The Collection

by Bentley Little

  The others were waiting for him in the conference room. Derek had already swept the place for bugs and positioned his listening-device detector on the table, and twin sets of FBI agents were positioned at the doors.

  "So what's our next move?" Adam asked.

  Paul Frederickson looked up at him. "Nixon."

  "Nixon?"

  The secretary of state nodded. "I've been thinking about it for the past week. If the president is only a figurehead, then all that hype about Nixon's so-called imperial presi­dency has to be British disinformation. How could Nixon try to circumvent the Constitution and grab additional powers for himself when he never had the power attributed to him in the first place?"

  Adam smiled. "Yes! He put up a fight. He tried to do what he was elected to do."

  "And they crushed him. They must have been behind his disgrace."

  "Get me whoever you can from Nixon's cabinet and staff, people who would know about this."

  "Done," Frederickson said. "Haldeman's already on his way."

  "Haldeman?" Adam frowned. "I thought he was dead."

  "Reports of his death are greatly exaggerated. He's in hiding."

  "Good," Adam said. "Now we're getting somewhere."

  Simons spoke up. "Crowther said that Carter didn't buy into it either. You think—?"

  "Carter wouldn't talk to us, but we could feel out some of his underlings, see what we can get."

  Adam nodded. "Do it."

  "Those Clinton scandals must have been played up for a reason as well. The pressure was kept on him even after he left office."

  "Look into it."

  There was a knock on the south door and one of the FBI agents opened it carefully. He spoke for a moment to the person outside, and then the door opened wider. Larry Her­bert, Frederickson's assistant walked in.

  Followed by H. R. Haldeman.

  He was older but still instantly recognizable. The crew cut was back, but its severity was offset by a pair of soften­ing bifocals. Haldeman nodded at them. "Gentlemen."

  Frederickson stood, looked at his assistant. "I assume you briefed him on the way over?"

  Haldeman sat down in an empty seat. "Yes, he did. And I must say that I'm very happy to have you people in the fight."

  They talked about the Nixon days, about the memos from Buckingham Palace, the hotline calls from the queen, the prepared speeches that Nixon refused to give, the complic­ity of certain cabinet members. Crowther had been around then as well, and Haldeman was shocked to learn that Adam had had the butler eliminated.

  "Just like that?" he said.

  Adam felt a surge of pride. "Just like that."

  Haldeman shook his head worriedly. "You don't know what you're in for. There are going to be repercussions."

  "That's why you're here. So we can pick your brain. I did this intentionally, to raise the stakes."

  Haldeman sighed.

  "There's nothing you can give us?"

  "We've been training paramilitary groups for years, planning to overthrow the British."

  "The militias?"

  Haldeman snorted, waved his hand dismissively. "Para­noid cranks. And those hayseeds are too stupid to be able to handle something like this. No, we put together the inner-city gangs. We founded the Crips, the Bloods, and their brethren. We'd recruited minorities for the military in Viet­nam and it worked beautifully, so we decided to do the same with our revolutionary force. We couldn't let the British know what was happening, though, so we disguised them as independent organizations, rival youth groups fighting over drugs and neighborhood turf. We established them as crimi­nals, made sure they got plenty of publicity, plenty of air-time on news programs, and now they're believed to be such an intrinsic part of contemporary American life that even if one of them breaks ranks the myth is secure."

  "You think it'll work?"

  "Eventually. But we've already been doing this for twenty years, and we probably won't be ready for another ten or fifteen. We don't have the numbers. Britain can recruit from Australia, Canada, all of their colonies. If we went at them right now, we wouldn't stand a chance. Besides, some­thing like this takes planning."

  "We need more immediate results."

  "Sorry. I can't help you there."

  They continued talking, sharing secrets, comparing strategies until midafternoon. Haldeman had to fly back to Chicago, and Adam walked with him to the limo. "Thank you for coming," he said, shaking the other man's hand.

  "Anything for my country," Haldeman said.

  Adam smiled. "You still think of this as your country?"

  "Always."

  Adam watched the limo roll down the drive and through the White House gates, and suddenly an idea occurred to him. He hurried back into the White House. Several of his advisors had suggested that the entire domestic staff be ex­ecuted as a way of provoking British forces in Washington to show themselves, but after talking to Haldeman he knew that that would be a suicidal gesture. This idea, though, was a good one.

  This idea might work.

  He ran into Simons in the corridor. "Gather everyone to­gether again," he said. "I have a plan."

  "Hello?"

  Even on the amplified speakerphone of the hotline, the queen's voice was distant, muffled.

  "Greetings, Your Majesty." Adam made sure his tone was properly subservient.

  "Why are you contacting us? If we wish to speak with you, we will initiate the dialogue."

  "I'm calling to apologize, Your Majesty. As you may or may not have heard, there's been some miscommunication here at our end. Apparently, some of your subjects seem to believe that I and my people are somehow involved in the disappearance of the head of my domestic staff, Crowther."

  "We have heard rumors to that effect."

  He attempted to make his voice sound simultaneously obsequious toward her and condescending toward everyone else. "I would like to invite you to the White House so that we might have a face-to-face discussion on some of these matters. I am afraid I am fairly dissatisfied with some of your representatives here, and I believe you would be as well. I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and your position, and I fear that your underlings here are doing a dis­service to both you and Britain."

  Silence on the other end.

  He held his breath, waiting.

  "It has been some time since we have visited the States," the queen allowed. "And your accusations, we must admit, are somewhat alarming. We will come to visit the colonies and judge for ourselves. The proper people will be in touch."

  Communication was abruptly cut off, and there was only silence on the hotline's speakerphone. Adam stared at the red phone for a moment, then a smile spread slowly across his face.

  He turned toward Simons, pumped his fist in the air.

  "Yes!"

  ***

  She arrived on the Concorde two days later.

  All the arrangements had been made. Outside White House grounds, everything continued on as usual, but within, FBI agents had rounded up and detained all domes­tic staff members and all known or suspected British agents. Outside contacts and government workers who were suspi­cious about the sudden lack of communication were pla­cated with the promise that the queen would be arriving to sort everything out—a fact they could double-check with Buckingham Palace.

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had assured him that the National Guard was ready for its demonstration and that the other branches of the armed forces were available as backup.

  Everything was in place.

  The second the limousine carrying the queen passed onto the White House grounds, and the iron gates closed behind it, National Guard troops blocked off the street and sur­rounded the area. Simultaneously, the White House press secretary put out the news that a bomb threat had been made against the queen and that precautions—including the use of armed guards—were being taken.

  Adam waited in the Oval Office, the document he'd had drawn up by the chief justice of the Supreme Court
sitting on his desk, a pen next to it. He was nervous, hands sweaty, but he was determined to go through with the plan. He would be assassinated if they failed—he had no doubt about that—but there was a good chance that they would not fail.

  He was imagining his place in history when there was a knock on the door. He stood, composed himself, cleared his throat. "Yes?" he enquired.

  The door opened and a host of British dignitaries and American cabinet members entered the room, parting to allow the queen to pass by.

  The queen.

  She looked just like she did on TV and in magazine pho­tographs. Even knowing the extent of her power, even with all the knowledge of her position that he'd gained recently, he could sense no aura of exaggerated importance about her, no intimidating demeanor, none of the dictatorial trappings he would have expected. It was an illusion, though. He knew that. And he bowed extravagantly as she stopped before his desk. "Your Majesty."

  She acknowledged his servility with a barely perceptible nod and sat down in the specially provided chair opposite him. "Now," she said, "tell us what you have to say."

  "I'd prefer to do this alone," he said, motioning toward the gathered dignitaries.

  "Anything you say to us can be said in front of them."

  "I'm afraid that they might have a vested interest. May we speak in private?"

  She nodded, dismissing the others with a slight wave of her hand. Everyone else, American and British, filed out of the room. The door closed behind them.

  Outside the office, Adam knew, FBI agents were disarm­ing and subduing the British, herding them downstairs with their compatriots. A trickle of sweat slid from under his left armpit, down the side of his body, hidden by his suit jacket.

  "I want a guarantee that there aren't going to be any repercussions simply because I tell you the truth."

  "We give you our word," she told him.

  " 'Our' word? What about your word? I don't mean to be disrespectful," he said, "but I'd like some assurances that you, personally, guarantee that your underlings will not seek reprisals."

  She looked at him as if he was a bug she had squashed on the floor. "You have my word," she said.

  "And that is legally binding?"

  "The word of the British sovereign has been legally bind­ing for hundreds of years. It is law."

  "Very well." He stood, pushed the document and pen across the desk toward her. "I want you to sign this."

  The queen blinked. "What did you say to me?"

  "I want you to sign this document."

  She regarded him with an expression centered some­where between horror, disgust, and outrage. "You dare to make demands on us?”

  He met her eyes. "Yes."

  He saw hesitance, what might be the first faint stirrings of apprehension, and it made him feel good.

  "What is this?" she demanded, motioning toward the document.

  "A real declaration of independence. A contract ceding the United States of America to its citizens and declaring that you and your nation relinquish all rights—"

  "Never!"

  "Never say never."

  "Pembroke!" she called loudly. "Lewis!"

  There was a pause.

  Silence.

  "They're not coming," Adam said. "We've captured them." He walked slowly around the huge desk. "Now all we need is your signature."

  "You're loony!"

  "Maybe so, but you're going to sign that contract."

  "I most certainly will not!" In one quick movement, she was out of her chair, across the room, and almost to the door. He lunged at her, and she stepped aside, allowing him to shoulder the wall. He felt a sharp pain in his side as she jabbed him with a bony fist.

  "Goddamn it!" He reached for her arm, but she was al­ready running away, toward the opposite side of the office, yelling for help.

  He tackled the queen, and her purse flew across the Oval Office. She was small but wiry, and she squirmed out of his grasp, kicking him hard in the chest with a high-heeled shoe. She scrambled for her purse and was opening it, pulling something out, when he landed on her. He wrenched her right arm behind her back, causing her to cry out. Still hold­ing her, he struggled to his feet and forced her over to the desk.

  He held her around the neck with his left hand, while he loosened his grip on her arm with his right. "Sign it!" he or­dered, forcing her hand onto the desk.

  "Fuck you!" she screamed. She tried to break away, but he was stronger than she was and she received only a more tightly pinched neck in return.

  "Pick up the pen!" he ordered.

  "No!"

  "I'll break your arm, you shriveled old bitch." He in­creased the pressure.

  Angrily, she picked up the pen.

  He held her hand to the paper. "Sign it."

  She hesitated.

  "Now!" he screamed.

  She quickly scrawled her signature. He moved her over to the left side of the desk and compared her written name with the example of her signature Simons had provided.

  It was good.

  He let her go.

  A surge of pride coursed through him, an expression of pure patriotism he had not felt since ... well, ever.

  The queen had run immediately to the door and was rub­bing her sore wrist, begging to be released. She was crying, and he thought with satisfaction that she wasn't such a tough old broad after all.

  He picked up the document, placed it in his middle desk drawer, and locked it.

  The United States was officially a sovereign nation.

  They were free.

  He looked at the queen. She was no longer crying, and he could see no tears on her overly made-up face, but she was still frowning and rubbing her wrist, and he smiled at her, feeling good.

  "God bless America," he said.

  Confessions of a Corporate Man

  I worked as a technical writer in the early 1990s be­cause at the time I could not support myself writing fiction. Being a bearded, long-haired liberal arts guy, I found it a bit surreal after seven years of college to find myself sitting in an office surrounded by well-groomed business, accounting, and public administra­tion types. Even more surreal was how seriously they took their petty little turf wars and how ridiculous were their priorities.

  "Confessions of a Corporate Man" is my slightly exaggerated take on those days.

  ***

  We sharpened pencils for the War and walked over to Ac­counting en masse. The Finance Director and his minions were working on spreadsheets, and unsuspecting. We had the advantage of surprise.

  We screamed as one, on my cue, and when the account­ants looked up, we drove the pencils through their eyes and into their brains. It was glorious. I was in charge of dis­patching the director himself, and I shoved the pencil in hard, feeling it puncture membrane and spear through gelatin into flesh. The director's fat hands lashed out, trying to grab me, but then he was twitching and then he was still.

  I straightened up and looked around the department. The War had been awfully short, and we had won virtually with­out a fight. Bodies were already quiet and cooling, blood and eye juice leaking onto graph paper and computer print­outs.

  We would get medals for this if we were working for any sort of fair corporation, but as it stood we would probably only get notepads to commemorate our victory.

  I pulled my pencil out of the Finance Director's head and gave the high sign.

  We were back at our desks before the end of Break

  Restructuring went smoothly. Personnel were reassigned, duties shifted, and control of the company was decentral­ized. A temporary truce was called on account of our over­whelming victory, and all hostilities were suspended. A vice president was executed—beheaded in the Staff Lounge with a paper cutter—and we successfully managed to meet the Payroll.

  The acting CEO refused to hire temps or to recruit out­side the organization, so we ended up making coffee during the period of Restructuring. I still felt we deserved medals, but this time we did
not even get our notepads. Although the Dow took no notice of my triumph, our stock shot up five points on the Pacific Exchange, and I felt vindicated.

  We sent condoms through the Vacuum Tubes, back and forth, forth and back, and the women in the Whorehouse did a thriving lunchtime business. New lubrication machines were installed in the Cafeteria.

  There were more changes made. The secretaries no longer had to wear masks, and pets were once again allowed in the Steno Pool. Purchasing picked a crippled child for its mascot. Machine Services switched to a mollusk.

  The next War would be catered, we said. For the next War we would have hot dogs.

  We all laughed.

  And then ...

  And then things changed.

  A questionnaire began making the rounds of the depart­ments. A questionnaire on official black Bereavement sta­tionery. No one would take credit for its authorship, and word of its existence preceded by days its appearance in the Inter-Office Mail. We received the questionnaire on Thurs­day, along with a note to complete it and return it to Person­nel by Friday morning, and we were afraid to disobey.

  "If Batman were a fig," it asked, "would he still have to shave?"

  "If the president was naked and straddling a bench, would his mama's stickers still have thorns?"

  The mood in our department grew somber, and there was a general feeling that the questionnaire had something to do with our routing of Accounting. In an indirect way, I was blamed for its existence.

  I was pantsed on the day our Xerox access was denied.

  I was paddled on the day our Muzak was cut off.

  A month passed. Two. Three. There was another execu­tion—a sales executive who failed to meet his quotas—but the uneasy truce remained between departments, and the War did not resume. No battles were fought.

  In June, when the Budget was submitted for the New Fiscal Year, we discovered that it contained a major capital outlay for construction of a new Warehouse near the Crema­torium. If the corporation was doing well enough to finance such frivolity, why had we never received our notepads?

  Morale was low enough as it was, and I decided that our efforts needed to be rewarded—even if we had to do the re­warding ourselves. With funds liberated from the Safe, we bankrolled a Friday afternoon party. I brought the drinks, Jerry the chips, Meryl supplied the music, and Feena sup­plied the frogs. There was nude table dancing.