Gabriel's Stand (25 page)

In downtown Seattle, on an autumn afternoon…

Rex Longworthy and Louise Berker were sitting in the conference room of Longworthy's old Seattle law firm.

“Thank you for meeting on such short notice, Rex. I know how busy you are,” Berker said. “I just couldn't wait to tell you in person, Rex.” Berker seemed very pleased with herself.

“Some good news, I take it?”

Berker affected a frown. “No, no. Sorry, if I gave you that impression, Rex. It is about Knight Fowler.”

“Oh?” Dread poured through Longworthy like embalming fluid.

“Several weeks ago, it seems he suffered a stroke.”

“My God!”

“They have tried everything. But Knight Fowler is totally debilitated.”

“Where?”

“He is in a rehabilitation unit in Boston, a virtual vegetable. The event took place when he was working late in his Boston office, poor man. He has done so much for the cause.”

“Why was I not told?”

“We had to be sure, and we did not want to disrupt your work, of course. As it happens, I had just seen him. He seemed a bit agitated at the time. Some gibberish about the ‘Panda Effect.' Poor fellow. I thought he was losing his mind. Probably a mini-stroke, a precursor event.”

Rex felt a cold band across his chest. “Were you with him?”

“When it
happened
? Oh, no. I had already left the office. Had a plane to catch. He collapsed right at his desk, apparently, sometime that night. He's still in an irreversible coma. Fortunately…” she paused for effect, “…Knight executed a power of attorney.”

“Really.” Rex blanched.

“Yes. It seems that control of all his finances shifts to the Directorate.”

“The Directorate controls the entire Fowler fortune?”

“G-O-D wins. Naturally, there will be a court battle. But I expect we will win. You are an excellent lawyer, Rex. Don't you agree?”

——

An hour later Berker met with Cynthia Thomas in the secure room. They were alone. “How did he take it?” Cynthia asked.

“Rex is a coward. We will make him heel. If not…everyone is disposable.”

“Eventually,” Cynthia said.

“Some much sooner.” Berker smiled. “And we fully control the Fowler fortune.”

Gloris laughed. “Tan, something has puzzled me for a long time. May I ask something…delicate?”

“Yes.”

“The Panda Effect. How fully do we expect it to succeed?”

“Totally.”

“Even to the native peoples? I mean, not just the technologically advanced?”

“All will die. Gaia claims all.” There was a long silence as Cynthia seemed to digest this information. She avoided Berker's sharp gaze. “Surely,” Berker said harshly, “after all this time, you have not developed bourgeois sentimentality about the Indians?” Gloris seemed to flinch at the suggestion. Berker shook her head in amazement.

Cynthia held her ground. “They honored Gaia. It puzzles me why Gaia would…”

“Oh, Gloris,” Berker said, leaning cross the table. She held her arm and peered into her Sister's eyes.

“Those aboriginal peoples have already died. Their remnants live in trailers and drink themselves to sleep.”

“I see,” Gloris said hesitantly.

Berker fiercely squeezed her subordinate's arm. “Don't be fooled by the romantic myths. The surviving aboriginals are museum people. Degraded predators. Nothing more. Just part of the infection.”

“Part of the infection? Nothing more?”

“And we are the cure.”

“We are the cure.”

“There,” Berker said, releasing her grip. “You had me worried for a moment.”

The next month in Oakland, California

Sun had just broken through the late morning Bay fog, and a damp wind stirred the American and Gaia Directorate flags that stood over the plaza. A crowd of ten thousand people had gathered in the Jack London dock area for the noon cable cutting ceremonies. The crowd slowly parted as the Commissioner arrived in a black Gaia sedan that slowly rolled to a stop below the raised speaker's platform. Two body guards escorted Longworthy to the podium, where he joined San Francisco Mayor Chung. Because Longworthy, the Commissioner in Chief for Greater America also served as Chief Deputy of the Gaia Operations Directorate, he was often referred to as G-O-D's Deputy by those politicians who craved the Directorate's approval.

O'Shea Chung, Mayor of San Francisco, had arrived a half hour earlier by ferry, leaving her car discreetly parked at the terminal. Mayor G. B. Ortley of Berkeley had made a point of arriving five minutes late by bicycle. Both politicians craved the approval of the Directorate, because only the Directorate could grant exemptions to Commission orders. Ortley, a short, stocky woman in her fifties, waved delicately at the crowd as she ascended the steps. “Rex,” she gushed at Rex, “so good to see you again. So how is life as Deputy?”

“Ah, Mayor,” Longworthy said, taking her hand briefly, “so good to see you.” Then he continued to stare forward into the sea of upturned faces.

John Shanks, mayor of Oakland, was a large, athletic black man with closely cropped white hair. Shanks had deliberately arrived ten minutes late; he drove up in fully restored Cadillac. He made no attempt to hide his contempt for Rex Longworthy. He had also parked just below the speakers' platform, his huge vehicle dwarfing the smaller Gaia Directorate sedan. Shanks gave a jaunty thumbs-up to the crowd, getting a few audible cheers. He turned and made a clenched fist salute, getting even more cheers. “Rex,” he said gruffly, as he took his seat, “let's get this stupid-assed business over with.”

Commissioner Rex Longworthy had tried to rise above his last meeting with Berker by rising to address the crowd. “Today,” he began, “we honor the beginning of a new era, a simpler, more organic period of our history. Today, we sever the fiber-optic cables that have chained the San Francisco Bay area to the barons of a decadent technology. Today, you liberate yourselves from the tyranny of the information net, from the unhealthy influence of—”

“Economic suicide,” Shanks growled.

“Toxic ideas and, we begin the courageous and historic—”

“Slide to oblivion,” Shanks added.

“Hush,” Ortley said, loud enough to be heard by the Commissioner.

“Path to a harmonious life of true peace.”

A total of twenty-seven data trunk-line cables were being cut more or less simultaneously by Commission Agents all over the greater Bay Area. For purposes of this ceremony, a major fiber op backbone had been lifted from the bay and pulled to the edge of the nearby ferry dock where it was suspended by a crane on a small barge. Most of the crowd watched on television monitors while a grizzled worker in fashionable denim with a neat beard and gray ponytail decorated with flowers wielded a bolt cutter. The reaction from the crowd was mixed. Then, leaning out over the water, the man snapped the cable in two and all the monitors went blank, and a troubled silence descended.

The ceremonial severing of the last fiber-optic cable that had once linked the Bay cities, the former University of California, the now outlawed enterprises of Silicon Valley with the remaining business and intellectual centers of the world had been accomplished. On the opposite side of San Francisco Bay, other cables were being clipped with considerably less ceremony. In ten minutes, the high speed web was down over all of northern California.

Mayor Ortley had lingered following the Deputy's speech. “Rex,” she began. “You know that the community of Berkeley has been among the most progressive in the world in wholeheartedly supporting the Gaia Directorate's goals.”

“And you are to be warmly congratulated,” Rex said.

She added: “We passed a complete ban on motorized transport anywhere within the city limits this month.”

“Yes,” Longworthy said impatiently, “I have briefed the Gaia Directorate fully. You remain an excellent example of cooperation. And we are particularly grateful for your leadership, Mayor.”

“Thank you. Ah, before you go…” Ortley dropped her voice and moved slightly closer to the Deputy. “Could we talk somewhere?” She smiled.

“I really am on a schedule. What is it?”

Ortley hesitated, putting her hand over the mike. “I've heard there are certain approved exceptions,” she whispered. “You know, adjustments to the restrictions?”

Longworthy scowled. “Just a few tactical adjustments in timing, nothing more. What are you getting at?”

“I just learned of a medical issue in my family.”

“I am so sorry,” Rex said impatiently.

“You see, my son has contracted Tuberculosis 6. Surely, an exception, based on our excellent—”

“Ah, please. Much as I would like to, I am afraid that would be impossible. And, frankly, it would be illegal. We will just forget you asked, won't we?”

Mayor Ortley stared after the black limousine as it retreated down the street and disappeared. She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Can I give you a lift?” Shanks asked. Ortley shook her head. After Shanks drove away, she picked up her bicycle, no longer trying to hide her tears.

Ed Bates, the CEO of Bates Communications scowled. “Commissioner Rex Longworthy is here…again? Where the hell is he?”

“In the waiting room.” Bates' administrative assistant was standing in the doorway to the Chair's private bathroom.

“Put him in the small conference room. Get him coffee. Leave him alone.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

The door closed and Bates sighed. “Can't even take a piss alone,” he mumbled, zipping his pants.
We are so screwed
, he thought.
It was only a matter of time.

Half an hour later, he stepped into the bare, windowless conference room. “Rex,” he said. “To what do I owe you the pleasure of this visit?”

“Something I didn't think should be handled on a lower level.”

“How flattering. Out with it. I have a business to run.”

“We've reviewed tonight's coverage of the new tuberculosis cases.”

Bates sat down across from Longworthy. “So?”

“We found it inflammatory and irresponsible.”

“My God, man,” Bates said, slapping the table. “This is a straight story. We have our facts right.”

“Your reporter used the word epidemic.”

“No kidding. He should have used the word pandemic. Half a million cases on the East Coast alone. And doubling every eight weeks. What would you call it?”

“Suspected cases.”

“Of TB 6!”

“There is no TB 6. That is an urban legend. Surely you don't want to be a panic-monger, Mr. Bates. This kind of irresponsible journalism has no place… Let me rephrase that. Our Retirement order exception was predicated on a degree of voluntary restraint of your organization that this piece does not reflect.”

“Facts are facts, Longworthy.”

“And power is power, Mr. Bates.”

“What the hell does
that
mean?”

“Let me be blunt. Pull the story or we pull the plug. Thank you for the coffee.” Longworthy rose to leave.

“Sit down, Rex. Let's not be so hasty. The story doesn't need the word epidemic.”

“Good. But the report states that these new cases are TB 6 as if it were absolute fact.”

“How about ‘some of the cases are suspected TB 6?'”

“That is better. But your number estimates are far too high.”

“Estimates, my ass. Those were reports.”

“Really, Mr. Bates,” Longworthy said, getting up.

Bates waved Longworthy to sit. “Fine. Fine. You win. How about we run the local angle? That leaves out the national numbers entirely.”

“Better. What would the report say about the rest of the country, then?”

“We'll just say that new cases are showing up, mostly in the coastal cities, and not give out numbers.”

“There,” Longworthy said, beaming. “Partnership is better than conflict, don't you agree?”

“So the show runs with those changes?”

“Provided I get some air time.”

“A short interview?”

“Two minutes at the end.”

“One minute,” Bates said. “Near the end.”

“Agreed,” Longworthy said. “You drive a hard bargain, Ed.”

“Screw you.”

——

Dinner was in John Owen's personal dining room on New Kona. While construction noises growled and beeped outside, the meal was held in the cozy corner of a huge den, built inside an immense metal shed, filled with dining tables and an antique diving bell. A full scale model of an Orca whale was suspended from the corrugated steel ceiling by invisible wires. A Chopin polonaise came from a grand piano next to the diving bell, where a vivid hologram of a woman in a black gown seemed to play and smile at the guests.

“Where are your daughter and grandson?” Dornan asked as he approached the glass and driftwood table.

“I think Elisabeth and Little Josh are still asleep,” John said. “It's so wonderful to finally have them around.”

“And where is Ken?”

“He's with the King of Tonga, reviewing the latest construction.” Then Dornan noticed a distinguished man with sharp ebony features sitting next to Dr. Owen.

“Is this…?” Dornan began.

“Bill, do you know our new scientist-in-residence, Dr. Sing?” The geneticist held out his hand.

“I do now,” Dornan said, gripping the man's hand. Sing's name had been a household word in biotechnology before the Treaty, until he had gone to ground. Dr. Owen beamed as if he had a secret.

“Mr. Dornan, I understand I will be working for Dr. Owen and you.”

“It's an honor to meet you. We all work for John, Dr. Sing. I am here to run security. Please call me Bill.”

“Dr. Sing has reconstructed all the research done by the late Dr. Fischer, and is moving ahead,” John said. “We need to stay at least two steps ahead of the bugs, and this is the man who can do it.”

“Outstanding,” Dornan said. “The epidemics are dangerously close to pandemics, even worse.”

“I believe that we can stop them,” Dr. Sing said.

John stood. Across the room, a giant Polynesian man with regal bearing had entered the room from the verandah. He was accompanied by Ken Wang. “Gentlemen, I would like to introduce King Joseph Jones.”

Dinner was served in the corner of the large room. While an attendant brought the first course, the holographic pianist began playing Gershwin.

Dr. Owen made small talk until dessert; then he clinked his water glass. “Time to get down to business, my friends,” he said. Silence fell across the table and ten key friends and allies looked up. “As you know, King Jones, on behalf of Tonga, has graciously agreed that we may move Vector Pharmaceutical to this site. As a result of his generosity and courage, we have been shipping small quantities of lifesaving drugs all over the world from this island for the last eighteen months. Demand exceeds our manufacturing capacity. Today King Jones has now graciously agreed that Edge Medical, and all of our other worldwide research and manufacturing operations, can also move to this site. As a result, we will be able to step up production a thousand fold.”

John's face turned solemn. “That will draw attention and increase risk. We all know that his kingdom has not signed and will not sign the Earth Restoration Treaty. As a result he has placed his kingdom at some risk. Because we take care of our friends, Edge Medical is funding enhanced security. This month we will be able to provide around the clock robust paramilitary protection to the nation of Tonga and all our employees.”

“I am happy that Tonga will host the new facilities,” King Jones said. “And I was even happier that Tonga was completely ignored in the Treaty process. The Commission's mistake is our gain.” The king's smile was huge and toothy.

——

Later in the day, and a mile away, on a section of beach concealed by a berm, two helicopters laid out cable from the site of a portable generator into a long wound in the red, tropical earth. At the same time, the walls and roof of a prefabricated building were lifted from a cargo ship a thousand yards off shore onto a barge. A winch anchored in lava rock and a reinforced aluminum pier slowly began to pull the barge toward shore. Near the foundation of the new site of Vector Pharmaceutical, fifteen workers and two trucks waited.

Dr. Owen, dressed in tan shorts and shirt, Seattle Mariners' baseball cap, dark glasses and sandals, stood outside a portable office, holding a clipboard balanced on his left arm. Little Josh, now a toddler, stood next to him. “What's that?” Josh asked.

Owen stopped writing, reached down and patted Josh on the head.

“They're putting wire for Grandpa's new building.”

“Can I see?”

“When they're done, Josh. You can help me check it all out.”

“Okay.”

Dornan walked up the crushed lava path to the portable. “I see you're right on time!” he shouted. The project foreman, who was standing in the doorway of the portable, turned in Owen's direction and gave a thumbs-up.

“Can anyone pick up this work from a satellite?” Owen asked.

“Very few eyes in the sky still work,” the foreman shouted. “Nothing overhead here.”

Josh looked skyward. “Where are the eyes, Grandpa?”

Dornan chuckled and picked up Josh. “Invisible eyes, Josh, far away.” Josh continued to stare.

Owen grinned at Josh and finished writing. He was using his right hand again. “I almost became a real southpaw,” he said.

“What's a southpaw?” Owen handed Dornan the clipboard and took Josh.

“Your Mom's a southpaw,” he said, tickling Josh under one arm. Josh squealed. “Let's go see her…”