“But Master Ren—”
“Yeah, I know. Master Ren likes hitting a little too much, and if I’m going to live here, that’s going to have to change.”
Ellis marched the length of Firestone Lane. Thinking back, he realized he’d made a lot of excuses for Warren over the years. Warren had lost control many times, and he had pulled his friend out of more than a few bar fights, usually because of something stupid that Warren had said. Then there was the time Ellis visited the Eckard household. Warren’s second wife, Kelly, had answered the door wearing her husband’s big mirrored aviators. The sunglasses, long-sleeved shirt, and makeup couldn’t hide the split lip.
“Fell down the stairs,” she had told him with Warren looking on.
“Maybe you should consider moving to a house that doesn’t have steps,” he had replied, never knowing if she understood his meaning. Kelly wasn’t any better at catching innuendo than Rob. That was the closest he had ever come to defying Warren.
It only took two thousand years to sink in, but Ellis Rogers could be taught. Maybe it was time Warren learned about the second half of the Bible.
The Edison laboratory was on the other side of the village, closer to where Ellis had found Geo-24’s body—where he had first met Pax. He had run by it that day, taking no notice of the long peak-roofed building that looked like an old train station with its white clapboard siding, decorative porch posts that gave the impression of archways, and round attic window bisected by muntins to look like crosshairs on a rifle scope. This wasn’t the real Edison lab. By the time Ford thought to relocate the facilities in the 1920s, there was nothing left to move. The buildings had been removed or collapsed. Ford had his workers reconstruct this replica based on photographs and using scavenged materials, but Ellis imagined there wasn’t much difference between the Dearborn version and the New Jersey original.
Ellis reached the start of the Menlo Park complex, passing the green-tarnished, bronze statue of Edison, sitting grandfatherly on a rock as if about to impart some word of genius. As he walked up Port Street, he saw someone. Although too far away to read a name tag, the Amish outfit suggested that either the person was a member of the Firestone Farm family, or the Mennonites of Pennsylvania had not only survived unobserved but were taking a vacation at the Henry Ford Museum. Whoever it was, they had been leaning on the picket fence surrounding the Menlo Park complex and rushed inside the lab the moment Ellis appeared. By the time Ellis turned onto Christie Street, Warren was on the front porch of the lab waiting for him.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Mr. Rogers. The prodigal son returns.” Warren stood, his shirt buttoned to the neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, with what looked to be grease staining his hands. “How you feeling?”
“I thought it was Master Rogers?” Ellis said. “Isn’t that what you ordered them to call us?”
“It is indeed. Figured it was important to establish these things early.”
“What things? The pecking order?”
“Yeah.” Warren glanced behind him at the lab, and, putting an arm around Ellis’s shoulders, led him down the steps and out into the yard, where the afternoon sun was casting shadows. In a lower voice he added, “These baldies are nice enough folks, but let’s face it. They really aren’t human—not like you and me, and not like our children will be. Thing is, they aren’t going to die. We’ll be stuck with them forever. I just want to make sure they understand their place in the new world order.”
Their place? New order? Ellis wasn’t sure if he was in the Old South or Nazi Germany, but wherever it was, the year had to be around 1936. “And what place is that?”
Warren squinted at him. “What’s with you?”
“I was just at the farm, where Rob was about to beat Yal with a stick because it was Rob’s turn to be the bully. Told me it was your idea?”
“Ellis, these underworlders have no concept of authority. I’m working at establishing that. We’ll need discipline once we get going. Folks are going to have to learn to obey orders.”
“See, that’s the problem right there. Why do they have to learn that? I can see wanting to have women and children and families again, and I can understand the sense of accomplishment in providing real work with real benefits, but that doesn’t mean we have to form a fascist state. Why not be a society of equals?”
Warren looked at him as if he was having trouble hearing. He used to do that a lot at the bar, mostly when anyone complained about football or suggested his views on women were outdated.
“Because we aren’t,” Warren said. “That’s socialist talk.”
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal—second paragraph of the Declaration of Independence, remember that?” Ellis said, his voice rising.
Warren frowned. “Yeah, right—all men. That’s you and me, buddy.”
“I think Jefferson meant all humans.”
“Jefferson was a pretty smart guy,” Warren said with a smug smile and a condescending wink. “I think if that’s what he meant, then that’s what he’d have written. Ole Tommy had quite a few slaves running ’round Monticello, you know. Didn’t have any problem differentiating between men and those who served them. Fact is, people aren’t the same. You’re smarter than I am. I’m stronger than you are. These are facts. People want everyone to be the same, but we just aren’t. No one is—well, except the baldies. That’s the problem, and they know it. That’s why they’re here. You and I know how to live in a real society. We understand initiative and thrive on competition. Real men don’t back down from a fight. We know how to take care of ourselves. And when the shit flies, we’ll be the ones who know how to survive. That makes us more valuable, more important. It’s not an insult to them, just a fact of nature. Sure, we’ll all be equal, just some of us will be more equal than others.”
“That’s what the pigs said.”
“Huh?” Warren looked at him with squinting eyes.
“That’s what the pigs said in George Orwell’s Animal Farm.”
“Never read it.”
“You’d have liked it. Short, easy to read. About corrupt leaders of revolutions—basically an attack on communism.”
Warren smirked. “Don’t be stupid. Do I look like Stalin? We’re going to build this new society, you and I, not some greedy politicians, rich fat cats, or intellectual elitists—just us, two regular Joes, and we won’t make the mistakes everyone else did.”
“I’m pretty sure everyone else said the same thing.”
“Quit being a prick, will you? Listen. We both remember what it was like when we were kids. Life in the fifties was perfect. Women raised the children. Men provided the money. Children were safe and happy, and the government didn’t interfere. Everyone knew their place, and America roared like a well-tuned GTO. I’m just trying to get us back on track.”
Ellis wondered if Warren remembered the last conversation they’d had in the bar. It would have been nearly a decade for him, so he doubted it. His friend never had the best memory, even as a kid, but that shouldn’t matter. They had talked about “the good old days” enough that the topic was permanently burned into Warren’s brain. Nostalgia was a popular bar-stool topic, and they had reminisced often.
“How would you know what life was like then? How could either of us? We were three years old in 1959. You’ve invented a world in your head that never really existed—false memories injected into your brain by television shows that you remember as documentaries. The fifties had their own set of problems.” Ellis was talking to himself just as much as Warren. He was thinking out loud, honestly looking for an intelligent answer.