Scarcity

by Robert Calbeck

  “So, it’s true?” Qwiz asked tentatively. “Are they really transferring me to the Whitehouse?”

  “Transferring?” Michael asked laughing. “Buddy, you are a free man. They are escorting you.”

  Qwiz carefully modulated the joy threatening to burst from his pores. It took effort. If he’d run off electricity instead of ATP, he surely would have overloaded a number of his capacitors. It just felt too good to be true. “How can you be so sure that this is for real?”

  “It took a video-call from the President himself to convince us,” Michael said. “Yeah, it’s for real.”

  “Wait. You actually talked with President Jimenez?”

  “I’d swear it was real,” Luthor said. “He called us by name and responded to our questions. He says you have changed everything.”

  “By the way, what did you do exactly?” Michael asked. “We were sort of getting shot and forgot to send you the codes.”

  Just as Qwiz began to explain his desperate gambit to them, the roar of jet engines overloaded his ears. Luthor ducked instinctively as if he expected bullets to fill the air. Vika took cover behind the nearest vehicle.

  Clipboard raised his hands. “Don’t worry, this is a civilian plane.”

  “Then why is it here?” Luthor growled.

  “This is an airport. Occasionally, they land here.”

  For the first time since he arrived, Qwiz inspected his surroundings. Having never been on a flying machine in his memory, it hadn’t occurred to him that airports even existed any more. A small white passenger jet landed gracefully a short distance away. He had never seen a working aircraft this close before. It was beautiful. Two jet-engines flanked a stately tail, broad wings shadowed the hot pavement. As it slowed to manageable speeds, it turned toward them and parked nearby.

  “This used to be O’Hare International. Now it is mostly expensive apartments for government employees. We just occasionally use the airstrip. You really have nothing to fear.”

  In the distance, Qwiz noticed four men in black, wielding machine-guns and escorting a single prisoner toward the Terminal. The prisoner’s hands were cuffed securely behind his back.

  “Who is that?” Tanya asked.

  “Franco Dimarin,” Clipboard replied.

  Quiz’s biological pixels confirmed without question that it was Stalker.

  “I will see you in hell, you Chinese bastard!” he yelled at Qwiz.

  “Actually, I’m Korean,” Qwiz replied calmly. However often Qwiz had wished for it, the world seldom was a place of justice and truth. But in this instance the stars had aligned, and a very evil man was getting what he deserved. The Vanguard himself couldn’t have engineered a more appropriate result.

  Luthor began laughing. “I stand corrected, once and for all. Tanya, there is a God!”

  Stalker seethed, lurching to get at Luthor.

  “Move,” one of the guards said restraining him. Another prodded him in the back with his rifle. Stalker strained against them so hard he lost his balance, tripped and fell forward. Hands bound behind his back, Stalker’s only option was to break his fall with his face. Vika knelt next to him. The guards moved to intercept, but Clipboard motioned for them to give her space. She clenched a clove of his graying hair and yanked his head back.

  She whispered something in his ear. His eyes widened in surprise, just before she slammed her fist brutally against the back of his skull. His head bounced off the pavement. After getting up, he complied with his captors without another word. They shoved him toward a non-descript utilitarian building behind them.

  “Did that feel good?” Michael asked.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Come, please follow me,” Clipboard said, “you have a date with the President tonight.” He led them up the steps into the plane.

  #

  “I still can’t believe this. We’re flying!” Michael said as if waking from a particularly immersive daydream. He had done nothing but stare out the window their entire flight. Qwiz had never been on a plane either, but he’d managed to control his awe. Strangely, after the beautiful, long acceleration and the spectacular vistas had passed, the ride had become easy, almost routine. The placid white blanket of puffy clouds passed peacefully below, and Qwiz could almost see how men and women of the 20th century had taken flight for granted. Almost. Michael, however, had no such empathy. He had stared out the porthole like Qwiz stared at a monitor.

  Clipboard, whose name was actually Bryce Jameson, had been explaining exactly how they had come to be freed. “Once the President saw the interview you transmitted and it became clear what Dimarin’s motivations were,” he suddenly smiled, “turns out that he had an even better force than the Sabers at his disposal.”

  “You’re telling me he didn’t know what was going on before Quiz’s email?” Bill asked. “That’s a mighty big pill to swallow.”

  Jameson turned to Bill, “the carbon enforcement system enacted by the Paris 2 agreement required the Sabers to be independent of the Coalition nations. That way they would be free of outside influence and enforce some very strict laws. By that same law, the President couldn’t know what Dimarin was up to.”

  “He didn’t have ways of spying on the organization?” Vika said.

  “I couldn’t speculate. But the Sabers do need permission to do certain things in our borders, which the President would know about, and in some cases, have to approve. From what I’ve heard the President and Dimarin shared some…words. The result was the Joint Special Operations Command tasking my Deltas to clean house—God, Dimarin had some ugly things in there—and you know the rest.”

  “You kicked that commie’s ass!” Bill declared.

  “I’ve been waiting ten years to finally see if the Sabers really were better than Delta Force like everyone said. They knew we were coming and we still stomped them.”

  “And thank you for rescuing us,” Tanya added. “We would have died in there if not for you.”

  “You’re welcome ma'am. It’s why we serve. Bill, I wanted to tell you in person that we recovered your son.”

  “Are you bringing him too?” Bill asked.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. His leg was in terrible shape. We took him to our best doctor and she had to… had to amputate. I’m sorry. He is recovering, and it will probably be weeks before he is able to travel.”

  Bill hung his head.

  Jameson placed a comforting hand on Bill’s shoulder. “He recorded a message before the surgery. Would you like to see it?”

  Bill nodded and Jameson produced a tablet with the pre-recorded message. Michael peaked over Bill’s head to see the recording.

  William sat in a hospital bed, a bandage on his ribs bulged from under his gown, and an IV dripped fluid into his arm. He was smiling. “Hey Dad. I’m sorry I can’t join you; they said my leg is ‘septic.’ I guess that’s a bad thing.” William gave a half-hearted laugh. “I want you to know something. This isn’t your fault. Tell Luthor it isn’t his fault either. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I’m glad that I know you’re going to be there for me this time.”

  “You’re damn right about that,” Bill said to the screen as he wiped a tear from his eye.

  “Tell everyone that I’m proud of what you all did up there last night. Oh crap, I just said I’m proud of you! Don’t let that go to your head okay, Dad? I hope to see you soon.”

  The message ended.

  “He’s doing well in recovery,” Jameson said.

  “Thank you,” Bill said, “I mean it, damn it! Thank you so much.” The old man wrapped Jameson in bear hug.

  “I think the truth is that we should thank you. You all risked your lives so that my kids will grow up in a better world. As we speak, your research is being sent all over the globe, in preparation to begin mass production of 126.”

  Tanya smiled. “Except we didn’t have much to do with it, apparently, we owe it all to Qwiz.”

  “I thought you had this planned all
along,” Jameson asked.

  “Our plan was transmit a special report through the USNN satellite dish. But we never did get him the codes,” Luthor grinned conspiratorially, “you did figure out how to hack that satellite, didn’t you?”

  Every eye on the plane locked on Qwiz, even the beautiful flight attendant stopped to listen. “No, Luthor. I didn’t,” Qwiz said somberly, he had not been looking forward to recounting the event. It felt too much like boasting, something completely antithetical to honor. “I told you it was impossible to hack in polynomial time. I had minutes.”

  Luthor furrowed his brow, “but you said that without the codes all you could do was to send a single email before they detected the intrusion and shut you down.”

  “I only sent one email.”

  Luthor frowned in thought, Vika mirroring his look. Tanya rubbed her chin. Qwiz turned to Luthor, searching for a way to explain what he had done without coming across as arrogant.

  “I don’t understand,” Tanya said. “I thought we succeeded in getting the research to the world; how is that possible with one message?”

  “I only had the one uncensored email, I just had to figure out how to spread 126 as far as possible. Since Stalker wanted to eliminate the research altogether, anyone I emailed would be hunted down and killed just like us. Your work would still end up lost forever, but lots more innocent people would die. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  Clipboard—Jameson, showed them Stalker’s tablet. “That’s what I’ve been reading from Dimarin’s communications last week. He was chasing everyone who’d heard of the stuff. I still can’t tell if he planned to keep a copy for a rainy day or not.”

  “Can’t oppress the people much, if they all have free energy, cheap travel, and enough goddamned food to eat,” Bill said. “That’s all I’m sayin.”

  “Qwiz, continue,” Vika ordered.

  Michael shot her a chastising look.

  “Please continue.”

  Qwiz smiled. “The problem was that Dimarin wasn’t greedy enough. Any normal man would have used 126 to get rich. Any country would have used it to dominate—like Luthor thought. But Dimarin didn’t care about any of that. He didn’t want to use it at all. He just wanted to protect his power and his station. He had to eliminate your research to do so. He wasn’t greedy enough to use it.

  “I needed to find someone greedier than him, someone who would use it. So, I naturally thought of China. They were so greedy they started World War III, greedy enough they still use coal. They would certainly put it into production.”

  “Wait,” Michael blurted. “Really? China?”

  Qwiz blushed slightly. “Actually, I sent it to my father. He works in the government there. I think. It was the first uncensored communication I have had with him since before the war.”

  “What were you thinking?” Michael said. “What have you done?”

  Qwiz began to feel that the cabin of the Gulfstream was shrinking around him.

  “No,” Luthor held both hands to his lips, interrupting the silence. “It was brilliant.”

  Everyone waited for him to expound. He did.

  “You’re a smogging brilliant madman! By sending it to China you made sure that the world—everyone under CPI anyway—has to use it. It’s the only way we could keep up! Using our synthesis method, China could literally have unlimited energy within a year or two, and therefore production, food, and pretty much everything the rest of the world doesn’t have enough of. But, the Coalition would have a copy of your email since you sent it through their system! We would have the research too!” Qwiz blushed as Luthor got up and slapped him on the back.

  “With one email, you really did get it to the whole world,” Tanya said in amazement. Luthor started pacing in excitement. “But in the same move you saved us from another war! If only the Coalition got it, or only the Chinese, war would be inevitable. But now everyone’s got it, the world finally will have energy parity, and maybe we can have lasting peace!”

  “And he didn’t mention he was getting shot while sending it!” Bill said, waving his club-like bandage around as if he were a father cheering at a pee-wee football game.

  “Wow!” Michael said. “Did it hurt?”

  “Yeah,” Qwiz replied, “a lot.”

  Bill’s boisterous laugh filled the cabin.

  Clipboard smiled too, “once they traced the location of the email, it became a national security threat, and went up the food-chain pretty quickly. Once it landed on the President’s desk it was game over.”

  “Damn fine work,” Bill said.

  Before he realized what was happening, Qwiz found himself being pummeled with exultant cheers and congratulations. He beamed as everyone tried to hug him at once.

  “Qwiz,” someone said, “you are a hero.”

  Chapter 28:

  The Whitehouse, United States of the West

  The Gulfstream landed at what was left of Reagan International Airport, which like O’Hare, was mostly apartments and dense, urban farms. A single landing strip was maintained for government emergencies. They boarded an armored limousine and rushed with an escort straight to the Whitehouse.

  It didn’t seem possible that they had actually succeeded. Luthor had Qwiz to thank for that, of course. The quiet, quirky, lovable computer tech who’d risked everything. He did so not because his life was forfeit—like Luthor’s had been—but simply because it was right. The kid was a hero.

  Luthor blinked and found himself standing outside the door of the oval office. Hulking secret service agents in sterling black suits checked every orifice for the faintest whiff of a weapon. Luthor winced as a large black man’s hand went in places he preferred it not go. They scanned them each with a wand that buzzed with electromagnetic pulses, designed to scan for listening bugs and instantly fry the micro-circuitry that ran them. They passed, and the doors opened.

  The President sat behind the desk with his graying swath of black hair just visible behind the two large monitors arranged in front of him. Rolled up shirt sleeves and loosened tie bespoke a busy day in which he expected no media interruptions. Manuel Jimenez rose as they entered the room and greeted them with the warm smile that had won him the election over the war-hero incumbent that had preceded him. His genuine-seeming charm combined with his Mexican heritage had created a perfect storm among peacetime voters who hoped for a brighter future than had been possible in the dark years of World War III.

  Sergeant Garcia stood next to him.

  “Sarge!” Luthor exclaimed, “and um… Mr. President.”

  “Come, sit down,” Jimenez said warmly, indicating chairs arranged in a circle in front of the Resolute Desk. Garcia embraced Luthor and sat down next to him.

  “You’re alive!”

  “Yeah,” Garcia replied quietly. “Survived again. I’m glad this time they didn’t mind spending the carbon to save me—goddamn Stutsman... The Sabers captured my whole team and locked us up after we met you. The Deltas came in and rescued us last night.”

  “And Jimenez invited you here?”

  “Yeah, says my experience with you and unlawful imprisonment earned me a ‘seat at the table.’”

  The agents fanned around behind them, two flanking the president, the others behind Luthor and his cohorts as they seated themselves. It was claustrophobic.

  The President smiled again, his teeth as white as any toothpaste model’s. “You, my friends, have gone through quite an ordeal.”

  “That’s putting it nicely,” Luthor muttered. Secret Service men and women loomed behind him.

  Surprisingly, Jimenez didn’t seem to object to his tone, instead he nodded. “You’ll have to forgive me. Politics has conditioned me to mute all statements to bland, inoffensive, sound bites that can be repeated out of context; it’s a hard habit to break, but I will try. Your friend Stone over there would probably say, ‘it’s been a son-of-a-bitch’?”

  Bill did a double take. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

 
“If our government does anything well, it is keeping unnecessarily accurate records of its citizens. I read each of yours before you arrived,” he added, smiling again.

  The agents shuffled nervously. Luthor glanced behind him to see a trigger-happy woman fingering her sidearm.

  Again, Jimenez seemed to understand what he was thinking. “I am sorry, Dr. Tenrel, the Secret Service can be a bit overwhelming,” he turned to the agents, “would you kindly have a seat, you are bothering our guests.”

  “But sir—”

  “They obviously have no weapons; you made sure of that. I am also quite certain if they try to strangle me you would be more than capable of shooting them from across the room,” he turned back to Luthor with another smile, “do try not to strangle me, will you?”

  The agents slowly backed away from the circle of chairs.

  “Back to the matter at hand,” he continued, “this country, and the world, for that matter, owes each of you a remarkable debt. If not for you, not only would we not have any knowledge of the relevance of the 126th element, but any remnant of it would have been locked away in the bowels of a corrupt organization. As such, I am officially granting all of you a full pardon from any and all crimes incurred over the last month. I also spoke with Prime Minister Pollock today, and you will also receive pardons for any actions in the European Union.”

  Smiles and high-fives were shared between Luthor’s weary friends. Bill couldn’t high-five anyone, with his hand looking like a club, and the rest of them had at least one gauze-wrapped wound. Their victory had not come without considerable personal cost.

  “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Mr. President,” Luthor said, “but if you are so thankful, why didn’t you help us? Our entire time in North America we were alone, being hounded by carbon enforcement and the Sabers.”

  Jimenez closed his eyes, “unfortunately there are limits to my power. Even with all my advisors I simply didn’t know what was going on. I am truly sorry.” He spoke with a note of sincerity Luthor rarely heard in political discourse.