Chapter 2
Houston, Texas: eight days later
Having made his way through several states, stopping at a number of cities for what seemed like brief moments in a blur of almost-constant travelling, disturbing encounters and observations, Ikaros sits in a taxi looking out the window at the streets of Houston, tired from all the conversations with interviewers from local and online newspapers, magazines and radio stations, all of which were small, often 'underground' media outlets, yet in total are still able to disseminate to millions of people locally and around the world. Although remaining cool for the most part, the near relentless and sometimes subtly hostile assault on his politics and philosophy has already taken its toll. He remains convinced that the majority of the interviewers so far haven't come close to grasping his main points despite his efforts, which he's the first to admit haven't been his best due to the sense of hopelessness about his prospects of persuading them of his points of view, anyway.
This is something he can't kick: as far as he's concerned, it seems that their perceptions are largely tainted by curious yet currently accepted ways of thinking 'critically,' or that they're smothered by the peculiarities of weird fringe ideologies he has little time for, but both of which he realises are to be expected; knowledge of this, however, does nothing to temper his growing disappointment. Even when he meets with a journalist that appears sympathetic on certain points, too often they soon reveal themselves, often making a cheap political jab to the ribs that takes matters off track to such an extent that Ikaros starts to wonder how he can promptly extricate himself before exploding into a fit of rage and making too much of a scene, particularly in the more incarceration-obsessed states; he knows there's too much at stake for tension relief like that, which is why he started doing breathing exercises and progressive relaxation throughout the day long before arriving in New York.
The taxi driver interrupts his train of thought. "What are you in Texas for, then?"
"Huh? Oh … just business. Kind of, anyway."
"Well, Texas is the reason! You've come to the right place, that's for sure. I can assure you of that."
"Really?"
"I can tell ya, there's more multi-millionaires and billionaires per capita that have come out of this place this century than any other, and that's not to say that we weren't doing well before that. Know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I remember hearing something about that," he responds quietly.
"Texas should … well, I'm not alone in having the opinion that Texas should be an independent republic again like it was from eighteen thirty-six to forty five, you know?"
"It was a republic?" asks Ikaros ignorantly.
"Hell, yeah. You didn't know that?"
"No, I missed that one." Ikaros is unsurprised.
"Well, you're forgiven, being an Aussie. Anyway, joining the Union was a mistake. Many of us have always thought so. Actually, a gigantic mistake that we're all paying for now. I mean, I don't think the divisions went far enough: of the six, New York's pretty much the best, but they're just a bunch of east-coast, prig fools. They just think … assume that they're better than the rest of us, but we're the ones that… Who do you think's got the biggest GDP? Won't give you any of God's green money for guessin' that right!" The driver chuckles to himself smugly. "I'm second generation Mexican-Texan. This is my home, and I've worked damn hard here and so did my parents, and I'm not the only one who feels like the rest of the carved-up country, not just the six so-called 'united' states, but the rest of those losers as well, are still just usin' our resources, our profits, just like goddamned parasites — 'refugee' and 'poor' are just euphemisms. Why the hell?!"
"To minimise socio-economic disruption of the big six. There's an equation with thresholds in there some—"
"A what?! The 'massive' budget cuts after the split didn't go anywhere near far enough: cut it to zero; fortify and point guns, period! I mean Texans don't leave Texas … 'cept those weak losers, who can all go straight to hell with the rest of 'em — we don't want 'em or need 'em either. I'm not talking about those freaks. What I mean is we're in Texas; we've already arrived. We've made it what it is today, you know? We're industrious, hard-working and we know what-the-hell to do."
"And a bit lucky perhaps … but for how long?" Ikaros adds, not wanting to take issue directly with too much of what was just said.
"You create your own luck, and don't you forget it!" the driver snaps.
Ikaros closes his eyes and breathes evenly, feeling more relaxed than he probably should with the morning sun beaming through the window onto his trim, tailor-made suit, warming his skin to the point that it makes him feel nice and drowsy.
"Why should we help those lazy parasites from Florida? Or wherever for that matter?"
"Are natural disasters a result of laziness, then?" Ikaros asks more boldly.
The driver notices a tinge of aggression in his tone. "Partly, yeah. They were livin' there unprepared! What did they do? Tell me that! Millions have died; more are hungry and starving. And what did they do for themselves?! Look, there's so much goin' on in this world. All you can do now is find a haven and stay there and try and look after yourself and your family, you know what I mean?"
Wanting to avoid an incident, Ikaros recognises his cue and offers as sincerely as possible, "I know, I know. What's it got to do with Texas, right?"
"That's it, man. That's exactly right. What the hell does it got to do with Texas? Here it is. Here you go, dude." The taxi stops in front of the Texas Commerce and Development Building owned by Henry Clay, otherwise known by his handle, Henry 38, of SynOTex, a large synthetic oil company that emerged during the energy transition of the first four decades of the century.
"Oh, okay … thanks." Ikaros glances at the meter and hands him a hundred-dollar bill, "Keep the change."
"Yeah, will do. You enjoy yourself in Texas now, ya hear? This is God's country, and don't you forget it!"
"Yeah, thanks. You too," offers Ikaros politely as he slides out onto the pavement, shutting the door behind him as he looks up the seventy-storey building to the top floor that's occupied by SynOTex's head office, a company that operates in a hundred and twenty-seven countries and made more than three trillion dollars last year alone, not a stand-alone figure these days, but right up there. Happy to be able, more or less, to blend in, he starts walking towards the entrance and watches a crowd of suited men and women walking briskly in and out of the building with a palpable air of self-importance that Ikaros has seen on many occasions but never gotten used to, and that seems to him to be more self-delusional and lacking in insight with each passing day. On the inside, he looks around at the scene as he walks through the contraband scanning technology, then heads towards the elevators watching people closely, particularly the way they all seem to stride across the marble floor of the entrance hall in a manner that's reminiscent of an America that has all but passed and gone.
After only waiting for a few moments, Ikaros and twelve others file into one of the ten elevators; he stands quietly to the side observing them. As it ascends, people gradually get off until there are only three other people left, at which time he realises he hasn't pressed the button for the top floor, so he reaches forward and does so. The man next to him notices but pays little attention as the doors open and all three exit, leaving only Ikaros scanning the interior of their office with unimpressed nonchalance in spite of its unusually opulent décor. The doors close in front of him, and he waits patiently a few moments more before they reopen, revealing the top floor.
In contrast to the previous floor, this one is completely empty and seemingly abandoned; he looks around quickly thinking that he might have made a mistake, when suddenly the door to the office directly ahead of him opens to reveal a tall, dark-suited man.
"Ikaros," the man booms eagerly as he paces towards him with his right hand outstretched until it snaps Ikaros's hand out of the air and shakes it vigorously.
"You must be Henry, ah … ‘
Thirty-Eight,’ is it?" Ikaros asks using the name the media apparently dubbed him many years ago, the reason for which he never got the time to find out exactly, but he remembers hearing claims about him killing thirty-eight people in the early stages of getting the business established — a story about which he's interested in hearing what Henry has to say.
"Ah, that's right. You've heard … Henry Thirty-Eight. That's me. Come in. Come in." He gestures towards his office doorway and Ikaros walks on through and straight towards the windows, where he admires the unusually lofty view of Houston as Henry comes to stand by his side. "D'ya know why they call me Henry Thirty-Eight?"
"Ah, something about killing thirty-eight people? I wanted to ask you about it, actually."
"Oh, yeah … with a story like that, it's understandable why you would. This has been plaguing me for a long time. Twenty years ago when SynOTex was just developing, and I mean we were doin' just about everything we could to get big. We did have good intentions, though; I wouldn't say we didn't, but we were expanding internationally at quite a rate, making headlines here and abroad. It was probably all before your time … but the world was just at the early stages of making the transition from crude to synthetic or natural substitutes of one kind or another, and we'd already developed a multi-billion-dollar business in ten years when the supply chain was sabotaged by certain interested parties — you know, several crude oil companies and other old-energy competitors with the help of a few governments and their agencies from around the world, etc. Normal business practices in big business as it turns out… Oh, hey, before I go any further, do you want a drink? Did you find the place okay?"
"Ah, no thanks. Yeah, I did. Go ahead. Continue."
"Okay, anyway … I know it sounds like a conspiracy and all that, and you may call me paranoid, but that's all surface crap; I was there when it was happening, and it was pretty clear what was going on. The distribution system fell apart almost overnight: one of the transportation companies we were dealing with went bankrupt; the employees of some of the shipping companies went on strike; other shipping companies stated unavoidable delays, etc. It was just a messy and entangled cluster factors that went on like this. I was taken by surprise, actually. And when we tried to find other companies, none would take on a contract — they were all ostensibly overloaded for months to come.
"So, basically, over the course of two weeks, all of the reserves in thirty-eight of the countries we were supplying were depleted. And, although we were working frantically to try and get the product to these destinations in time, all sorts of problems kept getting in the way and obstacles were created that we just couldn't thwart, and so, well, all these other old-energy companies took up the shortfall where they could, but not entirely, and not before there were casualties: tens of millions of people's businesses and farms were affected, and, ah, the resulting loss, in economic terms, which occurred over the following months was over three trillion, which was a lot at the time.
"Then, there was the propaganda campaign: the whole thing was blamed on the apparently ineffective and unrealistic production capabilities and distribution methods of the synthetic oil industry; something that was taken up by the global media looking for a scapegoat while aligning themselves with the big players, you know, and they got it all from 'official' and 'reliable' sources, so they largely just reported it as they received it. Anyway, those that were sceptical and actually investigated it were the exception and definitely outside the mass media, so they were little heard of as well. The point is, I was the main target, being owner and CEO of the largest synthetic oil company in the world at the time, you know?"
"So, the ‘thirty-eight’ bit really just came about because of the number of countries involved?" Ikaros says without really asking seriously as it seems rather obvious by now.
"Well, you know … the media called me that initially, but it wasn't three weeks later that the story started circulating that I was already known by that name — another smear campaign. The idea was that I'd killed thirty-eight people more or less to get into the position I was in just to make me look like a gangster thug, which is ironic when you think about it. But, you know, what a coincidence the number would've been, huh?"
"And people believed it?"
"A lot seemed to, yeah. With no apology or retraction or anything, it just stuck, and it keeps coming up from time to time, juxtaposed with the apparent millions that died as a result of 'me' and the 'unstable' nascent form of the industry at the time. Weirdly, without attempting to correct history, I'm now essentially accepted by the mainstream and the ‘thirty-eight’ tag maybe even helps a bit — it gives me an edge and makes me look like a player of some kind … or something, apparently."
"So, what did you do about it at the time, I mean, being targeted like that?"
"I fought back, of course. And, thankfully, history was ultimately on my side: those so-called competitors were just going down kicking and screaming like big babies. But, anyway, we all know now how that story played out, don't we?"
Ikaros nods, knowing that synthetic oil — a range of products that are derived from genetically engineered, cultured organisms — has now become an indispensable part of the global economy, replacing crude oil derivatives formerly used in food processing and manufacturing in general, thus having a pervasive effect on everyone's life.
Having listened intently to the story, and happy to have his previously patchy understanding of the situation and the industry recast by Henry's insider perspective, Ikaros glances at him, then follows his gaze out the window at the still-busy streets below and smiles slightly, a bit more comfortable with having taken up the offer to meet. He then remembers a question he wanted to ask. "What about all your staff? Where are they?"
"We're at the end of shutting down operations here in Texas, unfortunately. We’re finally getting out 'cause the writing’s pretty much on the wall, I have to say. After thirty-five long and hard sweat-filled years."
"What? You're getting out of the business?"
"Well, no … just Texas. We're moving north: just outside Toronto, Canada. We've already got much of the business online, as you'd expect, and we're putting more on, but we still need a head office for some core staff. Anyway, regardless of what other Texans might think, and they seem to have their heads in the sand a bit like I did, I have to admit … but Texas is doomed: at some point they’re gonna pull the plug. The drain on the public resources is too great; there’s ever fewer players who need to spend more and more protecting this goddamned state, and, at some point real soon, those that are left are gonna get sick of it."
"It does seem a bit delusional to think otherwise from the look of things, I suppose," Ikaros says calmly, stating the obvious as cautiously as he can.
"Mm, I mean, I'm not happy to say that the whole of the south is gonna be desertified, I can tell you. It's a cryin' shame and there ain't a damn thing we can do about it; time for that is long gone." Henry stares blankly out at the horizon well beyond the city limits.
Ikaros stays silent, knowing all about the dramatic creeping of the harsh weather conditions further north and south from the equator over the past few decades. Wanting to get on with it, though, Ikaros glances at Henry. "So what about this proposal you mentioned?"
"Ah, the point… Yeah, well, I wanna do something a bit unusual, but I think you might agree that the current conditions probably warrant it. You might find what I'm gonna tell you a little strange, but you'll probably get used to it soon enough, I bet. I'm thinkin', if you were given an opportunity, it wouldn't take you too long to work out what to do with it, am I right?"
"That's probably true, yeah. What kind of opportunity?"
"What I'm saying is … if you have any interest in starting something big, something real big, you know, something international, I'd be willing to back you on whatever it is that you wanna do."
"Whatever I wanna do?" he asks for confirmation.
"Whatever you wanna do. Like I said on the phone: no in
terference, period. I'm well and truly sick of us pretending like we're in control; I mean, I began doing away with that infantile notion years ago, but I still feel like I haven't gone anywhere near far enough. I've still protected my assets and diligently managed and diversified my portfolio, hedging my bets and what have you all along, but, in the end, you just end up with a bit more money than before, a bit more connected and a bit more isolated.
"The important thing for me in all of this is the fact that the whole time other people are playing with your assets in ways that you don't really have knowledge of or access to influence much at all, and you should probably be suspicious about what they're doing, even if it's all supposedly legitimised, authorised and couched in the rhetoric of sustainability and so on or whatever … sometimes, anyway. I should know, I suppose; I run one of those operations, after all. I know how they get out of hand and do things you never imagined. The problem is we can't follow around these corporations, countries and so on twenty-four seven. From what I've seen with SynOTex, there's a death toll to it … necessary collateral, perhaps, but, nevertheless, when I trace all the negative consequences of being in operation, although I can position most of it as necessary, it's still something I'm not and can't be proud of, and it's this that makes me stop and wonder what's going on behind the scenes with all these other companies and industries we don't and can't know anything much about, particularly in this world … given where it's been heading in recent times, well the whole time … you know, since the Greeks or before that even."
"Well, what's the difference between me and a corporation, then? I mean, why is not knowing or having control over what I do … acceptable by comparison?"
NEW WORLD TRILOGY (Trilogy Title) Page 2
