Chapter Three
Reactions
“This is unacceptable! Those bastards! That son of a bitch! Alexander is going to burn for this!”
Clementine had been raving like this for hours. Ever since they had watched President Alexander's speech to the legislature.
“How could that shit eating mongrel do this to us? To you?” That last was directed at the man who was sitting quietly in the arm chair over by the window, looking out over the city. It was nighttime, but far below the lights of the city lit up the streets like a spring day. This high up, there was just a gentle orange glow.
The man sitting in the chair didn't respond. He simply gazed out the window across the city and the bay beyond, and thought back to the place where he had grown up.
As a boy, he had grown up in a small village on a stretch of earth that thrust up above the surrounding grasslands. The wind would blow across the high plateau and leave the land arid and dry. The people in the small village spent their lives struggling to raise small amounts of grain and grapes even in the difficult climate.
Each day, the men of the village would go out and tend to their fields of barley and wheat, of oats and grapes for wine, and the women would stay behind, preparing meals and minding the children. It was a simple life. One relatively untouched by the advances of the outside world. Even as the cities to the north and south of his village were awakening to a new way of computers and mass communication, the sleepy little homes around which he played stayed peasant. It was a simple existence.
But it would not be allowed to last forever. Men from the capital who wore tailored suits and shoes unaccustomed to working in the fields came to the village one day, and they asked to speak to the local policia. When they found there was none, they asked to speak to El Jefe. The villagers took the men from the capital to where the old men in the village were having siesta.
The men from the capital asked the old men who was in charge. The old men did not know. They asked who collected the tax. The old men did not understand. They asked who enforced the law. The old men said they hadn't had a need for laws or law enforcers since their father's fathers worked in the fields.
They tried to explain to the men from the capital that there was nothing here to tax. That everyone here worked every day in the fields to make the grain and wine they needed to feed their families, and then went home in the night and ate and drank and kissed their children before putting them to bed.
The men from the capital didn't accept this. “You need leadership,” they said. “You need policia,” they insisted. “You must pay your taxes,” they demanded.
And then they left. But they returned a short time later with more men. And these men established a police force, and a city government. The people of the village thought it was all very silly. But then the new government began to demand that the people pay taxes to pay for the new policia.
At first, the people ignored them. The new government insisted. But the people refused. They didn't want or need this new government and its policia, why should they pay for it. It was hard work growing crops on that dry and windy plateau, why should they share with people who did nothing to help bring those crops in? Then the policia began to take them and put them in the new jail the men from the capital had built outside the village. They thought this would show the people the value of supporting their new government.
But instead, they learned why the people had never needed policia in the first place. The people went to the new jail and demanded their loved one's returned to them. When the policia refused, they tore down the doors and got their families back. When the policia tried to stop them, they overpowered them. Then they chased all the men from the capital out of the village.
And then they went home. Back to the fields. Back to their kitchens and siestas.
But the men from the capital returned a short time later. And this time they brought men with guns with them.
Many people were killed. The boy was young when it happened. But he remembered seeing old men shot to death in the street. He remembered seeing his father, and his mother, dying trying to protect their small home. He hid in the barn with their mule until the men from the capital went away. When they left, they took many people with them. People they blamed for what had happened at the jail. People who had refused to pay the new taxes.
After a while, the boy left his village. He made his way to the capital to the north. He was too young to think of revenge. But as he grew older, he found that the people of the city knew nothing of the little village where he had played in the dusty streets with his friends, while his mother baked bread and his dad worked in the fields.
So he decided to teach them. As he got older, he began to spread the story, cautiously at first, about the small village on the plateau and the men with the strange shoes who came and took away all his people. Over the years, he became a voice for people who would never again be heard.
And what began as a story about his village became a story about a dozen villages, and then a hundred. Not just in his country, but in countries all over the world. Places where people lived their lives in peace, until men from other capitals had come to put governments where none were asked or needed. Places where people were shot or arrested when they refused to surrender the fruits of their own labors to those who did nothing to create them. Places where little boys huddled weeping in the dirt, waiting for the sound of gunfire to fade away.
He had come a long way from that village. He wore designer suits now. He had learned the new way of computers and mass communication. He had learned how to insulate himself from the same kind of people who had killed his parents by becoming a voice so loud and so public that they were afraid to take action against him.
And then someone had done something unthinkable, but sadly not unimaginable. Still, something he could never condone. They had killed hundreds of people. And for some reason, the President of the people who had been attacked had named him as their enemy.
Even though he had only ever advocated for non-violence. Even though he encouraged people to simply “outgrow” their need of the state. Even though he had never himself picked up a gun in his life, he had been called a murderer in front of the world.
So Xavier de Vitoria sat quietly and looked out of the window of the high rise apartment of his passionate friend, and thought about how it could have come to this.
Had he been too loud? Too public? He had spoken out against that man, Alexander. He had spoken out against his predecessors. He had spent his life speaking against a system that reserved for itself a privilege it denied every other class of people, namely to initiate force against persons and property. He had spent his life since crawling out of that barn in the cause of ending the sad history of statism.
Perhaps, he thought to himself, perhaps that was too great a sin in the end. Perhaps in his pride, he thought he could actually accomplish the fullness of his revenge. Not against the men from the capital who brought doom with them to his village the day they came asking for El Jefe. But against all men, everywhere, who believed as they believed.
And now he would die for it. He had no illusions. He had been named the villain. Already they spoke of his crimes. How ironic that they would paint him as a supporter of regimes. He knew that every door would be closed to him, and the hands of his brothers would be turned against him.
He thought about his children, his son Augustin and his daughter Adalina. He had always wished he could have spent more time with them, but now he was glad they were with their mother. They would be safer there.
Men just like James Alexander had destroyed the little village where Xavier de Vitoria was born. Now men just like him were going to take his life, and erase the very memory of that village from the annals of history.
And so he sat. And he listened to his impassioned friend rant and rave. And he remembered. He remembered a little boy, running through dusty streets with a stick in his hand and dirt on his face. Knowing nothing of the world beyond his little village. He had wept for what had been done to that boy many times.
He wondered now, if that boy were here, would he weep for what had been done to this man?
“What the Administration is asking for just isn't in the budget Ronald. We can't just create the spending. A new department? A new enforcement arm? New regulatory authority? New oversight? Where are we supposed to find all the money for this?”
“Find it. Print it. I don't care. The President wants this to happen. The people need this to happen.” Ronald Wilson was the President's facilitator. It was his job to make sure that whatever had to be done behind the scenes, was, so that the President's policy was enacted.
When he first met President Alexander he was just a city councilman. Alexander was a ruthless and dedicated politician, but he had never understood how to get other people to support his platform. Ronald approached him at a charity ball and shook his hand. He introduced himself with a simple statement.
“Councilman Alexander, you could be a great man, but you need someone who knows how to make people see things the way you do. I am that man.”
Within two years, Alexander was mayor.
Since that time, Ronald had followed James Alexander from the mayor's office, to the governor's, to the highest position in the land. In that time he had carefully selected those people who would be allowed to stand with them, and he had made sure that others fell beneath his boss's feet.
It wasn't because he found Alexander to be particularly just, or moral, or even interesting. But he recognized all the way back in the city council that Alexander had the skills and charisma and intelligence necessary to rise in this field. As long as he had the right support. As long as no one was aloud to stand in his way.
Just then, the woman who was standing in the way of his boss's agenda was the head of the budget committee. She was a member of his President's party, but she had been elected on the promise of restraining government spending, and she had some kind of irresponsible adherence to the romantic notion of keeping her campaign promises.
Jeanie Halloran had worked her way into this position. Slowly. In Ronald's opinion, she was the worst kind of politician. She actually believed in doing the “work of the people.” Worse, she thought the people were best served by constraining the power of the state. Over thirty years ago, she had first run on a platform of audits and oversight and constitutional restraint, and in her small southern district it had sold. And she'd managed to be re-elected there ever since on that same platform.
Seniority had garnered her a powerful position in the legislature, and despite his opinion of her principles, Ronald had worked with her on a number of issues over the years, even before his boss was promoted. She was an honest, respectable woman. Which of course made her unsuited for this kind of work.
“Ronald, my constituents are worried about National Security, but I can't sell them government expansion on this scale. They won't buy it. You have to give me something. What can I cut? Make it a federal mandate. Something.”
Normally, Ronald would be willing to throw her a bone on spending to keep her happy, but right now wasn't the time for compromise. Now was the time to exert the authority of the President's office. “Jeanie. You get nothing. Right now, the majority of the people are on board with this. Including your constituents. You will support this. You will make it your initiative. You will get behind this, or we will sink you. End of story.”
Jeanie stood shocked and simply stared at Ronald. She had known him for ten years. She had been to his wife's christmas party. He had been to her daughter's wedding. And now, he was standing here, telling her that if she didn't fall on her sword for this administration, he would stab her in the back with it.
She tried to think of anything she could say. Anything she could do. After a moment, she realized her mouth was open. She dropped her eyes to the papers in her hand. “Sure thing Ronald. I'll take care of it.” She was finished. “I'll have my staff members write everything up later today.” Thirty three years to get this far, and now she would lose everything. “I'll send the draft over to the President's office for his approval within the next two days.” She had no hope of re-election after this, not in her fiscally conservative district. Her husband would understand.
“Good Jeanie. Make sure that happens. And schedule a press conference to inform the press about your new National Security Initiative.”
Jeanie nodded her head and turned to walk out of the room. Now that she understood who was in charge he could throw her that bone. “The President will be needing someone to head this new department. He is considering Mitchell Rather.”
Suddenly Jeanie stopped on her way out of Ronald's office. Mitchell Rather was the most likely opponent to run against her next fall. If he accepted this appointment from the President, her only major competitor would be out of the race. Maybe she could keep her position after all.
Her head was swimming with thoughts about how she could spin this. By the time she got back to her office she already had an idea of how this could work. Ronald was right, the people were behind the idea of National Security right now. They wanted to be saved. She got her own press secretary on the phone.
“Stevan. We have some work to do. Our campaign platform isn't controlling government spending any more.
From now on it's security at any cost.”
By and large, the old men at Maude's were happy with the President's speech. They were the product of another time, not necessarily simpler nor more or less just, but different, and it made them comfortable to know who the enemy was.
Of course, none of them actually knew who the enemy was. They knew his name. Xavier de Vitoria. They didn't always pronounce it right, and no one who ate at Maude's had even heard of him before last friday. But they'd heard of him now, and where a wind blew through the hole in the news last week, the radio couldn't divulge de Vitoria's secrets fast enough now.
“Well known as a follower of the so called philosophy of free market anarchism, de Vitoria has spent decades speaking out against the governments of both his nation and the nations of the world. He has dedicated his adult life to spreading propaganda about governments enslaving free people. He is a tax protester, a vehement opponent of the military, and a vocal proponent of drug use and prostitution. His writings advocate for the abolition not only of all national borders, but also social programs for the poor, free public schools, and police and fire fighters. He is the worst kind of man, who advocates for chaos and the unrestrained repression of his fellow man. If men like him had their way, there wouldn't even be any roads.”
The news had been more or less like that since the night of the speech. According to the radio, de Vitoria was every kind of villain. Anyone who could support junkies, whores, and illegal immigrants while simultaneously throwing out the most vulnerable of people, those in need, children, the sick, and the poor, could certainly be capable of the kind of act the world had witnessed on April 19th.
“What I don't understand, is why they've waited so'damn long to do something about it. They say this Vitoria has been teachin' this crap for decades and they aint done shit about it? And they're all surprised that he went and did what he did?” Old Greg had been on this for days now. Of course, he wasn't the only one thinking it.
After all, since the President had put a name and a face to the enemy, the major news outlets had been hemorrhaging information about what a monster he was, which begged the question, even to the customers at Maude's Pancakes, why no one had been doing anything about this guy beforehand.
“I just don't get it. He hates poor people, he hates governments, he wants children to grow up ignorant, he wants illegals running all in our cities and people smokin dope and whorin, how does anybody get that crazy?” Old Greg lit another of those cancer sticks he'd been puffin.
“He's cracked. That's how. Pure evil. Can't be no other explanation.” Harold leaned in conspiratorially.
“Personally, I think he's probably an agent. Back during the war we had these guys who would have rallies telling everyone how evil the government was, turned out later they were working for the enemy. I bet this guy's the same way.” He sat back nodding his head satisfactorily.
“Don't know Harry.” Larkin chewed his eggs while he spoke. “You may be right. But this whole thing has a strange feel to it. Something I don't like.” He swallowed and took a drink of his coffee before continuing.
“Now, maybe he's the monster they've been paintin, and maybe he's the double agent you suspect, but I think Greg's question is valid. If he's been around for twenty, thirty years doin all this, why hasn't anybody stepped on him by now?”
Harold waived Abby over to refill his mug. “Because he never did nothin like the Devastation before now. He's been content to lay low. All the sudden, he's gone nutty on us, now we gotta do somethin. I wish they had earlier, but we got to now, don't we?” Abby filled his coffee and stood there for a second listening to the old timers hash it out.
Larkin shook his head. “Then why wait so long to turn mad dog on us? You jest think he got bored writin books and passin out flyers? Where'd he get the bankroll for somethin like that anyhow? I aint sayin your wrong, not you or Greg, I'm jest saying somethin here aint sittin with me. That's all.”
Abby shook her head and walked away without offering comment. The old boys were in here every day, 'cept Larkin on Sundays, they'd get it figured out. She had more immediate problems. Like whether or not she needed to find another part time job if she was gonna keep paying her babysitter.
“I'm gonna miss it Tommy.” Jennifer was leaning into her husband's arms and looking out at the beach from where the two of them stood on the balcony.
It was their last night in the condo. They'd be packing up and leaving in the morning. Seven days in paradise. Even with the Devastation on everyone's mind, it had been wonderful.
“I'm gonna miss it too baby. It was nice to spend this week away from the world. You know I have to go back to work Wednesday? I'm not looking forward to that.” He wasn't either. Thomas didn't hate his job, but it sure didn't compare to the relaxing time he'd spent here on the coast.
“Someday we'll move out here, won't we?” It was always like this for them. Every time they had to go back to work, they pretended that it was only temporary, that the vacation was their real life. Maybe if they thought that, it was in a way.
“Sure honey.” Thomas held his wife close and kissed her brow.
It had been three days since President Alexander's speech. Everyone knew who the enemy was now. Not that it mattered much. As far as Thomas was concerned, the President could have placed the blame on space men, they were about as real to him as some obscure Anarchist across the sea.
It was why Thomas never got interested in politics. Because every war was somebody else's. An anarchist gets pissed, he blows up a city. The country he attacks gets pissed, they blow up a city. And in between there were a whole lot of Thomases and Jennifers who would never see another sunset. They didn't sign on. They didn't enlist. But a whole lot of them always ended up dead. Mostly them.
And he could see the writing on the wall. The talk in the grocery had changed. It wasn't frightened stock girls and boys calming their mothers anymore. It was girls bragging about how their boyfriend might join the effort, and mothers worried or cheering because their sons might go off to face the enemy.
The country was readying itself for war. And Thomas could see it all happening around him. He wished more people were like him and just didn't care. He'd like to see either side get the killing done without all the willing participants ready to throw themselves into the meat grinder. Those kids were feeding themselves into the machine, and they thought it was all so noble.
“You're getting morose again.” Thomas realized he'd been quiet for a while. Jennifer was gazing up at him with a worried look on her face.
Thomas put on a smile. “It's ok baby. I'm just gonna miss the beach.” He squeezed her to reassure her and stroked her hair with his free hand.
Jennifer looked back out over the ocean. The sun was just under the horizon, and although it wasn't dark yet, the light of day had dimmed to purple and orange and the waves reflected it like they were aflame. “We'll be ok honey. We'll come back someday.”
But Thomas wasn't so sure. He had a feeling that something had changed profoundly in the last few days, and maybe no one would ever get back to where they once belonged.
Issacson was almost beside himself. He'd always been rather proud of his ability to remain calm and analytical, it was what made him such an excellent scientist, but today was a momentous occasion.
Only minutes after they'd initiated the transfer, he'd driven out with Lattimer to the delivery point to retrieve the vessel. Because of the transmitter they'd installed, it had been easy enough to locate. It had taken a little digging to unearth the thing, but soon enough they had it contained and were on their way back to the lab where Dr. Paulson was preparing a clean room for their arrival.
The small metallic sphere was intact of course. Without the appropriate electronic frequency, no one would have been able to open it to molest its contents, and the substance it was made of could easily have withstood far longer in far more deleterious conditions. None the less, before they opened it to examine the contents it contained within, they first verified that it was whole and unblemished without.
After determining to their satisfaction that the sphere was indeed intact, they applied a small electrical current at just the right frequency and the vessel began to hum just at the edge of the audible range.
Both Issacson and Lattimer stepped back slightly, as the vessel suddenly rotated sharply to bring itself into a vertical alignment. Then a thin sliver of light appeared briefly on the sphere, bisecting it perfectly. The two halves slowly opened away from each other as though hinged, and finally they were able to examine its contents.
A small vial of genetic material, a timer, and a small self contained energy source, thanks to the boys down in Analytical Thermochemistry. Nothing else.
But what set Issacson and Lattimer alight with excitement was the reading on the timer.
1000 years, 0 months, 0 days, 1 hour, 13 minutes, 12 seconds, 45 hundredths of a second.
The first part of the experiment was a success.
But Issacson had been given two directives. One was to increase the size of the vessel. By showing that the polymer was capable of withstanding the transfer intact, even with the substantial increase in size over their previous trials, he had shown that they would be able to enlarge the vessel itself without jeopardizing it in any way. They would be able to make the vessel as large as they wished, the only significant difference it would make would be a small increase in the amount of energy necessary to initiate the transfer. But that was hardly a problem.
His second directive had been to discover whether or not organic material could survive the transfer, hence the vial.
It had been protected by a magnetic field which had been created as an offshoot of the research they were doing here. That discovery alone would set PVP ahead financially for decades. Both that field and the timer had been powered by the small self contained fusion reactor within the sphere.
He removed the vial and took it over to another table for further analysis. After carefully inserting it into an opening in the side of the terminal before him, he began a sequence of tests designed to determine if the material had survived, and if so, had there been any ill effects of the transfer. If not, he would have to determine whether the field had failed or the vessel.
Soon, it was clear to him that the material contained within the vial had survived intact. There were no damaging side effects of the transfer, and the preservation field had worked perfectly.
This was the kind of experiment men like Issacson lived their entire careers for.
He had successfully sent organic material back in time one thousand years and retrieved it just minutes later from right outside his door, where it had sat all this time.
While he was a boy, while he was in school, while he worked his way up through Publicola, he had no idea that buried in the sand right outside their grounds was a small metallic sphere that he himself would someday send back in time to collect here and now.
He allowed himself to imagine what he would have done if, as a young boy, he had stumbled upon the vessel, not realizing that it would also be he who would place it there in the future.
Not for the first time, Issacson thought to himself that working with time travel technology could drive some men insane. Luckily, he had a mind for paradox, and was able to simultaneously grasp the disparate possibilities of having found something in his past which he had not yet sent back in time to be uncovered in his future.
Now Issacson could truly rejoice. He had accomplished both of the Board's directives. They could make it man sized, and a man would survive the trip. He could contact the Board and report complete success.
He looked over at Dr. Lattimer and Dr. Paulson. “This day will be remembered my friends. In our futures and, because of the unique nature of what we have accomplished, perhaps even in our pasts. We have prepared the way for one of mankind's greatest adventures.”
He smiled at the two men who had been so instrumental to the success of the project. “I believe a toast is in order.”
Chapter Four
Dreams of Men
He'd been a member of two different organizations who promoted liberty, one of which claimed to, “bring about less government, more responsibility, and a better world by providing leadership, education, and organized volunteer action in accordance with moral and Constitutional principles.”
He'd been to rallies for independent candidates who supported government restraint, he'd handed out pamphlets about individual sovereignty, he'd sent copies of books about liberty to his legislators, and he'd spent thousands of dollars supporting musicians, writers, and philosophers who advocated for personal freedom.
He believed all this time that he was doing something. That he was changing the world. That a little bit at a time, he was dragging his country back from the brink of totalitarianism.
And now he was listening to a news report that the government, he refused to call it “his” government, was creating a new agency. To defend the homeland.
Jameson was glad his father wasn't alive to see what passed for freedom these days.
His mother had died when he was three years old from breast cancer, and his father had raised Wally and his brother Kent by himself as best he could.
The three of them lived on a farm in the southern part of the country, where they raised cattle for beef and dairy production. It was a small outfit with just the three of them, but they worked every day, many days from before the sun came up to long after it went down, in order to feed, move, and milk the herd.
The work was hard, but for their little family it was worth it. Their father owned the house and the land he worked free and clear, and he was hoped to save up enough money to send both his sons to good schools. He was proud of his little farm and what he'd done with his life, but he wanted better for his kids. Just as he would hope they would want for their own.
Then one day, his father received a letter from the government. There was concern amongst the industry that the price of milk had fallen too far for some of the smaller farms to make a consistent profit, certainly he understood that, he'd seen his margins narrow over the years, and so the regulatory authority was going to offer farmers money to sell off their entire dairy herd.
First off, the idea struck Mr. Jameson as immoral. Be paid by the government for not producing? Didn't seem right. Secondly, old Franklin Jameson was no dummy. He could see what some farmers would do. The plan had a deadline, by which dairy producers had to sign up with the state. A smart man would go out and buy up all the herd he could now, so that he could get that much more out of the government when he sold them later.
But that wasn't the way honest men did things. Besides, Franklin Jameson might not have finished college, he'd married Susan in his junior year and when she'd gotten pregnant he'd moved back home and bought some land from his parents so he could start his own farm and support his new family, but he understood a few things about economics. He understood that if other farmers were running out to buy up dairy cattle now, the value of his herd was already going up, and would continue to do so. He also understood that when those farmers sold off their herds later, the value of his milk would go up as well.
But most importantly, he understood where the money those farmers would get from the government in exchange for selling off their herds would come from. It would come right out of their own pockets.
Every one of them was paying taxes and fees to the state in order to run their dairy operations. They were paying to get their products graded for quality. They were paying to sell cattle. They were paying to buy cattle. They were paying to buy and sell the equipment needed to milk cattle. They had to pay for licenses, and inspections, and certifications.
And now, some of them thought they saw the money train rolling into town and they wanted to jump on board.
Well. Not Franklin Jameson. He knew that the money had been stolen from him in the first place, he hadn't volunteered to pay for those “services,” and he wouldn't have. He didn't need some government employee in a cheap suit to tell him what to buy or sell. He was too honest to sell bad and too careful to buy it. He also knew a little bit about electronics, things like line loss. He understood that as that money passed from bureaucrat to bureaucrat a little of it got lost with each transfer in labor and paperwork and additional oversight and cheap suits, so that even at peak efficiency the system was inherently wasteful. And of course, he understood that no government ever ran at anything near peak efficiency, except maybe a true autocracy.
Finally, he understood that when the dust settled and all those farmers who sold their herds cashed their checks, and all those government bureaucrats who wrote the checks collected their taxes, everyone would be in about the same position they were now. Working long hours for little pay. But Franklin Jameson and his boys would be ahead of the curve, because they'd wait until all that buying and selling and taxing was done, and then they'd still be there, with their cattle and their milk, ready to make money off a market that had artificially reduced supply without addressing demand. And the rest of their competition would be sitting on government checks for a little while sure, but without the capital asset needed to generate long term sustainable income, they’d never return to the cattle market. Which would make the Jamesons top dog.
So the Jameson family kept right on as they had since Franklin and Susan had moved back to where he'd grown up and bought that first acre off his parents with a loan from the local bank.
And Franklin Jameson made enough money in the next five years that he was able to send both his sons off to good schools like he'd hoped. But he also taught them a lot about making their own way in life during those years. About how to live by what he called the “cowboy way.” About how it was their responsibility to make something of themselves in this world. And about how no man had the right to live off the sweat of his fellows.
Kent Jameson moved away after college to become an economics professor with an independent academic organization engaged in research and scholarship in the fields of economics, philosophy and political economy. And Walter had moved back home and gotten a job working at the same bank that had given his dad that first loan. Eventually, he bought the bank outright and opened up a second one too. He liked owning a small rural bank. He knew his customers, understood the local economy, and was able to understand where he could invest to help people grow.
When their dad died, Kent and Walter sold most of the farm to men Walter did business with in the community. They kept the old farmhouse they'd grown up in as kids and a few acres around it as a family retreat. Neither son was surprised at the large number of people who came to the funeral, their father had always been well respected in the community. The inscription on his headstone read “When there is no wind, row.”
Walter had learned from his father to be independent, to never ask another man to live for his sake. He had learned the value of hard work. And he had learned that no one had the right to turn guns against him for personal gain.
But despite all his efforts over the course of over thirty years to help other people learn those same lessons, he had seen his country become progressively less free. He had seen men and women give over progressively to the increased taxation and predation of their peers. He had seen people accept theft and violence in the name of benevolence more and more every year.
And now that old bailiwick of the statists, national defense, was being rolled out to justify this new government agency. Security guards everywhere were being federalized. The government claimed they could listen to his phone calls, read his emails, even find out what books he was checking out from the local library.
Of course, if he had nothing to hide, he had nothing to fear. That's what they kept telling him.
But free men always had something to fear from their state. Government is essentially the negation of liberty. Many of the most tyrannical restrictions on freedom had been sold to a gullible public under the guise of benevolence. The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.
And now it was all happening again. Walter sat in his living room and watched the news drone on numbly. More government. More invasion. More spending, which meant either more taxation or more printing, theft either way.
More war.
And in the end, he wouldn't be any safer. Partly because he wasn't in any real danger in the first place, and partly because guns in the hands of the state had never protected anyone anyway, they'd only ever been used to kill. Those guns weren’t really pointed out towards some illusory enemy, they were here at home, pointed right square at Walter Jameson and every other free man.
And with that thought Walter began to question. Had any of his efforts, and the efforts of millions of others in the cause of freedom accomplished anything? Had they been pursuing the wrong course all along? If something like this could happen now, after everything they'd done, after the rallies and pamphlets and books and lectures, what had been the point?
Walter had loved his father. He had listened when his father spoke, and learned the lessons his father strove to teach.
When there is no wind, row.
Walter called his brother on the phone.
“Kent, have you been watching the news? I think we've been going about this all wrong. It's time to change our strategy.”
It wouldn't be fair to say that Clementine believed in violence. The truth was, he believed in freedom, and he was willing to use violence to achieve it. He believed that violence was being done against him first, and that he had every right to use violence to defend himself.
Xavier agreed with him of course. The state was violence on its face. It existed to feed off of the productivity of others at the point of a gun, nothing else. It was inherently, unmistakably, and unforgivably evil. Any good thing statism had accomplished throughout its long and bloodied past was not, as the proponents of government would have argued, the goal, but rather in error. A glitch. A design flaw.
Despite that, Xavier neither approved of nor advocated violence. Not because he didn't think it was justified, but because he had a goal in mind. He envisioned a society where people lived free of the constraints placed upon them by small men. Where people were able to seek out their own victories and pursue solutions to the challenges of life freely as they saw fit.
He had done all the research of course. He was an educated man. He understood that roads could and would be provided in the absence of the state. He understood that the poor and those truly in need had only ever been helped by private individuals. He knew and could explain perverse incentives, and negative economics, and the fallacy of the broken window. He understood that most of the evil that was pointed to as proof for the necessity of the state, war, crime, ignorance, poverty, were all products of the state itself, and more argument for its demise than its perpetuation.
But more than all that, he was a man of principles. The people of his village had taught him both the strength of moral virtue, and the danger of being at the mercy of violent men. He understood that the state could only ever be a sword. Elections, wars, successions, coups, were only ever attempts to grasp that sword and turn it against one's opponents. And the man who grasped that sword would always see it turn in his hand.
Xavier believed in a time for violence, but he worked every day for over fifty years to create a world without that sword. Because he understood that the state was a sword against all of humanity.
And now it was being plunged into his breast.
“We must strike. Xavier, you have to see now, they've called you their enemy. We cannot continue to be passive. I understand why you have been patient. I understand your adherence to non-violence, but surely you see that now is not the time!” Clementine slammed his fist into the table. He was a man of great emotion.
Xavier paused before answering. “Passive? Is that really how you see it my friend?” He knew of course that Clementine did not. “After all this time, you would be swayed to violence by the words of a petty dictator? Surely you know how I would react to this proposal.” He waited for Clementine to compose himself.
“Of course I know Xavier. But we don't have much time. The wolf is at our door. We must act.”
“And we will Clementine. We will. But not with violence. Attacking them would not save us, any more than attacking us will save them. Raining destruction upon their empire would no more create anarchism than putting every priest to the sword would bring atheism. We will defend ourselves if we must, but our weapon of aggression will ever be the truth.” Xavier stood and walked towards the television on the wall where the news coverage was firing up the people of the world to destroy him. It was a strange feeling, knowing that so many people he'd never met wanted him dead in such a visceral, personal way.
Clementine stared after his friend and mentor. He had learned about the philosophy from this man. All his life his heart had yearned for freedom, but de Vitoria had given that yearning a name. He wanted to lash out at every ignorant fool who lusted after the blood of the man he'd followed for eighteen years. He lusted after Alexander's blood himself for what he had unleashed.
But he knew that de Vitoria would never allow it. “Then tell me what we will do. You say we will act. What actions do we take? How do we turn that weapon against our enemies?”
For a time, de Vitoria was silent, but Clementine waited patiently without saying another word. He would have waited all night without interruption, but he didn't have to.
“We will begin, as we always have, with the simple inescapable truth. Many will not see it, at least at first, but it will lay the foundation of our great work.” Xavier turned and looked at his friend. “Our enemy has given us a great opportunity here. They have increased our visibility a thousand fold. And with every step they take, they will only show the validity of our position. They will expose themselves before all the world as the evil that they are.”
Clementine was getting excited. He could see the potential in this plan. “You should release a statement. Alexander has made you his foil; we will make you his equal.” He was already considering the logistics of producing a video they could distribute. “The news outlets will run to put you on. Forget equal, we will make you his better.” Clementine could feel his blood burn in his breast. They would strike a blow at the heart of their enemy.
Xavier thought about all the possible ramifications of what they were about to do. “I do not know who attacked them any more than does Alexander, but I think we may come to think of that person as our anonymous benefactor in the years to come my friend. They may have set in motion the very thing for which we have worked for so long.”
He turned back to the television. It was showing footage of the President's speech. He looked into the eyes of the man who was the ideological descendant of the villains who took away his childhood.
“We may yet live to see our dreams come true.”
Gorsky was a professional in the truest sense of the word. He had spent over twenty years traveling from place to place, doing the work of his country.
He wasn't a true believer, even in the days of the Party, when other men around him became intoxicated with dreams of collectivism and gross ambition, Emil Gorsky was not moved. He did what he did because he it paid well and because he had a unique talent for it.
And along the way, he met other men who shared his commitment to professionalism. Men like Theodore Grandon. Gorksy appreciated Grandon. He had taste. Refinement. More importantly, Grandon was goal oriented. He didn't let his passions, or his political affiliations, blind him to efficacy.
Efficacy was important to Gorsky, to a man in his profession. He didn't waste time, or energy, in accomplishing his goals. Certainly there were times when finishing his mission might require that he take a somewhat circuitous route, but even then he always did things efficiently. He prided himself on the economy of his actions.
On his own time, Emil was given to contemplation. He did not question the morality of his actions. He understood that by the standards of polite society, men like him were unacceptable. He also understood that by the standards of the politicos, men like him were indispensable. Ultimately, he judged his actions by his own standard. Performance. That was his morality.
But he was also deeply philosophical. Perhaps it was only to be expected. In his capacity as an employee of the state, Emil Gorsky had killed thirty eight men, six women, and two children. He kept a strict count. He was not unusual in keeping count, most such men did, and his count was neither particularly high nor low.
Certainly, other men had killed far more, and many far fewer.
He was not haunted by this of course, it was simply what he did. He had a skill, and this was it. When he was a boy, his mother had wanted him to take piano lessons. Perhaps if he had, his count would be different.
But he was no pianist. In a way, Gorsky thought of himself as a storyteller. He understood that a death without context was meaningless, but the same death, in the context he provided, could affect great change in the world. He had seen leaders of men give great speeches where they extolled a narrative he had created. A body left in the right place, or with the right woman, could tell exactly the story Gorsky intended. Even something as simple as the meal left uneaten on the table where the body is found could change the lives and fortunes of millions.
Nothing was left to chance. The desistance of his target was only one part of each mission. He decided when, where, and how they would die, but he also decided when, where, and how they would be found. Even who would do the finding.
It was a skill. A trade. One which could be taught, and learned, but for which one had to have a certain natural talent in order to truly master. Gorsky was just such a talented man.
He had spent the weekend before with Grandon. Gorsky had briefly considered killing Grandon in his home with his wife and children. He liked the man, at least professionally, but he also understood the power of narrative.
In the end, Grandon had lived because the opportunity cost of his death would have been too high, and because he had not been ordered otherwise. There would have been gains, certainly, but losses as well. Grandon had a plan, and Gorsky admitted that it had potential. There was no promise of success, these things were always an investment in future returns, but Gorsky could see a number of ways in which Grandon's plan could benefit him personally, as well as his employers.
And so Grandon, and his lovely family, lived on. And Emil moved on. To this hotel, here in the capital of his own country.
His employers had been at odds with the Yankees for many years before they found a better way. It wasn't that they didn't believe in communism, indeed many of them still did, it was simply that capitalism provided more opportunity for advancing the agenda of the state. And so in the end, the communists “fell” while the world watched, and slowly reemerged as something new. A mixed economy. Enough communism to give the state control, but enough capitalism that the economy could actually grow. It was necessary for the livestock to produce, so that the taxes they generated could fund the actions of their betters.
And so they turned over a new leaf, and the Ivans had become friends with their old enemies. Of course, the friendship was no more or less real then the animosity had been, but in the eyes of the peasants it all seemed quite grandiose. And now the Yanks had this wonderful new plan.
A war on Terrorism. A war on divisionism. This de Vitoria fellow, Gorsky knew all about him of course, no one of consequence before or now. But he would be the sacrificial lamb whose blood would oil the machinery of a new age. And he would only be the first.
But the threat wasn't real enough yet. Not to the people of the land Emil Gorsky called home. And so it would be brought to them. In a way they could neither escape nor deny.
They had tapped him to do the work because he was a professional. An ideologue might have been distracted by the great work he was doing. Gorsky simply set and primed the charges. Performance was his morality, and that day he was in rare form.
He would not add this to his count, it would seem too much like padding, but he would tell the story that was intended.
When the charges went off, the blast would be directed towards the hotel. The small compact car was parked not in front of the lobby, but over by the corner of the building. The ensuing blast would destroy the crucial structural support of the cornerstone which would result in the floors tipping down and outwards. The top floor would quickly collapse into the floor beneath it, and the shock and weight coupled with the structural integrity being compromised would result in the complete destruction of the nine story building.
Emil was a storyteller. The explosion would be blamed on a gas leak. Within days, a young man who had been recently fired from the local gas company would admit that in an attempt to get back at his former employers he had loosened the gags on two gas mains in the basement of the hotel. Burdened by guilt, he would confess and turn himself in.
But of course, the forensics would not support such a story. The people would suspect a government cover up. They would be able to see the evidence of the car bomb, they would compare footage of the destruction to real gas explosions and easily tell the difference in the blast pattern. They would accuse the state of trying to hide the truth. That there had been a terrorist attack. That the government was afraid to admit it, and had trumped up the charges of tampering.
Because the people were smart enough to know they were being lied to, but not smart enough to realize the extent of the lie. They would demand that their government join this new War on Terror to protect them. Without ever realizing that their government had set the bomb which had destroyed their illusion of security in the first place. And the government would grudgingly oblige their demands.
Terrorists were unreliable. Barbarians in caves. Emil Gorsky was a professional. He made no mistakes. And so at precisely 3:25 am local time, customers of the Hotel Oktyabrskiy were rudely awakened when a large explosion destroyed thirteen percent of the building. By the time anyone was able to count the bodies, forty-three men, sixteen women, and nine children were dead, and Gorsky's narrative was being repeated all over the country.
A War on Terror would be good for his country. There would be great changes. It was a chance to get things done. Not that Emil particularly cared. He was not a true believer.
But his work was beyond reproach.
To Thomas, the world seemed to have gone mad.
When they arrived home from the beach, he and Jennifer had allotted themselves one day to relax at home before returning to work. They had spent it mostly lounging around the house, watching shows they'd taped while on vacation and eating pizza they had delivered. Neither of them had any desire to go out for food or really to leave the couch much at all.
The next morning, they'd both gotten up early and gone off to their respective jobs. Traffic was much as Thomas remembered it being just over a week earlier, and by the time he reached his desk it seemed like business as usual.
It had been three days since they'd returned from the beach. At first, things seemed normal, like the time they'd spent at their little condo by the sea had been spent in another world. Thomas returned to work and fell right back into his normal routine.
It was strange working in the capital. There was always something going on, foreign dignitaries, protests, marches. But most of that was resigned to the political district. If you went to the outskirts of town, things got sketchy quickly. Drugs and prostitution were common on streets that nice people like Thomas avoided.
But in the suburban areas where Thomas worked, it was more or less like any other city. Moms and dads, kids and minivans. You got used to the fact that you lived in the capital, and after a while, it was just home.
As a billing manager for a medium sized advertising firm, his job was fairly pedestrian. It paid well, but for the most part his responsibilities included taking a form out of one box, affixing his signature to the top of it, and placing that form in a second box.
But it allowed him time to spend with his wife, and enough compensation to live comfortably, if not luxuriously.
So Thomas had expected to spend his day signing forms and authorizing expenditures. He had not expected to be bombarded before lunch with more news of global catastrophe.
“Did you hear the news today Tom?” Phil walked into his office and dragged one of the chairs by the wall over to his desk and plopped down into it. He had a stack of multi colored folders in his hand and began rifling through them as he adjusted in the chair.
Thomas had worked with Phillip Handrick for three years. Phil was a nice enough guy, they had lunch together about once a week and sometimes got together during football season to catch a game or two. Phil wasn't going to show up at Christmas, but they were friendly acquaintances. And he knew Thomas didn't care for politics.
“No Phil. Missed it. The vacation was great by the way, thanks for asking.” Thomas continued authorizing expense accounts without really reading them. He had learned a long time ago that reading them all would drive him crazy, and reading every five or six was enough to keep his staff honest.
“Yah yah,” Phil waved off the polite rebuke, “This is big! Seems those same terrorists, that Victory guy, he got off another one. Right in the heart of Ivan territory. Took out a hotel, bunch a dead kids. Real tragedy.” Phil grabbed one of the folders out of the stack and held it out for Thomas. “Here's a run down on the new BurgerHut campaign. Flyers. Couple a tv spots. Some tie ins with the local schools. You know the drill.”
“It's Vitoria Phil.” Thomas took the folder from Phil and flipped it open. Standard routine. Back to school, buy a burger. He made a quick note in the margin to check on the cost of decals for kids backpacks and then tossed it into a stack of similar looking folders sitting on the edge of his desk. “Another attack huh? On the Ivans this time? I guess that rules them out as being behind this whole thing in the first place.”
Phil cocked his head. “You trying to solve the mystery private eye? Thought you didn't care about this sort of thing. Besides, you can't trust the Ivans. Hell, they coulda blown up their own hotel just to throw us off the scent. Sneaky pinko bastards. You wanna grab lunch?” Phil got up to go.
“Lunch? It's only ten fifteen Phil. Isn't it a little early.”
Phil laughed. “Come on, you can tell me all about your dream vacation in paradise. You're a manager, take advantage.” Thomas was already rising from his desk and grabbing his jacket. He could take the time.
But as they walked out to Phil's car he only partially heard Phil telling him about the cute new receptionist he had spied. He couldn't help being preoccupied by the thought of this second attack. In just over two weeks.
What the hell was going on? What did this de Vitoria have to prove? Where would he strike next? Thomas thought about Jennifer and silently prayed that she would be ok.
“You have to admit, putting Issacson in charge of this project has turned out to be a brilliant move.”
The man sitting before the red symbol on the table smiled smugly as he pointed out, not for the first time, what a smart thing he'd done in tapping young Issacson for the position. Unfortunately, it had been brilliant, and it had also increased his standing.
Standing was important to all the men at the table. Each of them had spent decades, two of them over half a century, maneuvering their way towards this table and once arriving here, maneuvering their way around it.
Red wasn't the highest position at the table, but out of five, it wasn't the lowest. And the man sitting at it now expected to be sitting somewhere else soon. Very soon.
He had noticed Issacson first while he was still in school. In fact, he had noticed him while he was still in grade school. He didn’t meet with him personally until several years later, but he watched him from afar. It had taken another fifteen years after Issacson first came to his attention to bring him into the company, and another eighteen years to bring him to this point. But to the kind of men who aspired to sit at this table, thirty years was a short time to spend grooming a potential prospect.
And of course, that wasn't all that man had been working on for the last thirty years. Besides patience, these men also had to have a talent for multitasking.
But now things were paying off.
The Board at Publicola was made up of men who shared a common vision. It wasn't one of commercial success, or market dominance. It was the vision epitomized in their company's motto.
“Improving History for the Good of Mankind.”
Until recently, that had been a dream. A dream shared by the men who had sat at this table for over six hundred years. Since long before the event that schoolchildren knew as, “The Great Emancipation.”
Of course, these men had a different term for it. They called it simply, “The Fall.”
Publius Valerius Publicola had begun as something very different. They had been a manufacturing firm then. Responsible for producing a small plastic clip that was used by government employees to affix their identification documents to the dashboards of their vehicles.
That seemingly benign start had led them to a series of lucrative government contracts. For over two hundred years PVP was able to grow and expand its influence within the state. They went from bidding for the right to supply military forces during wars to bribing legislators into starting wars to simply beginning those wars themselves in order to profit from them. Eventually they were able to use their influence to convince disparate nations to war with each other while both buying weapons and materiel from PVP.
It was a beautiful thing. Their relationship with the state grew until the two were nearly indivisible. Even their current headquarters had once been a government installation. And PVP profited tremendously from the relationship. And then things began to change.
There was a movement. There were philosophers. There were community organizers. There was simple apathy. As people began to walk away from their governments, the Board at PVP saw the writing on the wall.
Governments had been the source of a great deal of money for PVP, but they had also provided something more. Power.
Through governments PVP could spread their costs across entire nations. Each taxpayer required to fund their actions at the point of a gun. But more importantly, they could use their influence amongst the leaders of nations to put their competition out of business. Or have their competitors killed. And if those leaders didn't want to play along, PVP kept records. Detailed records.
They did what they could. Philosophers were killed. Community organizers were discredited. Apathy was discouraged. But in the end, the governments couldn't stop what was happening, and neither could PVP.
And so The Fall happened. And as far as anyone knew, Publicola adjusted their business model. They began to produce consumer goods and medical technologies and scientific breakthroughs.
But the Board had plans. Long term goals. If they couldn't stop what had happened the first time, maybe they could go back and change it. And so the five men who made up the Board committed themselves to a new goal. And upon admittance to the Board, new members were told something that no more than five men at any time ever knew.
That all of Publicola's work, for over six hundred years now, had been directed at one goal.
Finding a way to change the course of history.
For the good of all mankind.
And now Issacson had reported to them that he had technology which would allow them to send viable organic material back in time.
For over six hundred years the men who sat on this Board had directed science, philosophy, and technology towards a singular vision, each living to advance the cause, but dying before its realization.
But now, the five men who made up the Board knew that they might yet live to see their dreams come true.
Chapter Five
Four Visions
Grandon was sitting back in his high backed leather chair with a hand rolled cigar between his fingers and a rocks glass in his other hand. A green folder sat open in front of him facing the other two men. Amongst pages of notes typed in tiny letters was a picture of a nondescript man boarding a plane.
“So this Gorsky? He can be trusted?” One of the men leaned forward and reached out to pick up the photograph. He was Kevin Imalt. His name wasn't in any personnel file, he didn't receive a signed paycheck, but he had been working for Theodore Grandon in an “unofficial” capacity for seventeen years.
“Yes Kevin, I believe he can be trusted completely. I've even had him in my home to meet Sarah and the kids.” Grandon pointed to the photo in Imalt's hand. “You have heard the news by now, I am sure. The explosion in their capital city?”
Kevin looked up from the picture to Grandon's eyes. “That was his work?”
“He's a professional.” Kevin looked back down at the photo with a new interest. Grandon took a sip of his bourbon and turned his attention to the other man.
Gregory Kaiselbalm on the other hand was a legitimate employee and had been on Grandon's staff for over a decade. He had an interoffice email account and was a regular at the company picnic. He worked to exert the considerable political influence that went with Theodore Grandon's position within the party and the legislature.
Gregory's job was to explain to people why it was in their best interest to see things the way they needed to be seen. Kevin's job was to remove those who failed to understand so that Gregory could then see that they were replaced with people more amenable to the good legislator's position.
They made a very effective team, and over the years Grandon had learned to take full advantage of their considerable talents. He had sent them to his own district to help the local electors during a vote recount, and he had sent them to a barbaric third world shit hole where they had quietly eliminated a tribal leader and seen to it that his replacement had a more positive opinion of the development that was occurring in his ancestral homeland.
The two worked well together, and after he had finished discussing his plan with Gorsky, they had been the very next people he called.
“It is, ambitious, to say the least.” Gregory was never afraid of a challenge, but part of his job was assessing risk for his employer. “The country is now on a war footing, he's already being called a hero by some, even in your party. This would have to be completely untraceable.”
Grandon nodded and tapped his cigar on the glass tray in front of him. “True. But these events, as well as the recent attack on the Ivans, afford us a unique opportunity. I've been looking into this de Vitoria, how well do you know him Kevin?”
Kevin tossed the picture he'd been studying back onto the desk. He was a professional, and he knew the look of a colleague. Of course, he'd heard something of Emil Gorsky's work before this evening. He was supposed to be impeccable. A man to be, considered.
But now he needed to consider de Vitoria. “Well enough to know he wasn't responsible for the Devastation. Well enough to know he's being framed. Well enough to know that as of sixteen hours ago he was staying with friends in a hotel on the other side of the sea. But not really well enough I suppose. Do you think he will pose a problem? There are many such as myself who can see quite clearly that he is innocent.”
Grandon chuckled. “But you work for me, and those others like you work for others like me. No, those who know or suspect the truth won't be speaking up suddenly. We all stand to benefit from this, even without advancing our own agenda. De Vitoria will simply be washed away by the tide of history.”
Gregory considered what Grandon had told them when they first arrived. “I can begin laying the groundwork for this immediately if you like. I would suggest encouraging several of the terrorist organizations we are in contact with to engage in first strike actions against soft targets. At the same time, we will have a few of them capitulate to Alexander. That will work to heighten the public's fear of the threat while also solidifying him as a real terror warrior. The attack on the Ivans will help of course.”
Grandon held up a hand to stop him. “We don't want Alexander to become too beloved. When he's dead, we want the country to think of mourning, not vengeance.”
Gregory waved away his concerns and continued. “Of course, but we also want them to latch on to whomever,” he inclined his head towards Grandon, “to whomever follows him as his successor in the war. Someone who can carry his mantle. In order to do that, we need to convince them there's a war that needs fighting.”
Kevin spoke up. “We should make sure that there aren't any attacks here on the homeland. That sort of thing works for big, dramatic events, but in small doses it acts to drive people away from their leaders. They have to believe you can protect them.”
Gregory nodded and began to make notes in his head. “At some point, they'll have to go after de Vitoria. That will be our best chance. We let them capture de Vitoria and wait until President Alexander is somewhere nearby. At that point, a small group of trained soldiers, men believed to be loyal to de Vitoria, will attempt a rescue, killing the President in the process.” He turned towards Imalt. “You can get us some men? Professionals?”
Kevin thought for a minute about exactly who would be best for such a job. “I know a few men I worked with in removing another President just a few years ago. That thing in the jungle. One President is as good as another I suppose, though of course this country's President will probably have more than six men and two old jeeps for protection.” He laughed as he remembered how that had turned out.
Gregory looked thoughtful. “We'll have to go slow. If we rush this, we might not have time to position you as the obvious heir. If you hear anything about de Vitoria being compromised too soon, we might even have to find a way to delay or disrupt any assault. But I think it's workable. I'll have a more thorough plan ready for your approval in say, 60 hours?”
Grandon leaned back into his chair and looked at the two men who were more responsible for his rise than any others after himself. After a moment he raised his glass towards them.
“It's a vision gentleman. With a little work, a little patience, we'll find ourselves in a much nicer office.”
Gregory raised his glass in a mocking salute.
“Alexander will deliver us a nation at war, and when he is dead, that nation will deliver you its highest office.”
Kevin raised his glass as well.
“The king is dead. Long live the king.”
“Then the smallest bunny rabbit leaned all the way out past the end of the tree branch and reached for the last apple. He reached and he stretched and he strained and he reached when suddenly, the end of the branch snapped, and the smallest bunny rabbit went rolling all the way back to his home.”
James Alexander sat on the edge of his daughter's bed. He had work to do, but he had told his agents to wait outside. In those few minutes, nothing was more important than his daughter's bedtime story.
He closed the book and pulled the blankets up under her chin. “All right now pumpkin. It's time for bed.”
Little Karen Alexander looked up at her father. “Please daddy? Please read it again?” She was too young to understand why those men had to follow him everywhere, even here, but she loved the short times she got to spend with just her daddy.
“No honey. It's time.” Alexander rose softly and turned towards the door. He made sure the little light was on under her window before turning off the lamp next to her bed.
Karen was getting sleepy. “Are you going to bed too daddy?” she asked.
Alexander placed his hand on the doorknob. “No baby. Daddy still has to work. Good night.” He looked back at her once more before pulling the door shut and walking back down the hall to where his agents were waiting with Regny.
“All right gentlemen. The smallest bunny rabbit is home safe again, and little Karen is in bed. What needs my immediate attention Paul?” They all began to walk towards his home office as Paul was holding a stack of colored folders and opened one as they moved down the hall.
“Two things sir. There was a major attack on the Ivan's capital city early this morning.” He handed the President a red folder like the one he was reading from. “We have preliminary intel which seems to imply a false flag action. At this time, it is our belief that certain elements within the government initiated the action in order to bolster support for their entry into our “War on Terror.” The current explanation being offered is a gas explosion, but satellite imagery seems to implicate an external cause, possibly a truck bomb.”
Alexander considered the pictures. One corner of the building was completely destroyed, and the remainder listed heavily towards what appeared to be a large crater. At 36000 km, the destruction clearly emanated from a spot slightly outside the original footprint of the building.
He closed the folder and turned to Regny. “This can work to our favor Paul. Clearly they have an agenda. But for now, we can use the support. Besides, if they decide not to play ball later, we can always use the intel to leverage their position.”
Paul had already come to the same conclusion. Next he handed Alexander a green folder. “Second we have targets sir. Our military has compiled a list of possible sites for both air and land offensives, and your Directors have compiled a similar list of targets that they believe have special intelligence or counter operational value. I've gone ahead and crosschecked the two lists for redundancies, which you will see listed in red. Of those, the first three would be my recommendation for earliest action.” Paul made sure that by the time these things made it to the boss, all the work was done and it was a matter of decision making, not fact checking.
“All right Paul. I trust you. What am I looking at here?” The small party reached the President's office. As they went inside, the two agents with them took up positions around the door while two more inside the room checked the windows and radioed for confirmation on the perimeter.
“Sir the first target listed is the city where de Vitoria lives and where the majority of his holdings are. He has managed to amass some wealth and has used it primarily to fund a variety of real estate ventures. The generals want to move in, hold the city and the surrounding area, and route out any sympathizers. At the same time, we can freeze his accounts, seize his assets, and round up a number of his known associates for questioning. We need to move fast to isolate and subdue anyone who can cast doubt on his relationship to the events of April 19th.”
Alexander nodded. Certainly they didn't need anyone coming forward with evidence that de Vitoria was uninvolved in the Devastation. That could prove, awkward. “Agreed. Give the green light. I want men in country within 72 hours. If the national government doesn't approve, remind them of the low interest loans they've taken out over the last fifteen years with our country's central bank and point out where public sentiment is on this thing. It shouldn't be hard to bring them around.”
Paul nodded. Of course he'd already passed along the word to their ambassadors and received firm confirmation that national sovereignty and jurisdiction would not be a problem. “The second target on the list is a terrorist training camp in one of the neighboring countries sir. The generals believe that while we are in the neighborhood we should take advantage of the opportunity to expand the scope of the operation against other insurgent forces, and the Directors believe that doing so will help to solidify the image of a “War on Terror” instead of a war of vengeance. We have plans ready for a missile strike which can be launched concomitant with the land action. We believe that we can achieve 96 percent liquidation of the target training camp within six minutes of the initial landing.”
“Sounds good. I approve of both the strategy and the action. This is a war on terror. That means all terrorists everywhere. But I want you to increase the commitment to the missile strike. Double it in fact. I want to send a message. Such an overwhelming strike will convince our enemies we mean business. It might even save us missiles in the long run if we can convince the next bunch to surrender without a fight.”
Regny made some quick notes in the margin of the page he was looking at before continuing to the next one.
“The third target on the list is an internet site sir. This may be the most controversial, but the Directors think, and I agree, that we need to strike now.”
Alexander looked up from the folder Paul had given him. “An internet site Paul? Why? What is it?”
Paul handed him a print out from his folder. “Sir, it's a page that promotes anarchy. Right now, it's the most popular and widely read netsite of its kind. Many of the visitors are open adherents to the philosophies and writings of de Vitoria himself. Through the site his followers are able to share information, gather and organize, even buy and sell his books.”
Alexander laughed. “Organized anarchists? That sounds like a contradiction in terms. Are you sure Paul? Won't this action make us seem a little reactionary?”
Paul was deadly serious. “I'm sure sir. This site poses no real threat to our actions, but the ideas espoused on it are at the heart of what we are trying to expunge. Shutting down this site will make it exponentially more difficult for anyone who wants to gather or share information about de Vitoria or his actions, or our responses, to do so. More importantly, it will set a precedent that we can use in the future as we continue to target radical anti establishment elements.”
Alexander considered his Chief of Staff's point. “You're right Paul. But wait until after the attack. Once it hits the news wires, that netsite will be slammed with traffic. Track it. Keep records of who visits it. Then shut it down. And continue to keep records of anyone who tries to go to it later. We want to know who's with us and who's against us.”
Paul made another note. “The rest of the targets are listed in descending order of importance. We should consider mobilizing against targets four through nine in the next three weeks, but these first three were the most important.”
Alexander handed the folders back to Regny. “Thanks Paul. You know what to do from here on out. Keep me posted as things evolve.”
Paul took the folders from his bosses hand. “Certainly sir. Will there be anything else?”
Alexander leaned back in his chair and let his gaze wander. It rested after a moment on a picture of his daughter sitting on his desk.
“I have a vision Paul. A vision of a world where we've confronted the enemies of our nation on every shore. Not everyone will love us for this, but I understand what not everyone does. Sometimes you have to hurt someone before someone gets hurt. I was elected to make the tough calls for my country. But now I find this call isn't nearly as tough as I'd feared.”
Alexander looked up at his Chief of Staff. “Send out the orders Paul.”
“Ok sir, the cameras ready. When you want to begin, give us the word and we'll start rolling. To make it easier to clean up, when you see the light come on wait ten seconds before you begin speaking. When you're done, wait ten, then give us the sign to stop recording.”
Xavier de Vitoria was dressed in a finely cut suit jacket with a beautiful purple tie and pocket square. His hair was combed back away from his face, dark, with grey wings flowing back from his temples. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed and oiled. Not to appear slick or greasy, like some untrustworthy car salesman, but rather distinguished, like a gentleman from another time.
Image was vitally important here. He was no barbarian, hiding in a cave while the amassed might of the civilized world smoked him out. He was a free man. And he had a message of freedom to share with the world.
“I'm ready Johan, begin recording.”
The young man behind the camera gave him a nod and pointed directly at de Vitoria. At the same time, a small red light came on on the camera and Johan moved over to the table to begin watching the monitors. He would operate the cameras and apply the on screen information from there.
De Vitoria calmly waited ten seconds and then spoke directly into the camera.
“Good people of the world. My name is Xavier de Vitoria. I have been accused of a most vile transgression against humanity. I am innocent. My accusers are the very same monsters who call their own violence law, but that of the individual crime. They have exported death to peasants around the world, and now use the tragic murder of hundreds as an excuse to massacre hundreds of thousands. Mark my words. In the coming days you will see bloodshed you cannot imagine. Where ever they lay there hand, you will see a Devastation every day.”
“But that is not why I have come before you today. That have called me a terrorist. They have called me a monster. The truth is, I am none of these things.”
“I am an anarchist. An Anarcho-capitalist to be specific. I believe in a world with no governments. A world where we do not try to solve our problems with guns, nor justify theft and predation by majority rule. I believe that the only just exchange is voluntary exchange, free from violence or fraud.”
“To many of you, this may seem impossible. I'm sure that some of you have already dismissed me as a crackpot. Those of you still listening with an open mind are no doubt asking, where would the roads come from? And, what about the poor and the sick?”
“Those are valid questions, and one's which I am willing to answer. But first I must ask you this. Do you believe that it is right to use violence against innocent people to get your way? Even if your ends are purportedly benevolent, like feeding the hungry, is it just to point a gun at an innocent person and enslave him to those ends?”
“I believe it is not. I believe that that is inherently evil. No philosophy can claim to protect the group which rejects the sanctity of the individual, for groups are no more than collections of individuals. Any belief which would subsume the needs and desires of the few in the name of the many will eventually destroy itself.”
“My enemies will vilify me for this. They will castigate me and call me a heretic. All because, unlike them, I refuse to believe that murder, theft, and predation are the pinnacle of what man can achieve. I urge them, and each and every one of you. Put down the guns.”
“There is a better way.”
“I intend to show it to you. I have written about it. You can find my literature, at least until they confiscate and destroy it. But I am not the first. Your own histories are filled with men and women who rejected the violence inherent in the state and fought to free humanity from every form of tyranny over the mind of man.”
“Look to their writing as well. As for the roads, and the poor, and the sick, I will offer you some solutions, but they are by no means the only ones. In a truly free society, there would be as many solutions as stars in the sky, and those with true merit would eventually rise above the rest to ascendancy. No one man has all the answers. That is the lie of statism.”
“Most of all, I bring you hope. For I tell you know, put not your dreams of tomorrow in any man who makes you promises. Instead, know that your dreams were always your own responsibility and concern. When you realize that, you will never again be let down by your leaders. You will live your life for yourself.”
“I will be appearing to you as often as I can to share with you this great vision. This is truly the philosophy of freedom. You need be beholden to kings no longer. I believe that in the days to come, they will make it more difficult for me to communicate with you, even for you to communicate with each other. They will censor thought, stifle ideas, and prohibit assembly.”
“They must. For the same reason they have named me their enemy. Because what I propose is the death knell of the rape rooms and the secret prisons. It is the end of oppressive taxation and asset seizure. Violence and war are the very life's blood of the state, and I propose to bleed them dry by putting an end to that violence.”
“Find me when and where you can. Find each other. And know that where oppression is greatest, the people thirst for true freedom. Their only weapon against us will strengthen us beyond their imaginings.”
“You are all free men.”
Thomas stumbled over the broken stones that littered the street before him. Beside him was a burned out shell of a car, perhaps a compact. The fire had gone out hours ago, but still he could see smoke rising from what was left of the upholstery.
He made his way slowly through the streets, surrounded by destruction, searching desperately for Jennifer. He didn't remember how they'd gotten separated, it must have happened during the initial attack, but he had to find her. Somehow he knew that her time was running out.
Occasionally as he passed through intersections he would see shadows moving down the side streets. Parents searching for their children. Distraught and confused men and women wandering aimlessly through the wreckage of their homes. From time to time he would hear the sound of cries in the distance, as someone searched for a loved one, or found them.
He continued to pick his way carefully across the rubble of the city. He passed store fronts where the windows had been smashed and broken glass covered the sidewalks. One hotel had been so completely destroyed that all that remained was a pile of broken masonry, indistinguishable except for the brightly colored sign which had somehow evaded the ruination which had claimed its patron.
Overhead he could only see the smoke and haze that filled the air. Some dim light managed to filter down to the streets, but there was no sign of the sun. The way that the buildings seemed to disappear into the fog after a dozen or so floors added a surreal quality to the devastation around him. The way that the dust and smoke settled slowly towards the ground gave Thomas the sense that he was being crushed under a massive inescapable force.
As he began to grow increasingly desperate, he picked up his pace. Moving quicker now through the city, he stumbled and fell from time to time. He quit dusting himself off after the first few times and began to run through the city. He could feel something driving him deeper towards the center.
He had a feeling that Jennifer was there. But as he moved closer and closer, trepidation grew within his breast over what he would find.
Finally, he turned down a street and found himself in the square at the heart of the great city, confronted with an image from his nightmares.
Through the ash that slowly rained down around him, he saw a jumble of bodies, torn and broken from where one of the first missiles had struck.
It seemed that this place had been damaged more severely than the other parts of the city he'd passed through. Thomas had the feeling that this must have been the primary target of the attack. It was as though the faceless enemy which had struck so suddenly and without mercy had meant to erase even the memory of this place from the earth with their bombs.
He moved closer to the wreckage, but now, so close to his destination, his pace slowed. He didn't want to face what he knew now he would find in that indescribable mountain of human tragedy. As he neared the center of the square he had to drag himself the final few feet.
He couldn't force himself to accept what he saw. Thomas fell to his knees, and for the first time since the attack, he wept, his tears cutting muddy tracks through the dirt and grime which caked his cheeks.
Thomas awoke with sweat pouring down his face. His chest felt slick with it. He sat up quickly and looked over where Jennifer was sound asleep next to him. As his heart continued to race he slowly lowered himself back to his pillow.
But every time he closed his eyes he saw the wreckage and the bodies. Eventually, he gave up and lay still, staring at the ceiling.
Which is how he greeted the dawn.
