The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma (3 page)

Now Rahma fell in behind the others, flying downslope, speeding toward a wooded area where a stealth transport craft awaited them. Presently, when the rescued animal was loaded aboard, along with the passengers and equipment, the Chairman switched off the EVR transmission and found himself back in the welcome, green reality of his own game reserve in the Rocky Mountain Territory.

He slipped out of his survival suit, tossed it to one of his many administrative assistants, a robot who stood nearby, anticipating his master's “return.” Zeebik stood as tall as a man, with a flat-screen face that bore the image of a stern human officer with narrow little eyes and dark, overhanging brows, a countenance Rahma had chosen from historical military archives. The image was locked in place; once the selection was made, he could not alter it.

“Holo-net report just came in,” Zeebik said, in a resonant voice the Chairman had also chosen from historical records. “The Black Shirts recycled four hundred twenty-seven eco-criminals this morning—polluters, tree cutters, animal poachers—the usual.” The robot was referring to black-uniformed anarchists by a common term they liked to use in describing themselves, harking back to the legendary days of the revolution when the violent Black Shirts were an important part of the victory. Following the defeat of the Corporates, these anarchists were formally organized into an army division known as the Revolutionary Guard—front-line defenders of the revolution.

For a couple of minutes, Rahma scanned little holo-images of the executions, death sentences that were primarily carried out by anarchists with Splitter rifles, turning the victims into macabre heaps of goo. Two of the criminals received a special brand of punishment, befitting the severity of their crimes. A husband and wife, they had been trusted members of the government who had forsaken their vows and turned over state secrets to the Panasians. (Even that was considered an “eco-crime” under one definition, because it threatened the Green States of America.) He watched as black-uniformed anarchists strapped them to posts in the middle of a beautiful, flower-covered field, and then opened wounds on their bodies, so that they bled profusely. The victims writhed and tried to shout, but their mouths were gagged.

Moments later, the pair was swarmed by powerful carrion birds—vultures, owls, and eagles that had been trained for this purpose. A vulture ripped the gag loose from the female, and Rahma heard her high-pitched screams of terror. Sharp talons and beaks gouged out her eyes, and she slumped at the post, bleeding from the orifices. Beside her, the traitorous husband's face was already gone, a bloody pulp of torn flesh, and soon hers was as well. The birds kept attacking, tearing at flesh and feeding, finally leaving the ripped-apart bodies and flying off, their bellies full.

The Chairman rubbed his gray beard, nodded somberly. He had ordered the mass executions before going on the EVR rescue mission, and the decision had made his heart heavy. But it had been necessary, one of many he'd made—for the sake of the planet, he could not afford to be lenient. He hated having to kill people, but it was either that or let them kill the planet, which he could not allow.

His gaze lingered on the gory scene, and he reminded himself of what his followers often said about him, that he was a good and kind man. However, no matter the justification, he didn't feel that way at the moment.

Sadly, he switched off the viewer.

 

3

The Green States of America is protected by the NDS, the Nonhuman Defense System. Operated entirely by robots that analyze data and make judgments, the network has control over an array of small but powerful defensive and offensive missiles. Our revered Chairman Rahma Popal, may he live in eternal greenness, does not trust human beings with this critical assignment, fearing they might make pre-emptive strikes for emotional, illogical reasons—strikes that could result in retaliatory measures that would destroy much of the important environmental work he has done.

—Ticker History, a continuous data feed to schools

FOR MOST OF
a week, the crew of Janus Machine No. 129 reverted industrial sites in the New England Conservancy, working sixteen-hour days. It was a grueling schedule, but Joss Stuart knew that he and his companions were taking the necessary steps to correct a terrible historical wrong, the grievous wounding of the planet by polluting Corporate interests.

As a human being it was his duty, his sworn responsibility, to rectify what people had done. And beyond that, Joss was a dedicated eco-tech, more zealous than anyone he knew. He considered his work equivalent to blazing new green pathways into the heart and soul of the Earth, removing blighted areas from human control and returning them to the domain of Mother Nature, who had her own timeless priorities and goals, her own sacred sentience.

Like other assignments he had been on, these past days had involved a seemingly endless series of work shifts at site after site, splitting and greenforming so many factory scars in succession that everything began to run together in his fatigued brain.

It was sunset when the long armored truck pulled into a military base on the outskirts of the Bostoner Reservation for Humans, with the tall, gleaming buildings of the densely populated urban center visible beyond a red-glowing security perimeter. This reservation was one of ninety-seven that Chairman Rahma Popal had set up on both continents of the green nation so far—confining more than a billion people to set-aside areas and prohibiting the vast majority of them from ever going outside. Joss's team would spend the night in Bostoner and depart by maglev train the following morning, bound for their homes on the west coast.

Despite the rigors and demands of his career, Joss was proud to be one of the people allowed to go off reservation and embrace the beauty of nature, while actually doing something to enhance it. Truly, he was a fortunate citizen of the Green States of America! To some extent his privilege had to do with his Uncle Trig Stuart, who had fought valiantly in the Corporate War, and had been awarded a chest full of medals by the Army of the Environment. That legacy of his uncle (who raised Joss) had opened the door for the young man, but he had kept it open himself; he had earned his own success.

The truck squeaked to a stop at a security station, and in the red glow the driver stepped out to complete the necessary documents. Inside the passenger dome of the vehicle, Kupi grumbled and paced around. “I need a juana stick,” she said, “but I'm all out. You sure you don't have any on you?”

Joss shook his head. “Sorry, but you know I don't toke while I'm on duty.”

“We're off duty now.”

“Not quite, not until we get clearance to step off the rig. But I still didn't bring any with me.”

“Not smoking weed is anti-patriotic,” she said with a scowl.

“I smoke.”

“Not nearly enough.”

Joss glared at her, then looked away, toward the reconstituted forest lands they had just driven through. He was too tired to argue with his lover now, but she smoked too many of the powerful cigarettes, and was always moody when she ran out of them. Her assertion about patriotism was true, but she didn't understand the concept of moderation. Just because marijuana and virtually all other recreational drugs were legal did not mean they should be abused.

Kupi waved a hand, sending a signal from her ring that caused the dome to darken, so that no one could see in from outside. She sent a second command, and Joss heard the hatch click, locking it. He knew what was next; they often made love in here during breaks. But now—at a guard station—did not seem like an appropriate opportunity to him.

She went to his side, nuzzled against his neck and nibbled at his earlobe. “I think we should make up,” she said.

Joss pushed her away.

As she sputtered in protest, Joss heard a loud explosion, followed by a second one, even louder. He lightened the dome, enabling him to see a brilliant flash of light in the sky to the west, then heard another explosion. Sirens went off, followed by three black aircraft speeding overhead, looking like great birds of prey. The attack craft were very fast and maneuverable, their guns blazing. A rocket shot from the undercarriage of one of them, exploding into a barracks building and setting it afire.

“What the hell?” Kupi shouted. “The security perimeter has been breached!”

She snapped on her black owl helmet, grabbed an automatic rifle, and ran out onto the turret platform with Joss right behind her, carrying his own weapon, pressing buttons on it to prepare the energy chamber. Because of the danger of attack from disgruntled Corporate elements, every Janus Machine crew had trained for defensive operations. The Splitter barrel could even be used as a cannon, a newer and more powerful version of weapons that had been employed by the Army of the Environment during the war.

Red lights flickered on and off around them, suggesting something was wrong with the security perimeter. In the distance, Joss saw the three aircraft circling around, coming back. Ground artillery guns opened fire on them, but the wide-wing craft released electronic flak beneath them, deflecting any shots. In order to penetrate the shield, the forces on the ground needed to scan that flak and find the right combination of electronics.

Kupi jumped into the bucket seat of Black Thunder, tapped keys on the instrument panel. The platform rose to its highest level as she telescoped the barrel out. Joss crouched by her, ready to operate the machine if she was injured. She aimed the long black barrel and waited for just the right moment.…

Joss gripped the handle of his energy rifle tighter, took a deep breath as precious seconds ticked by. The fast-approaching aircraft were studded with advanced weapon systems, proof that the disaffected Corporates had substantial resources. The Janus Machine was armored, and its crew had activated its own electronic veiling system, but had the enemy already seen them? The aircraft were getting closer, but did not seem to be flying on a direct line toward the machine. Still protected by their flak screens, the attackers opened fire on the center of the military compound, and Joss saw heavy equipment go up in flames. Moments later, defenders managed to penetrate the electronic veils of two of the aircraft, detonating them and sending them plunging into the nearby woods. Alone now, the third craft banked overhead.

This time it sped directly toward the Janus Machine, and Joss heard the gathering roar of power from the heart of the SciO unit. Kupi opened up by shooting waves of black particles that hit the aircraft's flak system and melted it. Moments later her Splitter waves hit the craft itself, causing it to blacken into an unidentifiable, shapeless amalgam, which tumbled out of the sky and thudded onto a grassy expanse at the center of the compound. The J-Mac crew cheered.

“A longer-range Splitter would be nice to have,” Kupi said.

“You did great with this one,” Joss said.

Still keeping a wary eye on the sky, she shrugged and said, “Guess I'll have to notch my cannon barrel now.”

Joss heard the sirens of emergency equipment and watched black-uniformed anarchist soldiers running toward the three crash sites. In the distance he saw something large and tube-shaped on the ground, but for only a few moments before it exploded and burst into flames.

*   *   *

BECAUSE OF THE
commotion, with Revolutionary Guardsmen running around and sirens continuing to wail, the security clearance for Joss's truck was being delayed. From the platform he saw two anarchist soldiers below him talking with the driver, and heard them order the man to keep his rig parked until the base commander gave security clearance.

“My crew is dead tired,” the ruddy-faced driver protested, “and we've just shot down an enemy aircraft. Isn't that clearance enough for us to proceed?”

One of the soldiers shook his head. “We're concerned about your safety as you proceed into the reservation, so we need to perform security checks on all entry roads. That's an expensive machine you're driving, and you've got at least one hero onboard.” He nodded toward Kupi, who stood at the railing of the platform, looking down at him. “I know you're all tired, but we want to ensure that you make it to your beds tonight.”

The driver grumbled, and looked up at Joss, the commander, for instructions. Joss shrugged and spread his palms in acknowledgment that nothing else could be done, so the driver sat on a running board to wait.

In the distance, Joss heard more explosions, and saw fireballs and smoke rising into the sky. The better part of an hour passed. Finally a procession of military trucks rumbled into the center of the base, filled with boisterous anarchist troops who waved energy rifles in the air and fired off celebratory bursts in various colors. The trucks screeched to a stop and the soldiers dragged out the charred bodies of enemy fighters—perhaps thirty in all from the first two aircraft, though certainly not from the one that Kupi had split into raw elements. They piled the dead on the grass, poured fuel on them, and lit them on fire.

In another truck, Joss saw more Revolutionary Guard fighters with a pair of live prisoners, undoubtedly taking them somewhere for interrogation. He didn't recognize the enemy uniforms, which appeared to have only common green-and-brown camouflage designs on them and no easily identifiable markings.

The wind was blowing toward Joss, filling his nostrils with the sickening odor of burning human flesh. Yet he knew this unpleasantry could not be avoided. It was just one of many examples in which anarchists were permitted to vent their anger against Corporate interests. There had been so many years of frustration when the anarchists could do little except protest against the old United States government, and now the Chairman was channeling their raw aggression into useful purposes, permitting them to employ unfettered carnage against enemies of the state, be they Corporate remnants, common eco-criminals, or any other opposition groups.