Goldstein
Troy J. Grice
Copyright Troy J. Grice 2009
To the Fascists
Special thanks to Janet Oates for her critiques and advice and to my wife Shelley for her encouragement, understanding and support
Chapter One
Rocketing across the stratosphere at twice the speed of sound, a titanium eagle— a gem of Chinese technological superiority— laced the heavens with a silvery contrail. On board this aircraft, owned by the Numenor Corporation which was one of the twelve corporate cartels that controlled ninety percent of everything, rode a very dangerous passenger.
Safely insulated from friction-induced temperatures exceeding four hundred degrees Celsius and comfortably snuggled into a luxurious, taxpayer-funded leather captain’s chair rode the President of the United States Angela Forsythe. Also riding along inside this two-hundred thousand kilogram bullet was her aide-de-camp Maxwell Conrad— whom she affectionately referred to as ‘Maxie’— a battalion of servants, staff, and assorted government and media sycophants...oh…and her husband Judge. They were returning to Washington from a fundraiser in the new state of South California where Madam President had made it clear that there were about to be some big changes.
“Are you really going to do it?” asked Maxie.
The President raised up her wine glass as if to toast while she gazed out into the ethereal blue framed within her portal. They were far, far above the boiling storm clouds below. Soon, she thought, they would be descending directly into the maelstrom.
“I’m taking them down, all of them.”
“Huh?”
“All of them, Maxie. From the top cartel bosses all the way down to the fucking mailroom clerks,” she answered.
Maxie rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his eyes as the President continued.
“I’m turning it all over...the surveillance, audit trails, the minutes of the society meetings…”
“Angela, I think you…”
“…and all the names, especially the names, big names, the media loves the names.”
“That could topple the government. Have you thought about that?" Maxie warned.
“We’ll recover."
"What if it just gets buried?"
"The evidence is incontrovertible. The media won’t be able to bury it.”
“Freemerica IS the media. They’re complicit in all of it. And when they’re not complicit, they’re bought off. We can’t trust them.”
“They’ll be unable to quash it.”
Maxie could not understand why he couldn’t get through to her. She had never been this stubborn with him before. He sighed one of his dramatic, effeminate sighs.
“What makes you think you’ll get away with it, Angela? What makes you think you can take on the cartels like this? Or the bankers or that matter? If you out them they’ll use their minions in Congress to marginalize you. You’ll be a lame duck, Angela, or worse. And if that fails, they’ll just unleash Freemerica on you! The media always finds something. You can’t make it this far in politics without some kind of skeleton in your closet. You’ve got re-election campaign to worry about.”
“You must not think much of me, Maxie, if you think they’ll find skeletons.”
“It’s not that I don’t think much of you, it’s that they have vested interests and will align against you. You’re putting them in a corner with no means of escape. These people will resort to anything to hold power.”
“I’ve lived an honest life, Maxie. You know that. You’ve been with me for twelve years. You know they won’t find anything that’ll stick.”
“Then they’ll make up something! You know how they operate. What about anti-patriotism? Freemerica can stick that on anyone. It's nebulous. They can pin that on you with nothing more than a reporter’s sneering lip or a flash of a subliminal message whenever your picture’s on. They can make you into an anti-pat without any evidence at all. And the serfs will fall for it. They always fall for it.”
“Oh, let them try it, then.”
“…Plus we’re at war, too,” Maxie continued, undeterred. “This is not the best time to be stirring things up.”
“There’s never a ‘best time’, Maxie. Besides, we’re always at war with something. We’ll never not be at war…at least not until things change.”
The President gazed out the tiny portal again. The clouds far below were like a thick shroud blanketing the nation in a storm of lies and here she was, insulated in her supersonic, titanium tube, far, far above it, rocketing through a blazing azure of truthiness. Or so she thought. She drank her merlot. Her mind was focused. She was without doubt.
“Maxie,” she waxed, “the war of all wars is the one we wage against ourselves.”
Maxie sighed again. Presidents were not supposed to be philosophical and Maxie found her occasional bouts of idealism frustrating. He had a PhD in political game-theory. Idealism, he thought, was for stoned freshmen from commuter colleges.
“Ask yourself, Maxie, why is there so much resistance and violence across the country? Where does it all come from? Why does it seem to get worse whenever we increase government efforts to restore law and order?”
“Uh…because the serfs are like petulant children?” Maxie offered with pragmatic bluntness. “Because serfs in the flyover country lack self-control? Because they need authority and direction in their lives or they turn into cannibals.”
“Perhaps…"
"Or…?" Maxie begged.
"Or perhaps it’s because the serfs have lost respect for us. Maxie, I really think we've lost the...what do they call it?...the ‘consent of the governed’."
Maxie threw his hands up in frustration and stormed off to the back of the superjet in search of the Presidential masseuse.
Angela turned to her husband Judge and clasped his hand. Judge was fast asleep, or more aptly comatose— electrically de-stimulated by the SkyDoze brand electrodes affixed to his temples. She looked at him lovingly. They had been married for thirty years. He was once a rising star in the cartel uber-world but he gave it up in order to support her political aspirations. She knew it was difficult for his executive-sized ego to be a supporting figure, but he did believe in her and he stood by her with unwavering loyalty.
“I have to do this, Judge,” she whispered to him as he snored. “It’s my whole reason for being here. You’ll be so proud of me.”
#
Many kilometers below, beneath the clouds, a torrent of rain was soaking a large swath of the Homeland and more specifically a particular golf course located on the outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa. There were only three men on that course that day, not counting the far off snipers. One was the Director of the National Police, one was a milquetoast caddy, and the third was The Vice President of the United States.
The three of them stood on the rain-matted fairway with lightning illuminating the gray skies behind them. The deluge had formed numerous puddles in the grass that cratered the fairway all the way up to the fringe of the green.
“It is accomplished,” explained the Director who had just tucked his multi-unit into his dripping jacket pocket. He had a leathery, ruddy face and his rain-soaked, thinning gray hair fell in wet clumps across his forehead.
“Excellent,” replied the Vice President with a sinister grin. Vice President Theodore “Teddy” Mellon was a bombastic fellow whose mane of black hair looked several orders of magnitude better than the Director's. His flowing waves remained perfectly coiffed even soaking wet.
Teddy had clawed, glad-handed, fornicated and bribed his way to the second spot in the Unity Party at the green age of thirty eight. Although young, his demeanor and maturity ACTUALLY revealed a man of no less than thirty-two; which was, coincidentally, the age of George Armstrong Cu
ster at the Battle of The Little Bighorn. 32 year old generals have a poor track record.
Teddy, who was ‘attached’ to President Forsythe’s ticket as Veep by the party bosses as a means of solidifying her electoral base east of the Hudson and west of the Sierra Nevada, disliked the woman immensely. She was a fly-over western Governor with an unflattering populist streak—an outsider with broad serf appeal and little patience for technocracy. He was an Ivy League elitist pornographically initiated into secret orders; one who felt that it was the birthright…nay…the Divine Right of Ivy Leaguers to run the world on behalf of the hoard of Neanderthals residing west of the Hudson River. Teddy never referred to President Forsythe by her name referring to her only as ‘The Madam’ in public and ‘that bitch’ in private.
“These are desperate times, Axel,” Teddy continued as thunder rumbled from the west as if choreographed to punctuate his remark.
“Indeed, Sir,” affirmed Director Morgenthau. “We are at war.”
“It’s important that you remember that this had to be done. It was for the greater good.”
“I fully understand, sir.”
“We can’t have anti-patriots running around undermining the establishment order. These are desperate, desperate times.”
“Indeed,” replied Morgenthau, wiping the swoops of his wet, thinning, gray hair out of his eyes while trying to sound convinced so that Teddy would just move on to his shot and they could finish the round.
“The normal rules do not apply in this situation,” Teddy continued.
“Right, Sir. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
President Mellon rudely yanked his sand wedge from his milquetoast caddy’s soggy hand, wiped the water off it with a towel, and took three splashing practice swings.
“Never speak of this to anyone, ever,” the Vice President continued after his third swing, shaking the end of his wedge in Morgenthau’s face. “You never know who might be listening. There are eyes and ears everywhere.”
“I certainly doubt anyone would be surveilling us here in Iowa, Sir. Not in this weather.”
“Just remember,” the Vice President repeated, “eyes and ears are everywhere.”
The Vice President dried his club, again, then dropped it back into a puddle while he addressed the ball. He swung, lofting his ball high into the air. The three of them watched it hang in space and time, barely visible in the streaks of rain, hypnotized by its defiance of gravity. Then they gazed as it started to fall, accelerating downward according to Newtonian physics, ultimately descending with a plunk into a water hazard some seventy yards off.
“Wedge, huh?” The Vice President asked as he gestured for a new ball from his caddy. “You are a fuckwhit of a caddy. Why can’t the President of the United States of America get a better god damn caddy than this?”
#
Far above the deluge, President Forsythe’s supersonic jet knifed through the tranquil azure sky. A tiny viral script, beamed from a hand-held device somewhere below, switched off the jet’s life support systems. The great black bird roared eastward, guided only by its computers which did not require oxygen nor heat in order to function.
No communication with the crew was re-established. Jet fighters were scrambled but they were helpless to do anything but escort the titanium zombie on its long, gentle descent.
Freemerica Media satellite cameras were already in position to capture the drama for public consumption and Amerikans watched their holovisions in semi-lucid stupor as the President’s jet burned up the last of its fuel and dissolved into the Atlantic Ocean.
Theodore “Teddy” Mellon was sworn in as President of the United States in the clubhouse locker room. After the ceremony, Teddy sent the bible off to have it bronzed.
Chapter Two
It was a perfect day for an execution, sunny and clear with a cool whisper of wind coming from the north. An accused man, shackled in leg irons and handcuffs, stood before a council of twelve robed jurists. He maintained a defiant posture despite the burden of his chains and he wore an indignant expression despite the fatefulness of his situation. His name was Devin Moore.
The rectangular hall was completely still, frozen in anticipation. One jurist arose.
“We’ve reached a verdict,” proclaimed the white-haired man who had thick black glasses and a pipe that hung from the corner of his mouth.
A din arose amongst the hundred or so gathered in the hall’s gallery. The standing jurist held the stem of his glasses with one hand and impatiently hammered his gavel three times with the other. Puffs of smoke leaked out from the corner of his mouth with each violent hammering. The murmur began to subside.
“We’ve reached a verdict!” he shouted again, taking a long draw on his pipe.
The eleven other black-robed jurists remained seated and expressionless. These twelve adjudicators, selected annually by lottery, were known as The Council and they were the ‘deciders’ for the Goldstein colony. Their position was unpaid, unheralded, and generally undesired as it required them to pass judgment upon and to arbitrate the disputes between their neighbors which was often damaging to their business relationships. They looked unanimously uncomfortable slouching in their flowing, priestly robes.
The walls behind The Council were adorned with holovision fields which projected three-dimensional images of court exhibits and witness’ testimonies. Their floating avatars were all muted, frozen in space time.
The standing jurist, who was still waiting for the din to fully subside, was Lysander Brooks or Mr. Brooks for short. Blinded by the arc of a laser-fusion accident, his physiological disability was revealed by the complete opacity of his lenses. But although his physiological eyes might have been useless he was not without sight. Built into his lenses were optical sensors which converted stereoscopic images into brainwaves and transmitted them into his visual cortex by way of tiny arrays buried in the stems of the frames. One could have eye or brain surgery to correct nearly all forms of blindness, but the glasses were a far less invasive and far less expensive alternative. Seeing eye frames were cheaply available at either of Goldstein’s convenience stores and could be calibrated by virtual instruction manual. No visit to a government sanctioned, optometrist’s-guild was required in Goldstein.
The accused man, Mr. Moore, had no issues with visual acuity or any other physical handicaps of any significance. He was young, lean, and strong. He stood alone, facing The Council, chained up like some medieval felon.
“Are these chains absolutely necessary?” he asked holding them up as he spoke. The throng began to murmur again.
“Quiet, please!” ordered Brooks, his baritone voice echoing through the hall. Devin wasn’t entirely sure if Brooks was ordering him or the gallery or both. The noise finally subsided. “Thank you,” Brooks continued. He puffed out a ring of smoke. “After much deliberation, The Council has come to the conclusion that Mr. Devin Moore, standing before you now, is GUILTY of breaking The Law.”
Devin shook his head. “Bullshit!” he shouted.
“Mr. Moore, the surveillance video was particularly damning evidence in this case,” Brooks explained.
“You call that evidence?” Devin protested. “It was doctored!”
Brooks pounded his gavel. “Quiet! The Council has rendered its verdict. You are guilty of breaking The Law.”
“The Law…” Devin mocked.
“Thou Shalt Not Steal, Devin Moore,” preached another jurist.
“You know The Law, Devin,” Brooks continued, trying to sound patient. “It is the only law. Now, do you wish to make a statement?”
“I do.” Devin turned towards the gallery, his chains jingling. He scanned their faces but they averted their eyes. He turned back to The Council and took a deep breath. “This trial’s a sham. You can’t sentence me. I’m an Amerikan and I have rights.”
“Boo! Thief! Liar!” called the crowd.
Brooks pounded the gavel.
“I have a right to a trial in a real co
urt—not this kangaroo court. You have no authority.”
“Boo! Traitor! Execute the Traitor!”
“Quiet, please!” shouted Brooks, pounding his gavel again. “Do you have anything to say that is relevant before we sentence you?”
Devin stared into Brooks’ dead black lenses. Then he scanned the rest of The Council. Their eyes remained fixed on him. They knew he was guilty. He knew he was guilty. He had always wondered if he would be able to delude himself into thinking that he was somehow the victim in all of this mess but he couldn’t bend his mind that way. His luck, which had enabled him to get out of past jams, had run out; he would not be able to get out of this one.
Once the Council rules it is finished.
Devin’s only hope was for a spectacular, fantastical, perfectly-timed, miracle rescue by the National Police. He prayed for the appearance of the black-clad, NaPol tactical troops, repelling from hovering dragonfly airships, smashing through the hall’s sensor-glass windows and wildly firing their heat-seeking, laser-guided assault rifles into the throng. The ‘nats’ would rescue him and take him back to Amerika where he would be released on his own recognizance awaiting a larceny trial that would be delayed ten years. That was a much more preferable outcome to being stoned to death by a bunch of Bohemian Alaskans.
“I demand you turn me over to NaPol. This is not a real court,” Devin ordered.
Goldstein was certainly outside the bounds of the Amerikan justice bureaucracy, but its court was indeed real. The Colony had its share of thieves, swindlers and bandits, lured into it from the Lower Fifty Three. Its insulation from the omnipresent eyes and omnipotent pulse-emitters of National Police made the Colony a prime destination for those lacking in moral inhibition. But the skeptical nature of the colonists quickly flushed the criminal element into the open. A life of crime rarely paid well in Goldstein.
The Council was notoriously ruthless at sentencing. They had very few resources by which to enforce The Law so justice had to be swift and decisive. It was a Draconian system but very efficient.
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