Winning Mars | Page 3

tweaking a major
national terrorist disaster.
Richard cocked his head. "You have to tone it down."
Jerome nodded. "Work with 411. I believe they have a list of
scriptwriters you shouldn't work with. Take their advice, and you could
stretch this out."
"How long?"
A shrug. Dancing 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