by Paul Briggs
“As president,” he was saying, “I will not engage in reckless interventionism. I will carefully weigh the risks inherent in any military intervention against the risk involved in failing to act.” If he said he WOULD engage in reckless interventionism, thought Rome, that would be newsworthy. “And I absolutely will not send one ship, plane, or soldier into the territory or airspace of a sovereign nation without first consulting with Congress.”
“Don’t ask about drones,” said Lexi, sitting to Rome’s left. She ran her fingers through her red-dyed hair.
Rome nodded. Still, at least the man had made one promise that you could check to see if he was keeping.
Pratt was also promising budget reform. “My staff and I will go through the budget ourselves, and we will find and root out all waste, fraud, and abuse,” he said.
Rome rolled his eyes. Every presidential candidate in living memory, Democrat or Republican, had made this promise. Every single one of them had acted as though there were some vast hidden treasure of unnecessary spending buried somewhere in the federal budget, if only someone were willing to sit down and read the damn thing. Every single one of them had claimed they would be the one to find that Lost City of Pork and bring back its wealth for the taxpayers. And every single one of them had failed to mention something very important. Would Pratt be the one to speak of the elephant in the room?
“Yes, the federal budget is over twenty-six hundred pages long. It seems impossible to comprehend, let alone control, but for twenty good staffers that’s a week’s work.”
Rome rolled his eyes again, harder this time. No, the indoor pachyderm—Congress—would remain safely under the carpet of silence.
Sure enough, Pratt moved to the safer subject of deregulation. “Not only have our business regulations failed to protect consumers and the environment, most of them were never written for that purpose in the first place,” he said. “They were written by business lobbyists to protect business from competition, at the expense of American consumers and American entrepreneurs.”
He was a little more interesting on drug policy. “The time has come to end the so-called ‘war on drugs,’” he said. “Make no mistake—when individual Americans choose to destroy themselves through poor lifestyle choices, it hurts us all. It costs us all. But not nearly as much as it costs us to try to stop them by force.”
“Lifestyle choices?” said Lexi. “Somewhere a neurologist is crying.” They shushed her.
When he got to the Q&A, the first question was about his drug policy and whether it meant he was going to be legalizing drugs.
“No. I am not advocating full legalization. As I said earlier, drug abuse costs society. As I see it, society has every right to reclaim those costs through fines or community service. But it makes no sense for society to impose further costs on itself through mass imprisonment.”
The reporter, who had apparently done her homework, followed that up with a question about whether this was compatible with international drug conventions. “I believe it is,” said Pratt. “If the U.N. should rule otherwise, then I will instruct the State Department and our representative at the U.N. to make it a priority to renegotiate those agreements. I absolutely will not let them restrain me from doing what needs to be done.”
“Where do you stand on the proposals for Universal Basic Income?” asked another reporter.
“Where do I stand on it? It’s welfare. ‘UBI’ is just another kind of welfare. I see welfare as a necessary evil. There may be people who need it, but I have zero interest in giving it to people who neither need nor want it. Personally, if I got a check for it, I’d send it back.” No surprise there. Pratt gestured to another reporter.
“As president, what actions will you take against global climate change?”
This’ll be good, thought Ross.
“The scientific consensus is that climate change is happening, and that it is due to human activity,” he said. “I am not a scientist, and am not qualified to dispute their conclusions.” Rome mentally translated this as Don’t blame me, folks, blame the scientists! They’re the ones who brought us all this bad news! Still, he was a little disappointed. A Republican had said “I am not a scientist” and had failed to follow up by saying something gloriously stupid.
“Now the question becomes what to do about it,” said Pratt. “The federal government is already doing many things to reduce fossil fuel consumption. We are not in a position to organize or bankroll any major efforts to adapt to coming changes, still less to attempt to prevent them—especially since we don’t have any clear idea what it is we would be adapting to. Fortunately, many states, communities, and businesses are developing plans of their own to cope with climate change. As president, I would be willing to consider tax breaks to support these efforts.”
“Don’t strain your ass,” said Rome.
“What about a carbon tax? Or a fee and dividend?”
“Those would not be not a part of my plan. I believe a healthy economy is the best defense.”
* * *
The next morning, Camberg called a meeting of her closest political advisers.
Rome wasn’t there. He was out having coffee with Alexandra Casas and Gabrielle Stone, on the principle that you should keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and your frenemies within easy choking distance.
They were in their early twenties and less than five feet tall. Lexi’s hair was dyed ruby red, and her shorts and tank top revealed that her arms and legs were covered in tattoos of roses on winding, thorny branches. Gabrielle was wearing beige slacks and a white T-shirt, which was as casual as she normally got. As far as Rome knew, she had no tattoos at all. He’d nicknamed the two of them Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, mostly because they were always together and he didn’t trust them. He was quietly pleased by the fact that even though “Guildenstern” tried so hard to convey professionalism in dress and manner, Camberg had banished her to the same metaphorical kids’ table as “Rosencrantz” and himself.
“What’d you think of Pratt?” said Guildenstern casually as she cleaned her horn-rimmed glasses.
“I read up on him last night,” said Rome. “His history reveals a disturbing lack of glue-sniffing. No insane beliefs, no silly ass remarks, no bad behavior… we can’t count on him to pull a McAllister and self-destruct just to make our jobs easier.”
“When they asked him about abortion, he didn’t even say anything creepy about rape,” said Guildenstern. “I thought that was some kind of rite of initiation for those guys.”
“Poor Baphomet isn’t going to get any press time,” said Rosencrantz. They all chuckled.
“Think he can get elected?” said Guildenstern.
“No, because I don’t think he can get nominated,” said Rome. “This is the GOP we’re talking about. If he could, it’d be a different story.”
“You planning to vote for him?” said Rosencrantz.
“Hell, no. First, the only things he’d be good at are things any Democrat would be better at—not that I’m too impressed with the crew likely to run this time. Second, he’s still gotta get through the primary. By the time he’s done making promises to the bottomless pit of howling madness, he’s gonna be just as scary as the rest of ’em.”
“So is Camberg gonna run this time?”
“It’ll make her look bad if she does,” said Rome. “How many times has she said it? On camera? ‘I’m going to finish my term, I didn’t become governor of Virginia just as a stepping stone, I wouldn’t do that to this sta—excuse me, commonwealth,’ blah blah blah. I’m not saying she’d never go back on all that, just that it wouldn’t be like her.” The problem was, the presidential election was next year. She wouldn’t get another chance until five years from now.
“Even if she has to wait nine years,” said Guildenstern, “she’ll be what—in her fifties? Not exactly ready for the boneyard. Hell, Pratt’s over sixty. She can always run for the Senate in the meantime, just to stay relevant.”
; “Unless things get so bad in five years everybody wants a change,” said Rome.
“If that happens, will she still want the job?” said Rosencrantz.
“I think she would,” said Rome. “She’s always said to me, ‘Don’t run for office if you don’t think you can handle a crisis.’” Here followed several minutes of Rome and Gabrielle trying to one-up each other in personal anecdotes proving their closeness to the governor. Finally, Lexi pointed out that the reason they were here was that Camberg hadn’t invited any of them to the meeting, and they shut up.
When they finally got the text message from the governor confirming that she wouldn’t be running for president this time, it was a group message that reached all three of them at the same moment. So nobody had bragging rights.
* * *
Sandy pushed a couple of buttons on her armphone, and Martin’s face appeared on the big screen on the wall. He was in the living room of that nice house in Syracuse.
Mozart was playing in the background. Nora was sitting next to Martin, trying to get Patrick to pay attention to a set of flash cards. She seemed to have developed the ambition to raise a genius of her own, possibly because it made her feel insecure to be outdone in any way by a previous wife of Martin’s, even one who was already dead. Patrick, at the moment, only had eyes for his toy truck and stuffed dinosaur.
Sandy was a little surprised that Martin was still married to Nora. Maybe he was trying to turn over a new leaf. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to abandon another child. Maybe, having been in a state of midlife crisis since he was twenty, he was too damn tired to keep moving.
“Hi, Dad,” said Sandy. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good. You have any plans for Thanksgiving?”
“I’m throwing a party for my employees on Tuesday.” What else would I do? You and Patrick are the only family I’ve got, and my friends are not that close. “How about you?”
“We’re going to Chicago to visit Nora’s family,” said Martin. So much for getting an invitation.
Sandy nodded. “Did you get my e-mail?”
“I’ll look for it,” said Martin.
“The paperwork is attached,” said Sandy. “It’s pretty straightforward. I get your share of the company. You get ten million, direct deposit.”
Martin nodded. “My brother-in-law’s a lawyer,” he said. “He’s going to look over it first. I mean, I trust you, but… you know, it’s the principle of the thing.” Nora doesn’t trust you.
“Of course.”
“I mean, you don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but you gotta make sure there’s no strings attached.”
“Mixed metaphor, but yeah.” Nora looked up into the screen and smiled a little, as if letting Sandy know she was the one who’d talked Martin into asking for this. Sandy’s goat was ungot. One thing she’d learned was that life would give you reasons enough to lie awake at night without letting yourself get bothered because somebody else thought she’d won something.
And even if it was motivated by spite or resentment, as far as Sandy was concerned it was a perfectly reasonable request. As cool as it was being able to say she’d founded her company in her dad’s garage, she hadn’t been able to keep it there more than a month. It was the sort of business that attracted not just criminals, but organized, competent criminals, the kind who were more than a match for the security system of your average middle-class house. Besides, Martin’s neighborhood wasn’t zoned for manufacturing.
So she’d moved to an industrial park in Maryland, near a nuclear power plant. Her business used a lot of electricity, and making sure it wasn’t coming from fossil fuels was kind of important… although nuclear power was only a slight improvement.
The fact remained that she’d needed his help to get the company set up. If he wanted to sell her his share of it, if he felt safer having ten million right now than half of something that might be worth a hundred million or diddly-squat next year, that was his right. And he put his own home at risk to give me a place to get started, if only for a little while. I owe him for that. This is the right thing to do for him and Patrick.
Especially Patrick. Sandy’s feelings for her father were complicated and she and Nora still despised each other, but for the baby she had nothing but warmth and affection. My little half bro will never want for anything money can buy. I’ve done that much for him, whatever else happens. And if that meant Nora would be better off too, well, you couldn’t have everything.
The one downside was that all the financial risk was now on Sandy’s shoulders. Worse, she’d had to take out a loan to gather all the money together. If things went smoothly, she’d be able to pay it back in a few months, but there was no guarantee of that.
Even so, with the greater risk came greater potential reward. If her plans for the next few years worked out—the new plant in New York and so on—Sandy would have more money than she’d ever imagined. And if they didn’t… at least now, her father would be able to provide her with a much better grade of couch to crash on until she came up with something else.
All through the fall, heavy rains had come to the Arctic, eroding millions of tons of ice from the glaciers. By the time of the first snows, the glaciers were smaller than they had ever been. Northern Norway saw six feet of rain over the course of that fall, followed by two feet of snow in November and early December.
In January, six feet of snow fell in northern Norway. The rest of the country was not quite as bad off, but in no state to take in refugees. A quarter of the population of the country had to be evacuated to southern Sweden and Denmark. Similar precipitation was seen in less inhabited areas, in Novaya Zemlya, on the northern slopes of the mountains of Alaska and Yukon, and—in another moment of false hope—in northern Greenland.
* * *
Rome was normally a big believer in eye contact, but sitting in front of Governor Camberg’s desk tested his faith. Her eyes were warm and brown and gave him the sense that they were watching his thoughts put themselves together before he could even open his mouth. She was like his mom, only smarter. And she had that little smile on her face.
“As I recall, your office in Fairfax was one of the more effective ones,” she said.
“I was blessed with a good staff,” said Rome as offhandedly as he could. “Lexi Casas and Gabrielle Stone, for example. They’re passionate. Diligent. Good at getting out the college vote.”
“Yes, I’ve spoken with them. They said you ‘worked them like dogs and took all the credit.’”
“I’m sorry to hear they felt that way.” And if I hadn’t already known those little bitches would try and shiv me, I would be seriously pissed off right now.
“Well, obviously they were wrong about you.” And Operation Magnanimity is a resounding success. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern can suck it. “In any case, I need people who can work hard and inspire others to their best efforts.”
“I don’t know who’s been saying it was all me—I make a point of not taking credit for team efforts.” See, I’m humble, but everybody thinks I’m—
“So… you’re humble, but everybody thinks you’re awesome?” said Carrie, smiling.
Rome’s response software locked up for a moment.
“Rome, let’s get something straight between us. You use your skills for me. You do not try to use them on me. Clear?”
Rome decided to skip contrition and go straight to sincerity. “Yes, ma’am.”
“With that in mind, I’d like to hear your thoughts on the politics around this organ donation bill.”
Rome drew a deep breath.
“Here’s how I see it,” he said. “The biggest bias the news media has is their need to look unbiased. No matter what the story is, there’s always, I mean always, got to be two sides. And the truth has always got to be somewhere in between. They can’t ever say ‘so-and-so is right and so-and-so is wrong’ because that would be being partisan. So if you step up and say ‘Opt-out organ donation is a good idea’ and som
e idiot screams ‘Oh my god the governor’s trying to steal our giblets’ then you’re just one of two sides.
“So what I’d do is get two different people to object to it—one of them saying you’re trying to get rid of organ donation, because that’s what ‘opt-out’ sounds like to anybody dumb enough, and the other one saying…”
“That I’m out to steal their giblets?”
“Yeah. Then you get to step up and present yourself as the reasonable middle ground while the crazies cancel each other out.”
The governor nodded. “I don’t remember you being quite this devious as part of my campaign,” she said. “Where did you learn it?”
“Working for Morgan in New York a couple years ago. Let me tell you—that woman is smart.”
By the end of the winter, four to seven feet of snow lay over nearly all the lands of the Arctic. Over the course of the spring, all that snow melted—sometimes in as little as ten days. Flooding was widespread. When the people driven from the northern half of Norway in December were finally able to return home, they found they had little to return to.
In early April, the lakes of the Northwest Territories swelled until their waters met in places. The soil was quickly waterlogged all the way down to the layer of permafrost. In north-central Canada, where the soil and permafrost were spread thin over the ancient bedrock of the Canadian Shield, this happened within hours.
And gradually, inevitably, the permafrost began to melt. Like ice cubes dropped into a glass of water, it cracked as bubbles of gas within it expanded from the relative warmth. Water trickled into the cracks, speeding the melting. And wherever the permafrost melted, the frozen vegetation that had been trapped within it for up to one hundred thousand years thawed out and began to decay, releasing carbon dioxide and methane… and generating heat like a well-fed compost heap, which did even more to melt the permafrost.