The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma

by Brian Herbert

  “I guess that’s right. But my abilities are small-scale. I’m no god.”

  “Do gods even exist?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Not for anarchists.”

  “Or Greenies,” she said, “unless it looks like a tree.”

  40

  I will tell you a little secret, my friends. Some of my fellows on the revolutionary council called me “Father Earth.” They said Mother Nature was tired and overworked, and she needed help.

  —Chairman Rahma Popal, his first Berkeley speech, delivered at Sather Gate on the old campus

  LSD, MARIJUANA, METHAMPHETAMINES, cocaine, heroine, and more—in the form of food, injections, or pills. All in colorful packages that were arrayed neatly on a tray held by a pretty female servant, who knelt beside the Chairman where he sat cross-legged on the deck. The girl had short, curly black hair, and her skin was golden brown. He did not know her name.

  It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and Rahma rode in the clearplex viewing compartment of a solar soarplane as it flew silently over the Montana Valley Game Reserve. Director Arch Ondex and two uniformed AOE officers sat with him in a small circle, also cross-legged, with animals and plants of the game reserve visible through the clear floor beneath them. The others were General Rolph Preda, the supreme air and land commander for the GSA, and Admiral Karlos Hansen, in charge of naval operations. Each of them held a copy of The Little Green Book on his lap, having read passages from it aloud during their meeting, looking for inspiration to face their current leadership challenges. Even Rahma, who had written the slender volume packed with ideas, liked to refresh himself by thumbing through it from time to time. He called it “going back to the basics.”

  “That’s enough for now,” Rahma said, closing his own copy. Then, while the others shut their volumes, he intoned one of the quotations, “‘In Green We Trust.’”

  “‘One Nation Under Green,’” the others said, in unison. It was the response specified in the book, following any passage read aloud by the Master himself.

  Not far behind them flew the large glidewolf, Gilda, whose protective attitude toward Rahma had become accepted by the Chairman as an everyday occurrence. According to Artie, the animal was keeping its distance from him and from everyone else, but not from Rahma, whom she monitored constantly, as if they were of the same family. She seemed to have only one goal in life, day after day—his protection. Whenever Gilda was missing from her eucalyptus forest habitat, she was usually found on the rooftop (or clinging to an exterior wall) of whichever building the Chairman happened to be in. The creature tried to conceal herself and remain in shadows, and despite her size she was pretty good at this.

  The Chairman looked over the offerings on the tray held by the servant, selected a Mary Jane brownie and peeled the biodegradable cello wrapping off partway, so that he could nibble on the delicacy. This was one of the gourmet snacks kept in the well-stocked cupboards of the game reserve’s communal kitchen.

  He’d been feeling a little worn-out today, hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. A nagging tickle in the back of his throat suggested otherwise.

  Earlier, he had been thinking about Jade Ridell, missing her and feeling bad about sending her away. For a long time he had stared at one of the printed images he took of Jade in the aviary, with the little exotic bird perched in her hair and the comical expression on her face. It had been one of many good times that he and the young woman had shared. His eyes had misted over.

  He knew where Jade was working in the Missoula Reservation now, waiting tables in a gentleman’s club. He’d had nothing to do with her getting the job; he’d only checked on her afterward, and he would again, from time to time. Perhaps, after the passage of a few months, he would recommend that she be given a more important job, one that took advantage of her intelligence and not just her stunning beauty. But he could never be with the attractive young woman again, could never even see her again. Her parents had acted disgracefully, and in the Green States of America nothing was worse than an eco-crime.

  Rahma tried to put Jade out of his mind. In his position, he could not afford to be sentimental. He’d felt close to women before, and there was always an ending point for each relationship, and a beginning point for another—with a great deal of overlapping because of the number of females involved. With a deep sigh, he told himself that he needed to get over Jade, but sometimes that did not seem possible.…

  Through the clear floor of the soarplane, Rahma saw a simple monument in the grassland below, where the mutilated body of the polar bear had been buried. Hashimoto had turned a rare, treasured animal into a table! It was a … he hesitated to use a non-secular word, but it was a sacrilege. Yes, a sacrilege, indeed. An affront against the holiness of nature. He loathed that man, but at least Rahma had the satisfaction of knowing that the Premier’s pet bridge had been destroyed; Rahma had gotten the good news from Artie just before boarding the soarplane, bolstered by the news that some of the Panasian people were daring to say the GSA had done a good thing, and that the boondoggle bridge should never be rebuilt.

  Despite the deep-seated hatred that ran between the two leaders, Rahma was proud that he had taken steps to avoid nuclear war while doing everything possible to bolster GSA defenses, thus thwarting whatever his archenemy might have in mind, be it small or large. He didn’t want innocent people to die in a nuclear exchange. A war on that scale would surely be the biggest environmental disaster in history—a legacy that he, of all people, did not want. For the sake of the planet and its living organisms, he needed to do whatever he could to avert all-out warfare, short of inviting Hashimoto to share a water pipe. He shuddered at the thought.

  Chewing slowly and letting the savory brownie melt in his mouth, Rahma watched the attractive servant move to the other men, all of whom selected doses of harder drugs. The Chairman didn’t mind that they did this on duty, as long as no one overdid it. After they made their selections of minimal doses, he waved the serving girl away. She went into the rear compartment, closed the door behind her.

  Beneath the soarplane the Chairman saw a magnificent Arabian stallion racing across the grassland beneath them, ahead of half a dozen other horses, of varying breeds and colors. The graceful manner in which they galloped across the land, their manes and tails flowing, always gave him a rush of pleasure, and today the experience was enhanced by the brownie, which was particularly good. He felt its soothing drug taking hold of his consciousness, brightening the colors he saw and making him more lucid. The deciduous trees of the groves were in full color, the glorious gold and brown hues of fall.

  For more than two hours the men had been floating on the air currents, discussing military matters over lunch and transmitting coded orders to subordinates. A week ago, Director Ondex had revealed the breakthrough in the vanishing tunnel research program, and the SciOs had performed successful tests since then. Now they were hurrying to set up a full-scale manufacturing program to build large tunnel machines that would be capable of making surprise attacks against the enemy.

  Rahma and the military officers wanted more information, but in his usual fashion Ondex was refusing to provide it. Even so, they had come to an understanding. The Army of the Environment would focus on building up conventional and nuclear forces and on beefing up defenses even more. As to where and when the foe might strike next, no one had a clue. They knew only that they had to prepare themselves defensively and offensively, as quickly as possible. On that much, they both agreed.

  The solar soarplane, operated by one of the Chairman’s hubot pilots, flew low but not too low, making hardly any noise in its smooth passage over the animals. The craft was perhaps fifty meters above the ground now, and its passengers had just finished their meal. The drugs were for dessert.

  Across the circle of people on the floor, Rahma saw the dark eyes of Admiral Hansen sharpen from the small packet of cocaine he had just snorted. His features were ruddy and weathered from years spent on the sea, with deep creases a
round his mouth and eyes. “People are saying that Stuart is an eco-messiah,” he said, “that he’s appeared on Earth at this time for a reason, to fulfill a fateful purpose. What do you think, Mr. Chairman?”

  “If he is a green messiah, it doesn’t really matter what I say, does it?” Rahma coughed, took a sip of water to clear his throat. He’d been feeling run-down in the last few days.

  “But is he that, or is he a genetic accident from the ReFac explosion?” Ondex said. “Fate or accident?”

  “Accident,” General Preda said. A tall officer with a flair for style, he wore a yellow silk scarf around his neck, and an antique medallion commemorating the 1968 riots at the Chicago Democratic Party convention.

  “My scientists have been conducting additional tests on him,” Ondex said, “and his powers—while interesting—seem to be rather limited. For example, he’s only been able to split small objects, and his greenforming capacity is not great. The latter power was latent until recently, and we had thought he would get more proficient at it with time, but he seems to have reached a plateau. Dr. Mora thinks that Stuart doesn’t want greater powers and has subdued them—either intentionally or subconsciously. We’ve also taken cellular samples for laboratory use, attempting to clone Stuart, but thus far there has been no success. Whenever the technicians attempt to manipulate the disembodied cells in any way, they wither and die.”

  “A defense mechanism?” Rahma wondered.

  “Perhaps. In any event, unless we can solve that, we aren’t going to be able to create more of him by any process. You know the history of problems trying to clone human beings, and in his case he’s only part human, making it even more complex. But even if we could replicate him in some manner, how much power would the copies have, and of what use would they be to us? We can generate more power with machines than he possesses.”

  “Oh well, at least we checked it out,” Admiral Hansen said.

  “Maybe Stuart is a sign, though,” Rahma suggested, “a sign from the spirit of the planet that only this type of human will enable us to reach the Golden Age I seek; only this kind can live in harmony with the environment.”

  “One who both destroys and reseeds?” Ondex said.

  “Why not?” the Chairman said. “My old friend Kupi Landau sent me a message yesterday, drawing a parallel between Joss’s powers and those of a Hindu god. Perhaps there are gods of the Earth—Gaia, Shiva, Mother Nature, whatever you wish to call them—and maybe Stuart is a genetic reaction to the historical excesses of human beings on this planet, a mutation that will change the course of humankind. Think of it, gentlemen! Maybe he’s destined to breed and create more of his kind naturally, and with their powers, as limited as they may be, the new race might still dominate other humans and change how they treat the planet.”

  Although Rahma did not express reservations about such a superbreed now, he still felt them. In Stuart and in SciO machines, the power to destroy seemed more dominant than the power to create; evil seemed stronger than good, more ferocious.

  “A new race? What a mesmerizing thought,” Karlos Hansen said. He looked around. “Where’s that cute serving girl? I’d like another snort.”

  “Enough for now,” Rahma said. Looking at Ondex, he said, “As far as I know, you haven’t done any experiments to see if Stuart can breed with an ordinary human woman. Is that correct?”

  “We’re looking into it.” Ondex looked wary.

  “Well, what’s taking so long? I’ve been busy with other matters, or I would have asked you sooner.” Rahma wanted to know if the new race would succeed; he felt a compulsion to know.

  “We’re discussing the possibilities, but we haven’t decided how best to go about it—either mating Stuart with one or more females, or taking sperm samples and performing in vitro fertilization. Optimally we’d like to reproduce a female version of what happened to him in the ReFac explosion, for the best chance of reproducing more of the same type. There are numerous options, and we’re taking it slowly and carefully, always seeking to avoid injury to Stuart himself. Fortunately, he is a healthy young man.”

  “I presume you’ve extracted sperm cells from him?”

  “We have, but as far as we can tell they are normal human cells, oddly uncontaminated. Perhaps, though, the secret of whatever he has become is buried very, very deep within them.”

  “Just think of it,” the Chairman said. “A sustainable human race that could live in harmony with the environment. Now that would be something!” If good triumphs over evil, he thought.

  “Greenmen and Greenwomen,” General Preda said. “And little kids, whole families with vines on their skin. Maybe the new race could be grown in the ground, like ivy, or potatoes.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Rahma snapped. And to Ondex, he said, “Why don’t you call for female volunteers to mate with him now, and others to be put into ReFac building explosions, in an attempt to create female versions? As a third line of attack on the problem, do the in vitro fertilizations. I’m surprised you aren’t exploring all of the options now.”

  “I can see why you feel that way,” Ondex said, “but we’ve had our hands full with Stuart. He has not been the most cooperative subject.”

  “So I’ve heard, but you have large resources. In any event, why treat him with kid gloves? Why not take him prisoner in a show of force? Use a hundred men if you have to. His powers are limited, as we know. Use some of General Preda’s armored vehicles and whatever tranquilizer weapons you need.”

  “We tried to tranquilize him,” Ondex said, “but he spun that defensive net around himself, that force field.”

  “There must be a way to penetrate the field!”

  “Maybe, but we don’t want to hurt him, or kill him.”

  “I agree, but keep looking for openings, and be aggressive. There must be some way of taking control of him. With all of your SciO resources, you should be able to come up with a way. In the meantime, use the sperm samples you have in vitro.”

  “All right, but first I’m going to ask him for his cooperation and see how he reacts to the suggestion of mating him.”

  “Give him some of the women in your harem, Rahma,” Preda said, “maybe that serving wench. You’ve got some nubile nymphs of the forest around here, from what I’ve seen.”

  Chairman Rahma shook his head. The General must have consumed extra portions of whichever drug he selected, despite Rahma’s ongoing prohibition against getting high on duty. But instead of scolding him this time, Rahma continued to focus on Ondex and said: “I want you to think of every possible way of figuring out what happened to Joss Stuart in that explosion. Study his brain patterns, the way he moves, the skin conditions where splitting and greenforming beams exit, everything.”

  “We’re doing all that,” Ondex said, “and more. We have eighty lab technicians analyzing his blood, and more going over other samples and audiovisuals, and it’s all very baffling. With the exception of the pigmentation and scarring of his skin, and certain chemical changes, his organs and other body functions seem to be functioning normally, giving us no indication of where his powers come from. The plant cells and other alien elements are in there with his human cellular material, in his blood, muscles, and bones—and they’re all getting along just fine.”

  “A whole race of Joss Stuarts,” Rahma said, nodding as he imagined the wondrous possibilities. “That could really be something. But I wouldn’t want them as independent and defiant as he is. That part would have to be subdued, for the greater good. And as for the violent side, the Splitter side, we must find a way of dealing with that, too—just as we have subdued the anarchists and put them to good use for our cause.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Ondex promised.

  41

  Life is a keyhole for peering into the universe.

  —Jamadi Sukar, one of the pre-revolution green prophets

  JOSS AND KUPI sat by a sunny mineral pool, not far from a job they had just completed, cleaning up an old, dese
rted town and resort site and returning it to nature. The water was warm on his bare feet and legs, heated by underground thermal activity. The pair was taking a much-deserved break late in the afternoon, after working hard for several long days. They wore no clothing, nor did the other five members of the crew who were with them, scattered around the perimeter of the pool.

  A century and a half ago, this area in northern Mexico had been a popular destination for people seeking the health benefits of mineral springs. At one time there had been an elegant Spanish-style hotel on the other side of the network of pools, serviced by a passenger rail line, though all of that had long since been abandoned, leaving a falling-down ghost town, torn-up tracks, and rusting old rail cars. But the mineral springs remained much as they used to be. Some of the rocks around the pool had ornate or simple graffiti carved into them, the names of lovers who had passed this way and perhaps hoped to return one day and find where they had made their pledge of fidelity to each other.

  “A Splitter rifle could clean off the graffiti,” Joss said, running a finger over the rough edges, “but I kind of like the idea of leaving it like it is. Technically, we might be in violation for doing that, but I can’t see where the carved hearts and poems of lovers hurt anything. These are petroglyphs, not that Chairman Rahma cares about archaeology or human history, but I’m making an on-site judgment and I say leave them.”

  “Well, aren’t you getting decisive,” Kupi said, with a smile. “And brave.” She stood up and began to dress.

  “I just think environmentalism can get ridiculous at times.”

  With a nod, she said, “Tomorrow we’re supposed to clean up the rest of the rail line, including the old cars and the tracks. As an anarchist, I enjoy using the Splitter, but I agree my job can get silly sometimes. I can’t see what the tracks are hurting out here in the middle of nowhere. I mean, weeds, shrubs, and trees are growing all over them, and the tracks can barely be seen.”