by Toby Weston
“No idea,” said George. “Pritchard’s not taking any of this very well. We might have overpromised. You were telling me what happened…”
“Right. So we marched into the lounge and there was Keith. Just sitting there, cool as a fu…” Ben stopped himself. “…cool as a cucumber. The guys started waving their guns and I honestly thought we had him. Then shit just started flying everywhere. It was like a horror show. The guys were beating themselves with their own guns and Megrim shot himself in the head.” Ben looked to Shaun and George, gauging their reaction to his fanciful, but utterly factual, description.
“And the jets?” George asked.
“I’ve no idea. Didn’t look like it was anything to do with the crew that I could see. But thank fuck for whatever magic weapon they had, otherwise I would be fucking dead. They were shooting at us, Dad! How the hell did you let Pritchard shoot at me!”
“I tried to talk reason, Ben,” George said, and Ben thought that, for once, his father did look genuinely ashamed. “Lawrence is not taking this very well. He’s paranoid. I’ve just come from a meeting with him. He’s spoken to Niato. Apparently, the slippery eel is making out this might be a BHJ inside job. I’m not even sure Lawrence doesn’t believe him!”
“Because that twat Keith worked for us for a few months, fucking years ago?”
“Yes, and because he was apparently the closest thing you ever had to a best friend, Ben.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say best friend. I’d say that has always been my buddy Shaun, here.”
Shaun couldn’t find the words necessary to respond. He just stood staring at Ben like a brain-dead fish, mouth gaping.
“Whatever,” said George. “Save it for Lawrence. Shaun and the others are heading back to London.” He pressed on. “You’re coming with me. We’re going to see him. You can tell Lawrence what happened yourself. Tell him all about your dead-for-years nuclear bomber of a friend.”
“Shit. That doesn’t sound good,” Ben said. “Can you at least get me off this raft first? I’m not sure how long the batteries are going to last on this uplink. Also, it’s full of vomit and dead people.”
“That probably depends on how well you can convince Lawrence that this whole mess had nothing to do with you,” said George.
“But it didn’t!” Ben protested.
“I believe you, son. But somebody’s going to get blamed for your incompetence. At least you will have a chance to put forward your side of the story.”
“Dad! What are you talking about?”
“Good luck, Ben,” Shaun said as the amoeba began moving off again.
***
Knight, Butler, Dee and Keith walked with the King across the expanse of polished living rock, which was the Cat’s Cradle plaza. They skirted the massive dark column rising from its centre. At five kilometres high, the tower was already the tallest structure on the planet.
The group paused to let a mega-sized spider-mite march between them. The mechOid crossed the plaza and scuttled up the side of the tower. Keith tracked its deliberate progress, then cast his eyes further up, until scale became difficult to gauge. It appeared that columns of bugs were trudging up and down the logic-defying tower. Those journeying upward carried chunky blocks—the same shapes that could be seen tessellating within the smoothly curving walls at the base of the tower. At the growing spitz, five thousand metres up, the same blocks were being fitted together, the slight curve of each determining the geometry of the infinitesimally tapering cone.
The group let the oid through, giving Niato an opportunity for a little impromptu boasting.
“It’s already five thousand metres high,” he said. “The tunnelling will be done in two years...”
Keith’s Spex were happy to take Niato’s dialogue as a contextual cue and brought up overlays to show him the progress of the mechOids working within the mountain’s rocky rind; turning the rock transparent to show how the loose spiral was being cut through the volcano’s living flesh. Keith tutted the overlay away. He didn’t need a tourist presentation just now.
“The seabed track will join up with the Cat’s Cradle tower, making a seventy-kilometre launch tube,” continued Niato. “We’ll be releasing payloads at over ten kilometres a second…”
“Yeah. If any of this is still here in three years,” Keith grumbled.
“We will be ready when Bogdanova gets here!” Niato insisted, glaring severely at Keith.
The others were a little taken aback at Keith’s pessimism. They put it down to him being a little highly strung, joining as he was from the listing, crippled Xepplin, limping home packed with panicking passengers—
There had been a lot of incoherent screaming during the first few minutes as the wounded craft had plunged towards the sea. Automatic systems had kicked in immediately to patch the damage, and then emergency turbines had been engaged for thrust and to generate the megawatts of additional power suddenly required to keep the now heavier-than-air vessel minimally airworthy. They had managed to halt the slow, relentless drop just a couple of hundred metres above the waves, but the illusion of effortless flight was dispelled as turbines filled the interior with intolerable screaming.
The wounded Sky Whale used some of its auxiliary power to furiously flap three pairs of stubby wings. The remainder was running the vacuum pumps, which were slowly restoring buoyancy.
Calamity temporarily averted, the Xepplin’s stalwart crew had managed to restore some sense of normality.
The captain had taken their proximity to the water as an opportunity to throw out a raft and eject Ben and his surviving thugs. Keith had tried to protest; although he had been prepared to give them life jackets, he had insisted that a life raft was overly-generous.
Once the mechOid had passed, they set off again and entered the lobby through sliding glass doors. Keith took a seat in one of the retro, futuristic lounge chairs. Overhead, above the glass, thousands of carbon-fibre guy-lines converged on the tower. They were stretched taught in concentric circles, the cables forming complex braids. Some of their form was due to aesthetic considerations, but their primary purpose was to provide rigidity to the tower. They gave the Cat’s Cradle its name. The sun, low in the sky, shone through the wickerwork creating shadows, which sliced the room into thousands of trapezoid segments.
Niato had suggested the Cat’s Cradle techno-cathedral as a venue for the meeting; but, in an attempt at diplomatic humility, they had conceded to join Pritchard’s consensus instead. The invitation was for the King and an assistant to meet Pritchard alone, but Keith and a dozen or so others milling about in the plaza would be ghosting along for the ride.
***
As a nod to continuity, Dee and Niato materialise outside a door. The heavy, varnished oak is immediately opened by a man in a formal suit. As they pass him, something in his bearing or body language, some almost imperceptible flicker of expression, tells Dee this is a person. Here, being in a position to have a human doing the job of a machine is a sign of status; sentencing a sentient person to a lifetime of drudgery is an acceptable way of saying ‘I am better than you’.
Lawrence Pritchard had insisted that the meeting take place at his offices in London. The wood-panelled walls, subservient waiters, porcelain cups and fresh primroses in tiny glass vases enunciate ‘establishment’ so clearly that, at the last minute, Niato decides to play along and wear his crown.
Dee’s avatar is dressed in a perfectly conservative trouser suit, although her hair is still a little pinker than the ambient lighting should allow.
From the Forwards, only Lawrence Pritchard and George Baphmet are present. All have agreed that the meeting will be private and not be recorded—these conditions will, it is understood, be violated without hesitation by both sides. It doesn’t really matter, anyway; technology makes it trivial for either side to create a bimBoid doppelganger and have them deliver whatever horrendous, bloodthirsty, politically suicidal lines they are given.
The room is small. A round table
is set for six. Niato and Dee step towards their guests, who rise and shake hands politely.
“Tea?” George asks.
“Please,” Dee replies for the both of them.
Pritchard and Niato seem to be embarking on a staring contest. After an uncomfortable amount of time, Dee leans deliberately in front of them to break the sizzling eye contact and defuse some of the mounting tension.
Tea arrives. In Atlantis, the beverages are brought by a Chimp—appropriately skinned here by the Forward’s consensus, as a young woman in a black and white uniform.
The silence extends.
“Are you ready to discuss this civilly without throwing around fanciful, unfounded accusations?” Pritchard asks.
“We are ready to discuss,” Niato replies.
“Lawrence, if I may?” George Baphmet asks.
“Go ahead, George.”
“King Niato, I am not a bad man. I know you will probably disagree. And I admit, perhaps I am a little ungrateful for the privileges I have been handed over the years. But I built BHJ into what it is today.” Baphmet pauses, holding Niato’s attention, then continues. “Just like you took your grandfather’s fortune and built your own empire… No, no please let me finish,” he says, continuing relentlessly as Niato—predictably offended at being grouped in with the BHJ CEO—tries to protest. “We are men of action. Grown-ups. We both know how things work.” George pauses. “Do you know, this world is not as big as it was when I was a boy? I am old enough to remember a time when it was solid. It was something that would always be here, regardless of what the idiots who lived on it did. You’re probably too young to remember a world like that?”
“No, I remember.”
“Really? Yes, I did read that you had a very sheltered childhood. Perhaps your mother was able to keep the nasty truth away…”
Pritchard sneers. “We know the rest of this story. Little Niato learnt from a fish that people were bad and that the world needed to be punished…”
“Perhaps some people do need to be punished…” Niato begins, but Dee jumps in.
“That’s not our way...” she interrupts, but before she can finish, she is herself cut off.
“Not your way?” Pritchard interrupts incredulously. “Really? What about the thousands of eco-sinners in London? Did they need to be punished?”
Niato tries to reply, but Dee, playing the role of carbon rod in a fission-reactor, tries to change the subject. “Why are we here, Dr Pritchard?”
Pritchard is aware his anger is impacting his ability to function effectively. He looks to George Baphmet. There is a pause as signals bounce from Bäna to London, and then take the dogleg into space where George’s biological locus is orbiting the Earth; his communication delay varies between imperceptible and inconvenient.
“Let’s try and begin on something where we agree,” George attempts. “I think this is a good approach to reaching an understanding. What do you think, Your Majesty?”
“I will be surprised if we find a significant topic where we agree, but go ahead,” replies Niato.
“Thank you. So, can we say life is becoming more precarious?”
“I… Yes.” Niato is about to object, but then agrees.
“Because we keep inventing ways to destroy ourselves?” George asks.
“No, it is because we perpetuate inequality, subjugate the majorities, pollute the oceans and cover up our actions with endless programs of industrialised lying. You create this climate where people want to destroy the world and bring it all down!”
“Oh, come on, King Niato, don’t be so naïve,” Pritchard smarms. “People never need an excuse to cause havoc. You can’t deny that technology is the origin of the problems we are approaching.”
“I can grant you that technology amplifies our destructive behaviours.”
“So! We agree!” George says, grinning. “Now, I don’t mean this to sound harsh, but it seems to us that you want to solve these existential problems with yet more technology? Your Fabs and Mesh and Kites and Coins—this economics 2.0 you talk about—it puts frightening amounts of power into the hands of people nobody can vouch for or control. Isn’t that a recipe for anarchy?”
“We are widening the circle. Trying to spread the benefits of hundreds of generations of science beyond your one per cent of one per cent.” Niato leans forward and points to George. “Look at you! Talking to us from an orbital immortality spa, while they grow you a fresh new body. Who else can afford that? Only the oligarchs and the ultra-rich…”
“And the kings, of course,” Pritchard adds coldly.
Niato sits back, folds his arms and glowers at the politician. “We need to reimagine a future for humanity with a better tagline than increasing shareholder value!”
“But, as a side effect, you accept the risks that come with giving bombs to toddlers?” asks Pritchard. “Aren’t you concerned that you might end up destroying the world in the process? Perhaps one nuclear accident at a time?”
“To build utopia you need to break some eggs,” Niato tries, but it sounds hollow. “How many have you killed with your Razzia secret police? Or through suicide? People have nothing else!”
Dee tries to slow Niato’s increasing agitation, but he will not be shushed. “If you continue engineering away desires that don’t fit with your business models, there will be nothing left! Just a planet of zombies fucking away at soulless gynOids! You deliver no growth, no change! Your best-case scenario is ten thousand years of stagnation followed by some catastrophe that will annihilate humanity anyway.”
“Right. So perhaps there is room for compromise?” George asks.
Niato looks at George Baphmet sceptically.
“King Niato, we would very much like you to join our Forward Coalition,” George continues.
“Ha! Compromise!”
“Hear him out, Your Highness. This is your last chance,” Lawrence Pritchard says, leaning forward, projecting an icy dread.
“We will give New Atlantis jurisdiction of all the Forward Island republics,” George says, reading from what looks like a physical piece of paper he has picked up from the table. “Responsibility for three hundred thousand square kilometres of land; three million square kilometres of sea; twenty million people. Atlantis retains its status as a free state, but with some itsy-bitsy concessions: tweaks to international intellectual property law; small conditions concerning access by our media and network companies, that type of thing.”
“Let me guess,” replied Niato. “No more Mesh? Mandatory propaganda? And a gun under the table pointing at my balls to make sure I don’t speak out of line?”
“But on the upside, you get a success story to sell to your citizens, and we don’t have to nuke you from the face of God’s Earth,” Pritchard says, his words dripping malice. “You see, King Niato? It’s win win!” His smile is one of the most truly revolting things Dee has ever seen.
Before Niato can reply, George jumps in. “Please don’t say anything rash now, Your Highness. Have your teams take a look at the fine print and get back to us…”
“Nothing rash!? You p...” says Niato. However, he does not finish, because Dee pulls the plug, quitting them both out of consensus.
“Sorry! Don’t blame me!” she says defensively. “I just didn’t want you to say something you might regret later…”
“I don’t blame you,” Niato says coldly, staring at something very far away.
***
“Will he take the offer?” Pritchard asks.
They are still in Pritchard’s London office; hidden observers have been unmuted.
“I’m not sure…” George begins.
“I wasn’t talking to you. What does your son think?” Pritchard interrupts. “He hasn’t said anything yet...” He turns to Ben. “You met him, didn’t you? Spent time on that island with your friend, the mass murderer…”
“A long time ago,” Ben answers haltingly. He is still remoting in from the life raft. Thinking is hard, talking is worse; a
constant struggle against the urge to vomit. “He is very… idealistic. But… he seemed like a reasonable kind of guy. Excuse me.”
Pritchard looks on in fascination as Ben’s avatar begins, and then prematurely aborts, a vomiting pantomime.
“I’d say he will,” Ben answers finally, composing himself again. “Maybe,” he adds.
“Christ!” Pritchard barks. “You’re no use! You’ve no conviction, have you!?”
“You!” Pritchard then points to one of the Sages. Several are standing at the perimeter of the little huddle. They are dressed to definite stereotypes—one in a business suit; another in a casual V-neck jumper; one looks like a libertarian—what George would call a Pinko. By convention, their attire and grooming identify the archetype templates their cognition conforms to. The one Pritchard has singled out is dressed in a military uniform, without insignia or identification.
