Chaos Theory: A Feel Good Story About the End of the World

by Colin Robertson

  Mathias felt fidgety. Since driving between the buildings, the car radio had dissolved to static. The white noise interrupted his thoughts and added to his sense of unease. He ordered the driver to switch it off. Mathias opened the steel briefcase on the seat beside him and lifted out the osmiridium cast canister inside. He turned it slowly, admiring its flawless surface. It was a thing of minimalist beauty, he decided. Something the Bauhaus might have designed, or Braun appliances. It slices, it dices, it destroys worlds, he chuckled to himself. After a moment, Mathias placed it back in the form-fitted foam interior of the case. He paused to wipe his fingerprints from the metal, then spritzed it with bottled scent. After all, he thought, if you're paying a five billion dollars for something, you expect that new armament smell. The spray dotted the surface, highlighting a hairline fissure in the canister's shell. Mathias blinked. "Stop the car!" he barked.

  "I'm sorry sir?" asked the driver.

  "Stop the goddamn car!"

  The driver halted abruptly, forcing the SUV escort behind to slam on its brakes as well. The henchmen inside, already bruised from a brutal game of punch-buggy after driving the past the Volkswagen plant in Wolfsburg the day before, were flung into windows and seatbacks. They quickly gathered themselves to scan the area for any possible threat. The driver picked up his cellphone to call the car ahead. "Escort 1 to Pandora, what seems to be the problem?"

  "Not sure," came the reply. "Wait."

  Mathias opened the car door and stormed around to the back of the limousine, clutching the flawed canister in one hand. He snapped his fingers at the driver, who popped the trunk. The guards in the SUV watched in silence. Mathias pulled a second identical steel briefcase from a hidden compartment and, closing the trunk, laid it on top. He entered the combination, 27315, and retrieved the canister's twin.

  The air was raw and Mathias could see his own breath as he held both canisters up in the cheerless blue light. He turned the second slowly, looking for the same fatal flaw. He found none. "God damn it!" Slamming the canisters down onto the trunk, he pulled his cell phone from his inside pocket and dialed. "Rufus?" he shouted into the phone.

  "Yes, sir?" said Rufus timidly.

  "They're not the same!"

  Rufus knew immediately what Mathias meant. Rufus was in charge of the canister duplication process. Not because he was an expert, but because Mathias trusted him. "In what way, sir?"

  "There's a nick in the side!" There was a long pause at the other end of the phone. "Well?" demanded Mathias.

  "Perhaps there's supposed to be?"

  "There isn't in the other one, so at least one of them is wrong!"

  "You're right. I can be at the lab in an hour and can check the scans then. Or we can check the original when you return."

  "It's too late. I have too many deals to do." Mathias paused for a moment to think. Rufus knew his boss well enough to remain silent. "Listen, I don't care what the scans show, people expect this canister to be indestructible and even the slightest scratch says otherwise. Make all of them flawless."

  Rufus resisted the urge to argue that even osmiridium wasn't indestructible. "Yes, sir."

  Satisfied, Mathias hung up and put his cellphone back in his coat pocket. He carefully laid the unmarked canister back in its case. He then looked around and spotted a nearby dumpster. Lifting the lid he tossed the imperfect canister inside. Mathias then returned to his seat in the limousine. He snapped his fingers impatiently, and the two car caravan rolled on.

  * * *

  Mathias's limousine and escort pulled into the yard of what had once been an automotive parts manufacturing plant. The sun was out now, brightening the concrete lot and belying the dark purpose of the men gathered there. The terrorist leader, Ali Madda, stood waiting with his entourage before a custom-made stretch Bentley sedan with the license plate "DTH2USA92". He'd wanted the plate to read simply "DTH2USA", but unfortunately there were already ninety-two people ahead of him with the same request. The terrorist leader wore sunglasses on his tanned cherubic face which was framed by a traditional keffiyeh headdress tied with an agal. Ali Madda's wide girth filled out his white Arabic bisht robes like a billowing circus tent that flapped audibly in the early morning breeze. As the arms dealer's limousine rolled to a stop, Ali beamed with beatific delight. His whitened teeth gleamed like polished piano keys. The men behind Ali watched the arriving vehicle with the practiced sullenness of professional minions. They included six armed guards and Ali's seventh son, Ali Junior No. 4. Ali had four sons named Ali. He'd not planned it that way but, caught up in the glorious moment of receiving each child, had decided that this was the special one deserving of his name, only to change his mind again and again. He also had a daughter named Ali, but that was just an honest mistake after too many shots of arak in the maternity ward waiting room. As Ali's grin broadened, his entourage's glowering only intensified. By agreement there would be no arms at the deal, other than those offered up for sale. In reality, no one actually honoured this or expected anyone else to. It simply meant that no weapons would be displayed openly. As a result, Ali's men each wore oversized robes in order to conceal handguns, machine pistols and so on. Mathias's men wore oversized suit jackets. One of Ali's minions, Altair, was attempting to pass off a grenade launcher as an artificial leg. This despite the fact that the exposed muzzle looked nothing like an actual prosthetic.

  "Ali, you radical extremist dog you!" shouted Mathias as he stepped from the car.

  "Mathias, my infidel swine friend!"

  The two men fiercely embraced, slapping each other warmly on the back several times, before stepping back. Each, of course, had been patting the other for a wire.

  "Looking good!" said Mathias.

  "You mean, looking fat," said Ali with a chuckle.

  Mathias waved off the remark. "So you enjoy life."

  "Yes, I do, my friend, yes, I do. A little too much, perhaps." Ali turned and gestured to his son, "You know my son Ali?"

  "Of course, you brought him last time."

  "No, no, that was his older brother, Ali, " said Ali. The terrorist then shook his head sadly and added, "Such a disappointment." Ali Junior #3 had 'brought shame' upon the Madda family by announcing that he was a homosexual. Ali Madda maintained that his son was simply "crazy" as everyone knows there are no gay Arabs. Still, when his son Skype video called him from a drag bar in Athens wearing only a pink Hello Kitty burka and eyeliner, it was hard to ignore. Being insane was one thing, but being gay was completely unacceptable. Ali #3 had called to say that, in spite of it all, he loved his father, and to say goodbye. He wouldn't be coming home, he explained, out of fear that his own father would have him shot. "He's being ridiculous," Ali told the boy's mother, "everyone knows the punishment for homosexuality is death by stoning."

  "Shall we begin?" asked Mathias.

  "Absolutely." Ali Madda snapped his fingers. One of his men lifted a steel briefcase from beneath his robe. Mathias, in turn, lifted his hand, and one of his men stepped forward, holding an identical briefcase. Ali smiled, savouring the moment. "The Loose Thread project, I can't believe it. We'd seen photos, heard rumours, but always assumed it was just a myth. Only you Mathias, could find such a thing. It is truly the Holy Grail of Islamic terrorism, as it were."

  Behind him, Ali's men gawked. Ali had told them what they were going to acquire that day. Now, in the presence of such awesome power, they stopped their glowering and simply stared. "Subhan Allah..." gasped Altair.

  "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours," said Mathias.

  Ali snapped his fingers again, and the henchman opened the briefcase. Inside was, what appeared to be, a pile of mottled translucent glass lumps. The lumps winked in the sunlight as if to say, "I am so much more." Online, Mathias accepted bitcoin, Visa, Mastercard and Diners Club. In person, he preferred the old fashioned feel of uncut diamonds. One of Mathias's men stepped forward, selected a random stone and peered at it with a jeweller's loupe. After verifying the quality of the gem,
he replaced it and nodded to his boss. Mathias had known Ali would deliver. He was not only one of Mathias's richest customers, but also one of his oldest and most trusted. They had done more deals than Mathias could count. None, of course, even approached the scale of this one.

  Mathias turned to where his own henchman stood holding the briefcase, entered the combination, and lifted the lid. Mathias was nothing if not a showman. He carefully raised the shiny canister from within as if it was indeed the Holy Grail.

  "That's it?" exclaimed Ali Junior. "It looks like a tiny trash can!"

  Ali struck his son with the back of his hand. "Insolent cur, you have no idea what you're looking at! I should never have named you Ali." Ali Madda turned to Mathias with a penitent smile. "I am sorry my friend. He is a young and foolish boy. He knows not what he says."

  Mathias waved off the apology. "Now, you remember our agreement? Keep this under your fez for six months."

  "Yes, yes, of course. I don't wear a fez, but you have my word. Before Allah, I swear." This was, of course, the real reason Mathias had selected fundamentalists as his first customers. He could make them swear to their God to keep the device secret. "May I inquire as to why?" Ali asked tentatively.

  "Ali, old friend, when you ordered thirty-four toothpaste tubes full of C-4 plastic explosive last July, did I ask what for? No, I did not."

  "No, indeed. How do you say it? Discretion is the better part of valour. A thousand apologies, again." Ali was practically salivating at the sight of the canister. "May I?" he asked anxiously. Mathias nodded. Ali raised the device with abject reverence, as if cradling a sacred relic. Mathias said nothing to dissuade this. While the canister was tightly sealed, he'd rather the terrorist leader be overly cautious than needlessly negligent. One of Ali's men stepped forward, offering to authenticate the weapon. The Arab waved him away. "I know this." Ali Madda spoke in a hushed voice as if the presence of the Almighty. "I have studied every photograph. I have felt it in my dreams. This...?" Ali clutched the canister fiercely to his bosom and moaned. "This is the key to paradise."

  "To each his own," said Mathias, as he watched his men place the diamond filled briefcases into the trunk of his car. Mathias climbed into the limousine and gave a final nod to the enraptured terrorist. Ali Madda failed to notice. The arms dealer signaled to the driver, and he and his entourage drove away.

  Ali Madda lingered a moment longer. He was savouring the idea that he was now the single most powerful man on Earth. It was intoxicating. He felt the urge to burst out in maniacal laughter but stopped himself out of a sense of decorum. He then realized that, as the most powerful man on Earth, he could do whatever he wanted. Ali Madda laughed. He then laughed some more. He laughed and laughed until his eyes watered and his belly ached.

  "What now?" asked Ali junior skeptically.

  "Now? Now, we rule the world!" Ali triumphantly slapped a nearby henchman on the back. Unfortunately, the man whose back he slapped was Altair, who had been gingerly mincing about with the grenade launcher tied to his knee. The henchman stumbled forward and lost his balance. "Whoa whoa!" shouted Altair, as he teetered about on one foot. The others, including Ali, backed warily away. The off-kilter henchman hopped back and fourth in a desperate attempt to regain his balance. Finally, Altair slammed his heavily armed leg down with a thunk, which was followed by a click. "Uh oh," he said. BOOM! The weapon discharged, launching the big man over the fence and into a wall, where he was killed instantly.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Ali Madda then shrugged and got back into the car. Realizing that Altair's coveted front passenger seat was now up for grabs, one of the surviving henchmen yelled "Shotgun!"

  Chapter 14

  "They shoot movies, don’t they?" – S. Pollack

  The small white ball rolled smoothly across the manicured green and dropped into the hole with a plop. "You see, Reverend, another sign!" said the President enthusiastically. No one would normally describe the Commander-in-Chief as a gifted golfer, but this morning he was playing well. He wasn't supposed to be playing at all today. All the forecasters had called for rain. The President, however, had insisted the sun would shine. He'd felt it in his solar plexus.

  "Indeed, Mr. President," said Revered Duke Norman, "I should never have blessed your ball."

  "True! Very true! Ever since you did, I've been winning."

  "It is God's will," the Reverend agreed, nodding sagaciously. The Reverend then stepped up to his own ball, and began carefully lining up the putt. He lifted the putter to take his shot.

  "You know..." began the President.

  The Reverend stopped mid swing. He took a calm breath, leaned on his club and looked at the President expectantly. The Commander-in-Chief continued his thought. "First, we have this weapon capable of destroying the world, and now... now we have me sinking this ball. I do believe that someone is telling me something."

  "I have no doubt, sir," said the Reverend. The President nodded, seemingly lost in contemplation. The pastor seized the opportunity to focus once again on the ball. He gently lifted the putter to take the shot.

  "You know, I think they're trying to tell me my purpose."

  Reverend Duke stopped short and lowered the putter to the green. He smiled serenely. "God chose you to be President for a reason," he said.

  "I know, but I wasn't sure for what exactly."

  "The Lord moves in mysterious ways."

  "And as Jim would say, there are no ways more mysterious than the electoral college system of the United States of America."

  "Amen, to that." Before the President could interrupt again, the Reverend tapped the ball, sending it on a long unerring arc into the hole where it disappeared with a ka-lop!

  "Pretty good," said the President, "but you'll have to do better than that to beat me today. Jesus is my caddy."

  The Reverend Duke Norman glanced back at Jésus and Fernando, standing at the edge of the green, holding their clubs. "Indeed, sir," he agreed.

  The President and the Reverend walked to the next tee. The caddies and Secret Service, as always, kept a discreet distance. The President rarely took the golf cart, preferring the extra time to talk. After all, nobody could rush the President of the United States or ask to play through. This time, however, the two men walked in silence as the President pondered. He thought of his grandfather, whom he'd never met. The President's grandfather had been among ninety-eight Americans held prisoner on Wake Island during World War II. Wake Island was an atoll, a remote speck of land in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The Japanese had captured the island early and ordered the ninety-eight civilians stationed there into forced labour, until one fateful day in 1943. US Forces bombed the island resulting in heavy casualties for the defenders. In a fit of fury, the Japanese Commander ordered all ninety-eight prisoners machine gunned down in cold blood. It was an act of retribution in direct violation of the Geneva convention. One man somehow escaped. Alone on a tiny atoll less than two miles across, the escapee must have known his freedom to be fleeting. So he did the only thing he could; he left a message, painstakingly carved into a rock next to the mass grave containing the corpses of his comrades. With nowhere to go on that piece of Pacific paradise, the escapee was soon recaptured and decapitated. No one knew who the man was. He did not single himself out in his epitaph. Instead, he wrote simply "98 US PW 5-10-43" or, effectively, we were here. The President, however, was convinced that man was his grandfather. He was so convinced, he'd even proclaimed it in speeches during the campaign. It was a claim he couldn't prove, but neither could others refute it. In his heart of hearts, The President simply knew it to be true. That, he believed, was a sign of a great leader; knowing things. The men of his family had always had a purpose. That purpose, he could see, was now culminating in him.