by Brandt Legg
“I’m glad to hear that, because they already made my personal laptop unable to connect to the Internet.”
“They only want you using machines they control. Don’t lose that drive, and if they ask you about the static, play dumb.”
“That’s easy for me,” Hudson said with only the hint of a smile.
The Wizard stared into the screen. “Now, it’s been a week. When are you going to pardon Rochelle?”
“I’m still negotiating.”
“I’ll bet you are. With Vonner?”
“He says if I pardon her, the ensuing scandal will bog down any hope we have of stopping the REMies.”
“He might be right.” The Wizard stared at Hudson. “But that begs the question—is he really going to help you go after the REMies?”
“He’s promised a strategy soon, but it’s going to take years to get their tentacles out of everything.”
“Start with the federal government.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Is Vonner really on board with this? Because it doesn’t feel right. It never has. You know it’s encoded, all the information of the whole universe in a single instant. It’s constantly flowing through all of us. And Vonner, he can’t hide from truth. It’s very probable he’s just playing you.”
“I know that. It keeps me up nights, but his first test is coming in a few weeks, when most of the REMies are meeting secretly in Panama. Vonner has promised to share the agenda with me. It lays out the overall plan for the year ahead—coups, wars, elections, economies, industries, and currencies, rising and falling, as they try to leverage themselves to the top of the pyramid.”
“It’s so interesting that the REMies use the pyramid as their symbol and goal. Do you know about the golden ratio?” the Wizard continued. “Da Vinci knew it.”
“Does it have anything to do with what we’re talking about?” Hudson asked impatiently.
“Of course. The golden ratio is in everything, although sometimes it can’t be seen or proven. But when you consider geometric relationships, and express forms algebraically—”
“I’ll let you know when Vonner gives me the agenda,” Hudson said firmly, letting his friend know that he wanted to stay on topic.
“If we get that, we can feed it into Gypsy,” the Wizard said, sounding deflated.
Zackers, a college friend of Hudson’s daughter, Florence, had been murdered just after he’d given Schueller a flash drive containing encrypted information about Vonner, other REMies, and the cryptocurrency digiGOLD. The drive also held a program coded by Zackers dubbed “Gypsy,” because of its ability to predict future events. It could take a single event such as a Federal Reserve interest rate hike, a terrorist attack, or the outcome of an election in Germany, feed it into a data field, and produce an outcome based on everything else already entered, including constantly updated live feeds from the internet.
Through Zackers’ drive, they’d located his partner in the hacking world—Crane, another twenty-something misfit, who looked like a burned-out druggie with his long frizzy hair, scraggly beard, and mustache. But Crane could run through the DarkNet like a jaguar through the jungle at night. He’d come on board in part to avenge the death of his friend and because he basically felt “the world sucks the way it is.”
“Has Crane finished modifying Gypsy?” Hudson asked. Crane had come up with the idea to add all the major news feeds into the program, which would then allow it to spot trends and REMie manipulation not apparent to human detection.
“He’s close.” The Wizard held up his hands as if in prayer, smiled, and then narrowed his eyes. “REMies will take time for sure, but Rochelle can be free with a stroke of your pen.”
“It’s gonna happen.”
“If Vonner thinks the pardon puts everything else you want to do in jeopardy, then what does he suggest?”
“He offered to break her out of prison, relocate her to an island somewhere.”
“Cool! Maybe he isn’t the evil bastard I thought he was. Do you believe him?”
“Of course not. And even if I did, she deserves a full pardon.”
“But that brings a firestorm.”
“So?”
“I just wish Rochelle had only killed the jerks that did this to her instead of a guy who wasn’t even there. He was such a popular governor.”
“Yeah, well I wish they’d never gang-raped her, killed her brother, and covered it up!”
“We helped cover it up,” he said quietly.
Hudson ignored the comment, but knots formed in his stomach. “I’m going to give Vonner a few days. I need that time anyway to get my bearings and figure out if I have any power here at all. My biggest problem is I don’t know if I can trust anyone.”
“You can trust me, Dawg.”
“Thanks, but I need people inside the White House I can trust. Right now, it’s just Melissa and me. Speaking of which, I’ve got to go.”
“Mr. President,” Melissa said in a flirting tone as she walked into the Oval Office.
“How did I get so lucky?” Hudson said, walking around the desk to greet her.
“To be the president?”
“No, to have the most gorgeous first lady in history.”
After a long kiss, Melissa caught him up on her official duties, and then they turned to the REMies.
“It doesn’t seem as bad as the letter implied,” Melissa said, referring to the letter from the former president, which he’d shown her but still hadn’t burned.
“Too soon to tell,” Hudson said.
“Don’t be a pessimist,” Melissa replied quickly. “Be the problem solver.”
“I admit, there have been moments when I think the whole REMie thing is overblown and that I might actually have the power to improve the world . . . ”
“You never know,” Melissa said. “The truth usually lies in the middle.”
Her words echoed in his head that night while he wrestled with sleep. The President’s letter . . . he thought. There’s a truth hidden in those lies.
Hudson felt certain his predecessor had left him a hidden clue. He got up quietly, retrieved the letter, and took it into the bathroom so he wouldn’t wake Melissa. He skimmed the pages quickly until he got to the last paragraph.
There it was. A secret message, meant only for him.
Chapter Six
Hudson and his daughter, Florence, made a joint public appearance at a gathering of healthcare professionals. On the way back to the White House, Florence, sensing her father’s stress, asked him now that he knew what it was like to be president, was he still glad he’d won the election.
“In some ways, no,” Hudson said. “Because it is much worse than I feared. The layers of conspiracy run much deeper than anyone knows.”
“Someone must.”
“Most Americans have never even heard the word REMie, and yet their representatives are acknowledging privately that the REMies are out of control. We have a few friends in Congress who have been bought by the elites. They see the REMies fighting each other for the CapStone as a greater risk to our country than NorthBridge.”
“I still don’t understand the CapWars,” Florence said.
“I’m not sure I do either,” the president admitted. “But I know this much: history is a lie. The CapWars have been going on behind the scenes for more than one hundred years. Picture a pyramid. Each time, the victor builds upon the level below, consolidating their wealth, power, and control, until the present, when they’re finally at the top of the pyramid—the CapStone. The winner will either rule with absolute impunity, or the pyramid will collapse, and, along with it, civilization as we know it.”
Florence shook her head, trying to fathom such corruption and greed.
“The REMies use what they call MADE events,” Hudson continued. “Manipulate And Distract Everyone.”
“How?”
“They’re experts at it. Wars, riots, scandals, natural disasters, financial meltdowns, epidemics, mass shootin
gs, terror attacks, anything. It doesn’t matter if they’re occurring naturally, or are contrived. REMies will use them to consolidate wealth and power.”
“Contrived? So Schueller was right?” Florence asked. “They create these crises?”
“Yes, often they’ve manipulated events to make something happen. Most wars during the past century were created by the REMies, and the closer they get to the CapStone, the more ruthless they get. But believe it or not, there are some REMies who are not interested in CapWars. They think those going for CapStone are reckless, and risk ruining the system for all the REMies.”
“Is Vonner one of those?”
“I’m really not sure yet. I hope so.”
“Can you work with those to help you defeat the worst ones?”
“Maybe,” Hudson said introspectively. “The CapStone gives a single REMie ultimate control—where the system, the money, and the power all go through one place, one person—and that is the winner of the CapWar. For a while it was Rothschild, Morgan, Rockefeller, but even they never had it all, so their power slipped away, or at least decreased. When the global elites meet at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland every year, the Bilderberg Summit, and other secretive gatherings of the powerful, REMies and other billionaires conspire to push an agenda through, ultimately using politicians and bureaucrats to steamroll and advance their ambitions. That’s all part of the CapWars.”
“Can you really fight that kind of power?”
“I guess we’re going to find out,” he said as the president’s armored limousine, affectionately known as “The Beast” rolled through the open gates at the White House.
After several weeks packed full of briefings, executive orders, negotiating with Congress, and navigating the confirmation process for his cabinet picks, Hudson had grown frustrated by a system that seemed designed to slow everything. The one thing that he could get done without approval from Congress was freeing Rochelle, but however impatient he was with Vonner, he decided it would be prudent to give him a heads up that he was going ahead with the pardon.
“You cannot pardon this woman!” Vonner shouted into the speaker phone while jumping off a stationary bike on the patio of Sun Wave, his Carmel, California estate.
“Oh, yes, I can. Article Two, Section Two, of the US Constitution gives the president—that’s me—the power to remove a conviction, commute a sentence, grant reprieves and pardons for a given crime. Fortunately for Rochelle Rogers, the man she killed wasn’t just the governor of Ohio, he had been appointed Secretary of Education, therefore making his assassination a federal crime.”
“Oh, yes, that’s very convenient for the late governor,” Vonner said sarcastically. “Look, Hudson, I know I told you that you could do this, but that was before the attempt on your life during the inauguration. Now there’s just no way the public will deal with the president pardoning someone who assassinated a political figure during a time when political figures are being assassinated every few weeks! We’ve done polling. Hell, Fonda Raton will personally burn you at the stake.”
“I’m not required to explain or justify my actions to you, or Congress, or the media, Fonda Raton, or anyone, for that matter. The power to pardon is left solely to the discretion of the president; it cannot be reviewed or overturned by anyone!”
“Dammit, Hudson! You claim you want to make changes, that you want to go after the REMies, but you’ll throw it all away for this woman?”
“The point is, you cannot stop me,” Hudson said, wondering who was monitoring this call. “All I have to do is walk into the briefing room and announce that I’m pardoning Rochelle Rogers.”
“There’ll be repercussions.”
“I’ll just have to take it as it comes.”
As it turned out, it wasn’t as easy as walking into the briefing room. He needed to first notify and consult with the Federal Office of Pardon Attorney, the Department of Justice, the Bureau of Prisons, and the victim’s family. That would all take a day or two, and then he could walk into the briefing room, but the Attorney General recommended that they simply issue a statement rather than subjecting the president to the fury of the media. Hudson set it into motion.
The White House press secretary was briefed, and asked if there was any positive spin they could throw out to the “wolves.”
“No spin,” Hudson said. “She’s served nearly twenty-five years—a quarter of a century—behind bars. That’s enough.”
“We need a better reason,” the press secretary warned. “Otherwise, the next time you’re in front of a microphone, they’ll pummel you.”
Hudson nodded. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“Please do,” the press secretary urged. “The woman went to your high school while you were there, then she killed the governor of your home state, a beloved man who was a Cabinet Secretary designate for Education. This has ‘congressional hearing’ written all over it. There are dozens of ways this story goes bad, and I can’t think of one way it doesn’t.”
Fitz, who was also in attendance, spoke for the first time. “Mr. President, you do realize that the Democrats are looking for anything to derail your agenda? Do you really want to hand this to them?”
“It isn’t a matter of wanting to . . . I have to do this.”
Leaving the meeting, Fitz called Vonner. “He’s going forward.”
“I heard,” Vonner said, eyeing his scotch. “Then be ready.”
Chapter Seven
That night, Hudson told Melissa he would be pardoning Rochelle the next day. She was disappointed, thinking it would derail his ambitious agenda, but understood what it meant to him.
The following morning, Hudson received his typical President’s Daily Intelligence Briefing (PDB), which, as usual, was filled with terrorist threats—domestic and foreign—increasingly more “chatter” about unrest in Asia, and the China “threat.” Normally he’d speak longer with his National Security Advisor, but he had to give a talk to a constituent group, then do a meet-and-greet. After that, a legislative strategy staff meeting, a few phone calls to congressional Republicans, two briefings, and, finally, a video conference with NATO. All before he could meet with Justice Department officials and sign Rochelle’s pardon.
On his way to the staff meeting, he stopped by to see Hamilton, his favorite young campaign staffer. Hamilton, from Iowa, always seemed able to enthusiastically handle more work than anyone else. The clean-cut, skinny twenty-something looked up from his small desk in a lower level bullpen and smiled. It had been several weeks since he’d seen the president.
“Nice work space,” Hudson said.
“It’s not quite the Oval Office,” Hamilton said with a laugh, “but I like it.”
Hudson nodded, smiling. “Good, good.”
He was about to leave and continue his way up to a meeting when Hamilton said, “Sir, I just wanted to show you something.” He held up a note that he’d written. Hudson started to read it.
A few days ago, Fonda Raton requested an interview. She asked me to please deliver her message this way in writing the next time I saw you. I guess she’s worried about the place being bugged or something.
Hudson finished reading and looked at Hamilton, who rolled his eyes as though the idea that somebody would be able to bug the White House was ridiculous.
“Yes, that is an original painting,” Hudson said, pointing at the note. “Everything at the White House has some kind of historical context.” Hudson took the piece of paper, which also contained contact information for Fonda, folded it twice, and put it in his pocket.
Hamilton nodded, suddenly not as sure that Fonda was being overly cautious.
“I promised you a tour of the Oval Office,” Hudson said as he walked away. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”
Hudson asked his personal secretary if he had any free time.
“You have ten minutes, between three-forty and three-fifty this afternoon.”
“Hmmm, I need something a little sooner.�
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“When? I could try to rearrange the ambassador at two, or—”
“How about now?” Hudson gave her his best I’m sorry smile. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
She looked startled and quickly started working her tablet computer, trying to figure how to reshuffle his schedule, wondering where he was going, but knowing not to ask.
His secretary loved pizza, and the day before, the president had a chef flown in from Wisconsin to make lunch for her and other close members of the West Wing staff. The man showed up with cases of cheese, dough, pans, and other baking implements to prepare the meal. Hudson and Schueller had discovered the pizzeria on the campaign trail, and had been craving another taste ever since. His secretary had been dizzy with embarrassment at the gesture, but ate three quarters of a pizza by herself. Hudson had learned a few tricks during the campaign, and knew how to win favor.
Chapter Eight
The President made his way up to the residence. Schueller had been staying in one of the guest rooms. He’d become an expert on the historic mansion, and was attempting to learn all the secrets of the building. Melissa and Schueller had spent hours checking out the one hundred-thirty-two rooms, all the furnishings in the White House, and had made several expeditions to the secret, 40,000 square foot warehouse in Maryland which held the thousands of furnishings that had ever been used by prior presidents going back two centuries. Schueller had even written a song called, “412 Doors,” the number in the building.
“Hey, Dad,” Schueller said, surprised. “Don’t you have some important presidential things to be doing right now?” He thought he might be about to get a lecture. Twice Schueller had been caught playing music in the East Room in the middle of the night, claiming, “The acoustics are amazing.”
“No, Fitz told me that the most important thing I could do right now is to go and harass you.”
They both laughed, but Hudson pulled out a piece of paper from the book Schueller used to write song lyrics on and scribbled a quick note.