Braintrust- Requiem

by Marc Stiegler

  Dash smiled at her bright new student. “Precisely.”

  Quraish turned to Ping. “Empress, I mean, Ping, is this a good deal? Would you sign it?”

  Ping punched him gently on the shoulder. “Oh, yes, Quraish. In a few years, you’ll all be making a potful of money, if it works the way Dash thinks it will.” She shrugged. “And if it doesn’t work, Dash and her investors will be the ones who’re out of luck. You’ll be fine.”

  Quraish nodded. “I’ll need to talk to the elders, and everyone else for that matter. But I think they’ll agree.” He stared at the tablet. “Do you happen to have a paper copy of the contract? I don’t have a tablet.”

  Dash winced, then handed him her own device. “Take this one.” She held on to the tablet for a moment, making swift strokes. “Here’s a tutorial on how to use it.” She made some more strokes. “And here’s an explanation of how to use the camera to make a video recording that will constitute a legal document for the BrainTrust. You’ll need to get everyone to explain the deal in their own words and agree to it on camera before we can set you up.”

  Quraish smiled uncertainly. “This will be interesting.”

  Ping hit him on the shoulder again, a little more forcefully. “It’s gonna be great! I’m just thrilled to see this happening!”

  Fan frowned at the young man on the wallscreen. She had a vague memory that Ted Simpson had not always been such a confident, arrogant prick. Apparently, if you built an enormously successful business and then saved the world, it had negative effects on one’s humility.

  For a fleeting moment, Fan thought the same might be said of herself. That was the problem with receiving tutelage from Lenora Thornhill; she never missed an opportunity to make you question yourself.

  Fan pushed her long glossy hair back with a toss of her head and a flick of her wrist. “Ted, I assure you, no one’s going to steal your IP. I’m fixing all that.” She had every intention of forcing her homeland to conform to international standards for the protection of intellectual property for a very simple reason: she also had every intention of making China a global powerhouse in the creation of intellectual property. The world’s legal IP framework would then help them far more than it would hurt them.

  Ted just continued to smile at her, though a hint of skepticism shimmered in his gaze. “I look forward to seeing you successfully enforce IP law.” He leaned forward. “In the meantime, if you want me to build factories in China, you have to guarantee me sales of one million copters.” He shrugged. “I’ll even write into the contract that you get the rights to the IP.”

  Fan glared. “That’s an enormous number of copters.”

  Ted snorted. “It’s less than one copter for every thousand people. You know as well as I that a million copters will barely whet China’s appetite for fast travel all over the country.” He laughed. “Shucks, you probably have enough bureaucrats who’ll be able to justify them as government expenses that we can sell the first million to them.”

  Fan did not mention that when she was done, there would be a heck of a lot fewer bureaucrats collecting sweet perks. “If we do this, you better give me the state of the art plans for your best copters.”

  Ted just grinned widely. “Of course. Our top of the line machines, straight off today’s manufacturing line.”

  Fan stared at him, seeing the truth within. “You have a radically better design on the drawing boards already.”

  Ted just kept on grinning.

  Fan sighed. “Very well.” Even the current copter model would give the people of China levels of mobility unheard of in the West, where Ted’s copters were uniformly uncertified and banned.

  They talked for a few more minutes about the details. As they wrapped up, Ted gave her a pensive look. “I understand you also made it legal for anyone in China to own a car.”

  Fan nodded. “Yes, of course. It was always foolish to restrict cars. Now, when we must boost local demand just to stay afloat, it’s worse than foolish. It’s borderline treason.” A number of mayors had learned it was treason when they’d insisted on restricting car ownership against her wishes. She had not yet had to shoot any of them, presumably because they’d heard about the recalcitrant state-owned-enterprise CEOs.

  Ted nodded slowly. “Have you talked with the Baotong kids about the new car they invented?”

  Fan stared at him. “A new car?”

  Ted chuckled. “They’re working with Diab down with the Prometheus fleet on manufacturing it.”

  Fan shook her head. “A car? What does anybody on an isle ship want with a car?”

  Ted acknowledged her point. “Just for export.”

  “Dare I ask, what’s special about this car?”

  Ted explained, “It’s an all-electric car using graphene supercapacitors instead of lithium-ion batteries.”

  Fan scowled. “Who cares? The energy storage density is about the same from what I understand.”

  Ted nodded. “True. The supercapacitors are a lot lighter and a whole lot cheaper, but you still can’t go very far. However,” he leaned closer to the screen, “Diab has a new line of really small beta batteries. They put one in the car, and as the car drains the main batteries, the beta battery constantly trickles more charge to ‘em.”

  He waved his hands. “So you can make a really cheap car that goes a couple hundred miles before the power drain overwhelms the recharge rate. And then, if you’re stuck someplace with no recharge stations, no sweat. Just wait a few hours for the beta battery to charge the supercapacitors back up, and you’re good to go a bit farther.” He laughed. “You could drive that car for ten years without plugging in, although it makes more sense to hit a recharging station for fifteen minutes once in a while.”

  As Fan knew and Ted didn’t bother to explain, the supercapacitors could recharge at a fantastic rate, far faster than a lithium-ion battery, so you could get a full charge in a quarter of an hour. “You say they’re working with Diab? Who’re they getting for investors? Why didn’t they come to me?”

  Ted gave her a disbelieving look. “You’re kidding, right? You’re kinda intimidating, you know.”

  She pursed her lips. If she was so intimidating, why wasn’t Ted intimidated? Regardless, this was not an opportunity to miss. “I guess I’ll be talking to Diab, then.” She sighed. “And I’ll talk to the kids as well. See if I can get them, uh, un-intimidated.”

  Ted nodded. “You’ll want to talk to Nuan too. She’s the one orchestrating the venture as I understand it.”

  Fan groaned. Nuan was the Baotong elder who informally led the people who’d escaped their local petty bureaucracy by taking an emergency ride on a rocket to the BrainTrust.

  Now, Nuan was a most intimidating woman.

  As their copter came within visual range of the Prometheus fleet, Dash pointed at the F35D on the copter pad of the Mount Parnassus. “Is Toni here?”

  Ping winced before answering, “Yeah, Toni’s here.” She gave Dash her widest smile. “We have a proposition for you.”

  Dash’s heart fluttered. Ping was way too enthusiastic about whatever it was she had in mind. She twitched her nose. “Dare I ask what the proposition is about?”

  Somehow Ping’s smile managed to brighten even more. “Well, you remember when you bought Jam all that jewelry for First Launch, and you said it was a belated housewarming gift? And I said you would get me a housewarming gift later when I found something I really, really wanted?”

  Dash’s heart flutter returned.

  Dash quietly sipped her creamy-smooth chocolate milkshake. Shura had been right; the genetically engineered cocoa plants she’d developed produced the best chocolate ever, and in quantities that hadn’t been seen in a generation.

  As she sipped, she listened to Toni explain her situation. “So, part of the deal to let Rabi keep his job in the Egyptian Air Force was, my dad had to eject me from the Israeli Air Force.” During the Sky Rubola attack, Toni had helped Dash destroy Khalid, but to do so, she’d had to per
suade Captain Rabi el-Hasan to disobey orders, effectively making him a traitor. There had been talk of Rabi’s execution before cooler heads prevailed.

  Toni continued, “The bad news is that I’m out of a job.” She shrugged. “The good news is, Dad’s letting me keep my plane if I can find a good home for it.”

  Dash stopped sipping her milkshake. “So, you need a place where you can keep your plane? Shouldn’t you be talking to Ciara about that? She’s the one with the ships and copter pads, after all.”

  Ping bounced in her chair. “Oh, yeah, we already talked to Ciara about it, and she’s good to go. With the bots to do the maintenance and the 3D printers making most of the replacement parts, the upkeep shouldn’t be too expensive, and you never know when you’ll need a fighter plane.” She leaned forward. “But that’s not what we’re here to talk to you about. The Israelis have a second fighter just like Toni’s. You know, with a second cockpit for a weapons control officer.”

  Dash nodded. She’d sat in the back of Toni’s plane a couple of times when emergencies called for a fast trip where the SpaceR Global Express didn’t land.

  Toni picked up the thread. “The generals in Israel don’t like the two-cockpit fighters. Not maneuverable enough. They’ve been trying to get rid of them for a while.” Her face wrinkled in a sour expression. “Even though my plane was exactly the right fighter in exactly the right place when we needed to hunt Khalid.” She shrugged. “Bottom line, the second fighter is for sale. I can get you a really good price. An incredible price, actually.”

  Ping clapped. “Every girl should have her own supersonic fighter plane. It would be a great housewarming present.”

  Dash stared at her.

  Toni quoted a price—just a few million dollars.

  Dash swallowed. She certainly had enough money, but… “Oh, Ping, I’d love to give you a nice fighter plane, but all my money is tied up. This thing with Quraish, for example.”

  Ping gave her the sad, soulful look normally achieved only by the most sorrowful of hound dogs and all puppies.

  Dash closed her eyes. She could probably cut a deal with Keenan, a line of credit or some such, so she didn’t have to break into any of her long-term investments.

  Besides, what would Colin say? If she understood him half as well as she thought she did by now, he’d be delighted by the idea of acquiring a couple of first-class combat jets for the BrainTrust. Perhaps she and Colin together might be able to persuade Ciara or Amanda to split the costs.

  In the end, Dash gave Ping her most courageous smile. “Happy housewarming.”

  The Governor had done his best during these long miles to suppress his fear, but now, as his limo approached the White House, he found himself shivering.

  His car stopped before a modest-sized black gate with a cute little white guardhouse to the left. His followers, immense in number at this point, were lined up for miles behind him, but make no mistake, they were just following him. If that major Drew Moreno decided to open the door and pop him with a pistol, no one could stop him.

  The Governor had been expecting it for days.

  Now Moreno got out of the limo and waved at the guardhouse and a huge man came out. Oddly, he was the only person the Governor could see anywhere near. The man exchanged a few words with the major, went back to the gatehouse, and threw some switches.

  The gate swung majestically open. Major Moreno walked back to the leaders of the various units of troops escorting the Cavalry. An argument took place, which he won. Most of the troops added to the formation during the later phases of the trip withdrew to a considerable distance, leaving Moreno with his personal team in clear charge.

  Moreno waved to the driver of the limo—one of his troops—and the limo glided onto the White House grounds. The major and his men flanked it, grim yet terrifying with their armor and weapons.

  The first dozen cars of the Cavalry followed close behind before the big man from the gatehouse stepped out to block further entrance.

  Moreno pulled out his pistol as he opened the door for the Governor.

  The Governor shook. This was it.

  But not quite yet. The major waved at the doors to the White House. “In there. Get a move on.”

  Trembling, the Governor obeyed. The men in the Cavalry, those who had made it into the White House grounds, climbed out of their vehicles with their baseball bats and golf clubs, and in one case, a pitchfork. Moreno’s troops bristled but did not aim their weapons.

  Instead, the major and his people moved back to the gatehouse, and out the gate.

  The Governor continued to walk slowly toward the House. His followers, seeing no further threat, became increasingly excited. They broke into a run, and soon were shouting in their fury and hopes of triumph.

  The Oval Office, the Chief Advisor had noted many years earlier, was a great place for sex. He used it often.

  But at the moment, he was having trouble concentrating. The distraction was not Trixie, who was just doing her job. Trixie was the person he wanted to focus on.

  The distraction was the last conversation he’d had with the leader of his Secret Service detachment. The man had insisted even more stridently than usual that the Advisor announce a date for new elections.

  It was crazy. Even if the Advisor had had any intention of ever allowing the chaos of an election, he certainly wouldn’t hold it now. The plagues and the Crash had roiled the nation to a toxic brew of fear, rage, and panic. All this, the Secret Service had acknowledged when they accepted him as Acting President. They needed him to ensure some semblance of order for the foreseeable future.

  And still the man insisted on elections.

  The Advisor’s preoccupation with the Secret Service, his focus on Trixie’s efforts to help him relax, and the thick bulletproof glass that muffled all outside noise to a bare murmur prevented him from hearing the cheers ringing outside the building. He did not become aware of the disturbance until Trixie had finished.

  While Trixie got up off her knees, the Advisor went to the window. He gasped. “There’s a riot out there! They’re coming in!” He yelled for his Secret Service people.

  No one came.

  He ran to the door from the office to the corridor and shouted again.

  He was alone.

  Trixie came up next to him. She stated the obvious with some alarm. “They’re already inside the building, and they’re getting louder.”

  The Advisor spoke in near panic. “We’ll take the secret staircase.” He hustled the few steps to the wall panel installed for Ronald Reagan long ago.

  Trixie bit her lip. “Let me go first to make sure there’s nobody at the other end.” She pecked him on the cheek. “Give me a minute or so before you follow.”

  The Advisor let her go, then started pacing in a small circle.

  The sounds of intruders approached ever closer. Time was up. Through the secret door he plunged.

  The staircase led to a closet near his private elevator. His current plan was to hide in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center until some troops—any troops!—showed up and took control.

  But as he opened the closet door, he stopped suddenly. Trixie had disappeared. Instead, he faced a packed mob, led by a rustic with a pitchfork.

  The Advisor looked around wildly. As the men closed in, his last word was a plaintive cry. “Trixie!”

  7

  Overhaul

  Practical men who believe themselves to be quite exempt from any intellectual influence, are usually the slaves of some defunct economist.

  —John Maynard Keynes

  Lindsey Postrel had no business being in the United States. Various groups from both the Blues and the Reds had been trying for years to drag her into court to face lawsuits for publishing revelations associated with diverse scandals.

  But she had had a truly exceptional forger make up several new identities for her, including a RealID-enabled driver’s license.

  So Lindsey Postrel—which was to say, Lucy Palm
er—was now at the White House, attending the California Governor’s announcement of his Presidency.

  Yet another reporter asked the same question again. “So, when do you plan to hold elections?”

  The Acting President/Governor/Attorney General waved the question away once more. “All I can say is what I’ve already said. As soon as possible.” He licked his lips. “The Chief Advisor was right about one thing. Our great nation faces an existential threat. He invoked martial law throughout the country. I will keep martial law in effect until I have resolved the crisis.”

  More people raised their hands, but the Acting President disregarded them and took control of the conversation. “And with an eye to that end, I want to announce a number of laws and edicts that will help America get back on its feet.”

  The President’s eyes gleamed. “The first thing I’d like to announce is an increase in the minimum wage. It’s time those money-grubbers at places like Amazon paid some decent wages.”

  Lucy Palmer raised her hand. “I thought Amazon was declaring bankruptcy? Are you planning to bail them out?”

  The President snorted. “Not hardly. I mean, other companies like them.”

  Someone else asked, “How high is the new minimum wage?”

  The President shrugged. “It will be sixty percent of the national median wage, we’re doing a recomputation of what that is right now. This will put money into people’s pockets that they can spend and lift the country out of the hole the Chief Advisor left us in.”

  A number of the reporters, demonstrating their careful analytical attitude toward news, cheered. Lucy asked another question. “Will the new minimum wage be indexed to remain at sixty percent of the median?”

  The President nodded. “Of course.”

  Lucy followed up. “But if lowest wage is higher than the median, won’t that drive the median to a level higher than the minimum, which will force the minimum higher again? Isn’t it like legally requiring that all salaries be above average?”