Molon Labe!

by Boston T. Party

  Pausing for effect as this sunk in, Vorn summarizes this last point. "Did you really imagine that we'd allow the political and economic reality of this country to be dictated by some old piece of parchment kept in a nitrogen-filled case at the National Archives? No, we simply embrace Hamilton's view of the 'for the U.S.A.' Constitution as 'a frail and worthless fabric...merely a stepping stone to something better.' Phil, everything has been a 'stepping stone to something better.' The 1780s Annapolis and Philadelphia conventions, the Constitutions — both 'for the U.S.A.' and 'of the U.S.' — the GATTs and NAFTAs, even the UN charter. All stepping stones."

  To the room Miles abruptly asks, "What is this 'something better'?" At a nod from President Connor, Secretary of State Harquist replies, "Why, the Godhood of mankind, of course."

  "Sir?" says Miles.

  "The unity of man necessary to reach our Godhood was interrupted at the Tower of Babel. Oh, yes; that corny Bible story was quite accurate, but that shattered unity has painstakingly been reassembled over the last six thousand years. Yes, Mr. Miles, we are gods — gods kept locked inside prison cells of flesh by that Cosmic Jailkeeper, the so-called 'Lord Almighty' who hoards the Light and punishes the Lightgiver, Lucifer. Americans prattle about political conspiracies to enslave mankind when the vilest conspiracy of all is right under their bovine noses — the Cosmic Conspiracy to enslave Godkind."

  Miles just sits there, skewered by the shock of it all.

  FBI Director Klein studies him intently.

  Uncorked, Harquist — that bow-tied, blinking gnome — continues in his reedy voice, "For centuries we endeavored to, so to speak, 'pick the lock' to our cell. We're far too advanced for that now. Five thousand years ago, we didn't understand the God Power — now we do. Our scientists and mystics have pierced the astral veil. That old miser holds no secrets from us anymore. We now know that we can simply walk through our prison walls, and believe me when I tell you, Mr. Miles, that we are on the verge of doing so. The Enlightened Ones in our midst have already pushed through, and we are poised to gather up our Select for the Transformation."

  Miles's facade of rapt interest is but a retaining wall for the mounting black horror he feels inside. Looking about the room, he sees nothing but sly camaraderie. Devils all around him, he dares not risk even a syllable. If I can just stay calm long enough to hear the rest and make a smooth exit.

  Noticing Miles unconsciously fidgeting with his tie, Klein makes a mental note to himself.

  Harquist drones on. "None of us here relishes the dirty work of politics, but it is necessary preparation for our Transformation. Since not all mankind may join us, we must ensure that those destined to remain behind as hairless apes cannot hinder us. The Constitutions, the Civil War, the World Wars, this Oval Office, the UN, all of it, is simply prelaunch activity. Have no illusions, Mr. Miles, we rule this world, and all the other worlds out there we will rule also."

  In spite of his emotional nausea, Miles manages to conjure up a credible visage of awe.

  "Well said, Julius, thank you," the President smoothly interjects, signaling the end to any further galactic musings.

  The man always admitted far too much, which is why River Lethe Press pullquist's book just after publication. Like Carroll Quigley's Tragedy and Hope , which outlined the Insiders' plan to rule the masses through police state technology, it wasn't good policy for Big Brother to brag before having first achieved all of his goals.

  "So, Phil, now you know 'the rest of the story.' We can't make an issue of Preston's 'corrected' oath as it would publicize the matter and cause questions. I'm sure you understand."

  Miles offers a solemn nod. "Yes, sir, I do."

  "Shall we return now to Governor Preston?" the President asks.

  Ending for the day Miles's education, the congregated demigods renew their snide viewing of the Preston speech. It is agreed that the Wyoming Governor should not be permitted to complete a successful term of office.

  "Have you any thoughts on that, Leah?" inquires the President.

  The AG greedily resumes center stage. "Preston is like some blind man groping around in the dark with one hand on our ankle. While he'll probably never realize what he's actually got, nevertheless the damage he can do will delay us, and we can brook no more delays. All of you know that we're at least six years behind schedule as it is. If those people weren't so well armed we could have dealt with them under Clinton. If Preston succeeds in leading Wyoming and other western states to de facto secession, we will lose our golden opportunity for decades.

  "So, you see, it's not about just Wyoming. It's not even about just the country. It's about us realizing our Transformation. No man, no state, and no country is worth our failure. Preston has stumbled onto something and the rest is merely sequential association. He's a smart man, but what's more disturbing, he's also lucky. Smart and lucky usually spell disaster. We simply cannot allow him to grope around for much longer, else he might begin to recognize the shapes he feels."

  "Just so," Connor grants, as the rest nod in agreement.

  "Maybe some infidelity scandal here would suit our purpose?" the Secretary of State suggests.

  A rude thought crosses Connor's mind. Harquist should talk. He's not even faithful to his own wife, much less to his mistress!

  "The public would never believe it, Julius," answers Vorn. "That's Ward and June Cleaver you're talking about."

  "Leah's right, Julius. Besides, the Bureau has already examined the man from teeth to toenails, and he's absolutely clean. A real Boy Scout," muses Klein.

  "We've got over five million federal laws on the books, Ted. You can't tell me that Preston has abided by every one of them!" Harquist counters. "I mean, what else are those laws for?"

  "We all take your point, Julius, but this administration cannot be seen as attacking a popular state governor — especially one hyper-critical of the Government — with some obscure regulation," explains the President.

  AG Vorn says, "What a shame there's been no link so far to Krassny." "If Preston were Krassny's nephew or something," says Miles, "the media would shred him to bits." Miles figured he had to offer something, and this remark was generic enough to be safe.

  Aaron Stanford, Secretary of the Treasury, enters the discussion. "Mr. President, I've already asked IRS Commissioner Belton to review Preston's business affairs. I'm confident that some kind of case could be assembled in time. Income tax evasion is a very pliable tool."

  "It would have to go way beyond mere evasion, Aaron. We'd need outright tax fraud to sink his ship," the President asserts. Just like Wiedermann, the prick.

  "Maybe even some RICO2 charges as well," says Klein.

  "Ah, RICO. I've always thought that was such a mellifluous word," purrs AG Vorn. The room chuckles at this.

  Phillip Miles stares about the Oval Office, neither seeing nor hearing, his mind swimming.

  The meeting continues in that vein for several more minutes with a firm resolve to deal with Preston at the soonest viable opportunity.

  Back at his office, Miles aimlessly shuffled some papers about, giving up at just after 5PM. What have I gotten myself involved in?

  Feigning a headache, he collected his briefcase, left the White House through the East Entrance and drove northwest on Pennsylvania Avenue towards his Georgetown condo on Avon Place NW near R Street. He never noticed Washington Circle's snarled traffic with its miasma of honking and profanity. Fortunately, he missed getting delayed by one of the random but ubiquitous US Army mobile checkpoints.

  After a brisk shower, he dressed for a quiet dinner out. Even though a light snow had begun to fall, Miles elected to walk. Leisurely moving down the steps, Miles turned left and walked south to Cambridge Place on his way to 30th Street. He glanced at 3027, what used to be the home of Vince Foster, Clinton's first Deputy White House Counsel. The highly suspicious death (and its subsequent cover-up) of the highest level federal official since JFK had quite the chilling effect on 1993 Washington. Clinton simpl
y brought his "Arkansas Mafia" tactics to the nation's capital, and Foster's likely homicide (to cover-up Clinton's murder of the Branch Davidians by illegally using Delta Force) was a sharp lesson to the Beltway political machine.

  Just in case anybody needed a reminder, they had only to wait three years. On 3 April 1996, Commerce Secretary Ron Brown's Air Force jet crashed into a Croatian mountainside, and the Air Force killed the safety investigation. Brown was only months away from prison for his rat's nest of criminal deals, including accepting $700,000 from Communist Vietnam to cancel our trade embargo. When Brown's mess became too vast even for Clinton to call off the dogs (the DOJ, the FDIC, the Congressional Reform and Oversight Committee, the FBI, the DOE, the IRS, etc.), Brown vowed in February 1996 not to take the rap alone by fingering the Clintons and McDougal.

  From then on, Ron Brown was a dead man holding interim air.

  While "Billary" were long gone, one nevertheless didn't tweak Washington's tail foolishly. Rough politics might be excused, but not this ugly conspiracy for some gilded global slavery. Hairless apes indeed, as Miles recalled Harquist's choice phrase. He would have to very carefully consider his actions from here on.

  Ten minutes later he arrives in a dark mood at his favorite Chinese restaurant on Dumbarton Avenue, is warmly greeted as a regular and quickly seated. While waiting for his meal, he fishes out his cell phone, but the battery is dead. Miles, rises and finds the payphone, digs out his calling card, and dials the San Diego number of his Harvard roommate and best friend, Steve Dunbar. Dunbar was from Jackson, Wyoming, where his parents had opened a ski lodge in the 1970s. An old Republican family, his parents were longtime friends of the Prestons.

  "Hey, it's P.R., howya been? Ah, same old crap — it's Washington, Steve-o. Listen, I know it's short notice, but I could use a break for a few days. You up for some fishing off Cabo this weekend? Boat's on me. Really? Great! I'll email you tomorrow about my flight. I sound kinda funny? Yeah, well, I can't get into it right now. We'll talk about it this weekend. All I can say is that for the first time in my life I feel like I'm in way over my head. I need some help on this, buddy, and you're the only one I think I can trust with it. No, I'm not trying to keep you in suspense — I just can't go into it right now. Thanks. We'll talk Friday. O.K., see you then."

  Miles returns to his table; his meal is waiting for him. Scraping his chopsticks against each other as the savory scent of his Kung-Pao chicken wafts, he suddenly feels much better. He is very glad that he had called his friend. Steve will have some ideas.

  Engrossed in thought, Phillip Miles did not notice the inconspicuous carpet cleaning van parked cater-corner across the street. Equipped with the very best telcom technology, the men inside were also engrossed in the thoughts of the Deputy Chief-of-Staff. Thanks to the eager help of Lucent Technologies and the Bell companies a few years ago, any phone's conversation could be routed through the FBI's digital recording banks within 15 seconds. This was legal without a search warrant under the USA PATRIOT Act of 2001 and the Communications Assistance for Law Enforcement Act III of 2009 (one of President McBlane's first bills to sign — which he did gladly).

  Civil libertarians had argued, fruitlessly, that CALEA III would actually "create an Orwellian Thought Police." Senator Kennedy (D-MA) blasted this as "shrill and baseless melodrama."

  While Miles was walking south on 30th Street NW, his credit card records were being analyzed by the gray men in the gray van, who correctly surmised that he was enroute to the Peking Palace. A telephone database was immediately accessed which listed the restaurant's payphone number. As Miles was entering his calling card number, his payphone was "touched," as the Thought Police called it. Once Miles had entered his friend's number, Steve Dunbar's name and address filled a small window on the screen. Their call was not only recorded but automatically transcribed through the finest AI voice recognition software in existence, which used contextual analysis to virtually eliminate translation error. The conversation was also fed through a sophisticated lie-detection software which analyzed micro-tremors.

  Miles and Dunbar had no inkling of all this, for the real-time splice was absolutely silent. In fact, only the phone company and the Government knew, or could know. "A sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic," as the science-fiction author Arthur C. Clarke once observed.

  FBI Special Agent Bleth has heard enough. "Sounds hinky. And he used a payphone to bypass his cell. Compile a full doss on this Steven Joseph Dunbar by 0800. Route both of their comms from Dixie-Cups-and-string to sat phone through the Box. California, D.C., Baja, wherever, I want airtight coverage — got it? Put a six-man tag team on Miles by 2200 and we'll hand off to them. Get me the SAC, now."

  Deep sea fishing off Cabo San Lucas? Well, Phillip Roland Miles, I'm a fisher of men, and my fish bait their own hooks.

  The secret of good government is to let man alone.

  — Lao Tze, 270 A.D.

  There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things.

  — Machiavelli, 1513

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  February 2015

  During the 40 days of general session, the Wyoming legislature worked fast. Most of the desired changes had been drafted by Preston's people months before last year's election and it was just a matter of the final wording. To streamline a government took careful planning. Political power — like energy — could not be eliminated, only changed in form. What was taken back from government had to be returned to its source, the People. Since they had relinquished their sovereignty slowly, it could be returned only slowly, at a rate they could absorb — as well as appreciate. The fate of the 14th century Italian politician di Rienzo was a poignant lesson.

  Cola di Rienzo was young Roman lawyer in his mid-30s. He went to Avignon in the year 1343 to ask Pope Clement VI for his support against the feuding aristocracy who dominated the capital. Clement agreed, and sent di Rienzo back to Rome with money and encouragement.

  Filled with dreams of returning the glory that was Rome, di Rienzo dressed in the white toga of an ancient senator and challenged the people to seize the government, restore the popular assembly, and elect a tribune strong enough to protect them from the nobility. Backed by the poor, the merchants, and the papacy, di Rienzo was first elected dictator and later allowed the old popular title of tribune. When the nobles protested, his armed revolutionaries ran them out of the city to their country estates.

  di Rienzo brought impartial justice and stable prices back to Rome. A court of conciliation ended nearly 2,000 feuds. Crooked judges were exposed and punished. Peasants tilled their field in peace and security. All became tranquil and prosperous in Rome, and the entire peninsula marveled.

  The mantle of power, however, proved too heady for di Rienzo. He became increasingly extravagant and megalomanic. Then, he tried to enlarge his reign by inviting all of Italy to join his federation. This frightened Pope Clement VI. A unified Italy — much less, a reconstituted Roman empire —would make the Italian Church a prisoner of the state. Clement abandoned di Rienzo on 3 December 1347 as a heretic and criminal, and called upon all Romans to banish him. If this were not done, the Pope threatened, then the jubilee3 of 1350 would be cancelled.

  Suddenly, di Rienzo had lost support from the poor, the merchants, and the Church. The nobles raised an army against him and marched on Rome. di Rienzo frantically called the people to arms, but they refused, preferring the jubilee's profits over paying taxes and military service. The army of the nobles arrived unchallenged two weeks later, and the triumphant aristocracy reentered their city palaces. Clement named two of them as senators over Rome. di Rienzo fled to Naples.

  Six years later, di Rienzo, now a broken man from flight and imprisonment, was returned by the Church to Rome as senator and local governor. (Meanwhile, a brutal tribune named Baroncelli had arisen, so di Rienzo's old supporters desired hi
s return following a successful uprising against Baroncelli.) The old fire and dreams of his youth were gone; di Rienzo toed the papal line. The nobles still hated him, and the proletariat (after initial excitement) grew to see him as disloyal. Two months after his return, di Rienzo was seized by a street mob shouting Long live the people! Death to the traitor Cola di Rienzo! He was taken to the steps of the Capitol and stabbed by over a hundred people. His body was dragged through the streets to be hung up at a butcher's stall for two days, spat upon and disgraced.

  The moral was multifaceted: Finances are often more valued than freedom, alliances will shift, and the people are eternally fickle. Preston understood that radical politics were a very risky business.

  The trick was to pour through a funnel, consistently yet gradually. Post-1991 Russia was the now-classic example of what happened when too much freedom was returned too quickly. Unaccustomed to liberty, the former USSR (except for the Czech Republic) begged for Communism's return after the mafia chaos, and got it. Still, what the legislators accomplished in only six weeks astounded the nation (and much of Wyoming). The Cheyenne Sentinel quoted Governor Preston's summary of the first 40 days:

  "Point One. We applaud the inherent value of an armed citizenry. Armed Citizens kill three times more violent criminals than do the police. They also injure far fewer innocent bystanders than do the police: 1 in 50 vs. 1 in 9. Accordingly, as self-protection is not only a communal good, but an individual right — not a privilege — the state sales tax on firearms, ammunition, and shooting gear is today repealed. We ask the Federal Government to repeal their own excise taxes on these articles.

  "Point Two. Furthermore, the Wyoming legislature follows the lead of Vermont and Alaska, and hereby recognizes the right of any sane, non-felon adult to own and carry weapons without requirement of license or permit. As the cities and counties are creatures of the state, there shall be no local infringement of this cornerstone right. Carry what you want, how you want, where you want, and we won't bother you unless you mess up. If you're unhappy about seeing armed Citizens on your street, then there are dozens of other states which welcome you. So would their criminals!