Lindsey smiled at Dash, then smiled at the cameras. “Well, I’d say we all have some very fine food for thought. Let’s leave it there and pick up next week, when we’ll have even more to chew on.”
In most of the Western world, the Great Crash was the topic of the day. Ironically, in the Great State of California, where a preview to the Crash had started well over a year earlier, the focus was on a more local matter. Global economic systems might come and go, but it was just money. Political power? That was important.
The Attorney General of the Great Blue State of California stood on the podium above his adoring fans, waving his hands. The fanaticism of his people was similar to the zealousness with which the President for Life’s followers once cheered for him. Of course, if you pointed this out to the AG, he would deny it. He would say his followers’ passion was the result of thoughtfulness. He would think the real difference was that he deserved it because he was a true Man of the People, whereas the PfL had been a fraud.
The AG waited for the crowd to quiet a little, then began. “I humbly accept the post of Governor which you have bestowed upon me.”
Actually, he was irritated by how long it had taken to bestow the title. The former governor (a great man, God bless his soul) had died of Black Rubola, and the lieutenant governor had died of the Sky Rubola that had been dispensed from suborbital missiles.
Both the Governor and the Lieutenant Governor were in some sense responsible for their own deaths. Citing the infringement of liberty involved, when Sky Rubola rained gently down, the Lieutenant Governor had refused to declare martial law to keep people off the streets and out of contact with one another until the BrainTrust developed a vaccine and a cure. Consequently, large numbers of members of the Hollywood set (”I just need one little meeting with my agent”) and members of the state Assembly and Senate (”I just need one little meeting with an important constituent”) fell to the plague that fell from the sky. The lieutenant governor joined them.
The original governor’s error had been to listen to the AG when the AG said they should reject the BrainTrust vaccine, although the AG no longer remembered it that way.
At this point, the AG—now officially the Governor—had bigger fish to fry. A critical moment in history had come upon him, and he saw the need to lead California to a greater destiny. “But as you all know, history waits for no man, and no state.” He pointed to the east. “The President is dead! The time has come for elections!”
The crowd roared.
The Governor roared back. “The Chief Advisor claims no elections are needed. He is trying to take the country from us by force! But we shall take the country from him!”
Another roar washed through Sacramento.
“I shall lead the march to Washington! There we shall take control, and make America as great as California! Equality shall reign throughout the nation! Who’s with me?”
The Governor marched to his limo through the cheering crowd. Once safely inside, his motorcade started to move slowly toward the expressway as his social media campaign urged the people of California, and the people of all the true Blue states, to hop into their cars and join the Governor’s Cavalry as it headed for I-80E to cross the nation and impose their will.
3
Civil War
We must not let our rulers load us with perpetual debt.
—Thomas Jefferson
The Chief Advisor had never heard of a Schelling point. He would not have appreciated the math in any case. But like the government bureaucrats of ancient China, he understood at the primal level where survival instincts kick in that the Governor’s Cavalry represented an existential threat.
A geek might have said it was yet another Schelling point in a week when an astonishing number of Schelling points had coalesced into spontaneous coordination, but you know how geeks are. Years would pass before a team of BrainTrust math nerds working with Dark Alpha 97 would coin the term “Schelling Cascade” to explain this moment in history.
In any event, like the ancient Chinese before him, the Advisor set forth to disrupt the Governor’s Cavalry before it became a deadly rallying point.
He spoke to the handful of reliable media reporters from BreitTart and Coyote News seated with him in the Oval Office. “With this signature, I declare martial law throughout the United States.” He signed with a flourish.
He felt a moment of giddiness. He’d always wanted to declare martial law—to take full power into his own hands, the kind of power true autocrats took as their due. If the circumstances weren’t so dire, he’d be enjoying it.
Regardless, he took considerable satisfaction in his next words. “I now declare the Governor of California’s so-called Cavalry an illegal assembly. I have dispatched a Marine contingent to take the Governor into custody on the charge of treason. I urge the local police to detain him and his followers at the earliest possible moment.” He looked the reporters in the eye. “And now, I have much to do. That is all.”
As the reporters departed, Trixie, his admin, sashayed in. “You already dispatched Marines?”
The Advisor shook his head. “But I’m about to.” His voice turned sour. “Before I do, I thought I should soothe my Secret Service team. They seem to be in need of constant care these days.”
In the hours since the White House Riot, hours that had grown now into almost two days, the Secret Service had muddled its way through a great deal of difficulty.
Once the President for Life was declared legally dead, they had turned to the Vice President. However, the Vice President had been picked by the Chief Advisor for his special qualifications. In other words, the VP was eighty-five and suffered from severe dementia. Half the time, he couldn’t even recognize his wife.
So, once the VP was formally sworn in, the Cabinet had unanimously voted him unfit for office. The Cabinet followed up by unanimously voting for the Chief Advisor as the next in line for succession. This went against the strict interpretation of the law, but to eliminate further turmoil, the Secret Service had agreed. It had been some time, after all, since strict interpretation of the law in contravention of the Advisor’s desires had been a thing. The nineteen-member Supreme Court, with ten selected specifically for their loyalty to the President and the Advisor, would surely agree to this interpretation once they took it under consideration.
The Service’s agreement had, however, been surly at best. The Advisor needed to make sure, practically decision by decision, that they understood he was operating in the best interests of the country.
Trixie settled on his lap. “You should send that major from Lafayette Park to get the Governor.”
The Chief Advisor—now the Acting President, he reminded himself—started moving his hands over Trixie’s personal parts. “The one who got shot? He’s still in the hospital.”
Trixie writhed against him. “No, silly. The other one. The one with the really high loyalty ratings.”
The Advisor’s eyes brightened. “Oh, right. Great idea, if I could just remember his name.”
Trixie leaned over and nibbled his ear lobe. “That’s why you have me. To remember all the little details. His name is Drew Moreno. Major Drew Moreno.”
Wolf sat up stiffly in the bed of the hotel outside Washington DC. Jonathan’s wife Melissa carefully handed him a cup of coffee. He thanked her, then continued, “So, I’m ok to travel, Doc?”
Melissa grunted. “More or less. You should still see a real doctor.”
Wolf winced as he shifted the wrong way. “The real doctors around here are all way too busy with the people with serious injuries from the riot, as you know.” He sipped the coffee.
Jonathan offered, “Need a ride? Goin’ home soon as you’re up and about.”
Wolf looked at him pensively. “Thanks, but I suspect I’m not done here quite yet. I told you that major outside the White House was a friend of mine?”
Jonathan nodded.
“Well, I suspect he’s going to need my help.” Wolf winced again
as he breathed the wrong way.
Melissa frowned. “You’re going to have a nasty scar running down your back. It’s going to be stiff for a long time. You sure you don’t want to see a doctor?”
Wolf waved it away. “I think they can fix me when I get back to the BrainTrust.”
Melissa relented. “They probably can at that.”
Wolf’s look turned pensive again. “You do realize, things are going to get worse throughout the country before they get better, right?”
This met with stony silence.
“If you want, I can probably get you a place on the BrainTrust. What do you do for a living, anyway?”
Jonathan answered reluctantly. “Drill wells.”
Wolf nodded. “Oil wells, huh? Sounds both lucrative and useful.”
Melissa laughed. “Don’t I wish.”
Jonathan added, “Water.”
Melissa, knowing her husband would not elaborate in any useful way, explained. “Jonathan doesn’t drill for oil, Mr. Griffin. He drills for water. In the high desert of Arizona, that’s a lot more valuable than oil.” She sighed. “But it doesn’t pay anywhere near as well. Understand that Selman—our town—is a pretty hardscrabble place. No one makes a lot of money, and lots of folks live on fixed incomes. Everybody needs water, but they can’t afford to pay a lot for it.”
Wolf nodded. “Well, I can look around for jobs for you.” He brightened. “You know, there’s a mining company with one of our archipelagos. They might have a use for someone who knows how to drill.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Customers need me. And we’re pretty far out.” He cast his gaze out the window as if viewing the entire nation. “Nothin’ here’s gonna affect us there.”
Wolf hoped nothing would burst his charming bubble. He pointed at his suitcase. “Poke around in there. You should find a couple spare cell phones.”
Melissa rummaged, then came up with a phone.
Wolf nodded. “Take that. If things change and you need to start over, I’m on speed dial. We’ll see what we can do.”
Jonathan gave him another short jerk of a nod.
Melissa touched his hand. “We’ll be leaving, then.” She looked at her new phone. “I promise we’ll call if we need you.”
Once a month, Empress Ping took up residence in the Porto Novo Palace to wrestle with matters of state so weighty that her second in command, Rubinelle, felt obligated to delegate them upward for the attention of the sovereign.
At the moment, the Empress sat in an Aeron chair at the nominal head of the round table. Even though the table was round, everyone knew Ping’s chair was at the head of the table because it sat just below the enormous imperial throne Ping refused to use, although Rubinelle kept trying to force her into it by forgetting at every meeting to bring out the Aeron chair until Ping expressly ordered its inclusion.
Jam, seated on Ping’s right, remained as withdrawn and disinterested in her surroundings as she had seemed since returning from the battle with Khalid. Getting to that battle had taken an incredible toll on Jam, a toll she had not yet risen above. Ping poked her periodically, so far to no avail.
Ciara, seated to Ping’s left, finished her presentation. “We’re making good progress getting Accel onto all the tablets and phones throughout Benin.” She shook her head. “As usual, some of the most impoverished children are the hungriest for education. Some of those kids are on Accel every minute of the day except when the software throws them out.” The Accel Educational Framework detected when the student had been studying too long and was too tired to continue efficiently. It then forced them to take a break, carefully managing the process to maximize the student’s velocity through the materials.
Oziegbe observed, “Probably more would push the limit, but some of them have jobs and chores to do.”
Rubinelle frowned. “Just as well. Accel is costing us a fortune.”
Ciara stared at her. “Which will pay off phenomenally in the long term.”
Ciara had wound up becoming the architect of the evolving principles being used to redevelop the country. For a wild moment, upon realizing that post-dictatorship Benin was practically a blank slate, she’d considered building an anarcho-capitalist community based on the book Machinery of Freedom.
When she had talked with Colin about it, he’d subdued her enthusiasm. He’d explained, “Unfortunately, the societal infrastructure you’d need to build before you could start on the physical infrastructure Benin needs is rather daunting. Best to conduct these libertarian experiments someplace smaller that already has a high-tech base.”
He’d gone on, “As it happens, a couple of libertarian acquaintances of mine have just bought a pair of isle ships for the very purpose of pursuing this bit of research. I recommend you let them be the guinea pigs.” His voice turned dry. “After all, if something goes wrong for them, they’ll have no problem recovering.”
Next she’d considered a corporate dictatorship like the BrainTrust. Colin didn’t offer much encouragement for that, either. “A system built for a tiny set of the world’s most brilliant engineers will probably not translate very well to a much larger nation where the ability to read is considered a significant attainment.”
In the end, Ciara’d given up all the theories and gone for the kind of simple economic pragmatism that had done so well for Hong Kong in the early years of British rule: keep the government small and simple, just big enough to invest in those activities with the highest positive externalities and strongest network effects—in Benin’s case, decent roads, judicial fairness, and basic education.
Which brought Ciara back to thinking about Rubinelle’s criticism of the current situation.
Rubinelle shrugged. “I’m sure you’re right and all that education will pay handsome dividends eventually, but there’s much else to do in the short term as well, and it all takes money.”
Ping joined Ciara in looking at Oziegbe, the other big spender in the room.
Oziegbe brought up a map on the wallscreen showing new roadwork in green. “As you can see, we’ve gotten a good network of roads into the southwest.” He pointed at the beginnings of a new network running north from the capital to the center of the country. “We’ve moved on to build out the infrastructure up to Torou Airport.” SpaceR had used the airport to land a seized FBI/Air Force spaceplane. The spaceplane was still stuck there, although once the Titan launch pads were finished, they’d be able to fly it again.
Oziegbe added, “We’re moving as fast as we can.”
Rubinelle noted dryly, “And spending money as fast as he can, too.”
Oziegbe waved a finger at her dismissively. “Our work crews are half bots, half humans. Those are the most cost-effective roads ever built.” He defended himself further. “As you all know, we have to get those roads in. Matt and SpaceR are trying to build a spaceport and a rocket manufacturing center at the airport, as well as a nuclear power plant that can supply the electricity for lots of additional businesses.” It would be the second power plant in the country, the Chocolate Grange having already bought one. “He’ll be employing an enormous number of people once we get all the heavy gear up there.” He finally conceded, “But we are spending money as fast as we can.”
Ping rolled her eyes. “Which brings us to revenues. Those can only go up if people can create wealth we can tax. Which brings us to property rights, both the establishment and enforcement thereof.” She turned to the wallscreen, which displayed the member of her team upon whom she most depended at this juncture. “Joshua?”
Joshua sighed.
Joshua’s situation was his own fault, and he acknowledged his guilt. It had all started when he’d mediated for Ping for her brutal treatment of the old Benevolent Advisor. Upon concluding that Ping had, even if accidentally, wound up ruling the country, he had demanded that she learn about economics and law. He had also demanded she study an obscure paper from the previous century on how to rapidly uplift countries by outsourcing critical infrastructure, no
tably the system of justice, to implement and enforce property rights.
Much of the blame for Joshua’s predicament could be traced to the brilliant Peruvian economist Hernando de Soto, who demonstrated with meticulous research in the late 80s that the poor people of the world had trillions of dollars of assets. However, these assets were “informal,” i.e., not recognized by the governments. Those assets were not “owned” by anyone, according to the bureaucrats, even when they were apartment buildings in city centers identical to and adjacent to other apartment buildings that were formally recognized as valuable.
Without formal recognition, the owners could not treat their assets as capital and thus could not borrow against them. The owner of a machine shop could not borrow enough money to buy a new arc welder that would have enabled him to dramatically improve his business. The result was an economy stuck in neutral.
Then in 2003 a Silicon Valley software geek, drunk on logic and driven mad by the power of deductive reasoning, published a paper observing that you could digitally bypass the governments by outsourcing property rights management and enabling the mediation of disputes by trusted third parties who resided beyond the grasp of the corrupt local governments.
That insight had created a short-lived stir among both liberal and conservative activists. It then lay dormant until Joshua insisted Ping read the paper. Joshua had figured it wouldn’t have any consequences except to make Ping’s head explode.
How wrong he had been. He recalled the consequences rebounding into his life clearly.
By the side of the bed, Joshua’s phone played No Diggety, the Anna Kendrick version. He groaned. With his eyes still closed, he grasped the offending device. “Ping. It’s the middle of the night. You simply must learn to call at a decent time.” His eyes shot open and he snapped to an upright position when he remembered the last time Ping had called like this. “Please, you haven’t done anything like the last time you called me at an obscene hour, have you? Jam was supposed to stop you.”
Braintrust- Requiem Page 5
