The Golden City

by John Twelve Hawks

  “No. It’s all right. I can fix it.”

  Ana turned the truck over and began to scrape sand away from the dumping mechanism. When she looked up again, Roberto and one of the boys had disappeared, but the third boy still lingered in the doorway.

  The second boy came out of the park building, but Roberto wasn’t with him. A minute or so passed until the fear switch clicked in Ana’s brain. She stood up and asked the blond nanny to watch Cesar for a minute, please. She strolled past the swings to the dead grass. The two little boys had been standing near the doorway were coming toward her, but when she asked—”Where’s Roberto? Where’s my son?”—they shrugged their shoulders like they didn’t know his name.

  She reached the open doorway of the park building and peered inside. The basketball room had a polished wooden floor and two baskets—a hollow room with echoes bouncing off the bare walls. Two half-court games were being played: one involved two teams of El Salvadorans, and the other game was between a group of teenage boys with bushy hair and slogans on their T-shirts.

  “Have you seen my son?” She said in Spanish to an older El Salvadoran man. “He’s a little boy wearing a blue jacket.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t see anyone,” the man answered. But his skinny friend stopped dribbling the basketball and approached her.

  “He went out that door a few minutes ago. There’s a water fountain out there.”

  Ana hurried down the center line of the basketball court as the games continued on either side of her. When she walked out of the doorway on the north side of the building she found a small parking lot and the street. Ana took a few steps forward and looked in every direction, but she couldn’t see her son.

  “Roberto,” she said quietly, almost like a prayer, and then a feeling of panic overwhelmed her and she began to scream.

  34

  T he first step in the sequence of events leading to Mrs. Brewster’s death was announced by a soft beep and a text message on Michael’s handheld computer. Mrs. Brewster was staying at Wellspring Manor House and a security guard there was watching her movements.

  Michael was four thousand miles away from South England, sitting in one of the resident suites at the research center outside of New York City. Wearing a terrycloth bathrobe, he finished his coffee and read the message: Mrs. B. to Porthreath Airport this evening.

  A spy program had been placed in all of Mrs. Brewster’s computers—Michael had been reading her email for the last three weeks. The moment he took control of the Evergreen Foundation, she had criticized his decisions and organized a small opposition group. In the Fifth Realm, Mrs. Brewster would have been torn apart on a public stage. But Michael didn’t want to cause dissent within the Brethren. Mrs. Brewster would die discretely, without a visible executioner.

  Michael saw himself as an author creating different stories in countries around the world. Mrs. Brewster’s little story was about to end, but he had invented far more elaborate narratives. First there would be a criminal action or a terrorist attack, then a period of growing tension and instability. Finally, there would be a solution—offered by the Evergreen Foundation or one of their surrogates. The introduction of the Panopticon would give each story a happy ending.

  In California, fourteen children were missing. In Japan, envelopes of anthrax had been sent to the Emperor and other members of the royal family. In France, a mysterious terrorist group had set off bombs in three major art museums. While these threats dominated the news cycle, three new stories would be introduced—in Australia, Germany and the Great Britain. The message of all these stories was simple and clear: there was no safe place in any country.

  * * *

  Michael took a shower, and then sent a reply to the guard at Wellspring Manor. Tell me when she leaves. When he was dressed, he strolled across the quadrangle to the Kennard Nash Computer Center. Michael had a full security clearance for every room in the building; sensors detected the Protective Link chip implanted beneath his skin and doors opened as if he owned the world.

  He entered the lobby and Dr. Dressler hurried out to greet him. “It’s wonderful to see you, Mr. Corrigan. I was told that you might be leaving today.”

  “That’s right. I’m flying to California to give a speech.”

  Dressler led Michael into the control room, where Dr. Assad was studying graphs on a monitor. She pushed a lock of black hair beneath her head covering and smiled shyly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Corrigan.”

  “I was told that our friends in the Fifth Realm had sent us some more data.”

  Dr. Assad swiveled her chair around. “It’s a design for a radically new computer. The system is quite unlike anything in this world.”

  “In the beginning, computers were simply computational,” Dressler explained. “Now they’re learning how to think like human beings. This would be the third evolution—a machine that would seem to be omniscient.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “In school we were taught that it’s impossible to calculate any phenomenon that involves a large number of factors. If a butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazon rain forest, then this slight disturbance in the atmosphere could conceivably trigger a long series of events that eventually becomes a hurricane. But this new machine has the power to simultaneously process an immense variety of factors. In some ways, it would have total knowledge.”

  “So what’s the different between this computer and god?”

  The two scientists glanced at each other. It was clear that they had discussed the idea. “God created us,” Dr. Dressler said softly. “This is just a machine.”

  “Can you build one?”

  “We’re assembling a design team,” Dr. Assad said. “Meanwhile there have been some new messages.” She motioned to a work station, and Michael sat down in front of a monitor. “As you can see, they want you to return to their world.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m busy right now,” Michael said. “That’s not going to happen.”

  His handheld computer beeped, and he read the text message: Mrs. B. in her car. Going to airport. When Michael was in England, he had taken a car from Wellspring to Portreath Airport. It took about an hour to get there. Quickly, he erased the message and called his driver.

  “Get my luggage from the visitor suite, then contact the charter company at the airport. Tell them that I’m on my way.”

  He was annoyed to see that Dr. Dressler was still hovering around the work station. The scientist was a like a child who desperately wanted to be invited to the party.

  “They sent another message this morning, Mr. Corrigan. It’s there on the second page: Remember the story. What story are they talking about?”

  “I described our current civilization to our new friends. It was clear to them that complicated ideas are no longer valued by our media or the general population. Take a look around you, Dr. Dressler. Is anyone reading political manifestos these days? How many people would sit still to listen to a lengthy, sensible speech about our current problems? This world is moving fast, and our consciousness has mirrored that reality.”

  “But what’s the story we’re supposed to remember?”

  “As ideas lose their power, stories and visual images become more and more important. Leaders offer competing stories, and this is what passes for political debate. Our friends are reminding me to create a powerful story. Let the tension build for awhile and then tell a new story that offers a solution.”

  Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the back of a limousine being driven to the airport. Cherry trees were flowering in the suburban countryside and their pink blossoms trembled as the car raced down the two-lane road.

  Remember the story. Well, he could do that. The news articles he was getting from California showed that everyone was frightened. Parents were keeping their children home from school, and the police kept arresting the wrong suspects. With one decisive move, he had created a crisis that motivated people to enter an invisible prison. Once everyone was inside, a Traveler would watch them and guide their lives.

  Michael saw his face reflected in the tin
ted glass and turned away. Who was he these days? The question kept drifting through his thoughts. The only way he could define himself was by thinking of others. He wasn’t his father—and he certainly wasn’t Gabriel. Both of them worried about small things, what a particular person did or said. But most individuals weren’t important in the grand narrative of history. For gods and great men, the world was a blank page to be filled with their own vision.

  The limousine entered the airport through a side gate and stopped at a building where charter pilots filed their flight plans. A six-passenger jet was waiting on a side runway while the maintenance crew inspected its landing gear.

  “Tell the pilot to get everything ready,” Michael said. “I need about five minutes to finish some business.”

  “Very good, Mr. Corrigan.” The driver took Michael’s luggage from the trunk and carried it over to the plane.

  Michael switched on his notebook computer and used a sat phone to reach the Internet. Ten days ago, he had told his staff in Britain to register all of the Evergreen Foundation vehicles with a British company called Safe Ride. Now Mrs. Brewster’s Jaguar sedan was connected to the company’s computers. The Safe Ride staff could give travel directions to Mrs. Brewster, unlock the car doors if she misplaced her keys and track her vehicle if it was stolen.

  It took only a few seconds to find the Safe Ride website and enter a code that allowed him to access the tracking system. Typing in the Jaguar’s registration number brought up a satellite photograph of the Cornwall coast. And suddenly, there it was: Mrs. Brewster and her driver were a little red dot traveling on the B3301 rural highway.

  Typing quickly, Michael put the local British time in one corner of the screen—it was 7:38 in the evening. Mrs. Brewster was rushing to the Portreath airport to meet the head of Argentina’s top anti-terrorism unit. The Young World Leaders program connected her to police and military staff in dozens of countries. When these powerful men flew into the local airport, Mrs. Brewster was waiting for them, all charm and smiles.

  Michael pushed his cursor across the monitor screen. He followed the route to the airport, noting where the narrow coastal road came close to the sea cliffs. The images provided by the GPS satellite were amazing. He could see bridges and beaches, towns and farmhouses. A request for more information created another box on the screen; now he knew the exact speed of the car and the fact that an authorized key was in the ignition. Mrs. Brewster had spent most of her life trying to establish the Panopticon. We’re almost there, Michael thought. And you’re the one being watched.

  The red dot passed through the town of Gwithian and reached the coast road. Michael quickly scrolled back and forth across the screen, and then made his choice. He accessed a second website set up by Nathan Boone’s technical staff that allowed him to control radio chip devices. A day earlier, his contact at Wellspring had opened the Jaguar’s hood and placed an explosive squib on the car’s power steering fluid container and a second squib on the car’s brake line. Both squibs were small—about the size of an American penny—and would leave no trace once they exploded.

  Figuring a ten to fifteen second lag time, he set off both explosives. Michael wondered what it was like inside the car. Too bad there wasn’t a spy cam. The driver would suddenly realize that the steering wheel no longer responded to his touch. Perhaps his foot slammed onto the pedal, but nothing happened. Was there a moment of panic? Was there time to scream as the car smashed through a guard rail and glided downward into the sea?

  On his computer screen, the little red dot veered off the road, traveled across a thin patch of cliff and then disappeared. Michael turned off the notebook computer, closed it with a snap, and got out of the car. The pilot and his driver were waiting for him like an honor guard as he strolled across the tarmac to the plane.

  35

  T hree sea gulls sat on the edge of a railing and contemplated the half-eaten breakfast on a serving tray. Michael waved his hand at them—go away—but the birds weren’t intimidated. Finally he took a piece of muffin and threw it at the ocean. The birds squawked, glided downward, and immediately began squabbling with each other.

  He was sitting on the balcony of a three-room hotel suite in West Los Angeles. If he turned slightly to the right, he looked out at beach, ocean, and blue horizon. Young men played volleyball, flinging themselves across the sand, while a girl wearing a bathing suit and roller skates practiced her figure eights on the pedestrian path. Michael sat above it all in a padded chair with a thermos of coffee. The volleyball players and the girl on roller skates had no idea what was about to happen. In three or four weeks, almost every child in California would be part of the Panopticon.

  Michael switched on his computer and checked his messages from the different teams working for the Special Projects Group. The anthrax scare in Japan had caused a wave of hostility toward immigrant workers and other foreigners. In France, a new law was being proposed that required a biometric ID card for anyone for wished to enter a government building, a school or a museum.

  New threats were being introduced in three other countries. In Australia, a toxic chemical had been placed in a shipment of oranges that were being sent to regional grocery stores. Two Catholic priests had been assassinated in South Germany and an unknown Turkish group had claimed credit. In Great Britain, a car bomb was about to go off after an FA Cup match in Manchester.

  The half gods had taught him that fear was much easier to sell than tolerance and respect for freedom. Most people were brave only when they saw others taking a stand, and that wasn’t going to happen this time. Fear had a strong constituency—those government leaders who realized that the changes would increase their own power.

  The door to the suite clicked open and he heard a woman’s voice. “Mr. Corrigan! It’s Donna!”

  “I’m out here.”

  Donna Gleason pulled the sliding glass door open and stepped onto the balcony. Although she had spent the last ten years in sunny Los Angeles, the public relations consultant was famous for only wearing black. She had very short hair and looked like a nun with a clipboard.

  “I just talked to the president of the Los Angeles Press club. Normally, they fill half the auditorium for these lunch-time presentations, but this event has broken all the rules.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  Donna sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of coffee. She talked very quickly, as if everything had to be delivered in 30-second sound bites. “Three television stations are sending camera crews and there will be reporters from Internet sites, radio stations and the print media. Everyone was asking me about the title of your speech: ‘Save Our Children.’ I’ve told them that you’ll start talking at lunch and will be famous by suppertime.”

  Michael carefully examined Donna’s face and saw no signs of deceit or insincerity. In the last few months, he had learned a great deal about the media experts who shaped and packaged images. The good ones had a special talent; if you paid them enough, they became true believers. He wondered what would happen if he pulled out a rifle and announced that he needed to shoot the dangerous skaters and bicyclists on the beach path. Donna might have a difficult transition period, but eventually she would convince herself—yes, it really was a good idea.

  “When do we leave?”

  “Let me check on that.” She turned to the open doorway and screamed. “Gerald! Preston!”

  Donna’s two assistants reminded him of Scottish terriers, one white and one black. Clutching cell phones, the young men appeared in the doorway.

  “Time of departure?”

  “We should leave in ten minutes,” Gerald said. “They eat a box lunch at twelve-thirty and the speech is scheduled for one o’clock.”

  “Anything else we need to know?”

  “Mr. Boone has arrived with one of his men,” Preston said. “He wanted to know if you require a security presence.”

  “Yes. Have them wait in the hallway.”

  Donna leaned forward. She had three styles of speaking: shrill, flirtatious and confidential. This
was definitely her confidential tone of voice. “I’m sure your speech will be brilliant, Mr. Corrigan. But these days it’s all about the visuals. Gerald and Preston installed the video monitors and put up the photographs, but we need something more. It would be great if you could hug one of the mothers ”

  * * *

  The Los Angeles Press Club held their events at a shabby auditorium on Hollywood Boulevard. Every seat appeared to be taken, and the members of the Press Club gossiped with each other while nibbling on potato chips and cheese sandwiches. A dais had been set up on stage, and the club’s officers sat behind a long table looking self-conscious. Earlier that day, Gerald and Preston had hung up large photographs of the fourteen missing children. Their cheerful faces didn’t bother Michael. Children died every day, but these deaths were going to have a larger significance.

  Donna guided Michael onto the dais and introduced him to the president of the press club. The meeting began a few minutes later. Donna had written the president’s speech, and it included a glowing description of Michael’s career path—all of it fictitious. A month earlier, the Evergreen staff had created his past, giving him a series of impressive jobs with non-profit organizations that were controlled by the Brethren. It was doubtful that anyone would check the facts. But, if they did, false information had been placed on various websites.

  There was light applause, and the president sat down. As the lost children grinned behind him, Michael took a sip of water and stood behind the podium. He gazed out at hundreds of faces—some curious, some bored. Nathan Boone stood in a side aisle with a sullen look on his face. Michael decided that Boone’s story would come to an end during the next few weeks.

  “I want to thank the press club events committee for inviting me here today. As we drove down Hollywood Boulevard on our way to the auditorium, I asked my friend, Donna Gleason, what kind of reception I might receive at this event. Donna told me you could be a tough audience and that I’d better say something significant.”