by Paul Anlee
Mitchell sat back, surprised. “I doubt they’d comply with that request. Most of their economy depends on oil and gas sales, especially to both European Unions.”
“We could ask our Pacifica friends to threaten an increase in jet fighter prices they’re charging the Imam if he fails to comply with our request. The Imam depends on air supremacy to maintain power in the area. I think we might find him more compliant if we link these two issues.”
“And why would Prime Minister Hudson make such a threat?”
“Pacifica is the only country in the Americas that hasn’t suffered one of the mysterious deaths.”
“Yes….?”
“We could offer to provide evidence to the world that her government is, in fact, behind the deaths. That they are conducting a program of targeted assassinations.”
Mitchell shook his head in bewilderment. “And are they?”
“No.”
“But we—that is, you—could fabricate convincing evidence making it look like they are?”
“Iron-clad evidence.”
Mitchell was stunned. “Okay. Let’s put that aside for a moment. You’re saying that if we convince Iran to lower oil and gas production, the Northern EU will drop their request that we raise the price on our liquid natural gas shipments to Southern EU? How does that work?”
“Well, we might have to point out to the Germans and Poles that the SEU will have oil and gas shortages as a result. This will pave the way for NEU countries to increase fracking activities and export their products at an increased price to their southern neighbors.”
The President nodded. “That just might work. Of course, it would allow us to raise our prices as well.”
“Which we will have no need to do. Our production costs will still be lower than the NEU’s. We can afford to hold our prices where they are and still be highly profitable.”
“Yes, I suppose $170 per barrel of oil equivalent is fine for us.”
“Or we can let them drift upward, slowly.”
“Alright. Now tell me how you intend to persuade Prime Minister Hudson.”
“With something that is almost true. Just before young Darian Leigh took his research to California, he designed a method for interfacing dendy lattices with insect nervous systems. I believe you have encountered one such synthetic species, the Spyders?”
A startled Mitchell answered cautiously, “Spiders are everywhere, nothing unnatural about them, even if you don’t like them.”
“Not spiders, ‘Spyders’, with a ‘y’. I could send you the transcript from the files of former NSA Deputy Director Thornten if you’d like. Just to refresh your memory.”
Mitchell blanched. “How could you possibly know about those? Our conversation was confidential. And that program was top secret.”
LaMontagne casually inspected the back of his hand. “Yes. Well, that’s not really important. It turns out that while Dr. Leigh was at Berkeley his research there was secretly merged with two other programs by Pacifica’s Department of Defense. Have you ever heard of a Matavispa?”
“Mata…what?”
“Matavispa. Apparently, there was a number of Latinos involved in the project, hence the name. It’s a play on words, merging matar, the Spanish word for kill with avispa, the word for wasp,” replied the Reverend.
“Oh, like killer bees?”
“A million times more deadly. The matavispa is a genetically engineered killer wasp. Merge a synthetic biology program to alter the normal wasp so it injects a deadly neurotoxin, with Dr. Leigh’s insect lattice and military drone operators, and you get the matavispa. It’s a perfect machine for politically-based…interventions, if you will.”
“That sounds abominable. And Pacifica has it?”
“Yes. And my organization has collected sufficient evidence to demonstrate they alone have it.”
“And they’re using it?”
“Oh, Heavens, no. Prime Minister Hudson would never authorize something like that. She’s a peaceful woman.”
“Well, who is?”
“We are.”
“What?! You mean we have it too? Why would we use it?”
LaMontagne’s demeanor was bizarrely casual as he confessed. “More correctly, I am using it. I’ve decided it’s time for the Church to assume a more active role on the secular world stage. As I am considered to be outside the conventional power structure, I thought this might be a good way to demonstrate my serious intent to participate.”
“How did you get hold of something like that? You’ve said the Church has limited connections into the Pacifica military.”
“As it turns out, I only needed one connection. You see, I’ve been studying up on external control of Centralized Command systems. It seems I have a talent for compromising such systems. It wasn’t difficult to order a batch of matavispas to be hatched and distributed to a select international group of moderately important people. Controlling the killer wasps’ activities in the various countries was trivial. Isn’t the Internet wonderful?”
Mitchell glanced at the toddler, sitting quietly at LaMontagne's feet. “You’re insane.”
The Reverend laughed. “No, I am determined. Resolute. Fortunately, I have decided to apply this resolution toward assisting you at this time.”
“I…I’m speechless.”
“Really, Fred. Just thank me for helping you with this free trade agreement with the NEU. Not that it will matter in the long run. It’s simply a gesture of my goodwill toward your Administration.”
Mitchell glared at the man he had once considered a colleague. He felt repulsed, betrayed and afraid; it was as if his favorite pet had turned into a hideous hellhound. “And what would you like,” he sputtered, “in return for your…goodwill gesture?”
LaMontagne laughed. “A small thing, really. I want you to appoint me as your representative to the Special International Advisory Committee on the situation in Vancouver.”
Mitchell was beyond feeling surprised. “Yes, you would know about that, as well.” The President grimaced. “Well, I’ve already appointed Secretary of State Hartland in that position.”
“I would be happy to serve as an Advisor to Mr. Hartland or perhaps as a Co-representative.”
“I’m not sure that would be feasible.”
“I have forgiven a great deal from you and your supporters, Fred. That includes using my mother’s indiscretions against me in the election for Governor.” He held up his hand to override Mitchell’s anticipated protestations of innocence. “Now, now. Don’t bother saying it wasn’t your idea. You still sanctioned the strategy. It could have been me sitting in your place today, otherwise.”
“But you aren’t sitting here, Alan. I am. What if I were to simply deny your request?”
The Reverend smiled menacingly. “Then I hope your successor will be more pliable after you meet with a fate similar to Mr. Totts’.”
“Are you threatening me?” Mitchell’s voice rose as he pushed out of his seat. The toddler's eyes tracked the President, though his face remained serene. “Do you have any idea of my Executive Powers? I could haul your ass out of here and into prison right now!” Where is Security? They should have checked in when I raised my voice.
The President yanked open the door and shouted for his Secret Service guards. Nobody responded. The reception area was empty.
The Reverend smiled in a way that someone more naïve might have mistaken for fondness or compassion. “I’ve sent an alert in your name that the building is to be evacuated due to an unspecified emergency.”
Mitchell wheeled around. “You what?” he demanded.
“Your Chief of Staff, a man almost as loyal to you as he is to the Church, was most helpful in assuring your Secret Service detachment that you’d already left for the High-Security Bunker. The Presidential Mansion is quite empty, Fred. Well, not quite empty, as it turns out.” The Reverend gestured for Mitchell to look behind him.
A few yards down the hallway, a dozen insects hovered. Mitc
hell slammed the door shut and spun back to the Reverend. His eyes darted about the room, and he rushed over to close the open window.
“Come now, Fred. If I’d wanted you dead, do you really think I couldn’t have arranged for another…incident?” asked LaMontagne. “There’s really no need for us to be at odds. I want to help. Nothing more.”
Mitchell closed his eyes and placed a hand on the edge of his desk to steady himself and gain control of his fear. “Is the appointment all you want?” he asked.
“Yes. That’s it; nothing more. I know it’s only a silly little worry right now, that Eater thing our young friends have created. But I’ve seen the emails, Fred.”
“Top secret emails…”
“Yes. The emails suggest the problem is real and significant. The Eater is about to change the course of history.” The Reverend sat back, habitually rubbing his chin as he pursued his thoughts. “Anyway, there are some people in Vancouver I would like to meet again. I so value old acquaintances.” At his feet, the boy rubbed his chin, as well.
17
Darya wandered the streets of twenty-first century virtual Manhattan, wondering how her team was going to convince this world to save itself.
Sometimes she took the game too seriously. She knew that. It was, after all, only a training exercise. The goal was to stretch their creativity, practice decision making, and play out daring “what-if” scenarios within a relatively safe environment.
Under normal circumstances, the game would be fun, a stimulating and occasionally exciting challenge.
Knowing that the universe depended on how well they learned to play did put a bit of a damper on the fun factor. And if Alum were to discover their true purpose, well, let’s just say it would be game over for all involved. Exploring ways to split a portion of the universe away from Alum’s Realm so they could assume control over its administration—all while thwarting his Divine Plan—was sure to be frowned upon in a most decisive and unforgiving way.
It’s a risk we have to take. We need to learn how to solve problems for ourselves, without Alum to lead. We have to figure out how to become the leaders the outworld will need—Darya had explained to her inner circle.
This morning’s meeting at the inworld offices of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York didn’t go as well as she’d hoped. She and her senior team members, Leisha, Gerhardt, and Mary, had met to discuss how to bring the global political system on board. Her plan to convince various countries around the inworld to cooperate on an immense space-colonization program was moving slowly. Much too slowly. She was beginning to appreciate why Alum made all the big-picture decisions for everyone outworld.
Their meeting was full of difficult and spirited discussions, as always. Her colleagues had created a mechanism by which to fund the huge increase in the national debt of any country that participated in the new space program. As expected, national governments kept looking for ways to divert those funds to “more pressing” needs.
“Ugghhh! Why can’t they just take the money and use it as we’ve set out?” Leisha huffed in exasperation.
Mary was quick with a response. “They’ve become adept at taking personal credit for anything good that happens in their countries, but they can’t figure out how this international program will help any of them individually. Don’t worry; we’ve set it up so that moving money from the national programs into their own bank accounts is extremely difficult.”
“But they’d be helping the entire planet, including their own people. They’d be seen as true leaders. Heroes. You’d think that alone would entice them—oh, and guaranteeing a future for humanity. There’s that.”
“Maybe we could improve their motivation if we included a political slush fund,” suggested Gerhardt, not entirely joking.
Darya scowled at him. “That’s not helpful.” Their client countries were drowning in debt. They’d have to come up with a creative proposition to get more than a handful of leaders to agree to borrow any more money, let alone to fund a massive public works space program with dubious short-term returns.
“I thought we wanted to accomplish this colonization. I didn’t realize we were also placing ethical boundaries on how we were going to convince them,” Gerhardt challenged. It was an audacious statement, and Darya wasn’t sure whether to respond with a tension-breaking chuckle or a disapproving glare.
Before she could decide, Mary intervened. “If we wanted to ignore the how, we could ask the Supervisor to magically enforce what we want. You’re forgetting that the point of this inworld sim is to train us to become better leaders outworld in the real universe. We need practice dealing with unreasonable situations and impossible people.”
“Why?” Gerhardt demanded stubbornly. “In the outworld, we can just share our concepta among the Cybrids and compare them for missing information, assumptions, and reasoning. Trying to convince people without knowing what they’re thinking is so frustrating.”
Darya and Mary sighed together. They looked at each other and laughed.
“You’re right, Gerhardt,” Darya answered. “But the outworld includes both Cybrids and humans, and humans can’t just compare concepta for concordance.”
“Humans,” Gerhardt muttered in disgust as he looked out at the enormous, tumultuous city. On ancient Earth, the real Earth, humans had built a huge city like this on their own, without Cybrid support. As a result, it was poorly organized, poorly integrated, and generally ill-suited to their needs. Besides, it was dirty.
“Look,” Darya said. “Leadership, whether in the human-Cybrid outworld or here in this inworld, is much the same. I know it’s practically impossible to convince the inworld leaders to work together toward—well, if I’m being honest—almost any goal that comes to mind. They’re a self-interested, fractious, irrational, intellectually-challenged lot. But it’s an important exercise. It’s crucial that we succeed, so let’s just keep trying.”
Gerhardt turned from the window and took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll give it another try. I just want you to know that I agree with Leisha’s sentiment. Buying them off is a practical solution.”
“That’s fine,” replied Mary. “The real Earth of this era must have been heavily motivated, probably by some external threat, to get their space program running.
“The Alternus inworld population doesn’t have any such threat hanging over them, or at least they don’t realize it yet. So what else can we do?” She glanced at Darya.
“That’s the problem,” Darya answered. “A lot of people are convinced a jump into space exploration is required. Just a few decades back in Alternus history, both of its superpower nations were racing to establish some kind of permanent presence in space.”
“So why did they stop?” asked Leisha.
“I’m not sure. It could be that local problems—war, famine, bad economies—distracted them and reduced available funds. The USA made it to the moon first but, somehow, the competition turned into cooperation when the old Soviet Union fell. That could be what lessened the urgency, the race, that pushed them ahead. Maybe economic conditions also changed and other issues assumed higher priorities. Whatever fueled the initial urgency, it died off or got buried. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I’d like to think it was some great conspiracy or massive cover up but, odds are, the real reason wasn’t nearly so exciting,” Mary speculated. “People—governments—just get tired and distracted, they lose motivation, before the job gets done. It’s a wonder anything gets finished at all.”
Darya nodded. “We have only ourselves to blame. Democracies of one sort or another are in place around most of Alternus. The sheer clamor of all those voices, each and every person expressing his or her own equally-valued desires and opinions, is making it impossible to arrive at a decision and stick to it.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Gerhardt, “and, for some reason, people keep electing Administrations and Representatives who hate each other. So the checks and balances built into the political system preven
t anything of value getting done. The absence of broad consensus among the leaders and the refusal to allow the ‘other side’ to be seen making any discernible progress is crippling.”
“Well, if we don’t get consensus soon, we’re going to lose our opportunity.” Leisha’s voice was strained.
“That’s a definite possibility,” Darya agreed. “The engineers and scientists with the right skill sets are aging. Many of them have already retired. The watered-down, over-extended, underfunded educational systems in most countries aren’t adequately preparing the younger generations to step into their places. A society of long-lived individuals does have some advantages.” She scowled at the sheen of her now cold coffee but took a sip regardless.
“Yes, if we don’t get our current experts working in earnest on fabricator and transport design within the next few years, it could be decades, maybe even hundreds of years, before we can be ready again.”
Mary chuckled. “I never expected to have impossible tasks and deadlines on an inworld project. Great Alum, I could have stayed in Cybrid repair outworld, and spent my inworld time in oblivious fantasy.”
“Sometimes it feels like our own people are opposing us,” Gerhardt said. “Not you,” he backpedaled, in case Mary misunderstood. “I was thinking of others outside our team.” He faced Darya, looking for confirmation.
“I wondered about that,” she answered. “I don’t think it’s coordinated opposition but, yes, we have had Cybrids instantiating into certain positions of power in countries that are holding us up. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve assumed this is some standard zero-sum game and they’re jostling for personal advantage. I can’t do anything about that. Besides, it contributes to a more realistic situation.”
“Why don’t we try changing tactics,” suggested Leisha. All eyes turned toward her. “Maybe we could mount a concerted PR campaign. Anonymously, of course. There must be some bloggers, writers, or filmmakers out there who would support what we’re trying to do.”
“Yeah, great,” Gerhardt’s frustration gave way to sarcasm. “We can’t convince a few hundred so, geez, I don’t know—let’s try to convince a few billion.”