Tears came instantly to her dark green eyes. “Where have they been sent?”
“I can’t answer that, but because of your family’s disgrace you can no longer work here.” He almost choked on the words. “Jade, we can’t spend time together anymore.”
“My Chairman!”
“I’m sending you back to the Missoula Reservation to report to the Job Assignment Office, with orders that you are not to be penalized in any way for the actions of your family. I’m giving you a break.”
She didn’t look grateful. Darkness spread over her face, and she fought off tears. “You won’t tell me where my parents are, or my little sister?”
“They’re being processed by the system. We must have faith in the system.” He waved a hand dismissively.
She shot him a hard glare, but turned and left without another word.
Afterward, in the silence of his office, Rahma thought of her, and wished it might have been otherwise between them. But he could never spend time with a daughter of eco-criminals. It would undermine his stature and authority.
* * *
THAT EVENING A uniformed, jackbooted Andruw Twitty stepped from the VTOL plane, where he was greeted by an aide who identified himself as Artie. This was undeniably the most famous hubot of all, from what Twitty had heard, with the human eyes of a dead war hero.
Unseen by the visitor, the large glidewolf soared overhead, circling the yurt compound and gazing down, watching every move he made. Though Twitty didn’t know this, the creature had reached its full adult size now and was a common sight in the sky over the game reserve, so that few people or hubots on the ground took notice of her anymore.
Several times, Twitty looked upward nervously, remembering what had happened before, but in the waning light and mottled cloud cover he did not see the animal at all. But it was there nonetheless, and as Twitty and Artie entered the administration building the glidewolf settled quietly onto the rooftop.
Twitty followed the hubot to a third-floor office in one of the yurts, where Chairman Rahma sat at a large bamboo desk, studded with commemorative plaques that bore the faces of revolutionary heroes.
“You asked to see me,” the Chairman said. “This had better not be a waste of my time.”
“Oh, it won’t be, sir.” Twitty removed his helmet, looked back nervously as the door shut behind him. The hubot remained in the room and stood by a balcony door, staring at him.
“Well?” Chairman Rahma said, glaring.
“There is more to Joss Stuart than the government realizes, sir. I’m very concerned that he’s being permitted to go back to work on a Janus Machine crew. That’s sensitive, important work, and he should not be trusted with it.”
He paused, waiting for a response—but the Chairman didn’t say anything.
Letting his visitor remain uncomfortable, Rahma Popal flipped off the screen of a report he had been reading, the latest on the tensions with the Panasian government and their intractable premier, Woo Hashimoto. The fool was issuing a personal challenge to Rahma, suggesting that they meet in hand-to-hand combat and fight to the death, with the victor vanquishing the other nation. He offered an odd choice of weapons: knives or swords.
What an idiot he is, Rahma thought. Knives or swords? I am a man of peace, not of violence!
He had to admit, though, that the thought of sticking a blade into Hashimoto’s gut appealed to him. Yes, it would be nice to do it personally, and watch him bleed to death, then hack him to pieces the way Hashimoto had done to the polar bear.
It occurred to him now, as it had before, that he could present himself to Hashimoto in the form of an avatar—in enhanced virtual reality form. That way he could at least frighten the man, and perhaps cause him to hurt himself.
Rahma envisioned his own bearded avatar chasing Hashimoto through his palace near Shanghai, wielding a virtual reality sword—perhaps one that was emerald in color, or some other impressive variation of green. It would be amusing to catch the Panasian leader in his underwear and force him out into the open, subjecting him to public embarrassment. Or Rahma could intervene on one of Hashimoto’s numerous hunting trips, perhaps preventing him from killing an elephant or some other magnificent wild animal. The Chairman had seen images of the fool setting off on big-game expeditions, dressed in a heavy bearskin coat and carrying a large rifle, as if he thought he was an Asian Teddy Roosevelt, going after a grizzly bear.
But such thoughts were emotional, he realized, and not really rational. They just enabled him to let off steam.
Rahma heaved a deep sigh. He needed to deal with this other problem standing in front of him now, a gangrenous creature in the form of a Greenpol officer. The Chairman had never liked Twitty, whom he considered to be one of the worst opportunists he’d ever seen. Nevertheless, he had a prying, investigative mind and just might have something important to say. The problem was determining truth from embellishment.
The Chairman watched the stocky, mustached man twitch as he stood before the desk, heard his voice quaver as he finally continued. “I have information that is potentially damaging to Stuart, but out of loyalty, I thought I should confide in you before going anywhere else with it. At the hospital Stuart used Splitter power to injure and frighten me, and later he threatened to kill me if I didn’t stay away from him.”
“Knowing your personality, I can’t say I blame him. I’m getting irritated with you myself. Now tell me something important, if you have anything.”
“Stuart sabotaged the ReFac building, sir, I’m sure of it. I think he’s been working with the Corporates, spying on us, obtaining information for them and concealing his strange powers as long as he could, using them to commit sabotages.”
“For the Corporates, eh? And your evidence of that?”
He shifted on his feet. “W-well, it h-has to be the Corporates, doesn’t it? The SciOs told Greenpol that they ran DNA and other identity tests on Stuart when he was held by SciO researchers, to make sure it wasn’t a hubot of him that’s been displaying powers, with splitting and greenforming technology built into the body. It’s really Stuart all right, or more accurately it’s a biological hybrid of him with no robotics whatsoever, a human fused with plant cells and Dark Energy.”
“I already know this. Tell me something new, or get out.”
“Stuart either sabotaged the ReFac building,” Twitty said, “or it blew up accidentally while he was trying to obtain secret information from it.”
“You’re saying, then, that he already had strange powers before he went into the ReFac building, but if he already had secret SciO powers, what could he have possibly wanted in one of their ReFac buildings? And if he was trying to destroy the place, why would he do it in such a clumsy fashion, where it would be obvious that he was the one responsible? And if he’s so powerful, why did he go into a coma? I’ll tell you what really happened: Stuart didn’t have any unusual powers before the explosion, but in the normal course of his duties he was injured in the blast, and fundamentally changed by it.”
“That is one possible explanation,” Twitty admitted.
“It’s the only plausible explanation, unless you’re a complete, bumbling idiot.”
“OK, sir, let’s assume you’re right about one thing, that Stuart didn’t have any powers before the explosion. But what if he was still a Corporate spy and a saboteur, as I said, and he was trying to find out things in the Recharge Facility, things he wasn’t supposed to know? What if he did something inside that activated a SciO self-destruct mechanism, on a big scale?”
“Stuart is not an enemy agent. He’s been checked thoroughly and has held two high-security jobs, first as a Greenpol cop like you, and later as a greenformer.”
“But consider the fact that Stuart’s lover and crew member, Kupi Landau, has made a constant stream of complaints against your government. She’s known to have a rebellious nature, never fully cooperates with authorities, and only grudgingly performs her eco-tech job operating a Splitter—because i
t fulfills her anarchistic craving to destroy things. Maybe she and Stuart both had something to do with the explosion. Your government needs to be cautious of Landau’s violent nature, sir.”
Rahma hesitated because Twitty had struck a chord concerning Kupi and other anarchists who could potentially turn against the government, something he’d been concerned about himself. But he didn’t reveal this, and said, “I will not hear any more accusations against two loyal citizens of the Green States of America.” He narrowed his eyes dangerously. “Perhaps it is people like you we need to be wary of, Officer Twitty.”
“Sir?” The Greenpol man fumbled with his helmet. His pale gaze darted around nervously.
“Yes, manipulative, self-serving weasels who will do anything to ingratiate themselves with their superiors, even at the expense of other people, even at the expense of the truth. Does that sound at all familiar to you?”
“I’m, I’m not like that, sir.”
“There’s a rotten stench in here,” Rahma said. He rose to his feet and went onto the large balcony for a breath of fresh air, where he stared out at the greensward without saying anything. He saw a vulture circling in the foreground. A cool breeze blew against his face, and he thought it might rain soon. Behind him, he heard Twitty asking Artie if he should go out too, or if he should wait inside.
While Artie went out to ask, Twitty followed him as far as the doorway and stood there. Rahma watched the eco-cop peripherally, saw him inch out onto the balcony, just a step or two.
“My gratitude to your parents can only go so far, and you’ve overextended yourself,” Rahma said, looking sidelong at Twitty. “You’re a wormy, scheming bastard if I’ve ever seen one. Make no mistake about it, my eyes are on you, and not on Stuart or Landau.” He faced the Greenpol officer directly, saw the little man’s hands shaking as he held the helmet.
“With all respect, you’re mistaken, sir. You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation.” He reddened in apparent frustration, and took a step forward.
Artie shouted a warning. “Back away from the Chairman!”
Surprised, Twitty jerked and lost hold of his helmet, which bounced on the deck and rolled toward the Chairman. Rahma kicked the helmet aside, while Twitty froze where he was.
Hearing a noise overhead, Rahma looked up. To his surprise, he saw the glidewolf creeping down the exterior wall of the building like a huge bat, right above them.
Looking up, Twitty saw the creature, too. He cried out, but it was too late for him.
With a sudden movement, the glidewolf swept a powerful wing downward, scooping up the Greenpol officer and hurling him off the balcony. In midair Twitty screamed, then hit the ground headfirst, making a sickening sound like a cracking melon. He didn’t move. Blood pooled around him.
The glidewolf soared out from the wall, circled the fallen form of Twitty, and set down near him, where she remained, lying on all fours and looking at him without going nearer. The vulture came closer, circling overhead.
Two guards approached the body cautiously, their handguns drawn, watching the animal. “Put your weapons away!” Rahma shouted, seeing that the creature’s eyes were focused on them. A tall, black-haired woman hurried to join them. It was Dr. Tatanka, in a white medical smock, wearing a bead necklace and her Lakota Indian moccasins. Just that morning, the Chairman had received a personal note from her, about the need for them to make more time for each other in their busy schedules. He hadn’t responded yet, but thought he might just decide to make her his new favorite, elevating her over Dori.
The men reholstered their guns, but the glidewolf remained alert, tense.
Dr. Tatanka knelt over the body and checked the carotid artery. She looked up at the balcony, shouted, “No pulse, Mr. Chairman. He’s dead.”
“No loss,” Rahma shouted back. He tossed the helmet to the hubot, said to him, “I guess he should have worn this, wouldn’t you say?”
Artie’s dark blue eyes were sad, in a manner that reminded Rahma of their original owner, Glanno Artindale. “Thank you for the levity, sir, but it always saddens me when I see someone die.”
“I know, but it was unavoidable. Twitty was not the type of person who deserved to live in my ecological utopia anyway.”
“I’ll take his body to the recyclers, sir. At least he’ll do some good for the Earth that way.”
Rahma nodded, then went downstairs with Artie and over to the body, where they spoke briefly with Valerie Tatanka and the guards.
Afterward, watching the hubot carry the body away, the Chairman had an odd feeling of pleasure. He was essentially a non-violent man, but there were exceptions, people who needed to be eliminated for one reason or another.
He wished it could be as easy to eliminate the Panasian premier.
Rahma knew he could not continue to avoid Hashimoto’s provocative behavior, at the risk of appearing weak. One of the Chairman’s military advisers wanted to strike against the Panasian capital city, Shanghai—blowing up the Panasian government center while lawmakers were in session. Other advisers recommended conventional strikes against Panasian military assets. The Chairman rejected such ideas, fearing they would invite nuclear retaliation.
It was his observation that Hashimoto seemed to be treating the situation as a personal game between the two leaders. Maybe the Panasian leader was not as insane as he appeared to be. Maybe he really didn’t want a nuclear war, and thought he could avoid one by keeping the level of confrontation down—while not losing face in the process.
To some people, turning a beautiful animal into a table was a small thing. It might be that way to Hashimoto and his cronies, though from the depraved man’s messages it was clear that he understood how much of an affront the mutilated polar bear was to the Chairman, and to the highly moral premise on which the GSA was born.
For such a crime, Rahma needed to do something to get the Premier’s attention, something that revealed Panasian vulnerability. Rahma didn’t want to do anything too small, or anything too large. But he intended to send a message that he—and the Green States of America—were not to be trifled with.
In recent days he had been considering the destruction of an expensive new bridge that had been built over the Yangtze River—a motor-vehicle span designed and constructed by Woo Hashimoto’s brother-in-law, and which had been named in honor of the Premier. It was a matter of considerable controversy in Panasia, and thousands of brave people had gathered at the construction site to protest it, in part for the cronyism and nepotism involved with channeling so much money to a brother-in-law, but also for the sheer waste of the project itself, involving a bridge that was not needed by anyone except the Premier himself, and his wife. It just so happened that Hashimoto’s palatial estate was on a hill with a view of the new bridge, and rumor held that his spoiled wife wanted the expensive structure as an easy means of getting quickly to the high-end clothing and jewelry stores on the other side.
If Rahma destroyed the bridge, he needed to do it in such a manner that the Premier and the Panasian people knew he’d done it and why, and that the structure was not destroyed by the people themselves. In that way, Rahma could embarrass the Premier while preventing him from making a nuclear response for obvious personal reasons that had nothing to do with national security. It would put him in a box, and might very well mean the end of his political career. If that proved to be the case, Rahma hoped he would be replaced by someone more reasonable and levelheaded. It was a chance he was willing to take.
Later today, Rahma would give the go-ahead for the destruction, but only in the middle of the night, so that there would be no loss of life (the bridge was not heavily traveled)—and he wanted his hackers to make a Panasian holo-net notification one hour before the demolition, a general statement that the GSA was sending a message to Premier Hashimoto and the good people of Panasia, and exactly when they would be sending it. Through this carefully choreographed action (and a follow-up explanation with more details), the GSA was likely
to get considerable sympathy from the already-unhappy Panasian populace.
Chairman Rahma would like to see the look on Hashimoto’s face when he heard the explosions and looked out his window. He smiled to himself. At last he had come up with something that was not a mere act of destruction, but was instead a powerful statement.
He looked over at the glidewolf, who remained where she was, lying on all fours a few meters away. Her muscles looked coiled, as if ready to strike. Cautiously, the Chairman walked toward the animal, speaking to her in a reassuring tone, as if she could understand. “You did me a service today, did the GSA a service. If you hadn’t killed Twitty, I might have found another way to accomplish it.”
He reached out to the creature and petted the soft, reddish brown fur on her head, looking all the while at her muzzle and into her pale yellow eyes, where he thought he saw a spark of sentience or at least of deep awareness, perhaps even what religious types might call a soul. There was much about this creature that he didn’t understand, and perhaps never would. He saw her muscles relax and felt a slight vibration in her flesh, like a purr of contentment, but soundless.
“I have so many favorite females who live with me on this reserve,” he said, glancing back at Dr. Tatanka as she returned to her clinic, “but you could be the best. Yes, in your own way you are the very best of all.”
This seemed to please the creature, because the soft vibration intensified, and the yellow eyes looked softer, gentler—even maternal, it seemed.
“I can’t have you living here without a name, though. What shall it be? Glida, perhaps, because you glide through the air? Or Soara? No.” He petted her more, and a name came to him. “I shall call you Gilda from now on. Yes, I like that very much. Gilda it is.”
He stepped back from the marsupial wolf, and the animal stood on its haunches, then raised its immense wings into the air, where they caught a breeze and lifted her off the ground, a graceful takeoff toward snowcapped mountains beyond the valley. For several moments she circled at low altitude, as if checking to be certain everything was all right with the Chairman, and then flew out across the greensward. Rahma had an increasing feeling of comfort about her being with him on the game reserve because of her protective nature toward him and the way she sensed things, sensed danger. At some level, perhaps in the future if Twitty had managed to finagle his way closer to the Chairman, the man might have posed a physical threat to him.
The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma Page 26
