Winning Mars | Page 3

eyes that said, Who fucking knows, and I don't give a shit because it ain't my problem.
Jere sighed. He went to his chair, and collapsed into the soft leather. Their revenue would take a hit if he couldn't do the really improbable stories, but he'd have to make it work.
"And," Jerome said. "We'll have to increase your interest rate on your line of credit. And perhaps charge some points for loan fees."
"How much?"
A razor grin. "Nothing that will ruin you."
Jere nodded, and put his head in his hands. His bushy eyebrows and too-big nose reflected in the polished surface of his desk.
"Why?" he said, softly.
"Why what?" Jerome, sounding happy.
"Why do you still want to work with me?"
"Because, Mr. Gutierrez, there's always risk." Jerome again. It sounded like he was speaking through a smile. "It just has to be measured in terms of reward."
When they left, Jere looked up at the glowing NETENO sign, suspended in space. Little bits of dust sparkled in its smooth perfection. Below, multicolored Hollywood, king of the interactives, seemed to look up and laugh.
I'm a blip, Jere thought. Here today. Gone the next. Changing nothing.

Almighty
Dad loved Christmas. Not because he was religious, Jere thought, but because he was able to show off a little and not feel so bad about it. He could get the house up in the most outrageous decorations (including, this year, a fully robotic free-range Santa, mingling with the guests like a slightly spastic and nonsequitur-spewing rendition of St. Nicholas and a floating "Merry Christmas" that looked uncomfortably like the Neteno sign circling his beautiful and overpriced building). He could wear stupid outfits, like brocade smoking-jackets and knee-socks with cigars on them. He could eat to excess on pheasant and Belgian chocolate and crispy cinnamon churros and excuse it because it was Christmas, that was what you did. But most of all, he could show off, and dispense his largesse to the kid, grandkid, uncle, aunt, cousin, or nephew that needed it most -- almost always with a degree of theater and staging that managed to put all eyes on Ron.
You can take the man out of television, but you can't take the television out of the man, Jere thought, as he whirred up to the house in his new Mercedes. One of the small electric ones. Because he might need to get used to less. Because he could tell his friends he'd found the environmental religion.
Dad was old-school. He lived in a big, sprawling gothic horror of a house up on top of the Hollywood Hills. Built in the 80s, with the money flowing free at that time, it looked like something the studios would have set a turn-of-the-century English boy's school in. It rose from among transplanted pines and impossibly perfect grass, gray and stony and severe. From the circular drive in front, you could see the lights of the San Fernando Valley, glittering like so many pieces of junk jewelry on cheap synthetic velvet. From the back, you could stand and look out at the towers of downtown Los Angeles, just waiting for the Big One to fall. Sometimes you could hear the popping of machine guns from South Central or big fires where a microriot was breaking.
Fun stuff, growing up. Jere shook his head. He'd stick to his highrise condo. Easy, slick, no grounds to keep, no fake stone to maintain, no fuss, no muss.
You'll stick to it while you can afford it, Jere thought, grimacing. He ducked inside (under the floating Merry Christmas sign, which he noticed sparkled just like Neteno's sign), dodged the robot Santa ("Holiday blessings, young man," it said, in a deep voice as he passed), and slipped into the kitchen, where Mom was presiding over a staff of five kitcheneers. The smells of turkey, pheasant, goose, stuffing, fresh cranberries bubbling in a pot the size of a small bathtub, homemade noodles and mashed potatoes brought instant memories of holidays past.
Jere snuck up behind his mother, grabbed her by the arms, and said, "Boo!"
Mom shrieked, jumped two feet in the air, and spun, beating at Jere with a wooden spoon that had materialized in her hand. She chased Jere through the dining room and into the living room, where children giggled and adults frowned at the two grown-ups, acting like kids.
Jere came up short at the big picture-window that opened onto the balcony. Dad was out there, wearing another stupid outfit, this one with embroidered reindeer.
Mom beat him with the spoon.
Jere held up his hands. "Hey!"
Beating.
"Mom, is that thing even clean?" Brushing at his suit.
Mom stopped. Glared at the spoon. Glared at him. Then gathered him up in a big hug. She'd gotten soft and round with the years, and color couldn't hide the texture of her hair, but she still smelled like Mom,