Braintrust- Requiem

by Marc Stiegler

  Ping laughed, which made Joshua breathe easier. “Jam’s been gone for a few days, as it happens, practicing her brooding skills. But stay cool, Joshua. It’s nothing like that.”

  Joshua waited for the bomb to go off.

  Ping continued. “I’ve been reading all the stuff you made me read. I’ve made Rubinelle read it too.”

  Joshua blinked. “You have?”

  More laughter. “Ciara would’ve locked me in my room if I didn’t follow your orders.”

  Joshua nodded. “Good woman.”

  “Anyway, as nearly as I can tell, the way to kickstart this country is to send people—Rubinelle’s people for the moment since they’re the ones I trust most—off in every direction and get vidtapes of everyone in every village as they agree who owns what. We’ll upload consensus property titles to the SmartCoin blockchain, and then I can get the banks and the other financial institutions to lend against those assets. Am I right?”

  Joshua leapt out of bed, excited. “That’s exactly right! That’s your plan?”

  Ping’s voice developed a sly note. “There’s just one problem.”

  Joshua had a moment of foreboding. “And that is?”

  “When there’s a dispute, who’s gonna mediate?”

  Joshua opened his mouth, closed it again, and started once more. “You could, uh…”

  Ping responded ever so brightly, “I could send the case to you! What a great solution!”

  Joshua found himself speechless, then, “Won’t work. One man can’t do all the mediations for an entire country.”

  Ping clapped. “Great idea! You can train people here in Benin as mediators! You’ll be the boss of an entire nationwide organization!”

  Joshua had uttered the Groan of the Dying.

  Ping and the members of her inner circle watched Joshua as he assembled his thoughts. “With Ciara’s and Jim’s help, we’ve gotten some basic mediation modules into Accel, and that’s really accelerated my training of new mediators.” He shook his head. “But at the end of the day, the kind of mediation we do is as much a matter of hands-on apprenticeship as learning. It’s still slow.”

  Ciara cleared her throat. “But just yesterday, you certified your first mediation teacher, right?” She turned to the others. “We now have a local mediator Joshua has said is good enough to teach other mediators.”

  Ping rubbed her hands together. “Excellent.”

  Oziegbe pointed out how their efforts were coordinated. “As you know, I started building the new roads in the southwest specifically because that’s where the weather’s best for Shura’s new cocoa trees.” He pointed at Rubinelle. “That’s also where she sent her first video recorders to establish land ownership.”

  Ciara chimed in. “So we were able to get them loans to get set up and cultivate the new crops.” She smiled wolfishly. “Then all the small landholders formed the Grange that then bought bots from us to work the land.” She held up her mug. “Behold! Hot chocolate.”

  Ping turned to Rubinelle. “And revenue.”

  Rubinelle nodded stiffly. “If we could get the rest of the country on its feet so easily, we could pay for all this education and road building.” Had Rubinelle not chosen to become the commanding general of an army, she could easily have become an accountant—a strict bean-counting accountant. “However, as it stands, we’re strapped for cash.” A disapproving expression covered her face. “And we are not going to put the government in debt.”

  This was so obvious that no one disagreed.

  Ping summed up, “The most important thing may be accelerating yet again the video capture of property rights. Then the people can take out loans to pursue the opportunities they see, and even though some of them will screw up and lose everything, their individual failures won’t leave the whole country in the dumpster, which is what would happen if the government took on big debts and screwed up.”

  Oziegbe rubbed his hands together. “And with the additional taxes, I can build more roads.”

  Ciara glared. “And I can raise the national subsidy so more parents can afford Accel educations for their children.”

  Ping looked around. “Anything else?”

  Rubinelle leaned forward and clasped her hands. “Empress, a matter of considerable significance has come to my attention.”

  Ping choked off her eager adjournment of the meeting. She sighed. “What’s next?”

  While the Crash consumed the minds of the Western world, in the less developed parts of the globe, life the day after the Crash continued pretty much the way it had gone the day before. The Sky Rubola had had by far the more important impact on their lives.

  Despite the speed with which Dash and the scientists of the BrainTrust had developed the cure for the disease, and the early success of Matt’s interceptor pods in mitigating its spread, certain places had been hit hard.

  African dictators and terrorists had always had exceptional willful ignorance of the value of vaccines. All too often, the autocratic governments blithely disregarded the risks to their constituents, while the terrorists brutally punished villagers who allowed health care workers to assist them. Consequently, the three groups—villagers, terrorists, and autocrats—remained as underserved markets for the Sky Rubola cure.

  However, as Khalid had intended, the impact of the disease on these three populations proved markedly different. Since the virus targeted most voraciously those who had the wealth and indulgence to dine with gluttonous abandon, the autocrats died in droves. The terrorists, almost as lean as they were mean, still ate better than the villagers from whom they stole all their provisions. Casualties among the terrorists ran high.

  The villagers, surviving on the dregs left them by the others, carried the disease but generally survived. Among these survivors were the two people who now entered Ping’s throne room.

  A thin dark man came in with a thin dark boy. Rubinelle introduced them. “This is Gabriel Eze from western Nigeria.”

  Gabriel nodded.

  Rubinelle continued, “And his…nephew, more or less, Kingsley Okafor.”

  The boy smiled and waved shyly.

  Rubinelle flicked her tablet to bring up images on the main wallscreen, then went to stand next to Gabriel. She pointed at the images. “Those are pictures of Gabriel’s village before and after Imam Ekon, the new Nigerian dictator, had his men expel the foreign health care workers.”

  One set of images portrayed scenes from a reasonably pastoral village life. The other set showed burned-out buildings and a scattering of smoldering corpses.

  Gabriel stared longingly at the older pictures of his home. “The Imam has declared takfir against everyone who lives west of Abuja and north of the Lagos swamps.” He shuddered. “Every day there are more tales of villages destroyed like ours.”

  Ping squirmed. She asked gently. “This is terrible, Gabriel, but what do you want us to do? If you’d like to move your people to Benin, you’re more than welcome.” She looked at Rubinelle. “We don’t still have anything like an immigration policy, right? I mean, people can just walk in.”

  Rubinelle nodded. “We currently do not have properly secured borders. People come and go as they please.”

  Ping turned back to Gabriel. “There you have it.”

  Gabriel frowned. “I appreciate that, but we have no money, and all your new factories have people waiting in line to apply for jobs.” His eyes glistened. “All we have is the land we grew up on.”

  Without that land, Ping realized, these people were destitute. It was the same problem she was working on here in Benin, really; if Gabriel and his fellow villagers had had proper titles, they could have sold their land and moved to a place with more opportunities. But such a dream was fantastical in a place ruled by Imam Ekon.

  Joshua made the point. “So Gabriel and all the people of western Nigeria need the property rights and mediation mechanisms we’re introducing in Benin.”

  Rubinelle smiled. “Which brings us to Gabriel’s request.” She
nudged him.

  He clasped his hands. “We would very much like for the Empress to take over our part of Nigeria and make us part of Benin.”

  Ping stared as if punched in the gut.

  Oziegbe clapped and laughed. “Just do it.”

  For the first time, Jam looked up with interest. “Yes.”

  Ciara muffled a scream.

  Ping tried to find a way out of it. “I suppose, if your village is right on the border, we could talk to the Imam and see if we could buy it or something.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “There are many more of us who would like to join than that.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a battered leather notebook. He opened it and started showing them page after page of signatures. “These are all elders for other villages who would like to join Benin.”

  Rubinelle worked her tablet, and a map of Nigeria came up on the wallscreen. The western part of the country was covered with dots. “I have taken the liberty of creating a map that shows all the places where they would like us to take over.”

  Gabriel pointed out the obvious. “Just about everyone who has been accused of takfir would like to join you.”

  Rubinelle tossed in a few more cents. “The Dahomey kingdom that once embraced our Amazons overlapped both Benin and Nigeria. We would be freeing our own people.” Perhaps feeling this was inadequate justification for such an enormous undertaking, she continued, “And of course, the blessings of justice must be propagated at every opportunity.”

  Jam sat up straight. “No matter how much it costs us personally.” She rose from her chair and looked at Ping. “I have something to do. I’ve been putting it off, but it’s time.” She smiled, the happy smile of someone who, having made a decision, feels released from the weight they have carried. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time to help with the liberation.” She left with graceful speed.

  Ping stared at the map. Then she stared at the burned-out village. Then she stared at the map again.

  Ciara whispered, “You can’t be serious.” She watched Ping stare at the images with growing determination and closed her eyes. “Never mind. Let’s make sure we have a damn good plan before we start.”

  Ping muttered, “Is this what I have an army for? Really?”

  After the meeting broke up, Ciara accosted Gabriel. “I just wanted to make clear, I don’t object to liberating you because I don’t want you to have a better future. I objected because we’re stretched very thin, and the cost of war is always greater than you’re willing to believe before it starts.”

  Gabriel nodded. “Forgive me if I think you’re wrong.”

  Ciara smiled and looked down at Kingsley. “Might I ask why you brought your nephew along?” She bent and shook Kingsley’s hand. “Welcome to the BrainTrust.”

  Kingsley smiled shyly.

  Gabriel looked uncomfortable. “Honestly, I was hoping to have him tested to see if he qualified for residence. He doesn’t speak hardly at all, but he’s the brightest boy of all the villages near where we live.” His expression turned wry. “He seems to have a remarkable gift for mathematics.” Gabriel’s expression turned quizzical. “You wouldn’t happen to know who to talk to about testing him, would you?”

  Ciara laughed. “You’ve found exactly the right person.”

  Ciara took Kingsley to the testing center while Ping dragged Gabriel off to discuss matters of military strategy.

  A couple of hours later, Ping returned with Gabriel. Kingsley sat on the edge of his seat at a table as he discovered the pinnacle of joy, a chocolate ice cream cone. His tongue darted around the cone, slurping up the ice cream just before it melted, taking meticulous care not to let the ball of chocolate fall off the cone.

  Ciara sat across the table from him with a cup of tea, staring at him with an expression of contemplative shock.

  Ping recognized the look; she’d seen it before. “Let me guess. A super-genius?”

  Ciara turned slowly to stare at her. “That doesn’t describe it. He’s another Sibahle Zwane.”

  Ping blinked. “He’s a who?”

  Gabriel gave them a wide smile. “Sibahle was a child math prodigy who became famous around the world.” He went to Kingsley and rubbed his head, which got him a glare since he was disrupting the ice cream experience. “I wondered. I hoped, and I wondered.” He swallowed hard. “Does that mean he can stay?”

  Ciara nodded in continued amazement. “Oh, yes, Gabriel.” She frowned. “Now I have to figure out what to do with him.” A look of horror crossed her face. “I might have to call my mom.”

  Ping laughed. “Whatever for? Can’t you just hook him up with Accel?”

  Ciara sputtered into her tea. “If I do, he’ll just run through all the math coursework in the next year or so and be done. It would be a disaster since he needs to learn more than just math.” She turned contemplative once more. “I might be able to rework the incentives in the framework so that when he learns about history, literature, and other topics, he’s rewarded with more math modules.” She brightened. “Maybe I can call Jim and my dad for a system upgrade.”

  Gabriel looked concerned. “Is that what he’ll do all day? Study on a tablet?”

  Ping clasped his shoulder. “Oh, no. Don’t worry. This is the one place on Earth where he’ll be able to find peers and make friends.” She watched Kingsley not quite lose the ice cream off the cone again.

  The empress’ eyes lit up as she had a thought. “As soon as he has full control of that chocolate, I’m going to take him down to the agriculture decks and introduce him to Shura. Shura’s just the person to take another super-genius and show him around.” She glared at Ciara. “Any objections?”

  Ciara snorted. “Quite the contrary.” She waved in the direction of the door. “By all means, take command, Empress.”

  Drew’s Marines set up camp in the parking lot of the Golden Nugget Hotel & Casino in Wendover, Utah, which was right on the border with Nevada. A jurisdictional dispute had arisen.

  The Wendover sheriff stood in Drew’s personal space, breath reeking of garlic and onions. “This is my town, and he’s my prisoner.” He lifted his finger as if to poke Drew in the chest but thought better of it.

  Which showed the sheriff had good instincts for self-preservation. Drew would have broken the finger, and if any of the sheriff’s officers objected, he would have reluctantly let his troops shoot as many of them as necessary. He realized he might have to shoot a lot of them because the entire Wendover police force seemed oblivious to the staggering firepower of his team of Marines, who were loaded out with assault rifles, grenades, and a couple of rocket launchers.

  The sound of glass shattering interrupted the dispute. A policeman reached through the broken window of the limousine and fished out a wriggling Governor. Both the sheriff and Drew joined the cop holding the struggling politician/terrorist/revolutionary/freedom fighter.

  The sheriff barked, “You’re under arrest.”

  Drew agreed, in his own way. “By order of the Acting President of the United States, I hereby take you into custody on the charge of treason.” He waved at another of his men. One of them opened the driver’s door to the limo, dragged the driver unceremoniously out, and plunked himself into the now-empty seat. Another reached through the broken window, opened the rear door, slid in, and shooed the Governor’s attendant out the far side, poking the anxious fellow with his rifle.

  While Drew’s men were commandeering the car, the sheriff’s man had handcuffed the Governor.

  Drew acknowledged the man. “Well done, officer. Now please put the Governor back in the car.”

  The sheriff started to object.

  Drew growled in his most commanding, carrying voice, “Enough! I have orders to take this man and his followers to Washington, DC for arraignment. I swear to you we will follow our orders, so help me God.” He leaned over to whisper, “Look carefully at the way my men are holding their weapons, Sheriff. If I must make this a bloodbath, I will.”

&n
bsp; The sheriff looked around and blanched.

  Drew sweetened the deal. “Why don’t you ride shotgun, at least to Colorado? We’ll take a photo of the event as you pass control over to me at the border.”

  The sheriff thought about it. “Can my men form a motorcade around your convoy?”

  Drew felt magnanimous. “Why not? And while you’re at it, there’s another task you can do for the Acting President.”

  The sheriff stood straighter. “How can I help?”

  “Get the license plates and IDs on all these people joining the Governor’s little group. We don’t want any of them to get away when we get to DC.” He remembered one more thing. “Oh, and see if someone in the Nugget has some plastic wrap—something we can tape over this broken car window.”

  “You got it.”

  4

  Picking Losers

  I have sworn upon the altar of God, eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.

  —Thomas Jefferson

  Standing in the women’s restroom in the White House where she’d planted the vidcam, Trixie wriggled out of her clothes, as was de rigueur for her contacts with her real boss, the Russian Union Premier. She thrust out her chest, swayed her hips, and started her report. “Things are still really tense here. As I reported earlier, they’re bringing the California governor here to be tried for treason, and we’re rounding up his most fervent followers as well. So Chiefy may survive this after all if the Secret Service doesn’t shoot him themselves.”

  She paused. “I saw your message asking if I should get out. It was very sweet of you.” She blew him a kiss. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m still good. I think if it goes badly, the Secret Service guys will help me.” She laughed. “As you know, they’ve been pretty sure all along that I’m a spy, but considering the role I play here and who I play it for, I think they feel a little sorry for me.”