The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma

by Brian Herbert

  The officers opened the gate and entered an arched alcove that contained the crypts of the research team that had committed suicide over their failure. Artie had little doubt that it had actually occurred, because the SciO leadership was known to be very demanding, and unforgiving of mistakes.

  Using power tools, the officers cut the seals around seven crypts, and slid the caskets out onto the floor of the alcove. Moving in close, Artie recorded in his data banks the name on each crypt: Kee Wong, Joel Nero, Mae Pitol, Vanna Solomon, Dylan Bane, Triston Lalley, and Kent Hopkins.

  Opening each casket, Dr. Kovacs took cell samples from the decaying bodies, using a compression-extraction needle. Artie noticed that she and the officers recoiled from odors in the caskets, but with his mechanical components he was able to take readings on the smells without being bothered by them. Peeking in, he saw that five of the bodies were well preserved, while two—Solomon and Lalley—were desiccated, from leaks in the seals. With each extraction, Dr. Kovacs dutifully transferred cellular and genetic data to a scanner on Artie’s body.

  One by one she ran through the identities, checking the bodies against identity cards for the deceased employees. “Nero, check,” she said. “Pitol, check. Hopkins, check. Bane—” She paused, ran another test.

  Looking at Director Ondex, she said, “Problem here, sir. This is not the body of Dylan Bane.”

  “Not Bane?” Ondex looked into the casket, while Artie moved closer to see better.

  “Look here, sir,” she said, using a scalpel to lift a flap of skin from the well-preserved though yellowing face. “See that? It’s a fake skin overlay containing Bane’s DNA. But going deeper and taking an internal organ sample, it’s clear that this is the body of a different man, made to look like Bane, and seem to be Bane. The autopsy doctor only took a cell scraping from what he thought was the epidermis, and came up with Bane’s DNA. Not suspecting anything, he didn’t bother to go deeper.”

  “If this isn’t Bane, who the hell is it?”

  “We don’t know yet, sir.”

  “Damn it,” the Director said. “This means Bane is on the loose.”

  “With SciO technology,” Artie said. “Obviously, he knows how to make the vanishing tunnel system work to transport military forces underground, over long distances.”

  Ondex slammed a fist on the edge of the casket, then grimaced and grabbed his hand. “I think I broke it,” he said.

  That’s the least of your problems, Artie thought, as he watched tests being conducted on the other bodies, and received additional data through his scanner. There were no more surprises.

  “You are not to notify the Chairman of this yet,” Director Ondex said, as the doctor and her assistants completed their work. “I must go to him personally in order to provide him with important information beyond what you have learned here today, beyond anything that is in the cells or genetics of these bodies. For the sake of national security, it is best for Rahma to learn it all at once, and directly from me.”

  “What is the additional information?”

  “That will be revealed when I am face to face with Chairman Rahma. Come with me now. We shall leave immediately.”

  Artie nodded, but he secretly transmitted a backup file to the GSA data storage facility in Montana Valley, along with an electronic tickler that would notify the Chairman of its presence tomorrow, and enable him to access it.

  These SciOs could be tricky, and he didn’t want to risk losing the data.

  * * *

  IN THE MISSOULA Reservation, a black-garbed figure cut through the cool shadows of night, moving from street to street, following the directions that his sister had given to him. He carried a small duffel bag.

  Uvander Crumb was an anarchist soldier, a lieutenant in the Black Shirts, the Army’s vaunted Revolutionary Guard. He had fought in the front lines of the Corporate War, had seen his comrades fall around him, had been in the cheering throngs when Chairman Rahma declared victory and established the Green States of America.

  Yet tonight’s assignment was not on any duty sheet, was not known to his superiors or to anyone else in the armed forces. It was known only to himself and to his older sister, Kristine Longet. She didn’t even want her husband to know, or their daughter.

  Now he stared up at the glass-walled apartment building she had designated. It looked like any other building in this mid-green neighborhood, and everyone inside was asleep with the lights off, following strict schedules laid out for them by the government.

  Uvander understood the necessity of what he was doing. It occupied a realm beyond any moral constraints, compunctions, or laws. It was the sworn obligation of a brother to a sister, and with such an important matter there could be no discussion of nuances. It was a matter of duty. Family duty.

  Using a security code he had obtained surreptitiously through his military and police contacts, he slipped through the service entrance of the building. When the door closed behind him he activated a small, powerful flashlight. Except for the beam of illumination this provided, it was pitch dark in there. He moved quickly through the corridor, glancing occasionally at a hand-held screen that provided him with a blueprint of the building.

  Using additional codes, he passed through one doorway and then another, closing doors softly behind him as he proceeded. Finally he stood in a large room that had a very high ceiling and mezzanines, with metal stairways and walkways connecting the levels. Through an elaborate arrangement of chutes and bins, this was where garbage was collected from the apartments above, in a system that separated the refuse for each unit and enabled inspectors to examine it regularly, looking for eco-violations.

  Uvander climbed four stairways, then hurried along a walkway until he located the bin for apartment number 2095, which he had been told was occupied by the Ridell family—enemies of his sister. He’d never seen Kristine like this before; she was extremely upset and determined to take action, telling him that she’d met the father of a young woman who was harming Dori’s career, and something needed to be done to get the young woman—and her entire family—out of the way.

  He unzipped the duffel bag and poured its contents into the bin—plastic bags he’d dug out of an old Corporate landfill, and washed off. A garbage inspector was due to examine these bins the following afternoon, and would not like what he discovered.

  30

  It became very clear to us on the revolutionary council that the Corporate-induced lifestyle of conspicuous consumption was not sustainable for our planet, that man could not keep usurping the resources of the Earth without consequences. Others had warned of this before us, but we carried the banner of environmentalism into battle.

  —Chairman Rahma, in an interview with The Green Times

  ACCORDING TO THE wall screen it was midday, with bright, sunlit clouds on the horizon, east of the hills and tall buildings of the Berkeley Reservation for Humans. Joss stood in front of the projected image, cursing it for not being a real window view. For all he knew, it might not actually be midday; it could be nighttime. At the moment he loathed the SciOs and their technology, and felt an overwhelming desire to be free and breathe whatever gasps of outside air he could, for as long as he could.

  Looking up at a surveillance cam, he said, “I’m not going to be your lab rat anymore, Dr. Mora, so I issue you fair warning. Stay out of my way and no one will be hurt.”

  A woman’s voice came over an intercom, the synthesized one he’d heard before. “Don’t try anything foolish, Mr. Stuart.”

  Ignoring the computerized warning, Joss rose to his feet and strode to the thick door that led to the hallway. He wondered if he was the only human awake in the research facility this early.

  He corrected himself. The only sentient. With the altered, darkened color of his skin, and the green, vinelike scars on it, along with the odd powers he had acquired in the explosion, he wasn’t sure exactly what to call himself, other than this.

  Joss felt the gathering roar in his pulse, and wov
e a small force field between his fingertips. Then, enlarging the field, he wove a protective net of black light around himself—leaving small openings in the energy field at his fingertips.

  Through the gaps he fired controlled blasts of Dark Energy. The heavy door melted away, and he strode through it into the corridor.

  Alarm klaxons sounded, and through the net he saw white-uniformed security officers running toward him. “Stop!” one of them yelled.

  To demonstrate his power, Joss blasted a hole in a wall near the officers without hitting them, and walked toward them because the exit was in that direction. Looking terrified, they moved out of his way.

  As he marched past an open doorway, a medical technician appeared suddenly and fired a sedative gun, a volley of red, whisper-silent projectiles. All of them bounced harmlessly off Joss’s threadlike shield.

  Dr. Mora emerged ahead of him and stood in the middle of the hallway, his arms outstretched in a halting gesture. Medical attendants stood behind him. “We must work together!” he shouted to Joss. “Don’t do this! We’ll make a new arrangement!”

  Joss ignored him and continued on, with his energy field repelling them, knocking them aside. He went past them, shouting, “I’m making my own arrangement.”

  More people appeared, along with robots, but the energy barrier knocked them aside without the necessity of Joss taking conscious actions, or even sending mental commands. It was a repellent field, a disturbance area around his body that prevented anyone from getting too close to him. They couldn’t penetrate the field to inject him, tie him up, or shoot projectiles through. The field prevented every attempt.

  Defiantly, Joss marched out of the bleak gray building and onto the streets of the Berkeley Reservation for Humans. As he strode down the shaded sidewalk, he saw white-uniformed SciO security officers following him, and other people pointing, beginning to take notice of him.

  Joss didn’t understand what had happened to him in the explosion of the ReFac building, but his powers were obviously more than the “cute little talents” mentioned in government reports about him. He wasn’t sure what to do with his paranormal skills, or what the purpose of his life was from this point on. He only knew that he would never return to SciO control again.

  Then he shuddered, remembering that he had SciO technology immersed in his cells.

  31

  Joss Stuart was said to be an orphan, left in a bundle beneath an oak tree on a moonlit Pacific Northwest night. From low-hanging boughs above the crying infant, night birds called out, making so much racket that a man went to investigate. In a pool of moonlight, he found a child wrapped in rags and covered in leaves up to his neck, with only his head showing.

  —a news report, “The Birth of Greenman”

  AT AN ACCELERATED pace, Joss walked down one sidewalk and then another in the forest of high-rise buildings, following signs that led to the Old Town district of the Berkeley Reservation. He had only a vague idea of why he was going there, an instinct that this was the direction to go because it was where the green movement began in earnest, and where he thought he might find some comfort.

  Behind him, a gathering crowd followed, people shouting to one another, identifying him and commenting on the strange appearance of his skin and the net of black light around him, and what he’d done to break out of the SciO facility. To keep them at bay, he maintained the web of energy for half a meter around his body, which blocked anyone from touching him and repelled those few foolish individuals who got in front of him and attempted to block his path. He just kept going, giving anyone in his way a gentle nudge, trying not to hurt anybody. In the distance to the east, the sun was peeking around buildings.

  Gradually Joss walked faster, and noticed that people needed to run to keep up with him. What would happen if he actually began to run? He inhaled a deep breath, continued walking rapidly as he thought about this question. He hesitated doing that, felt a fear of what he was becoming, and just wanted to get away from people and be alone so that he could think. Without being watched, he needed to consider everything that was happening to his body, with no inquisitive scientists taking readings on him, monitoring his every move, and recording his every word.

  In various doorways and intersections he saw men and women in SciO robes watching him, using hand-held communication devices to report on his movements. These observers didn’t try to interfere, didn’t join the throngs.

  He reached Old Town, where the buildings were much lower, vintage brick and wood frame houses featuring white pillars, sienna tile roofs, and ivy on the walls. Some had empty flagpoles where fraternity and sorority banners once flew, before the GSA declared all such organizations illegal and disbanded them. Government caretakers occupied some of these structures now, maintaining the neighborhood for historical purposes.

  Almost a century ago, in the 1960s, there had been student revolts on these streets and on the nearby University of California campus, demanding free speech, world peace, and environmental protection. In those days the police had been called “pigs” by young protestors, and there had been open warfare between the two sides—but nothing on the scale of 2041–43 and the Corporate War, when more than four million people perished.

  At an intersection, SciO security officers converged around Joss, but he broke free and hurried across the busy street, moving quickly around the myriad electric transportation vehicles—taxis and various sizes of buses. Just then a large truck rounded the corner and skidded, trying to avoid him. It happened quickly, and in the press of traffic Joss wasn’t able to get out of the way. One of the front fenders hit him so hard that it lifted him into the air. He landed on the street uninjured, didn’t feel anything and just rolled away, protected by the energy field around his body.

  As he rose to his feet he heard a woman exclaim, “Did you see that? The man hit the pavement softly, and rolled away like a tumbleweed!”

  SciO and Greenpol officers ran toward him from different directions, with the two agencies probably coordinating their efforts. Joss began running, and as he reached a busy thoroughfare it surprised him how fast he could go. On a long stretch of sidewalk, he was outpacing taxicabs on the street, even as he darted around pedestrians.

  Joss rounded a corner, ran up a narrow street past a pea patch, where schoolchildren stood attentively while a female teacher read to them from The Little Green Book. Continuing on, he scrambled up steps to the top of a hill, where a number of elegant old private residences stood, like the structures he’d seen below, and all appeared to be very well maintained. He didn’t see anyone as he ran along one street and another.

  Hearing the throb of a helicopter, he hurried into a yard and vaulted over a wooden fence, reaching the backyard. Here the weeds were high and the white paint was peeling off the house. Peeking through a window, he saw the interior in shambles, with kitchen appliances torn out and debris scattered on the floor—indicating that the government only cared about the appearance of the properties from the street.

  Still hearing the helicopter noise but not seeing the aircraft, he tried the kitchen door handle and the door squeaked open, scraping the sill and floor. Entering, he pushed it shut behind him. The helicopter noise grew louder, then diminished until he could not hear it any longer. Minutes passed, in which he stood in a shadowy doorway where he could not be seen from the air, listening and afraid to move.

  Gradually, silence permeated his awareness, and complete stillness. But as he crossed the kitchen, he couldn’t help making noise when his shoes crunched on broken glass, and the old fir floor squeaked. Joss inspected every corner of the house, from the low-ceilinged basement to the tattered bedrooms on the second story, where torn and stained mattresses were scattered on the floor, beside the remnants of nightstands and leaning dressers, with their drawers out and strewn around. He saw rat or mouse droppings everywhere, but selected one mattress and wiped it with a rag, including the floor around it. Then he lay down on it, using a rolled-up old robe for a pillow.


  As he lay there he noticed that he’d been perspiring from the activity, and he was warm. Gradually, as minutes passed and he cooled down, he realized it was cold in the house, but he could tolerate it, and didn’t care. He just wanted to be alone and away from prying eyes.

  An hour passed in which he lay there, listening, waiting, and thinking. Despite the earlier helicopter noise, he didn’t think anyone had seen him. It was probably a police aircraft checking the area, maybe looking for him or just doing a routine flyover.

  Joss heaved a sigh of relief, and finally fell asleep.

  * * *

  HE DREAMED HE was being chased across an immense industrial site that was still operating, with hundreds of stacks belching dark pollutants into the sky. He couldn’t see his pursuers and didn’t know who they were, but felt certain they would kill him if they caught up with him. Joss ran inside one of the large buildings, but to his amazement he found it was actually a ponderosa pine forest with streams and lakes. No machines and no people.

  Knowing that this could not possibly be real, Joss tried to wake up, but found himself unable to do so. He saw himself from above, lying on the forest floor in a fetal position, sleeping. “Wake up!” he shouted to himself. “Wake up!” But his sleeping form did not move. He kept shouting, but gradually the words grew more and more distant, receding into the wilderness.

  As he lay in the forest he heard a thrumming noise, an alien sound that grew louder as his own voice grew more distant. A machine noise, he decided, intruding on the beauty and solitude of the woods, threatening not only him but all other life that depended on this precious ecosystem. Moments later, he heard something accompanying the machine noise, voices and footfalls. He felt warmth on his face and sensed something drawing him toward it, lifting him.