Empire Builders

by Ben Bova

  TWENTY-SIX

  THEY CAME OUT into the service corridor that ran behind the offices. Dan knew the area by heart and led them, tiptoeing like a trio of naughty schoolboys, to a closet where the janitorial staff kept its equipment. Most of the closet was occupied by a pair of janitors: squat, sturdy robots whose once-gleaming metal skins were now scuffed and scratched from wear. The closet walls were lined with shelves containing cleaning solvents, dust absorbers, and maintenance equipment for the robots. “As long as nobody comes in to refill the robots’ tanks we’re okay,” Dan said as they quietly closed the door. He added silently, And as long as nobody happens to be looking at the monitoring cameras watching the corridor. It was utterly dark with the door shut. Dan heard a dull thud and an “Ouch!” from Big George. “Watch it,” he whispered. “Now you tell me. Thanks a fooking lot.” “What do we do now?” Tucker hissed. “We wait. Anybody got a wristwatch?” A brief glimmer of fluorescence. “It’s seventeen thirty-eight .” “Too early. People’ll still be in their offices. We sit here and wait. The robots are programmed to go out at ten P.M. We’ll wait till then.” Dan hunkered down on what little floor space was available, arms clasped around his knees. He heard Tucker grumbling and George huffing as he strained to squeeze himself into a semi-comfortable spot. In the darkness Dan pictured Kate Williams working in his office, at his desk. I’d like to bust right in there and grab the traitorous bitch, he seethed to himself. Slap her flat on the double-damned desk and show her who the boss really is. Then he grinned to himself, remembering Tamara’s warning that Kate would cut his balls off. Tamara. I wonder where she is? What’s she doing now? Kate wouldn’t keep her as an assistant; the kid was too loyal to me. “I still think this is crazy,” Tucker grumbled, his whispering voice grating angrily. ‘We’re sitting ducks here.” “They won’t expect us to be here,” Dan countered. “They’ve probably got goon squads combing the lower levels and searching outside for us. This is the best place to be, for now.” “For how long?” George asked. “Till I get a chance to pop into my office and check the computer files. There’s a few things I want to know.” Tucker mumbled something too low to understand. “Pops, how long will it take you to hack a permanent access for me into Astro’s files?” “Once we’re into them? Ten seconds.” Dan chuckled softly. Nothing wrong with Tucker’s self-image. “Might as well get some sleep while we’re waiting,” he said. “Sure,” Tucker groused. “Let ‘em take us while we’re snoring.” “You’re the one who snores,” George whispered. “That’s right. You never snore, do you? I never heard so goddamned much noise in my life.” “Cut the chatter,” Dan hissed. He closed his eyes, wondering if he would be able to sleep at all. The two robots lit up abruptly and began to hum, snapping Dan from a deep slumber. The door to the closet swung back and both the stubby thickset machines trundled out into the corridor on nearly noiseless little wheels. The door swung shut again. “Fooking pile of junk near ran over my foot,” George muttered. “It’s twenty-two hundred,” Tucker said before Dan could ask the time. Wordlessly, Dan pushed the door open a crack and squinted up and down the corridor. No one in sight. The monitor camera, up near the ceiling more than twenty meters away, showed a single baleful red eye. We’ll have to chance it, Dan said to himself. They can’t be watching every monitor screen all the time. Even if they’ve programmed the system to sound an alarm whenever the cameras see somebody in the corridors, they can’t possibly check out everybody. I hope. “George, you wait here,” he said. “They’re looking for three men, not two. Pops, we’re going to walk slowly, like a pair of maintenance men. Keep your head down and try to look natural.” “You’d look a helluva lot more like a janitor without that beard,” Tucker muttered. “Yeah. I know.” Beard and all, the two of them stepped out into the corridor and walked to the back door to Dan’s office, with the video camera staring at them. Maintenance personnel go into the offices to check that the robots haven’t screwed up, Dan told himself. There’s nothing unusual enough to alert security. Again he added, I hope. Kate had changed the security code on the door’s electronic lock, but it took Tucker a scant few seconds to press a palm-sized analyzer against the lock and then tap out the new code, while Dan stood between him and the camera. The lights went on in the office automatically as they stepped in. Dan took in the familiar surroundings with a single glance. His pictures had all been replaced by paintings, mostly Impressionists, very high-quality reproductions. Scarlett’s got good taste, he admitted to himself. Swiftly he went to his desk and flicked on the computer. His chair felt odd to him, slightly uncomfortable, as if its shape had subtly changed. He knew that all his old access codes to the company’s files had been erased. What would Kate Williams use? He tried her first name, then her last, then both together. No go. On a whim he typed in “Scarlett.” The screen lit up, ready for his next command. “I’ll be damned,” Dan muttered. Then he went to work. It took more than an hour for Dan to scroll through the basic information he wanted. Tucker fidgeted at the edge of his awareness, becoming more nervous each second. At one point Dan told him to bring George from the closet. “And relax,” Dan said to the wizened little man. “If they haven’t come down on us by now, then they don’t know we’re here.” The company records told him a story as bad as he had feared he would find. Worse, in some ways. Astro was being micromanaged by bureaucrats from the GEC who had no understanding of how to run a working company. Production was faltering while the GEC put major emphasis on paperwork. Every move had to be okayed by the new management. Filling out the proper forms had become more important than getting the job done. There were plans to vastly increase the company’s production of helium-three. Plans to double the production of solar panels. Plans to triple the tonnage of silicon and aluminum shipped to the factories in orbit. Or rather, there were memorandums and reports and impact statements about such plans. Plans to make plans. Committees to study the proposed plans. Other committees to study the committees’ recommendations. Dan pushed his chair back from the desk with a disgusted snort. Christ, what a putrefying mess. At this rate the whole damned world could be underwater and the only way anybody’ll be saved is if they stack their double-damned reports on top of one another and climb up to the top of the pile. “It’s almost midnight ? Tucker whispered hoarsely. “How long-” “I’m just about finished,” said Dan. “Here, make me an access that nobody else can find. I want complete access to all the files in the system.” The dour little man perched on Dan’s chair, his frail legs dangling off the floor, his fingers flying over the keyboard like a concert pianist’s. Big George sprawled dozing on one of the couches across the office. It took more than ten seconds. Nearly ten minutes. Finally Tucker gestured to the glowing screen. “It’s done. You can pop into the system any time you want. What code name do you want?” Dan thought a moment. “Freedom.” Tucker hiked his brows, but tapped in the word. “Now can we go?” he asked sourly, shutting down the computer. “Wait,” said Dan. “One more thing.” He went back to the desk, booted up the machine again and, using “Freedom,” asked the system to locate Tamara Duchamps. The screen showed that she had been assigned to the transportation department. Her job title was secretary to the manager of freight exports. Got her stuck out at the mass driver, Dan realized, as far away from comfort and safety as they could put her. He shook his head. Kate’s a real bitch, he thought. But then he brightened. It ought to be a lot easier for me to see Tamara out there at the Nubium facility than it would be if she were still here inside Alphonsus. “For god’s sake!” Tucker hissed at him. “Let’s get out of here!” “Relax,” Dan said. “This is the safest place in the city for us, right now.” “Then why’s my stomach feel like there’s ten thousand frogs jumpin’ around in there?” Dan crossed the thick carpeting and entered the lavatory. The cabinet drawers under the sink were filled with Kate’s things now: perfumes and cosmetics and even some skimpy, frilly underwear that made Dan grin appreciatively. “So that’s what she wears underneath it all,” he muttered. No pills. Not even a
spirin. He was about to give up when he finally discovered his shaving things crammed into the back of the bottom drawer. Even the barber’s scissors and electric razor were jumbled in there. Greatest luxury in the world, Dan remembered, is having somebody else shave you. Shaking his head at the memory of a particularly gorgeous Swede who took her tonsorial duties seriously even while topless, Dan started the onerous chore of chopping off his beard. Tucker was fidgeting nervously when he came out clean-shaven. George was still snoring on the couch. “How do I look?” “Great. Now let’s get out of here? Eying the shaggy Aussie, Dan said, “Might be a good idea if we cleaned him up, too.” Tucker looked as if he were about to have apoplexy. Muhammed Shariff Sibuti rose from his knees and carefully rolled up his prayer rug. He kept his office locked during the times of prayer. Even though his staff were all faithful to Islam, he did not want unbelievers such as Malik or, worse, the Catholic Gaetano to intrude on his prayers. God knows that we will need all the help and strength that only He can provide, Sibuti said to himself as he carefully placed the tasseled rug into the cabinet behind his desk. And all the patience, too, he added as he sat in his desk chair once again. He touched the button that unlocked his door, then with the same long slim finger activated his phone. “I will see Minister Malik now,” he said, noticing that his finger was trembling. It had been nearly two months since Malik had dropped his bombshell about the greenhouse cliff, yet Sibuti still felt stunned, shocked. Slowly, carefully the word was being passed on to leaders in the various national governments and multinational corporations. Sibuti imagined he could see the shock waves spreading from Paris to the capitals of nations and the seats of the great industrial empires. “Minister Malik is here, sir,” said his secretary’s voice over the phone. “Send him in.” Malik had not changed a whit over the past weeks. Sibuti felt as if he himself had aged a century, but Malik looked as youthful and determined as ever, dashing even, in his military-style tunic of deep blue. Sibuti felt very old in his ordinary gray business suit. “You wanted to see me?” the Russian asked, taking one of the chairs in front of Sibuti’s desk without waiting to be invited. The older man nodded, pressing his lips together. “Yes. I am beginning to prepare the agenda for next week’s Council meeting. I think it is time that we began to discuss how we will break the news of this impending catastrophe to the general public.” Malik’s ice blue eyes flickered briefly. “It is too early to inform the public at large.” “Too early, But rumors are already beginning to spread. The media-” “The media can be controlled. And rumors always spread. What of it?” “Rumors can be very damaging, very dangerous,” said Sibuti. Malik shot him a glance filled with scorn. “Nothing but hot air.” “You think so! Let me tell you, sir, that rumors can be deadly. Do you understand me? Deadly! When I was first appointed to the Council, every year the mighty rivers of Bangladesh overflowed and killed thousands on the coastal plains. Then we began to build the big hydro dams up in the mountains.” “And controlled the flooding,” Malik interrupted. “And provided the electricity that has brought the standard of living in the region up by several hundred percent.” “Yes. True. But the year that the third dam was being finished, do you remember that? A rumor began to spread in the coastal cities that the dams had failed. The rumor spread like wildfire.” Malik leaned forward, interested in the older man’s story despite himself. “Anyone with a television could see that the dams were perfectly all right,” Sibuti went on, his thin voice rising. “But the people did not trust reports by the news media, they did not even trust the evidence of their own eyes. They reacted to the rumor! They fled in terror from the cities in a mad dash to get to higher ground. They emptied the stores, looted what they could not buy, burned what they could not carry off with them, killed one another on the roads.” Somewhat subdued, Malik said, “I do remember something of that.” “The cities were abandoned in panic. Thousands were killed. By panic. By a rumor. The national economy was crippled for several years before things settled down to normal once again. That is what rumors can do!” Malik spread his hands. “But my dear Minister, your own story proves how hard we must work to avoid panic. Imagine what would happen if we suddenly announced that half the world might be flooded out in the next ten years. It would be like Bangladesh everywhere!” Sibuti glared at the Russian, but his expression slowly softened as Malik’s point sank in. “Yes, I see. I understand. We are on the horns of a dilemma. A very painful dilemma.” “We are making progress,” Malik said. “The politicians whom we have informed are dithering and flapping around like a pack of geese, as usual. But the corporate leaders seem to be facing the situation much more realistically.” “I see where the Americans have renewed their request to develop hydrogen-fueled automobiles.” Malik frowned. “We must resist that request. Our program calls for electric cars; we can’t have the Americans pulling an end run on us.” “End run?” “I will speak with Jane Scanwell. She can handle the American industrialists.” Still blinking with confusion about Malik’s Americanism, Sibuti asked, “What about Japan ?” “Yamagata is being very cooperative. Not only has he pledged his corporation’s assistance, he has even volunteered to form a steering committee that will serve as liaison between the major multinationals and our Council.” “Very good! But what of the Big Seven?” Malik’s eyes narrowed. “The confiscation of Astro Manufacturing had its desired effect on them. They have all fallen neatly into line and permitted us to install our own administrators to manage them for the length of the emergency.” “That could be ten or twenty years,” said Sibuti, the beginnings of a smile on his thin lips. “Or more,” agreed Malik. The older man rocked back in his desk chair for a few moments. Then, hunching forward again, “I still believe we must face the very urgent need to inform the public about this. It is imperative!” “In time,” Malik said placatingly. “In time. Look at what happened when we informed the leaders of the environmental movement.” “A disaster,” Sibuti agreed. Under a promise of secrecy, a dozen of the world’s leading environmentalists had been brought to Paris and briefed on the greenhouse cliff. The GEC wanted their help in formulating plans for recruiting environmentalists all over the world to help in the battle against the impending catastrophe. What they got instead was chaos. Suspicion and distrust. Three of the prominent European “greens” flatly refused to believe the data before their eyes. Several of the Americans expressed the opinion that the GEC could not solve the problem, and one actually seemed to believe that a worldwide flood would be a good thing! As if the world deserved such a cataclysm! “We must control this news very carefully,” Malik was saying. “Very tight control of the media is absolutely necessary.” “But you don’t seem to understand,” Sibuti countered, “that the news is already leaking out. The politicians we have briefed, the environmentalists—they will not keep our secret. Not for very long, at any rate.” Nodding, Malik admitted, “I know. That is why our next move must be to gain a firm control over the news media, worldwide. Once that is accomplished, then we can begin to break the story to the public in our own way, on our own terms.” Sibuti nodded back. “Ah. I see. Yes, that is the way to do it, I suppose. It shouldn’t be too difficult to gain control of the media in most nations. Even in Great Britain the government can censor the news whenever it feels the necessity.” “It’s the Americans who will be the problem, as usual,” said Malik. “Them and their quaint notions of freedom of the press.” “There are the international news networks, as well.” “Yes, but they can be handled the same way we got the cooperation of the Big Seven. A little show of force and a plea for voluntary cooperation—or else.” “A formidable task,” said Sibuti. “But it must be done.” “Yes. I agree. I shall place it high on our agenda for next week’s meeting.” “Good.” The Russian got to his feet. Sibuti rose too and extended his hand. The two men left on a much friendlier note than they had displayed earlier. But as Malik strode back toward his own office, he thought, Let the old fool prepare his agendas and chair his meetings, as long as he stays out of my way. I’ve got it all al
most within my grasp. Once the news media are under control, then I’ll have the power I need to get this job underway. Sibuti sank back into his desk chair once Malik left his office. His thoughts were not on next week’s agenda, but on his nephew in Jakarta . His nephew owned a small construction company that was bidding on a major project to construct a sea wall meant to protect the Indonesian capital against the rising sea level. Sibuti had discreetly funneled much information to his nephew, helping him to prepare his bid for the project. Now my nephew wants me to put in a personal word for him. All I have to do is call the contracting officer and suggest, ever so mildly, that the Indonesian project should go to a local firm. He stared at his phone console, its screen blank. The sea wall will be useless, he knew, if the greenhouse cliff raised sea levels more than ten meters. Moreover, his nephew had complained that he was being forced to pay an exorbitant “priority fee” to an outfit of thugs who controlled the concrete business in Jakarta . Rumors were that they were associated with some international crime syndicate. Rumors again. Sibuti saw his own reflection scowling in the dark phone screen. Do I want my nephew mixed up with such criminals? Yet how can he remain in the construction business without access to concrete? Does it really matter? Write off their excess “fees” as a cost of doing business. Everyone else does. But should I personally intervene? It is not proper. Yet—he is my nephew. Sibuti stared at the phone console for a long time, struggling with his conscience. Finally he reached for the handset, thinking, Blood is thicker than rules and regulations. After all, he is my nephew. And everyone does it. If I don’t help him, someone else will help one of his relatives.