Dori took a sip of the strong coffee. “No, Mother.”
“Because his daughter is here on the game reserve.” She lowered her voice even more. “He says she’s one of the Chairman’s women.”
Dori smiled. “Well, he does have quite a number of ladies around him all the time. He’s always liked the companionship of the opposite sex.”
“I’ve never understood how you could be so relaxed about that,” the older woman said. She nibbled on a small vegan patty, one of several on her plate, of varying colors and flavors.
“Maybe it’s because I’m his favorite.”
“Well, you’d better watch yourself. Her name is Jade Ridell, and her father seems overly ambitious.”
“That’s her over there,” Dori said, nodding toward a table across the room. “The pretty redhead reading an e-book.”
Kristine Longet stared long and hard, wrinkling her face into a scowl.
“She seems nice enough, Mother.”
“Don’t ever trust her. Women can be very manipulative.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Mother, I’ve always had lots of competition around here, and I manage to fend them off.”
“You are getting older, dear. Don’t forget that.”
“I’m only thirty-one!”
“You can’t hold on to your beauty forever.”
“You seem to be managing well for yourself,” Dori responded, while catching a bemused glance from her father.
This pleased her mother. “Thank you for that.”
“Besides, the Chairman depends on me to keep track of important business matters for him.” The pretty blonde paused, thinking of the liaisons with other women she sometimes coordinated as well. “And certain personal matters.”
* * *
AS SHE SAT across the dining hall, Jade Ridell was reading an interesting electronic book, Mega-Corporations: The New Colonialists. It described a time before the Green Revolution when the largest international corporations were like colonial nations, except instead of plundering third-world nations of their resources, the gluttonous, amoral corporations plundered average consumers of their hard-earned assets. This occurred in the United States, in Europe, and in every region where people could afford discretionary spending. The big corporations sucked up their money like huge vacuum cleaners.
Jade happened to be looking up from the book when she noticed the evil glare from Dori’s mother. On one level she didn’t understand how the woman could be that way, but on another—on a very female level—she understood completely. The mother wanted her own daughter to retain her primacy among Rahma’s women.
Although her own family (and especially her father) had pressed Jade to do well, to advance in this haremlike realm, she was not consciously trying to harm anyone else in the process, or hurt their chances. Whenever she was with Rahma (and they would be together after his meeting), she just tried to be herself, showing her natural strength of personality while generally deferring to what he wanted. In every dealing they had, be it sexual or just going someplace together on the game reserve, she let him know the obvious—that he was the boss—but she didn’t wilt to his every whim. She showed considerable backbone, but not too much, not so much that it irritated him. He seemed to like this about her.
She wanted so much to please the great man. And in that respect she felt very good about herself, because she genuinely liked him. Not just because he was so powerful, or physically attractive for his age, but because of who he was in his heart, because of the far-reaching, unselfish dreams he held for this planet and its life-forms. She had never met anyone who resembled him in the smallest degree; he was, truly, one of a kind.
Above all, Chairman Rahma wanted the Earth to thrive, and as much as she could, Jade intended to keep him happy so that he could complete his important work, and do it well. If that meant she spent more time with him than Dori or the others did, so be it. Jade was just being herself, after all. She was just caring for Rahma, thinking of what he needed. In this manner, she felt she was doing her own small part for the sake of the environment.
* * *
AN HOUR PASSED in the meeting yurt, as the Chairman continued to sit cross-legged on the floor, listening while the avatars of two men and five women spoke of the activities of several anarchists whose activities warranted scrutiny. One of the anarchists, an elderly man named Onas Eedle, was said to be in ill health but was still causing some problems, asserting that the government surveillance of his activities was a violation of his privacy. The charge was, of course, patently absurd. Individuals had no rights under the Charter of the Green States of America; individuals were allowed to exist only if they continued to serve the cause of the greater good. Later today, Rahma would tell his military agents to have the miscreant recycled discreetly, while giving out the story that he had died suddenly of natural causes.
In another matter, a Black Shirt from the days of the revolutionary council, Abby Miroc, was now Mayor of the New Orleans Reservation, having set aside his anti-establishment beliefs enough to become one of the GSA leaders. A week ago, he had filled out an application requesting permission to take a trip to Eurika, where he said he wanted to meet with opposition political leaders. On the surface, that might be all right, because Rahma had often criticized the Eurikan government for only giving lip service to environmental issues. But the female informant this morning provided testimony that such meetings were only a front for something else, and Miroc was actually a Eurikan spy.
This was a very serious charge, and gave Rahma considerable pause. It was not a good sign for anyone to be trying to leave the country like that; the Chairman had a policy in force to deny virtually all such requests, based on the theory that the government should nominate who would travel and who would not—instead of waiting to be approached by interested parties.
Rahma pondered this particular situation for a moment, trying to decide how best to handle it. Perhaps a trap could be laid to catch the Mayor (just in case he really was up to no good), or to catch the informant, if she had her own reasons for lying about him. Human beings could be so devious, requiring extra measures to unearth their true motives and intentions. The matter would take some thought, but he would remove it from his own plate by delegating the decision to one of his top aides in the New Orleans Reservation.
Finally, the avatar of only one informant remained, with the others having faded back to their sources. The short Andruw Twitty avatar rose to his feet, dressed in a spit-and-polish Greenpol uniform with shiny green jackboots; he held his helmet in his hands to show the proper respect. “It is good to see you again, Comrade Chairman.”
Rahma didn’t respond, watched the avatar’s blond mustache twitch nervously and the pale eyes dart around. This had never seemed to be a stable personality to the Chairman, but perhaps it was because he was nervous in the presence of the GSA leader. Twitty’s superiors in Greenpol reported that he was a rising star in the organization, and one day could even become Chief of the Eco-Crimes Division. They said he had an observant eye, and a way of getting useful information out of suspects. Recently, he had killed two fugitives outside the Seattle reservation, evidence of his intensity. But despite all that, he wouldn’t even be here if he didn’t have high-level connections in the government, as a result of his parents.
“First, sir, just a few brief comments about Joss Stuart. While he is a very talented greenformer, one who reportedly never makes professional mistakes, he is not always forthcoming when it comes to reporting anti-government comments made by a member of the J-Mac team, Kupi Landau. In Stuart’s defense, many of her comments are well known anyway, such as her occasional remarks that Janus Machines should be replaced more frequently, before they get ‘long in the tooth.’”
“Yes, I know she’s said such things.”
“Perhaps Stuart feels that others will report what she says, and he does not have to. In taking this approach, however, he is technically in violation of the law, which as you know requires the repo
rting of all infractions, whether they are activities or remarks. Since Stuart is my roommate, he knows that I am a Greenpol agent and that I am duty-bound to report all I know about him, and about Ms. Landau. Even so, I have noticed a reticence on his part to reveal certain things to me about her. He has been, uh, clamming up lately when it comes to her.”
“Well, she is his girlfriend. Perhaps he feels that you are prying unnecessarily.”
“Hmm, perhaps. But you’ve said yourself that no one in the GSA has an inalienable right to privacy, and you should know that on his personal time Stuart does not smoke very many juana sticks, or partake in other legal drugs much at all. Some people would view such behavior as unpatriotic, as anti-GSA.”
Rahma scowled. “Maybe drugs disagree with him physically. Did that ever occur to you?”
“He’s never said so to me.”
“And the two of you are close personal friends?”
“Actually, no. I think we tried to be at first, but now we only tolerate one another as roommates. We are quite different, actually, and at times I think he finds me irritating.”
“I wonder why.”
The sarcasm went right over Twitty’s head. Instead, he took the words literally. “It must be because I’m so serious about my duties, sir, always trying to do my job as a cop, ferreting out the bad guys no matter where they are, or who they are.”
“Yes, Twitty, that must be it.” Along with your other irritating personality traits, Rahma thought, you derrière-kissing sycophant.
“Stuart isn’t a bad citizen, sir, I don’t mean to imply that. But the government does not want him to be negatively influenced by Kupi Landau’s … colorful … attitude, so that must be constantly watched. She has an excellent record of service herself, of course, but some of the things she says sound unpatriotic. Sorry if I’m overstepping my bounds here.”
Rahma narrowed his gaze, didn’t respond in words. He was growing impatient and sensed that Twitty didn’t have much more to say. The man was babbling, filling the air with useless comments and wasting time. Undoubtedly he had used his family connections to get the ear of Rahma’s guardian-screeners, and then exaggerated the importance of the information he had to provide.
“Of course, Kupi Landau’s past relationship with Your Eminence is widely known. In view of that, her laudatory service on the Berkeley Eight revolutionary council, and her recent heroics, perhaps Stuart feels that you will give her a pass no matter what she says.”
“Leave the psychological analyses to trained professionals, Twitty.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that all you have for me today?”
“Sir, yes, it is. I’m sorry if my information seems minimal, but I just thought you should receive everything I know right away so that you can catch potential problems early and take any necessary actions before things get out of hand.”
The Chairman nodded and waved his hand dismissively, causing the avatar to vanish in a puff of air.
* * *
FROM HIS MANSION in the eucalyptus-covered hills, Director Arch Ondex had a view of the gleaming high-rises of the Berkeley Reservation for Humans and the blue waters of San Francisco Bay. On the other side of the bay, he saw the forested San Francisco peninsula. Once an important city had been over there, a cosmopolitan center of international Corporate interests. Now it was just another portion of the vast woodlands and nature preserves that covered most of the Green States of America.
A holo-screen beside him provided another, more interesting view for him, a secret satellite view of the Rocky Mountain Territory and the Montana Valley Game Reserve that had become the headquarters of Rahma Popal.
Yes, Ondex thought, Rahma Popal. He is just a man, not really the godlike figure he’s made himself into, the green savior of our planet.
For some time now, Chairman Rahma and the Panasian Premiere, Woo Hashimoto, had been exchanging personal insults, increasing the rhetoric between them to the point where the two nations could very well engage in a nuclear war.
The latest insult from overseas accused Rahma of being the dictator of a fascist green regime—a police state. Rahma responded that he found the thought preposterous, and a huge distortion. “Fascists are always right wing,” Rahma had asserted in a government-to-government transmittal, “not left wing! What an exaggeration!”
He’d gone on to cite a host of reasons why Hashimoto was actually the proverbial pot calling the kettle black. The Panasian leader had murdered tens of millions of his own people for no good reason, Rahma pointed out, except to protect the oligarchy that ruled the nation through repression and an elaborate system of political favors, much of it favoring the Japanese, Chinese, and Korean members of his own large family.
Rahma understood the need for political favors (and he gave them out), but he did not practice any form of nepotism. When his own brother came up on a relocation list, and later on a list of people to be recycled for criminal behavior, Rahma did not intervene on either occasion. Most of the people who had to be put to death in his nation, the Chairman insisted, died for a good cause—the environment—not like the situation in Panasia where severe actions were taken against the populace with one object in mind, ensuring the power of the ruler and his cronies, and lining their pockets with cash.
Ondex didn’t want to think about the similarities between the two governmental systems, though they were certainly obvious to him, no matter how much Chairman Rahma tried to deny them because of his own altruistic motives. Ondex shook his head in dismay. The battle of name-calling seemed juvenile to him, and a waste of energy. If the Green States and Panasia ever got into a nuclear war, much of the fault would lie with these two quarreling leaders.
Rahma could be a difficult man to get along with (as Ondex knew only too well), but the Director still held a degree of affection for the aging guru, because of the man’s idealism and his relentless desire to protect the planet. You could argue with Rahma’s methods, which were harsh, but not with the results. As a result of his work, air quality was much better in the Americas, with greenhouse gas emissions and other pollutants down dramatically. People were breathing fresh air, and the Earth was breathing more easily too, with decillions of additional trees planted under Rahma’s stewardship.
Ondex’s holo-screen view was from a SciO satellite connection concealed inside what was supposed to be a GSA communications satellite. But that particular orbital platform had something else onboard as well, something known only to SciO leadership—a Janus Machine that was more powerful than any ground cannon used for splitting and greenforming, or for firing bursts of Dark Energy at Corporate forces … and even more powerful than any nuclear weapons ever built, or any combination of them.
SJM—the Satellite Janus Machine.
With one blast from its massive Splitter barrel, it could wipe out everything in the Panasian nation, and a secondary blast from the orbital Seed Cannon would greenform it all, making the land look like it did millions of years ago. Everything on the orbital platform had been cleverly concealed from view with telescoping and modular units. The apparatus was like a Chinese puzzle box, with hidden mechanisms that the SciOs could activate to put the weapon online in a matter of seconds.
He didn’t think that Chairman Rahma, even with the animosity he held toward Hashimoto and the Panasians, would want anything like that, anything that insane. And neither did Ondex. But the weapon was necessary, given the state of tensions in the world.
A copy of The Little Green Book sat on a table. In a burst of impetuosity, he grabbed the slender volume and hurled it into the fireplace. At his thought command, the gas in the fireplace flickered on, and flames consumed the book. It was a small, albeit secret, commentary on his part.
Others had their games, but Ondex knew how to play, too, by his own rules. He took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself.
For his own protection, and the protection of key SciO personnel, the organization had installed its own bunkers deep in the crust of
the planet, hundreds of meters down, with so many layers of protection that anyone—or anything—inside them would not be harmed.
Activating the Satellite Janus Machine would be madness, casting a horrific swath of death across huge areas of land. He didn’t want that on his conscience. But as a businessman he did want leverage, and this had the potential of giving him exactly that, in a big way. It was a bargaining chip, to be played against Rahma or Hashimoto (or both of them) at the right moment. He didn’t want to forget the Eurikan Prime Minister, Grange Arthur, either. The man always seemed to be lying in the weeds, awaiting an opportunity to advance his interests.
Ondex switched to a clandestine satellite view of London, a live transmission that showed Prime Minister Arthur acting like a pompous king, riding through London at night in an ornate open carriage, drawn by prancing Arabian stallions. His attractive brunette wife, Karin, sat beside him, smiling and waving to throngs of people along the way, as they went to the opera. The famous couple’s clothing was overdone, more like the extravagant costumes of an actor and an actress than those of a head of state and his lady.
His wife was with child, expected to deliver her baby in a matter of weeks. The citizens especially adored Karin, because of her charming personality and all the time she spent raising money for the poor. Despite the cold night air, the onlookers stood shoulder to shoulder along the carriage route, cheering and clapping.
Other live views from Eurika showed a soccer match, an African village that had been turned into an amusement park, and an outdoor street party that was a masked ball. The Eurikans worked fewer hours than others around the world and had a more relaxed view toward life and maximizing their pleasure. They vacationed longer, ate more, drank more, and had more sex. Unlike the Panasians, the Eurikans did not make overt displays of their weapons in parades or military-equipment shows. The Prime Minister’s guards (as well as the police and soldiers) carried traditional sidearms and rifles, and not always the latest technology.
The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma Page 13
