by R. T. Lowe
“Fair enough, Mr. Pitlock,” Dirk said reasonably, nodding as if he was seriously considering his point. “But if I could, let me just explain how Congress views the characterization of these people. From their vantage point, referring to the Rejectionists as Oppositionists is like referring to the terrorists who brought down the twin towers as freedom fighters.”
Graham watched Dirk, trying not to marvel at the actor who had become the Chief Spokesperson of the ERA. Dirk had earned a reputation as the New Government’s principal ‘fixer’, jetting in to political hotspots to tamp down discord wherever it arose. It was said he had the full backing of Congress, and perhaps even more importantly, of Lofton Ashfield, who Graham, and many others in the media, thought of as ‘the man behind the throne’. Dirk was no mouthpiece or political hack. When he suggested a solution, you refused it at your own risk.
“That’s preposterous,” Connie replied, apparently not awed by Dirk’s celebrity or his position in the New Government. “If ever there was a case of apples and oranges, that’d be it. Look—I know why you’re here Dirk, and I know why Congress suddenly cares so much about terminology. The U.S. government just killed—based on the estimates you provided—nearly a half million people. A half million of its own citizens.” She shook her head and gazed out the windows at a gray overcast afternoon, a heavy mist settling in over the Willamette River, dimming the lights on the bridges that spanned it. “If we go on the air and report to the American public that their government just committed what might possibly constitute an act of genocide against its own citizens, I’d expect more than a few might want to march on the Capitol and burn it to the ground. Those people were carpet bombed for heaven’s sake.”
“And fire bombed,” Graham added, breaking his silence. “It seems just a bit overkill, don’t you think?”
“That’s a fair point,” Dirk said. “But there are some things you don’t know, and that’s why I’m here—to make sure something as seemingly innocuous as a word choice or two doesn’t unnecessarily endanger more lives. Once you have the full—”
“The government acted in accordance with the law!” the deputy mayor interrupted. “There were thousands of firearms at all seven sites and they were out in the open. Everyone knew there were guns there and they knew they were breaking the law. A panel of administrative judges reviewed the evidence.” She looked at Connie. “If you want to see the video footage, you’re welcome to it. After the judges found the Rejectionists guilty, they rendered their verdict. This is how we operate now, folks. The law doesn’t require jury trials or due process or death by lethal injection. The government isn’t handicapped anymore by laws and regulations that only benefitted the people who committed the crimes. Now we deal with criminals swiftly and they get exactly what they deserve.”
“Criminals?” Connie exclaimed. “They hadn’t done anything! You’re talking about people peacefully protesting the New Government taking away rights they were born with. Of course they were protesting! It’s an institution in this country, part of our culture since the Boston Tea Party.”
“That’s why I’m glad I’m here,” Dirk said, his voice almost as velvety as Connie’s. “There is much more to the Rejectionists than we had previously thought, and in speaking with Congress, it was decided I should share with you the full extent of the threat they pose.”
“I didn’t see much of a threat there,” Mr. Pitlock commented. “They were pounding their chests, sure, but there was no indication they were planning anything.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dirk told him. “The leaders of the Rejectionists have been collaborating with terrorists in the Middle East and Eastern Europe. They’re more sophisticated and more connected than you’re giving them credit for, and what I’m about to tell you must remain in this room.” He glanced around and made eye contact with everyone, impressing upon them the importance of what he was about to say. “It isn’t just about quid pro quo. It’s about keeping this country safe. We have reliable intelligence that the Rejectionists have obtained four Soviet era tactical nuclear weapons. We don’t believe any were destroyed in the suppression strikes today. We had hoped to neutralize them, but our intelligence is indicating none were on site.”
“Nukes?” Graham exclaimed. “Here? In this country?”
Dirk nodded gravely. “They were smuggled out of Russia. The Russian government has confirmed the theft and provided us with information on the weapons’ design and capabilities. We developed similar devices in the seventies so we know a lot about them. Our estimates suggest each weapon could wipe out a city the size of Portland.” He waved a hand at the office buildings staggered across the skyline. “In the blink of an eye, your city would disappear. So when we tell you the Rejectionists are a threat to the safety and security of this country, I hope that provides more perspective.”
Connie nodded, looking slightly pale. “You don’t want us to report this, do you?”
“You can’t,” Dirk said firmly. “The ensuing panic would cripple the country, causing as much damage as the bombs themselves.”
“Have they made any demands?” Mr. Pitlock asked. He coughed into his handkerchief and blinked hard, as if the effort of coughing caused his insides to throb with pain. “Do they want anything?”
“Unknown.” Dirk shook his head. “They haven’t reached out to anyone outside their organization, and our fear, of course, is that they won’t demand anything. That they’re going to use them because they’ve got nothing left to lose. We’re assuming they’ll target population centers and anything of symbolic value, but when you’re talking about the destructive force of nukes, the two aren’t mutually exclusive. If they detonate one in Washington or any other densely populated area, they would achieve both goals.”
“Jesus,” Denise whispered and turned on Connie, her cheeks flushed. “What more do you need? They have nuclear fucking weapons! You can’t glorify these people. They’re not Oppositionists or freedom fighters or cowboys fighting the good fight against an oppressive government. You can’t romanticize or glorify these people. They’re Rejectionists! It isn’t enough that these savages reject law, order, and civilized society, they want to destroy it! They want to raze the whole thing and sow salt in the soil because they can’t piss on their neighbors anymore and they don’t like it!”
Connie looked to Mr. Pitlock and sighed, giving him a nod.
Rejectionists it is then, Graham thought. He agreed with Mr. Pitlock that the term was overly inclusive, but that ship had now sailed and there was no point in pushing it any further.
“Now for the quid pro quo,” Dirk said smoothly. “We think it’s worth emphasizing that the suppression strikes were ordered by President Kanter. The President, of course, consulted with Congress before her decision was made, but ultimately the choice to administer capital punishment was hers.”
Graham felt a bitter smile flicker across his face. This was a favorite tactic of the New Government. The President, a democrat, had escaped the indictments that had led to the ousting of all members of the House and Senate, but to people in the media (and anyone with half a brain) it had become clear that the President and her Vice President had only avoided criminal charges so that the White House could act as the ERA’s lightning rod, absorbing criticism and assuming blame for potentially unpopular decisions the President had made in form only. The President was simply a puppet of the New Government.
“An executive order,” Connie said grimly. “Executive orders. Suppression strikes. Rejectionists.” Her eyes went to Denise and then Dirk. “Anything else?”
“Just one more thing.” Dirk raised a finger. “President Kanter will give an address”—he checked his watch—“in a little less than two hours. When you do your show this evening, we think it would be beneficial if you included a little levity in your broadcast.”
“How about some stand-up comedy?” Mr. Pitlock suggested facetiously and wiped his beading brow. “I think Seinfeld’s performing at the Moda Cente
r. Graham, can you check with his agent to see if he’s available?”
Dirk smiled. “I understand your reaction. I really do. As tragic as the events of today may seem, we have to keep in mind that tomorrow morning, three hundred million people will get up and start their day like it’s any other. Yes, the suppression of a half million Rejectionists can seem like a terrible thing when the public is unaware of how dangerous they really are, which is why the focus must be on the living and not the dead. You may think my suggestion is self-serving, but in times like these, it’s important that the media reinforce our commonalities, the things we all share and enjoy—our culture.”
“You want us to run a fluff piece?” Graham asked. “Celebrity gossip? Blake Shelton and Adam Levine seen coming out of a hotel room with Gwen Stefani? That kind of shit?”
“Shit it may be,” Dirk said with a subtle smile, “but it will remind the three hundred million that life goes on. For them, tomorrow must be a day like any other day. A short clip or two on sports and celebrity news, perhaps even a human interest story. The suppression strikes did a great deal to make the people of this country safe. If you can give them comfort in the familiarity of sports and Hollywood, it will help them to appreciate what the New Government is working so hard to achieve.”
“I thought he was the producer.” Mr. Pitlock turned his thumb sideways at Graham.
“He is,” Dirk acknowledged, “but we are all in this together, and we must work together to make this country worth believing in again. It can be better than great—much better.”
“Well said.” Denise smiled warmly at Dirk, her adoring eyes going moist.
Graham knew there wouldn’t be any dissent from Mr. Pitlock or Connie, and now he needed to reformat his show to include a couple of fluff pieces. If that wasn’t enough of a headache, tonight he was supposed to meet William Stout, the guy who claimed to have something that could discredit the New Government. Graham had agreed to meet him at an address near the Portland College campus, though he was starting to regret it and wondering if he could delegate the assignment—was that the right term?—to someone else.
Graham looked up. The deputy mayor was taking a selfie, her cheek pressed against Dirk’s, both smiling happily. Mr. Pitlock and Connie had crossed the office to his desk where they watched the pair with expressions of utter disbelief.
Chapter 21
AS FOR THE LIVING
Felix stood in the hallway near the lobby, watching the throng jumping up and down to the beat of something very loud and very manic. He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of a shirt that was soaked nearly through. He’d done more dancing tonight than in all the previous months combined. Harper waved at him, motioning for him to rejoin her on the dance floor as a pair of Sigmas did everything in their power to impress her, breaking out some questionable moves they would probably regret tomorrow.
“Having fun?” a voice beside him said. It was Allison, her cheeks red from dancing and beer. Then she added with a sad shrug, “All things considered.” Despite the New Government’s firebombing of hundreds of thousands of Rejectionists, nothing out of the ordinary had taken place on campus. There were no candlelight vigils, protests, or town hall style assemblies with professors and grief counselors. President Taylor didn’t make a statement or offer his condolences and prayers in an email to the student body, and other than boisterous groups of drunk and giddy ERA members flexing their political muscles, the campus was quiet. The only act of protest Felix had heard about was some of Professor Hamlen’s students attempting to float lanterns down the Mill Stream. Twenty or thirty kids in the ERA got word of it and converged on them quickly, sinking the lanterns with rocks and tossing the kids who had launched them into the stream. The dean’s office, he was sure, wouldn’t be calling them in for violating the Student Code of Conduct. Hardly fair, but that’s what their school was becoming, a caste system where ERA members did what they wanted with impunity and everyone else got the shaft. When the ERA had crashed Hamlen’s podcast, the professor had referred to their aggressive actions as a “microcosm” of the oppression facing dissenters all across the country. Felix hadn’t thought too much about it at the time, but now with the ERA’s grip on campus approaching a near stranglehold, he realized how difficult it would be to root out the New Government and its legions of fanatical supporters. Would it be possible to go back to the way things were before? Did he even want to? It wasn’t as if everything had been so great, or the Old Government so blameless.
Felix sighed, looking out the open doors to a strip of lawn that fronted the Sigma house and the rest of Greek Row. He wondered if Borakslovic was working on her ‘declaration of misconduct’ tonight, the formality that would push him through those doors and right off campus forever. Dishonorably discharged as a freshman. Way to go, Felix.
“Borakslovic?” Allison guessed, watching him closely.
“Yeah. It’s just so… unfair. I didn’t do anything. Why would she do this to me?”
“Amber or Borakslovic?”
“Both,” Felix said.
“Borakslovic is an awful human being and Amber’s probably a little messed up and feeling rejected and angry. You turned her down and she wants to get back at you. She told you she’s gonna make you pay, right?”
Felix grunted, watching his classmates dancing and drinking beer, wishing he could wash down the bile creeping up his throat. “I was thinking about talking to Amber. Maybe I can get her to tell the dean to just drop it.”
“Bad idea.” Allison shook her head. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, you know.”
Felix’s anger flared once more. All day, it had come in waves, and each time it rolled over him, he had to fight the urge to track down Borakslovic and Amber and show them what happens when you piss off the wrong person. He hadn’t done anything to them. He’d left them alone and that’s all he wanted in return. But they were going out of their way to screw him over. They were looking for a fight, and if that’s what they wanted…
“So what do I do?” Felix shouted over the music. “Just let her lie and get me expelled? It’s bullshit! I just want to be here!” He turned to Allison, feeling desperate. “Can’t we just do this? Just go to school and spend our breaks in Cove Rock? Why can’t Borakslovic and Amber—why can’t everyone—just leave me alone? Can’t we just let whatever’s gonna happen, happen?”
“You’re not getting expelled,” Allison told him confidently, as if it was her decision to make.
“I’m not?”
“Let me take care of it. Don’t worry about Amber.”
Felix gave her a questioning look and whispered, “You’re not going to kill her, are you?”
Allison laughed. “Yeah,” she said darkly, “I’m going to kill Amber then I’m gonna kill the dean to tie up the loose ends. I’ve been thinking, and I know exactly how to get away with it.”
A gasp sounded at Felix’s elbow.
Caitlin stood staring at them with her hand to her mouth, eyes bulging.
“I’m joking!” Allison exclaimed and laughed, smiling at Caitlin until she smiled back, a tentative acknowledgment that she understood it was only a joke.
“I’ll take care of it,” Allison repeated to Felix, “and I promise I won’t kill them. I won’t even hurt them. Just try to forget about it and let me deal with it, okay?” She took Felix and Caitlin by the hand and rushed for the dance floor, dragging them along, shouting, “Let’s show these frat boys how to dance!”
Chapter 22
CIRCLES IN BLUE
“This is about the time the baby lets the world know she’s planning for a career in opera,” Graham said and laughed. “Between two thirty and three every night. You could set your watch to it. Thank God my wife is still nursing. I give her an elbow and tell her the baby’s hungry. She calls me an ass, but I guess she must still love me because she takes her into the living room, feeds her and puts her back in the crib.” He drank tea from a mug and gestured toward the living room.
“I take it you don’t have kids? My apartment’s so childproofed and gated you’d think we were trying to keep out King Kong.”
Bill smiled from his seat at the end of the kitchen table. “Which version?”
“Is that a serious question?” Graham replied, rubbing tiredly at his neck. “The one Peter Jackson did. The others are unwatchable.”
“That’s blasphemy in some quarters.” Bill frowned down at the leather bag beside his chair, remembering the first time he watched King Kong. He couldn’t have been more than six or seven, and to this day, he vividly recalled crying himself to sleep with the image of Kong dying on the streets of Manhattan, Jessica Lange curled up safely in its enormous hand.
“So Bill,” Graham began, glancing at his watch, “I appreciate the tea and all, but things are crazy at the station and I have a staff meeting at eight.”
Bill nodded dimly. “I watched your show last night. I thought you did a nice job covering the suppression strikes, though I noticed you made a few changes.”
Graham’s eyebrows came together and his eyes fixed on Bill. “Was it that obvious?”
“Ariana Grande throwing a surprise birthday party for Selena Gomez was touching and segued nicely into why the firebombing of several hundred thousand civilians didn’t violate the Geneva Conventions.”