From Oblivion's Ashes

by Nyman, Michael E. A.

  So there was good news.

  Unfortunately, in the bleak shadow of Marshal and his crews’ disappearance, plus the discovery that Angie too was now missing, such tiny triumphs seemed shallow by comparison. That Angie had gone looking for the two men she had come to think as her family seemed beyond dispute. Whether they would ever see her again was a looming question, but the shame Valerie felt in her own refusal to do the same was a nightly act of atonement. Either way, the loss of the community’s best, most daring, and most stealthy scavenger was a hard blow at a time when morale was at its lowest.

  Valerie frowned. As she passed through the kitchen, headed towards her office bedroom, a strange feeling came over her, though she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Everything seemed normal. It was late in the day, and Kumar was on the couch, playing Halo with Brian, Cameron, and Derrick over the network against a team composed of ex-patients fresh out of the hospital.

  “Get that guy in the tower,” Kumar ordered into his headset. “Brian, you circle around… okay, okay, I got him.”

  Valerie snorted. Boys. It sort of figured. Food was a problem and water was running short, but the Internet gaming connections worked with perfect clarity. She’d heard that a league was starting up. There was even an all-girl team who called themselves the Hot Furies.

  She jumped in surprise as she entered her office.

  “Ah! Ms. Hunter. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  Heart thumping in her chest, Valerie gazed at the distinguished old man seated in her chair behind her desk. He was wearing reading glasses and studying her computer screen.

  “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, irritated at being startled. “And what are you doing in my bedroom?”

  “Your…?” The man blinked with bewilderment. “My apologies. I was told that this was your working office, and that I could find you here if there was business that needed to be discussed. I saw the bed, but…”

  He shook his head. “Well, it is of no matter. The error is mine, and I truly regret the mistake. Please, Ms. Hunter. Have a seat.”

  “Have a…? Excuse me, but you still haven’t answered my question. Who are you? And what are you doing in my chair, reading my reports?”

  “Were these reports private?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. “My understanding was that this society was an open one, and all information was free. Forgive me, but I am a newcomer. I merely thought to take the opportunity to bring myself up to speed, while I waited for you to return. My name is Peter Hansen, CEO of Hansen, Davis, and McClelland Financial group. I arrived a few days ago with my CFO, Margaret Stinson, Alicia Givens from our legal department, and Martin Phillips, Vice President and Property Manager.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Valerie admitted, stepping around the office desk. “The firm I worked for did quite a bit of business with your group. Look… Mr. Hansen. I don’t want to be too grouchy, but in the future I would prefer if you would refrain from reading the material on my personal computer. Or at least… ask first. Now, I’ve had a long, difficult day, and I’d like to sit in my own chair, so if you don’t mind moving…?”

  Peter’s eyes flickered irritation, but he nodded.

  “Of course,” he said, standing. “Please. Sit, Ms. Hunter. And forgive my brevity. There are important matters that we need to discuss.”

  Valerie sank into her chair gratefully. “Sure. What’s up?”

  Peter Hansen sat down across from her with magisterial grace, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. His expression turned stern and focused as he talked.

  “It involves,” he said, “matters of property.”

  “Fair enough,” Valerie said, leaning back. “It’s rather simple, actually. Everyone who joins us will be receiving a zombie-safe habitat, with electricity, water, heat, etcetera, and whatever luxury accommodations we can scrounge. Obviously, we’re a little pressed at the moment, but-”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Hunter,” Peter interrupted, “but that is not the matter that concerns me. My question relates more to the Law, such as it is, as it pertains to ownership. My understanding is that the community protects proprietary rights. This apartment, for example, was the legal possession of this Marshal person, who I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting-”

  “And may never,” Valerie added sadly. “He’s disappeared. We’re all agreed that, if he never returns, it will pass in ownership to the acting government of the state of New Toronto. And of course, Angie keeps her own room, assuming she isn’t lost to us as well. We’re still hopeful that they’ll all still be returning.”

  “Yes,” Peter continued, with a faint hint of irritation. “Of course. However, if the apartment is the precedent, then am I safe in assuming that this policy extends to all possessions that pre-existed the outbreak?”

  Valerie leaned back in her chair, smiling at him slyly. “Just what are you asking here, Peter? I know you were one of Toronto’s few multi-billionaires, but I hope you realize that we’re a little too busy to go reclaiming your lost possessions. And unless I miss my guess, I’m… fairly certain that the global markets have collapsed. So where is this going?”

  Peter smiled back.

  “Nothing nefarious, Ms. Hunter. As you say, the world is changed, and society rises from the ashes. This is all very supportable. However, it is also good to know where one stands, as it is my intention to aid in the restoration of civilization as much as possible. So. Is it true? Do we retain ownership of the assets we bring into this union?”

  Valerie shrugged. “What’s yours is yours. The law will protect you and your right to your possessions. That’s what Marshal wanted. No one can take anything away that belongs to you.”

  Peter nodded, frowning thoughtfully. “I thought this was the case. Let me, then, raise a second question. What efforts are being made to restore the systems of commercial exchange?”

  Valerie sighed. “Mr. Hansen. I really am very tired, at the moment. Could we please come to the point?”

  “What is the rate of exchange? You have restored the judicial system, after a fashion. You’ve restored the army. The police. Surely, you will be needing a system of currency and exchange, banking-”

  “Mr. Hansen, we’re living in a… Listen. Until we have everybody safe, housed, clothed, and fed, there simply isn’t any space for currency. What are people going to buy? Where would they spend their money?”

  “Where they always have,” Peter said. “On housing, food, water, and luxuries.”

  “But we’re providing all of that for free.”

  Peter’s expression pinched up like a man who’d just heard he’d been invited to a child’s birthday party where they promised to serve sardines and ice cream.

  “Free,” He repeated, shaking his head. “So, to answer my question, you and your people have given no thought at all to the restoration of a fair and productive system of commercial exchange. In light of this, I would ask that you would allow me, as the community’s most affluent and experienced stakeholder, aided by my people, to take on the responsibility of its reconstruction.”

  Valerie leaned back in her chair, feeling suspicious, annoyed, and slightly baffled.

  “Mr. Hanson,” she said carefully. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re distracted at the moment by an apocalypse. We don’t have the time, resources, or freedom to spend on the restoration of the monetary system, let alone ‘for profit’ venture-capitalism. Our mission statement is that the most valuable resource we still possess isn’t any marketable asset… it’s people. It’s people who produce or scavenge resources, people who retain the training and experience of our civilization. When they die, a little piece of our ability to survive dies with them.”

  “I do not deny this, Ms. Hunter,” Peter answered. “Indeed, it serves well enough to prove my point. If people, as you say, are the currency of the day, then you maximize their value by motivating them to produce. If everything they need is free, then what incentive is there to put their energies to harness?”
r />   “I said that people were our greatest asset, Mr. Hanson,” Valerie said sharply, “not that they were currency.”

  Peter Hanson shrugged. “Po-ta-to, po-tah-to,” he said. “The wording you choose is irrelevant. The fact remains that, if you wish to maximize-”

  “Actually,” Valerie interrupted, “the difference in wording is rather critical, Mr. Hanson. Just as it is between the labels ‘meritocracy’ and ‘slave state’.”

  “If we’re going to bandy dramatic terms, Ms. Hunter,” Peter sighed, like a man trying to explain to a child the truth about Santa Claus, “then I would argue that there is no more finite example of a meritocracy than the slave state, and that ‘a rose by any other term’ would still seek to exploit and reward its most valuable human ‘assets’ while depriving those that are less valuable. Ignore these truths at your - and our collective - peril, Ms. Hunter.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Valerie assured him. “Was there anything else?”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed.

  “There is indeed, Ms. Hunter,” he said. “A question. Are you aware, by any chance, of who the actual owners of First Canadian Place were?”

  His words seemed to hit her in the stomach like a cold fist.

  “Um… that would be… Brookfield Properties.”

  “Very good, Ms. Hunter,” Peter said. “Indeed, much of the downtown landscape, following the seismic, economic shifts of the nineties, fell into their hands, though it’s merely a tiny piece of their thirty-four billion dollar worldwide empire. Not that you would be interested in any of that. What’s pertinent, however, is that Hanson, Davis, and McClelland financial group are invested shareholders in Brookfield, as well as a number of other downtown property owners, including Cadillac-Fairview, Oxford, and Dash. In the absence of any other claimants, this legally allows me to assume directorship and defacto ownership of ninety percent of Toronto’s Downtown core. My CFO, Ms. Stinson…”

  He unsnapped his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  “… has printed out all the pertinent licenses and paperwork to assume ownership. Ms. Givens has clarified the legal language of ownership with your Chief Justice.”

  “Elizabeth signed off on this?” Valerie exclaimed, accepting the papers being handed to her.

  “I understand that their conversation was in the hypothetical and regarded precedent,” Peter said. “If two parties co-own a house, and one of them dies or disappears in the apocalypse, by the Laws of New Toronto, does the surviving party enjoy full ownership of the house? The answer was ‘yes’, until such time as the other party or their heirs are discovered.”

  “You have got to be joking,” Valerie said, gazing at the papers in disbelief.

  “Ms. Hunter,” Peter said, all business, “by the strict interpretation of your own law, you and this entire community are guilty of trespassing. Your so-called construction department is technically committing vandalism. And I am well within my rights to expect some form of compensation.”

  Valerie, quite uncharacteristically, was speechless.

  “Obviously,” Peter continued, “it is safe to assume that an apocalypse falls under the category of ‘exigent circumstances’. I hold no ill will toward the community I have joined. But I do feel that my interests are poorly represented by a system that hands out portions of my property for free. This will require a banking system of some kind and, of course, a form of currency. I would be amenable to offering up reasonable, long-term loans to people seeking to live in my buildings. As is conventional in these circumstances, a contract will be drawn up to remunerate Torstein and his construction crew for each habitat they create. Trust that they will be well paid. Taxes, of course, will be levied and delivered to you as a means of maintaining an infrastructure. As for the main populace, a credit system will be established – far in a way superior to making everything ‘free’ – and they can pay back their debt with work and scavenge.”

  He held her gaze for an instant, as if daring her to object.

  “This will happen, Ms. Hunter,” he said. “It must happen. Society, civilization, laws… these things were not built by good will, altruism, or magical thinking. They are the products of humanity’s collective will to escape starvation and insignificance. Harness that instinct, and you will put a man on the moon.”

  He closed his briefcase and stood up from the desk.

  “I will be moving to the top floor of First Canadian Place by tomorrow,” he said. “I hope to hear of your cooperation by then. It will make going forward so much easier if we are on the same page, Ms. Hunter. It is, however, by no means a necessity. I wish you a good night’s sleep.”

  He left her there, staring in disbelief at the paper tigers in front of her.

  “Bit of a asshole, isn’t he?”

  Valerie looked up.

  “I thought I already informed you, Professor Scratchard,” she sighed, looking back at the legalese in front of her, “this is a non-smoking environment.”

  “Yes, well,” Scratchard answered, taking another drag of his smoke. “I’m an asshole too, you know. It really does take one to know one.”

  “Oh, and if I could write a book on all the assholes I’ve known...” Valerie said, looking up at the ceiling. “Seriously, though. Put that thing out.”

  “Seriously. Over my dead body. And he’s right, you know.”

  “What? Are you kidding me?” Valerie demanded, waving a hand at him in exasperation. She put on a face, and changed her voice to sound like Peter’s. “ ‘Hello? Thank you for saving my life. I just stopped by to tell you that I already own everything. I look forward to turning your entire community into a debt-based, slave-state with me holding all the receipts. See that you do it, and maybe there will be a little tax money in it for you.’ Are you saying you agree with all that?”

  “Oh goodness no,” Scratchard laughed. “That part was all self-serving rubbish, and he himself is nothing more than an opportunistic, blood-sucking, little parasite with a reinforced delusion of grandeur. But that doesn’t mean he’s not correct, or that he isn’t dangerous.”

  “All right,” Valerie said, gazing pointedly at the cigarette and waving at the growing cloud of smoke. “I’ll bite. Exactly what is Milton Friedman the Second right about?”

  “That people are stupid,” Scratchard answered cheerfully. “At some point in time, you’re going to need some form of currency. Okay. Here in the beginning, when everyone has the very real threat of being eaten to motivate them, it’s all-for-one and kumbayas. But once the threat is perceived to be ‘kept at bay’, that’s when it will all fall apart. Money isn’t just about making it easier to trade bread and apples. It’s a measure of hierarchy, a settler of disputes, a security against the future, a means of communicating intent, and the incarnation of our abstract ideas about value. It’s a complete illusion that we will happily use to define reality, no matter how miserable it makes us.”

  His eyes danced, and he grinned at her over his smoke. “Don’t you just love the paradox?”

  “You are an asshole,” Valerie muttered, glaring at the paperwork.

  “Guilty as charged,” he answered, finishing his cigarette and dropping it into a pop can he carried in his other hand. “But forget about me. You’d better nip that little cockroach in the bud, before people start believing in what he has to say. The cornerstone of free market ideology is a kind of Darwinian game show that pits human versus human. Debatably, it can work if we’re undisputed kings of the food chain. But if we start competing with each other when there are so few of us left, we’ll collapse. Our best hope is in everybody being on the same page. Like the cartoons say: United we stand. Divided, we’re protein.”

  Then, right in front of her, he lit up another cigarette.

  “I don’t envy you,” he admitted after a deep drag.

  “At least I can draw comfort from the fact that I still have the power to sentence the people who piss me off to join the Winter Bastards,” Valerie told him, pointe
dly looking at his cigarette.

  He grinned back at her. “Anyway,” he said, “that’s not why I’m here. I spoke with Kumar. Bright lad. You’re lucky to have him. Between us, we managed to upload my research into your system and organize it into a kind of slide show. I have a presentation to give, if you’re amenable.”

  “Does it contain anything interesting?”

  “Oh, yes,” he answered. Puff, puff. “I really did have a fair amount of time on my hands. Even handicapped with two other vastly inferior Professors of Science, not to mention the mindless herd of unwashed vermin known as students, I managed to put together quite a study. It is, I feel safe in saying, something that the government of New Toronto needs to know.”

  “Set it up for 9:00am tomorrow morning,” Valerie yawned. “I need some sleep. Have Kumar inform the department heads, and we’ll go over what you have then. Talk with him about making sure everyone gets to see the show. Oh. And tell him that I’ll want God to listen in as well. From what I’ve heard, he actually enjoys talking with everyone, and weird as it may sound, he’s the one person that everyone seems to trust.”

  Scratchard exhaled a huge cloud of smoke, flicked an ash into his can, and stared at the floor for a few seconds.

  “Just what exactly do you mean,” he demanded finally, “when you say ‘God’? And why on Earth would anyone want to trust him?”

  Torstein took a long, grateful drink from his beer bottle and wiped the perspiration from his face with a filthy rag. In the near distance, the screeching sounds of power tools, hammering, and muted conversation filled the air.

  “Ready?” Torstein asked, standing beside an apparently blank section of paneled wall with a glint of mischief in his eye.

  “Let me have it, dude,” Brian answered.

  Torstein waved towards the wall.

  “Looks like any ordinary wall, doesn’t it?” he said grandly. “Dirty it up, and we could be standing in any given hallway in any part of the building, right?”

  “Totally,” Brian agreed, taking a drink from his beer.

  With one heavy-knuckled hand, Torstein reached out and pressed hard on one of a number of obscure, wooden fixtures that decorated each four-by-five foot panel.