by John Bromley
Lt. Dario “Dirk” Tedeschi stood outside his tent, looking up at the sky and contemplating what Sgt. Greg Hendricks had told him about the “military buildup” going on just down the road. He decided that he couldn’t see anything from where he was standing, but he might be able to, if he were higher. Since he had no aircraft at his disposal, he went back into his tent, grabbed his binoculars, and walked toward the east end of the encampment. Finding a sufficiently tall tree, he began to climb.
About thirty feet up, the branches started becoming too thin to safely support his weight. This will have to do, he thought. He aimed his binoculars to the east and saw, as Hendricks had told him, a large group of military vehicles of all types, including several tanks. Increasing the telescopic magnification to its maximum, he could see a very large amount of ordnance being unloaded and made ready for use.
He lowered his binoculars and began to climb back down. As he descended, he again thought about what the sergeant had said. Hendricks couldn’t explain his impression, but Dirk now understood it, and agreed with him. Those guns and tanks did look a lot “meaner” than they should for “war games.”
“I hate to break up this little party,” Buck Keller said, “and I want to thank all you… women for your kindness, but us ‘Army types’ really need to be getting back to our battalion now. Don’t you think, Colonel?”
“We have a little time before we need to go, and I have at least one more piece of business. General Chambers.”
The general stood and faced Parker.
“We’ve all heard the women’s story, and I believe we all agree that these people need to be set free, and we need to do whatever it takes to make that happen. Now, I want to know what you think. Do you agree with the President and his men, or with us?”
“What happens if I agree with the men on the Outside?” Chambers asked.
“I said before that we’re not playing games,” Jim replied. “If you’re with us, there’s a good chance you’ll die sooner or later, either in battle or by firing squad. But, if you’re against us,” he drew his pistol and aimed it, “you will certainly die. Right here… right now. So, what’s it to be, General?”
Chambers, appearing surprisingly unruffled despite the fact that a gun was once again aimed at him, reached into his tunic. Jim refined his aim, until he saw the general remove from his inner pocket not a weapon, but a piece of paper. He unfolded it and held it up, showing Parker that it was the “orders” he had read earlier. Without a word, he refolded the paper… and ripped it in half.
Jim lowered his pistol, went over and shook the general’s hand.
“I certainly hope you know what you’re doing, Colonel,” Chambers said. “I intend to give you carte blanche on this one. You’re in charge of the Fourth Battalion and everyone in this room, Parker—including me.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try my best not to let any of us down.”
“Now,” Jim turned his attention back to Sam, “We need to know more about this place. For instance: that tunnel we came through. Is that the only way into here?”
“Hardly,” Sam replied, and when Jim looked surprised he added, “Well, think about it, boy. There are ten million women in here. If even one percent of them are having babies at any one time, and half of them are boys, that’s still fifty thousand babies to ship out in a very short time. No single tunnel can handle that kind of traffic.”
“Then, why do you spend all your time at this tunnel?”
Before Sam could answer, Jim and Mike noticed that Angela and Cynthia seemed to know what was coming, and were cringing in anticipation.
“Because this tunnel is by far the most insidious of them all,” Sam said. “This is the one that is used exclusively by Stork.”
CHAPTER 29
Lt. Tedeschi, having returned to solid ground, walked across the campsite and over to the motor pool. Sgt. Hendricks saw him and followed, arriving just in time to hear the lieutenant requisition a Jeep for “a short trip.”
Dirk turned to Hendricks. “I see what you mean about the buildup down the way, right down to the ‘meanness’ of the tanks.” “Yes, sir. They seem to have far more firepower than you’d think for a simple war game.”
“I agree,” said Dirk, as he climbed into the Jeep.
“Where are you off to, sir?”
“I’m going down there, and see who they are, and what they’re up to,” Dirk replied. “Maybe even find out the ‘rules’ of this so-called ‘game’. Want to come along?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but… I’d rather not.”
“Why not, Hendricks? It’s only a game, right?”
“Well, sir, but… I mean… what if… it’s not a game?”
“How’s that, sergeant? What else could it be?”
“I don’t know, sir, but… I’ve got a bad feeling about this. My gut’s telling me—“
“Your what? You know, you’re beginning to sound like Colonel Parker and his ‘gut feelings’.”
Greg Hendricks smiled. “Thank you, sir. I consider any comparison to the colonel to be a compliment.”
“The thing is,” Dirk said as he started the Jeep, “the colonel’s ‘gut’ is almost never wrong. Let’s hope yours is, sergeant.”
“I agree,” Hendricks said, and as Dirk drove off, the sergeant muttered, “I hope he took lots of cookies.”
“What is this ‘Stork’?” Jim asked, seeing that the women present continued to look pained.
Sam answered the question with another question. “Have you ever heard of ‘Stork’, General Chambers?”
“No, can’t say as I have,” the general admitted. “Should I know of it?”
“Just thought you might have,” Sam said, “since it is, by far, the most profitable private company in the world.” He turned again. “What about you, Wilkins? You care to enlighten the folks here about the nature of ‘Stork’?”
Mike stood up. “I thought we had this settled, but once again I’m getting the distinct impression that you feel I’ve done you wrong, Mister Swenson. I told you before that I was rich, and that pissed you off. Now, you mention some unknown but profitable company, and you get pissed at me about it. Just come right out and tell me what the hell your problem is, because frankly, I’m getting damned tired of this.”
Sam and Mike glared at each other, each man convinced that any argument would end in his favor.
“’Unknown company’—is that what you said?” Sam asked.
“That’s what I said.”
“You’ve never heard of Stork?”
“No, I never have.”
“You’re not involved in it?”
“If I’ve never heard of it, how—“
“You are involved in it!”
Mike’s glare wavered the tiniest bit. “I… not that I know of.”
Sam’s did not. “We’ll see…”
He turned away and began speaking to the room as a whole…
Over a hundred years ago, the member of the Thompson line who was in power at the time, Robert the First, had what he considered a great idea. It was so wonderful that he decided to share it with some of his “subjects,” a concept which was almost unheard-of for this particular Thompson. He sent out invitations for a private dinner at the White House to five of his “closest friends,” although at least two were men he had never met before. After a typically fine meal, he began to lay out the details of his plan.
You men are here tonight because you all have very successful businesses, he told them. You are all titans of industry, and the cream of the financial crop. But have you given any thought to what will happen to those businesses when you’re gone?
Several of them offered variations of, I assume my son will take over for me.
Yes, I would expect so, Robert replied, but… what about those of you who don’t have sons?
There were a few men in that situation, and they glanced nervously at each other.
And those of you who do have sons—what about them?
Are they as fiscally expert as you are?
Now, all the men looked uncertainly at each other.
Men in your position, the President went on in his pontifical manner, need to be extremely careful when it comes to protecting your assets, or those assets could cease to exist. We have seen it happen, time and again, that a son inherits a company, but lacks his father’s financial acumen, and proceeds to run it into the ground. And in today’s world, where sons just seemingly appear out of nowhere, how can you be sure that that will not happen to you? The sons you have may or may not be able to learn the financial wisdom which has taken you a lifetime to acquire.
We understand the problem, the men said, but what can we do about it? As you yourself said, sons just show up unannounced.
The business of having sons may seem easy, but it is actually a very complicated matter, the President said, speaking as though he were an expert on the subject. I won’t bore you with the details (of course, because that would have required that he reveal the existence of women), but there are some factors in the chain of events that we, as men, can control. There are no guarantees, he cautioned his guests, but if you are willing to invest a little of your time, you can come as close as humanly possible to ensuring that your son will have the talents and skills you would like to see in him.
What do you mean by ‘a little of our time’, was their first question. We’re all very busy men, you understand. What would we have to do?
We’ll go over the fine points later, Thompson said dismissively, but trust me—very little would be required of you.
They were inclined to trust him—he was the President, after all. But then, one of them had the idea that Thompson was hoping someone would have.
If it is so easy to customize sons by doing this… thing, why doesn’t everyone do it?
Because this… process is not generally known, and I plan to keep it that way, they were told. Besides, if we do this right, this could become a very lucrative venture.
The “L” word got their attention in a hurry.
What I was thinking is: we form a company, with the six of us as “charter members.” We would invite friends of ours, who have the same fears about family succession, to partake of the “benefit” we would offer… for a price.
And we could keep the “riff-raff” out, one of them volunteered, by making the price high enough so that only a select few can afford it.
My thoughts exactly, the President concurred. Then, too, we would have to charge enough to cover our costs, he added facetiously, knowing that the “costs” would be nonexistent.
Did you have a figure in mind for this “admission fee,” they asked, and they were told, yes, I do.
Five hundred million dollars.
They looked at each other in amazement and said, boy, those must be some pretty steep costs.
You have to think big, Thompson told them. I thought men in your position would understand that concept. Think about it—this service is unique. We’ll be a monopoly. Remember, we are offering a higher-quality child, a better son, something you can get nowhere else. And, like you said, a charge like that will keep the “undesirable element” out. Finally, of course, it includes a fairly good profit, which we as charter members would split six ways.
Evenly, I hope, one of them had to ask.
Well, it was, after all, my idea, Thompson said with his “don’t-waste-my-time” look, so I think I might get a… slightly larger share. But don’t worry—you’ll all do very well.
One of them asked if he had come up with a name for this company, and Thompson said yes, it will be called “Stork.” When asked why, he related a short story he had heard from his own father. It seems that, in ancient times, a son would ask his father where he had come from, and the man, not wishing to get into a long and involved discussion or admitting his ignorance, would tell the boy that he had been “brought by the stork.” Thompson felt it would be a good “inside joke” to name his company in such a way as to make the ancient father’s tale become truth.
The six men reviewed other features of his plan, and came up with a few more on the spot. Thompson then presented his notes on the items he found favorable to one of his secretaries for transcription, knowing that, at the moment he signed the finished Charter, his words would become law.
At this point, Sam reached into the small duffel bag which he always had with him, and removed an envelope, which contained a document several pages long.
“This is a copy of the original Stork charter, which was given to each of the five visitors at the White House that night. Only two or three are still known to exist, and well… I’m sorry to say I had to kill a man to get my hands on this one. Be that as it may, let me paraphrase some of the ‘high points’ of this document.
“Charter members of Stork could invite guests to avail themselves of the company’s ‘amenities’, but there was a catch—the ‘guest’ could not refuse. Once the invitation was issued, the ‘admission fee’ would be collected from the guest, whether he used the services of Stork or not.
“The men apparently thought like the President—always collect a customer’s payment first,” Sam added parenthetically.
Returning to the document, he continued. “It was further decreed that any guest who did not ‘play,’ or who couldn’t afford to ‘pay,’ would be punished, in a manner to be determined by the company’s chief executive, the President.”
“And, knowing the history of the Thompsons,” Jim commented, “we can all guess what that ‘punishment’ was.”
“So, if I’m a member of Stork,” Sam interpreted, “and I invite, say, the general here to come in, I’ve just signed his death warrant. If he ‘plays,’ he has to come into the Ghetto, which will get him killed. If he says thanks, but no thanks, then the Secret Service hunts him down and kills him for committing a ‘crime’ which is known only to these six men. Either way, his life is over, and his bank account takes a major hit.
“Understanding this, as they did, most of the men in the room immediately had several ‘guests’ in mind—not their friends, but their competitors. These were the people, they thought, who should be brought into Stork, not so much for the ‘better offspring’ that might result, but for the opportunity to ‘legally’ lighten their victim’s wallets by half a billion dollars, before the guest was ‘legally’ taken out of the picture.
“They liked this feature so much that they could hardly wait to sign this thing. But when the moment came, and they all had pens in their hands, they finally saw this document in full for the first time, and knew they had been duped.”
Sam paraphrased from his paper again. “The good news, or so they thought, was that Charter membership in Stork was transferable to future generations, so that their sons could enjoy all the ‘benefits’ they themselves were about to receive. Unfortunately, Charter members did not get to use the services of Stork for free, as they had hoped they might, but they did get a ‘discount’—they only had to pay three hundred million dollars, which was shared by the other five charter members.
“Furthermore, Charter members must participate in the Stork program, at a time of Stork’s choosing. They still did not understand it, but we know that when they signed this paper, they signed their lives away, along with their sons’ lives, and a good portion of their own fortunes.
“The document does make reference to the ‘process’ that Thompson alluded to, but only in passing. It says, ‘The Candidate, whether Charter Member or Guest, will be escorted to Stork headquarters, where the proprietary Stork Process will be explained to him.’
“What I know, from experience, is this: the man is taken into the Ghetto, and gets to impregnate a woman of his choice, as long as he can do so in the time allowed. If not, too bad—but he's still out the five hundred mil. Of course, nowhere in this document does it say what happens to the man after all this, which undoubtedly led everyone who signed it to think that they could just go on their merry way.
“Not quite.
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“It does say that ‘the Child produced by the Process will then be raised within the family of the Candidate’. Notice that it doesn't say the Child will be raised by the Candidate himself. In fact, they tell me that someone asked Robert Thompson about this very line, and he hemmed and hawed and said something about the words being ‘necessary legal terminology’, or some such bullshit. He knew very well what he was saying. He knew that the Candidate, once he entered the Ghetto, was history.
“The women tell me that, in fact, the men ‘invited’ to Stork are always older, and always already have a son. This is what they mean when they say that ‘the Child will be raised within the family’.
“In actuality, this is how it works: a man about my age—let’s call him Mike the Fifth—has a son, Mike the Sixth, about the same age as, say, Captain Wilkins over there. It is the older man, Mike Five, who will be brought into Stork, where he gets a woman pregnant, and produces a child, Mike the Seventh. Baby Seven is then sent out of the Ghetto to be raised by Young Man Six, and Old Man Five is terminated.
“This is the brilliant idea that Robert Thompson had, to ‘perpetuate a family line’. In practice, the ‘line’ ends up being something like a bunch of dashes. A man has a son, but the boy will be raised as his grandson, by the biological son of his own biological father.
“All you boys good and confused now?
“Yet, this is what people are being charged half a billion dollars for. A lot of that ends up in the President’s pocket, but there was enough left over to pad the bank accounts of these people.”
Sam then shoved the document into Captain Wilkins' face, indicating a particular place on the page with his forefinger. When Mike looked there, his face turned the same ghastly shade of gray that Jim’s had turned when he saw the un-Treated Bible on his phone the first time.
