by John Bowers
He was certainly the most colorful.
Fraites stood as the door slid open and Moore huffed his way into the room. Carlos Moore weighed nearly four hundred Terra pounds, ate five pounds of candy a day, and drank obscenely expensive imported Tennessee whiskey by the water glass. A pool had been started some years earlier to predict exactly when he would drop dead of hypertension, but it had to be updated every year when he failed to croak; the pool was approaching fifty thousand terros and continued to climb.
Moore lumbered toward Fraites’ desk and settled heavily into a chair; Fraites winced as he heard the wooden frame creak.
“Good morning, your Honor.” Fraites smiled. “Would you like some coffee? Or maybe something stronger?”
“I don’t suppose you have any Old Gore sitting around, do you?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Never acquired a taste for it myself, and couldn’t afford it even if I had.” It’s pure rotgut, he didn’t add.
“I’ll take the coffee, then.” Moore sighed and gazed out the window. “I appreciate you inviting me to your office. Your view is a lot nicer than mine.”
Fraites rang his assistant to bring the coffee, then settled into his chair.
“Oh, I don’t know. Your holo-window is pretty nice. And you can change the view whenever you get bored.”
Still puffing after his walk from the elevator, Moore grunted. “It’s still a dungeon. I guess judges don’t rate corner offices, at least in this building.”
“They just want to keep you close to your courtroom, your Honor, in case you’re needed in an emergency.”
“Bullshit, Fraites. They want to remind us that we don’t really have as much power as we’d like to think.”
Fraites dipped his head. “You’re probably right.”
The assistant brought the coffee and retreated, closing the door. Moore sipped it and looked at his host.
“So what’s this about? The Nick Walker thing?”
Fraites’ eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
Moore grunted again. “I figured I’d be hearing from you on that. What do you want to know?”
“Well, I think the answer is obvious. Why?”
“Why did I issue the order?”
“Yes, sir. From where I sit, there’s no evidence to warrant such a hearing. Godney is in over his head…again.”
Moore adjusted himself, got his wheezing under control, and clasped his hands together over his belly. He sighed.
“What I’m about to tell you goes no further, are we agreed? Consider it a gag order.”
“Sure. Absolutely.”
Moore narrowed his eyes and grinned.
“Have you ever spent much time around chickens?”
“No, sir, can’t say that I have.”
“Chickens are the coolest birds you’ve ever seen, and they have contributed more to our culture than almost any other species in history. When someone is a coward we call him a ‘chicken’, because chickens will always run when threatened. We talk about ‘pecking orders’, because chickens have their own social structure. When we admire someone, we call him a ‘good egg’, also derived from the chicken. And when someone is clearly in charge and takes no shit from anyone, we call him the ‘cock of the walk’, because like a dominant rooster, he will destroy anyone who challenges him.”
Fraites nodded with a frown, wondering when Moore would get to the point.
“Finally, there is particular breed of chicken called the Bantam; it’s almost a miniature bird, very cute, and the males of the breed are just as feisty as regular males. Those we call the ‘Bantam rooster’—or ‘Banty rooster’ if you’re from the North American South; they are characterized by their diminutive size and elevated egos. In other words, they don’t seem to realize they have a size disadvantage, and they will take on all comers, no matter how big they are.”
Moore sipped his coffee.
“Brian Godney is a Banty rooster.”
“I’m not sure I follow…”
“He has delusions of grandeur, what the shrinks call a God complex—or in his case, I guess, a Godney complex.” Moore chortled at his own wit. “I’ve run into his kind before. He walks into a room filled with men physically larger than himself, identifies the one he thinks is the baddest ass, and goes on the attack. His target doesn’t need to provoke him, he only needs to be bigger, and perceived as stronger. That’s all Godney needs. He’ll do everything in his power to destroy that target, for no other reason than to soothe his own sense of inadequacy.
“Some dogs do the same thing. Chihuahuas, for example, are likely to challenge pit bulls, and quite frequently get eaten for their trouble.”
Fraites sat silent a moment, not wanting to display his own inadequacy for not knowing what the hell Judge Moore was trying to say.
“How does this relate to Nick Walker?”
“Brian Godney has identified Walker as the baddest ass on the planet. The biggest cock, the meanest pit bull, and he wants to take him down. It’s as simple as that.”
“Okay, I see your point on that score, but…why did you green-light Godney to do this?”
“A man like Godney is a liability in the legal field. In any field, really, but especially this one. Sooner or later, his bloated ego is going to get someone hurt really bad. He’ll railroad an innocent man, or bankrupt a corporation, or subvert justice in some other way, all in the interest of his own testosterone.”
“Isn’t he trying to railroad Walker right now?”
“Yes, he is. And that’s why I gave him a green light.”
Fraites shifted in his chair and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve completely lost me.”
Moore smiled.
“Right now Godney is controllable. He’s still young, not yet thirty. Give him ten more years, a few promotions, and he can be deadly. Nothing in civil society is more dangerous than an out-of-control prosecutor. Prosecutors already have too much power, if they choose to wield it, but a man like Godney can become a killing machine. The more he wins the more he’ll want, the bigger his ego will get, and you or I may not be around to muzzle him. Given the opportunity, he will ruin people’s lives.
“I can’t fire him, because he doesn’t work for me; you can’t fire him because you have no cause. The only way to get rid of him is to let him self-destruct. He’s still young enough and gullible enough for that to happen, and when he brought this hare-brained scheme to me I saw an opportunity. So I gave him the court order.”
Fraites’ eyes began to gleam and he nodded slowly.
“I think I’m beginning to see your strategy here. You’re setting him up.”
“I am not. This is his baby, his grand idea. He is going to ‘save’ the people of the Federation from Nick Walker, and in his tiny world that will be a good thing. All I’m doing is removing the obstacles from his path.”
Moore glanced at the ceiling.
“At the top of this building is an observation deck, with a view halfway around the planet. People go up there every day to take digitals and enjoy the fresh air. The wind cuts across that rooftop at thirty knots and sometimes gusts up to fifty, so there are three rows of guard rails to prevent them from being blown over the side. Now, imagine Brian Godney up on that roof with delusions of invincibility. He thinks he can run naked along the edge and never fall off, so I’m letting him try…and I’m removing the guard rails.”
Moore picked up his coffee cup again.
“Given the opportunity, Godney will push himself over the side. We just need to give him room.”
“What about Walker? Does he know about any of this?”
“No. He can’t be allowed to know. He might give the game away.”
“Wow.” Fraites shook his head. “I appreciate your intent here, your Honor, but I’m not sure… Walker is going to endure a lot of emotional trauma while this thing plays out, isn’t he? It hardly seems fair to put him through that while k
eeping him in the dark.”
“Gary, I admire Walker probably as much or more than Godney hates him. I’ve followed his career and I wish we had more like him. Rather than trying to shut him down, we should be encouraging him. I’m sorry for the anguish he’ll probably suffer, but I’m glad it’s him and not someone else—I think he’s tough enough to take it, and I desperately hope that he and Godney will go head to head in the courtroom. I’d like to video that and sell it.”
Fraites gazed out the window a moment, then back to the judge.
“I know Walker personally. We worked together for the better part of two years when we were both on Ceres. I think you’re right that he’s tough enough to take it, but if he ever finds out how this came down, he won’t thank you.”
“He doesn’t have to. If we can get rid of Godney, that will be enough.”
“What if, just by the remotest chance, Godney gets what he wants? What if he puts Walker out of business?”
“He won’t.” Moore exposed an evil grin. “The benefit of being known as a rogue judge is that fruitcakes like Godney think I’m a pushover, but I gave him his court order on one condition—that he conduct the hearing in my courtroom. I will have complete control over the outcome. If Godney gets too lucky or too smart, all I have to do is dismiss the action and that will be the end of it.”
He slapped his hand triumphantly on the desk.
“There is no way this can go wrong.”
53rd Floor, Federation Building – Lucaston, Alpha Centauri 2
“What the hell is an ARMO?” Marshal Chiang asked. “Sounds Italian.”
Marshal Bridge grinned.
“It’s an acronym, obviously—stands for Alpha Centauri Revolutionary Movement.”
“That would be ACRM.”
“‘A’ for Alpha, ‘R’ for Revolutionary, and ‘MO’ for Movement. On Terra they call themselves TERMO, and on Mars, MARMO. Sounds like three distinct groups, but they’re all the same bunch. The only thing that changes is the geography.
“The bottom line is that they are radical and revolutionary. They want to overthrow the Federation because somehow, capitalism is bad.”
“What’s their solution?” Nick asked.
“Basically, they’ve resurrected an old pre-Federation totalitarian philosophy called communism.”
Nick felt a crawl across his scalp. That word sounded familiar, like something from a distant nightmare. But he would have to look it up.
“Communist,” someone else said. “Is that like a commune?”
“It’s similar in concept, but it’s much bigger than that. When you get the handouts, I want you to watch that video at least three times, and pay close attention to the rhetoric. It will help you get a feel for the kind of manipulation these people use.
“Before I rattle on any further, I want to introduce an expert on the subject of communism. She can give you background that’s way above my IQ and answer any questions you may have.”
He turned and extended a hand toward a woman who had been seated along the front wall.
“Professor Eleanor Crayne.”
The woman stood and walked forward with a grim expression. She was elderly, Nick noted, at least seventy; she wore a conservative knit suit that looked too warm for the climate, and pumps with low heels. Her silver hair had been professionally coiffed and, in spite of her age, she moved with the agility and confidence of the young. When she spoke, her voice was strong and clear.
“Thank you, Marshal Bridge.
“Just for the record, I am a professor of Terran history at the University of Melbourne. At least I was before I retired and moved to Alpha Centauri.” She smiled briefly. “I will try not to bore you.”
She cleared her throat as if preparing for a lecture. Nick sensed that she had done this several thousand times before. His eyes narrowed as he waited to see what he might learn.
“You may or may not have heard of communism,” Prof. Crayne began. “It has lain dormant for several centuries now, but like a malignant virus, it never quite goes away. At its root, communism is a totalitarian system, a belief that the government is more important than the individual, and that the individual should submit his or her life to the government without equivocation.
“Believe it or not, that idea is attractive to a lot of people, but those who experienced it have described it as a living nightmare. Communism promises happiness and abundant living, but has never delivered either one. To the contrary, in countries that actually adopted communism, life for the average citizen became intolerable.
“I could cite examples, of course, dozens of them, but that would take all day. Suffice it to say that in the centuries just preceding the Federation, a dozen or more countries on Terra had communist governments, all of them dictatorships. In every single case it was a social, economic, and environmental disaster.
“I won’t go into tedious detail, but just imagine for a moment…” She looked around the room. “All of you are adults; what if, in some imaginary scenario, you still lived at home with Mom and Dad? You might be married, you might have children, you might have a job that merits a high salary…but you still live with Mom and Dad.
“You work, but you don’t get to see your paycheck. Instead, Mom and Dad receive the benefit of your hard work and merely give you an allowance. Because Mom and Dad are communist, you don’t get to own property, so you can’t have your own place. Instead, you live in your old bedroom, the same one you grew up in…with your wife and kids. And if your kids get married and have kids of their own, they also live in your room.
“Now as I said, you get an allowance. Out of that allowance you have to pay Mom and Dad rent for your room. You also have to buy your own food. And clothes. And toilet paper. And toothpaste. Everything you use has to be paid for out of that pittance, that allowance. That includes your kids, their clothing, their food, and their toys.
“You don’t have to pay for education because Mom and Dad will provide that…when they have time. In spite of the fact that your whole family is miserable, your kids will be taught that this is the best system ever invented or enjoyed by man in the history of the ‘verse; they will grow up believing that and will be willing to fight and die, not only to preserve it, but to force it on others.
“Medical care? Don’t worry about that, it’s free…but again, only when Mom and Dad have the time. If you have a headache and need an aspirin, Mom and Dad will provide it, assuming they haven’t run out. You see, you aren’t the only kid that Mom and Dad support. They have millions of kids, and they have to prioritize. You, as an individual, aren’t very important to them; the first one to get the aspirin will be their favorite kid, and then the next favorite, and right on down the line until the aspirin runs out.
“The same holds true if you have more than a headache. Maybe you need surgery. You’ll get it, eventually, if Mom and Dad still have the time and resources…but only if you don’t die first. If you need heart surgery, for example, you might wait a couple of years to get it. I said you might wait that long, assuming you don’t die first.”
Prof. Crayne surveyed the room with pale blue eyes.
“If you think I’m exaggerating, then think again. This example is very basic and simple. In this scenario, if there comes a food shortage, someone is going to starve, and who that is will depend on which kids are most favored by Mom and Dad. In the Twentieth Century on Terra, in the two largest nations ever to adopt communism, millions of people died of starvation because Mom and Dad couldn’t provide for them, and wouldn’t allow them to provide for themselves.”
Nick stared at her, frowning. He raised his hand.
“Yes?”
He stood briefly, guns dangling down his legs.
“That sounds pretty grim, Professor, but why would anyone voluntarily live in a society like that?”
Her smile lit the room.
“Thank you for that question. I was hoping someone would ask it.
“The truth is that no sane person
would choose such a life. Communism has always been spread by one of two methods: one was by armed takeover, in which a communist nation subdued and strangled a weaker nation; and the other was by political deception.
“Communist propaganda has always targeted the poor, the dispossessed, and the weak. Every society has a segment that, for any number of reasons, is down on its luck. Many of these people see no hope for their future, and yet all around them are others who seem to have plenty. It’s easy to convince them that someone else is to blame, that if they will just get on board the revolution, they can have everything they want.
“In a few cases they actually get it, but usually what happens is that everyone gets reduced to the same level of hopeless poverty across the board. Unfortunately, by the time they learn the truth, it’s far too late—they are already in a state of slavery.
“Yes?”
Another marshal stood up. “Aren’t you talking about socialism?”
“There isn’t a lot of difference between socialism and communism, really. They both have the same goals, which is to redistribute money from the wealthy to the poor. The major difference between them is that, if you are wealthy, socialists just take your money, but communists will kill you.”
She smiled again.
“The irony is that, in communist rhetoric, ‘wealthy’ is defined so broadly that everyone in this room would be classified as filthy rich. In other words, if a communist mob came marching down the street, they would be ready to lynch all of you, with or without your badges.”
“How does this Chairman character think he’s going to gain converts by blowing up people on the street?” another marshal asked. “Seems like he would alienate any potential converts.”
Bridge stepped forward.
“Right now he just wants attention.” He turned to Crayne. “Thank you, Professor. If you don’t mind sticking around, we may have more questions for you shortly.”