The Last Enemy - A history of the present future - 1934-2084

by Luca Luchesini

  “How is the winter here?” Robert started to like his new neighbor, “I heard that that is the toughest part, but here in the South it should be easier to stand.”

  “The problem with the cold is its side effects. You tend to fall ill often, especially the elder and kids. True, you get free antibiotics anytime you need them, but I have the feeling this is not really helping. If you spend a few minutes browsing on the site of the Ministry of Health, you see that deaths keep rising. Last year, around three-hundred thousand people died in France alone of some kind of flu, and more than one million in the rest of Europe. We are just making the bacteria stronger every time.”

  “Putain, c’est vrai,” Robert replied, “that’s why the better off from North Europe are flocking to the South.”

  “Ah, sure,” Pierre continued, “In Tresbes, the village next to ours, there is a small Dutch colony that settled there in 2037. They bought out at high price a few abandoned houses and restructured them. They are all in the mid-forties, I think they are actually older, it’s just Telomerax that’s keeping them alive. They are good guys, unlike the Russian rich who camp out at Carcassonne, and drink vodka all day. I went there last week and…” Pierre voice lowered, he realized that Robert was no longer listening to him and was busy looking at Pierre’s shell. His eyes seemed to be admiring it so Pierre decided to point it out.

  “If you are wondering if this is mine, it isn’t. It belongs to Mr. de Maindreville, just like anything around Malves en Minervois. It would take three full years of my salary to buy one. But since I have never created problems here at the farm, I was promoted to field team leader and got the opportunity to use one of the five the boss has bought. They build them in Toulouse, eighty miles away from here, in the old Airbus aerospace industries. The demand for jetliners suddenly disappeared, so they reconverted their carbon-fiber structure production lines for agricultural machinery….and armored variants for the front, of course.”

  “I know,” Robert replied, “Those bastards are making even more money now than when they sold planes. I learned that all their managers can still afford cars. I tried to get hired in the security, but nope….”

  “Don’t take it too badly. After all, you can enjoy the Southern summer sunshine just like they do and..”

  Pierre was about to finish his sentence, when the right ox whipped his tail around, attempting to get rid of the horseflies. It missed the target, and hit Robert in the face, after he had inadvertently come too close to the animal. He almost fell from the cart, but Pierre was quick enough to catch him from falling.

  “Putain, fucking cow! I hate this!” Robert was screaming, trying to hit back at the ox. Pierre tried to calm him down.

  “Ok, no worries, you have no serious injury. It could’ve costed you an eye, now sit back. The cart is full, go take it back to your farm. In a few weeks you feel at home, believe me.”

  Robert let a few minutes pass, then he rolled his head to relax himself, “I am not sure I will ever get used to this, there must be another alternative….”

  Pierre had seen this before. It was the refusal to have one’s lifestyle moved back two hundred years, what the scholars - those who had managed to cling to the very few sociology professions left - called the ‘connected feudalism’.

  “Look, Robert, let me be very clear with you,” Pierre said, removing the shell from the lawnmower and sitting on the cart next to Robert. “You have only three options. Either you adapt here, or you move back to the urban shit you have just left. Or you could always go to the Volunteer Enrollment Center in Carcassonne. You know what the odds are there.”

  “I heard that the survival rate at the front is somehow better than the seventy-percent they advertise,” Robert continued immediately, “It might be as high as eighty-percent. That means you have four chances out of five of making it back home after one year on the front. And then, you have the right to the equivalent of five years of fuel consumption. It means you can have your house heated and drive your car whenever you want for five years. Plus free Telomerax, and guaranteed government jobs; for you and your family. Even if you die, your family gets half of the benefits.”

  Pierre realized Robert had made his decision, even though he did not want to confess it to himself yet. There was no use to tell him to go watch all the war videos available.

  “Ok, Robert, listen, just do me one favor. Please enroll after the harvest, in September. If you do so, I will write a good report for you, so your chances of ending up in a better sector of the front may increase. Now let’s take the cart back to the granary. I am already late for dinner and tomorrow we have to celebrate Revolution Day at the Castle square.”

  Robert burst into laughter.

  “You mean, we will celebrate July 14th in front of the house of M. de Maindreville?”

  “Well, yes, the Castle used to belong to the municipality, but about one year ago M. de Maindreville made an offer the mayor could not refuse, if he wants to fix the public finances. The Castle now belongs to M. de Maindreville, however he is very conscious of his community duties. He has pledged to keep the local public Internet room working on half of the ground floor, and keep it heated in winter at his own expenses.”

  “I see,” Robert grinned. “We are going to celebrate the Revolution in the courtyard of our new local lord.”

  Chapter 24

  Charles entered his holoconference room a few minutes before the beginning of the virtual press conference of President Ken La Hood, a Republican from Texas with Chinese ancestors. He walked around the audience avatars until he found Skip, who was talking to another person. The holoconference software labelled everyone and it showed that he was the Chief Executive of Boeing, but he did not pay any attention to Charles. Skip politely closed the conversation and turned to Charles,

  “Don’t be surprised, it’s not rudeness, he just cannot see you. The code I gave you allows you to see and hear everybody but I am the only one who can see and talk to you.”

  “Are you afraid I might ask our new President tough questions?” Charles asked, amused.

  “Well, journalists are enough for that,” Skip smiled back, “They do not see me either, I am here to brief the President in real time, in case things get too sour. So I decided to use the same trick and invite some good friends.”

  “Is this taking place in the White House, Skip?” Charles asked.

  “Are you nuts? With all the guerilla taking place in D.C. and Virginia? That’s the front line. No, the President can be anywhere, in the Cheyenne Mountain National Command or flying over Kansas on Air Force One, for that matter. Luckily, Internet infrastructure is withstanding the damage of the war. Ok, take your virtual seat now, it’s starting.”

  The 3D image of Ken La Hood took the podium. The first question came from Ashton Webb, of the Los Angeles Herald.

  “Mr. President, will you take a more assertive position against Mexico? There is ample evidence that the Mexican government is actively supporting all the warlords that have set up micro-states, from Southern California to the Houston area.”

  “I can tell you, Mr. Webb, that I have ordered the Pentagon to regain full control of the southern border, by all means possible. Should Mexico continue in its ambiguous policy, they will be facing all the consequences.”

  “Will this iron fist policy also be applied to other secessionist states? Do you plan to send exoskeleton brigades and fly storms also to the Pacific Northwest and in the Southeast? Do you think Congress will approve of that?” The question came from the Washington Post representative.

  “My goal is to ensure that, at the end of my mandate in 2044, the United States is again a single country, able to lead the world out of the hole where we’ve dug ourselves up in the last few years. It’s clear we have to adapt our means to each and every circumstance, and you cannot deal with the Northwest Confederation like you can with Florida or Tennessee.”

  A hand waved from the bottom of the room, the presidential press agent hinted he coul
d speak.

  “Good morning, I am Lenny Johnson, of ‘The Atlanta Spectator’. Mr. President, do you still trust the advice of the Center for Disease Control, even if it now belongs to a secessionist state?” The question took the President by surprise, and he looked at Skip, who nodded to him.

  “Mr. Johnson, my understanding is that the CDC is one of the few institutions that still deserve respect from all the people, not only in America but in the whole world. So, yes, I trust them.”

  “So you will follow their advice to stop biodrone usage and indiscriminate distribution of antibiotics?” Lenny continued. The President knew where this was going and was quickly to roll back on his opening.

  “Trust does not mean enact each and every one of their suggestions. Let me start from the antibiotics. If we did not massively finance drug distribution, the number of victims from cold-related sicknesses, would strongly outnumber the one from the new strains of influenza and other bacteria, that I know is increasing. But we have no concluding evidence that this is a long term danger. As per their research on biodrone proliferation, I think this is one of the few aspects of their work where they are clearly under the influence of the rebel government, that has no serious idea about this key technology.” The journalist did not buy the answer and insisted,

  “Then how about the swarm of flies that last August destroyed Raleigh, North Carolina?”

  The President turned towards Skip, who, invisible to the rest of the audience, projected three slides from his tablet.

  “It was a very peculiar combination of the large amount of drones we used in the operation and the exceptionally hot and humid conditions at the time of the battle. We eventually dealt with the swarm by using chemicals. Maybe the rebel government of Georgia and Florida is still resenting the loss of its army, I, for sure, still resent the loss of more than three hundred thousand American lives, no matter what part of the barricade they stood on.”

  It was the turn of the foreign press. The journalist was unmistakably Asian. He introduced himself as Ma Jie, of the China Daily.

  “Mr. President, how will you stick to your commitment to the security of Jewish Americans, now that the number of attacks on them is increasing by the day?”

  President La Hood took a deep breath. American journalists had tacitly avoided recalling the story, but he could not control the Chinese.

  “Mr. Jie, you know that the campaign of violence and hatred started on the leaks that the CIA was neutralizing anti-Jewish activists on behalf of the Mossad. Those allegations have never been proved,” the President continued, exchanging glances with the head of the FBI and Skip Ross, who both nodded in agreement, “but nonetheless the situation has worsened for many of our fellow Jewish Americans, to the extent that they have had to flee many states, especially those under the control of the rebels.”

  The President took a pause, then continued.

  “During the campaign, I clearly said I would address this intolerable situation. Today, I can give you some additional elements. We are planning to create gated communities, where the security will be guaranteed until the rebellion comes to an end and they can go back to their neighborhoods, if they wish to.”

  Charles could not believe what he was hearing and turned towards Skip.

  “Skip, what the hell is he saying, are we reinventing ghettos?”

  Skip dismissed Charles’ reaction by slowly waving his hand.

  “Ghetto, what a big word,” he replied, “just keep listening.”

  “Let me be very clear,” the President continued. “These are by no means ghettos in the grim way we used to know them. First, Jewish Americans are by no means forced to relocate there. They will move to the gated communities on an exclusively voluntary basis. Second, many of these communities are actually established in and around existing Jewish neighborhoods, like Crown Heights in Brooklyn, New York. And last, it is only a temporary measure, a trade off we have to endure through these hard times where most of the security forces are busy re-uniting our nation and cannot commit enough resources to defend minorities from racial hatred.”

  “You see?” Skip said with a condescending tone to Charles, “you won’t have to relocate with Sally, and in any case, Brooklyn is not that far away from your Long Island home. It’s just we do not have enough police.”

  Charles could not understand if Skip was kidding or deliberately provoking him.

  “You created this, didn’t you?” Charles hissed at Skip, “when you sent me to Israel to get the biodrone design, that’s what you were offering in exchange. Now that you no longer need the Israeli support, you let them go.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about, Charles,” Skip replied indifferently, “It is all about winning the second civil war that this country is facing. Everyone has to endure some sort of sacrifice. I trust you and your girlfriend can contribute a little, given the benefits you got so far. Or am I asking too much from you?”

  Charles sat back and thought. He then stood up and headed for the exit, but Skip went on,

  “Charles, I know it’s difficult. I think this page will be remembered in history books as the “Andersonville” of our war, we will always regret it when things are over, yet we cannot avoid it.”

  Charles stopped and turned back to Skip. In the background, the press conference was continuing, unaware of their exchange.

  “It’s not only that, Skip,” he said disconsolated, “It’s that I find it increasingly difficult to see you in the place of Ulysses Grant, and even less in that of Abe Lincoln.”

  Chapter 25

  Marek Kowalski was cautiously making his way through the forest, keeping an eye on the exoskeleton to his right. It was piloted by Pedro Anunciada, a new recruit from Portugal, who seemed to have adapted to the armor very well. Behind them, he could hear the thumps made by the feet of the mechanic spider as it crawled along the leaves. It was late April 2043, in the woods around Lesosibirsk, Siberia. The snow was quickly melting away and the forest floor was turning into a soft, immense muddy swamp. The spider, about the size of a large van, stopped and Marek heard the voice of Dimitri, the Russian patrol commander, on the intercom.

  “Tovarish, please proceed to secure the body collection area. The sensors do not signal any enemy drone activity, but there are always traps. Copy, tovarish.”

  Marek listlessly copied, he did not like his superior and the way he had configured the translation software to keep some Russian Red Army slang. He looked again at Pedro, who suddenly stopped and put the exoskeleton in defensive mode, just before seven flying drones appeared between the trees and aimed their missiles at them.

  Activated by Marek’s eye movement and the adrenaline flow data sent by its skin chip, the exoskeleton immediately fired the anti-drone flares a second before the drones had a chance to fire. A series of explosions followed, smoke quickly spread out over the forest floor, and Marek switched the infrared visual system on.

  He could see that Pedro was standing up again, and checking the area where the drone wrecks had fallen. On the intercom, the Russian was screaming.

  “Are you all right, tovarish? Come in, come in! Is everything ok?”

  “It’s all right, Mitja,” Pedro’s voice answered calmly, “it was just a trap, but the new software was good enough to react on time. A few months ago it would have probably costed our lives. We can start the body collection. According to the sensors, we have at least fifty-three corpses to recover.”

  Mitja stopped the spider and a team of four soldiers got out, wearing lightly armored biohazard containment suits. They started collecting the bodies and threw them on to the spider container. They mostly belonged to Chinese soldiers.

  Marek moved back to his look out position to the left of the spider, as a chilly breeze - a remnant of the winter - swept the smoke away. Pedro had reached his position too, as he felt safe enough, he set the exoskeleton system in auto defense mode and started to chat.

  “Pretty good harvest today, Marek. If we hav
e the same density on the rest of the attack fronts, we might get well beyond ten thousand bodies, which, given the average gas plant yield, means….um…more or less thirty megawatts of electric power…which means, we could feed the batteries of sixty exoskeletons for one week.”

  “Exactly,” Marek confirmed, “or have enough gas to heat the battalion headquarters for the next winter. Did you use your battle computer to calculate that?”

  “No,” Pedro replied, “I did it mentally. I have been using Telomerax for seven years now, and I can see the benefits.”

  “I hope we can continue enjoying them if and when we get out of here,” Marek continued. “How many weeks do you have left?”

  “Another twenty weeks,” Pedro answered. “I should be leaving before next winter comes. I have been fighting here for seven months. At the beginning I was in the body collection unit like the…”

  Suddenly, an explosion came from near the spider. The exoskeletons immediately took defense position, but their sensors could detect no visible threat. Then the voice of Mitja broke into the intercom.

  “Marek, Pedro, quick, rainfall, rainfall! Worms, repeat, we got worms!”

  The exoskeletons fired a small series of grenades toward the spider, which broke open in midair and released a dense spray all across the area. Marek and Pedro waited a few seconds then approached the transport vehicle.

  “Mitja, any casualties?” Marek asked.

  Dmitri stood up from the spider pilot seat and circled around the machine. Two body collectors were lying dead on the ground, next to one of the Chinese corpses who had seemingly exploded. Pedro came closer to the body to examine some small metal debris around it.

  “Is this the worm case? I have never seen one,” he asked Marek.