by Paul Anlee
“Originally from Florida.”
“Raised Florida Baptist, I’ll bet.”
“Yes, sir. Tampa Bay.”
“Well, I’m sure the rest of the Executive will be as happy to welcome you as I am. I’ll call a special meeting to introduce you next week if you’re available.”
“This group has been my top priority for the past ten months, and it will continue to be so until my Director decides otherwise. Just because I’ll be working to help you rather than expose you is no reason for me to change that priority, is it?”
The two men laughed, both relieved at how well the meeting had gone. Mitchell extended his hand to make it official. “I propose we toast the beginning of a wonderful association.”
“To the New Confederacy?” Thornten proposed.
“To the New Confederacy.”
12
Darian and his father took a table in the sunken patio of a Newbury Ave café.
Paul put in their order then sat back, appreciating the beautiful May afternoon. Pedestrians strolled along the eye-level sidewalk, luxuriating in the sunshine as they checked out the lunch options along the avenue.
Many of the passersby, like him, had been recently laid off from their jobs, but the full economic shock of The Great Secession had not yet eliminated their dining out budget.
Most were still in a state of denial. Like naively hopeful children of divorced parents, they clung to the belief that Congress and the White House would find soon some way to reverse the shattering of the union or, at the very least, construct a new federation to cooperate on issues of joint interest, like defense and the dollar. They held this futile hope in spite of the fact that over half of the elected Representatives and Senators now represented constituencies that were no longer part of the United States of America.
Lunch arrived and Paul dug into his generous chicken salad sandwich. Darian, unusually subdued, barely picked at his food. Paul's exaggerated eye-rolling, lip-smacking and appreciative comments with each bite of the bistro fare, drew nothing in return. He had learned some years ago that once Darian became preoccupied like this, he would not be enticed into the conversation until he was good and ready.
Paul turned his attention back to the food, the weather, and the people, resolved to accept the silence for as long as Darian needed.
“They’re classifying my thesis Top Secret, sealing it from the public.”
Paul stopped the French fry halfway to his mouth. “What? They can’t do that!”
“Apparently, they can.”
“Did they say why?”
“Not explicitly. But I know it’s for military application. Dad, when I designed the neural lattices that would fit into the brains of birds and mammals, even insects, I was thinking along the lines of how cool it would be to be able to direct their activities remotely by computer. You know, something like a monkey to clean up around the house, to help shut-ins and disabled folks. Maybe program house spiders to limit flies and mosquitoes in a managed way. And just think of all the applications in manufacturing and service industries! But the military and Homeland Security has other plans. Big surprise, right? I should have seen that one coming.”
“Other plans? Like what?”
“All the usual things, I imagine: spying, diffusing bombs, replacing drones, you name it. Uncle Nick told me they've used my work to develop something they call a ‘spyder’—that's spider with a ‘y’. Spy-der. Obviously, there would be military applications. Everything ever invented can be used for peace or for war. They're only tools. What makes them good or bad is the user's intent. Why would my dendy lattices be any different?”
“I’m sure the government has its reasons.”
“I don't know. I'm just disappointed, is all. Okay, maybe a little ticked off. Why couldn't they at least give my intended applications a chance, and classify only the military uses? They don't have to lock everything down. Everything, Dad. The whole works, even my thesis. They said it's too dangerous to make public.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I agree, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Well, at least you’ll still get your degree, right?”
“Yes, I'll get the degree, but they won’t let me publish anything, not even an abstract. There'll be some innocuous title and then a little notation saying the work has been classified. That's it.”
“I guess Nick and David will be happy. If your work's classified, they don't have to worry about competitors for a while. And, no doubt, it would lead to some huge contracts from the military for the company.”
“If they want to work for the Department of Defense for the rest of their lives, they can have it.”
Paul wasn't sure how to respond. He was proud of his son, and excited for his future. But if the government stopped Darian from publishing, that was bound to put a serious dent in his academic profile. And how far did their control run? What if his son wanted to continue his research outside the government? Could they stop him from pursuing his work altogether if he didn't partner with them? Darian was so exceptional, unique really, that Paul worried about how he would get on in the world.
On the flip side, accommodating the military's interests could open up some insanely generous funding possibilities for Neuro Nano. They'd finally have some steady income, maybe even the means to pay out some dividends before long. Now that Paul’s own employment situation was uncertain, he held considerably less disdain for the government’s deep-pocketed spending and the opportunities that went with it. “Have you thought about what would you like to do after you graduate from MIT?”
Darian let his mind be lulled by the stream of pedestrians, all completely oblivious to his struggles. “I’m thinking of doing a second doctorate.”
Paul picked up another fry and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. “Okay, that’s a surprise. I thought you were done with school.”
“This would be in synthetic biology. MIT said they'd fully fund me if I ever went back and, with all the lab work involved, it would feel more like a job than school, anyway.”
“What would you work on?”
“I’ve been thinking that Mom never really got to finish her work. In her design, the dendies require a non-biological seed so the synthetases can replicate from the template. I’m thinking I’d like to see if the whole system can be built from scratch, starting from a strictly biological basis.”
“I’m sorry, but about all I got out of that is that you'd like to continue the dendy work you mom started, is that right?”
“Yes. I don’t think I’m quite finished exploring everything of interest in that area yet.”
“Wouldn’t that work also get classified?”
“Maybe I won’t publish everything I’m working on.”
“Listen, son, you’re only seventeen. Be careful what you say. Sure, you have a couple of MIT degrees and a solid academic reputation, but you don’t want the government taking too much of an interest in you. They might just decide to classify you, and I don’t think you’d like the restrictions they would put on your work or your life.”
Darian pulled the pick from his unfinished club sandwich and poked at the bread.
“Maybe it’s time to think about doing your research someplace besides MIT,” Paul suggested. “You know, your mother actually began her dendy research while she was up in Canada.”
“Yeah, but they’re almost as crazy as we are these days,” Darian countered.
“That’s true, in some ways. Everyone's going through a lot of adjustment right now. So long as you avoid the religion-based schools in the South and stay clear of the socialist kooks up here, you might find a happy middle ground with the moderates in California. Or what about up in British Columbia?”
Darian nodded and picked up his sandwich. “Berkeley was one of the homes of SynBio, and they're still doing a lot of great work there.”
“Berkeley's always been a great university. Very liberal but solid in the Life Sciences,” Paul o
ffered helpfully. “And if you apply now and move to San Francisco this summer, you'd be able to get in before they close the borders to Americans outside of Pacifica.”
“But then you’d be here, and I’d be in another country,” Darian pointed out between mouthfuls. "Our home is here, and so is everything I’ve ever known and cared about.”
“Well, maybe it’s time you expand your horizons. I mean, you’d still be in North America. It’s not like you’d be moving to Germany or anything. ”
Darian nearly choked. "Germany, Dad? Really?"
"Look, there’s nothing tying me to Boston anymore.” Paul held up his hands, demonstrating a distinct lack of shackles. “Maybe we should sell the house, and I’ll move out to the coast with you.”
“It’s not like I need my daddy to keep me company,” Darian grinned.
“No, you’re well past that,” Paul agreed quickly. “It could be good for me, too, though. It wouldn’t hurt for me to expand my own horizons a little. I don’t know how our government is going to respond to this secessionist rebellion any more than you do, but the economy here in what's left of this country is dismal. It’s hard to imagine a rosy future, right now.”
Darian’s focus shifted outward to some distant point. Paul recognized the look. It meant his son was either referencing a ton of material on the internet, or he was busy with some deep calculation, or both. Waiting for Darian to finish whatever he was doing inside his marvelous lattice-enhanced brain, Paul finished his sandwich and ordered another cold beer.
“I’ve been reading some articles about President Wilson, Senator Mitchell, and Governor Alcraft; and the political analyses and background papers on what happens when countries break apart due to internal insurrections.”
Darian's voice took on a stilted academic tone when he was thinking with the semiconductor lattice instead of his biological brain. “In addition, I have investigated several political, social and psychological modeling methodologies, and constructed a crude composite simulation to predict future activities by these three men. Preliminary results indicate that President Wilson will choose to negotiate rather than call upon the military. The negotiations are unlikely to lead to any agreements on the major issues in the near term, especially on currency and defense.
“Senator Mitchell seems entrenched and is unlikely to respond well to suggestions regarding future cooperation. He doesn't like President Wilson’s politics or his religious affiliation. He will move the New Confederacy toward stronger protectionist and isolationist policies for the foreseeable future.
“Governor Alcraft, on the other hand, leans toward pragmatism. He will work hard to maintain good relations with what is left of the United States and Canada. I estimate a 95% probability that all parts of the former country will default on 70% of their collective debts over the next three years. There is only a 5% probability that the New Confederacy will recognize its obligation for any of these debts, while there is an 80% chance that Pacifica will assume some portion of its previously shared obligation.”
“Makes you wonder why they bothered to separate at all.”
“The majority of analysts suggest the states and provinces making up Pacifica all share a desire for increased fiscal responsibility and a pragmatic, inclusive, secular government.
“They differ from the government of the New Confederacy in rejecting a Christian basis for Criminal and Civil Codes. They also differ from the remaining United States in refusing to endlessly fund unaffordable corporate welfare programs.
“They were rushed into an untimely secession, owing partly to their respective governments refusing to pass balanced budgets, and partly to the precipitous actions of the movement in the South.” Darian blinked at his own analysis.
“Well, the New Confederacy certainly seems hell-bent on ruining what’s left of this country, that’s for sure.”
“It does appear that the key figures behind the New Confederacy wish to punish the collective governments of the past for their reckless spending, cultural dilution, and lack of religious purity.
“There is an 85% probability that the New Confederacy will recognize Christianity as its official religion and English as its only official language. There is a contingent 80% probability that the surviving America will be forced to make a similar declaration in order to reduce emigration to the South by the wealthy. By contrast, Pacifica is likely to continue to emphasize a multi-cultural approach, given its large Latino and Asian populations.”
“Well, I agree with both social tolerance and fiscal responsibility. But it’s hard to say which fragment of the country will fare best. No matter how you slice it, this is a real mess.”
“My model calculates a 98% probability that the US dollar will depreciate a further 40% before the situation stabilizes. The GDPs of the remaining union and New Confederacy are almost certain to decrease by three to five percent per year for the next five years before settling into a significantly reduced standard of living. Pacifica appears to have the right combination of resources and innovative capability to withstand that kind of devaluation. Should they decide to create their own currency, it would be more stable than the Greenback or the Greyback.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to relocate out to California, after all,” Paul hypothesized.
Darian smiled, a sign that he’d returned from the world of the cold, analytic machine within him. “Maybe this would be a good time to move. And it would be a pretty good place to go—as good as any, right now.”
Father and son shared eye contact for a few seconds. “Psst! Don’t look now,” Paul hissed, “but I think we just made a decision. See, that wasn’t so bad.” They burst out laughing, and Darian reached across the table to pilfer his father's unfinished fries.
Feeling good, but not quite ready to face all the changes and details headed their way, Paul steered the conversation to the Red Sox's chances in the upcoming season. "Well, it's no secret American League Baseball has always wanted to go international. I guess they got their wish—just not the way they expected," he chuckled.
America might be going to Hell in a handbasket, but at least its national sport would continue.
13
“Is that him?” Larry pointed toward a small delegation approaching the foot of the stairs.
The young man being swarmed by university executives looked too young to be a professor. He carried himself more like a first-year grad student: awkward, gawky, and out of place. He certainly looked nerdy enough to be a physics professor. His “do-it-yourself” haircut was far from stylish, barely combed, and he was painfully uncomfortable in the shirt, tie, and outdated tweed jacket.
The object of everyone’s attention gave the appearance of being properly impressed with the campus architecture as his tour guides pointed out each particularly splendid feature. Online VR tours now made such personalized walkabouts unnecessary but whether it was due to nostalgia, a testament to their pride, or a twisted test of character, the majority of Department Chairs still insisted on dragging new recruits through the motions.
“Yeah, that looks like him,” Greg answered. He and Larry were camped at the top of the stairs, looking out over the covered Convocation Mall between the Library and Student Services buildings. Their perch was strategically positioned to catch a glimpse of Simon Fraser University’s newest celebrity faculty member, Darian Leigh.
Almost all campus foot traffic passed on one side or other of the Mall before entering the lower level of the Academic Quadrangle. On a nice day like this sunny July afternoon, it was impossible to resist climbing the majestic stairs and meandering your way across the floating path that spanned the reflection pool and provided shade to the brightly colored koi below. At the end of the pond, a passing appreciation of the sunken central gardens and pyramid sculpture was obligatory before heading into the raised AQ building to enjoy the spectacular view of Indian Arm.
“He looks way younger than his pictures,” Larry noted.
Perhaps that
was because he was indeed, young. Darian Leigh carried without much grace the thin, insubstantial form of a stereotypically anemic academic, including an early predisposition toward a small paunch. Clearly, he spent more time in thought, than in the gym.
But at twenty-two years old, with PhDs in Nano-Computing, Synthetic Biology, and Quantum Cosmology, and the rumblings of a Nobel Prize candidacy (or two) already in the wings, Darian Leigh was the most remarkable person ever to stand in the middle of the soaring columns of SFU.
“I expected him to look a little, I don’t know, smarter,” Greg confided.
“Well, you’re a lot smarter than you look,” Larry mocked.
“Thanks, I think.” He and Larry had been friends throughout grad school. Starting their first postdoc positions together under such a famous Principal Investigator as Darian Leigh cemented the easy camaraderie and good-natured ribbing that had accompanied their student years.
“Well, maybe not a lot smarter,” Dr. Kathy Liang, the newest member of the team, chimed in as she claimed a seat alongside them.
Greg laughed, a little louder than intended. His attraction to the intriguing Chinese-American engineer only amplified his usual social awkwardness, causing him to overcompensate in her presence.
Kathy was accustomed to the effect she had on male colleagues and politely ignored their discomfiture, doing her best to be a casually accepted member of the group.
She had arrived in Vancouver only a month earlier, hired to help set up the new lab. Given the paucity of instructions from Dr. Leigh, this had proven a challenging task for all of them. They ended up spending a good deal of their time familiarizing themselves with each other’s work, with Dr. Leigh’s seminal papers on the theory of Big Bang physics, and with the coffee and beer served in the Student Society pub.
While they were chatting, Darian and his executive entourage had climbed to the top of the stairs unnoticed by his new assistants. “Not waiting for me, are you?”