have gone there anyway, since it would now be the last place Maxwell would look for him. But then I guess Maxwell might have thought that through too....” Julian shook his head. “Forget it, I can’t deal with the way those two think.”

“It can be a little counter-productive, yes.”

“Is he not worried about Phineas at all?” Julian asked.

Ashe frowned a little. “Of course he is. He just has a very unusual way of demonstrating his affection sometimes. By not calling the police, he saves Phineas from any public interest that may come with his return. It benefits him as well, yes, but that doesn’t overshadow the fact that it is in Phineas’s best interest.”

“In the best interest of his heir you mean.”

“You let your bitterness color your world. I wouldn’t put as much confidence in such convictions as you do.” Ashe’s tone had stopped being amused and was rather somber and dry. “You’re too young to live life so jaded. Whatever wrongs were done to you have passed and you remain. You hold on to wounds like trophies. You should try throwing them out, sometime.”

Julian looked at him for a moment then set his glass on the table and stood. “You know, sometimes I think you take it a little too personally when I mentioned how much of a fucked up asshole Maxwell is.”

“And you’re very quick to assume just because I find your outlook self-deprecating that I am siding with him. You’ll never be happy if you continue to define yourself by the pain you feel.”

“I don’t feel pain, remember?” Julian cursed the bitterness that leaked through his retort. Ashe wasn‘t his enemy. “Sorry. Just...look, the last thing I want is some psych test when I come, especially not from you. You‘re supposed to the nice one.”

“That doesn’t mean I am limited to only saying what you want to hear. I have never been one to do so, not even when it concerns your father.” Ashe calmly stood and began walking towards the door. “Given the circumstances though, I think it is not the best time for you to see Mr. Maxwell. There is nothing he can tell you that I have not and I’d rather not be the spectator of another shouting match.”

Julian wrapped his arms around Ashe from behind, nestling his head against his neck and shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get pissy.”

Ashe reached up and patted his head gently. “I’m not upset with you. But it is a bad idea for you to stay if you’ve wound yourself up already.”

Julian nodded into his shoulder and pulled away, feeling very much like a chastised child. He walked with Ashe back towards the elevators, holding on to his sleeve by pinching the material between his knuckles. Ashe gave his hand a pat and he released him, looking up into Ashe’s charming smile.

“When you’ve found Phineas, we’ll all have another nice chat. Maybe then both you and your father won’t feel so stretched and we can have a pleasant evening together.”

Julian nodded and kissed his cheek. “I promise.”

The doors of the lift opened behind him and Ashe gestured towards it like a good host. “I’ll see you again soon, then.”

Julian nodded, getting back onboard the glass elevator, and watched his former life disappear behind the sliding doors once more.