45
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 pick it up, holding it at 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 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.
46
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 worldviews.
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.”
“When did it start, Yul?”
“Right after I met you.”