by David Ryker
“First,” she said, “we go to a party.”
9
Morley Drake was feeling mildly annoyed as his fellow tribunes glared at him from their seats at the triangular table they shared in the Tribunal Chamber. It was an opulent room, with rich mahogany furniture and burnished pearl panels set into the walls, and ridiculously spacious for their needs. There were only three of them, after all, and no one else was allowed in the room during their high-level meetings. But then what was the point of being tribune if you couldn’t take advantage of the prestige that came with the position?
Harmony Chao, his counterpart from the Indus Alliance, was in her usual business attire, her hair done up in a bun as severe as the look on her face. To her left, Arkady Toran, the Allied States tribune, was the picture of style, with his perfectly coiffed hair and impeccable silk suit. At first glance, the two may have looked like they came from Oscar Bloom’s crowd, but Drake knew that neither of them had been born to privilege. They had earned their positions, like he himself had, through sacrifice, brilliant planning and sheer willpower.
The three had something else in common, which was the reason for the meeting. They had much to discuss, and a lot of it wouldn’t exactly be pleasant. And a lot of it would come as a surprise to Drake’s companions.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said by way of opening. “I’m already working on getting them back.”
That was a lie; he’d given Zero some leeway with taking Quinn and his men, for two reasons: first, it was a good way to keep the agent on his side and distracted, and second, because Zero had promised him that, whatever it was he was doing with them, their time away from New Alcatraz would be painful. Drake knew the time would come that he’d need the Jarheads back in prison, but that day wasn’t today.
“Indeed?” asked Chao, raising a perfect pencil-line of an eyebrow. “So that is the message I am to take back to my congress and senate? That you’re ‘on it’?”
“These men are infamous,” Toran warned in his thickly Eastern European accent. “Public also is asking questions. Questions we can’t answer. That makes me angry, because it makes it seem like I don’t know what you are doing, yes?”
“Exactly,” said Chao. “We need to maintain the illusion that this partnership, and by extension this government, is still equal, General. Our future plans depend on this.”
Drake smiled. Those plans were going to change very soon.
“Of course,” he said. “I completely understand.”
“Do you?” Toran frowned. “I wonder. You keep doing these things in the sneaky corners, with your men in black suits, that we don’t know about.”
“We never heard anything about this alien threat until Quinn and his people returned from Oberon One,” said Chao. “Mr. Toran and I may not be in a position to dictate to you, General, but neither of us appreciate being left in the dark so often. When you do these things behind the scenes, it makes us feel as if you’re already trying to take over unilateral control.”
Drake bowed his head slightly in an attempt to show regret. He felt nothing of the sort, but he’d learned over the past two years that diplomacy can actually accomplish a few things that sheer intimidation could not. Frank King had been right about that much, at least.
“You’re absolutely right,” he soothed. “And my motives will be clear very soon.”
Chao and Toran shared a glance and rolled their eyes in unison.
“Your motives have never been clear,” said Chao. “They weren’t clear two years ago before the summit in Seoul and they’re not clear now.”
Toran nodded. “And it seems like you are still using the same people, General. These men in black that helped you to set up your Marines in Astana are the same ones who stole them from the prison, yes?”
“Every government needs black ops,” said Drake. “You both know that.”
“Of course,” said Chao. “But many governments have become addicted to spinning webs, and then found themselves caught inside of them. You are fortunate, General, that the video these Jarheads of yours put on the network was overshadowed as quickly as it was.”
Drake felt a surge of anger. “That wasn’t luck!” he snapped. “That was a stroke of genius! By manipulating them into stealing those ships and blowing up Oberon One, then doctoring the footage to suit my own narrative, I managed to get them to eliminate the alien threat and simultaneously kill any credibility they might have had with the public. I deserve a goddamn medal for that, not grief from you two!”
“This alien threat,” said Toran. “You are sure it is finished?”
“Yes,” he lied. “We have nothing to fear from them anymore.”
In truth, he knew nothing of the sort, but these two didn’t need to know that. Quinn had said that the man Kergan, and possibly Toomey, had gotten away before the station was destroyed. What would happen next was anyone’s guess, but all indicators suggested there was no longer an imminent threat. That was good enough for Drake.
“There was another reason I sent Quinn and his people back to Oberon,” he pointed out. “They were the best equipped to deal with the threat. You both saw the unedited footage—you know how capable they are.” He shook his head. “And how goddamned lucky.”
“Indeed,” said Chao. “And you rewarded them by throwing them into prison again, then handing them over to your agents.”
Drake levelled a finger at her. “That was necessary,” he said. “Just like it was the first time. To make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs. And don’t forget, you two stand to lose just as much as I do if the real story about Frank King ever came out.”
“As if we need a reminder.” Chao sat back in her chair. “If the people were to ever learn that the three of us hijacked the end of the war, it could result in open rebellion. And you need to remember, General, that Arkady and I could simply plead ignorance, since you were the one who set up the entire thing.”
Drake sighed inwardly. It was always tiresome when these two thought they could somehow play hardball with him. They seemed to think they had some sort of leverage, when, in fact, he could eliminate them any time he wanted to.
Just a little longer, he told himself. Then it will all be over.
“Let’s try to keep our minds on the ultimate goals here,” he said. “A truly united Earth will benefit mankind for generations to come.”
“Easy to say in a speech,” said Toran. “More difficult in real life. My people know better than most. Russia has lost more than a billion people to war over the last two hundred years.”
“And she’ll lose a lot more before we’re done,” Drake said evenly. “So will every other country. In that, there will be true equality.”
“So you say.” Chao was showing her characteristic prickliness. “When the dust settles in the coming war, you will be the one who emerges the winner.”
“On the contrary,” said Drake. “We all win. It just won’t appear that way to the public.”
Toran scowled. “Those who die in this coming war will not win.”
“No, but their sacrifice will allow this world to finally reach its true potential. You said it yourself, Arkady—war has claimed more than a billion lives in two centuries, which is almost more than the entire population of the Earth two hundred years ago. All told, some five billion people globally have died in wars since the advent of fusion power forty-five years ago. And yet how many people still live in poverty? Seven billion? Eight? The Earth was not designed to sustain that kind of population density, and those who don’t die in war are doomed to slowly starve to death. Now that so many jobs have been taken over by machines and artificial intelligence, our old ideas of how the economy should work have been turned on their ear, and as long as there is this vast chasm between the rich and the poor, there will be war.”
“Yes, yes.” Chao waved an impatient hand. “War has always been a tool for population control. But don’t try to con us into believing that’s the reason behind your plans, or ou
rs for going along with you. That economic gap will always exist; all we can hope to do is reduce it so that the strain on the Earth’s resources is lessened. That was the reasoning behind searching space for palladium to fuel fusion reactors.”
Toran scoffed. “Tell that to Oscar Bloom. The price of palladium has skyrocketed since Oberon One was destroyed, and I am thinking that he has made many hundreds of billions off of his stored supplies. Even diamonds were not worth so much back when they were still valued. Our mines in Siberia are working feverishly to increase production, but the panic in the markets is still making ripples in the world economy. Very unstable.”
“It’s not just the economy that’s unstable,” said Drake. “That’s my whole point. Feeding the masses in the world’s slums has become virtually impossible. Our supplies of fresh water are dwindling by the day, despite all the efforts to provide large-scale desalination and decontamination of the oceans. In short, our world is headed to hell in a hand basket. If we don’t reduce the population and create a true global economy, without warring factions and business conglomerates, we’ll be lucky to last another two generations.”
Chao nodded. “Our own researchers have told us as much. We understand what you are saying, General, but you must also understand that, when the war is over, our people will be the ones who are assimilated, not yours.”
And with that, they had reached the real reason for Drake calling the meeting. He rubbed his hands together and smiled—it was time to reveal his master plan, and help them to understand why it would be even more of a turning point in human history than they already believed.
“We all know that’s inevitable,” he said. “The UFT is the most powerful faction, which means it must emerge as the winner. But we’ll suffer losses right alongside Indus and the Allied States. And once it’s over, no more factions. Nothing but the human race, and the future.”
“Such as it is,” said Chao. “The Trilateral War left the world even more divided than it had ever been, despite the veneer of civility we try to maintain here in San Francisco. Those who live under the Towers have had barely two years to recover; now we’re going to be sending them back to die yet again.”
Drake shrugged. “It’s for the greater good.”
“That is hard selling to the people marching toward their death,” Toran pointed out. “And that is without even mentioning all the collateral damage. The last war destroyed Towers in my Allied States. Our mining operations were disrupted, cropland in South America was burned to the ground.”
“Indus suffered greatly as well,” said Chao. “Infrastructure in India and Japan was wiped away, Korea’s levy walls were torn down, Australian tourist areas were levelled.”
Drake leaned forward. “All of that is true,” he said. “But what if that didn’t have to happen this time?”
“What do you mean?” Chao peered at him with obvious suspicion. “Of course it has to happen. It’s global war.”
“This has always been the plan,” said Toran.
“An opportunity has arisen that none of us could have foreseen,” said Drake. “What would you say if I told you every city on Earth could be like San Francisco? No slums, no pollution, just clean parks and streets? No poverty, just comfort for everyone?”
Chao and Toran exchanged a skeptical look. “We would wonder if you are suffering from dementia,” said Chao. “You have never been one for pipe dreams, General. Machiavellian pragmatism is one of your defining traits—just ask Napoleon Quinn and his men.”
Drake ignored the shot and pushed forward. “I assume you know what a neutron bomb is?”
“Of course,” said Chao. “Basic military history. They were weapons designed to limit physical damage while bombarding human targets with deadly neutron radiation.”
Toran nodded. “Kill the people while leaving the buildings standing. But they were banned more than a hundred years ago, decades before the Kazakhstan incident put an end to all nuclear war. You cannot be suggesting that we bring them back.”
“Not neutron bombs, specifically,” said Drake. “They’re too dangerous, obviously. I’m talking about weapons that can end the war quickly, decisively and without any negative impacts on resources—other than human bodies, of course. I’m talking about a war that will last a handful of months. When it’s over, the Towers will survive, but the slums—and their residents—will no longer exist.”
“And you believe the people in the Towers will not care about another war?” asked Toran. “One that kills more than any other war in history?”
Drake shrugged, “They haven’t so far, have they? They work their four hours a day and then connect to cortical reality the second they get back home. It’s the slums that have fed our war machine for decades; the only time the middle class notices war is when it affects their stock portfolios.”
“And what magical forge will create these weapons you speak of?” Chao sniped. “Will we resurrect Prometheus? Even with Toomey, those types of weapons would likely take decades to develop.”
“Indeed they would,” said Drake. “But I’m not talking about Toomey.”
“Then what are you talking about?” Toran demanded. “My patience is getting skinny.”
“Thin,” Chao corrected.
“What is the difference?”
Drake ignored them and waved his hand over a panel in the tabletop.
“Send in our guests,” he ordered.
Chao and Toran glanced toward the entrance as the door slid open and two men walked in. One was Frank King, the other a young Indian man, short but wiry, both wearing suits.
The doors slid shut, effectively sealing the room from any prying eyes or ears again.
“Change your face,” Chao said to Zero. “It bothers me to see it.”
King’s face shifted and bulged into the one Zero had most often used when he was himself. He and the man beside him stood at ease near the table, their hands behind their backs.
“My fellow tribunes,” Drake said, standing and crossing to where the men stood. “You know my associate.”
“I wish we didn’t,” Toran said with obvious distaste. Zero simply tilted his head in response.
“What is he doing here?” Chao demanded, pointing at Dev Schuster. “This meeting is classified above top secret!”
Drake wrapped an arm around Schuster’s shoulder and grinned.
“Did either of you stop to wonder how Quinn and his men made it to Uranus and back in just twenty-three days?”
Toran’s eyes narrowed. “My people have mentioned it in briefings,” he said. “The network is full of scientists making theories. Why do I care?”
“Mr. Schuster here was behind that,” said Drake. “He modified the Rafts his team used. He’s created other technological wonders, as well. In fact, his genius far exceeds that of Toomey and his people at Prometheus.”
“And?” Chao asked.
Schuster drew himself to full height and stood at attention.
“And I’m here to offer my services to this tribunal,” he said, eyes looking straight ahead. “I believe in General Drake’s vision, and I’m eager to help with it.”
“And eager for the massive financial reward that will come with it, of course.” Drake patted Schuster’s shoulder. “No one should ever work for free, especially a man of your unique talents. With your technology, we can end the war quickly, clean up the cities and finally allow the citizens of every nation to live in comfort, with everything they need. After that, we tackle the problem of facing the alien threat.”
Schuster nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m ready to begin as soon as the order is given, sir.”
“That’s the kind of can-do attitude I like.” Drake grinned and turned to his fellow tribunes. “Well, my friends? As with all of our executive orders, this requires a unanimous decision. What say you?”
He knew it required no such thing—his plans would go ahead with or without Toran and Chao—but their cooperation would make things a great deal easier. He watched
as they shared a glance with each other before turning back to him.
“Aye,” they said in unison.
“Excellent.” Drake looked Schuster in the eye. “Consider the order given. It’s time to prepare for the last war mankind will ever fight.”
10
“Chelsea.”
The word was like a whisper echoing through a vast ballroom, seeming to come from all around her and yet somehow inside her at the same time. She wasn’t even sure she had actually heard it. She wasn’t sure of anything she heard lately, including her own thoughts. The world kept shifting on her, and she was never sure where she would be—or who she would be—when she opened her eyes.
That was why she preferred to keep them closed, and stay here in the darkness that seemed to exist at the heart of all the worlds that were flowing through her head.
“Chelsea!”
This time the physical touch of a hand was enough to pull her, groggy and bleary-eyed, from her nether state and back into the world—or at least one of the worlds she’d been experiencing. She blinked away the fog in her eyes and took stock of where she was—it was the hospital room again this time, not her family’s medical suite. Then she turned her head and saw something that sent a tiny slice of adrenaline through her belly: seated beside her on the edge of the bed was the obese Asian woman from earlier, the fellow inmate—patient, she thought absently, why would I say inmate?—who had been blathering to her father and calling him by his first name. The woman was all but crushing Chelsea’s hand in her own.
“How…” Chelsea rasped. “How did you… get in here?”
“I came in through the back servants’ corridor,” the woman said absently, clutching Chelsea’s hand to her ample bosom. Her voice seemed odd, almost strangled. “Remember? You’d always hide there from your cousins when you were younger. The guards don’t know about it.”
Guards? What guards?
“Who… are you?”
