CHAPTER FOUR

When talking to therapists and writing in to advice columns, one of the more common complaints was about the difficulty of changing oneself. Some people simply couldn't break out of their routine or escape from their past. They got makeovers, bought new clothes and cars, joined health clubs, and tried things they'd never tried before, but they were afraid that they were still the same boring person they'd been before. On the other hand, the man that wanted everyone to just call him Sebastian--as that was what his friends called him (except he didn't have any)--had never had that problem.

Most Americans were struggling to break through to the next-best caste. Many in the lower class wanted to find a better job (or a job, period) and buy their own house, many in the middle class wanted to get promoted so they could afford that new car or vacation home, and many in the upper class dreamed of being plutocrats and oligarchs with global influence. A few quickly went up, while the majority stayed the same or gradually lost ground. But Sebastian was all over the map. He was making six figures and working in a corporate research facility one month, and living out of his car the next. The transition from being a federal witness to hiding from the police in a no-tell motel wasn't that hard to make. Being unemployed and staying/sleeping with a single mom in the suburbs at the beginning of the week, pioneering a new genetic-engineering project while putting in overtime with his twenty-year-old secretary by Friday.

Life had deposited him in all kinds of interesting places…at the moment, he found himself in a sleepy casino-hotel bar, high above Las Vegas. The air conditioning wasn't worth crap. Noise from a gambling area on the same floor was just loud enough to drown out the low-volume TV, which was showing football. (A news ticker ran along the bottom of the screen, talking about the "San Francisco Situation", more details on a newschannel that was owned by the same media empire.) The sky was red and the bar was otherwise empty. Too late for the dinner crowd, too early for the party-all-night people. Sebastian sat at the bar, finishing his surprisingly-good mashed potatoes and average steak--he normally didn't eat things that plain or expected, but there hadn't been much choice on the menu, and he was too lazy to go out and find a decent restaurant. The barmaid had told him that she didn't want him to clean off a table just for him, which was why he was sitting on an uncomfortable stool and watching the regular TV in the corner, instead of a big-screen one in the dining area.

Sebastian was firmly entrenched in that vague late-forties, early-fifties range, though he looked and thought younger. His hair was very full on top…longish, if not actually long. Both his hair and his goatee were a salt-and-pepper grey. He was of average height and weight, and the perfection of his grooming and the price of his clothes spoke of someone who was very concerned about image. He had chic glasses, with a smug, entitled air about him. Tonight, he wore black slacks and a shirt that had a sprawling, almost blinding blue-and-silver pattern. Just out of habit, he regularly checked the entrances and kept his ears open. The barmaid was back with the cook, trading tattoo experiences, and he was trying his best to tune it out.

A thirtysomething bottle-blonde with the fakest breasts he'd ever seen came in and sat down. She wore a one-piece black miniskirt that indicated that she wasn't in town with her family from Topeka. He gave his usual disinterested vibe--partially because some women found it addictive, partially because he was busy trying to work out the kinks in a biochemical formula--and took another drink from his amber-filled glass. After waiting a few seconds, she said, "Is there any service around here?"

"Not really." Gesturing at the game on TV, "I sat through two touchdowns and a field goal before they realized I existed."

"Typical."

Sebastian half-watched football, half-watched her, and kept trying to piece together that formula. He pushed his plate away, noisily clattering the silverware on top of it. But the barmaid kept talking about the aesthetic advantages of astrology-themed body art.

"You in town for the convention?"

"No," Sebastian replied. "Had a meeting with some people."

"Ahh. I'm in advertising, there's this big conference thing. I had other plans, but, hey--paid vacation. Might as well, right?"

"Exactly."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a scientist, believe it or not."

She emitted a very bimbo-esque laugh. "What, like a rocket scientist?"

"I have worked on interstellar technology, but, for the most part, no. I do a little of everything…genetics, chemistry, engineering, computers, robotics, radiation…"

"Wow. You have a lot of degrees?"

"Over a dozen."

"Geez." "People always think that it must've taken a long time to get 'em, but it really didn't."

"Did you get to skip ahead of the rest of the class, or…?"

"Something like that."

"You married?"

"Divorced."

She sighed. "Aren't we all?"

"Ha."

"So, are you, uh…famous, at all? I'm sorry, that came out wrong."

"I'm a minor celebrity. Google me, and you'll get quite a few hits. I'm Sebastian, by the way."

"Tiffany."

He had to stop himself from saying, "Figures."

"So, is there a field where you're, like, an expert? I mean, more than usual?"

"There's a pretty obscure kind of radiation that I'm arguably the world's leading expert on. But, you know how it is--there's always competition. I think he's overrated, other people don't…"

"Oh, I totally know what you mean. All that office politics stuff--ugh."

"You'd think," Sebastian said, his voice becoming more melancholy, "That being the second-best at something would still be pretty impressive. I'm not saying they're right, I'm just saying, even if they were…well, take football." He once again glanced up at the game. "Thirty-two teams in the NFL. Only one quarterback can be the best. Once he's off the market, you'd think that they'd all be fighting over the next best guy, right?"

"Yeah, of course."

"So, some team hires him. But the guys in charge might be really bitter and unhappy that they 'only' got the guy that's better than thirty of the other starting quarterbacks, instead of thirty-one. He wasn't their first choice. They'd talk down to him all the time, limit him with pointless rules that they wouldn't have given to the one they wanted to hire…and when things went wrong because of the way they're managing things, they'd blame the supposedly-second-best guy. The situation would repeat itself. He'd find a new team, do his best, do everything they asked, but they're giving him stupid limitations and not listening to his advice, so it doesn't work out. And he starts to get a reputation--through no fault of his own--that he's unstable, he's unreliable, whatever. He's a scapegoat for this string of failures."

"I see what you mean."

He was glad that she did, as he couldn't have been more obvious. And he'd even lowered himself by using a sports metaphor. The things he did to help the lessers understand the true pain of his situation…! "In my case, the thing is--I hate to say this, because it sounds egotistical, but, they're mad because I was right. I started out being the head scientist for this one government project. Then, they got duped by some 'prodigy'. He took over, they fired me, and he turned out to be this scary, emotionless freak. I warned 'em. I said, he's a monster waiting to happen. Those were my exact words. And, well…I was one hundred percent correct. If I said this guy's name, you'd know who I was talking about, but, I don't want you to think I'm trying to get into your pants by name-dropping."

"I'm not wearing any pants," she smiled. He had too much of a chip on his shoulder, for her, but he probably had money. And it beat watching TV.

"My eyes are very grateful, believe me."

"Wanna go back to my room after I get something to eat?"

"Uh, sure." Sebastian momentarily tabled his theory that the universe was conspiring against him.

"So, what exactly are you doing, now? I mean, you said you were here for a meeting…"

He considered lying--that was what he was supposed to do--but, screw it. "Mind if I answer that question with a question?"

"Go right ahead."

"Who would you say is at the top of the food chain? I'm talking in terms of society."

"You mean, like, the most powerful?"

"Exactly."

"Probably the, um, the superguys. I mean, my cousin is really into all the conspiracy theories about 'em. They have all this money, they have secret alliances with people in politics and business…"

"I'd agree, with a caveat--with a condition. The people at the top are the people who make those people. The people that make the superhumans. I build gods for a living."

"…no way."

"Really."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"I've freelanced for all kinds of people. And if not for the monster--that's what I call the idiot that screwed up my life--I'd be the most famous person on the planet, by now."

"I have a much less PG name for this one slut in my office."

The barmaid finally emerged, straightening her clothes self-consciously and putting on an obligatory, empty smile. She took Tiffany's order. The elevator dinged; several well-dressed Japanese men entered the high-rise restaurant. Sebastian nearly jumped off of his stool. He considered hiding, but they'd already seen him. The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes" began to waft over an intercom that was usually used for naked hyping of casino events:

No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it's like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies

But my dreams, they aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be…

"Um, Tiff, some friends of mine just came in. Mind if I run and talk to 'em for a few seconds?"

"Tiff" was now gorging herself on appetizer-bread. "Go right ahead," she said, with her mouth full.

He hopped off the stool and walked right up to them, smiling, with his hand extended. "Guys, guys, guys, how are you? This is a surprise! Yiko, Matamuta, how are you doing? I see you hiding back there, Yoshi!" Sebastian used the fake laugh that he'd perfected, over the years.

"Mr. Sebastian," was the dignified, quiet reply. "It appears we have one last business matter to discuss." They were all representatives of Fujikawa, the company Sebastian had most recently done work for.

"Oh, yeah? What's up?"

"Could we talk in private?"

"This place is pretty empty."

They didn't look happy about staying there, but, reluctantly, Yiko said, "There may be a…misunderstanding. Some of the DNA we asked you to study has gone missing."

"That's horrible."

"Yes. We've cleared everyone that had access to it--everyone except you."

"Now, guys, come on. I had to go through that whole security thing every day. I couldn't have snuck it out."

"It's all in your contract. You analyzed what we asked you to, so we paid you the agreed-upon sum. You stole Fujikawa property, so we get to enforce the terminal clause." One of them was apparently holding a gun, as Sebastian heard the safety click off.

"You said that was just a scare tactic to keep people from--"

"We lied."

"Kill me and you'll never find it."

"Maybe, maybe not."

A new voice: "Is there a problem, here?"

More men-in-black came up behind Sebastian, except these were mostly Caucasian. The frontman for them flipped open a badge. Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank god you're here, officers, I've never seen these men before in my life, they just came out of nowhere and started threatening me!"

"Shove it, Sebastian, or we'll throw you right back to the wolves." He let the Fujikawa employees get a closer look at his badge. "Turner, Department of Defense, Investigative Unit."

"We were merely discussing some unresolved business, nothing more," Yiko assured them.

Turner chuckled. "Right. Well, you'll have to take a number and get in line. Seems that Sebastian here is making friends all over the place. But I don't feel like destroying US-Japan trade relations, today, so I'll pretend I never saw you."

"We'll take this up with you at another time." The Fujikawa people stepped back into the elevator and left.

"I should be going, too," Sebastian said, a little too quickly. "Lots to do." But a hand on his arm stopped him.

"You have three choices," Turner told Sebastian. "Number one--we can cut you loose and you can go back to dodging everyone you've ticked off. Number two--since you signed that special loyalty oath back when you worked for us, we have the authority to give you a military trial and throw you in the brig."

"Hey, I haven't--"

"We know about China, North Korea, and the expose book you were trying to get published, about your time on the gamma bomb project. Remember your federal confidentiality agreement?"

"With all the genetics labs I've been in, I wouldn't be surprised if I had a clone out there. Like, an evil clone."

"Number three--you can do a little consulting for H1."

"Don't waste me on mere consulting. I've been having a lot of new ideas for a dinosaur-humanoid, I think he could really give the monster a run for his money."

"If you'll shut up until we get to Colorado, I promise to talk to the IRS about your tax-evasion."

"Fair enough. But, uh, mind if I get that chick's number, first?"

"Forget it."

"There's no justice in the world."