The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma (28 page)

“Need I remind you that the Army of the Environment is under Chairman Rahma's control, not mine?”

“But you provide many of the key weapons, and the science to build them, and now we've been attacked by an unknown, dangerous enemy who may have SciO Splitter technology and the ability to transport military assets across long distances underground.” He opened the rolled parchment. “Chairman Rahma has decided to formally declare a State of National Emergency, enabling him to legally demand the full contribution of the SciOs. To begin with, he wants a list of all SciO research programs.”

“A State of National Emergency? This is preposterous! I've never heard of the technology that you're—” He fell silent and looked away.

Accessing his internal data banks, Artie said, “After we defeated the Corporates and the GSA Charter was drawn up, the Chairman allowed you to keep your technological secrets, in return for which you agreed to enhance our military research and development capabilities if formally called upon to do so.”

Director Ondex grimaced.

“Well, he's calling on you to do that right now,” Artie said, “in the State of National Emergency.” He handed the parchment to him.

Ondex gave the document a cursory glance, slapped it down on a table, where it curled back up. “But a list of all of our research programs? He's not being reasonable.”

“Neither are our enemies—and the Chairman is not certain how many we have, or how advanced they are.”

Looking at one of the bodycams on Artie's belt, Ondex said, “I know you're eavesdropping on this meeting, Rahma Popal, and I'm going to level with you. Several years ago we had a top-secret vanishing tunnel program that was an offshoot of Janus Machine technology, but nothing came of it. The program was a complete failure, and the entire team of inventors committed suicide.”

From the Montana Valley Game Reserve, the GSA leader typed a response, which Artie received in his data banks and then passed along. “Chairman Rahma wants to know what vanishing tunnels are.”

“Well, the technology never worked, at least not on the scale needed to make it practical. In theory, it was supposed to be a system in which a tunneling machine split through the crust of the planet, propelling itself forward, while an earth- and rockforming system at the rear—like greenforming—closed the tunnel off, making it look like it was before.”

Hesitation, as Artie awaited another message. “My master wants to know what happened to the bodies of the suicides.”

“They're in SciO crypts, beneath our Berkeley headquarters.”

Hesitation, as another message came in from Montana Valley. Receiving it, Artie spoke: “You control your employees from job to grave—and the Chairman knows why. You're afraid someone will come up with a way to read human memories from cells and other genetic detritus, even after the employees are dead—and that would risk revealing SciO secrets. Hence, all of the remains are closely guarded.”

Ondex nodded, grudgingly. He chewed at one side of his mouth.

“It's even rumored that living employees contain self-destruct mechanisms in their bodies to prevent anyone from gaining access to their cellular material.”

No response.

“You will exhume the bodies for government inspection,” Artie said. It was not a question.

“Inspection?”

Artie nodded. “The Chairman wants me to observe the exhumations and collect data.”

“That's highly unusual.”

“It's just the beginning. The Chairman has commanded me to stay with you until we get to the bottom of what looks like a major SciO technology leak. I am not to leave your side. Not until my master releases me.”

“Is that in the National Emergency document?”

“Section Four,” the hubot said. “Maybe you should read the whole thing.”

 

29

The relationship with the government of Panasia continues to slide. They are the primary suspect in the failed Bostoner attack, and in other transgressions against the sovereignty of the Green States of America. On both sides, forces are on high alert; nuclear missiles are aimed and ready to fire. How is this different from the international tensions when Corporates were running things on the American continents? Where is the sustainable peace we were promised by Chairman Rahma?

—Berkeley Free Radio, one of the dissident stations

IT WAS PAST
midnight when Arch Ondex and the hubot took a clearplex-walled elevator down to the ninth level of the mausoleum. As they passed each level of the subterranean facility, Artie saw long rows of crypts in all directions. Most were empty, because this was where the SciOs interred their dead, and the organization had only been in existence since shortly before the founding of the country. Every person who ever worked for the SciOs would be laid to rest here when they died, and in time it would become crowded with bodies—but for now it was sparsely populated.

“We never permit visitors,” Ondex said, “but under the circumstances, and considering the degree of trust the Chairman has placed in you, we are making an exception.”

“Thank you,” Artie said, though he knew the Director had little choice—unless he decided to contest the State of National Emergency. Artie was on his own here, without the overseeing eyes of the Chairman, due to the late hour and matters of national defense he had to deal with early the next morning. The hubot was video recording everything, though—and he would collect data for further tests.

The elevator stopped, and Ondex led the way out, then down a well-lit corridor. “The only occupied crypts are in this area. As you know, we require the interment of all employees here.” He looked back over his shoulder and smiled stiffly. “After they pass away, of course.”

“Naturally.” Artie also knew that the bodies were sealed in the crypts shortly after death, and never cremated because that was against the SciO belief system. Ironically, Ondex led an organization of scientists who had quasi-religious beliefs and secret rites.

Artie heard voices. He and Ondex rounded a turn, and ahead they saw a group of SciO security officers waiting beside a metal gate, accompanied by a tall, officious-looking woman in a white suit-dress.

“You may commence,” Ondex said, after introducing Artie to the woman, Dr. Mariah Kovacs. She was in charge of the DNA sampling that would be conducted today—information that would be passed on to Artie for further analysis. The Chairman needed to have the identities verified and then run searches for additional information through the Greenpol data system, all of which made sense. The SciOs and their paranoia about cellular memories had been overridden.

The officers opened the gate and entered an arched alcove that contained the crypts of the research team that had committed suicide over their failure. Artie had little doubt that it had actually occurred, because the SciO leadership was known to be very demanding, and unforgiving of mistakes.

Using power tools, the officers cut the seals around seven crypts, and slid the caskets out onto the floor of the alcove. Moving in close, Artie recorded in his data banks the name on each crypt: Kee Wong, Joel Nero, Mae Pitol, Vanna Solomon, Dylan Bane, Triston Lalley, and Kent Hopkins.

Opening each casket, Dr. Kovacs took cell samples from the decaying bodies, using a compression-extraction needle. Artie noticed that she and the officers recoiled from odors in the caskets, but with his mechanical components he was able to take readings on the smells without being bothered by them. Peeking in, he saw that five of the bodies were well preserved, while two—Solomon and Lalley—were desiccated, from leaks in the seals. With each extraction, Dr. Kovacs dutifully transferred cellular and genetic data to a scanner on Artie's body.

One by one she ran through the identities, checking the bodies against identity cards for the deceased employees. “Nero, check,” she said. “Pitol, check. Hopkins, check. Bane—” She paused, ran another test.

Looking at Director Ondex, she said, “Problem here, sir. This is not the body of Dylan Bane.”

“Not Bane?” Ondex looked into the casket, while Artie moved closer to see better.

“Look here, sir,” she said, using a scalpel to lift a flap of skin from the well-preserved though yellowing face. “See that? It's a fake skin overlay containing Bane's DNA. But going deeper and taking an internal organ sample, it's clear that this is the body of a different man, made to look like Bane, and seem to be Bane. The autopsy doctor only took a cell scraping from what he thought was the epidermis, and came up with Bane's DNA. Not suspecting anything, he didn't bother to go deeper.”

“If this isn't Bane, who the hell is it?”

“We don't know yet, sir.”

“Damn it,” the Director said. “This means Bane is on the loose.”

“With SciO technology,” Artie said. “Obviously, he knows how to make the vanishing tunnel system work to transport military forces underground, over long distances.”

Ondex slammed a fist on the edge of the casket, then grimaced and grabbed his hand. “I think I broke it,” he said.

That's the least of your problems
, Artie thought, as he watched tests being conducted on the other bodies, and received additional data through his scanner. There were no more surprises.

“You are not to notify the Chairman of this yet,” Director Ondex said, as the doctor and her assistants completed their work. “I must go to him personally in order to provide him with important information beyond what you have learned here today, beyond anything that is in the cells or genetics of these bodies. For the sake of national security, it is best for Rahma to learn it all at once, and directly from me.”

“What is the additional information?”

“That will be revealed when I am face to face with Chairman Rahma. Come with me now. We shall leave immediately.”

Artie nodded, but he secretly transmitted a backup file to the GSA data storage facility in Montana Valley, along with an electronic tickler that would notify the Chairman of its presence tomorrow, and enable him to access it.

These SciOs could be tricky, and he didn't want to risk losing the data.

*   *   *

IN THE MISSOULA
Reservation, a black-garbed figure cut through the cool shadows of night, moving from street to street, following the directions that his sister had given to him. He carried a small duffel bag.

Uvander Crumb was an anarchist soldier, a lieutenant in the Black Shirts, the Army's vaunted Revolutionary Guard. He had fought in the front lines of the Corporate War, had seen his comrades fall around him, had been in the cheering throngs when Chairman Rahma declared victory and established the Green States of America.

Yet tonight's assignment was not on any duty sheet, was not known to his superiors or to anyone else in the armed forces. It was known only to himself and to his older sister, Kristine Longet. She didn't even want her husband to know, or their daughter.

Now he stared up at the glass-walled apartment building she had designated. It looked like any other building in this mid-green neighborhood, and everyone inside was asleep with the lights off, following strict schedules laid out for them by the government.

Uvander understood the necessity of what he was doing. It occupied a realm beyond any moral constraints, compunctions, or laws. It was the sworn obligation of a brother to a sister, and with such an important matter there could be no discussion of nuances. It was a matter of duty. Family duty.

Using a security code he had obtained surreptitiously through his military and police contacts, he slipped through the service entrance of the building. When the door closed behind him he activated a small, powerful flashlight. Except for the beam of illumination this provided, it was pitch dark in there. He moved quickly through the corridor, glancing occasionally at a hand-held screen that provided him with a blueprint of the building.

Using additional codes, he passed through one doorway and then another, closing doors softly behind him as he proceeded. Finally he stood in a large room that had a very high ceiling and mezzanines, with metal stairways and walkways connecting the levels. Through an elaborate arrangement of chutes and bins, this was where garbage was collected from the apartments above, in a system that separated the refuse for each unit and enabled inspectors to examine it regularly, looking for eco-violations.

Uvander climbed four stairways, then hurried along a walkway until he located the bin for apartment number 2095, which he had been told was occupied by the Ridell family—enemies of his sister. He'd never seen Kristine like this before; she was extremely upset and determined to take action, telling him that she'd met the father of a young woman who was harming Dori's career, and something needed to be done to get the young woman—and her entire family—out of the way.

He unzipped the duffel bag and poured its contents into the bin—plastic bags he'd dug out of an old Corporate landfill, and washed off. A garbage inspector was due to examine these bins the following afternoon, and would not like what he discovered.

 

30

It became very clear to us on the revolutionary council that the Corporate-induced lifestyle of conspicuous consumption was not sustainable for our planet, that man could not keep usurping the resources of the Earth without consequences. Others had warned of this before us, but we carried the banner of environmentalism into battle.

—Chairman Rahma, in an interview with
The
Green Times

ACCORDING TO THE
wall screen it was midday, with bright, sunlit clouds on the horizon, east of the hills and tall buildings of the Berkeley Reservation for Humans. Joss stood in front of the projected image, cursing it for not being a real window view. For all he knew, it might not actually be midday; it could be nighttime. At the moment he loathed the SciOs and their technology, and felt an overwhelming desire to be free and breathe whatever gasps of outside air he could, for as long as he could.