by Stanley Bing
“Good man,” said Arthur. He stared at Bob’s back for a little while. “And now, Mr. Mortimer,” he said, in a completely different tone of voice, one friendly conspirator to another.
“Call me Mort,” said Mort. He was still gray, still crisp, still clean and pressed, necktie perfect in its cradle above his Adam’s apple, cuffs shot so that only a quarter inch of white peeked beyond the gray suit—the only disruption in his sleek perfection being the uncomfortable bulge at his hip. Clean shaven at the beginning of the two o’clock meeting, he now had the beginnings of an impressive full beard. His chin was a marvel of chiseled stone. His eyes were flat and as gray as the rest of him, and reflected no light. His smile was not a smile but an expression without mirth—polite, conditional, and curious.
“Talk to me, Mort.”
“We are underutilized,” said the master of the security force. Slowly, with impeccable economy of motion, he rose, walked one, two, three, four high-backed recliners down the table, and reseated himself in a chair just two away from the unit where Arthur presided over the almost empty room. In spite of the feeble illumination provided by the selected lighting configuration, darkness now hung to them both like fog.
Snack and beverage in hand, Bob had plumped down in a seat at the farthest end of the room and was pretending to consult his interior electronics. In fact, he was listening most intently. There was something about the change of color in the atmosphere that he didn’t like, not one bit. Truth be told, he was feeling just a little sick. If he had any guts at all, he would have stood, excused himself, and left. But like a passerby transfixed by the sight of a six-car pileup replete with blood and bone and the wailing of the injured, he was rooted to the spot. Something was happening here, and he didn’t know what it was. But it was possible he needed to find out.
“I don’t want to have to prompt you, Mort,” said Arthur quietly. “Dump out the bag.”
“We have huge resources and very little on which to deploy them.” Mort leaned forward to establish a decent eye lock with Arthur. “We’ve got an army and nothing to do with it. I mean, a few eco-felonies here and there. Guys trying to take their illegal Camaros out for a spin after curfew. Idiots flaunting air quality regs firing up their barbecues with real charcoal. A little pilfering from the mom-and-pop shops we’ve allowed to survive. Some cybertheft and malicious hackery now and then from pimply-faced geeks in Guy Fawkes masks. What’s it add up to? Very little. Most offenses can be dealt with via intercranial shaming.”
“What’s that?”
“A blast of focused contempt and hatred beamed directly into your head from the online community,” said Mort. “You can’t possibly know what that’s like unless you’ve experienced it. It’s intense. The shame it inflicts is permanent. There have been quite a few suicides immediately after application of the punishment. No legal proceedings are necessary. Simply inform social media engines and step back. Huge deterrent power, too.”
“Only to people who are capable of shame,” said Arthur thoughtfully. Mortimer took that in. “That’s actually quite funny,” he said at last, without laughing.
“That’s it? That’s the extent of criminal activity you got for me?”
“Yeah. And here we have this magnificent security apparatus built for warfare, for command and conquest, doing nothing.”
“What’s the point of building it,” said Arthur, drawing upon a quote from the earlier part of the century, before the Civil War, “if we don’t use it?”
“Yes, sir. Beyond that, everybody is pretty much on Xee, which levels them out and gets them to bed early.” There was an uncomfortable pause, and then Mortimer continued. “I suppose I should mention . . . that there is a serious challenge out there if we choose to take it as such.”
“What’s that, Mort?”
“A small group of . . . pacifist terrorists.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No. Call themselves the Skells.”
“Skulls?”
“Skells. Terrorists in hippy clothing. ‘Dedicated to the destruction of digital culture.’ Anti-techs.”
“Where they at?” A threat, thought Arthur. Just what he had been looking for.
“Mostly in the Green Zones you saw on that map earlier.”
“Remind me.”
“All over, in little pockets. One big one in Buttfuck, Tennessee. Another in the Hudson Valley in New York State. There’s a Socialist free republic in what used to be Vermont. The biggest of all, of course, is not that far from here, in the Pacific Northwest. Place called George, Washington.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope,” said Mort. He leaned in on both elbows, placing him at eye level with his new confidant and boss. “They had a music festival there in the late twentieth century. Called it Sasquatch. It wasn’t as big as Coachella or Bonaroo . . .”
“Bonaroo!” said Arthur. A giant smile of pure pleasure suffused his face.
“Bunch of like-minded souls gathering together to hug a tree, listen to noise, and get high.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that.”
“Gorgs and losers.” Mortimer looked like he wanted to spit but no receptacle was available. “Some never left. Now they got a little town up there. Leader is a guy named Timothy Something. Easy to get there. You go to a place just outside Santa Rosa, and an underground railroad of snorks and wheedles whisks you back to a world where nobody is wired and the vegetable is king.”
“Skells, Mort.”
“Oh yeah. Sorry. They roamed around the country for a while, looking for data farms to fuck with. Even got to a few. They hop from one green patch to another. Right now we think they may be up in that place with Uncle Timothy, or whatever the fuck he calls himself.”
“That’s not that far from the Cloud, is it.”
Mortimer considered that. “Could be coincidence.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” said Arthur. They sat for a while. “How could they do it? They got a nuclear device or something?”
“Don’t need one,” said Mortimer, with a true destroyer’s appreciation for the weapons of destruction regardless of their object. “They just need a couple of small explosively pumped flux compression generators.” Arthur looked at Mortimer thoughtfully but said nothing. “They make ’em smaller every day,” Mortimer added with some appreciation. When Arthur failed to respond once again, he said, “Of course, unless they want to drop it from a drone, which is unlikely, they’d have to get inside the Cloud itself.”
“Well,” said Arthur at last, “I guess we’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Stupid, huh?” said Mortimer. “Putting most of the brain stem of the world in one physical location. You have to study an issue for a long time and be really, really smart to do something so incredibly dumb.”
“Good thing nobody knows where it is. Do they, Mort?”
“No, they do not, and they’re not going to.”
“We gotta get to dinner and mop up the proceedings,” said Arthur, rising, as Mortimer, a bit surprised that the conversation was ending at that point, did the same. Arthur stuck out his hand for a shake. After a moment, Mortimer stuck out his hairy paw and, without warning, found himself drawn close to other man, who had reeled him in like a giant tarpon. The two men were now face-to-face, with perhaps no more than three inches between their noses. Arthur spoke very low, but Bob could hear him clearly, and he saw Mortimer, a big, solid man now quite unnerved, soaking in what was being said directly into his face.
“Mort. You and Bob are my main men here. I’m going to give you your instructions now, and I want you to listen very carefully. Are you listening very carefully?”
“I am, sir, I mean, yes I am, sir.”
“You are the commander of a security service that is made up of thousands of well-trained, well-armed men, women, and synths, presumably a significant power on land, on sea, and in the air, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir. We have the largest commercial milit
ary force in the world. We inherited the Disney Navy. Entire warehouses full of robots and androids.”
“Lots of drones, too, I imagine.”
“Yes, sir. Lots.” Mort was mesmerized by this power that was expressing itself before his eyes.
“The issues laid out for me today at this meeting have made several things clear to me. If we are to secure the future for ourselves, we will have to address the decomposition of our markets. In some cases, this is a defensive operation. In others, we will simply have to retake certain areas and bring them back inside. Red, green, whatever. Those who stand in our way will have to be pacified. I think you see what I mean.”
A childlike grin lit up the face of the new commander, and a boyish gleam ignited in his eyes. “Yes, sir, I do,” he said. “Now, if you’ll let go of my fucking hand, I’ll see if any bones are broken.”
Arthur let him go, and after a small nod of his head and an imaginary click of his heels, Mortimer headed for the door.
“And, Mort,” said Arthur. Mortimer turned, awaiting further direction. “Check with me if you need to spend more than a billion dollars or so.”
“Will do, Arthur.” A wave of emotion smote him as he stared at this surprising new force of power that had lifted him from a life of tedious corporate ennui and onto the field of glorious combat. “I won’t let you down, sir,” he said, with feeling.
“I know,” said Arthur, with a formal cranial genuflection of his own. Mortimer was gone.
Bob was still at the table, his chin in one palm, a quizzical half smile on his face.
“Scary guy, huh?” said Arthur, looking Bob over.
“Scary, yeah,” said Bob. He stared quietly at Arthur.
“Do I know what you’re thinking, Bob?”
Bob sat, very relaxed, taking in the quiet, the muted lighting, the ozone in the air. “I’m not thinking, Arthur. I’m looking forward to having a drink before dinner. And I recognize that before I get to that happy moment, you most certainly have some instructions for me, your other . . . main man.”
“Main man Number One, Bob. Never forget that.” Arthur strolled over to Bob and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Now. What I want you to do, my brilliant friend, is to arrange for the entire board of directors to make their visit to your magic shop.”
“ ’Twas my plan,” said Bob.
“I want you to upload their entire databases into Big Larry.” Big Larry was the neural wine cooler.
“Check,” said Bob, and waited for more.
“I want you to make sure that during that process, each of their bodies is drained of all life force, and that they are dead when you are done. That should be easy enough. Most of them are ninety-five percent there already.”
Bob said nothing. Had he known this was the plan all along? What do we know that we don’t want to admit that we know? So much, really. The list is endless, if you want to think about it. Bob didn’t. He just listened for the rest of it. He knew what was coming.
“And then I want you to make a tragic mistake and delete them all. And then delete the deletions. They have each lived a good, long life. Now they have served their purpose. And we will move forward to make the Corporation great again, a long and exciting process for which none of them will be necessary—for which, in fact, each in his or her own way may prove to be an impediment.”
“I see,” said Bob without expression. “I guess that sounds like a good idea.”
Arthur gazed at Bob, and not without some fondness. “You’re not going to get all squishy sentimental on me now, are you, Doctor?”
“Not at all. I think I see the general outlines of your plan, Arthur. Hard to see a flaw in it.”
“Good. Good good,” said Arthur and, with a broad grin, he pulled Bob out of his seat and gave him a genuine Hollywood hug. “Now let’s go to dinner with those old goats. I’m hungry. And I want to get home and pop my beautiful wife.”
“Of course,” said Bob. “Who wouldn’t?”
18
Too Much Toasting
This was a historic event, so everybody did his or her best to look nice. As usual, the board did not have to sully itself by contact with the hoi polloi. A private room was dedicated to their comfort, with servers assisted by intelligent Roombas hovering nearby, ready to provide whatever was requested. The room was laid out with three round tables of eight occupants each: board members and selected senior staff, the occasional significant other. Centerpieces of actual live orchids, grown hydroponically in the climate-controlled company-owned facilities that also provided most of their dinner that night, graced the tables. Crisp white tablecloths shone beneath gleaming, square plate ware, silver with an Asian design. Crystal water glasses filled to the brim with good, clean water, their surfaces sweating with ice. Yet for all the festive trappings, the mood was somewhat edgy. Big events were on tap. By morning, they would be headed down to Bob’s big lab to exchange their old, worn-out bodies for freshly minted housings that just might look as good as Arthur’s. Fortunately, none of them knew that this was intended to be their last supper. That might have put them off their food.
Jerry and a few of the board members stood, to the best of their ability, by the private bar that had been set up for them in the corner of the room. Some had martinis. A few had brown liquor in square, heavy glasses. Most had wine. Only a few were in mechanized conveyances, although most had canes. They drank in silence punctuated by the smacking of lips and discreet gurgling of invisible hoses and other body parts. The fortunate staff members who had been invited mixed politely with them but stayed deferentially apart, murmuring among themselves.
“This is a celebration, by the way,” said Jerry to his small cadre of associates. “Let’s keep that in mind as we make our way through this evening toward our further adventures tomorrow.”
“I didn’t like the way he physically assaulted you, Jer,” said an ancient voice from the center of their klatch.
“He’s a fucking bully,” said Jerry. “You don’t get that kind of success without a certain deformation of character, I think we’ll all agree on that.”
There was an appreciative chuckle.
“Besides,” said one board member, “it’ll be worth it.”
“I’ll be glad to be rid of this damned air hose,” said another.
“Fuckin’ A,” said a third.
They drank. After perhaps ten more minutes of that, with occasional desultory chat, they were each and every one drunk on their shrunken little asses.
“Where the fuck is he?” hissed the board member whose company had virtually total control over global distribution of entertainment content.
“He’ll be here,” said Jerry Cee. But he was pissed off, too. There’s rude and then there’s really rude. It was 8:20 already. They were hungry.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle at the entryway and Bob came in, his hair askew, a wild look in his eye, his suit in need of pressing, as if he had just awakened from a nap that had gone on twenty minutes too long. If it were not so improbable, one might conclude that he had slapped a wafer of Xee on the back of his neck not too long ago. Bronwyn was by his side, apparently holding him vertical. She was dressed all in brown leather, with grommets here and there in neat little rows. Around her neck was a brown leather choker dotted with stones of smoky topaz. More than one antique neck creaked appreciatively in her direction.
“Bob,” she said in a very low murmur. “Bob, man. You got to pull it together. I understand your situation. But you can’t play it out in public here.”
“Don’t tell me what to fucking do,” Bob replied, far too audibly. He looked with evident horror around the room and then added in a much lower voice, “Just look at these poor trusting fucks. They have no idea.” And even lower: “This kind of thing was never part of the deal.”
“Well, we’re not gonna let it happen, are we, Bobby?”
“No, I guess not,” said Bob, crestfallen. “I may not be the greatest person in the world, but even I have
my limits.”
“Well,” said Bronwyn, quite reasonably. “We can still make it right.”
“I know, I know.” Bob and Bronwyn stood together in the entryway, their heads so close together that their foreheads were almost touching. “Go ahead,” said Bob at last.
“Yeah?” Her eyes widened and her exclamation point of a ponytail seemed to leap even more skyward. “There’s no real way to get the thing back into the bag after we dump it out, Bob.”
“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”
“And women, Bob.”
“Of course, Bee. Don’t start with that shit on me now.”
They looked at each other. There was nobody else in the room for them at that moment. Bronwyn was slightly taller than Bob. She peered down at him as he gazed up at her. “Go on,” he said. “I mean it. Go on.” She touched the rise of his cheekbone with the tip of her index finger.
“Turn off your implant,” he said to her.
“I will,” she said. And left.
“Gentlemen and ladies!” said Bob, a pleasant declaration that he was open for social intercourse.
“Is your young friend not joining us?” asked Jerry, making room for Bob at the bar.
“Nope,” said Bob. “What are we having?” He gave his order to the artificial bartender, and small talk once again rose to pleasant levels.
“Well,” said Jerry after a time, “I’m sure Arthur will join us soon. Why don’t we sit.” The assembly looked at one another, uncertain and a bit confused. Should they sit? Should they stand? Should the feeding begin? Should they wait? What would be polite? Arthur was not here!
“I’m sorry I’m late!” said an aggressively jocular voice from the hallway.
“Our honored guest!” exclaimed Jerry, relieved. And there Arthur was, standing in the entryway with his arms on his waist and his legs spread in a position of maximum power, like the ancient statue Colossus surveying the harbor on the Greek island of Rhodes.
“Hey, everybody,” said Arthur. “I wish I had a decent excuse, but the truth is I knew I was late—but I didn’t give a shit!”