A Long Way From Home

"However far modern science and technologies have fallen short of their inherent possibilities, they have taught mankind at least one lesson: Nothing is impossible."

-Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization, 1934.


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Fall - 2010

There had always been an oddly threatening loveliness about the sinuous blacktops that coiled like the fossilized trails of ancient serpents about the forests of New England. The lonely paths, barren of even the hint of a painted line in center or at the shoulders, dark surface still glistening from an early-morning drizzle, seemed at once, inviting and foreboding, relaxing and disquieting. The slow mist rising from the asphalt and the needle-coated loam, carried the unmistakable scent of the macabre on chilly fingers that slithered and grasped through endless expanses of standing cedar and pine. She didn’t view it as unpleasant. Veronica had been raised on a steady diet of Stephen King since the fifth grade. “It,” “Needful Things,” “Storm of the Century;” these were mother’s milk to her. All the way up through grad-school, she’d always found comfort in the vaguely foreboding. For easing her troubles, relaxing her body as it stimulated her mind, there had never been a drug quite the equal of the first few chapters of a good thriller. It was the dimming of the lights and the raising of the curtain, when everything is still safe and sane and there’s only the hint of a chill down the spine, portending ominous things to come. To her innermost mind, it was the feeling of being home. It was her safe place within. Paradoxical,… but most human emotions were.

In spite of the King-ean surroundings, her efforts to linger upon the calm, steadying hum of the tires beneath her, long enough to slow her racing thoughts, proved fruitless. She supposed there was simply too much to do today, to throw energy after making oneself at home.

The Saab was well-used, a late 90s model with just over a hundred-fifty thousand miles on the odometer. In the few years since she’d taken it in the divorce settlement it’d truly become an extension of her. For the last several weeks, Malcolm had kept her on a fairly exhausting schedule, crisscrossing the continent, overseeing operations at some Oregon research installation one week and conducting a full performance-audit at the Miami division the next. Her apartment, a modest two-bedroom brownstone in San Francisco had become little more than a collection of wistful memories from the far-distant past of last month.

In open defiance of exhaustion, she’d always refused to fly. Airline travel required the checking off of a few too many items from her personal “no-go” list. Enclosed spaces and dizzying heights were bad enough, but turning full control over to someone else, and relying upon them to know what they were doing, well… there was a reason she’d gotten divorced.

The staff at the New York offices had been her personal endurance trial. The sheer frustration of the experience had, in her estimation, rated far above her pay-grade. She’d said as much on more than one of her nightly status-reports in the past week.

New York, after all had been the original home office, before Malcolm had decided to move his own little professional universe offshore. Now, the once-proud fifty story tower was nothing more than a broken-down ruin of its former glory and purpose, having degenerated into a den of malcontents. Where once had stood a bastion of scientific inquiry and capital-motivated research and development, there now crouched a seething hive of those who had not been worth promoting into lucrative and cushy positions on the island. The experience of watching colleagues who had hitherto been their equals and friends as they packed up and shipped off for a luxurious new life aboard a modern utopia with a two-hundred percent salary-upgrade and perks to match, had twisted those who’d not been selected, into the harpies and vipers that perched and slithered within the Big-Apple branch today. Malcolm’s administrative staff had seen to it that those among the ‘passed-over’ whom he’d wanted to keep, were paid just a bit too much for them to justify a leap into the unknown of unemployment or worse; taking a chance at another firm. They now occupied full-time salaried positions as professional malingerers who, in between venomous smoking-circle diatribes, also graciously found the time to keep the branch running at something vaguely resembling “up-to-spec.”

Most of the firm’s rank-and-file referred to Veronica and the four other “Special Liaisons” like her, as Malcom’s “Eyes,” as he turned his gaze from place to place, sifting through branch-roster after branch-roster, searching for those better fired than placated with “consolation-prize” pay-raises and/or miniscule stock option packages, in his as-yet unexplained and seemingly never-ending quest for more efficiency. No one truly understood it. She’d begun to have her doubts that Malcolm understood it himself. All anyone knew was that sometime around the fall of ’08, the boss had decided that the entire firm needed a massive, floor-to-ceiling overhaul, followed by a series of micro-managed tune-ups at each individual branch. More than one underappreciated middle-manager had remarked that it all boiled, very simply down to the billionaire version of the dreaded mid-life crisis. Malcolm had lush, full hair, the body of a nineteen year-old swimmer and he already owned two dozen sports cars. In addition, he had no trouble filling a bed frequently occupied by young movie starlets and international fashion models, and he had no wife to cheat on. So, when he’d hit fifty, the only way he’d been able to “act out” was through his company.

It made sense, as theories go. Amarna Industries LLC had been Malcolm’s entire life for as long as anyone could remember. So, when he’d decided to shake things up, without explaining to anyone why he was doing it, he’d ruffled a lot of feathers, particularly when he’d downgraded the branch which had been the backbone of Amarna, since the day the company had gone public.

Veronica’s visit, of course had given the New Yorkers an irresistible opportunity and platform upon which to vent. And vent they had. That entire week, Veronica had been little more than a stress-toy and, on occasion practically an effigy of Malcolm himself. It had never come to the point of firing anyone,… over the outbursts, that is. But, more than a few had been let-go as she’d conducted the grisly business of shutting down the departments on Malcolm’s kill-list. Not everyone was an economically viable choice for reassignment to other areas.

It was a strange thing, how people changed in the wake of bad news. One minute they’re in full possession of their faculties and able to see reason, the next they’re threatening everything from vandalism to whistle-blowing media-appearances to outright physical violence. Moments like those made one realize why no company ever fired security personnel during these downsizings and restructurings. In the end, she’d suffered through it, encouraging herself by looking forward to today.

Today was New Hampshire, Day 1, and all was right with the world.

The New Hampshire installation was nestled deep within the Acadian forests of the White Mountains, upstate. There was a lengthy break in the tree-line at the crest of Franconia Ridge. Veronica slowed the Saab to an idling 10mph and surveyed the compound with a coy smile. A fairly modest complex, (on the surface, anyway,) NH-1 occupied the southern foothills of Mount Flume. From atop the ridge, one had a commanding view of both the outer-treeline and the inner-complex. With its high walls, patrolled footpaths, numerous cameras and high-tension, electrified cables, the installation’s outward appearance conveyed a resonating message to any who looked upon it, in no uncertain terms.

That message was; “Go away.”

NH-1 staff was tasked with some of Malcolm’s most ambitious research initiatives and the eggheads-in-charge Loved him for it. Here, like everywhere else she’d been in the last month, she would be viewed as an extension of the boss himself. At NH-1, however, that would mean something very different than what it had meant anywhere else. Malcolm was definitely interested in keeping everything at NH-1 up and running. No one was slated for firing and she’d even been ordered to offer a handful of promotions to the senior staff. As a result, these people would treat her like a queen.

Coaxing the car back up to a timely pace, she lifted her cell-phone from where it sat atop the leather briefcase on the passenger seat, in anticipation of the call she knew would be coming-in at any moment. Three heartbeats later, it rang. She flipped it open and held it to her ear.

“Nice view?” Malcolm’s voice asked in its rich, continental baritone from the other end.

“Suitably intimidating,” she answered, smiling, not bothering to ask how he’d ‘guessed’ her exact location.

“Do you have everything you need,” he asked. “Or is there anything I can have sent from here?”

“Everything should be fine,” she said. “I went over the last few weekly reports at the motel this morning before I set out. From the tone of the footnotes, I gather that Doctor Michaels is more than ready for my line of inquiry.”

“I’m sure he is,” Malcolm replied, the roll of the eyes apparent in his tone. “The real question is whether or not we’re ready for his answers.”

“Well, when you’re right, you’re right,” Veronica sighed. “His team seems to be making rapid progress on just about every front. My only real area of concern is with something called,…” she trailed off, as she held the phone in place with her shoulder, flipped open her briefcase and rifled through the topmost layer of papers, fishing a specific, tightly-stapled sheaf from the stack. “Project: K7… sorry, Malcolm. I’m driving,” she adjusted her grip on the dossier and the steering-wheel before continuing. “K78-211. It’s mentioned here and there, but there are no actual reports on it in any of the materials.”

“Yes,…” Malcolm began, slowly. “You can blame me for that, Nicki. I didn’t want anything on that project going out electronically. It’s ‘eyes-only’ until further notice.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a new programming model for privacy management of cell-phone calls,” he responded dryly after a pause.

“Right,” she said. “Sorry.”

“They’ll explain everything when you arrive. Keep me posted, Nicki,” Malcolm said, his attention diverted by something that made him suppress a playful chuckle.

‘Great,’ Veronica thought. He’d brought another one home from the bar last night. The island was solely inhabited by employees and their families. If Malcolm was hooking up, it was almost certainly with someone who worked for him.

“Working on another sexual harassment suit, are we?” she asked.

“Always,” he said, tone simultaneously defensive and disarming. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Smirking, she dropped the papers back into the briefcase, folded the phone closed and slipped it into her jacket pocket. Malcolm’s taste in sexual partners had always impressed her, but in the resoundingly negative.

It wasn’t jealously per se. Veronica was attractive, though in a wholly unremarkable way. She had long, golden hair and light blue eyes, with somewhat dulcet, understated features. Of which, ‘tall’ and ‘leggy’ were her two best, but she’d also never really lost her ‘freshman-fifteen.’ It had grabbed hold of her just below the waist and it’d stuck throughout college, grad-school and still clung to her thighs and padded-out the perimeter of her navel to this very day.

She’d had her fantasies about Malcolm here and there, (she was a red-blooded woman, after all,) but fantasies were all that they were. She’d come to value both their friendship and their professional relationship very highly,... and, professionally speaking, Malcolm was certainly onto something lately. She was sure of that. But, he had always carried with him a number of vices and she’d begun to feel more and more protective of his ego in the wake of all the financial turmoil in the country, and, of course the increasing media-scrutiny of big businesses over the last few years. Amarna had spent its fair share of time in the line of fire, though everyone top-tier had weathered it fairly well. Still, certain things had come to pass that she knew had gotten under Malcolm’s skin more than he was admitting to himself or anyone else. His foibles had, summarily intensified to a thus far manageable, if perhaps not-entirely appropriate degree. Between them as friends, there had been many a late night phone call, and even later-night drinks and conversations. There’d been ups and downs. Ironically, it’d left her with a sterner resentment of the hands working the public spotlight than Malcolm had ever harbored, himself. She wondered if developing a big-sister complex over a man old enough to be one’s father, was a matter worthy of a therapist's attention. Probably so, but there it was.

The man who stepped out of the outer guard-station was tall and handsome with features that were youthful on the whole, save perhaps for his eyes. They were far too serious for so young a man. It wasn’t the showy stoicism of a boy eager to prove himself, either. Rather, the tenable watchfulness that tasked the demeanor of those who knew from experience, just how dire and unforgiving the world could, so suddenly become. An M-16 assault rifle rode, slung over his shoulder with the relaxed familiarity of a mailbag upon its postman, as he approached Veronica’s window with a clipboard and a friendly nod. After checking her identification, then turning away and speaking briefly into the radio-receiver clipped to his lapel in stilted, codified terms that she couldn’t quite make-out over the sounds of car-engine mingled with oncoming weather, he waved her through the automated gate.

It lifted before her with a soft, repetitive, “tick-tack-tick-tack-tick-tack,” that reminded her, ominously she thought, of the sound a time-bomb always made in the last seconds before it changed the world, in all those old Hollywood spy-thrillers from the 50s and 60s.

Veronica eased the car into a brisk-but-safe 25mph along the hard concrete drive-path that lead around the side of the facility. The short trip took her past a security barracks, then around a motorcade that she’d guessed must have been converted from an aircraft hanger dating back to the site’s glory-days as an Airforce base from Truman through the end of the Cold War, and finally into a man-made meadow that cradled a cluster of small parking-lots situated in a fan-like formation about long, slim, single-story apartment buildings, an athletics and exercise center and a fairly new-looking commissary-house. In the backdrop of this homey little residential nodule, loomed the dark, military-grey shell of the NH-1 complex proper, and beyond, out of site through the evergreens and over the hills, was the faint and ever-present thunder of crashing surf from Franconia Bay.

She parked at the open spot closest to the main walk-up, and extinguished the engine. After snapping the latches on the briefcase closed and doing a final mascara-and-lipstick-check in the rearview mirror, she noticed a trio of figures walking quickly toward her down the footpath from the northern side of the complex. A balding, middle-aged man in a tweed sport coat with elbow-patches, and carrying a lab-coat slung over one arm, (Dr. Michaels, she guessed,) smiled broadly at her as he led two more young soldier-types with automatic rifles and thousand-yard stares to match that borne by the Gatekeeper.

Veronica gathered her things and climbed out of the car.

One of Malcolm's favorite sayings, (whether it had been quoted or an observation of his own, she had never been certain,) was that; "Every reach upward and onward contained the potential for a slip, and/or fall. The greater, the more ambitious the reach; the further and more hazardous the implicit drop." He usually followed it up with a few romanticized platitudes about the greatest fortunes being reserved by fate, for those bold enough to risk the greatest falls. "Who dares, wins," and all that. Though, among his squash partners it was usually phrased as "Gotta have balls bigger than the falls," or some-such backslapping, male-camaraderie fare. The timbre of the idea always hinged upon who he was speaking to. But, the underlying principle was the same, regardless.

Malcolm had made his fortune not by avoiding risk, but by learning to manage, and even to master it. But, were his personal hang-ups going to get the better of him right as he was attempting to balance and navigate his greatest risks to date? That was the question she hadn't been able to shake out of her mind ever since Malcolm had called her into his office three months ago and explained the over-arcing thrust of what was going on in New Hampshire.

NH-1 was viewed by the board as 'top-priority' among Amarna's R&D arsenal for good reason. She now stood within a short hike of a not insignificant portion of the world's brightest and most unconventional minds. They'd been gathered with the fastidious dedication of the truly obsessed backed by the seemingly endless funds of the unimaginably wealthy. The sum total of that collected acumen had been charged with some commensurately unorthodox enterprises. "Ambitious" did not begin to describe the various initiatives. To reflect on Malcolm's board-room, Toastmaster rhetoric, a proverbial "fall" from this height and they'd have time to take a nap before they hit the ground.

The happy task of playing Santa Clause with a bevy of promotions and pay-raises notwithstanding, there would indeed be a lot of serious matters to review and to evaluate in the next few days. The executive committee, (to say nothing of the boss himself) would expect nothing less than one-hundred percent accuracy in her findings.

She truly hoped Malcolm knew what he was doing.
More to the point, she hoped he knew what he was asking of her.


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