“Okay.”
Oscar poured two cups. Kevin reached companionably into his back pocket and pulled out a square white baton of compressed vegetable protein. “Have a chew?”
“Sure.” Oscar gnawed thoughtfully on a snapped-off chunk. It tasted like carrots and foam.
“You know,” Oscar ruminated, “I have my share of prejudices—who doesn’t, really?—but I’ve never had it in for proles, per se. I’m just tired of living in a society permanently broken into fragments. I’ve always hoped and planned for federal, democratic, national reform. So we can have a system with a decent role for everyone.”
“But the economy’s out of control. Money just doesn’t need human beings anymore. Most of us only get in the way.”
“Well, money isn’t everything, but just try living without it.”
Kevin shrugged. “People lived before money was invented. Money’s not a law of nature. Money’s a medium. You can live without money, if you replace it with the right kind of computation. The proles know that. They’ve tried a million weird stunts to get by, roadblocks, shakedowns, smuggling, scrap metal, road shows…Heaven knows they never had much to work with. But the proles are almost there now. You know how reputation servers work, right?”
“Of course I know about them, but I also know they don’t really work.”
“I used to live off reputation servers. Let’s say you’re in the Regulators—they’re a mob that’s very big around here. You show up at a Regulator camp with a trust rep in the high nineties, people will make it their business to look after you. Because they know for a fact that you’re a good guy to have around. You’re polite, you don’t rob stuff, they can trust you with their kids, their cars, whatever they got. You’re a certifiable good neighbor. You always pitch in. You always do people favors. You never sell out the gang. It’s a network gift economy.”
“It’s gangster socialism. It’s a nutty scheme, it’s unrealistic. And it’s fragile. You can always bribe people to boost your ratings, and then money breaks into your little pie-in-the-sky setup. Then you’re right back where you started.”
“It can work all right. The problem is that the organized-crime feds are on to the proles, so they netwar their systems and deliberately break them down. They prefer the proles chaotic, because they’re a threat to the status quo. Living without money is just not the American way. But most of Africa lives outside the money economy now—they’re all eating leaf protein out of Dutch machines. Polynesia is like that now. In Europe they’ve got guaranteed annual incomes, they’ve got zero-work people in their Parliaments. Gift networks have always been big in Japan. Russians still think property is theft—those poor guys could never make a money economy work. So if it’s so impractical, then how come everybody else is doing it? With Green Huey in power, they’ve finally got a whole American state.”
“Green Huey is a pocket Stalin. He’s a personality cultist.”
“I agree he’s a son of a bitch, but he’s a giant son of a bitch. His state government runs Regulator servers now. And they didn’t overrun that air base by any accident. Huey’s nomads really have what it takes now—no more of this penny-ante roadblock and wire-clipper nonsense. Now they’ve got U.S. Air Force equipment that’s knocked over national governments. It’s a silent coup in progress, pal. They’re gonna eat the country right out from under you.”
“Kevin, stop frightening me. I’m way ahead of you here. I know that the proles are a threat. I’ve known it since that May Day riot in Worcester, back in ’42. Maybe you didn’t care to notice that ugly business, but I have tapes of all that—I’ve watched it a hundred times. People in my own home state tore a bank apart with their hands. It was absolute madness. Craziest thing I ever saw.”
Kevin munched his stick and swallowed. “I didn’t have to tape it. I was there.”
“You were?” Oscar leaned forward gently. “Who ordered all that?”
“Nobody. Nobody ever orders it. That was a fed bank, they were running cointelpro out of it. The word bubbled up from below, some heavy activists accreted, they wasp-swarmed the place. And once they’d trashed it, they all ducked and scattered. You’d never find any ‘orders,’ or anyone responsible. You’d never even find the software. That thing is a major-league hit-server. It’s so far underground that it doesn’t need eyes anymore.”
“Why did you do that, Kevin? Why would you risk doing a crazy thing like that?”
“I did it for the trust ratings. And because, well, they stank.” Kevin’s eyes glittered. “Because the people who rule us are spooks, they lie and they cheat and they spy. The sons of bitches are rich, they’re in power. They hold all the cards over us, but they still have to screw people over the sneaky way. They had it coming. I’d do it again, if my feet were a little better.”
Oscar felt himself trembling on the edge of revelation. This was almost making sense. Kevin had just outed himself, and the facts were finally falling into place. The situation was both a lot clearer and rather more dangerous than he had imagined.
Oscar knew now that he had been absolutely right to follow his instincts and hire this man. Kevin was the kind of political creature who was much safer inside the tent than outside it. There had to be some way to win him over, permanently. Something that mattered to him. “Tell me more about your feet, Kevin.”
“I’m an Anglo. Funny things happen to Anglos nowadays.” Kevin smiled wearily. “Especially when four cops with batons catch you screwing with traffic lights…So now, I’m a dropout’s dropout. I had to go straight, I couldn’t keep up on the road. I got myself a crap security gig in a tony part of Beantown. I put most of the old life behind me…Hey, I even voted once! I voted for Bambakias.”
“That’s extremely interesting. Why did you do that?”
“Because he builds houses for us, man! He builds ’em with his own hands and he never asks for a cent. And I’m not sorry I voted for him either, because you know, the man is for real! I know that he blew it, but that’s for real—the whole country has blown it. He’s rich, and an intellectual, and an art collector, and all that crap, but at least he’s not a hypocrite like Huey. Huey claims he’s the future of America, but he cuts backroom deals with the Europeans.”
“He sold out our country, didn’t he?” Oscar nodded. “That’s just too much to forgive.”
“Yup. Just like the President.”
“Now what? What’s the problem with Two Feathers?”
“Actually, the President’s not a bad guy in his own way. He’s done some good refugee work out in the West. It’s really different out there now; since the giant fires and relocations, they’ve got nomad posses taking over whole towns and counties…But that doesn’t cut much ice with me. Two Feathers is a Dutch agent.”
Oscar smiled. “You lost me there. The President is a Dutch agent?”
“Yeah, the Dutch have been backing him for years. Dutch spooks are very big on disaffected ethnic groups. Anglos, Native Americans…America’s a big country. It’s your basic divide-and-conquer hack.”
“Look, we’re not talking Geronimo here. The President is a billionaire timber baron who was Governor of Colorado.”
“We are talking Geronimo, Oscar. Take away America’s money, and you’ve got a country of tribes.”
__________
Once the charges were dismissed against Norman-the-Intern, Oscar’s krewe held a nice going-away party for him. It was very well attended. The hotel was crowded with Collaboratory supporters, who professed heartfelt admiration for Norman and deeply appreciated the free drinks and food.
“This is such a beautiful hotel,” said Albert Gazzaniga. Greta’s majordomo had arrived in the company of Warren Titche and Cyril Morello—two of the Collaboratory’s permanently disaffected activists. Titche fought for perks and cafeteria fare like a radical wolverine, while Morello was the only man in the Human Resources Department who could be described as honest. Oscar was delighted to see the three of them spontaneously coalescing. It was a sure sign that trends w
ere going his way.
Gazzaniga was clutching a hurricane glass with a little paper parasol. “Great little restaurant here, too. I’d eat here every day if I didn’t have to breathe all this filthy outside air.”
“It’s a shame about your allergy problems, Albert.”
“We’ve all got allergies in there. But I just had a good idea—why don’t you roof over a street between here and the dome?”
Oscar laughed. “Why settle for half measures? Let’s roof over the whole damn town.”
Gazzaniga squinted. “Are you serious? I can never tell when you’re serious.”
Norman tugged at Oscar’s sleeve. His face was scarlet and his eyes were wet with sentimental tears. “I’m leaving now, Oscar. I guess this is my last good-bye.”
“What?” Oscar said. He took Norman’s suit-jacketed elbow and steered him away from the crowd. “You have to stay after the party. We’ll play some poker.”
“So you can send me back to Boston with a nice cash present, and it won’t have to show on the books?”
Oscar stared at him. “Kid, you’re the first guy on my krewe who’s ever said a word about that sad little habit of mine. You’re a big boy now, okay? You need to learn to be tactful.”
“No I don’t,” said Norman, who was very drunk. “I can be as rude as I want, now that you’ve fired me.”
Oscar patted Norman’s back. “That was strictly for your own good. You pulled a major coup, so you’re all used up now. From now on, they’d sandbag you every time.”
“I just wanted to tell you, no hard feelings. I have no regrets about any of this. I really learned a lot about politics. Also, I got to punch out a professor, and I got away with it. Heck, that was worth it all by itself.”
“You’re a good kid, Norman. Good luck in engineering school. Try and take it a little easy with the X-ray laser gambit.”
“I’ve got a car waiting,” Norman said, shuffling from foot to foot. “My dad and mom will be real glad to see me…It’s okay that I’m leaving. I hate to go, but I know it’s for the best. I just wanted to clear one last thing with you before I left. Because I never really leveled with you about the, uh…well, you know.”
“The ‘personal background problem,’” Oscar said.
“I never got used to that. Lord knows I tried. But I never got used to you. Nobody ever gets used to you. Not even your own krewepeople. You’re just too weird, you’re just a very, very weird guy. You think weird. You act weird. You don’t even sleep. You’re not exactly human.”
He sighed, and swayed a little where he stood. “But you know something? Things really happen around you, Oscar. You’re a mover and shaker, you matter. The country needs you. Please don’t let us down, man. Don’t sell us out. People trust you, we trust you. I trust you, I trust your judgment. I’m young, and I need a real future. Fight the good fight for us. Please.”
__________
Oscar had time to examine the Director’s outer office as Dr. Arno Felzian kept him waiting. Kevin passed the time feeding bits of protein to Stickley the binturong, who had just arrived from Boston by air shipment. Stickley wore a radio-tracking collar; his claws were clipped, his fangs were polished, and he was groomed and perfumed like a prize poodle. Stickley scarcely smelled at all now.
Someone—some kreweman of Senator Dougal’s, presumably—had seen fit to decorate the Director’s federal offices in high Texas drag. There were wall-mounted rifles, steer heads, lariats, cowhide seats, a host of shiny commemorative plaques.
Felzian’s secretary announced him. Oscar hung his hat on a towering antler rack inside the door. Felzian was sitting behind his inlaid oak-and-cedar desk, looking as unhappy as politeness would allow. The Director wore bifocal glasses. The metal-and-glass prosthetic gave Felzian a touchingly twentieth-century look. Felzian was a short, slender man in his sixties. He might have been bald and fat in a crueler century.
Oscar shook the Director’s hand and took a brindled leather chair. “Good to see you again, Dr. Felzian. I appreciate your taking the time to meet me today.”
Felzian was wearily patient. “I’m sure that’s quite all right.”
“On behalf of Senator and Mrs. Alcott Bambakias, I want to present you with this laboratory specimen. You see, Mrs. Bambakias takes a lively personal interest in animal welfare issues. So she had this specimen thoroughly examined in Boston, and she discovered that he has an excellent bill of health. Mrs. Bambakias congratulates the Collaboratory on its sound animal rights practices. She also grew very fond of the animal personally, so although she’s returning him to you now, she’s also sending along this personal contribution to help assure his future welfare.”
Felzian examined the document Oscar proffered. “Is that really a signed, paper bank check?”
“Mrs. Bambakias likes a traditional, personal touch,” Oscar said. “She’s very sentimental about her friend Stickley here.” He smiled, and produced a camera. “I hope you don’t mind if I take a few farewell photos now, for her family scrapbook.”
Felzian sighed. “Mr. Valparaiso, I know you didn’t come here to dump a stray animal in my lap. Nobody ever returns our animals. Never. Basically, they’re party favors. So if your Senator is returning a specimen to us, that can only mean he plans to do us real harm.”
Oscar was surprised to hear Felzian speaking so grimly. Given that this was the Director’s office, he’d naturally assumed that they were being taped. And bugged. Maybe Felzian had just given up on discretion. He accepted surveillance as a chronic disease—like smog, like asthma. “Not at all, sir! Senator Bambakias is deeply impressed by this facility. He strongly supports the federal research effort. He plans to make science policy a mainstay of his legislative agenda.”
“Then I can’t understand what you’re up to.” Felzian reached into a desk drawer and removed a sheaf of printout. “Look at these resignations. These are veteran scientists! Their morale has been crushed, they’re leaving us.”
“That would be Moulin, Lambert, Dulac, and Dayan?”
“They’re four of my very best people!”
“Yes, I agree that they’re very bright and determined. Unfortunately, they’re also Dougal loyalists.”
“So that’s it. So they’re very much in your way?”
“Yes, certainly. But you know, they’re not suffering by this. They’re moving out well ahead of the curve. They’ve all been snapped up by offers from private industry.”
Felzian leafed delicately through his papers. “How on earth do you arrange things like this? You’ve scattered them all over the country. It’s amazing.”
“Thank you. It’s a difficult project, but with modern techniques, it’s doable. Let’s just take Dr. Moulin, for instance. Her husband’s from Vermont, and her son’s in school there. Her specialty is endocrinology. So, we input the relevant parameters, and the optimal result was a small genetics firm in Nashua. The firm wasn’t eager to take her on a placement-service cold-call, but I had the Senator’s office call them, and talk about their domestic competition in Louisiana. The company was very willing to see reason then. And so was Dr. Moulin, once we queried her on those eccentricities in her lab’s expense accounts.”
“So you deliberately targeted her for elimination.”
“It’s attrition. It’s distraction. It looks perfectly natural. Those four are influential people, they’re local opinion leaders. They’re smart enough to create real trouble for us—if they had a mind to try it. But since they are, in fact, very smart people, we don’t have to beat them over the head with the obvious. We just point out the reality of their situation, and we offer them a golden parachute. Then they see sense. And they leave.”
“This is truly monstrous. You’re ripping the heart and soul out of my facility, and nobody will know—nobody will even see it.”
“No, sir, it’s not monstrous. It’s very humane. It’s good politics.”
“I can understand that you have the ability to do this. I don’t understand why you
think you have the right.”
“Dr. Felzian…it’s not a question of rights. I’m a professional political operative. That’s my job. Nobody ever elected people like me. We’re not mentioned in the Constitution. We’re not accountable to the public. But nobody can get elected without a campaign professional. I admit it: we’re an odd class of people. I agree with you, it’s very peculiar that we somehow have so much power. But I didn’t invent that situation. It’s a modern fact of life.”
“I see.”
“I’m doing what this situation requires, that’s all. I’m a Federal Democrat from the Reform Party Bloc, and this place needs serious reform. This lab requires a new broom. It’s full of cobwebs, like, let me think…well, like that casino yacht in Lake Charles that was purchased out of the irrigation funds.”
“I had nothing to do with that matter.”
“I know you didn’t, not personally. But you turned a blind eye to it, because Senator Dougal went to Congress every session, and he brought you back your bacon. I respect the effort that it takes to run this facility. But Senator Dougal was chair of the Senate Science Committee for sixteen years. You never dared to cross him. You’re probably lucky you didn’t—he’d have crushed you. But the guy didn’t steal just a little bit—he ended up stealing truckloads, and the country just can’t afford that anymore.”
Felzian leaned back in his chair. Oscar could see that he was beyond mere horror now—he was finding a peculiar gratification in all this. “Why are you telling me these things?”
“Because I know you’re a decent man, Mr. Director. I know that this lab has been your life’s work. You’ve been involved in some contretemps, but they were meant to protect your position, to protect this facility, under very trying conditions. I respect the efforts you’ve undertaken. I have no personal malice against you. But the fact of the matter is that you’re no longer politically expedient. The time has come for you to do the decent thing.”
“And what would that be, exactly?”
“Well, I have useful contacts in the University of Texas system. Let’s say, a post in the Galveston Health Science Center. That’s a nice town, Galveston—there’s not a lot left to the island since the seas have risen, but they’ve rebuilt their famous Seawall and there’s some lovely old housing there. I could show you some very nice brochures.”
Distraction Page 26
