The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma (9 page)

They wore dress versions of their working uniforms, his green and hers black, both of which included gold epaulets and piping with tree and root designs worked into them. He'd lit a juana stick himself on the train, but had stubbed it out after only a few drags. His stubble of brown beard was trimmed to the length he liked it, giving him a rugged look.

The long car drove past government-run drug injection booths fronting the street, and Joss hardly gave them a thought. Though he was not much of a recreational drug user himself, many people were, and it was perfectly legal, as long as consumption didn't interfere with the operation of priorities in the green-oriented society. Every reservation had facilities that provided the citizens with marijuana, cocaine, LSD, alcohol, and a host of other legal drugs.

The driver took them through an area of aged, stylish buildings overlooking the St. Lawrence Seaway. Behind them, a bright orange sunset splashed across the sky, casting colors over the water. Lights began to flicker on along the shores. “It really is quite beautiful here,” Joss said.

“For an inhabited region, you mean,” she noted, with a small smile.

“Of course.”

In the distance, he saw what looked like two large elm seeds floating gracefully on air currents, dropping slowly to the ground. They were SciO Recharge Facilities, more commonly known as ReFacs. Portable buildings filled with SciO technology, ReFacs were heavily guarded by the secrecy-obsessed organization, and used for the recharging of Janus Machine cannons. The existence of ReFacs here meant that there were still industrial sites in the area that needed to be split and greenformed.

The car pulled into an elegant porte-cochere, where tall doormen in red jackets and tails waited beneath a sign that read
TREETOP CLUB
. After the car stopped, the men opened doors on both sides.

“I don't know what the original name of this place was,” Kupi said as she stepped out of the elegant vehicle, “but it was once reserved for the robber barons of industrial and Corporate society, a meeting place where they made plans to pillage resources from undeveloped nations and take advantage of poor, uneducated people. For them and their imperialist, colonialist predecessors, everything was a resource to be exploited. Now it's the favored social establishment of a different sort of elite, one that's risen on the crest of the Green Revolution. And make no mistake about it; they're robber barons too, but of a different sort, camouflaging themselves behind liberal causes.” She grinned as she fell into step beside him, going through ornate gold-emblem doors that were held open for them. “Meet the new bigwigs; they're exactly like the old bigwigs.”

Joss felt uneasy at her conversation, noted that one of the doormen had overheard her and was looking at her strangely. Joss took a deep breath, resisted the urge to say anything. She had a playful, bemused expression on her face, and sometimes she did this sort of thing to get a rise out of him, to see how he would react. He presumed she was doing it again.

Just inside the entrance, a man in a red uniform and tails bowed and said, “Greetings,
madame et monsieur
. I am the maître d', and I will show you to the dining hall.” He motioned toward a grand staircase, where the waitstaff and chefs were lined up on either side of the steps. Men in black or white tuxedoes and women in ball gowns were going up the stairs between the rows of servants, along with a number of high-ranking SciOs in white robes. A number of the people were pink-cheeked and quite portly.

Kupi excused herself and slipped into the ladies' room. When she emerged a few minutes later, she smiled prettily at Joss and slipped her arm through his. “Shall we?” she asked. He presumed that she had swallowed a purple peace pill in there, or some other calming drug from the pharmacopoeia she carried in a pouch on her person. Her brown eyes looked more relaxed as a result, which could be good or bad—it might make her less agitated, but she could still slip and say the wrong things.

The maître d' led the way up the grand staircase to the next level, where a long dining table had been set with fine linens, silver, and crystal goblets, while men in red tuxedoes and top hats were helping guests into their chairs and placing white lace napkins on their laps. The walls and high ceiling of the great hall were covered with electronic murals from bygone eras, depicting old sailing ships, timber mills, frontier forts, and battlefields with opposing soldiers in red or blue uniforms, with natives on both sides, dressed as warriors. Three crystal chandeliers hung over the table, illuminated with soft lights that cast interesting, multicolored prism patterns around the room.

Two chairs were at one end of the table, side by side. “For our guests of honor,” the maître d' said, as he seated Joss and Kupi. The man looked at Kupi, added, “We have heard of your exploits.”

“Uh-oh,” she said with a smile, as men in top hats made them comfortable.

“I mean, the way you fought off attackers with your Splitter Cannon, madame. Very brave, everyone is saying.”

“Well, perhaps that will make up for some of the other stories about me,” she said.

He bowed stiffly and backed up to take his leave.

For half an hour, the two of them sipped fine sauterne wine from crystal goblets. When all of the dignitaries were seated, murals on one wall faded away, revealing an expanse of clearplex that featured the seaway, the harbor, and the early evening lights of ships glimmering on the water. Joss had never been on a waterborne vessel himself, because that was something reserved for SP3 cargo seamen and other specialists, or for military purposes. In contrast with the old buildings of the French quarter of the Quebec reservation, the ships on the seaway were quite modern, with blinking electronics on their superstructures and speedbarges secured alongside for loading and unloading purposes.

At the far end of the long table, bright green lights sparkled like a small display of fireworks, and as the brightness diminished, Joss saw Chairman Rahma Popal appear there in an enhanced virtual reality projection, sitting and gazing beatifically out on the assemblage. He wore an emerald green robe, with an oversized golden peace-symbol pendant around his neck. His gray beard looked freshly trimmed.

“Welcome everyone, welcome,” the Chairman said. “I wish I could be here in person instead of by EVR, but my schedule is so incredibly busy nowadays. Nonetheless, I am pleased to welcome my old comrade from the revolutionary council, Kupi Landau, and her talented young J-Mac commander, Joss Stuart.”

Rahma Popal made the sign of the sacred tree and said, “‘May green blessings rain upon you like water from the sky.'” It was one of the Chairman's favorite sayings from
The Little Green Book
he'd written, a copy of which every citizen possessed. Joss had his own copy of the slender volume with him, as did Kupi. There were always government functionaries checking, making certain that citizens carried it.

The GSA leader looked down the long table, as if he were actually there. “It seems my old friend Kupi has been using her talents in unexpected ways. Congratulations on your heroic actions in shooting down an enemy aircraft.”

Rising to her feet, Kupi said, “Thank you, Your Eminence. I only did my duty.”

“But extraordinarily well. Undoubtedly you saved the Janus Machine and your entire crew.” He waved his hands in such a way that passed the floor to her.

Just then a muffled explosion sounded, and several people pointed toward the window wall. On the other shore of the seaway, a ball of flame rose into the night sky. More explosions followed, and more fireballs.

“CanAm Field!” a man shouted, running to the window. Joss and other diners joined him.

Another man said it was a military base, which Joss already knew. He could see that aircraft had exploded on the ground over there, counted half a dozen fireballs. Two vertical-lift planes took off from the airfield, GSA craft that went straight up in the air and then circled the base. Moments later, a flurry of GSA fighter planes took off on parallel runways, and Joss saw that whatever was happening seemed to be confined to the six destroyed aircraft that were still burning. Alarm sirens wailed over there, and spotlights illuminated the airfield and the sky.

Within minutes, the air was full of GSA aircraft, including police copters. Some aircraft circled the field, while others buzzed low over it, their weapons systems glowing.

“The situation is under control,” Chairman Rahma said. “I just received a report that we already have the saboteurs in custody. They will be questioned and executed in due course. Now, let us return to tonight's festivities. My time is valuable, and I must stay on schedule.”

Feeling unease, Joss returned to his seat.

When everyone was in their place, Kupi began her presentation. With impressive clarity, she spoke at length about what their typical day was like on a Janus Machine crew, splitting and greenforming, traveling from one blighted site to another, reversing the ravages of industrialization and human selfishness. She spoke as well about her recent battle exploits, and of an attempt that was made to destroy their J-Mac several weeks before, using a flying, radio-controlled bomb—a device that was detected and disabled by an alert Greenpol patrol.

Then, just as she was about to sit back down and turn the discussion over to Joss, she straightened and said, “Oh, did I mention? My commander and I are lovers now, because His Green Eminence, our venerated Chairman Rahma Popal, will not have me any longer.”

On the other end of the table, a loud guffaw arose from the EVR projection, and his face lit up in mirth. “Is that so? As I recall, it was the other way around. Oh well, no matter, we have both moved on with our lives.”

“Perhaps,” Kupi said, “but sometimes the human heart has a longing apart from the intellect, and distinct from reality.”

“You are far too kind, dear lady,” he said.

The servers began bringing in miniature bowls of seafood chowder, spicy carrot soup, and artistically crafted hors d'oeuvres from the adjacent kitchen, and even placed portions in front of the Chairman's simulation, before he waved his hands impatiently and called attention to their error. Flustered, a server removed the items from his place and hurried away.

The dinner guests chatted and ate generous portions. Joss noted that a number of them sat quite far from the table, because of their girth. Each course had a different wine served with it, building up from interesting whites to richer, more complex reds. There were two centerpieces to the meal—one a vegan casserole and the other a meat dish, which the elite of society and deserving J-Mac crews were permitted to eat on occasion. As Joss looked down the table at the EVR of the Chairman, he thought the man—who always touted animal rights—looked uncomfortable with the menu, though he said nothing of it.

The meat tray was, in fact, grotesquely large, carried by four waiters and containing racks of lamb Provençal, which the chef announced had been prepared in the old country way with lots of garlic and subtle spices, as his granmère from the ancient Eurikan village of St. Paul de Vence had taught him. The lamb was to Joss's and Kupi's liking, because they'd had their fill of protein substitutes while on duty.

When the sumptuous meal was almost over, including a delicate mango flambé and a complementary aperitif, Joss rose to his feet and prepared to speak. Most of the diners did not seem to notice him standing there, because they continued to drink and chatter.

He felt a flush of warmth in his cheeks, from alcohol and from the revelation about his personal relationship with Kupi Landau. He didn't like others knowing details of his private life, though he imagined that his association with the Black Shirt woman must have already been common knowledge. Even so, the bluntness of her revelation had taken him by surprise, and during the entire meal he'd been wondering how to respond to it. It didn't anger him against her; he still cared for her, but it was one more thing that told him how different they were, and how a long-term relationship between them would be nigh impossible. As he stood there, he felt his ties to her stretching thinner, and knew they would sever entirely one day.

Once, long ago, it seemed to him, Joss had been truly in love. It had been in his late teens, with a girl he'd met at one of the most prestigious environmental academies in the GSA. In terms of years, that had not been so far in the past (a bit over a decade), and the time he'd spent with Onaka Hito had been sweet, though entirely too short. Of Japanese descent, she had taught him many things about her people in Panasia, their ancient traditions and arts. The two of them had clicked from the moment they locked gazes on each other; it had been a thing known without the necessity of words.

They'd shared a room and the most intimate of moments, physical, spiritual, emotional, and even intellectual, as they were both members of the Earth Rescue Force, an idealistic environmental group that published an anti-corporate newsletter and was involved in fund-raising efforts for progressive causes.

After knowing Onaka for a few weeks, she'd confided to him that her father's business interests in the old country were on the decline because he'd fallen out of favor with the Panasian government, and was not getting the lucrative military manufacturing contracts that had once been almost a birthright to him—going back for generations in his family, as they took advantage of the spheres of power and influence.

One evening when he came home after school, Joss found Onaka sitting on the edge of their bed, weeping softly. “Something is terribly wrong,” she said. “I have not heard from my family for nearly a week, and that cannot be good.”

He'd tried to reassure her that she was mistaken, that they were just busy, but she would not hear any of it. The very next morning, a holo-net message arrived from her elder brother. Her hands had been shaking as she retrieved it. Then, as she read it, tears welled up in her eyes and she fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Her father, having lost the entire family fortune, had stabbed Onaka's mother to death and had then committed ritual suicide by disemboweling himself with a samurai sword—a weapon that had been passed on in his family for eight centuries, since the days of the earliest shoguns in the twelfth century. The murder and suicide were devastating to the girl, who had been close to both of her parents, and especially to her mother.