The Zenith Angle - Bruce Sterling [103]
Van sat in a shield-back mahogany chair next to Ted’s space-age plastic child-carrier. Dottie’s spell of weakness gave Van the tenderest and most protective kind of husbandly feeling. She had been so glad to see him, practically tumbling into his arms off the plane.
Although she knew some of the truth by now, Dottie hadn’t said one word to him about his crowned teeth, his new beard, or the lisp. Actually, Dottie had said something to him about the lisp. She had said that it made him sound like Humphrey Bogart.
Van freed Ted from his plastic seating device. He put Ted on his knee. Ted was cheerful. Ted did not mind air trips at all. Ted was in top condition, as if he’d been shipped from distant Colorado in Ted-shaped foam blocks.
Ted looked thoughtfully at his stricken mom, as if logging her vulnerabilities for future exploitation.
“You should just go now, Derek,” Dottie said, words muffled into the pillow. “I’m sure you and your boss have a lot to talk about here.”
Van settled deeper into his chair. “I don’t care,” he said.
Dottie turned restlessly. “What?”
“I said I don’t care, honey. This is my outfit’s last big event, and I gave that job all I want to give to it. I don’t want to see any of the panels here. I don’t care about the speakers or the lobbyists. I don’t want to schmooze . . .” Van winced. Van hated the word “schmooze,” and with his scarred lip it sounded even nastier, somehow. “. . . schmooze with the presenters. I never liked to speak in public. I’m not gonna talk here. No. They got enough out of me. Enough is enough. It’s all political now. We’re putting on a big campaign show here. I hate this.”
“Oh, honey.”
“This dumb business with Tony’s jet. I got hurt, and we ran out of time to do it right. It’s not fully proofed and tested. That prototype would never work under real-life conditions, any more than Star Wars missile shields can work. It’s vaporware. It’s a hoax!”
“Oh, honey, if you worked on it, I’m sure it’s not a hoax.”
“Well, it’s just symbolic. That’s the best you can say about it. I’m a scientist! I’m a scientist, and I’m doing political spin.” Van ran his hands over the lengthening bristles covering his cheeks. “Okay, maybe I have to do that. Maybe there’s no choice. But that doesn’t mean I’ve gotta do that to you. Never to you. I want to look after you while we’re here. That’s what I want, okay? And you, too, Ted. It should be about you, and me, and Ted.”
Dottie scrunched herself into the pillow. “This seems like a really nice resort . . . But I feel so sick.”
“Drink that Perrier.”
Dottie sipped from the bottle obediently. After a moment, she burped. “Oh, God, that’s just so awful.”
“You’ll get better,” Van said knowingly. “You just rest. Ted and I will go off to the Great House for a little bit. We’ll bring you back, like, a nice slice of lime and the fruit plate.”
Dottie put the pillow over her face.
Van left, carrying his son on his hip. They forged across an open field, past a pergola laden with vines, across a rolling hedge, and uphill to a pillared and porticoed historic mansion. It was a warm late March day, smelling of April. The weather was favoring them. Van put his laminated ID badge over his neck. He walked upstairs, past white pillars, carved doors, and a spiral staircase. He entered the ongoing conference. The event was formally titled “The Joint Strategic Summit for Critical Cyber-Security Practice,” with a hyphen. It was amazing how much discussion there had been inside the CCIAB about that stupid hyphen.
Ted was the only child-in-arms attending the Joint Strategic Summit. Ted immediately became the star of the show. Van was surprised by this. Van had planned to take a very low profile at the event, which was really Jeb’s show all the way. But Ted, shiny-faced and gleeful, was upstaging all the pundits, movers, and shakers. Dignified men and women with graying hair and American flag lapel pins could not keep their hands off Ted. It was as if Van had created Ted as a high-tech animatronic toddler.