“Now, I have Peter’s commitment to support my own newspaper, and this is what I do. I may find prostitution to be unsavory in principle, but I wouldn’t be the first editor who saved her paper by making the news bend over for a man like Peter, and if we survive, I won’t be the last.”
She met Vandermeer’s eyes directly.
“So let me pass onto you, Captain, the message Peter wants me to give to you. I’m supposed to dance around the issue, using subtlety and innuendo, but I have too much respect for you, so I will be direct. Interfere in Peter’s clash with this administration, Captain, and I will vilify you and the Winter Bastards past all hope of redemption. I will conduct interviews with their victims, reporting on every indignity, every assault, every rape they have committed, bringing all their crimes to light. I will write opinion pieces about the peril they represent, expose the monstrous crimes that got them thrown into the prison in the first place, and I will do it in the worst ways imaginable.”
Her eyes hardened as his smiled faded.
“And do you know what, Captain? I will not lose a moment’s sleep. I may be a newcomer, having been rescued only a day after the university refugees, but unlike some of them, I do not think of the Bastards as heroes. Based on the stories I’ve heard, I can’t imagine what you were thinking in militarizing them in the first place. Let me tell you, Captain, as whoring favors go, this will be the easiest trick in the world.”
She turned away from him, and for a moment, they stood together, watching the antics on the floor. One of the would-be scavengers accidentally set off one of the scent sprayers in his camouflage-blanket, kicking off a domino effect of reactions and distress.
Vandermeer stirred.
“My cue,” he said, turning to leave.
He paused, studying her thoughtfully.
“It’s no small thing to compromise one’s principles, Deana,” he told her. “But neither is it all that uncommon. At some point, it happens to everyone. You prostitute the truth for advantage, and I trade my honor for victory, but we only do it in the hopes of preserving something bigger and brighter than we are.”
“I know that,” Deana snapped.
“It only becomes a problem,” Vandermeer continued, “when the compromises we make threaten the very ideals we’re willing to die for. Then, almost without notice, the poison creeps in. Our ideals turn to ash, dreams to regret, and before we know it, our souls are left exposed, empty, and stripped to the bone. I was never in favor of keeping the Winter Bastards alive. That was Marshal’s decision, his compromise, but it was based on his conviction that human life is far too precious to squander.”
He sighed.
“Today, I’m convinced he made the right compromise. Maybe tomorrow, you’ll see it too. Either way, in the spirit of Marshal’s vision, I’ll try not to hold your compromises against you. I only hope you’re capable of the same. The mirror can be such an unforgiving ghost.”
He darkened as he gazed at the floor for a second, then looked back to her.
“Tell Peter,” he said, “that the Winter Bastards will be neutral in any non-violent conflict he has with the Administration. It has nothing to do with your threats. I spoke about this with Valerie already, and we agreed that the danger the Bastards represent – what they were before they became the Bastards – cannot be unleashed on New Toronto. The thing they are now was created specifically as an antidote against just that sort of abuse, and to open up that can of worms represents a bigger danger to New Toronto than anything Peter represents. We both feel that it’s what Marshal would have wanted.”
She cocked her head at him. “An interesting answer, but I’m still a bit confused. Off the record… what exactly, was it that Marshal wanted from the Bastards?”
He shrugged. “Ever seen a movie called the Dirty Dozen? If you haven’t, I think it’s in the database. Some people think that it’s just a badass film about using evil to fight evil. It’s not.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s a redemption film,” he answered, glancing over at the floor again. “And now, I really should go. You should too, if you can. Either way, good luck with your newspaper. I look forward to reading it.”
He limped off without another look back. She opened her mouth to call out a parting shot but the words stuck in her throat.
“Oh, god,” she said aloud, covering her nose and mouth.
The smell of the escaped scent spray had reached her.
Once again, Peter congratulated himself on Deana Styles. Using the media to neutralize the military was not a new tactic, but never had it been more important.
The biggest threat to his ambition had been the Winter Bastards. With the laws supporting his ownership of most of New Toronto’s assets, and the slowly shifting of popular opinion handcuffing the administration’s ability to enact new policy, only the threat of military intervention could scuttle his plans. If the promise of a newspaper was all it took to prevent that escalation from happening, then it was money well spent.
A man behind him leaned down to whisper in his ear.
“Camera’s ready to roll, Mr. Hanson,” he murmured.
“Thank you, Franklin. Please take your seat.”
Franklin Sturgeon. He was a six foot seven, four hundred pound, twenty-four-year old student from the university, and now, HI’s new Head of Security. He wasn’t a security expert. Mostly, he was just big, smart, and athletic. Aside from being a student of advanced physics, he had also been a player for the varsity football team, possessed a black belt in judo, and had a good deal of experience working as a bouncer.
Again, Peter was satisfied with the acquisition. Outside of Captain Vandermeer, and one or two of the Winter Bastards, Franklin was the most formidable citizen in New Toronto. His looming, physical presence alone, situated at Peter’s shoulder, was enough to ensure that people remained polite.
Of course, Peter had no intention of using violence. Aside from the risk of bringing the Winter Bastards into the conflict against him, it would undermine his carefully cultivated ‘good guy’ image. Even so, a good leader had to appear strong, and there was no doubt that Peter looked bigger with Franklin inhabiting the airspace beside him. And if it ever did come to violence, well... Franklin had four men at his beck and call, each wearing security caps, carrying badges and tasers. They might not be a match for the Bastards yet, but they were still a force to be reckoned with.
“Would everyone come to order, please,” he called out, silencing the low conversation, the rustling and the chair shuffling. “We’re seconds away from show-time, people. Get ready to face the camera, please. Remember, this is for posterity, and we’re not only speaking out to the community of New Toronto, but to future generations. All right?”
The last shuffle faded, and an expectant silence greeted him.
“Cameras? Sound?”
“Ready anytime, Mr. Hanson,” Cathy answered, throwing him a thumbs up.
Peter faced the main camera with his most stern and respectful expression.
“Good afternoon, citizens of New Toronto. As many of you already know, I am Peter Hanson, majority owner and CEO of Hanson Incorporated, and by extension, the legal possessor of approximately ninety percent of the downtown Toronto real estate, including First Canadian Place. I am also, like you, a citizen of the newly emerging state of New Toronto, and like you, I have grown dissatisfied with the direction taken by the current administration. It is an honor to speak with you today.”
He frowned thoughtfully over a long, contemplative pause, and began.
“This is not our first discussion, of course. Nor, I should think, will anything we discuss today seem new to you. My people have already been among you, listening to your thoughts, hearing your concerns, and gathering what we believe to be the understanding of the people. We have already had many assemblies and town hall discussions. The fruit of this assemblage has inspired a majority of you to see us as the natural choice to replace an administration that, while well-in
tentioned, has become bogged down in bureaucratic inefficiencies, nepotism, and weak leadership.”
He looked grave.
“I want to be clear on this point,” he said. “Regarding our current administration, and those who are its supporters... These are not bad people. They have done their misguided best, and we all, every man and woman here, owe our lives to their selfless effort. They are heroes, and should be revered as such. I, for one, will never forget – and can never repay – the debt of gratitude that is owed for their struggle and sacrifice.”
He paused for the effect, studying the faces around the table for their reactions.
“Our goal is not their vilification,” he continued, his eyes again seeking the camera. “Our righteous cause is not to overthrow a corrupt or uncaring administration. Our ambition is to seek a passing of the torch, from failing hands to stronger ones, that we might better ensure the survival of the human race.”
He shook his head with a look of profound sadness.
“In recent days,” he said, “we have seen progress grind to a halt. Despite having plenty of willing hands, several dearly purchased safe havens including my own First Canadian Place tower, a hospital, and a transport vehicle capable of navigating the streets, our food, water, and shelter situation grows worse and worse by the day. Refugees are rescued, then invited to sit on their hands while the slow trickle of crumbs distributed by an overwhelmed administration barely keeps them alive. People who have been anxious to help, my own people, such as Doug and Cathy, are locked out of the computer network, prevented from contribution for fear that they might taint the administration’s precious plan of action. Construction has slowed, much needed medicine is running short, water is being rationed, all while the things we need wait for us in abundance, out beyond our safe walls and towers. It’s there! Yet we are here, prevented from action by an administration that has grown moribund and inefficient.”
As if to silence a chorus of discontented grumbling, Peter held up a scolding finger.
“Now again, listen to me… This is not their fault. How can they be to blame? Not one member of our esteemed administration has any meaningful leadership experience, either in the private or the public sector. They have done their best in a bad situation. The fault lies not with the people involved, but with the bureaucratic system they have established.”
Peter bestowed another stern, reproving gaze into the camera.
“Of what do I speak?” he asked. Pounding the table with a clenched fist, he thundered his answer. “I speak of communism, or socialism, if you prefer. Liberalism. Or any system where big government doles out the properties and possessions, the rewards and repasts, the occupations and the commendations, without any care for freedom or merit or the basic right to go out and fight to make a better life for yourself.
“Is this important, you ask? Of course it is! It’s been the underlying philosophy for western civilization since the dawn of the modern age. It’s been the foundation for the greatest period of advancement and productivity than at any other time in history. You will all recall that the great socialistic experiment failed, defeated by the high-octane, adaptive, democratic, free-market capitalism of the west. Its great advantage, that it empowers its citizens to go forth and achieve, to pursue reward, to shape their own destiny, is the jet fuel of innovation and productivity. And it is the system we need today, if we are to have any hope of survival in this new and hostile world.”
Though his face remained stoic and considered, a kind of passion seemed to blaze in Peter’s eyes.
“Humanity has been subjected to a terrible ordeal. My mother used to say that God had a plan, that we should all have faith, but such days as these, they test the soul. Today, mere weeks after the outbreak, we still find survivors out there beyond our walls, but for how long? We, the fortunate few, have discovered a means of survival, but will others? The day may come that the zombie scourge has run its course, leaving us to look around the world and discover that we are the only ones left. What then? What legacy shall we pass on to our children? This system, our capitalist democracy... our forebears died fighting the forces of fascism and communism in order to preserve it. Should we abandon it now? Shall we make slaves of our descendents, offering up to them the same flawed systems that our ancestors repudiated with such vigor?”
He waved a regal hand to the many faces around the table.
“In just a few short days,” he said, “by implementing the practices and values that our predecessors held so dear, we the team at Hanson Incorporated have already revolutionized our world. We have innovated, adapted, evolved, and conquered. We now employ over sixty people – almost half of all New Toronto – in our various enterprises. We’re building homes, repairing a faulty computer networks, redesigning our scavenging techniques, generating prosperity, and laying down the framework for a better tomorrow.”
He leaned forward, his eyes alight with excitement and promise.
“Join us,” he said. “Help us to forge a future where we can all benefit, where all boats may rise. Let’s all work to build a world that would make our forefathers proud, and where our children can be safe and secure. Together, we can rebuild our destiny, and find a means to defeat the zombie scourge once and for all.”
He broke off to the sound of wild applause and cheering from those around the table and the watchers off-camera. As the camera faded to black, Peter continued gazing intently forward, into the eyes of an unseen audience.
“I told you he was dangerous,” Scratchard said, speaking first from the group that had been watching the broadcast in the comfort of the apartment.
“You gotta admit,” Brian said, “he’s a man with a plan. He almost had me convinced that he’s the right man for the job.”
“Yeah,” Elizabeth agreed, looking weary and vaguely depressed. “Scary, isn’t it.”
“Another round?” Brad called out from the bar. “Anyone?”
“I’ll have one,” Krissy called out. “Scotch, if there is any. If only there was some way of… maybe if we…”
“We can’t do anything,” Elizabeth stated firmly. “Not without breaking our own laws. And even if we could, I’m not sure the majority of people would see things our way anymore. We may have set up the communication network, but Peter has been better at using it, every step of the way. He’s controlling the dialogue, the public opinion, everything. That newspaper idea of his was a stroke of genius.”
“There might be something there,” Vandermeer said mildly. “I spoke with Deana Styles, and she might be convinced to change sides. I say this, of course, as a neutral observer.”
“There are no sides,” Valerie said firmly, speaking for the first time.
A silence greeted her words.
“If Peter obtains any kind of popular support,” she said, “we won’t serve the public interest by fighting him over it. If we try, we’ll tear New Toronto apart, and we’re barely hanging on as it is.”
“Yeah, but the bastard knows that, Val,” Torstein protested. “He’s basically holding our future for ransom. It’s blackmail, plain and simple. Either we cooperate with his New World Order – a system, by the way, that makes him rich while not contributing a god damn thing – or he takes us nuclear.”
“And you propose we let everything go nuclear?” Valerie asked. “Just out of spite?”
“No! But we can’t just stand by and-”
“We may not have any choice,” Valerie said, throwing up her hands. “What do you want me to do? Arrest him? Look, this is bigger than us, Torstein. We have to think of the future. If he does push us out, do you want to be left out in the cold? Do you want to sit idly by while New Toronto slides into Hell?”
Nobody spoke.
“What’s the damage after his first few days of scavenging?” Valerie asked.
“It’s hard to say,” Kumar answered gloomily. “Whatever they’re up to over there, they’ve managed to practically blind me. I still have access to the security net surroundi
ng the building, but I’m locked out of any internal systems. If I wanted to, I could shut down their access to the street cams and Bluetooth, speaker posts, but that would leave them completely unaware of zombie threats.”
“Give me an estimate.”
Kumar hesitated. “They’ve lost three people in the last three days,” he said darkly. “Two scavengers, Jimmy Scanlin and… I think it was Camille Sims. Both got taken by zombies while scavenging outside the safe zone. The third person was a woman called Denise Cooper. A suicide. Paul investigated, and said that witnesses reported that she had been depressed since the slaughterhouse, and that she simply got up and walked out into the streets. Apparently, nobody stopped her, and she wandered off by herself.”
“Suicide by zombie,” Brian muttered, and Krissy touched his shoulder.
“Other than that,” Kumar continued, “things are pretty much what you’d expect. We still have friends there. They tell us that the store is doing a booming business on credit. People are feeling energized, Valerie. Even though it’s stuff we’d give them for free if they’d just be a little more patient…”
“Three deaths in three days,” Valerie murmured. “We can’t afford that kind of attrition.” She sighed. “Maybe the death rate will start bringing people to their senses.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Scratchard said, taking a glass of wine from Brad.
Chapter Thirty: Day 59: Coup D’Etat
“How certain is this intelligence?”
“So far, it’s one hundred percent,” Martin answered. “Doug is, as of now, in control of Kumar’s mainframe, rewriting the passwords and instituting new firewalls as fast as he can. Kumar routinely sleeps in until ten every morning. As long as that doesn’t change, there shouldn’t be anything he can do anything to stop us.”
“How fortuitous,” Peter said, gazing off into space with an amused expression, “and intriguing, to discover that the Administration has a traitor in its ranks, someone who has been able to look over Kumar’s shoulder without raising alarm. Do we know who it is?”
From Oblivion's Ashes Page 66