CHAPTER 28: ROCKET TOWN
In which Rufus complains about a number of things, and Tseng wonders what his problem is.
Attendance at the launch of Shinra Rocket Number 26 was by Presidential invitation only.
The day was perfect: a clear blue sky, with a few wispy clouds low on the horizon, a warm spring sun, and a cool breeze blowing off the mountains. Several hundred blue-uniformed troopers patrolled the nine or so square miles of perimeter fencing, keeping a careful watch on the hordes of the great unwashed assembling excitedly on the other side. Small children rode their father's shoulders; mothers unpacked picnics. Fingers wove through the chain link fence as people pressed their faces to the wire, gazing enviously, dreamily, at the large white marquee erected behind the viewing stands, where those powerful enough, rich enough, or lucky enough to be in possession of a gold-embossed invitation card were currently helping themselves to lunch at President Shinra's expense. The entrance flaps to the marquee had been tied back to catch the breeze; soldiers armed with submachine guns stood guard.
Inside the marquee, Rufus Shinra detached himself from the festivities and stepped out into the sunlight for a breath of fresh air. From the far side of the perimeter fence a cheer went up. The humble spectators had recognised their prince. Men and women called his name aloud. Girls squealed. Babies burst out crying.
Rufus raised a hand to shade his eyes, running his gaze along the fence. "How many of them do you think there are?" he asked his bodyguard, Hunter.
"At least five thousand, I'd say, sir."
"Where have they all come from?"
"Probably from all over the world. Are you surprised, sir? I'm surprised there aren't even more. The launch of the first man into space isn't something you see every day."
"Hmmph." Rufus lowered his hand to his shoulder and moved it in an approximation of a wave. The distant throng roared enthusiastically. Rufus went back into the marquee.
Almost at once beads of sweat began to form on his brow. It was too stuffy in here: the sun was beating down through the canvas, and the air was thick with the smells of cheese and wine, perspiring humanity, aftershave, powder and perfume. People shouted at each other over the din of competing conversations. The crowd was thickest around the buffet table, where a spit-roasted sucking pig with an apple in its mouth, a poached dolphin in dill sauce, and a whole cold baked chocobo formed the triple centerpiece and talking-point. The chocobo in particular was a masterpiece of the culinary arts: the chefs had painstakingly re-attached each of its yellow feathers, and had arched its neck in a coyly lifelike pose. Two large stuffed onions were now its eyes. Rufus contemplated the object for a moment with mild distaste, then turned to look around the tent.
"Where's Tseng?" he asked Hunter.
Waitresses in short black skirts were passing among the guests, carrying frosted champagne cocktails on silver trays. One came up to Rufus with an inquiring smile. He shook his head. She glanced past him at Hunter.
"She's working." Rufus waved the waitress away.
"There he is, sir," said Hunter, pointing across the sea of bobbing heads to the opposite side of the marquee, where Tseng was standing with their rookie, the whey-faced, cinnamon-haired Tys, failed motorbike thief and ex-gang leader, now suit-clad Shinra salary man.
At this moment Tys was the distinct object of Hunter's envy. Not only did he get to run about in the fresh air hobnobbing with Cid Highwind and the rocket technicians, while she was stuck dogging the V.P.'s footsteps, but he'd made himself something of a local hero yesterday during the rehearsals, when someone had attempted to steal the Tiny Bronco. While Cid spat rage and Tseng hesitated, Tys had given chase, sprinting after the stolen plane as it taxied along the grass, grabbing hold of the wing struts at the moment of take off, climbing onto the wing as it rose into the air, clambering into the cockpit at five hundred feet, and knocking the thief unconscious with a kick. Seating himself at the controls, he'd put on the headphones, picked up the radio transmitter, and laughed, "Look at me, man! I've never flown a plane before!"
"What?" Cid had almost wept into the mike. "You so much as put a scratch on my baby, you goddamn sonofabitch, I'll have your fucking testicles on a fucking plate. Now you listen to me and do exactly what I say…."
Talked down by Cid, Tys had landed the plane safely, and since then had been able to talk of nothing else but his moment of glory. Now, inside the hot and crowded marquee, he stood fidgeting at Tseng's side, trying to do what he had been told to do: be quiet, watch, and listen. Over on the far side of the marquee Commander Veld was multi-tasking, remaining tight by the President's side as they moved through the throng while keeping up a steady flow of communication with his subordinates through their wireless earpieces. This device was not something Tseng much cared for. He disliked the sensation of having a hard lump of plastic hooked into his ear, hampering his ability to hear what was going on around him. But it had its advantages. It did leave both one's hands free –
"Oh man, dude," Tys sighed, "I wish Reno could have been there to see me…"
The rookie's admiration for the Turk who'd nearly killed him had been growing to the point where it bordered almost on hero-worship, a development that Tseng viewed as both inevitable and regrettable. It was natural that boys like Tys should respond to the authority of violence. Commander Veld had his measure: with every beating Tys became more motivated, more obedient, more enthusiastic about the work. But the last thing Reno needed was somebody hanging around him who thought he could do no wrong. And the last thing the department needed was another Reno. Tseng had had to remind Tys three times already today to tuck in his shirt and straighten his tie.
"Don't address me like that," he rebuked the rookie now. "You've been with us nine months. There's no excuse."
"Sorry, sir," Tys mumbled.
"You did a good job yesterday, but don't get carried away. This assignment isn't over. Stay focused. Go down and check in with Rude, and then take a walk around the inner perimeter of the launch site. Watch for anything suspicious. Keep your eyes open."
"Roger, sir," said Tys, eagerly running off.
Who the plane-jacker had been, and what his motives were, they would never know: the kick from Tys' boot had caved in his skull, and he'd died without regaining consciousness. His heavy, homely features had made it clear that he was human, not a Genesis copy or a Raven. So - had he been a mere opportunistic thief, working alone? Or a man with an agenda to fulfil, and an organization behind him? Late yesterday afternoon one of the chief rocket engineers had come to Cid Highwind with the news that an oxygen tank had been tampered with. Were the two incidents connected? Whoever had attempted to sabotage the tank knew very little about rockets: the engineer had easily replaced the damaged tank with a spare, and the launch was scheduled to go ahead as planned in about – Tseng checked his watch – ninety minutes.
"Another quarter of an hour," came the Commander's voice through his earpiece. "Then we'll start moving them into the stands."
"Roger," Tseng replied, continuing his quiet observation of the crowd.
President Shinra was impossible to lose sight of, strutting amongst his guests like a rooster in a barnyard. The other executives were scattered around the marquee. Heidegger in his green uniform had cornered a pretty little girl by the bar; Scarlet, wearing her trademark red, was chatting easily to a group of young men with military haircuts; Reeve was moving smoothly from group to group; Palmer, unmissable in yellow, a custard doughnut, was standing by the buffet, talking to the Headmaster of the Military Academy.
The invitation had clearly stated 'morning dress', and many of the male guests had obediently donned the obligatory charcoal tails, dove-grey waistcoats, and pin-striped trousers, their chins propped uncomfortably on high starched collars. Some, lacking the requisite social nous, had come in double-breasted yachting blazers and brown leather loafers and were now trying to brazen out their fashion faux pas. The women and girls were dressed as if for a wedding, flouncing pastel layers of gossamer silk; big picture hats framed painted faces; diamonds glittered everywhere.
Tseng knew every single one of them, by face, by name, by the catalogue of their vices – a tedious and repetitive volume.
He saw that Rufus was making his way over, with Hunter following close behind. The boy was wearing his usual layers of black and white, and he'd done his hair differently today, combing the long uneven fringe back from his brow, leaving only a few strands to fall forward over his left eye. His progress through the crowd was slow: people pressed in on him from all sides, and every few steps he was buttonholed, sometimes by a man's sycophantic greeting, sometimes by a girl's seductive smile. The boy made no effort to be charming. His handshakes were brief, his smiles perfunctory, but nothing could cool the ardour of his admirers. Again and again Hunter had to come forward to insist they let Rufus move on.
A woman stepped into Tseng's field of vision, temporarily blocking the Vice-President from his view. She was his own age, or perhaps a little older, and expensively beautiful. Blond hair, red lips, nipped-in waist, feet arched in six-inch satin heels… Of course he recognised her, though, in a sense, she was merely a single cell, one of many, all alike, her name a known but insignificant detail, her connections to the other cells in this corpus delicti, the Midgar body politic, held in his memory like a map overlaid upon a dozen identical maps simultaneously present in his mind.
She smiled at him. Smiling back, however, was not something he was paid to do. She pouted a little; then, opening her purse, she took out a little folded piece of paper, moved closer – so close he could smell the scent of shampoo in her hair – and smoothly, swiftly, put her fingers on the zip of his jacket, pulled it down a little way, ran her hand inside, and slid the paper into his breast pocket.
"Call me," she murmured, walking away.
His first instinct was to glance around to see if anyone had noticed. Commander Veld was looking his way, one eyebrow cocked knowingly. Through the earpiece Tseng could hear him chuckling to himself. He'd heard her invitation, of course.
Such advances were a regular occupational hazard. This particular woman did not tempt Tseng, though in the past he'd received offers that were… intriguing. And when he was younger - much younger, more curious, less self-controlled, and very naïve - he'd sometimes said yes. But the encounters had always left him feeling sullied… No. Used. These jaded men and women were merely satisfying their own curiosity about what lay under the suit; about what went on behind his face. They asked intrusive questions. Quite often, they'd asked him to hurt them, and more and more he'd found it gave him pleasure to oblige. When he realized this, and saw what these people were doing to him - what they thought of him - his soul, that ribbon of steel that Veld had beaten so fine, recoiled.
If professional services were what they were after, then let them go to one of the many private agencies in town that specialized in such things, and put their money down like honest folk. He, Tseng, was not a cheap toy for the amusement of the President's cronies and their wives. He was not a panhandling refugee. He was not a friendless orphan. He was a Turk: he was Shinra.
He left the folded paper where it was, for the time being. Later he would throw it away.
Rufus had now reached his side. Hunter, a step behind him, was scowling irritably. "I'll stay with the Vice-President," Tseng told her. "Go check the stand, and link up with Mink there. We'll be coming along shortly."
"Roger, sir. Anything to get out of this tent," she muttered, hastening away.
"Did Madeleine Fortescue just try to pick you up?" Rufus asked Tseng.
"Possibly."
"Hmmph," said Rufus, glancing from side to side.
The boy was very tense. His impatience, his restlessness, had been growing more pronounced these last months – as if the time had already gone past when the thing he had been waiting for so long, whatever it was, should have arrived.
"God," Rufus groaned, "Doesn't he ever stop?"
He meant his father. Tseng turned to look, and for a few moments the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the President as he continued to make the rounds of his guests. The Old Man knew how to work a crowd. Seeing a hand stretched out to him, he would seize it in a firm clasp, pump it energetically, smile into the owner's eyes and, if it was man, clap him on the back, giving the impression that this very chap was the one above all others whom he'd longed to see. If it was a woman – young or old, plain or pretty – the old ham's blue eyes twinkled flirtatiously as he offered her some outrageous compliment.
"What a whore he is," Rufus sighed.
"Don't talk about your father like that."
"Why not? It's true." Rufus turned his head to catch and hold Tseng's gaze. "He's an embarrassment. I mean, look at him – "
But Tseng could not look at the President. His eyes were too busy taking Rufus in. The boy's taller than me, he realized with a little shock of surprise. By several inches. When did that happen?
Rufus was still talking. "Seriously, Tseng, why does he have to keep pimping himself like that? Anyone would think these people were our shareholders. When is he going to realize that their opinions don't matter? We've moved beyond that. Public opinion is not what's holding us back now. His fear of public opinion is the biggest obstacle we face…"
It wasn't just the boy's physical presence that had matured. His voice had grown deeper, and leveled off into its adult timbre: a low, silky tenor with an evenness of modulation that was almost hypnotic.
"…Such a waste of money, Tseng. Half the time he's trying to buy their favour with empty spectacles like this pointless rocket launch, and the rest of the time he's spending a fortune covering up things that don't need to be covered up. If the public doesn't like our business methods, then they can lump it. At the end of the day, they still have to switch their lights on. But he never thinks anything through logically. He's like a little child jumping from one pet project to the next. Look at SOLDIER. We threw a fortune at that – thirty years of investment, and now what have we got to show for it? Angeal, Sephiroth, Genesis, Zack, all dead or as good as; hardly a First Class left. Not quite the super-soldiers we had in mind…"
Rufus rarely raised his voice. He was doing so now. It was if he couldn't help himself; something had pushed him too far -
"…And what about that stupid cannon in Junon? How much did that cost? And what is the point of it? And don't say Wutai; that was just the excuse. It serves no purpose. I cannot imagine any use we could ever have for it. He built it just because he could. He has no sense of proportion. It's all big gestures with him. There's no strategizing – "
"Rufus, stop. People can hear you."
Rufus did pause, but only long enough to draw a deep breath. In an undertone meant for Tseng's ear alone, he hissed, "It's so frustrating. He's had his turn. Why can't he just die?"
"You can't say things like that. Not here. Not in public. Not to me. Or anyone."
"Do you honestly think I say these things to anyone other than you? You're the only one who understands. You know what it feels like. How old are you now? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? When Lazard was your age he was running SOLDIER. Reeve was head of Urban Planning before he was thirty. Veld was in charge of your department by the time he was twenty-five. But you – you're still Veld's boy. And as long as he's around that's all you'll ever be."
Tseng exclaimed, "You can't compare – " and then bit back the rest of his angry retort, for Reeve Tuesti now came up to them, champagne glass in hand.
"Tseng, Rufus, what's up?" He looked from one of them to the other. "An argument?
"A difference of opinion," said Rufus. "Turks sometimes have opinions, apparently."
"Ah," Reeve smiled blandly. "Dangerous things, opinions."
Always the most elegant of the executives, Reeve was dressed today in a morning coat of fine bluish-black wool, cut away to reveal a slate-grey, silk-embroidered waistcoat. Against these subtle dark hues, his crisp cotton shirt was so purely white it almost hurt. He'd loosened his bow tie and undone his top button. A film of sweat glistened on his brow. "It's too hot in here," he said. "Everyone's getting a little punch drunk with the food and the champagne and the heat. When's the launch, Tseng?"
"We should be moving into the viewing stands any moment now, sir."
Rufus said, "Have you seen the crowds outside, Reeve? Beyond the fence? There's thousands of them."
"Well… I suppose that was to be expected."
"But was it expected? Has Palmer made any arrangements for them? Did anyone? What about water? Shelter?"
"They would bring their own, wouldn't they?"
Rufus grimaced impatiently. "Latrines? Did anyone think about those? When you have five thousand people gathered together like that and no proper waste disposal, do you know what you end up with? An epidemic. Wouldn't that make a glorious note on which to end this fiasco? The whole thing's got completely out of hand. We ought to cancel it and send them home. There's still time."
"Why would we want to do that?" Reeve asked him. "After all the money we've spent?"
"Because if anything goes wrong, we will look ridiculous. Not to mention incompetent. It's not worth the risk. We could cancel it on safety grounds. Call it a temporary delay – "
"What safety grounds? Cid Highwind said everything is good to go."
"Of course he did. He's completely moonstruck. He told me yesterday he'd rather die than lose his chance to be the first man in space. That doesn't sound to me like someone who is taking every available precaution."
Reeve laughed. "Well, no. Admittedly. But it does sound like Cid."
"I don't think you're taking this seriously enough," Rufus frowned. "The money's already been thrown away. The risk is huge. The benefits are negligible. Even if the launch is a success, what do we gain? Cid Highwind orbits the planet a couple of times, big deal – "
"It's a big deal to him."
Rufus made an exasperated sound. "Since when has the realization of some pilot's pipe-dream been the goal of our space program? Really, it's absurd the way we pander to these people."
"What people?" asked the President, walking into the middle of their conversation.
"Employees," said Rufus.
"Got to keep them happy," smiled the Old Man. "Backbone of the company. Can't get any work done without them."
"They don't need to be happy," said Rufus. "They just need to be hungry. And you don't care if they're happy. Why do you have to pretend all the time? You're not fooling anybody. Except maybe yourself."
"My lad – " The President reached up to put an arm around his son's neck, and hugged tight – a little too tight. "When I was your age, I thought I knew everything, too. But I was just a smartarse like you."
"I'd rather be a smartarse than a hypocrite," said Rufus, as he struggled to free himself from his father's grip.
"Sir," said Commander Veld, coming up beside them, "It's time."
.
There were speeches. There was the Military Academy's Marching Band. There was a disciplined cohort of schoolgirls in pigtails and tunics, scattering rose-petals from baskets and singing a song about starlight and destiny. There were bouquets to be presented, thanks to be proclaimed. There was, finally, a ceremonial ribbon to be cut. Through it all Tseng stood at the back of the Presidential box, watching Rufus interact with the girl seated next to him and contemplating the challenge that he presented.
The chairs in the box were gilded, upholstered with purple leather. In the chair beside Rufus sat one of the current crop of LOVELESS starlets, a raven-haired, blue-eyed girl of such startling loveliness that even Tseng had momentarily forgotten he was working and stopped to stare. Undoubtedly she had been hand-picked by the President, and put there with orders to charm his son. She was doing her best, but she wasn't getting much in return.
Almost two years ago the Old Man had instructed them, I want to know who's in his bed. He's young. He's vulnerable. I need names. Dates. Profiles.
In Rufus' mid-adolescence there had been the usual experimental fumblings: a girl in a back-bedroom at one party, a boy in the coat cupboard at another… Though Rufus had never initiated any of these encounters. Tseng supposed that was only natural. The Prince of the Shinra Empire was not someone who wooed, or gave chase, or had to ask. He simply waited, secure in the knowledge that all good things would come to him eventually, of their own free will.
All the same… Rufus was eighteen years old now, and as far as Tseng knew he had never had a serious relationship. Given the opportunities constantly thrown his way, the file on his love-life was suspiciously thin. There had been a few short-lived, casual hook-ups with suitable girls of his class; these were usually carried out so indiscretely – vanishing together into chalet bedrooms during snow-boarding weekends, for example – that Tseng suspected the boy was deliberately giving his watchdogs something to put in their reports. Rufus never brought girls – or any guests – to his suite in the Shinra building; they would have had to pass through security vetting first. Nor was there any evidence that he visited prostitutes.
In fact, Rufus seemed (or possibly, thought Tseng, was choosing to make it look as if he seemed) to have little interest in sex. Skeeter and Hunter, his two principle bodyguards, had been instructed by Veld to make themselves available to him, should he show himself so inclined. They were handsome young people, physically attractive. Rufus hadn't even sniffed at the bait.
Of course, lack of evidence was not, in itself, evidence of lack. Rufus knew he was being watched. He knew that any relationships he might form would be of intense interest to his father, and that if his father should happen to disapprove, interference would be inevitable.
Tseng thought of Lazard, who had hidden behind Zack; and of how Cissnei had hidden behind Lazard. But not from Reno's sharp eyes. And then he remembered Reno saying once, years ago, but boss, the poor little buttoned-up shit! I felt sorry for him….
Rufus enjoyed more freedom of movement now that he was older. The Turks could not watch him every minute of every day. Did he wait for those moments, slipping through the cracks in their vigilance to briefly enjoy something approximating a life? For his sake, Tseng rather hoped so.
The boy certainly had his Old Man in a stew. Damn it, Veld, it's not natural! At his age I was at it every chance I got. Damned pup doesn't know how lucky he is, all those pretty girls throwing themselves at him. You don't think he's a pansy, do you?
The starlet was pulling out all the stops now, gesturing delicately with her slender hands as she chattered away, batting her eyelashes and giggling. Rufus seemed to be listening, though his expression, seen in profile, never altered. It was uphill work for the poor girl. Discouraged, she fell silent, and glanced around as if hoping for help.
Rufus turned his head to look over his shoulder at Tseng.
There was a message in his eyes, but Tseng could not decipher it.
"Commencing countdown," crackled a voice from the loudspeakers. "Ten, nine…"
Rufus took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.
"…Six, five…."
Tseng put on his own sunglasses. Everyone in the stands had done the same.
"…Two…"
Rufus turned back to face the rocket.
"Ignition – "
Flames erupted from the base of the rocket. A split second later, the roar of the engines hit their ears, and a second after that, the heat from the blast gusted into their faces. The air liquified: colours ran together, shapes melted. The rocket shuddered violently, and lifted itself into the air.
Suddenly the noise died, as if the engines had stalled.
The rocket trembled in the air for a moment, then sank back to earth. Almost immediately it began to yaw to starboard, and Tseng was sure it would fall – but it fell against one of the launch towers, and though the tower groaned, it held. With a grinding of metal against metal, the rocket settled into the soft hot ground, tilted at an angle like a child's toy thrown down and abandoned in the midst of play.
.
Extract from the minutes of the Shinra Electric Company Board of Directors meeting, 15th April 2002.
Present: President Shinra, Vice-President Rufus, Heidegger, Scarlet, Palmer, Tuesti, Hojo, Veld
Item 1.1
Vice-President Rufus proposed that the Shinra space program be suspended with immediate effect. Tuesti seconded motion. Motion passed nem con, one abstention. President accepted motion….
…Item 2.3
Palmer moved that Captain Cid Highwind face official censure over his flagrant disregard for safety procedures and for negligence in failing to ensure that the Shinra 26 was launchworthy. Motion failed due to lack of a second….
Tseng was outside, standing against the wall to the right of the boardroom door, waiting for the Commander. He saw Rufus come out first, accompanied by Reeve and Heidegger. Rufus did not glance his way, but walked off down the corridor toward the executive elevator, with the Director of Public Safety Maintenance on his left and the Director of Urban Planning on his right talking at each other across him.
Scarlet came next, the colour high in her cheeks; Palmer followed, his fat little legs scurrying to catch up with her. Hojo stalked out soon afterwards, hands clasped behind his back, walking like a stilted heron hunting for frogs to spear with its beak.
Tseng kept waiting.
Finally, Veld emerged.
Tseng was shocked by his appearance. Deep lines ran down either side of his mouth. The scar on his cheek was shiny, puckered. His eyelids had reddened; his eyelashes had grown sparse. His hair, though still thick, was almost completely grey. But how was it possible he could have grown so much older in two hours?
Fool! Tseng rebuked himself. He's been looking like this for months. Years. And now you notice? He carries us all on his shoulders. You could do more to help him, instead of thinking about yourself all the time –
Gazing down the corridor in the direction Rufus had gone, Veld heaved a weary sigh.
"Sir?" said Tseng.
"Oh, Tseng – there you are. I didn't see you."
The Commander put his real hand on Tseng's shoulder and let it rest there for a moment; and maybe it was only Tseng's imagination, but it did not seem as heavy as it once had been.
Tseng asked, "Is everything all right?"
Veld's smile only emphasised the tiredness in his eyes. He said, "My cloud of dignity is held from falling with so weak a wind that it will soon drop."
He spoke the nonsensical words dreamily, as if half-asleep, or lost in thought – unlike himself, at any rate.
"That sounds like Loveless, sir. What does it mean?"
"It means the wind is changing. It feels too soon, but I suppose it's been a lifetime already. Who would have thought this Turk would live to be so old?"
"You're not old, sir."
Veld laughed at that, and gave his subordinate an amused look, as if to say, we both know you're lying, but thank you.
"Did something happen in there?" Tseng asked him.
"Nothing out of the ordinary. The usual boardroom games. Rufus is making a power play. He's squeezing every inch of mileage out of the rocket failure." Veld shut his eyes for a moment, then chuckled. "What unreasonable old codgers we are. We teach you to walk, and then we complain when you outrun us. Still…." He patted Tseng's shoulder, "The change won't come overnight. Plenty of work yet for an old Turk to do. Come on, my boy. Shoulder to the wheel, eh? We'll go to my office, and I'll fill you in on all the details..."
Thanks for reading!
