Read Online Futureland - Nine Stories of an Imminent World by Walter Mosley - Free Book Online
Authors: Walter Mosley
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and her indifference. Here we stand as near as possible to understanding the truth of our mortal predicament."
As he spoke the women rolled in a table and chairs hewn from the sinewy, twining trunks of banyan trees.
"I've always believed that truth was a conviction tempered by humanity and the mind, Doctor," Akwande said, regaining a sort of emotional balance. "Not a thing."
Kismet smiled and the light flashed behind his monocle again.
"What is your pleasure, Professor?" the absolute ruler asked.
"Come again?"
"How shall I entertain you? There's a wonderful tenor residing in Atlantis at the moment. Also a portrait artist who may be the greatest talent in the history of the art. A painting for Aja?" Hearing his wife's name issue from this monster's lips disconcerted Akwande. But then he realized that this was Kismet's intention.
"My wealth is all in my work, Doctor," Akwande said. "And, anyway, if I found myself on an unemployment cycle I couldn't bring a painting to Common Ground."
Common Ground, a section of every city in the world; the place where unemployed workers have to go when there is no other refuge. Beans and rice to eat and a doorless sleep cubicle were the bare essentials of those consigned there.
"There is no Common Ground in Atlantis or anywhere else on Home, Doctor," Kismet said. "Here is the home of leadership, art, and science."
"The leader being you."
The shadow that passed over Kismet's face brought both exhilaration and fear into the heart of the co-leader of the Sixth Radical Congress.
"Iced tea?" Kismet asked.
"I could use it."
Kismet turned toward his paradise. Akwande looked also, but his thoughts were not on Eden. Instead his mind's eye conjured up another garden, a garden of dried dirt labored over by skeletal bodies, cried upon by millions of dying Malians. Behind the ocean's roar he heard the hiss of a billion flies feasting on the open sores of human suffering. In his repose he thought of those he'd met who would never rise again. The iced tea arrived carried on a silver platter by a nude and completely hairless black woman. Her breasts were full and firm.
Well fed, Akwande thought.
His eyes met hers but found nothing.
"Maybe sex," Kismet suggested.
"Excuse me?"
"Maybe you would like to see a live sex show. We could set the stage right here. I can supply any number of performers. You could join in if you wanted. All of my performers are tested and guaranteed for perfect health."
The woman still stood before the guest. Akwande realized that she was waiting for him to choose his glass. He did so.
"I haven't come for fun, Doctor."
"No? That's really too bad. Because you know fun is all that makes life worthwhile. If you can't enjoy life, why live it?"
"I prefer to leave that question unanswered, sir," Akwande replied. The tea was the best he'd ever had. He tasted pomegranate, citrus, and mint amid a floral bouquet. He wanted another glass before the one he drank from was empty.
Kismet smiled. His one eye seemed to notice everything.
"Maybe you would like a different kind of sex show," Kismet offered in response.
"I told you--"
"A white woman, maybe," Kismet stuck out his lower lip and moved his hands in circles indicating that he was throwing out possibilities. "A hardworking secretary, plucked freshly from her secure everyday existence, brought here and raped--for you. Ravished and humiliated--for you." Akwande wouldn't have been able to suppress the laugh even if he wanted to. It was a deep and musical laugh that sounded more like master than guest.
"You laugh?"
"No offense, Doctor. It's just a sign of relief."
"Relief?"
"You are the great Doctor Ivan Kismet. Your corporations control the greater portion of the planet. Your Infochurch rivals Catholicism in membership. It is said that you can master any intellectual system in days, at most.
"And yet I see that even you are capable of misreading the human heart, that even you can misjudge a man's motives. As I said, I
As he spoke the women rolled in a table and chairs hewn from the sinewy, twining trunks of banyan trees.
"I've always believed that truth was a conviction tempered by humanity and the mind, Doctor," Akwande said, regaining a sort of emotional balance. "Not a thing."
Kismet smiled and the light flashed behind his monocle again.
"What is your pleasure, Professor?" the absolute ruler asked.
"Come again?"
"How shall I entertain you? There's a wonderful tenor residing in Atlantis at the moment. Also a portrait artist who may be the greatest talent in the history of the art. A painting for Aja?" Hearing his wife's name issue from this monster's lips disconcerted Akwande. But then he realized that this was Kismet's intention.
"My wealth is all in my work, Doctor," Akwande said. "And, anyway, if I found myself on an unemployment cycle I couldn't bring a painting to Common Ground."
Common Ground, a section of every city in the world; the place where unemployed workers have to go when there is no other refuge. Beans and rice to eat and a doorless sleep cubicle were the bare essentials of those consigned there.
"There is no Common Ground in Atlantis or anywhere else on Home, Doctor," Kismet said. "Here is the home of leadership, art, and science."
"The leader being you."
The shadow that passed over Kismet's face brought both exhilaration and fear into the heart of the co-leader of the Sixth Radical Congress.
"Iced tea?" Kismet asked.
"I could use it."
Kismet turned toward his paradise. Akwande looked also, but his thoughts were not on Eden. Instead his mind's eye conjured up another garden, a garden of dried dirt labored over by skeletal bodies, cried upon by millions of dying Malians. Behind the ocean's roar he heard the hiss of a billion flies feasting on the open sores of human suffering. In his repose he thought of those he'd met who would never rise again. The iced tea arrived carried on a silver platter by a nude and completely hairless black woman. Her breasts were full and firm.
Well fed, Akwande thought.
His eyes met hers but found nothing.
"Maybe sex," Kismet suggested.
"Excuse me?"
"Maybe you would like to see a live sex show. We could set the stage right here. I can supply any number of performers. You could join in if you wanted. All of my performers are tested and guaranteed for perfect health."
The woman still stood before the guest. Akwande realized that she was waiting for him to choose his glass. He did so.
"I haven't come for fun, Doctor."
"No? That's really too bad. Because you know fun is all that makes life worthwhile. If you can't enjoy life, why live it?"
"I prefer to leave that question unanswered, sir," Akwande replied. The tea was the best he'd ever had. He tasted pomegranate, citrus, and mint amid a floral bouquet. He wanted another glass before the one he drank from was empty.
Kismet smiled. His one eye seemed to notice everything.
"Maybe you would like a different kind of sex show," Kismet offered in response.
"I told you--"
"A white woman, maybe," Kismet stuck out his lower lip and moved his hands in circles indicating that he was throwing out possibilities. "A hardworking secretary, plucked freshly from her secure everyday existence, brought here and raped--for you. Ravished and humiliated--for you." Akwande wouldn't have been able to suppress the laugh even if he wanted to. It was a deep and musical laugh that sounded more like master than guest.
"You laugh?"
"No offense, Doctor. It's just a sign of relief."
"Relief?"
"You are the great Doctor Ivan Kismet. Your corporations control the greater portion of the planet. Your Infochurch rivals Catholicism in membership. It is said that you can master any intellectual system in days, at most.
"And yet I see that even you are capable of misreading the human heart, that even you can misjudge a man's motives. As I said, I
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