Bold War 2020

by Redemption

  Kent's applause to Phillips' words was rather lonely. The two academic members of the panel took immediate exception, spending their allotted time defending education. The government member blustered about restricted funds limiting his effectiveness.

  When it came to his turn Kent's accumulated head of steam burst from his pressure relief valve. "I share Johnson Phillips' reservations, though not his way with words or his patience. As so-called leaders and shapers of the free world you should be ashamed of yourselves. How does anyone get the message across? Our sailing ship is bearing down on a reef that will destroy us. We are fully rigged and the technological winds have increased to gale-strength. But the captain and crew, our leaders, seem neither to notice nor care. They are too busy looking at the clouds and pontificating, not knowing how to sail the ship in the interests of the passengers or cargo.

  Looking at a sea of expressionless faces he added, "Or, for landlubbers, let me say our branch of society is being sawn off - by us - while sitting on the wrong side of the limb! We are fiddling while Earth burns, and at times I find it hard to disagree with a friend of mine who claims the insects will inherit the charred remains."

  Still there was no response.

  "I want to speak on behalf of the man in the street, because in this assemblage of intellectuals, theoreticians, government officials and assorted experts he doesn't appear to be represented. As a taxpayer he is funding most of today - for what? A lot of hot air doing nothing more than increase global warming. We've had a mixture of social engineering, socialism, government intervention and super taxes - all from above. Self-serving and self-deluding, indulgent, pompous, blinkered. If I tried to operate my organisation on any of these principles it would have foundered long ago.

  "From Phillip's frogs to dogs. Ours has become a dog of a society. It has fleas and the mange. And the dog is being wagged by its tails. Yes, tails - four of them! They are:

  (1) The 'chattering class', including today's assemblage.

  (2) The media, especially TV.

  (3) Technology - yes, I have to admit, it's hardly under control.

  (4) An assortment of minority interests who exert undue influence, not coinciding with the interests of the majority.

  "These tails have waxed long and heavy. They wag vigorously, in assorted directions with negative effects on the dog. It is unstable and buckling under the heavy load, unable to walk steadily in any direction, let alone run. Society is being dogged by these tails. The influence of these extremities is becoming extreme - they are escalating in length, weight and wagging frequency. I don't have time here to develop this theme, but the solution is not to further enlarge the tails, or to cut them off (how painful), but to grow and strengthen the stunted dog. Otherwise it will wag itself to death.

  "The intelligentsia, so well represented here today, offer no practical ideas for effective action. You are rooted to the spot while the world is being rooted. Whereas some of us here (with a deferential glance at Johnson Phillips) are getting useful things done but don't have the time or luxury to experiment with remedial alternatives. What we need, in my humble opinion, is more individual input, focused effort, energy and determination - words that seem today to belong to a foreign language. As do those quaint terms individual and collective responsibility."

  He sat down abruptly as Johnson Phillips noted him as a man to do business with. The first questioner, a learned professor, rose. "Mr Chairman, I must protest," he said in measured tones. "Why are we to be assailed, when we give up our Saturday and meet in good faith to solve humanitarian problems, by this simplistic, naive, uninformed, (spitting out the words with emphasis) unscientific, unqualified, unbalanced claptrap?"

  During the generous applause the Chairman acknowledged Phillip's raised finger.

  "Since you speak in plain language, sir, so shall I," said Phillips. "Kent Buchanan and I are two of the few representatives from private industry here today. We have a contrary view to most of you. I would hope that might inject a modicum of balance to the proceedings, with which you do not appear to be comfortable.

  "And yes, neither of us has a string of letters after our name so you may feel that makes us unqualified to comment on how to solve problems. However I have to say that, in my case at least, lack of education has not been a disadvantage. I strongly believe had I spent more time in 'education' I would not have achieved as much in my career."

  Kent chipped in. "Ditto for me. In the words of one well-known author 'My education was interrupted by my schooling.'"(1)

  Another questioner angrily grasped a microphone and spoke in a controlled mixture of annoyance and condescension. "My question is directed to Mr Buchanan. I know it's nearing the end of the conference, but I must make a point. Chaos theory is now well accepted and as most of us know, small events can lead to dramatic changes. Some of us happen to believe that big world solutions can come from a series of smaller steps. You decry our suggestions but I suspect you are unaware that chaos theory illustrates that the flapping of a butterfly's wings in Florida could cause a hurricane on the other side of the world."

  Kent was on his feet, knocking over a glass of water in the process. "When you come up with drivel like that sonny, at taxpayer's expense, it's time for me to dismiss myself from this august gathering. I have much better things to do than being caged with butterflies and prima donnas. Thank you for your invitation but I must get back to the real world."

  Stepping back from the table, he whispered to the startled panel member surveying his wet lap, "Oh I'm so sorry sir, now you're wet below the ears."

  ~

  As they departed in the car after Andrew had hastily gathered his papers and a drink, Kent spoke. "I hope that won't make things too difficult for you."

  "Slightly," said Andrew as he attended to driving. "Although it was worth it to see the look on some of their faces. But don't expect an invitation to a conference in the near future."

  "Butterflies, bloody butterflies…" Kent mumbled, drifting off as the effects of his heavy lunch and activities with his personal assistant the previous night caught up with him.

  ~

  As the car cruised in the late afternoon sun Bzzt was returning from a successful home-search. An inbuilt, ancient urge had directed her and other workers. They had no prior awareness of the design or specification of their new residence - whether it would be in the hollow of a tree, in a split rock-face, perhaps in the attic of a barn. But Bzzt knew it when she saw it and was now returning triumphant in the late afternoon sun.

  Also by an unknown process (to her and to humans), she had been able to note the exact location in her tiny brain and would transform it on her return into the complex dance and 'bottom-wiggling' code that would convey the information to the swarm.

  CHAPTER 4 Like a bee

  "Where are we?" asked Kent, waking with a start.

  "Half an hour to go," said Andrew. "Had a good sleep?"

  "You bet. Twenty minutes is all I need. Except a piss right now. Can we stop?"

  "Best idea you've had today," said Andrew. "We'll exit at Damascus right now," turning off the free way and into a small park. He swung the wheel to miss an old man and two children, and swore at the absence of toilets as the wheels skidded to a halt on gravel.

  "Over there behind the bushes," directed Kent.

  They scrambled through shrubbery as the sun started to set. Urinating in unison from a commendable height, they derived mutual satisfaction, a shared performance, a common aim as it were. A small activity that joined them when so many had separated and alienated.

  "Do you have to light that cigarette?" Andrew chided. "You really shouldn't. " "God dammit, stop lecturing me!" Kent burst out through a fit of coughing. Inhaling strongly, he glanced sideways at Andrew and a smile crept to his lips.

  "Last back to the car is a dirty mongrel!" he challenged and they leaped into motion.

  As they neared the swarm Kent's mobile phone rang. He stopped. "I don't care how long Harry's been wit
h the company or how many brats he's got. He fouled up big and there's no room in any of my companies for incompetence or sentimentality. Fire him!" he shouted, looking at the swarm of bees.

  Snapping the phone shut, he glared at Andrew. "Why is it that trusted employees go off the rails so easily? You put all that training into them, give them a detailed manual, pay them a fortune and then what do they do? Mess it up! Whereas those damn little bees - no training, no manual, no payment, not a Ph D among them and they get it right every time." As he spoke he picked up a large stick and moved towards the swarm. The busy, absorbed, self-centred activity of the bees continued, oblivious of whatever might be his intent.

  "And they don't have any intellectuals to endlessly rabbit-on. They just get in and do their job and do it well without government assistance. Never had a stop-work meeting in their little lives. And they actually produce something useful - harmoniously! In some respects they're superior to your coterie of theoreticians. And to me as well - I can't run a mine site without the bloody workers going on strike. With all our combined brainpower we can't run a decent society. They are so damned efficient it makes me mad!" he shouted with punctuated intensity, as he drew closer and lifted the stick over his shoulder. "In fact," he said to a wide-eyed Andrew, "if one butterfly can cause a hurricane, imagine what a mob of angry bees can do!"

  He swung the stick as hard as he could. In slow motion Andrew saw it plough into the soft seething mass. Bodies were knocked, crushed into one another in a clashing, bouncing flurry of wings and furry limbs and body fluids. Bzzt had just finished her dance when her world was burst asunder by the gigantic impact. There was an instant's pause and then a furious buzzing as the colony erupted into attack mode. The queen was exposed! Panic and alarm and dead bees - and chaos, but not the theory kind.

  "Go!" shouted Kent, pushing a transfixed Andrew.

  They bolted for the car, shouting boyishly, just keeping ahead of a cloud of angry bees.

  "Quick! Inside!" gasped Andrew.

  They slammed doors as the swarm arrived. It descended and spread itself over the windows, a seething mass of agitated insects that could see the grinning enemies but not get at them. Some higher power had enabled these ghouls to attack the colony and then hide with impunity behind this shield, this force field that kept them at a distance, impervious to their efforts. Inside the car the brothers were half agog at the nearness and clearness of the lethal horde through which they could hardly see but from which they were safe.

  Or were they?

  "Get going," said Kent. "Use the wipers!"

  The blades transported two big swathes of bees sideways but it took repeated swipes and copious washer fluid to make a clear sight through the mess.

  "How do we get them off the rest of my car?" queried Andrew.

  "Blow them off!" shouted Kent. "Move!"

  Adrenaline pumping, Andrew started the engine and accelerated quickly. On the car floor a groggy Bzzt stirred. Faster than the others, she had caught up to Andrew and landed on his shoulder at the moment he dived into the car. Knocked sideways, the impact had broken a wing, she lost her grip and fell to the floor. But at least she was inside their castle even if the others were excluded and frustrated or dying. Now, moments later, she had revived and started climbing laboriously towards the enemy. She sensed living heat and was drawn upwards, her broken wing dragging awkwardly. Through confused senses of engine noise, vibration and unfamiliar fabric her destination was singular. Of these two foreign monsters, giant colony wreckers, she would take the nearest one.

  As the car gained speed the remaining bees began to lose grip on the exterior and disappear rearward. "Faster," urged Kent, switching on the CD player. The voice of Maria Callas in full flight singing Verdi's La Gioconda burst into the enclosed space.

  "Now there's a real prima donna," enthused Kent as more and more bees were swept away.

  "Singing Suicido?" queried Andrew.

  By now the car had turned on to the freeway and was travelling at high speed. Few bees remained on the exterior, clutching at crevices and projections. "What a way to finish the day," said Andrew, beginning to relax. "Now what was the important matter you wanted to talk about?"

  But the day was not finished. Bzzt reached Andrew's collar. She crawled on to the warm flesh of his neck at the top of the spine. Doing what all bees will do in defence of their colony, she plunged her sting deeply into the flesh.

  Immediate high-voltage pain filled Andrew's consciousness with jagged blue concentric pulsating rings. "Hell!" he shrieked, grabbing at his neck with his left hand. The car swerved but stayed on the free way. He pulled his hand away, looked in horror at the bee's body and flung it to the floor. But the sting had stayed faithfully in place, held firmly by the barb designed for that purpose. If Bzzt's body had not been separated from the sting by Andrew she would have done it herself by flying away. In either case, eviscerated, she would die for her fellow bees.

  The sting kept pumping its potent cocktail of poisons. The intense pain was unbearable, shutting out everything else. Andrew, in survival mode, grabbed at his neck with both hands.

  The car swung sharply off the road despite Kent's frantic effort to engage the steering wheel. It was airborne briefly before crashing into a ditch. For a few moments dust and fumes rose from the wreck where the two men sprawled in exaggerated positions, unconscious.

  The only remaining movement was from the bee's sting, pulsating, still pumping its deadly injection into Andrew's inert body. The primitive had done her deed. For what purpose? To what end?

  CHAPTER 5 Awakening

  Depth. Dark depth. Clawing upward from forgotten dimensions. Time re-activating in his mind. Consciousness - reluctance - a feeling. There ought to be a word for it, but he can't find it. As if for the first time in his existence he seems to be grasping, analysing (why in slow motion?) an ascent, escape? distillation from? crystallisation out of?… something impossible to put a finger on, pin down.

  In the unconscious world, what factors are at work? Does time slow - or go along tangential paths, being squeezed into different and unknowable forms? Freed from the chains of reason to be moulded by celestial forces before being jolted against the concrete pylons of reality. Indeterminate and inconvenient considerations…

  From the utter darkness Andrew slowly, painfully realises a man is speaking to him in excited but hushed tones. "Andy. Can you hear me? You are regaining consciousness. If you can hear me please give a sign."

  Confusion and alarm surrounds and confounds him. Where is he? Why can't he see? What is happening? He tries to open his eyes. He tries to speak. Nothing. His voice won't obey his thoughts. Nothing at all.

  "Andy, we think you're nearly there. Can you understand? Can you give us a sign?" He can't understand and he can't move. Very frustrating. Very annoying. Struggling to speak, to open his eyes, he manages with immense difficulty to twitch an eyelid.

  "Great, fantastic…" says the voice. "Andy, it's me, Cam. We're bringing you back to consciousness after a long coma."

  That doesn't make sense. He hears snips of muffled conversation. The voice continues. "We're going to give you light massage. Bear with us, try to stay relaxed and calm and we'll try to do the same."

  In the darkness he feels smooth hands softly massage his temples, his forehead, his face, eyelids, scalp and neck. Slowly warmth penetrates his skin, his face, his head. Gentle music. He begins to feel more peaceful, less confused. With intense effort he wills his eyelids to open and, in staccato fashion, one does. The room is in half-light. He can make out blurred images against white walls, as if his projector is badly out of focus.

  "Hello Andy. This is Cam," says one of the images. "Welcome back."

  A strange expression, he thinks, but can't respond.

  "We'll gradually turn up the light as your eyes adjust."

  As the brightness increases he strains to focus, now with both eyes, on the speaker. It is indeed Cameron Dench, but different - much older, peering a
t him from over a big bushy beard attached to a dark face covered in wrinkles.

  From seemingly a long way away he summons a weak voice. "Cam?… you're… different. What's happened?"

  "Just relax Buddy. Yes, I'm a bit dated since you saw me last. You took a while to recognise me because it's been thirty years. Yes, that's how long you've been in your coma."

  Cameron sees the puzzled look on Andrew's face, the slight frown and hesitant eye movement. Good signs of returning muscular activity. He must feel a total prisoner in there, he thinks.

  "I've managed to break a few world records on the way Andy, keeping you not only alive but in near-perfect condition. Now I've been able finally to bring you back to consciousness - with a lot of help from yourself of course. You'll have to excuse all this paraphernalia and infernal tubes to your body, we'll work on getting rid of it all as soon as possible."

  Memories slowly come back to Andrew. The conference. The car. That damned bee sting. But he can't remember anything past that point. An impenetrable steel bulwark of time is shut tight.

  "You and Kent had a car accident,' Cameron explains. "On your way back from the conference. Knocked you both out. Neither of you were wearing seat belts. Kent was out for two days but you were out for a generation."

  "Thirty years you said?" The words 'painfully slow' were taking on a new meaning. "I thought that was impossible."

  "Used to be. But I fixed that," said Cameron, seeming to grow taller.

  "Kent… where is he?" Andrew struggles to ask.

  "Long story, amazing story. He's died since. More on that later."

  "And Sylvia?" he asks anxiously.

  'Sorry Andy, but she also passed away." Hesitating, he adds "Same time as Kent."

  Andrew's emotions plummet to match the devastation of his body, and he is overwhelmingly tired. He closes his eyes and sleeps.