Like the Green States and the Panasians, the Eurikans had nuclear weapons and a large air force, army, and navy—but they did not saber-rattle. They also were not the overt eco-criminals that the Panasians were, and were instead more guilty of neglect of the environment than direct assaults on it. The Eurikans even had a number of programs to reduce carbon emissions and energy usage, and excellent recycling systems. Still, they were not the GSA; much of their population was spread out into small towns, instead of concentrating them more efficiently in densely populated reservations for humans.
For some time now, the GSA had been a cash cow for Ondex and the rest of the privileged SciO leadership. Popal’s obsession with greening the planet, and with the related businesses he and his cronies controlled, had been a great opportunity for the SciOs to capitalize on their ground-based Janus Machines, and on other technology they had invented for the GSA. All of it was highly profitable for the SciOs.
But that was not the extent of J-Mac power. Far from it.
Ondex had other concerns about this dual-sided power that could destroy and create. Years ago he had nearly lost control of a form of the technology, when he didn’t monitor a research team closely enough. All of them ended up killing themselves and taking the secret of vanishing tunnels with them. As a result, a new team had been assigned to the clandestine project, and they started essentially from scratch, with only a few clues left behind by their predecessors.
It was but one of numerous top-secret research programs that the SciOs had under development. All of that cutting-edge science, and nuances of it. He controlled the most powerful organization in history.
But Arch Ondex did not view himself as the only true God on the planet, though he might have done so. Rather, he was a sane man, an eminently practical one, and his Corporate father had—irony of ironies!—imbued a sense of morality in him, a sense of giving something substantial back to the people, a share of the profits. As a result, Ondex would use the new power for good, and would not abuse it.
The talented scientists on his staff had also come up with significant advancements in the fields of medicine and other technologies to improve the quality of life for mankind, things that were widely used, but not widely publicized.
In one regard, he thought that he and Chairman Rahma shared common ground, a desire to do good works on a very large scale. They were both idealistic men. Yet a major dividing line between them had to do with Rahma’s misguided insistence on punishing humankind for past transgressions and on denying them material comforts, even refusing such things for himself. In contrast, Ondex believed people should not be herded around and controlled in every aspect of their lives, placed into densely populated, velvet-lined prisons for the protection of the environment.
As but one man, albeit an important one, Ondex intended to live a luxurious life himself, for as long as he could. He felt he had earned the right to do so, whether Rahma liked it or not.
17
“Rahm-m-m-m-a … Rahm-m-m-m-a … Rahm-m-m-m-a…” When chanted, his name has a sound reminiscent of eastern religion, and he has been called a guru. Though he denies the existence of a green religion, his choice of the name Rahma is not accidental, for the Chairman was not born with it. The man we see today is a carefully constructed individual, composed of components designed to please his followers. Much of his biography, at least that portion preceding his involvement in the revolution, has been fabricated.
—Artie, encrypted data file
JOSS HAD BEEN on the maglev train for more than an hour with the six other members of his Janus Machine crew, speeding south from the Seattle Reservation. On the way, he and Kupi had reviewed details of their next job assignment, occasionally looking outside at the spectacular tree, mountain, and water views. Sitting separately now, they were crossing a bridge over the northern reaches of San Francisco Bay, with the gleaming high-rise buildings of the Berkeley Reservation dominating the view ahead. It was late morning, an overcast, drizzly day.
Considered the flagship of all reservations for humans, Berkeley was a dense population center of seventy-three million people that extended inland—east, south, and north of the old, much smaller city site, thus consuming the former decadent metropolises of Oakland and San Jose, as well as many of the sprawling suburbs. The original university district of Berkeley, called Old Town now, had been largely preserved and was considered a revered and legendary site, the secular equivalent of hallowed ground. This was where Chairman Rahma and the revolutionary council had fomented the populist rebellion in 2041 that spread across millions of square kilometers and brought down the avaricious corporations of North and South America, along with their lackey governments.
West of the bay, the San Francisco peninsula had been split and greenformed into woodlands, lakes, and waterways, including sanctuaries and habitats for important bird, animal, and plant species, now known as the Golden Gate Conservancy. Ponds, lakes, and streams had been generated to mimic what might have been there thousands of years ago. Stands of fast-growing trees covered the hills where rich and powerful tycoons and their ladies had once cavorted, and the ugly, pollution-engendering scars of bridges and highways had all been destroyed. People didn’t belong in such beautiful places and had been moved out of the way, so that the natural processes of the Earth could resume.
The train slowed way down as it entered the Berkeley Reservation, heading for the station in Old Town. Through the window, Joss saw balcony and rooftop gardens on many buildings, as well as signs that read “Safe Injection Booths” and “Needle Exchange,” and he watched drug patrons going in and out of the old buildings that housed these facilities.
* * *
OUTSIDE THE TRAIN, a ragged-looking man was shouting at a bearded gentleman who wore one of the new suit designs, adorned with a stylized tree. The well-dressed man turned and tried to walk away, but the ragamuffin leaped on his backside, knocking him down, and began pummeling him with fists. A railroad security officer ran toward the scene, his gun drawn and shouting commands.
The aggressor paid no attention and kept hitting the fallen man, drawing blood from his face.
The cop fired a projectile, apparently something to just stun the attacker, because when it hit him there was no blood, but he stiffened and stopped moving. The officer then put a restraining device on the man’s wrists and hauled him to his feet, while the victim struggled to recover and answered questions from the officer.
“Crime is everywhere,” Kupi said, “even here in Berkeley, the showplace of the GSA.”
It was one of the cynical comments that were so typical of Kupi, who at times seemed contemptuous of the Green States, and said exactly what others would like to say, but didn’t dare.
The train rolled on, leaving the crime scene behind.
* * *
IN THE KITCHEN of their small apartment, Doug Ridell and his wife prepared the evening meal. Several times a week they preferred to make fresh salads, soups, and stews with vegetables and fruits from the street vendors, instead of processed food from their own automated kitchen.
Doug was not in a good mood, because that afternoon he’d learned that Kristine Longet had filed a formal complaint against him alleging that he had not repaired her robot properly, and because of his “incompetence,” she wanted someone else to work on it. Doug had tried to tell his supervisor what the real reason was, but the man wouldn’t listen, and from the look on his face, it would be a blemish in Doug’s personnel file. The despicable, arrogant woman had probably sabotaged the robot, just to make him look bad.
He finished cutting carrots, cauliflower, and onions, then used his knife to scrape scraps into the garbage processor. The machinery whirred as the pieces dropped into the refuse chute, without grinding them. Periodically, garbage technicians inspected the bins in the basement (a separate, marked bin for each apartment), to make certain they did not contain unauthorized materials, such as plastics, polluting chemicals, and other contraband substances that were in v
iolation of the basic tenets on which the GSA was founded.
Other government technicians monitored energy use through smart meters on appliances, and audited the interiors of apartments (by surprise inspection) to make certain that all facets of a citizen’s home life were within the sustainable standards laid out in the Charter of the Green States of America. The government had numerous other behavior-monitoring programs as well, designed to reduce the carbon footprint of each person, thus reducing global warming and other ecological harm to the planet.
Doug slammed the knife down on the counter, removed his apron, and hung it on a wall hook. “You finish up, Hana. I don’t feel like eating anything.”
“You don’t want any dinner?”
“No, I just want Jade to work harder, so we don’t have to put up with this life anymore.”
Head down, he passed his other daughter in the hallway, without saying anything to her.
Just before retreating into the wretched little bedroom he shared with his wife, he heard Willow ask, “What’s the matter with Daddy?”
* * *
THROUGH THE WINDOW of the train, Joss saw banners on walls proclaiming the benefits of injection booths and needle exchanges, asserting that they reduced drug overdoses, hepatitis C, and HIV-AIDS infections. On his last visit here, Joss and Kupi had been given a tour of the reservation, including the old and new sections, and shown where citizens injected cocaine, crystal meth, heroine, and other popular legal drugs. There were drug-consumption facilities in every GSA population center, but the process seemed to flow more smoothly in Berkeley than anywhere else, perhaps from a tradition here that predated the Corporate War, going all the way back to the 1950s, when so many of the countercultural ideas began to foment.
And, though Joss did not consume recreational drugs on anywhere near the scale of the average citizen, he still understood the need for providing government services in this manner. He couldn’t help feeling a patriotic surge of excitement every time he came here. So many famous radicals had been in Berkeley, and so many legendary events had occurred in this place. He felt the presence of their ghosts, could almost hear their stirring speeches at rallies on the old campus of the University of California, which was now a park and environmental learning center, the buildings having been converted to GSA uses.
Kupi Landau had been part of it, one of the Black Shirts who spearheaded many of the attacks. Now, smoking a juana stick, she came over and sat by him. The smoke smelled faintly of cinnamon.
“Thinking about the glory days here?” he asked, as the train passed a large section of pea patches, where schoolchildren were working.
“Perhaps.” She smiled, offered him a hit on the stick.
He took a small toke, passed the stick back to her. “Thanks,” he said, feeling a burn in his throat. It was strong, special-order stuff.
“I never cease to be amazed when I remember the old days,” she said, “the way Rahma used to lead demonstrations and juggle beautiful girls on what he called his ‘bedroom dance card.’”
“He hasn’t slowed down, from what I hear.”
She nodded, lit another stick of marijuana, and offered it to him.
“No, thanks,” he said. “That one was enough. Besides, I’m getting high just sitting next to you and inhaling your smoke.”
On impulse, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, a gentle peck. “You know how different we are,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if we can stay together, or even if we should stay together.”
She looked at him with a hurt expression, didn’t say anything.
“Even if we don’t stay together—as a couple, I mean—I want us to remain friends. Good friends.”
“My, aren’t you the harbinger of happy tidings.”
“This has been building up for some time now. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Sadness lingered in the air between them, like smoke from a burned-out juana stick. The train pulled into the station, and they hurried off, pulling small luggage cases behind them.
* * *
JOSS AND HIS crew checked into rooms at the Hotel Mario Savio, named in honor of the mythical leader of the 1960s Free Speech Movement, more than seven decades before the Corporate War. The crew lunched in a sidewalk café on Dwight Way, then made their way a few blocks to the old campus of the University of California, which was now cordoned off by green-uniformed police because of an environmental problem that had occurred there over the weekend. This was the new jobsite for Joss and Kupi, one so sensitive that it required their expertise. They’d been told to use a local Janus Machine instead of their regular rig. He had not seen the machine they would be using yet, but did see the seedlike shape of a SciO Recharge Facility, for the servicing of J-Mac cannons.…
Almost a century ago, the students of Cal Berkeley (and radical infiltrators) took over this campus for a short time, including the student union center and the administration building, where they staged sit-ins. They even commandeered police cars, and stood on their roofs shouting “Kill the Pigs” about the cops, while demanding free speech and a voice in the affairs of the university. The protesters burned bras and draft cards, set up tables covered with Marxist literature, and flooded the campus and the streets with demonstrators carrying anti-war and free-speech signs.
Eventually the left-wing radicals retreated against the onslaught of police thugs and soldiers, but additional grassroots movements arose in the following century, including the biggest of all, led by Rahma Popal’s revolutionary council. Popal had learned lessons from the experiences of Mario Savio, Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, and other twentieth-century counterculture radicals, and had been able to go much, much further than they had, riding the crest of environmental and anti-Corporate waves. In the face of great adversity, the idealistic Popal had refused to retreat, and through courage and ingenuity he had won the ultimate victory.
On the Shattuck Street side of the old campus, Joss and his crew were stopped at a checkpoint by green-uniformed police officers. The crew showed their identification cards, then proceeded across the main square, passing the large fountain and the Campanile tower, and going through two more checkpoints. Joss noted scaffolding on several buildings, and workers busily repairing damage from a recent earthquake. Old bricks, stone blocks, and chunks of concrete were piled on the ground in several areas, for reuse by construction crews or for eco-friendly disposal.
At the far side of the square, Joss saw a high, opaque fence and gate, blocking any view of the worksite beyond. A Janus Machine was parked in front of the gate, with white-robed SciO technicians aboard it, checking the systems out. Both cannons were glowing, and the group was firing unloaded test capsules. The machine was an older model, with an ornate railing around the turret platform. It appeared to still have its original paint job, with a number of small dents, and showed signs of weathering.
“Looks like one of the Battle for Berkeley relics from two decades ago,” Kupi groused. “They must have pulled it out of a museum and refitted it. Look at that worn numeral on the side; it’s old Number Two. And it has an old-style atomic reactor on the back.”
“It looks kind of beat, but I assume the operating systems are still good.”
“I hope the thing is safe,” Kupi said.
“I’m sure it is. We’re in Berkeley, after all, the heartbeat of the Green States of America.”
Joss had already reviewed the assignment with Kupi, and now he took time to brief the rest of the crew. They gathered around him in their green-and-black uniforms, a short distance from the weathered old Janus Machine.
“This is a highly sensitive cleanup site,” Joss said. “Somehow the Corporate bastards tunneled underneath the old campus and buried industrial waste down there, barrels of really nasty, highly toxic stuff. The site was so well hidden, even from scanners, that our government didn’t know it was there.”
“Until an earthquake ruptured the land open,” Kupi said, “bri
nging down walls and causing dangerous chemicals to leak out of the barrels, contaminating the ground and water.”
“The Corporates went to a lot of trouble and expense to build a tunnel and storage area,” one of the crewmen said, a man who passed his own helmet back and forth in his hands as he stood there. “Why would they do that?”
“Several reasons,” Kupi said. “First, they were under assault from environmentalists to deal with toxic wastes safely, and not to create them in the first place. Even before the Corporate War there were political victories against industrialists, forcing them to go to great expense to clean up their crap. It’s all about money, isn’t it? Obviously the bad guys found it was cheaper to tunnel under Cal Berkeley and hide the bad stuff where the environmentalists wouldn’t think to look.”
“It was like thumbing their noses at the Greenies,” Joss said. “Maybe the Corporates even hoped an earthquake would eventually open things up and contaminate the area. Greenpol has been over the site with a fine-tooth comb, and they can’t tell for certain where the stuff came from. The criminals covered their tracks well.”
“And now it’s our job to clean up the mess,” Kupi said, “or should I say, it’s my job. I need to aim straight, because there are historic buildings all around.”
“That’s right,” Joss said, “and then I greenform a new park area. One more thing. All of us are sworn to secrecy about this job. The discovery of a toxic waste dump is an embarrassment to the administration, and they just want it fixed, with no fanfare. This is Ground Zero for the Green Revolution. They plan a cover story about the new park, saying it will be a new GSA rescue center for trumpeter swans, California condors, and other birds that need special protection.”
The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma Page 14
