As the world learned after the touch of slaughter delivered by Sky Rubola, math applies to dictators. Specifically, the statistical phenomenon known as regression toward the mean worked with autocrats, just as it worked with Israeli fighter pilots.
Fighter pilots? Well, yes.
The basic idea of regression toward the mean is that if you have a faintly bell-shaped curve of things/events/people, and an event occurs that is off to one side of the mean or the other, the odds say that the next event will probably be closer to the mean.
Among Israeli fighter pilots, where a notable study of the phenomenon took place, regression toward the mean had some disturbing consequences. Suppose a pilot achieving a median level of accomplishment runs through a combat test and performs brilliantly. The flight instructor of course praises the pilot for his success, but regression toward the mean pretty much guarantees the pilot will do less well the next time. The instructor, a human being who, like most human beings, confuses statistical correlation with causation, soon concludes that praising a pilot for excellence causes the pilot to perform worse.
Meanwhile, criticizing the pilot after a poor performance grants the illusion of working quite well: the pilot regresses to the mean, i.e., gets better the next time around.
The instructor is trained by the math, in effect, to be the worst instructor he can be.
In a similar fashion, a succession of dictators also regresses to the mean. Knock off a dictator who is less damaging to the citizenry, and odds are the next one will be worse. Take out an awful dictator, and the next will probably be better.
Statistically, dictators who opposed vaccinations were among the worst of dictators. Statistically, then, the worst dictators tended to be the ones who died of the Sky Rubola. Statistically, then, less awful dictators took over. The poorest parts of the world, therefore, statistically became better places to live.
Chinese Project Director Wu Bolin faced an extraordinary statistical anomaly across the desk, dictator Imam Ekon of Nigeria. First of all, since Ekon was rotund and was fierce in his hostility to vaccines of all kinds, he should have been killed by the Sky Rubola. Secondly, when he decided to run a rebellion after the plague, he should have been blown away by the previous President of Nigeria, who had been rather competent by the world’s low standards of government officialdom.
But the previous president had been dying of Rubola when Imam Ekon brought his branch of the Islamic State in Nigeria to Abuja, the capital in the center of the country. The President might have survived the virus—the BrainTrust had delivered the vaccine at an astonishing speed—but the Imam had arrived even faster. The President committed suicide by shooting himself in the back twelve times with a rifle and a pistol.
The Chinese project director sat back and examined the surroundings. He was meeting with Imam Ekon in Aso Villa, the Presidential residence.
The room was trimmed in dark wood, with beautiful black and beige tapestries on the walls. The furniture was all beige leather, rather more comfortable than anything in his offices.
His own offices resided in the upper floors of NECOM House, a thirty-two-story skyscraper built of concrete on the edge of what had once been Lagos Harbor. Of course, the area that had once been a harbor was more complicated now. The whole huge sprawling city of Lagos had been built at sea level, with waterways all through it.
Then West Antarctic Ice Sheet C had slid off its rocky base. When that immense span of ice drove implacably into the sea, it had displaced more water than any tsunami in human history—enough to drown, among other things, the entire coast of Nigeria.
The funniest part of the disaster, from Wu’s perspective, was Eko Atlantic, an extension of Lagos that had been built at enormous cost with tremendous effort by reclaiming a peninsula from the ocean. It had taken Mother Nature less than ten seconds to take it back.
In any event, Wu’s offices lay in the skyscraper that still had a lighthouse beacon at the top, only now, the beacon did not warn of the coast. Rather, it warned ships they were nearing the Lagos swamp, a nightmare of twisted wreckage as large as the area of the lost city.
Wu’s office was inconveniently located. You could only get to it by boat, carefully threading your way through the debris, but once you arrived, the view was great. It encompassed all the opportunities and all the problems Wu faced.
Wu was also attempting a reclamation of sorts, and he had two goals. First he had to build out enough of the Lagos swamp to make the harbor operational again. Second, he had to re-drill the oil wells in the Nigerian Delta, which had once been one of the most oil-rich areas on Earth. The oil was still there, but the wells had all been destroyed by Antarctic Ice Sheet C.
So now Wu was going into the Delta Swamp with offshore oil drilling rigs and platforms, not to reclaim the land, but to reclaim the petroleum.
Once he had a harbor and a source of oil, he could start shipping the black gold to China.
Wu had proposed this undertaking to his bosses at the China State Railway Group. Now he had to make it work.
Why would the Railway Group be interested in a ruined harbor and oil field in Nigeria?
For one thing, everybody in a position of power in China cared about oil. They didn’t have it in China, so they were completely dependent on imports. A major part of China’s international agenda was ensuring they could always get oil.
Secondly, the Railway Group did lots besides railways, and often worked outside the country. The main recipient of the government’s efforts was the Belt and Road Initiative, the BRI. The goal, as lofty as it was self-serving, was to link all the nations of Eastern Asia, extending all the way unto Europe, with trucks and trains running throughout the continent, while also building and augmenting ports as far away as East Africa.
The Lagos Harbor project was a simple extension of that project to West Africa, so the rationale went.
Since Wu had proposed it, he had gotten responsibility for it. For a workforce, he’d hired all the employees of the China Communications Construction Group who were already in Lagos. They had been the unfortunate souls in charge of creating the peninsula for Eko Atlantic and were experts in the fields of marine dredging and landfill operations.
The Lagos Harbor Project was a great opportunity for Wu, and China Railway Group, and China. Even if it had been a little behind schedule and a little over budget, everyone would have supported it.
Unfortunately, the small schedule slips had accumulated into a large one, and the cost overruns had grown to heart-palpitating size.
This still would not have made too much difference, except the new CEO, who had replaced the one who’d been executed by the Standing Committee, was currently in a panicked frenzy of cost-cutting. Wu could feel the noose tightening around his project, his career, and perhaps even his neck.
Which was why he had some considerable enthusiasm for the conversation he was now holding with the Imam. Perhaps he could get concessions that would make his work here even more profitable, and wholly acceptable despite the little schedule and budget problems.
Imam Ekon had reached the ranting part of the discussion. “And this upstart empress has claimed the whole western half of my country! Look at this!” He threw a map up on the wallscreen, showing the area where Ping had declared the Nigerian government persona non grata. He pointed at the southwest corner of Nigeria, where the new annexation to Benin extended almost to Lagos. “She’s even threatening you!”
Wu did not find this warning particularly disquieting. Empress Ping had made a public announcement as well as having had a private chat with the Imam. The new southern border of eastern Benin was no closer to his harbor than the Benin capital of Porto Novo, which lay right on the Benin-Nigeria border. Frankly, Wu figured Ping would make a better neighbor than Ekon.
The Imam, seeing that Wu remained impassive at this pronouncement, tried another shocker. “And she’s threatened to cut us all off from the Kainji Dam hydroelectric power! And to triple the rates!
&n
bsp; Wu sat more alertly. If either of these two mutually contradictory claims were true, it would be a disaster. The Kainji Dam supplied most of the power for the country, including the power for the Lagos Harbor project. Indeed, the fabulously low price for power from the dam, whose construction costs had been amortized long ago, was a key reason why the project was viable in the first place.
Could it be true? Even if it weren’t true, could it supply an opportunity?
Wu at long last interrupted the tirade. “That would be completely unacceptable.”
Imam Ekon leaned forward and thumped the table. “Exactly!”
Wu pressed the palms of his hands together. “So let me get clear on this. You want us to supply the military force to regain your lost western provinces?”
“You must do so for your own sake.”
Wu shook his head. “We have alternatives for the dam’s power.” That was almost true. He could buy a couple of BrainTrust nukes, but he was already over budget. He thought he could probably persuade the Chinese government to put up a military presence out of someone else’s budget for the strategic value of the oil.
Pressing on with the negotiation, he continued, “Our main goal would be to secure the dam.”
Imam Ekon sat back in his chair, satisfied. “And once you have control of the dam, we’ll have control of the region. They’ll be utterly at our mercy.”
Wu had no idea why the West Nigerians would care that much about the dam, but if the Imam thought they would, that was fine. He shrugged. “I will speak to my government about doing this service for you. But in exchange, we must rewrite the terms of our contract with respect to the revenues and sales of oil from the Delta.”
The Imam’s eyes bulged in anger, which left a warm feeling in Wu’s heart. Wu’s estimation of the man was that, at his core, he was a torturer and a sadist. Ekon might lust for money, but he needed vast numbers of people he could brutalize at his slightest whim. So he would trade the oil for the people.
After a short period of sharp argument and harsh disagreement, the Imam shook hands on the new terms.
Gina stood outside Ivy’s, the new jewelry boutique that had just opened on the promenade deck of the Haven. She fingered the invitation to the Exclusive Grand Opening, an elegant engraved metal plate that was either plated with gold or—as she was coming to suspect—was actually made of gold.
As she stood looking at the external display that dazzled with diamonds and emeralds, she heard the clack of high heels and felt a presence step up beside her.
Dawn Rainer, the boss of the Rainer media empire and Gina’s business partner for a comparatively small isle ship-building enterprise, spoke dryly. “Looks like Ivy has excellent taste in clientele.”
Gina looked at Dawn’s rather aloof expression and smiled warmly. “Am I paranoid, or do I get the feeling that you and I are the only people invited to this Exclusive Opening?”
Dawn looked at the display of trinkets. “A little gaudy, don’t you think?”
Gina shrugged. “Most of it. Some of it might do well with the right dress on the right woman, though.”
Dawn grunted, then waved a hand. “After you.”
Gina led the way out of the bright lights of the promenade into the relative darkness of the shop, where most of the light seemed to glint off the jewels in the displays.
A shapely blonde woman with the poise and stature of a model stood before them.
Dawn started laughing. “You! I shouldn’t be surprised. How embarrassing that I am.”
Gina gasped. “You’re alive!”
The woman brought her finger to her lips in a shushing motion. “My name is Ivy. The woman you’re thinking of, the wife of the Chief Advisor, died in the riots after he was killed.” She glared at both her invitees. “Are we clear on that?”
Dawn stepped forward and offered her hand. “Of course…Ivy. Nice to meet you.”
Ivy relaxed. “Good. Now come into the back room. I have lunch laid out. Catered by Krystal’s for Breakfast. I was hoping we could talk business.”
Dawn pursed her lips. “I am so not going into the jewelry business.”
Ivy snorted. “Of course not.” She looked around at the glittering gold and jewels with a fond expression. “This is just a hobby, a little fun.” She sighed. “I have a more serious business problem. I have several billion SC from my husband’s accounts. I need investments.”
Gina delicately ate one of the appetizers from Krystal’s: a concoction of cream cheese and garlic wrapped in a thin slice of fried eggplant, topped with pomegranate. She wasn’t particularly fond of eggplant, but for this application, it worked. Krystal, she thought once more, was truly a master.
Ivy was speaking. “It seems clear the isle ship construction business is about to take off. Let’s face it, no one in their right mind wants to live under the thumb of those whack-job national governments anymore.”
Dawn answered sarcastically. “I don’t know. People lived under your whack-job American government for years before the new set of whack jobs rolled into DC.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “Fair enough. Certainly not worth arguing about. Can we focus, please?”
Gina brought up the big problem. “Unfortunately, Ivy, our shipbuilding business is coming up on hard times.”
Ivy stared at her.
Dawn held up her hands as she explained. “Oh, we have plenty of customers for our residential/office isle ships, but we built the business using the excess capacity from the Helios and Argus manufacturing ships. Now competition for those ships is heating up. For example, Ted Simpson just put in a huge manufacturing request for copters.”
She pointed at Gina. “And Matt needs to crank up production of both Titan rockets and spaceport ships.” She frowned. “Truthfully, we’re in a bind.”
A soft voice came from the shadows by the door to Ivy’s front room. “Which is why you need to switch tactics and get into the really big business opportunity.”
Another blonde woman, too petite to be a model but exuding a certain erotic sensuality, stepped into the room. Her hips swayed in her tight denim jeans as she moved to the rhythm imposed by her high heels. “I hope you don’t mind a gatecrasher for your Exclusive Opening.”
All three seated women stared at her. Dawn once again laughed. “And yet again, I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet here I am, again, astonished.” She shook her head. “Am I losing my touch?”
Gina looked at the new arrival in puzzlement. “Who are you?”
Ivy leapt from her chair in rage. “That’s Trix—”
The new blonde overrode her. “’Tricia.’ My name is Tricia.” She glared at the woman confronting her. “Or should I call you something else as well, Ivy?”
Ivy’s fists clenched and unclenched. “You tramp!”
Tricia shrugged. “Understandable you should think so.” She looked down at Gina. “Let’s talk about who I’m not. I’m not the Chief Advisor’s administrative assistant, his sex toy, and his pet whore.”
Ivy pointed an accusatory finger. “And you’re a spy for the Russians!”
Tricia grimaced. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.” The table with the breakfast repast had a fourth chair, and she slid into it. “I perhaps owe you a little history lesson on how I wound up as your husband’s mistress.” She snagged an eggplant morsel.
Gina, watching with some amusement as the stranger took control of the meeting, decided she might as well go with the flow. She went to Ivy’s coffee station and poured the newcomer a cup.
Tricia smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”
Ivy sat back down, fists still clenched.
Tricia sipped the coffee and began. “ I was born in Moscow. My parents died in a car crash when I was still a child.” She sighed. “My sister and I were not only pretty, but we were top of our classes in the private academies our parents sent us to.” She shrugged. “So the Russian Union Premier took my sister and me for himself. He personally broke us and trained us as swallows. Sparrows t
o you—you know, people who use sex to steal secrets. You’re familiar with the concept?”
Gina reeled as she heard Tricia talk so casually about child abuse. Even Ivy seemed alarmed.
Dawn guessed the next part. “So, the Premier sent you to seduce the President for Life?”
Tricia shrugged. “Not quite. The Premier had already realized that the real power was in the hands of the Chief Advisor.” She looked at Ivy with an expression that was almost gentle. “Sorry.” She looked away and her lips twitched. “Though honestly, you weren’t missing much. Let’s be honest: your husband didn’t put much effort into meeting the needs of his partners.”
Dawn raised an eyebrow at Ivy. “Really?”
Ivy ground out, “He was still my husband.”
Gina shook her head and turned to Tricia. “Is that the whole story?”
Tricia’s nostrils flared as she suppressed a deep rage. “The Premier, in his own twisted way, became fond of us, but since I was going so deep undercover, he decided he needed to keep some extra leverage. So he took my sister as his mistress.”
She sipped her coffee. “The last thing he did before taking me to America and introducing me to the Advisor was to take us both down to his dungeon and have us watch as a surgeon removed the skin from one of his enemies while keeping the man alive.” Her face went blank. “You cannot imagine it. I cannot imagine it, and I saw it.” She shook the vision away. “He explained ever so calmly that if I failed or betrayed him, he would do the same thing to my sister.”
Ivy’s fists remained clenched, although her voice quavered when she spoke. “So, if the Premier found out you’re here…”
Tricia glared back, a dark and deadly look promising death and destruction. “Which part of ‘skinned alive’ did you not understand?”
Gina squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to change the subject to something she could comprehend. “Anyway, you were saying something about a bigger business opportunity?”
Dawn’s expression turned shrewd. “By all means, let’s talk about that.”
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