by Jim Stark
As the limo eased onto 43rd Street, the ancient general tugged at the lapel of his gold uniform jacket and turned to face the building that was the hub of WDA activity. It didn't look much different than it had in those “bad old days,” when these eighteen American acres, running from 42nd to 48th streets, had cradled the United Nations. The main visual difference was to be found in the row of flags extending far down the street in front of the stately, 20th-century structure. All national flags were square now, with a horizontal white dividing line. Above the narrow equator, as prescribed by world law, was the WDA flag, indicating precisely who was on top of whom. Below the line was the flag of a nation, a formerly independent state, now joined forever with all other countries through the WDA in a world where order was tightly assured and freedom was ... well, where freedom was officially promoted and protected, but was actually just “allowed,” and even that only to the extent that it didn't threaten the seamless continuation of order. “That is as it should be,” whispered Brampton as he did his best to march toward the glass front doors of the administration tower, unaware that his pace was half that of a dawdling child. “As it must be,” he said under his breath.
It never failed to thrill Brampton that he could walk in to work (well, from the curb, anyway) unarmed and unafraid. The lovely truth was, barring any physical impediments, he could walk on any old patch of the planet unarmed and unthreatened. Anybody can, he thought, as long as they want to just live life and not make any trouble. It was only a few months until the celebration of the WDA's nineteenth anniversary, a year and a bit until they celebrated its second decade in place, in power. “Not a single bullet has been fired in anger since May, 2014,” he remembered bellowing towards the sea of cheering faces at the eighteenth World Peace Day celebration in New York's Central Park, almost a year ago. That wasn't exactly true, of course, as there were still some crimes of passion for the Netnews to titter over in graphic detail and living color, but this slight exaggeration had hardly seemed to matter at the time. “The terrifying black days of chaos are ended,” he'd announced to the half-million people who had gathered to hear the father of the WDA in what the media anchors had called—for the sixth year running—"perhaps his last public appearance.” “Forever!” he had shouted into the mike, spraying spittle.
That standing ovation had endured for more than four minutes, CBS reported on the Netnews last June. His daring decision to H-bomb Leningrad and then declare universal martial law had taken everyone by complete surprise back in 2014, during the LieDeck Revolution. His threat to nuke the capital of any resistant state had been taken seriously, and within two days, the head of every military establishment in the world was sitting in a dull New York office, wondering how the fuck that happened. And each general found himself (or herself, in a few instances) running the control apparatus of his or her home country over the old Internet, and clearing every major national decision with “George,” as the then-Supreme Commander insisted on being called.
George Brampton and the United States of America had projected their power over all nations in a global coup, a coup that George still considered “essentially bloodless.” And the people of all nations had approved, almost unanimously. George felt a profound pride in the legacy of peace he would leave. “War never again,” he had written right into the Charter of the WDA. “Peace before all, and at any cost,” he had penned onto a cloth serviette on the very day that Bucharest and Leningrad had disappeared. That serviette was now displayed in a glass case in the WDA's Museum of the Unified Earth, down in the belowground concourse of the General Assembly. “At any cost,” he mumbled as he glanced over at the unrenamed, domed annex where now, generals actually assembled.
Yes, there were a few malcontents who still griped occasionally about the standing order to use nuclear weapons immediately if ever there was a serious threat of chaos, but most people had just moved on in their minds, and in their lives. No one called it overkill when we eradicated smallpox, he reminded himself—sliding over the fact that that was a UN achievement. Nobody gets up in the morning and says, “Zowie, no more smallpox in the world,” he said to himself. Same fucking thing! No more war!
The braying in the newspapers and other media still got to George, even though there was no indication of popular support for the complainers. Just last week, Gil Henderson was at it again, bitching and whining on the SuperNet about how the nuclear policy of the WDA amounted to “the banalization of death,” and a “concomitant trivialization of life.” A year ago, before the fucking Henderson Scandals, no one would have even dared say such a thing, he thought. Perhaps our Mr. Henderson should come down with something bad ... smallpox, maybe.
And then there was that little Whiteside ... well, “piece of snot” was the way he had referred to Randy since his call for rebellion yesterday. The old general was astonished that he'd been called only three times on the Net about the boy's idiotic effrontery, and he'd been especially galled when Sheena Kalhoun—through her secretary, no less—had told him to please keep his counsel. “Shut the fuck up” was what she was really saying, he grumbled to himself. Oh well, as long as she thinks she's in charge.
As he trudged awkwardly towards the doors, he became aware that he'd blocked out the music again, so he stopped, turned around in a series of short shunts, and gave a nod and a wave to the gaggle of singers across the six-lane road. The serenading had started seven years ago, just after Sheena Kalhoun took over as head of the WDA. Some people didn't like the change. A lone black woman of obvious financial means began to show up every day and break lustily into the first verse of Amazing Grace every time George got out of his limo for his two-minute shuffle to the WDA tower. She was talented, if a little long in the tooth, and she belted out those first four lines with much more verve than the lyrics, if not George, deserved:
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see
Within a week, she was joined by other Brampton fanatics, black and white, male and female, young and old, American and foreign, in ever-changing permutations. On certain days, like his birthday, there would be hundreds of impromptu singers—whoever could make it out that day—fortifying the melody or throwing on harmonies, a capella.
About a year ago, they had added a new second verse. The daily chanters had been asked to “do their thing” across the street because of that new verse. “He'll hear you,” they were assured, “and he's very pleased by your intentions, even though he still denies...” etcetera, etcetera. George didn't appreciate all those lunatics claiming that he was the Second Coming of Jesus, or a deity of any ilk. On the other hand, he was flattered to be thought of in such august company ... and unlike Jesus, he actually had saved the world. But still, the words of that new verse were a bit ... well, there they were, in his ears:
Amazing George, how great the man
Who saved this world and me
He's come again, evil to ban
He's set my people free
Third line still seems a bit wonky, he thought as he reached the front of the building. Eeevilll to baaan. He shook his head. Oh well, he thought, life will be a lot easier without that son-of-a-bitch Lester Connolly on our case all the time.
"Morning George,” said a smiling hostess as she held open the big door. “And bless you."
"Bless us all,” replied the former Supreme Commander and living legend as he kissed her proffered cheek. He liked kissing cheeks, among other things, and he often wondered if the adoration he received from young women wasn't the best perquisite of his honorary position.
"No trouble?” he asked.
"Not since twenty fourteen,” the woman said, adoringly.
"Gun?” he snapped.
"Check."
"Sniffer?"
"Check."
"LieDeck?"
"Check."
"Good girl,” he grinned, sliding a wrinkled hand f
rom her ear to her chin and walking away, or waddling away. The gun got her listened to, the LieDeck meant she didn't have to use the gun, and the Sniffer meant that anyone she had to deal with would know they were dealing with the whole WDA, not just with one little hostess. It wasn't complicated, but it worked.
"Boy, does it work!” chuckled George as he rode the elevator to his top-floor office. This was the price of peace ... a bargain by any standard ... and he was the ... well, lots of people tended to call him the “prince of peace,” a moniker he'd always rejected loudly enough to keep it out of his face during interviews, although not quite so vigorously as to discourage any off-camera usage. Some people had now switched over from the “prince of peace” to calling him the “king of peace,” and that sat well with him ... it didn't carry the sense that he was competing with Jesus. He prayed to the Lord God daily, on the Net, and he hoped deep inside that death was indeed a mere stepping stone to eternal bliss. “Make certain they use the lower case on that if they insist on using it in print,” he told the Minister of Civilian Relations several months ago. “Small ‘k’ on ‘king’ or small ‘p’ on ‘prince',” he'd grumped. “The concept of the divine right of kings ended up buried in the dustbin of history, where it belongs,” he'd said. “And besides,” he'd explained, “my right to govern wasn't given to me by God. I just took it, and now everyone's glad I did."
The elevator door opened onto the thirty-ninth floor, and he was met with a kiss on the mouth from his favorite hostess, Laura Becker, a black, a very light black, actually, a sort of beige person, almost indistinguishable from the so-called whites. She was also his secretary, although that assignment hadn't produced any actual secretarial work in years. “You're ... Algerian, aren't you?” he asked as he ran the backs of a few old fingers under her breasts. He was fairly sure she'd said that to him a long time ago ... probably often.
"I'll be whatever you say,” winked Laura.
She has one of those eternally perky mouths, thought George as he tried to remember Goldie Hawn's name, with gums as pink and wet as her cunt. He absolutely hated it when darker blacks smiled and showed brown or purple gums. “Naughty little tart,” he said. “Is General Heatherington here?"
"He's in the waiting room,” said Laura—whenever the British MGA came here, he'd be sure to arrive early, way early, for whatever reason. “I tried to rub his temples, but he brushed me off. Maybe I'm the wrong color,” she said.
"We'll get him sorted out soon enough,” said George as he handed over his briefcase and led the way, very slowly.
Laura held the door as George hobbled into his private office, then helped him down into his special chair—"the throne,” some journalists had dubbed it, with no disrespect intended. The general let out a deep sigh, and then played the buttons built into the right armrest until his body felt as comfortable as it ever got. Then he closed the cover on the mini-console. The business of the day could begin, and hopefully, the agenda wouldn't take him past noon, and included a small bit of “entertainment” at the end. “What else we got?” he asked.
"Just General Heatherington,” said Laura. “Oh ... and plus there's a little Sri Lankan girl who wants to please you with a private performance ... a contortionist."
"Well!” said George, with as much of a twinkle as his dry eyes could manage these days, “then I'd better get General Heatherington sorted out. The usual ... procedure with him, eh? And then I'll—uh—clear my desk. You can send him in now."
* * * *
General Clinton W. Heatherington was a wasp-thin gentleman of just seventy-four years, and trim-looking in his uniform, if not quite so tightly held-together underneath it. He had never been in a war, although he almost saw action in the Falklands when he was a young sergeant. Now, in what he hoped was the sunset of his working life, he found himself with great prestige and little power. With the elimination of war and the full flowering of cyberlife, national borders had stopped mattering in the minds of the people ... most of them, anyway. Real power seemed to have skidded away from national governments—and their military MGAs in New York—skidded both down and up; down to provincial and local governments and up to the inner sanctum of the WDA, to Sheena Kalhoun and her tiny circle of advisers, her “cabinet.” Sure, the civilian government in London did his bidding, but in these unheady days, there were precious few issues in need of any serious “bidding.” He was a senior MGA—Member of the General Assembly—and although that was a free ticket to any Broadway opening, cocktail party or corporate boardroom, he had little influence with Kalhoun, the real head of the WDA. What he did have, however, was the occasional ear of the ex-head, the now-Honorary Chairman, and he made every effort to use that connection sparingly, wisely, and never at the behest of others. Today was an exception to that last criteria, and he was nervous.
"General Brampton, SIR,” he almost shouted as he snapped to attention and executed a sharp salute. It wasn't what Brampton said he wanted, but no one except Kalhoun had ever dared not do it.
"Just ‘George’ will do,” said the Honorary Chairman of the WDA as he threw back a loose salute-type gesture and held out a shaky, liver-spotted hand. “How are things in the United Kingdom, Clint?"
Well, things weren't so bad, it seemed. They were crime-free, of course, and there was no more terrorism anywhere, thanks to the WDA and the LieDeck, and of course the UK was doing well economically, now that they didn't need to finance much of a military establishment—also thanks to the WDA. “But we've gone over the three percent mark with Evolution,” complained the British general, “and these ... people, this three percent of our population, now own almost twenty percent of all shares in domestic corporations. They could crash the market if they wanted to ... not that they would, of course ... that would be stupid, but ... well, it's a concern—uh—George. Hundreds of new people are joining up every day ... mostly poor younger people, but now some that are middle-aged or elderly and some that aren't even poor, people who are just looking for a comfortable and pleasant way to get through life. And this new ... well, they call it a ‘consciousness’ that they've achieved, or they're working on ... it seems to have even more appeal than the financial security offered by Evolution. If they continue to grow at the current rate, it won't be long before they have the private sector in their control ... not completely, but they'll have it by the—uh—by the scrotum, sir, and our government and business leaders are very concerned that if nothing is done to stop these people, well..."
"Well ... what?” said George, with his small gray eyes clamped onto this too-proper Brit.
"Well, they could ... you know ... upset the balance of ... of—"
"Come here, Clint,” smiled George as he rose painfully and wobbled over towards the window. “Look out there,” he ordered, pointing to the wide streets far below. “What do you see?"
Clint stared out, down, and bit his lip from worry. Wrong answers weren't popular in this office, and this question was so ... so vague. “Manhattan,” he said, “and ... cars, and people, and ... and peace,” he added hopefully.
"Yes,” nodded George. “Peace,” he repeated proudly. “There has not been a war now for nineteen years; no revolutions, no uprisings, no terrorist bombings. And why is that?” he asked rhetorically, not even bothering to glance at his guest. “It's because I forbade it, because we have things under control. The right technology came along, and maybe more to the point, the right man made the right political and military moves in the right order at the right time. You—uh—with me so far?"
"Yes sir,” said General Heatherington. “George,” he semi-whispered as the Honorary Chairman slid carefully back onto his hi-tech throne.
"You come back to me with one good, solid reason why Evolution should be seen as something other than a harmless fad, and I'll listen. You explain to me why I should stop the movement, why they're dangerous, and I'll put the dumb fuckers out of commission overnight. But all this whining about them—and I'm getting it from all over the world, you know—i
t doesn't cut it with me. I hate whiners. The WDA is uber alles, Clint, and it's going to stay that way, forever, as it must, for purposes of peace. We've got our eye on the balance that counts. Too much freedom and you lose on the side of peace. History had taught us that. But too little freedom and you also lose on the side of peace. If those weirdos pay their damned taxes and work productively and stay the fuck out of politics, I don't care if they live like pigs or royalty, and I don't give a sweet shit how many there are. Christ, if they didn't live like that, most of them would be on fuckin’ welfare! Do we understand each other, Clint?"
General Heatherington hated taking the point position for all those other puffed-up, would-be soldiers, but they had elected him to take their case upstairs, and now he saw his opening. “So ... they should stay out of politics?” he asked. “Domestic politics, all levels?” he added, putting a finer point on his inquiry.
"They'd better,” said George, before thinking it through. “Mind you I—uh—I know about some of them getting on school boards and local councils and the odd one getting into provincial or state legislatures, but—uh—are they planning on getting into national politics in Britain? Or anywhere? Is that ... what you're saying?"
"Well, we've got some intelligence to the effect that they may start their own political party,” said Clint, “the Evolution Party ... and not just in Britain, but in many countries ... most countries ... simultaneously. We know that they haven't taken a final decision, but they can do it, and we're just suggesting that—uh—you should keep an eye out for—uh—"