Devolution (7 page)

*

The full winter moon lit up the University of Cambridge campus in a pale blue, with heavy cumulus clouds floated across the sky. The air was calm and crisp. A thin layer of snow covering the ground reflected much of the moon’s light. A long black car eased to a stop one block down from the intersection of St. Andrews and Downing.

“Do you want us to go with you, sir?” the man in the front seat asked Alam Jabbar while pulling his coat aside to slide a pistol into a holster.

“Get out and be within sight, but I will go alone,” Jabbar replied. “I did not get the impression I was in danger.”

The men opened the doors to exit, spreading out between the buildings. Cane in hand, Jabbar limped his way to the meeting point. He positioned himself under the glow of a fading yellow light post. With the exception of a few stragglers, the street was empty. The only sound was that of the sharp breeze whispering its way past the university walls to fill the street. The cold air it delivered stung the inside of his nose.

Jabbar peered down at his watch: 8:59.

When the minute hand struck twelve a hollow thud echoed off the buildings. Simultaneously, all the doors that lined the sidewalks swung open. Hordes of students emptied out of their late night classes. Jabbar was soon surrounded by hundreds of grads and undergrads who had been stuck in small wooden desks for hours. The narrow streets turned into a scene of madness as everyone jockeyed for position to board one of the many buses that instantly appeared, their conversations buzzing.

“Where are you going?”

“Let’s go to the pub.”

“What did you think about the professor?”

“Tom! Tom! Hey, Tom!”

All the energy suppressed during their classes discharged, creating a chaotic display.

Jabbar tried to maintain his position under the light pole, but the flow of the crowd forced him down the street. With the masses unwilling to slow their advance, his balanced wobbled and he collapsed to the concrete.

His men lost sight of him and rushed against the surge but progress was difficult.

Jabbar’s phone began to ring.

“Sir!” his bodyguard yelled in distress.

WHACK
!

Before Jabbar could respond, a hard knee to the back knocked the phone from his hand. He held on all fours to catch his breath. Then, as quickly as the rush began, it was over. All the buses had left while the remaining students filtered between the buildings. All of a sudden, it was quiet, peaceful, and for the exception of a few stragglers, desolate.

Jabbar scanned the sidewalk for his phone and spotted it several feet away. Heavily relying on his cane, he hobbled towards it.

“Sir!”

Jabbar sighted one of his guards running from across the street. He brushed the dirt from his knees and straightened his suit. “I’m fine.”

“Sir, your back.” Another guard approached from up the street and pulled a white envelope off Jabbar’s coat.

Bewildered, he studied it for a few seconds and then peered up at his guards. His meeting was apparently over.

*

“Harry!” Chris Nash hollered to his young reporter after assigning him the closing of an assembly plant. “This company has hundreds of workers. You better be able to interview one.”

“These people are corporate,” Henry countered. “They will not talk!”

Chris glared at his reporter. “Why are you still here?”

Harry stood his ground, but decided not to waste more time. He hastily marched out the door.

At the same time, Ashleigh Blair entered with the day’s mail. “Mr. Nash, how are you this afternoon?”

He sighed. “Alright, Ashleigh, how are you?” Nash was now two weeks into his 50s—evident by the drooping party balloons in the corner. Time had not been good to the newsman. With slumping shoulders, a tired voice, and white hair, he more closely resembled a man fifteen years his senior. His wrinkled shirt and loose tie completed the stereotype.

“I am well, sir.” The old widow flashed a pleasant smile.

Chris’s office was straight out of the media handbook. It appeared to be a wasteland of piles of paper, but to the trained eye, it was a highly organized mess.

Most days, Nash received a large bundle of letters, magazines, and memos wrapped tightly in a rubber band. This day was no different. As news director of the BNN—a radio, television, print, and Internet conglomerate—he was a popular man.

“Thank you,” Nash said dismissively.

Ashleigh turned to exit his room. She could tell Nash was not in the mood to talk. If she were lucky however, someone along her route would be.

Every day the mail contained the same nonsense—companies looking for free press, lame stories, free magazines, political letters, resumes, etc. Yet, a nervous anticipation always developed in his belly when he snapped off the rubber band. Every day was one closer to when he would get the story of a lifetime.

As he dug his way towards the bottom of the stack, he noticed a letter addressed in an odd font. The envelope had no return address, but had been mailed in Cambridge. He ripped open the top. Inside, he found a typed note:

Dear Mr. Nash:

I have recently come across some information in which you might be interested. A few months ago, terrorists gained access to Westminster, taking four MPs hostage. The military subsequently stormed the building, killing the terrorists and sparing the representatives. Unfortunately, this is not the true story. I have proof that what the government called a ‘necessary action’ was actually a deliberate cover-up. I wish to earn your trust and cooperation in exposing this fraud. However, due to the sensitive nature of the material, I hope you respect my wish to remain anonymous. I will write in the coming days with more information. In the meantime, re-watch the press conference from that day, and listen closely to the words of MP Richard Sykes in particular. You will begin to understand.

Good day, Sir.

Dubious, yet quite interested, Nash put down the letter and made his way to the archives. He paged through the dates to find that day’s copy and skipped to where Sykes began to speak:

“When confronted with a tragic situation, you never know how you’ll react. Such was the case for me and my three fellow countrymen. At first, it was simply some yelling from down the hall. Before we knew what happened, four masked men burst into our room. They put guns to our heads and began shouting out commands in what sounded like Arabic. We could not understand their orders, so they beat us with their weapons. They tied us all together and put us in a closet. All I could think about was my family at home, and wondered if I would ever see them again.”

Nash stopped the video immediately and hit rewind.

“All I could think about was my family at home, and wondered if I would ever see them again.”

His eyes glazed in disbelief and his mouth dropped open. In the gravity of the situation, it must have been overlooked. It was well-known Sykes
had
no family. They had all perished in a car crash three years earlier.

*

The rotation of the cooling fan had become a comforting sound for John Nolan. The research that would lay the foundation for his Constitution was nearly finished. He sat at his desk on this mid-February evening putting the finishing touches on the rise and fall of one of the greatest and most-feared superpowers in history, the USSR. It read as follows:

To become a superpower, a nation must have a strong economy, a dominant military, and immense international influence. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republic (USSR) was established in 1922 and grew into one of the world’s most powerful and influential states. Prior to WWII, the USSR was strong. Following the war, it became a superpower as it filled the power vacuum in its hemisphere brought about by a war-weakened Europe.

By partitioning Germany after the war, the USSR and USA effectively limited competition. To ensure its power, the USSR annexed its border countries instead of fostering communist revolution within them.

The acquisition of land, resources, money, and people expanded the Soviet economy. However, as past nations learned, there is only so much wealth to be confiscated. Eventually it would have to be produced. A dramatic decrease in demand for oil (a main export), competition for material/raw goods, and increased military spending emptied the Soviet’s coffers and led to bankruptcy. It collapsed in 1991.

Prior to its dissolution, the USSR had the second largest economy in the history of the world—more a result of its sheer geographic size than its economic efficiency. This deceivingly large economy proved the reason for its collapse. The nation’s problems stemmed from a weak financial system in which the State Planning Commission controlled the production and price of all goods and services. Price fixing rendered the market useless. Stores oftentimes had surpluses of undesirable items and a scarcity of products people wanted, creating tax-free black markets. Due to the ineffectiveness of the Ministry for Construction Materials and Equipment Supply, companies were forced to produce products they were not designed to make. Businesses kept large surpluses of material in inventory since the state-run shipping companies were unreliable. Profits were not kept by companies, they were given to the State. Initiative was suppressed and the quality of work suffered. Information flowed slowly through the central planners, causing the Soviet economy to respond slowly to change or adapt cost-saving technologies.

Companies under the communist system had no competitive incentive to conserve and treat resources as scarce or valuable. Soviet industry used more energy and raw material than its western counterparts to produce the same products. The Soviet ministries in command of distribution did not directly work in the fields they supplied, hindering their ability to accurately estimate costs and needs. This wasted resources, the most of which may have been the workers themselves. Five to fifteen percent of all workers, in fact, did not work. They were employed by companies to be there, “just in case.” The Soviets had arguably more resources than any other country on Earth and an educated population, however, they lacked an economic system in which to utilize their strengths.

There were two main problems with the Soviet economy. The first was there were no property rights. Therefore, the incentive to grow, expand productivity, and increase efficiency was lost. And the nation that was founded on anti-capitalism forbade foreign investment, which crippled its ability to raise revenue and develop its markets.

The USSR proved an economy, and thus a nation, cannot survive when too much control is held by the government.

*

“I heard you received a letter of interest,” Aasir Abdulah Kabul said to Alam Jabbar when he entered his chief deputy’s office.

Jabbar pulled out a chair for his boss. “Please sir, sit.”

Kabul was a large, imposing figure. His salt and pepper hair followed the contours of his face, culminating in a perfectly groomed beard. His exquisite suits were usually light in color, with a white shirt and bright tie. While he managed to keep his public image clean, he’d developed a dubious reputation with authorities. Legally, he developed real estate; Jabbar supervised his projects.

Jabbar’s desk was crafted from a dark hardwood. Cast iron lights, original artwork, and Indian rugs encircled the sleek centerpiece.

“So where is it?” Kabul’s powerful voice nearly shook the room.

Jabbar pulled the envelope from his breast pocket and slid it across the desk. “I received a call on my private line and—”

“Was it tapped?” Kabul fitted his managers with monitoring technology. If a conversation was being intercepted, the line would emit a faint pulse.

“No.” Like all of Kabul’s men, Jabbar feared the consequences of an incorrect answer. “The man refused to identify himself.”

Kabul lifted the document free of the envelope. “So then who gave it to you?” He glanced up at Alam and then back to the pamphlet.

“I do not know.” Jabbar swallowed hard. “He planned it perfectly.”

Kabul studied the document in pure fascination. At certain points, he nodded. At others, his eyes closed in reflection. Jabbar remained silent and a few uneasy minutes passed.

“Can we trust this?” Kabul folded the paper back to its original size.

Jabbar sat up straight. “Could be a setup, he suggested. “The government knows our past.”

“Possibly,” Kabul hesitantly agreed, though Jabbar knew his boss’ instincts told him otherwise.

Kabul leaned forward and placed the pamphlet on Jabbar’s desk. “They would never give us this.”

“So you believe it?” Jabbar asked, now more interested than timid.

Kabul blankly looked at his subordinate, then stood up and made his way over to the window with his hands folded behind his back. In the evening light, his wide shoulders cast a large shadow across the room. From Jabbar’s position, he looked a ghostly black as his body blocked the retreating sun. Kabul gazed out the sixth-floor window at the darkening city below. As if it helped him think, he rocked from his toes back to his heels.

“Whoever compiled this, knows.”

Jabbar patiently waited.

“And they want it out.” Kabul turned towards his subordinate. “Which is why we have it.”

“Why us?”

“Because,” Kabul raised his eyebrows in incredulity, “they know who we are.”

*

“Your mail, sir,” announced Ashleigh Blair, presenting Chris Nash with an exceptionally tall delivery that required two rubber bands.

It had been nearly a week since Nash received that anonymous letter. He had hardly slept since.

“Thank you,” he enthusiastically replied, hoisting the stack off her wavering arms and dropping it onto his desk. Before the ‘thud’ had finished reverberating through the room, Nash was tearing through the pile.