I Was Owen Stewart

Chapter One

Before Groucho Marx died, he ruined my life.

   After I hauled him out of the canal, and I saw the three bloody bullet holes in his soaking tuxedo shirt, I pulled out my Pewter to signal the Medivax.  But before it could connect, Grouch snatched it out of my hand a crushed it with the butt of his gun.  And like that, my whole identity was wiped out.

   Of course there were backups.  Even today, there still must be dozens of copies on servers and chips all over the world, but still the damage was done.  When he slammed the gun down, and I saw the silver case shatter, I think I actually felt physical pain.  For the first time in my life, I was off Network and the horror that washed over me made me forget about the three story jump into the canal and the gunmen on the balcony.

   I was Owen Stewart.  You might have heard of me.  For eight years, I was an investigative journalist for the Times of New Hollywood.  My reporting had won me awards, respect, and access to the upper echelons of society. 

   That's how I came to be at Brant Lodi's birthday gala the night I met Groucho.

   It was a choice assignment and a testament to my position at the Times.  When Lodi's publicist contracted the coverage for the event, I was asked for personally.  Sure, this rankled some of my colleagues — they're a bitter and envious lot.  They hate to see any big story go to someone besides themselves.  Not to mention that this was a Brant Lodi party and more than a few of them would have given anything to actually meet the man.  I suppose none of them were all that sad when I disappeared.

   That night I arrived by hired glide boat.  There was no yacht for me.  After all, no matter how popular a writer I may have been, I was still just a reporter. 

   I remember the wall of people lining the banks of the canals surrounding Lodi's palace.  There were usually a few members of his cult standing vigil, but they were out in full force that night in celebration of his birthday.

   As I approached, I recorded vids of the scene on my Pewter.  There were some great shots of the crowd standing there, devoutly in their robes, with the candles in their hands lighting up their faces.  The sight was almost eerie — hundreds of Brant Lodis all along the waterways, lit by warm radiance of candlelight.  It was definitely a testament to his star power that not only could he attract so many men and women to his cult, but that so many had gone on and had full or partial facial reconstruction.

   The glide boat let me off at the service dock.  It was all but deserted, gloomily lit by the wharf lamps.  Caterers and bands would have been bustling along it earlier, but they were inside now.  As I made my way to the plain doorway marked "Help," I heard a cheer erupt from over on the red quay.  I tried to get a glimpse of who had just arrived, but all I could see was the blinding glow of the camera flashes and the backs of reporters and fans. 

   The fisheye sensor read my invite off of my Pewter, and the door opened for me.  On the other side, a servant in full livery directed me through the confusion of the kitchens and led me to the palace's grand ballroom.

   The majestic room was dominated by a large platform in its center, where the real Brant Lodi sat, surrounded by a security detail.  He was receiving only select guests, while the rest milled around the dance floor and chased after hors d'oeuvre trays.

   The first thing that caught my eye was the icon he was wearing.  Like most big stars, he belonged to one of the cults of the Holo Screen's golden age.  Specifically, he was a disciple of the late Lulia Crowley, and the amulet he wore of her must have been new — most likely a birthday gift from a wealthy admirer.  The frame gleamed with gold and diamonds, and she stood out from it at least an inch, blowing kisses at the party guests.  No matter how long I looked, it never seemed to loop; it was almost as though she was really there.  It was an outstanding hologram and must have cost a fortune.