by Brandt Legg
Riding down Pennsylvania Avenue with Melissa, both waving and smiling to the masses, Hudson wondered how he could possibly do what needed to be done with so few allies. If Vonner was truly on his side, it might be possible, but that “if” had kept him awake many nights since the election, and he was no closer to the truth. He didn’t know how he was going to stop the REMies and stay alive. He wasn’t even sure how to be president. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was in way over his head.
Chapter Three
Hudson, finally alone in the Oval Office, walked across the plush blue carpet, careful not to step on the inlaid presidential seal. The room, by design, exuded power. He could feel Kennedy’s tension during the Cuban missile crisis, FDR strategizing the swings of World War II, Lincoln wrestling over the fate of the union as the Civil War raged.
He strained his eyes, nearly able to see the great men’s ghosts. Every president going back to John Adams had been in that very room. As he thought of those Founding Fathers, he couldn’t help but think of NorthBridge and how they had bastardized the use of those historic names in their pursuit of power through terror.
His mind wandered to Nixon, and his decision to resign, and of the paranoid president taping meetings in the office. What did old tricky-Dick know about the REMies? He took a step to the window and looked out over the south lawn. Now I’m here. What great history will I make? Will I make any at all? Will they let me?
President Pound turned back to the intimidating room and stared at the desk made from the timbers of the HMS Resolute. He recalled that the Queen of England had presented the desk to President Rutherford Hayes in 1880, and that nearly every Commander in Chief since then had used the desk. What secrets does it hold?
He was about to find out. Hudson knew the legend that each president left a note for his successor inside a desk drawer in the Oval Office. At the inauguration ceremony, Hudson had wanted to ask the outgoing president if there was a note waiting, but he didn’t dare. He wanted to discover it himself. He was counting on its being there, containing a hint or a clue as to how he could bypass the tangled influence and crushing presence of the powerful elites who ran the president and seemingly everything else.
For most of the country’s history, the tradition of the presidents’ passing letters was not known. Only in recent decades had word leaked, and, now, after demands from the media, a public letter from each president to the next was released. But those were simple, magnanimous notes intended to make people feel good. The true letters, which everyone denied even existed, had been the subject of great speculation among conspiracy theorists. Hudson had read they could be pages long, and always contained instructions that the letter be burned immediately after reading.
Do they exist? What information could be so dangerous to require the letter’s destruction?
Hudson paced around the desk, not wanting to be disappointed, not wanting to know, but needing to find out. Finally, he sat in the leather chair, pulled open the center drawer, looked down, and saw two envelopes, in the unmistakable handwriting of the former president, bearing his name. One was note card size, the other a standard business envelope. He opened the smaller one first and read what he knew was the public message, “Congratulations . . . Good luck . . . I’m rooting for you . . . God bless you . . .”
He left that one on top of his desk and slowly opened the other envelope. Hudson withdrew the three typewritten pages on White House letterhead, quickly checked the end to see the president’s signature, took a deep breath, and began reading.
Dear Hudson,
With Arlin Vonner’s backing, there is a very good chance that you already know some of what I’m going to tell you, but in case you don’t, please don’t shoot the messenger. I know you think you fought hard, and, in fact, in your case you did survive bullets and battles to get here. But there was never any doubt that you were going to be the next president. I wasn’t at the meeting when they decided it would be you, but be assured there was a meeting, and they did decide. It’s not important how they do it; some of it is even legitimate in a kind of crazy, modern, capitalistic, democratic kind of way. Yet I imagine that somebody like you, with no background in politics, a man of apparently great honor, is shocked at how this all works.
That being said, you have still been given one of the greatest opportunities of life, one that only a relative handful have ever known. Assuming you cooperate with them, there is much good that you can do. They do allow many pet projects, causes, a tiny bit of “reform,” and there are the ceremonial duties that are actually quite rewarding. You will spend the rest of your life in great wealth, privilege, and respect.
Just do the four years (or eight, if you’d like) and try not to make waves. I know you’re a student of history, and therefore you can look back and see the ones who made mistakes by trying to buck the system; a system that has become entrenched not just in our great nation, but across the globe. This system keeps things going, and it is everything. I hope you won’t make the same mistake that Jack Kennedy and some others have made.
Halfway through the first page, he could not read anymore. Hudson got up from his chair, walked to the other side of the desk, and found himself standing exactly in the center of the presidential seal. He glanced down at the olive branch and arrows in the eagle’s talons. War and peace, at the direction of whom? He stepped over to one of the credenzas and ran his hands across the Frederic Remington sculpture, The Bronco Buster. It could not be a coincidence. Frederic Remington was a cousin to Eliphalet Remington, founder of the Remington Arms Company. The Wizard had said that perhaps the best theory for the origin of the name REMies was Eliphalet Remington, who helped manipulate wars and skirmishes around the world beginning in the latter half of the nineteenth century.
Taking a deep breath, Hudson returned to the desk and continued reading the letter.
It’s not such a bad thing to have a country run by committee, run by very successful people, by those with more knowledge of events and the truth of those events, than you or I would ever know. Think of the bad presidents, the ones that you have disagreed with. Some of them had grand plans and made bold promises as candidates. However, once they got into office, it turned out they were not that much different than their predecessors. There’s a reason for that, obviously. It’s because they are their predecessors. Continuity has served us well.
I’m sure you’re thinking you’re going to just be a puppet, because that’s what I thought, but you’ll be pleasantly surprised. You won’t feel controlled. It’s nothing like being a puppet. In fact, after they surround you with the people they want you surrounded with, it’s much the way you imagined it would be. Those advisors, generals, cabinet secretaries, give you advice and counsel. You’re the team leader, and get to make the decision—more decisions than you’ll even want. Sometimes you might make the wrong decision, regardless of all that wonderful advice, but don’t ever do it intentionally. They’ll know.
Hudson dropped the letter as if it might injure him and swallowed hard. It sounded worse than he thought. Surely a sinister “committee” wasn’t playing the planet like a chessboard? Whomever the last president answered to must have been far more corrupt than Vonner. Had it been Bastendorff? Booker? One of the other ones?
He picked up the letter again, handling it as though it were a dirty diaper.
I think you’ll agree things are going along as well as can be expected, given the challenges and dangers of this modern world. They’ve managed to keep us safe, happy, and prosperous. What would’ve happened to the United States of America had it not been for their sage guidance, their money, their power, their influence, their ideas, their connections? I shudder to think. So, while you may be disappointed, disillusioned, even worried, or scared, don’t be. This is a good system. It works, and you are now an important part of it.
Hudson couldn’t believe what he was reading. What if I hadn’t known before I walked into this office? What if I’d been like Reagan or Clin
ton, finding out for the first time after the inauguration? Would I have believed it? Would I have been shocked? Would I have called the FBI? Would I have found out the hard way that they’re also in on it?
He checked the time. His schedule was packed. If he wanted to finish reading and then destroy the letter, he’d better get back to it.
You ran on a promise of change. It may not go as you had planned, but there are many ways to change things. Always start with the preamble and go about it as if handling a photograph in a dark room. Careful and conscientious resolve will produce good results. With your love of history, I know you’ll find solace in the knowledge that all your predecessors have been where you are now. The key, my friend, is your intelligence. As for my remaining advice: keep the Constitution handy. The framers were incredibly wise. Just look at Article II—that is how to proceed. And rely on the Father. His will be done.
Amazingly, a person he used to respect had written these outrageous words! Hudson studied the signature again.
Could this have been written under duress?
He felt suddenly hungover, headachy, nauseous. He realized he’d been hoping the letter would say otherwise, that the former president would have offered some sort of trick or answer as to how to fix it all, how to get the REMie leeches off, but no. This letter was the opposite of hope, telling him to “just take it” and “do what they say.”
Hudson stood up, his eyes following the trail of portraits and busts. Great men had agonized in the Oval Office, the White House. They’d grappled with this same dilemma and more. How could they have not shaken off the REMies?
He gazed up at a portrait of George Washington, a man who had defeated a king, a king who had certainly been one of the elites, a forerunner to the REMies. General Washington had fought for, and then rejected, the spoils of victory. Washington had insisted on giving the people the power rather than taking it for himself or vesting it in the office of the president. And suddenly, thinking about that great man, Hudson realized there might be a path, probably the only one with a chance of overcoming the REMies’ stranglehold on world events.
Chapter Four
The next morning, after a fitful night, Hudson began his first full day as president, still tired from the festivities and balls. He rubbed his eyes and shared a Coke with Fitz.
“Apparently, the hitman was taken out at the very last second,” Fitz said, finishing up the reviewing of the day’s agenda with an update on the Inauguration Day assassination attempt.
“Secret Service found him?” Hudson asked.
“No,” Fitz said, opening another Coke. “One of Vonner’s people.”
Hudson raised an eyebrow. “Really? I’d like to meet him, thank him.”
“Her,” Fitz corrected. “I doubt that it’ll be possible. She’s part of his shadow-squad. They don’t exist, if you know what I mean.”
Hudson wasn’t sure he did know, but he couldn’t spare any brainpower at the moment with his overloaded gray matter. He’d ask Vonner himself in a few minutes. The billionaire would be his first meeting of the day, but it would not appear on the president’s official schedule.
“If that’ll be all, Mr. President,” Fitz said, heading toward the door, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
Hudson nodded and thanked his chief of staff, a man he had learned to like, but still didn’t trust. Fitz always made him laugh, and had taught him enough about politics and the legislative process that Hudson could almost pass for a seasoned politician. Still, Fitz was one of Vonner’s people, and that meant he was probably one of the enemy. One day that would have to be faced, but in the meantime, Hudson wasn’t sure he could do without his very able chief of staff.
Melissa told Hudson she also liked Fitz; the three of them had developed a good chemistry on the campaign trail. As the chief of staff took charge of the legislative agenda and executive team, the first lady would start getting to know the household staff. It was a smooth-running operation, with some people having served three or four first families. She wouldn’t need to make too many changes, but would insist on implementing a one-hundred-percent recycling system after seeing one kitchen worker in the middle of throwing away a banana peel during her welcome tour.
“Hey, save that! It’s good dirt!” the first lady had said impulsively, and she immediately made plans for composting to be mandatory. Ever since the election, Melissa had been planning on implementing a project to expand the 2,800-square-foot White House vegetable garden started by Michelle Obama. Recycling and the environment would definitely be Melissa’s “first lady causes.” She also wanted more beehives and a larger pollinators’ garden to attract birds and butterflies. Melissa had her own mission to change the world.
Vonner looked more at home in the Oval Office than Hudson did. The billionaire seemed as if he’d be comfortable anywhere. Hudson pictured Vonner with his sleeves rolled up, working in the slums of Calcutta, or pulling victims from a Central American mudslide, maybe driving a bulldozer in a massive landfill of garbage.
Vonner had that air. He could handle anything, master every situation, take charge, make it work, win.
Hudson told Vonner about the former President’s letter. “That’s not quite how you painted it,” Hudson said. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Vonner said, smiling.
“I thought I was going to be president, not taking orders from a group of greedy elites and banksters who believe they know what’s good for everybody. Damnit, the REMies don’t even give the people a chance to do what they want!”
“We’ve been through this,” Vonner began. He and Hudson had met many times in the ten and a half weeks since the election. “You’re the president, and every president has advisors.”
“Every president has REMies pulling the strings. You assured me that I would not be a puppet,” Hudson said, pacing the room. “Remember, you promised that we could change things, we could fix the system—the system that is fixed.”
“And we will,” Vonner said, leaning back against the surprisingly comfortable sofa as if he were in his living room instead of the White House.
“How? When?”
“I’m sure you think that with all my billions of dollars, I can do whatever I want,” Vonner said. “I wish it were that way. Then I wouldn’t have needed to get you elected president, I could’ve just done what needed doing. But it’s not that way, Hudson. The world is filled with rich people who think they know best. Money does that, you see. It infects people in a way where one thinks because he’s accumulated that kind of money, he’s smarter than everyone else. He wants to keep the money, the power, all of it, and he’ll do anything to make sure he does.”
“But it doesn’t affect you that way?” Hudson asked.
“Oh, it did. But once I looked around and realized there were approximately two thousand billionaires in the world . . . “
“Surely they aren’t all REMies?”
“Oh, goodness, no,” Vonner said, suddenly looking alarmed. “REMies are a small minority of maybe a few dozen.”
“You don’t know exactly how many?”
“Forty-eight.”
Hudson leaned against the Resolute Desk and stared at Vonner. “Forty-eight people control the world.”
“It’s not that simple,” Vonner said. “All those billionaires I mentioned earlier, they each have a certain amount of sway on world events. As I said, money breeds power and vice versa. However, many of them inherited, or otherwise lack ambition. Even the REMies, the elite of the elite, are divided, each influencing his own sphere, but there is a network, a constant negotiating going on as each vies for more wealth, power, and control.”
“And the CapWars?”
“That’s where everything gets complicated,” Vonner said, pursing his lips for a moment before taking a sip from a glass containing lemon juice and scotch. “The REMies who want ultimate control—Bastendorff, Titus Coyne, Booker Lipton, and a handful of others—men like that made me
sober up and realize I might be the last hope against these would-be emperors.”
Hudson wanted to believe him. Vonner seemed sincere. Why else would he have selected me? Surely there were others who would’ve cooperated more easily?
He thought of the past president’s letter: “Just do what they say. Don’t make waves.”
“Then tell me how it’s going to work,” Hudson said, sitting down on the sofa opposite Vonner, staring at him closely. “I want to know exactly how we’re going to do this.”
Chapter Five
The Wizard pulled his hair into a ponytail and smiled at Hudson through the computer screen. With the new USB drive the Wizard had created, they could now see each other.
“This is fantastic, but will it really work?” Hudson asked. “I mean, is it secure?”
“It’s fitted with a scrambler, which essentially renders our voices an unrecognizable mess of static to anyone who’s monitoring. But if you’re not alone in the room, we can still type.”
“So, they can’t hear what I’m saying right now?”
“As long as you stay within six feet of the drive.”
“Amazing,” Hudson remarked, feeling the first sense of security he’d had since walking into the White House on Inauguration Day a week earlier. “Can you send me about a hundred of these?” Hudson laughed.
“I’d love to, but that one’s custom-made, based on the quantum sound waves and proton explorations, ions, and reversing harmonies, plus . . . ” He noticed Hudson’s blank look. “Anyway, I call it the ‘SonicBlock.’ It’ll work on any computer with a USB drive. It even has a wireless feature.”