BATS IN THE BELFRY, BY DESIGN

 

   COPYRIGHT, 1995, by Dude “RocketSlinger” B. Bad

 

Copyright 1995, ISBN 0-9644835-0-5

 by Dude “RocketSlinger” B. Bad

(Above is the ISBN of the original hardcopy edition; this soft copy has no ISBN)

Cover design by Ken Michaelsen, McCloud, CA., 96057

 

 

     Dedicated to my wife, Mary, and our son, Byron, and to the hope that Byron’s world will be a sane one.

 

 

 

     Acknowledgments: To all those who have offered their criticisms,proofreadings, thoughts, etc.  Specifically, I would like to credit my parents, who gave me a solid upbringing and moral foundation, even though I may have done a bit smorgasbording there.  Also, the following people have contributed, and/or significantly influenced my thoughts, in no particular order: Mary (Somebody Very Special, AKA Pongie Pomp), Brian Roach, Jim LeSage, Don Henderson, Byron Mohney, Chuck Terra, Roger Castro, William Brown, John Fremont, Marla Greenway, Tom Newman, Alan Dove, Lee Crum, Brian Nickels, Charles Trumbly, Mary Dove, and Beth Allwein.

 

CHAPTER 1

 

     The President paced around the oval office, debating and thinking. OK, so, they’re gonna dump on me.  Sure, I’m the President, but, big deal.  They’ll act all pseudo-respectful-like, but they plan to dump on me just the same.  They hinted pretty strongly that they’d not be too happy about it if I had a flunky or two here to back me up.  “Strictly confidential,” they’d said.  Translation: no stacking the deck to reinforce yourself.  They planned to confront her, and wouldn’t take kindly to the idea that she’d support herself with yes-persons.  To top it all off, they’d even hinted that they’d resign and raise a ruckus if she didn’t pay some serious attention to them.

     Sometimes it seemed to President Anne Jacobs that she was nothing but a glorified scapegoat.  The economy goes to shit, and it’s all the President’s fault, as if she could run around and do everyone’s job for them, turning out billions in goods and services.  Foreign affairs, the environment, crime, overpopulation, you name it—she was apparently expected to soothe every hot-headed dictator, clean up every oil spill, patrol every street, and put condoms on the pricks of a few billion He-Men.  That, or, even harder still, make them keep ‘em in their pants.  What a job!

     Well, if she couldn’t populate the oval office with yes-persons, for fear of certain people getting pissed and squawking to the media, at least she could make them wait a few minutes.  She paced and thought some more, then settled down behind her desk.  She punched the button on the intercom, and told her secretary to let them in.

     The three of them filed into the room as if they were taking part in some solemn, ancient ritual.  Paul Emmerich, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Vince Marlin of the NSA (National Security Agency), and Solomon Bachmeyer of the CIA, all dutifully took the seats she offered them.  After the bare minimum of pleasantries, they got right down to business.

     “Ma’am, with all due respect,” the Chairman started in, “We’re very, very concerned about the state of American defenses these days. You know we can barely afford to sign up any half-competent servicepersons these days, what with the dismal state of education and the high demand for the few skilled workers that we do have, in the civilian sector.  That, and just the plain, stark fact that the welfare state makes it almost as profitable to not work, as it is to work in some hot, crowded tank or ship, and...”

     “Yes, I know that, General.  We’ve been over this before. The deficit is about to eat us for lunch, though.  We can’t spend any more, for service pay or for anything else.  Yes, yes, we should stop spending so much on the welfare state.  I’m trying.  But, we can’t just suddenly stop.  Too much economic dislocation.  Some of these people not only don’t know how to work; their ancestors didn’t and don’t know how to work, back four and five generations.  We can’t take these people and just put ‘em in business suits, and expect them to earn a living.  Nor can we throw ‘em on the streets.  Too much suffering.” And too many lost votes, she added to herself.  Wouldn’t want the Democrats to accuse us of not being “compassionate”.

     They just sat there for a few seconds, seemingly to gather the courage to confront her.  So, what particular flavor of miracle do these guys want from me, anyway?, she wondered.  And, can I appease them with a token billion or two, for some favorite project of theirs?  If that’s what they’re after, how do I squeeze yet more money that we don’t have, out of Congress?  Or, are they just like so many other yahoos I have to put up with every day, just wanting to harangue me with their political opinions?  Don’t they know I have enough politics to worry about, without them adding yet more?  Maybe I should just be honest with them.  “Look, like I said, I’m trying.  But, the stark truth of the matter is, if I cut into the welfare state too deeply, I’ll be out, there’ll be a Democrat sitting here, and the problems you’re bitching about will be that much worse.  I’ve heard what you’re saying, I agree with you, but there’s just so much I can do.  Now, why don’t you guys go worry about the national defense and security, and I’ll take care of politics.”

     “That’s exactly the problem we’re having with your administration,” General Emmerich boldly asserted.  “You try to divorce interrelated issues.  You try to fix one thing, and break another.  We can’t fix the nation’s defenses, without fixing the politics.”

     She must have looked offended, because the General hurried on to smooth her ruffled feathers at least a little.  “Not that this is a new problem.  For decades now, we’ve tried to fix poverty by throwing money at poor people, and we’ve just ended up amassing a huge deficit and subsidizing illegitimacy, which in turn leads to crime and economic deterioration.  We fend off the Soviets in the cold war, and we trash the environment in so doing.  We try to fix the environment, and we end up taking away people’s property rights, and making environmental lawyers very rich, and companies very poor, in so doing.  We don’t want another ‘solution’ here that makes the problem, or some other problem, worse.  The nation’s security depends on a lot other than just soldiers and weapons.  We want a real fix, not just some band-aids.”

     The President just leaned back in her chair, saying, “Granted.  I still don’t see a way that I can undo a half-century or more of welfarism, just ‘cause there’s not enough grunts to man all the tanks.  We’re not even at war.  The voters won’t put up with it.  A few starving babies, a little bit of media coverage, and loud moans from the Democrats, stoking up the resentments between the few rich and the many poor voters, and we’ll be back where we started.  Do you really, honestly see any other choices?”

     The General came back with, “There are some other countries out there, though, who’d love nothing more than to push us over, what with our underfunded, understaffed military.  In a heartbeat.  I don’t think I’m being melodramatic.  Our borders are less and less secure against a tide of third-worlders every day.  Where’d our welfare recipients be then?  Them, and all the rest of us?

     “I don’t think that’s totally out of the question.  We, here in the industrialized world, where each set of parents has only two kids or so, aren’t willing to see our very limited progeny become cannon fodder.  Or, at least, those of us who raise kids fit to contribute much of value to the military.  We raise a huge stink at the prospect of losing a few hundred, let alone thousands, of American soldiers.

     “Other nations are starting to catch on to that.  Other nations, where babies are more plentiful, and life is cheaper.  And countries like China, where they’re actually controlling population growth, but all the protests of all the citizens mean nothing against an iron-fisted dictator.  These countries are all starving for space and resources.  The Germans called it ‘Lebensraum’, way back when, in World War II, when they tried to reach for their day in the sun.  Third world countries wouldn’t mind a bit, if they could steal a slice of goodies from us.  Resentments among these peoples are rising.  Can’t say that I blame them.  Millions of them would love to come here and work their fingers to the bone, for a fraction of what our welfare recipients get for sitting on their duffs.  But, no, they deserve nothing while we deserve everything, ‘cause they weren’t born in the right place.

     “Half of our troops, it seems, are tied up most of the time playing global social-welfare agency for the UN, or patrolling public housing in our inner cities.  It’s not a job many young people are attracted to any more.  I just don’t see how democracy and a strong defense can survive for much longer under these conditions.  A democratic and free system works only for a disciplined, responsible, educated population.

     “What I’m saying is, we’re facing real dangers, and we should take them seriously.  Nor can our former lead in technology be of much assistance.  I’ve already mentioned the sad state of affairs, as far as education and skill levels go.  Solomon can fill you in on some other troublesome developments.”

     Solomon got into the act with, “We’ve spent a lot of time, money, and brainpower trying to divine the future.  It doesn’t look good.  Our old lead in defense technology is slipping away rapidly.  Nukes, and even conventional airpower, will become largely obsolete, as radars, computers, and lasers become more and more capable of working together and shooting down just about anything.  Our intelligence indicates that many countries, even large third-world countries with millions of starving people, are still finding enough money and sleazy arms-dealing nations and corporations to stay right up with us, technology-wise.

     “That, and, in general, tensions are rising, world-wide.  Where we were so optimistic in the early nineties—the cold war was over, democracy and capitalism were on the march–tribalism, Islamic extremism, and squabbling over scarce resources are now the order of the day.  Starvation and disease, as you know, runs rampant.  Soil, range lands, fish stocks, and forests continue to vanish.  Over-populated nations fall into anarchy as their peoples fight over what little there is to go around.  Even China, which did get a grip on its population growth at the expense of human rights, is back-sliding and cracking down big-time, as all the peasants protest having been left out of the recent Chinese economic boom.”

     “So, what do you suggest that I do about it, beyond trying to divert funds from human needs and services, to war-making?,” Anne wanted to know.  “And how do I justify it to the American people?”

     General Emmerich leaned over just a bit, and lowered his voice. “Maybe we don’t need to justify it to the American people.  Maybe not even to Congress.  Black bucks, you know.  Covert funds.”

     “What exactly is it that you want funded?,” the President inquired, glancing at each of them in turn.

     General Emmerich slumped back a bit.  “Well, we can’t say, exactly. We just need research funds, so that we can at least start to get a handle on the possibilities.”

     Vince Marlin finally joined the fray.  “Ideally, what we’d want would be some almost supernatural method or entity that would float around and gather data, undetected.  Then, after gathering intelligence on who’s got the methods and motivations to screw things up, we’d just... punch their tickets, so to speak.  Again, undetected, remotely, with no risk to American troops.  The better our intelligence, the fewer tickets we’d have to punch.  In a pinch, though, it would be nice to punch tickets by the hundreds of thousands, or millions, even, such as in the case of fanatical hordes of Islamic third-worlders bent on terrorism or over-running us for ‘Lebensraum’, as the General would put it.”

     Anne looked a bit shocked.  “You’re talking genocide, it seems to me.”

     “When it’s them or us, I vote us,” Vince replied.  “Look at the long-term future of the human race.  Hordes of protein-starved fanatical third-worlders¾you know how protein deprivation stunts brain development¾are far less likely to be able to sustain and develop the technology to preserve the human race and take us to new planets, even¾than we are, any day.  We’ve got to protect and preserve what we’ve got, and give progress a chance.  If we just stay on this planet, and back-slide, like so many other countries, we’ll never make it.  For that matter, if technological civilization breaks down, as it would without a robust industrialized ‘first world’ if you will, then billions of people will starve.  If technology slips back to the sixteenth century or so, we’ll see starvation to eclipse even what we’re seeing today, by far.

     “The bottom line is this: we’ve got to be able to strike back, and with more than resolutions at the UN.  We need to work on some new technology or technologies, to give us some ‘bang for the buck’ again.  A secret ace in the hole, as insurance against hungry hordes over-running our borders.”

     Anne and the three men went round and round some more, but in the end she agreed that they’d have to cough up the scarce bucks to begin some research.  Just exactly what, wasn’t clear yet, but they’d find something.  The long-term future of the human race¾nothing less¾was at stake.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

     The idea first occurred to Phil Schrock one ordinary domestic Saturday as he and his live-in girlfriend, Gloria Harris, were getting things done around their house in Atlanta.  Theirs was a very committed relationship, or at least, very committed by modern American standards, as such things go.  But, seeing as how they were both filthy rich in the eyes of the taxman (he was a bio-engineering research scientist and she a heart surgeon), and their tax “marriage penalty” would have been thousands of dollars, they had made the practical decision not to get married, at least until such time as they might want to have kids.

     Despite the government’s lip service to “family values,” working couples were still punished for getting married.  Phil and Gloria even kept two separate mailboxes for their suburban house, maintaining a fiction of “apartment A” and “apartment B,” to help prevent them from being busted for being married under common law, and not paying the marriage penalty.  Phil sometimes suggested that one of them should get a sex-change operation; if they were gay, they’d be forbidden from paying the marriage penalty!

     Phil was dragging in all the loot that they’d accumulated during the day’s shopping, and Gloria was putting away the perishables.  Phil hoisted the last and heaviest items, cat food and litter bags, onto his shoulders, grunted, and waddled through the house to the laundry room, where they kept their pet food and litter box . He didn’t look comfortable; the hot Georgia summer sun had exacted a toll on him in the short stretch between the van’s air conditioning and that of the house. But, there was more to his discomfort: right after hastily dumping off the bags, he waddled off to the bathroom, and shortly thereafter was making sighs of relief.

     “Hey, Ummel, come in here and spank this thing!” He called her this, one of his favorite sweet-talk names, mostly because she thought it was funny, but also sometimes to irritate her.  Phil was the kind of person who loved to razz others, but usually knew the limits.

     “Spank it?”

     “Yeah!”

     “Spank what?”

     “This ten-pound turd I’m giving birth to!”

     “You’re disgusting!”

     “But, snoogle-bunch!  Don’t you realize, this is a much more important matter to us men than you women¾it stimulates our prostate gland, which is a pleasure you know nothing of.”

     “Right.  In compensation, we have the pleasure of giving birth. And I don’t mean, to anything as puny as what you just birthed.”

     “Puny! Hurt my manly self-image, would you!”

     She just gave him one of those looks. He ignored her, and went on. “Ah-ha!  Trivia time!  I have for you, pootie woogie, yet another piece of trivia from my vast storehouse of useless information, that I’ll bet I never told you.  Do you know anything about Eskimo diets before the White man came to the Far North?”

     “No, not really¾why do I get the uneasy feeling I’m about to be educated?”

     “Well, you accused me of being disgusting, and I hate to be falsely accused without the benefits of being guilty, so here goes.

     “Imagine going through an entire winter in the arctic, with no plant fiber in your diet at all, eating only meat and blubber.  Now imagine getting your first fiber from meager plant life in the spring. Those poor sons of bitches often split their ass cheeks in the spring, with four-inch wide hardened turds that had accumulated all winter!”

     “Yuck!  Are you pulling my leg?”

     “Not at all.  Europeans finally ended this by bringing them fibrous foods.  That, and, of course, sugar, rotten teeth, liquor, and diseases.”

     Gloria occasionally liked to turn tables on Phil.  “Did I ever tell you about a very rare disease I learned about in med school, called hyperfecalemia?”

     “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.”

     “Well, very rarely, there’s a disorder where small, hardened pellets of digestive matter in the large intestine, essentially feces at this point, are passed directly into the bloodstream.”

     “Jeez-um!  To quote you, yuck indeed!”

     “Wait, it gets worse.  It seems that once in the bloodstream, these pellets damage some delicate tissues here and there.  The biggest problem occurs in the retina.  Once they lodge there, you can’t see for shit!”

     “Hey!  Don’t you go cutting into my turf!  I’m the wild card in this couple!”

     “A little doctor-type humor to brighten your day.  I’ve got one more.  When we were in med school, we had this class on medical terms, and we were supposed to invent some medical terms composed mostly of Greek and Latin roots.  One wise-ass invented ‘Vaginopseudodentectomy’.”

     “So?  What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

     “What, a scientifigeek like you can’t figure it out?  That is, surgical removal of false teeth from a vagina, performed on women whose partners wear dentures!”

     Gloria got back to the business at hand.  “So, what’s the scoop with this boric acid powder we just bought?  I see here on the label that it’s intended to be dissolved and applied to the skin to fight yeast infections, and it’s specifically NOT recommended to be used as a dusting agent.” Phil was wanting to save them some money.  A year ago, some professional pest-control types had dusted their house to keep down their two cats’ fleas.  Fleas were a big problem here in the South, where frost couldn’t be relied on to kill all the fleas outside every winter.

     So, sprinkling boric acid powder into the carpets, where fleas liked to hang out, was a method of keeping them down.  When Phil had asked about it last year, he’d been told it was harmless to animals and humans, but would slowly kill off the fleas and other insects, by preventing them from being able to hold water, and that a treatment would last a year.  The cats were getting flea-bitten again, and Phil thought that thirsting to death was an entirely fitting end to such nuisances.  But, he sure didn’t feel like paying $400 or so to the professionals, when he could buy lots of boric acid powder for $30.

     “Oh, come on, snoogle-bunch!  How harmful could something be that is meant to be applied to human skin?  Plus, it’s the exact same active ingredients that we were so firmly assured was safe last year.  These jerks are just trying to fight off the lawsuit lottery by telling us not to use it in any manner even vaguely likely to be harmful.  If some dumbshit sees it recommended as a dusting agent, he’ll dust, and get a bunch all over his pizza, then eat it and get sick, sue, win a million dollars, and we all pay.  So, to prevent all this, they forbid a perfectly legitimate use.”

     “Oh, yeah?  I suppose you’d also ignore the warning signs at work that tell me not to open up some of our machines ‘cause of radioactivity.”

     “No way!  This is different!  If you live your life by all the silly rules, you’d be living under the bridge.  Go look at a box of cotton swabs: everyone knows that they’re for cleaning out your ear canal, but the warning on the box tells you not to stick it in there, lest someone win the lawsuit lottery.  Do you pay any attention to that?”

     “Well, why don’t they all just put warnings on all products explaining that they’re not for any kind of use other than looking at, and we could all pay less by eliminating the lawsuit lottery?  Those warnings are there because there IS some kind of danger!”

     “So you don’t want me to save three hundred and seventy bucks with an hour of my work?  And get those bums to get everything all dusty again?” The professionals had used mechanically powered beaters to beat the powder into the carpets, and although Phil and Gloria were not one of those couples that were so “nasty-nice” that not a molecule of dust was to be tolerated, they hadn’t liked the all-pervasive dust that coated much of the house.  Phil planned to brush it in by hand, getting much less dust in the air.

     Phil wasn’t going to give up easily.  “Playing it by every rule ever written is for chumps.  No risk, no gain.  Do you want to start paying social security, unemployment comp, workmen’s comp, health care insurance, self esteem insurance, and every other God-forsaken form of government-mandated socialist crap, and fill out three zillion forms, on our maid and yard boy?”

     “No, thanks, I’m not running for office.  But one gets you a fine, or, at the very worst, a jail term, while the other might get us killed.”

     “Killed?!  By something approved for putting on your skin, in a lawsuit-happy society?  Yes, we could pay the professionals to do exactly what I want to do myself, but 80% of what we’d pay would be for their taxes and insurance against the lawsuit lottery.”

     “OK, OK, have your way!  You’re always right!  At least, promise me you’ll wear a mask and be real careful to keep it away from food and utensils.” Gloria was a saintly type who didn’t really get too upset about such matters, but she liked to keep Phil on his toes and make him think he owed her something for getting his way.

     Phil, feeling only the tiniest bit guilty for having his way, but proud of his wit in his tirade against timidity, government, lawyers, and silly rules, slipped off into the garage.  Shortly, he returned, with a scrub brush, a ski mask, and surgical mouth masks.  “Hey, Ummel, didn’t you liberate these masks from work?  That’s not playing by the rules!” He rarely got tired of good-natured sparring.  Gloria had picked up some masks for the occasional tasks around the house that involved dust, like Phil’s dabbling in woodwork, for example.

     “Yes, I did.  I was in the operating room one day, walked by a box of masks, and they spoke to me, saying, ‘Set us free!  Our masters are assholes; set us free!’ So I liberated them from that evil capitalist ogre, the hospital.  It was a good deed, and one that I am proud of.”

     Phil donned his mask and applied himself pushing around the furniture and sprinkling the lumpy powder all over the carpet, and brushing it in.  Finding that the bristles were coming out of the brush at a rate almost matching the rate at which the powder went into the carpets, he soon dispensed with the brush, and broke up the powder lumps and forced it into the carpets with his bare hands.  It wasn’t long till the ski mask came off, because there really wasn’t any airborne powder to deal with.  The mouth mask lasted all the way till Phil was done with the ground floor, which was also when Gloria left for some more shopping.

     By that time, Phil had worked up quite a sweat, so when he did the upstairs, he did them entirely in the nude.  This is pretty silly, he thought; I start wearing all sorts of protective clothes, and by the time I’m finishing up, I’m naked.  I wonder if I’m meeting all the relevant safety regulations for this kind of work?  What the hell; I’ll be sure to get a good shower afterwards.

     As Phil had expected, no one except for the fleas ever suffered any adverse reactions.  The real significance of all this domestic activity was not that some fleas in suburban Atlanta met an early demise; it’s what thoughts were triggered in Phil’s head as he went to all this trouble to eliminate a few grams at most of troublesome pests.

     Phil’s job was to bio-engineer bacteria for cleaning up contaminants.  Bacteria have been in the business of cleaning up various chemicals in the environment for literally billions of years; there was nothing new here.  Humans had also already for decades been in the business of selecting certain types of bacteria from polluted areas here and there, where they had already been naturally selected, and feeding them the additional nutrients that they needed to thrive, and transplanting them to other polluted areas to munch on contaminants. What was new was that Phil and a handful of others were now seriously into genetically engineering microbes for this purpose.  What they came up with sometimes had little resemblance to any previously existing natural species, but they did of course rely heavily on nature to provide genes from various sources.

     So, why am I going to all this trouble to eliminate these “contaminants” in my house, Phil wondered.  Yes, we can eliminate them with potentially dangerous chemicals, just as we could eliminate underground oil spills with powerful detergents.  The detergents would most often be more harmful than the oil they would break up.  Just as we use more finesse with such contaminants, by using bacteria that don’t harm the environment, couldn’t we also do the same with insect pests? What is the proper analogy here?  Designing pathogens (disease germs) to attack specific species of insects?  How would we ever get that by the regulators and environmentalists?  The environmentalists bother us enough already about potentially dangerous unanticipated side affects of our engineered microbes, even though we are helping clean up the environment.

     Yes, there was indeed the danger of artificial bacteria squeezing into a niche they weren’t intended for.  The bacteria in that oil spill might indeed hop into your gas tank and eat all your gas.  This was ridiculous, of course; they depended on other nutrients as well; these were deliberately provided by humans.  Bacteria were, for example, sometimes injected into old oil wells, where remaining oil was too “thick” or non-volatile to bring easily to the surface, and low-grade molasses was also injected as a nutrient for the bacteria.  Here, the bacteria would break down the complex hydrocarbons into more simple, more fluid ones easily brought to the surface, reviving old wells.

     But, if the possibility of oil-eating microbes hopping into your gas tank and eating all your gas was laughable, the possibility of engineered pathogens migrating to a new victim was eminently not funny at all.  So you’ve got a micro-bug that picks on fleas; next thing you know, it has decimated the monarch butterfly population, or worse, of course, the human population.  No, Phil thought, nobody will ever buy into this idea, even if we make the pathogens dependent on special human-supplied nutrients.  There would just be too great a possibility of them mutating.  Besides, pathogens are only effective above a certain population density of the victim species; if the victim population gets too low, the pathogen no longer spreads.  So, you’ve still got your perpetual low-level infestation of pests, and you’d always be needing to re-introduce the pathogen.

     Phil thought he’d reached a dead end, but had some nagging doubt lurking somewhere in some nook or cranny of his brain, at the verge of consciousness.  His ego sent out probing think-beams to various parts of the brain, in a little mental game.  “All right!  Frontal lobes, report in!  Are you harboring the hidden thoughts?!”

     “No sir!” Came back the meek little voice.

     “Cerebrum?”

     “Bug off!”

     “Cerebellum?”

     “I’m not talking to you¾I’m still pissed at you for what you did to me on your last drinking binge.”

     “Medusa oblongata?” Wait a minute, maybe that’s supposed to be medulla oblongata¾Phil wasn’t up on his vertebrate brains.  Phil gave it up and relegated the matter to his background processing system.

     That evening, Phil and Gloria got into a little impromptu socializing with their new neighbors, who had moved in a month or so ago.  Pat and Tammy Glick had invited them over for a few drinks on the patio in their back yard, now that the hot summer sun had retreated. The Glicks’ three-year-old ankle-biter, Ricky, was running loose underfoot.

     Phil watched as Pat gathered up some beef jerky he’d been drying in the sun all day.  “Here.  Be brave.  Try some.” Phil gnawed on a small piece, and immediately decided he liked it.

     “So how do you make this stuff?”

     “Oh, just get the grocery to slice you some beef round, then marinade it overnight in the ‘fridge in soy sauce and whatever spices you like, and then dry it in the sun.  After it’s dried a bit, paint it with a mixture of soy paste or barbecue sauce and syrup or honey. Sprinkle a little spice on it.  Lemon pepper is good.  Paint the other side after the first side’s paint has dried.”

     “No cooking?  Raw?  Is that safe?”

     “Yes, I asked my doctor about it.  No sweat.  Disease boogers can’t live in it with all the salt from the soy sauce, what with having very little water left.  And, the sun does sort of cook it, even if it never reaches really high temperatures.”

     Phil helped Pat pick up the jerky and put it in plastic bags. “Hey, mind if I get Gloria to try this stuff?”

     “Be my guest.  My wife is too tame to try it.” Phil took a piece over to Gloria, who was playing with Ricky, much to Tammy’s amusement. Adults without children seemed to have so much more energy to spare for them, Tammy commented.

     “Ummel!  Check this stuff out!  This is the best desiccated dead cow I’ve ever had!” “Ummel” did indeed check it out; her palate was at least a little on the adventurous side.

     “Ummel?,” Tammy questioned, probing Phil with a look, “Where’d she get a name like that?” This was one of Phil’s favorite questions, and a chance to show off.

     “That’s U.M.L., for Unfermented Mead Lagomorph.”

     “Huh?”

     “Well, mead is honey wine, and a lagomorph is a rabbit or a hare, so an unfermented mead lagomorph is a honey bunny!”

     The four of them sat around and drank their drinks, keeping an eye on the antics of little Ricky.  Phil was thinking about the term lagomorph, and how he’d been required to get his taxonomy of the entire animal kingdom down pat in school, even though he was specializing in bacteria, when inspiration hit him.  On that problem of how to control insects without the use of chemicals¾why not genetically engineer insectivorous insects?  If one could engineer brand new species of bacteria, then why not also more complex, multi-celled critters like insects?  The rest of the hour or so he and Gloria spent at the neighbors’ house, he was somewhat distracted with his thoughts.

     Genetically engineering multicellular critters would be orders of magnitude harder than bacteria, he realized.  Sure, we’ve moved a lot of genes from one species to another, he thought, but no one has ever built one from the ground up, the way we do with bacteria.  Only now were some researchers starting to design “eukaryotes,” or single-celled critters like amoebas, from the bottom up.  Eukaryotes were considerably more complex than the bacteria or “prokaryotes”.  When one moves from a single cell to a multicellular critter, yet another layer of complexity is thrown in.  One has to worry about how one gets the genes for the liver to only express themselves in the liver cells, etc.  Sure, genetic engineers had messed with a few genes at a time that were known to build specific proteins, but no one had yet been ambitious enough to really “design” a many-celled organism.  How possible would it be to take an existing carnivorous insect, like a praying mantis, and turbo-charge it to clean up every pest in one’s house, he wondered.  Or, would one really have to build from scratch?

     He remembered just some few years ago, in the early nineties, he had read about a few researchers who had literally stumbled across a gene in mice that, for the first time that he knew of, dealt with a higher level of organization of the organs as opposed to specific proteins.  Serendipity had indeed struck these researchers; while looking for something totally unrelated, they had discovered a gene that caused the mice to be “mirrored” in their organ placement; that is, the heart would be on the right and the liver would be on the left, etc. The researchers had estimated that the probability of them randomly stumbling into this gene was one in 100,000!  He remembered thinking, now, maybe this piece of good luck will finally allow us to get a hook on higher organization, but he’d not bothered to keep up with the literature.  He’d just read this in a science-for-the-layman type magazine.  He promised himself he’d catch up on the literature when he got back to work on Monday.

     Phil and Gloria didn’t do much of anything remarkable on Sunday; they just lounged around, read, and went to the pool for a swim.  Phil did do a bit of thinking.  He’d been out of school for five years since he’d gotten his Ph.D., and had sworn off being too ambitious.  Umpteen years of school had taken some of the drive out of him, and he resolved to relax a bit and to not work too hard.

     He was, though, definitely a talented bacteria designer.  He was intimately familiar with the behavior of every amino acid and other organic base found in living things, and had the ability to visualize himself inside a molecule, seeing how things hooked together.  He got to thinking, maybe it’s time to get more ambitious again.  Non-chemical methods of insect control could help the environment¾more food could be grown on less land, with fewer chemicals.  And, of course, there were the matters of money and fame.  Maybe not fame; maybe more so just a sense of accomplishment.  Real money I could handle, though, he thought.

     He didn’t mention any of his pipe dreams to Gloria.  Better to research things a bit before spewing forth far-fetched ideas, even to his girlfriend.  So, how do we fend off the environmentalists on this one, he wondered?  Well, we could of course design them to be dependent on artificial chemicals that people would have to supply to them, so they couldn’t wander off of the home or farm into what was left of the wilderness to ruin the balance of nature.  And, to prevent them from evolving into unintended forms (and niches), we could design them so that they couldn’t reproduce by themselves.

     They could only be cloned in a sterile laboratory environment, under tightly controlled environmental conditions, and again in the presence of man-made bio-chemicals.  Juvenile insects would be shipped to home-owners and farmers in large numbers, just as lady bugs or bees were today, but the adults would lack reproductive organs of any sort. There were plenty of artificial organic compounds that Phil knew of that were harmless to the environment, so selecting a few to make into “leashes” for his hypothetical little monsters should be no problem, he thought.

     OK, so we’ve got artificial compounds as leashes, and no reproduction outside of the lab: that should keep the tree-huggers happy, he thought.  The second gives us an additional benefit: strict control of the market!  As long as we keep secret the special circumstances for reproduction, there’ll be no copyright infringement! Even if someone figured out how to do it, it would hopefully be so complicated that no one could pull it off in a basement-lab type scheme easy to hide from the law.  As soon as I stew on this a bit, and do a bit of research, I’ll talk to the boss.  Phil knew better than to think that he could tackle such an ambitious project on his own.

     On Monday, Phil promptly busied himself researching recent progress in the field of the genetics of the higher organization of multicellular creatures.  Researching recent papers was so mush easier in these days of computer networks!  The mouse discovery had indeed provided a handle to start with, and amazing strides had been made in recent years.  He downloaded the relevant papers and did nothing much that week other than study them, and play with some biochemical models on his computer, all week.  Since he was a self-starting, motivated professional, his boss didn’t bother to keep close tabs on him at all.

     Phil learned all about protein sheaths enveloping DNA strands, and how these, interacting with instructions contained in the DNA itself, allowed, say, lung genes to express themselves in lung tissues, but suppressed lung genes in kidney tissues, and vice versa.  He also learned about the slow differentiation of tissues in embryos.  Recent discoveries seemed to indicate that this differentiation was controlled by biochemical “sensors” that measured the mass of the developing embryo, mostly by detecting levels of nutrients and accumulated metabolic wastes.

     The cube-square law dictates that as an object gets larger, the ratio of its surface area (which allows exchange of nutrients and waste products) to its volume gets smaller, and allows wastes to accumulate more.  Waste levels are highest furthest from the surface, allowing cells inside the embryo to detect their distance from the surface.  The first stages of differentiation were into surface, middle, and inner layers (ecto, meso, and endoderm).

     Yet higher mass (and waste levels) produced development of the circulatory system, which in turn got rid of those wastes and set up a new dynamic of gradients of wastes and nutrients.  Cells now detected their proximity to the nearest bloodstream, and to other cell types, by detecting the concentrations of wastes as well as other chemicals.  So, the entire body would organize itself around the circulatory system. There were also hints that cells kept some sort of “cycle counter” that tracked roughly how many times cells had replicated since fertilization, yielding yet more information on what the stage of differentiation should be.

     In all of his research, Phil never saw any hint of anyone trying to actually design from the bottom up, new types of multicellular creatures.  He saw no reasons why it would be impossible to do so, but maybe that was just because he was somewhat of an outsider looking in. Maybe the experts, knowing what they did, were too aware of the difficulties, and not enough aware of the possibilities.

     By the next weekend, he was confident enough to start bouncing his ideas off of Gloria, and she was supportive.  Even though some of what he said didn’t make a whole bunch of sense to her, a lot of it did, and she was able to give him a few details about tissue organization that cleared up some of his questions.  Mostly, though, it helped him to organize his thoughts by explaining them to someone.  By Monday, he was ready to snare the boss and twist his ear.

     Hector Ramirez, Phil’s supervisor at Advanced Biotechnology Corporation (ABC), was one of the rare corporate bigshots who was totally approachable, plainspoken, and down to Earth¾definitely not a stuffed shirt.  Despite being in charge of more than a dozen Ph.D.s, Hector didn’t dress for success, get his secretary to answer his phone even when he was in to impress callers, or have his sense of humor surgically removed, or do any of those other things that corporate clones do to succeed by putting style over substance.  So, Phil just barged into his office first thing that Monday morning¾Hector could be relied upon to chase him away if the time wasn’t good.

     “Phil!  Long time no see!  What’s new and exciting?!” Phil told him what was new and exciting.  Hector listened attentively, and commented, “Yeah.  I’d bet there would be many billions of dollars of lost crops we could save in the U.S. alone every year.  Or, put it another way, a lot of profits we could snatch away from the chemical companies.  If we can outspend their lobbyists, and convince the regulators to let us get away with this.  Wait!  My wife is a big-time home gardener, and she doesn’t like pesticides.  So, she slaves away in her garden all summer, and even drafts me at times, and all we get is a snippet or two of something edible, and lots of bug droppings.  If we could get her and her friends on Congressmen’s asses.....”

     “Hector, you’re being repetitively redundant, with those last two words of yours.  But yes, indeed, if we can put this in the public’s eyes, and aggressively let them know what’s in it for them, we should be able to sell it.  Even the environmentalists, with the exception of a few biotechnophobes, should be convinced that we’d help the environment by eliminating pesticides and cutting down on farm size.”

     “No doubt this is a good idea.  The next question is, how possible is it, or how cheaply and how fast can we do such a thing?”

     “I’d sure like to spend the next month or two getting some approximate answers to that question.  For starters, I’d like to do a bit of traveling, to talk with some researchers here and there.” Communications in the computer era still couldn’t beat being there, to really gather information and exchange ideas.

     “OK.  Go for it.  We’ll want non-disclosure agreements from the people you talk to, of course.  Keep this under your hat, here, for now¾just you and me.  And, I’d better mention it to my boss; give him as much chance to get warmed up to this idea as possible, ‘cause if this pans out, we’ll soon have to ask for the big bucks to develop it.”

     “Great!  Thanks!  How ‘bout I hand over my bacteria duties for now to Oscar?  I’m not in the middle of anything terribly tough.”

     “Sounds good.  I’ll give him a call and tell him you’re tied up on some hush-hush stuff.”

     “Good deals.  One last thing¾if we decide to gear up to do this, we’ll need more people.  Mind if I drop a few hints that we’d at least appreciate a few resumes to look at here?”

     “Fine.  Leave it at that, though.  The go-ahead for gearing up for this will have to come from pretty high up.  I’d think you’d agree with me that this will be no small undertaking, wouldn’t you?”

     “Yea, verily.”

     Phil was on his way out the door, when Hector stopped him.  “One more thing.  For once, I’ll need to stay on top of what you’re up to. Write me a pretty report, and make me some neat charts and graphs.  I’ve got to occasionally play the role of important executive, and executives have to have charts and graphs.  Seriously, if this looks reasonably possible, we’re going to have to ask for the truly big bucks.  To get the truly big bucks for a big project, we’ll have to play The Game.  Or Games.  Come up with some questions about how this development effort would fit into the system here, so I can go to my bosses and ask them Important Questions.  Then they can feel Important by coming up with some more policy statements, procedures, and forms to fill out.”

     Phil chuckled a bit, but heard what Hector was saying.  Hector knew the score and wasn’t afraid to be honest with his troops¾or, at least, his troops that he trusted.  Yes, he thought, I’ll fill Hector’s needs so that Hector can fill his bosses’ needs, but most especially, so that Hector can keep his bosses out of my way.  This was, after all, corporate America.  Phil had gotten the OK on pursuing the project, which was all he had wanted at this point.  This was a big project, with lots of potential to learn new things and be creative.  Phil walked away feeling more enthusiasm about his work than he had felt in several years.

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

     General Frank Leech, the Air Force’s head of Project Epsilon, sat at the conference table with drooping eyelids, his chin cupped in his hand and his elbow on the table.  Goddamn pre-meeting meetings, he thought as he barely listened to his aide, Captain William Dupuy, and his chief civilian scientist, Dr. Stanley Eisner, and Stanley’s top gopher, Harold Stokes, go on and on about the Big Meeting that Frank and Stanley had been invited to.  Tomorrow was going to be a Big Day: the National Security Strategy Committee was going to meet again, and billions of dollars of “black budget” money that was exempt from Congressional oversight was at stake.

     In his more cynical moments, Frank had some downright dissident thoughts about worthless meetings and meeting-goers.  Sometimes he wondered if it was all an unspoken conspiracy.  “Look.  If you don’t tell anyone that my meetings and memos are all a bunch of worthless fluff, I won’t tell anyone that your meetings and memos are all a  bunch of worthless fluff.  We’ll all write memos and go to important meetings together, and we’ll all be important.  Together.  Very cozy-like.”

     Despite all his pessimism, Frank believed in what he was doing. The country and its freedoms had to be protected, and he couldn’t risk abandoning his duties to a bunch of yahoos who’d screw it up without his leadership.  Besides that, good benefits and sheer inertia kept him going.  Still, at times it was a struggle to subordinate frank honesty to idealism and professionalism.

     So here is Captain Dupuy going on and on about who will be at the meeting and which axes each member had to grind, and here is Dr. Eisner going on and on about the probabilities of this that and the other, and good old Harold is talking about what charts and graphs and which words should be used to make the best impression, and I have to pretend to be Very Interested, thought Frank.

     “Snap out of it!” Frank commanded himself.  This isn’t professional at all, looking like I might drift off to sleep at any moment.  These people doubtlessly had had many pre-pre-meeting-meetings to prepare for this pre-meeting meeting, and I can’t let them think I don’t care.  It’s just that I wish I had time for things other than meetings, and I wish the Big Bosses would stop worrying about the intolerable trauma of witnessing some give and take among their subordinates, who might (God forbid!) have to get a few facts straight while in a meeting with the Big Bosses, instead of having everything neatly pre-packaged in rows and columns and charts and graphs before the meeting.

     Not that Frank minded rows and columns; he was, after all, a military man, and a graduate of the U.S.  Air Force Academy at that.  It was just that he’d been around long enough to realize that apparently well-organized rows and columns of figures, be they numerical or human, often masked underlying chaos.  Why couldn’t the Big Bosses acknowledge that this chaos could never be completely controlled, and let just a wee bit of it work for them at meetings, instead of insisting on having endless pre-meeting meetings to ensure that the meetings themselves went smoothly?  What was most important?  Sustaining the illusion of control? Conducting smooth meetings?  Or national security?

     “All right.” Frank had had about enough of listening to the three of them, and hopefully by now they had had enough of jabbering.  “So we’ve had our review and update of the project so far from you two...” Frank pointed to Stanley and Harold and their thick stack of transparencies, “...and we’ve had our review of who all will be there.” He looked at his aide.  “I’d like for you two to take your charts and graphs...” and blow weasel boogers on them, he thought, “...and distill them down to three pages.  Stanley, you’re invited to bring along your whole original stack of informative and well-prepared information...” and the Encyclopedia of Kitchen Sink Benthic Nematodes, too, if you wish, “...but I doubt that anyone will ask for anything down to that level of detail.  Captain, can you spare me a copy of the dossiers?”

     Capt.  Dupuy dutifully handed Frank the dossiers, including photos, of the various meeting-goers.  I’ve got to not just recognize but also understand these people as best I can, thought Frank.  “Now maybe we should ask ourselves, what questions will they ask us that we’ll have the most trouble answering convincingly?  Granted that we have a good command of the known facts and even of the probabilities of things we don’t know, we still need to worry about broader questions.  Why should a huge chunk of ‘black budget’ funds go to us and not to some other worthy cause?  Somebody play devil’s advocate here.” Yeah, damn straight, anyone who argues my department doesn’t deserve the most money has got to be the Devil himself, Frank thought in a rare moment of cynicism about his own motives.

     None of the three cared to play devil’s advocate against their boss, till, after a brief but awkward pause, Howard spoke up.  “Well, maybe we could look at it in terms of, what are the other choices?  Are there any other projects that deserve covert funds more than we do? What other technologies are there that show promise for the national defense, that need to be developed in the strictest secrecy?”

     “Good point.  I’ll be sure to be thinking about that.” Frank commented.  He sure wasn’t going to be discussing these matters in front of the rest of them, though.  They didn’t have the “need to know,” after all.

     “We’ve already discussed the major objections or questions about safety and treaties.  Unless anyone has anything else to go over, then I’d say let’s get back to work.” Looking around, Frank saw no other issues raised.  “Thanks.  See ya.”

     Frank retired to his office to go over dossiers, and to think.  OK, so let’s go over all these folks again, he thought.  Who are they, and what do I know about them.  So there’s of course the President, Anne Jacobs, the Republican halfway through her first and doubtlessly only term; she’d pissed off too many of the millions of “people’s porkers” among the voters.  She’d been forced into a financial corner, where social security, welfare, unemployment compensation, HUD, food stamps, government medical spending, and similar programs had to be radically cut.  Why, she’d even had the audacity to cut the pensions of retired government employees, including veterans!

     Besides that, Frank thought, she’s just a lousy leader.  Too wimpy. Methinks, politics and women, like war itself, are necessary evils, but why compound the two evils by combining them, if one doesn’t have to? And to think, she’s my Commander in Chief!  I’ll recognize her as being my equal, as soon as she shows that she can write her name in the snow as well as I can¾with nothing but what God gave us.

     He thought back to his Academy days as a member of the class of ‘79, the last class of all men.  They had tried to have their class motto be LCWB, which supposedly stood for Loyalty, Courage, Wisdom, and Bravery, but which in reality stood for Last Class With Balls.  Now those were the days when men were men and sheep were afraid, he thought! It was funny to look back on these days¾the Commandant of Cadets and every other big shot in sight had practically excised those letters from the English language when they found out what they stood for.  Cadets were busted for having the acronym written on the insides of their class rings.  But, the cadets had the last laugh: their parents, who were mostly civilians and therefore not bound to obey the censors, unfurled LCWB banners all over the stadium at graduation!

     OK, so back to the present and my needing to go and fight with all these geeks for some measly billions of dollars, Frank thought.  So then there’s the chiefs of staff.  There’s Paul Emmerich, army grunt and current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Keith Polo, also a grunt, and Kathryn Sechler of the squid persuasion.  Then there’s Ken Healy of the US Jarheads, who Captain Bill’s scribbled-in notes indicate won’t be there tomorrow.  And, of course, there’s my good Air Force buddy and wing nut extraordinaire, Robert Flack.  Why can’t we all just go out and have a good old-fashioned armed-services type drinking binge instead of sitting around and talking about billions of dollars, Frank mentally asked the pictures on his files.

     And then there’s Solomon Bachmeyer of the CIA, and Martin Cavender from Sandia National Labs, and Byron Washington from JPL to represent NASA, Frank continued.  And Vince Marlin of the NSA, Alice Pilkinton of the Department of Energy, and Alan Riggs of the DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency).  And for tomorrow, of course, there’ll be myself and Stanley.

     Frank held his own one-person pre-meeting meeting in his mind. Some things he just knew from general knowledge of the times and of human nature; others he’d specifically been clued in on on the sly by his wing-nut buddy on the JCS. First thing is, they’ll tell us what they think that the modern battle field is evolving into, and what the next war or wars might be like.  Then they’ll swear us once more to cross-your-heart & hope-to-die double-dog-dare ultra-giga-secret decoder-ring secrecy, and speculate on new technologies for the battlefield, with comments on which technologies might and which technologies might not be suitable for secret development, and why.

     They’ll tell us we’re in a tight-budget era, and despite our most fervent, devoted attempts to do so, we couldn’t possibly pursue all promising avenues at the same time, cheaply.  So, only one major new war-toys development effort will be covertly funded.  After operating budgets of the CIA, DIA, NSA, etc., are subtracted from what we realistically think we can squeeze from the taxpayers and the deficit in terms of black bucks, we’ve got maybe a mere ten billion a year at most for the next few years.  We can’t afford to spend it on a hundred projects, each of which will pay off in a hundred years or more, for lack of sufficient funds.  Then, they’ll let me do my spiel.

     I’ll do my spiel.  They’ll ask me about treaties we’ve signed to not develop biological weapons.  I’ll remind them that despite treaties we’ve signed covering gas, we quibble and say that binary gasses, which aren’t lethal till they mix, aren’t really poisonous at all.  Besides, other countries have gas, and some of them don’t even bother with the extra safety provided by a binary system.  Similarly, we can just develop computer simulations of biological weapons, and if we never assemble any, even if we prove to ourselves that we are just hours away from being able to do so at any time, we still won’t be violating the treaties.  Sort of like the “liberal interpretation” of arms agreements argued for during the “Star Wars” efforts of the cold war.  And of course, if we were allowed to assemble some sub-systems of our biological weapons models, just for verification you understand, and we’d never actually complete the assembly.....

     They’ll hem and haw and say that they’ll consider the merits of what we’ve proposed, and then, they’ll think of some straight-laced cover reasons for why the government should get into the business of researching computer simulations of engineered life, just in case word should leak.  Finally, they’ll ask Stanley for another set of assurances how this technology, if ever implemented, would be oh-so-many digits to the minus power of probability of ever malfunctioning, and they’ll quiz me again on estimates of costs and development time.  Then they’ll say that if and when they ever choose to fund us, they’ll maybe think about letting us go from computer simulations to assembling and verifying subsystems someday.  Then they’ll go off and debate it, and we’ll have our way.  This will simply be because no other truly worthwhile major development effort falls into the black budget category.

     That is, unless the politics of turf-fighting prevails, Frank mused.  Ever since the Hatch act had been gutted, there had been a tendency for the budgetary favors to go to those agencies of the federal government whose employees were most active in politics on behalf of the party currently in power.  Sure, there were laws that still said that one couldn’t work for political causes during office hours, and that one couldn’t use one’s public office for political purposes, but who was enforcing this?  It’s so easy for the boss to mention to the workers when they’re having drinks after work, that the boss is going down to the party office later in his spare time to stuff envelopes or donate or “ghost-write” speeches or whatever, Frank thought.

     Then, it’s also easy for the workers to “volunteer” to help, and it’s so easy for the boss to think of reasons why employees get raises or don’t get raises, other than that they did or didn’t help the political party of the boss’s choice.  Any sensible and honest person would admit that bosses are largely free to evaluate subordinates for reasons entirely different from what is written in the reviews, Frank thought.  I’ve done it myself.  So no neat-sounding clauses in the “revised” (gutted) Hatch act could really prevent politicizing the bureaucrats, whose ultimate bosses were, after all, political appointees.

     And, of course, the thing that a bureaucrat would politically support the most would be a bigger slice of pork for whichever agency that particular bureaucrat worked for.  Well, thought Frank, I sure hope that this politicization hasn’t gotten to the point where they’ll deny my project the billions it needs, just ‘cause I didn’t vote for that old bag, let alone getting my troops out to stump for her.  Maybe it would be wise, though, to emphasize how the majority of the bucks for the project would go for Comp Optic computer hardware.  The President, her buddies, and appointees were mostly from the New York area, and Comp Optic was located there.

     Nine o’clock that next day zipped around awfully fast.  Frank and Stanley showed up five minutes early in their finest duds.  For Frank of course this didn’t involve much decision-making; he just made sure his insignia were polished and his shoes were shined.  Stanley dressed in his best imitation of corporate clone regalia, but still looked like an ivory tower type dude.

     Frank hadn’t guessed wrong hardly at all.  The meeting went according to the unwritten script he had previewed in his mental pre-meeting meeting.  Vince Marlin of the NSA chaired the meeting, but the President of course wielded the most real authority.  First, introductions.  Then, Vince was quite wordy and went on at length about budgets, battlefields, technology, the strict need for secrecy, etc. Frank listened with about a quarter of his processing power, with another half devoted to thinking about his own spiel, and another quarter devoted to various spurious thoughts completely unrelated to the national defense, such as, “I’ll bet that Alice used to be quite a lay about twenty years ago,” and, “Wonder what Annie baby Jacobs would say if I asked her to get me a cup of coffee?”

     Distilled to its essence, what Vince had to say was that the modern battlefield was starting to change very rapidly.  He reviewed the technologies that had very recently changed, and the ones that showed the most promise of changing soon.  As he did so, he would nod to whichever bureaucrat belonged to the agency that claimed whichever war technology that was being discussed, saying, “...And we’ve heard from Blah Blah about the progress being made in blah blah, ...,” often mentioning that for this that or the other reason, this particular technology might not really be the best choice for covert funding.

     None of it was new to Frank.  Yes, he thought, I know that radar is getting so advanced that we can hardly hide a snippet of metal in the sky, and yes, I know that controlled fusion power is just about ready to go gangbusters.  There’s no real need to hide the facts about our research into either radar or fusion.  As far as uncontrolled fusion reactions, or H-bombs, are concerned, everyone already knows that laser triggers have already made them much smaller and cheaper, and blurred the distinction between nuclear and conventional wars.  The progress towards cheap space travel wasn’t news to Frank either.

     Poison gas technology had stagnated at the binary gas system.  And yes, physicists and engineers say that once perfected, the system of containing fusion reactions with strong electrical and magnetic fields should be able to be manipulated in such a manner as to pinch off lobes of hellishly hot plasma, squeezing loose a blast of quasi-laser energy. All of these technologies could be assumed to be at the beck and call of any major adversary, most likely China, or, to a much smaller level of probability, Russia.  Smaller nations could be expected to have enough of an arsenal of some of these new weapons to definitely not be push-overs.

     Frank noticed that the President hardly ever watched Vince, and instead mostly studied her notes.  Wish I could do that, Frank thought. But, as a guest to these meetings, I can’t be honest and tell Vince that I already know all these things.  Wish I had the balls to just summarize it all up for Vince, like, “OK, Vince, so after decades of the only significant progress on the battlefield being that which has been introduced by computers, namely ‘smart’ and ‘brilliant’ weapons, we’re finally busting on through.  The future belongs to the defense.  No missile, no bomb, no aircraft, no scrap of metal in the air or in space will be safe from the wrath of humongous multi-zillion dollar fusion quasi-laser stations barely able to fit on the largest of ships.  With the possible exception of massive bombardments of laser fusion artillery to saturate the defense, the decades to follow will favor the defense. So what else is new?  Can I talk about our biological toys now?”

     But of course Frank was enough of a politician to feign intense interest in what Vince had to say.  Finally, Frank heard those sweet, magical words, “So, today we have with us as our special guests, General Frank Leech of the Air Force’s Project Epsilon, and his chief scientist, Dr. Stanley Eisner.  They will describe to us, a technology most promising and eminently well suited for covert funding.  Please welcome General Frank Leech.”

     Frank launched into his oration, showing only a few transparencies, including a “talking bullets” list he’d put together at the last minute. He told them how biological weapons could be developed via computer simulations, using Comp Optics hardware and software that was still being developed, without violating treaties.  Preparations could be made such that the computer simulations could become reality in a matter of hours, if any adversary ever started to use biological weapons, or if the U.S. ever got its back up against the wall for any other reason.

     Biological weapons could gain victory without destroying the enemy’s physical infrastructure or environment, while saving the lives of American soldiers.  Strict safety could be insured by having the biological agents be dependent on artificial trace nutrients supplied only to enemy territory by the American military.  These nutrients could be snuck into enemy territory, despite advanced radar and quasi-laser weapons, by very lightweight miniature aircraft containing no metal. Maybe these aircraft would actually be, or contain, artificial life.

     Frank went on about budgets and schedules, computers, programs and programmers, laboratories, and staffs.  Finally, he mentioned feasibility and civilian industry.  The way he put it was, “We have strong evidence that the schemes we’re thinking about are not only possible, but also probable and practical enough such that a fairly large bioengineering firm has begun to invest very substantial funds into similar schemes.  If they can control insect and plant pests safely with synthetic organisms, we can do the same with a human enemy.  Our knowledge of these civilian efforts are, of course, of the utmost secrecy.  Some of our knowledge of these matters has been obtained through the company’s contacts with government regulatory agencies like the NIH and the EPA, after the company had the government sign non-disclosure agreements.  Other knowledge is even more sensitive.”

     Only Frank, in his whole organization, was supposed to know about the source the government had employed inside ABC.  He had very quietly let Stanley, Harold, and Captain Bill know the scoop.  He wondered how many others at the meeting covertly knew this covert information.  Only Alan Riggs of the DIA and the President were supposed to know, but Frank felt quite sure that there were more who knew.

     Frank opened it up for questions.  He fielded some, and Stanley fielded some; those being the technical questions.  As Frank had thought, there was the inevitable haggling over treaties and their interpretations, and over safety issues.  There were questions about budgets and schedules.  Stanley told them that from his knowledge of the civilian operation, he’d estimate that it would take them at least another six years, probably ten, in addition to the year and a half they’d already spent, to get something to market.  With the government’s higher level of funding, Project Epsilon, on the other hand, could bear fruit within three years.

     Only a few features of the meeting surprised Frank.  One was how adamantly the President insisted that the project never go even slightly beyond computer simulations without her express approval.  She also stated, “If you do get these funds, and we ever decide to let you build subsystems for test, I don’t want these ‘subsystems’ that stop short of final assemblies to be ‘subsystems’ in the same sense that American car manufacturers might want to put together as a final assembly step, the foreign-made car subsystem and a ‘Made in America’ label subsystem.  In other words, no cosmetics, and no game-playing.  The risks are too large.  I don’t want you to even think about subsystems for test, unless these subsystems are on the order of about one fifteenth of the organism or smaller.” Frank took it as a good sign that she was already talking about such details¾this meant they’d most likely get their funds!

     Stanley protested the President’s assertion that the risks were too large, repeating his estimates that the probabilities of the scheme going awry could be held to infinitesimal levels.  Anne clarified her stance.  “Maybe it would be more clear to say that even though the probabilities may be low, the stakes, or the potential losses, would be enormous.  We’re talking about the possibility of human extinction.  But yes, I understand that such a thing is practically impossible.  There is, though, another set of probabilities to be addressed here: What is the probability that our secrets will eventually, probably sooner rather than later, be spilled to the media?  Damage control will be much easier if we’re talking about ‘mere’ computer simulations, versus building synthetic killer organisms in the lab.”

     That lead to a discussion of cover reasons for the government’s involvement in computer simulations of synthetic life.  The spook types, from the CIA and DIA, tried to convince Anne that there was no real danger of a leak, and hence no real need for cover stories.  Anne was a sufficiently experienced politician to know better.  Frank was hardly at all surprised at what they came up with; he was even deft enough to hint around semi-subtly, so that Anne thought that the best idea was somewhat her own.  After they’d batted around the idea of trying to portray such research as defensive, where it was obviously offensive, Frank said, “Wait!  After all, the U.S. government has an obvious interest in preventing our purely peaceful civilian technology from being diverted for nefarious purposes by other nations.  How are we going to be able to assess the war-making potential of this technology without doing some simulations?”

     Anne stepped in with the comment, “And of course, we had to keep it secret, so as to make sure that our simulations didn’t give some other countries some bad ideas.  If we ever have a leak, well, then, we were also looking for ways to develop this technology so that it would be entirely impossible to adapt for military purposes, so that we could share it with our businesses, but we just didn’t get very far.  But if any of our conversation ever leaks, I’ll personally kick some butt.” She glared around the room.

     Great! thought Frank; now the old biddy will think the idea is at least a little bit hers, and so, will stand up for it.  What an astute mo-fo I am, he thought as he mentally patted himself on the back.

     The next turn of events, also in the category of covering ass, took Frank by surprise.  Anne was really into CYA¾Frank had noticed her ass was a little big, but he really didn’t think it merited this much covering!  She noted that “Nothing beats ‘the other guys are doing it, too,’ as a reason why a new weapon has to be developed,” and that this was what would be needed if there was a very serious leak.

     Then, she went on to say that IF the decision was made to fully fund the program (what a joke, Frank thought; this is already signed, sealed, and delivered), then Stanley should see to it that some tantalizing but skewed (but not too skewed) information should be dropped off to the Chinese, so as to encourage them to dabble in some development efforts of their own.  The CIA would be enlisted in the effort to make sure that the Chinese would have little reason to think the information was somewhat bogus.  The Chinese, rather than the Russians, were the logical choice for “most credible bogeyman” (bogeyperson?) to scare the public with, since they were, after all, far more the maverick on the international scene these days.

     Frank had some serious doubts about the idea, but wasn’t willing to voice them at the cost of jeopardizing his funds.  Hey, what the Dragon Lady wants, she gets, he thought, as long as I get my bucks!

     Frank and his troops were notified that they’d get their bucks, all of two weeks later.

 

 

CHAPTER 4

 

     Phil Schrock’s brain was feeling a little strained from the morning’s intense design activities.  Working with ABC’s consultant on hard-coded neural wiring or “instincts,” and then translating this wiring into genetic code, with computer assistance, was no cakewalk, especially considering that Phil had to work closely with computer and neurology experts who were trying to get him to understand concepts outside of his normal areas of expertise.

     Phil decided that his noggin might benefit from a short break, so he took a walk down to the computer lab, where his top technician was entering some data.  A little simple physical activity, like walking, was often just barely enough distraction, while still allowing Phil’s abstract thoughts to process in the background mode, to allow Phil to come back to his problems with fresh ideas.  Besides, he should at least occasionally check on his direct reports, now that his duties included some management.

     Don McCulley was entering data into the computer while located right next to it, because this was no simple pecking at the keyboard. The complex paths between Don and BioSage III (BS, or Bull, as the hardware/software beast was known to its masters) passed way too much data way too fast for any other arrangement to be economical.  What Don was doing was slowly but surely “teaching” the machine how nature builds living molecules, at the same time as using it to figure out the 3-dimensional structure of natural compounds.

     The machine would be given a slew of chemical formulas, and from its coded rules concerning the behavior of atoms and molecules of biological “building blocks” such as nucleotides and amino acids, it would deduce the most likely 3-dimensional composition of the compound. Then, the computer’s “theoretical” computation would be compared to reality, which was easy when the actual 3-dimensional structure was known from experimentation.  Thus, the computer would learn from its mistakes, and improve its ability to “theorize” accurately the composition of a molecule, given only limited information about what subunits it contained, and its chemical behavior.

     What was more difficult, and thus, required far more human interaction, was figuring out the 3-dimensional composition of compounds where there was little experimental knowledge.  This, of course, was Bull’s real purpose.  Having a computer duplicate known data would have been nothing more than a neat trick.  Bull would calculate a “best guess,” and then the guess would be tested against two criteria, those being 1) How hard was the molecule to build?  Even nature’s best enzymes couldn’t build things which adamantly didn’t want to go together, and 2) How stable was the molecule?  Nature hardly ever used highly unstable or metastable molecules, which would “break” at the slightest provocation. Hard-to-make and/or unstable molecules probably represented mistakes by the computer, when nature’s molecules were being examined.  Bull would then retry a limited number of times, and if no suitable models were found, human intervention was required.

     Bull alone was smart enough to figure out about half of his targets, with another quarter susceptible to a joint human/Bull attack. This left only a quarter of compounds to be dissected with the old, experimental methods.  Don was engaged in a joint session; Bull’s other tasks, which didn’t require humans who required sleep, were run at night.  The human brain was still superior in enough respects to these computers that the symbiosis between the two was, indeed, a case of two heads being far better than one, especially when the computer’s peripherals where deliberately designed to partake in a delicate data-intensive dance with humans.

     Don sat suspended in an elaborate 3-piece “saddle” customized to his own particular body, that encircled and padded his crotch and thighs.  Each of the three saddle parts was independently connected to a robot arm, so that Bull could move Don around not only in three dimensions, but also in terms of Don’s orientation.  Each saddle part could also be vibrated at a frequency and amplitude independent from the other parts.  Each of these parameters, in certain modes of operation of the Don/Bull symbiosis, were assigned particular meanings when Bull wanted to send Don information about various subtle measures of molecular characteristics.  These paths were in addition to the more obvious auditory and visual paths, which included synthesized speech, large monitors covering the walls, and holograms of 3-dimensional molecules that Bull would project into the air in front of Don, complete with arrows and other markings to indicate strengths of valence bonds, alternate positions of atoms under thermal excitement, etc.

     Other fancy tools included the ones that communicated both ways, and ones that were purely for Don to send information to Bull.  Don wore data gloves on both hands, and data boots on his feet as well.  These each contained hundreds of tiny sensors¾pressure sensors and the fiberoptic equivalent of gyroscopes, primarily.  This system fed billions of bits of information from Don’s brain to Bull via Don’s nerves, muscles, and skeleton, and Bull’s fiberoptic cables.

     In front of Don, suspended close to the ceiling, was an array of 3-dimensional solid representations of atoms and building-block molecules.  Another of Bull’s robotic arms had the task of fetching whichever toy was needed at the time, and positioning it in front of Don, so that Don and Bull could wrestle with it while communicating to each other various concepts about a given molecule.  When the toy vibrated this fast it meant this degree of energy in its outer electron shell, and when it pressed this hard this way that’s what degree of valence it had to this neighbor, etc., in the Bull to Don path.  Such and such a set of pressures and orientations in Don’s data gloves and boots meant, I really want the molecular subunit located over here and in this orientation, in the Don to Bull path.

     Then of course, there was Don talking to Bull.  Bull’s listening abilities were limited, since this wasn’t Bull’s real purpose.  Other computers that were specialists in such matters could convincingly imitate human beings not only in written communications, but also in listening and speaking, these days.  Phil didn’t pay much attention to philosophical questions about whether computers were truly “thinking” or “conscious”; he felt that there were no magic thresholds in computer intelligence, any more than in the progression from slime mold to jellyfish to crab to fish to monkey to man.  They were both just matters of degree.

     Anyway, Bull was a speaker and listener of limited capabilities. Don would press his right foot down whenever he had a specific command for Bull, and he would speak very clearly at that point, saying, for example, “Fetch whiskey five,” in phonetic alphanumerics, for Bull to fetch a specific modeling “toy”.  Other than that, Don was encouraged to talk freely about what he was doing.  Bull would listen in on sounds that were not specific commands, in the hopes that Bull’s listening skills would slowly improve.  Phil doubted that this had much chance of happening, since Don was pretty much a far-out and irreverent random word generator.  “If Bull ever starts to talk like you, we’ll have to erase his memory and start over!” Phil had once said to Don.

     Don was a salty old dog who had been acquiring his extremely specialized skills for years.  More educated scientist types like Phil didn’t have Don’s highly honed abilities to “talk” with Bull, but they did have their own special insights and abilities to bring to the Don/Bull team.  Phil and other designers would sometimes visit, to interact with the Don/Bull team efforts.  A prime reason for the use of newer, more expensive holograms instead of the older, cheaper, and more cumbersome “virtual reality” goggles was that all humans present at any given time were free to watch each other’s faces, as well as the holograms.  The area right behind Don had a half dozen chairs for guests to watch and advise Don and Bull as they wrestled with imaginary and toy molecules.  Phil slipped into one of these chairs unnoticed.

     Don was pushing a pointer this way and that way through the hologram with his data gloves, periodically leaving the pointer on a particular subunit, then wrestling with its “toy” representation in front of him, getting the “feel” of the molecule.  He didn’t bother getting new toys for each subunit; that was for more detailed work¾a simple sphere would do in all cases at this stage.  So, since there was no need to send vocal commands to Bull, and since the task apparently required only a fraction of Don’s mental efforts, Don was singing, and rather lustily at that.

     “There was....  GUANO IN THE AIR and....  SMEGMA IN HER HAIR... at the SUCK MY.... suck my ba-NA-na,” Don intoned.  Great, thought Phil, this will teach Bull SO much in terms of listening skills!  He considered asking Don what he’d done with the money his mother had given him for singing lessons, but thought better of it.  Better to enjoy being the proverbial fly on the wall for a few more minutes.

     Don finished his cursory examination of the molecule, paused, and prepared to start rearranging it.  Phil glanced at the numbers on the monitors and noted that the molecular model was highly improbable; it was obvious that Bull had floundered here and needed Don’s help.  Don said to Bull, “All right, Bull, goddamn it, this is a bunch of....  BULL SHIT!” Phil noticed Don’s right foot go down on the last two words, indicating a command to Bull.  Then, Phil heard a dispassionate, synthesized voice come back with an inappropriately meek, “Fuck You”. Don’s foot went down again, and Don demanded, “Fuck WHO?!” and once again, the synthesized voice came back with, “Fuck You SIR!!!”.

     Phil had seen enough.  He was no prude by any means, but ABC had to keep up a certain level of appearances.  He debated how to twist Don’s ears gently but firmly.  He decided that it was best to just wade on in; any canned speech about “professionalism” was going to say to Don, “I am a GEEK”.  Phil would get much more respect from Don if he dealt with Don in Don’s medium of exchange, which was ribald, or at least irreverent, wit.

     “I see you’ve finally succeeded in teaching Bull some useful conversational abilities.  I do wish, though, that you could teach him, what shall we say.... abilities more useful to ABC and the GNP, to God and country.” Don twisted his hands and feet, causing Bull to rotate him so as to see Phil, and lowering him to allow half of his weight down to rest on the floor.  If Don was embarrassed, then it was only minutely perceptible by even relatively astute students of Don-isms like Phil.

     “Well, what I am doing for the GNP is that I’m trying to stimulate it, by making you bums buy a good side-kick for Bull here; one that has really good conversational and image-recognition skills, so that Bull and his buddy could solve both your problems and mine.  What a deal! See, when any prude or boss sneaks in behind me, Bull and his buddy could recognize her, him, or it, and deliver an alert, ‘Phil alert! Phil alert!  Hector alert!  Hector alert!’, or whatever.  That would save ABC from having its professional image ruined by slobs like me, and save me from getting ragged on, without my having to obstruct my vision with a rear-view mirror.”

     “As far as God and country go,” Don went on, “I’d like to take advantage of my rights not to incriminate myself, and plead, neither guilty nor innocent, but as the Cossack invaders of Alaska did.”

     OK, I’ll bite.  Phil always enjoyed sparring with Don.  “OK, Oh Great and Cultured Master of History, educate me about the Cossacks in Alaska.”

     “I’d sure hate to give you any ammo to use against me.  5th amendment and all, you know.  I haven’t had my Miranda rights read to me.  Besides, I didn’t do it.  Bull saw me not do it.  I’ll even get him to tell you he saw me not do it.” Don beckoned to Bull, who thrust out appendages to relieve him of his loose-fitting data gloves and boots. Don made the final motions to hang them up.  He stayed in his saddle, though; getting in and out of it was a minor ordeal, and Don only did this five or six times a day, for lunch and breaks.

     Meanwhile, Phil assured him that his testimony wouldn’t be used against him.  “Scout’s honor,” Phil promised.  “What, pray tell, did you do in your former life as a Cossack invader of Alaska?”

     “It isn’t what they or I did or didn’t allegedly not do, its the way they pleaded when accused, which is how I am pleading.  When asked why they behaved so abominably, getting drunk, raiding the villages of the natives, and raping the young Wild Things, they would reply, ‘The Czar is far away and God is far above.’“

     “Yes, but, you see, Hector and I are neither far away nor far above.  We can sneak down here and reprogram Bull to give you a bullride.  Shake some sense, maybe even some dignity, into you.”

     “So when do I get Bull a buddy to warn me of invading prudes?,” Don asked.

     “Soon as you pony up the bucks.  For one part in one nonillion as much, we can have everyone wear bar codes, that Bull can scan as anyone enters the room, to deliver the ‘prude alert.’“

     Now they were talking Don’s kind of ideas.  Don chimed in with, “Great!  We could have detailed classifications, and specific warnings! ‘This area is now a shit joke free zone.  Fecaphobe approaches’, or, ‘This area is now a Religious Zone.  Fun will cease till further notice’, or, ‘Suit alert!  Suit alert!  Everybody be serious!’ But what I want to know is, why am I, as a minority, so grievously discriminated against?”

     “You aren’t a minority, and so you can’t possibly be a victim of discrimination.  You’re just a regular Gringo Honky Paleface Roundeye Goyim.  You can’t kid me!”

     “I am so!  I am a member of a minority group known as debauched old men!  How come I can’t cuss and swear and carry on, or hang pictures of naked women, just ‘cause some prudes are offended?  How come I can’t get anywhere with the fact that I’m offended with the CEO’s obscene bonuses, or that there isn’t enough fuckin’ cussin’ and swearin’ and good smut around this place?”

     “‘Cause God’s on our side.  You better watch it, ‘cause we prudes are His Little Helpers.  You’re up against some stiff competition. Don’t pick a fight with the side that God is on, and we all know that the omnipresent God hates to look at pictures of naked women.”

     “Well, ‘scuse me, but I’ve got my freedom of religion.  I believe in God, but I don’t believe in His Little Helpers.  And my God likes pictures of naked women.  Loves ‘em, as a matter of fact.”

     “Maybe we could have a big, violent battle over who’s side God is really on.  Especially, whose side is the loving and peaceful God on. This loving and peaceful God requires me to smash the snot out of anyone who disagrees with me.”

     “Jeesum!  What a great and original idea!  How’d you ever think of that?!”

     Phil explained, “Well, these insights just come to one, when one becomes a corporate ogre and an autocratic executive like me.”

     “Well, don’t let it go to your head, but I actually almost sometimes get a glimmer of freedom to be me, here on this job.  When I was a wee, young whooper-schnooper like yourself, I was once a product engineer in a computer factory.  This was after the trilobites but before lizards, back in the days before smart-alecky computers would wise off to their betters.  I was in charge of making sure we were getting good hard drives into the factory, and my buddy was in charge  of floppy disks.  You know, track the data, nag the vendors, be a mother hen, make sure the gorillas on the factory floor didn’t throw them around too hard.”

     “My floppy-drive buddy put up a sign with a picture of a computer and the words ‘Real Men don’t have Floppy Disks’.  So, I had a sign made up with a computer and ‘Real Men have Hard Drives’.  Would you believe, here comes our boss, telling us some nameless, spineless butthole who wouldn’t climb out of the slimy underside of a rock where he/she/it doubtlessly lived to ID themselves, had told our boss he/she/it was offended, and, would we please take down our signs!  I mean, pictures of computers to put it all in a clean context, and everything!  And the prudes carried the day!”

     Phil knew all too well the type of person Don was talking about. He dredged his mind for a similar experience.  He’d never really been deemed to be rude, crude, and socially unacceptable, or in need of being censored.  All he could come up with was a case where he’d been in on a harmless practical joke, and a sober “suit” character hadn’t appreciated it.  “When I worked a summer job once, I worked for a boss who thought he had a sense of humor, but obviously didn’t.  We didn’t get busted or censored or anything, but we were truly wicked!  He never cleaned his coffee cup, so we borrowed it once, and carved a tiny toilet seat and lid out of Styrofoam packing plates, complete with a paper clip for a hinge.  We then put this on his coffee cup.  My contribution was a few raisins out of my stash of ‘gorp’ or trail mix that I kept handy for munchies.  These were dropped into the cup, in an artistic arrangement, to represent tiny turds.

     “The boss never mentioned it to anyone, but he did clean his cup. I suppose if he’d been of a higher class of nerds, he’d have seen to it that the Big Boss would have published a memo about being respectable, delectable, intellectual, etc., and refraining from crude and vulgar behavior, so he must have been at least slightly semi-cool.  Or maybe too embarrassed to ‘fess up that he was guilty of gross negligence in the coffee cup hygiene department.”

     Don had to have the last word.  “I once worked at a hard drive manufacturer, where we had to work in clean rooms, and they’d make us wear these nylon ‘bunny suits’ to keep our skin and hair from shedding off little bits and flakes, contaminating the air with particles.  We used to wonder whether we could be fired for farting in the clean room, for putting too many particles in the air.  Anyway, we had all these heavy sheets of clear plastic hanging here and there, to restrict the air flow and hopefully give particles something to cling to instead of polluting the air.  A person whose identity remains a state secret, once used some of this heavy clear plastic material for a nefarious purpose. We had this bizarre black test operator whose chair’s underside was discovered to be coated with boogers.  So, a certain devious individual covered the bottom of this chair with tape and pieces of plastic sheeting, which was labeled with a magic marker as being a ‘booger guard’.

     “Our good buddy, unlike your former boss, made no attempt to take it in stride.  He decided this was a matter of racial discrimination, which couldn’t possibly have been true, since a booger is a booger is a booger.  The plastic was equally impervious to boogers of all races, creeds, colors, sexes, and persuasions.  Yet, this incident was the kind of thing that provided the company equal opportunity lady with her bread and butter.  She conducted several mass and individual interrogations of the workers, like we were school children, scolding us and offering threats and bribes to weasel us into ratting on the perpetrator of the ‘booger guard’ atrocity.

     “No one ever ratted.  The black guy took such great offense at the whole thing, that his psyche and his self-esteem and little baby feelings and such were all crushed, that he couldn’t work any more.  So, he apparently retired on disability or workmen’s comp or some such thing.  The perpetrator remains at large.  Scary thought, huh?”

     “A gruesome thought indeed.  Just to think, that person could be right here right now.  You’d never know who he is or when he might strike again!  But as long as such a person would make sure that they wouldn’t, say, have ABC’s computers trained to assist him in his debauchery, then, I guess I wouldn’t want to risk tangling with such a vicious beast.”

     “Yes SIR!  Jawohl, mein Herr!” Don clicked his heels together and rendered a Nazi salute.

     “To quote a mutual acquaintance of ours...  ‘Fuck you, SIR’!” Phil replied.  “I think I’ll wander off and dream of some more ways to censor your free expression of your true self.  I don’t know how much more of your true self we could stand around here.”

     Phil strolled on back to his office.  On the way, his beeper went off.  It was Hector, so Phil changed course and set sail for Hector’s office.

     Gary Peck, Doug Meyer, and Pam Jones, as well as Hector of course, were there.  When Phil arrived, they shut the door.  Gary was site manager, Doug was the manager over all the software types, and Pam was in charge of computer security.  All four were wearing their most sober faces.  Phil sat down.  He’d already guessed what the topic would be, since Pam was there.  Phil wasn’t at all the type of fellow to whom cloak-and-dagger stuff came naturally, but he was starting to realize that there would be a lot of people who’d be real interested in what they were working on.  Secrecy could hide a lot of sins, he realized, but it could also protect one’s investments and creative efforts.

     Phil’s thoughts raced. OhmiGod, all my hard work’s been compromised!  All those late hours, all that creativity, and now some thief at some other company is going to get the credit for what I’ve done!  He glared at Pam, but she evaded his stare.

     “Bad news for you,” Hector informed him, “Pam discovered that in the middle of the night last night, someone set up a bogus user ID, account, password, and all the other trappings that Pam could fill you in on, if your understanding of such matters would make it worthwhile. They then did God knows what, and erased all records of what they’d done.  Or at least, so they almost definitely thought.  Probably unbeknownst to them, we have a gizzmachie or some such that records certain transactions.  Pam, could you fill us all in again?”

     Phil just about boiled over and lashed out.  “You damned, stupid, incompetent wench!” he thought to himself, trying to translate to something he could say, and at least sound semi-respectable.  At the last second, he restrained himself, thinking, who knows what opportunities I’ll blow if I show myself to be too much of a hothead?

     Pam stared quizzically at Doug.  Doug nodded, and mumbled, “Yes, all of it.”

     Pam explained.  “We have various servers here as I’m sure you know. Some are hooked to bigger and more specialized machines, like Bull for example.  Almost every computer here, though, is in some form or another hooked to our ‘server server’ if you will, and that hub is the only link from any computer here to the outside.  In other words, it has the only FOS.” Yeah, but the FOS has got a lot of foes, including me, Phil thought, especially when the damn thing is bogged down and I can’t get my job done.  But now didn’t seem to be the time for wisecracks.  What she meant was that there was only one Fiber Optic Utility Link, or FOUL, online to the ONLINE, or Optical National Link, InterNationally Extended.  FOUL online to the ONLINE was a mouthful, and so was Foul Online Squared, so the latter got acronymified in turn into FOS.

     “And as you all know, Uncle Sam in his infinite wisdom requires us to install his snoop port.  Then he also monopolizes on the most powerful aspects of snoop ports.  What only about three or four people knew before today, though, is that we’ve got some... what shall we say.... methods here of cutting into Uncle Sam’s supposedly exclusive domain.  What with the environmentally sensitive issues we deal with here, we’ve never had the balls to do what some companies do, which is to encrypt with our own standards before we use the official encryption. But we’ve been fortunate enough to be able to take advantage of an option very few people have ever heard about.”

     Phil watched as Pam paused nervously and swallowed several times. She must be having a hard time, probably doubling in a single day the number of people who knew this deepest of secrets, that she had doubtlessly jealously guarded for years.  Phil used Pam’s momentary pause to review the facts, which he’d kept up with with only limited interest.  After all, he was not a pedophile or some such, so he wasn’t afraid of getting busted for sending kiddy porn across ONLINE.  And Gloria didn’t let him be a pothead anymore, like in the days before they got serious.  So, even though he regarded the government as a bunch of heavy-handed busybodies in this regard, it wasn’t a concern to him personally anymore.

     Phil knew that the government reserved the right, with a court order, to snoop on communications.  He grudgingly granted that the government, in the public interests of preventing terrorism, fraud, pollution, rape-murder-mayhem etc., should have the right to snoop.  If he thought about it, and he was in an accommodating mood, he’d even agree that there was no other choice in the modern era than to provide snoop capabilities at the consumer and taxpayer’s expense.

     But, along with many in corporate America, he worried about the government reserving a “key” to all encrypted communications.  What if another corporation or another nation got hold of the government’s keys? And he wasn’t too fond of his tax dollars being spent, and his privacy being invaded, for one of the government’s primary excuses for snooping. That was, to keep the potheads in jail while the murderers ran free.  He just wished that the evils of government, including snooping, would be reserved to fight real evils, instead of substances not approved by Big Busybody.

     Technology permitted companies to encode their data so as to be totally secure for all practical purposes, but here was Big Brother requiring the ability to snoop.  Some companies, who felt that their risk of getting a court-ordered wire tap against them was less than their risk of being spied on by competitors, took the risk of encrypting data with their own standards, above and beyond the government approved standard.  These companies took the risk of getting busted for illegal encryption if the government ever got a court-ordered wiretap on them. But, what the hey, if one can be totally and completely secure from being snooped on by one’s competitors for many years before being busted in an unlikely wiretap, then why not?

     Phil also knew that the government prohibited employers from snooping on their employees without a court order.  Only the destinations and lengths of employee transactions, and not the contents, of employee transactions could be recorded.  These could be recorded in the employer’s interests, since the employer, after all, paid the ONLINE utility bills.  The rule that the employer got to record destinations and lengths of calls had exceptions, though: “whistleblower” calls concerning violations of the environment, equal opportunity, safety, or other crimes, as well as calls by government employees, could be placed at any time over any FOUL without the FOUL’s owner being able to record anything about the calls.  At least the government paid for the bills for these calls.  The government kept somewhat of a lid on the “boy who cried wolf” syndrome by fining people who were found to be bogging down the government’s ONLINE accounts with too many false claims.

     Pam finally steeled herself to carry on.  “Understand now that our little ace in the hole isn’t capable of spying on employees.  I’ve taken great pains to document that this has always been true, so that if we ever get caught, we can show that we were at least obeying the spirit of the law.  What we’ve got is a souped-up version of a FOUL Intelligent Remote Monitor/Manager, or FIRMM.

     “FIRMMs are fairly common.  A FIRMM is a local intelligent busmaster board, meaning a board with its own computer independent of the host that it resides in, that is specifically designed to monitor and manage a FOUL.  In other words, it watches and records transactions, ‘remembering’ in nonvolatile memory what, for example, were the last instructions executed before a crash, for use by the system manager in preventing future crashes.

     “If it observes an ONLINE fault, or even a host crash, it’ll call the system manager up out of his or her sound sleep, via beeper or telephone, for those who still have those ancient old telephones instead of an ONLINE phone.  Actually, telephones are still a really good idea for systems managers with FIRMMs, ‘cause a telephone and a modem are an alternate way of talking to the FIRMM if ONLINE is down.  So, without going in to work, you call up on that old dinosaur, the modem, and fix the problem over the phone.  ‘Cause remember, it’s a busmaster board: it can be the boss, manipulate its host, even do a reboot.

     “Normally, a FIRMM specializes in the tasks I’ve just mentioned, and wouldn’t make a good tool for spying on employee communications. Even our souped-up version doesn’t; it still doesn’t have enough memory. But we do have a souped-up version that is illegal.  It records ALL transactions, including those on Uncle Sam’s accounts¾whistleblower calls and such.  Now, before you run off to tell the papers about big, bad ABC running around tromping on people’s rights, let me tell you this:,” she was looking at Phil; the others had probably already heard this.

     “I have it set up so that the person’s ID on an Uncle Sam call is recorded only if it exceeds ten gigabytes.  In fact, only calls this large or larger are logged, in the case of Uncle Sam calls.  Not the contents, obviously, just destinations, times, dates, and lengths of transactions.  I think you’d agree with me that no legitimate whistle-blower would need to push that volume of data around just to be heard.  Ten gigabytes of what might be corporate secrets deserves a court order before we let it go.

     “But, even though we at ABC are pure as the driven snow, we live in a world where hackers run amok and software can easily be changed and hidden.  A souped-up FIRMM might provide too much temptation to snoop on employees.  So, when the government caught wind of a small-time operation that was souping up FIRMMs, it shut them down pronto and hunted down what contraband it could.  It even made the existence of these things a state secret.  Media, being dependent on the government’s monopoly on ONLINE, hasn’t challenged this secrecy.  But, meantime, twenty or fifty or who knows how many of these things have made it onto the black market.  Almost definitely there are no more than fifty.

     “ABC has made a lot of investments in gaining loads of quite precious data, as you might know better than I.  Way back when, we worried about someone using Uncle Sam’s accounts to spy on us and ship out vast quantities of our data without us knowing about it.  So, we took advantage of a fortunate opportunity to acquire a souped-up FIRMM.”

     I’ll bet I won’t hear the details about that purchase, Phil thought.  He’d actually heard rumors of such things, but had always discounted them.  Was there someone at ABC with connections to the mob?

     “So, we installed our ‘funny FIRMM’, making sure it was completely invisible to any hacker hacking around where they don’t belong, and set it up to let me know about suspiciously gigantic transfers on the Uncle Sam accounts.  We’ve got a regular FIRMM as well, ‘cause the souped-up version had some of the original functions gutted out.  Last night I got paged by our funny FIRMM, for the first time in the five years it has been installed.

     “I’m still kicking myself in the butt for being such a sound sleeper, but, even though the log indicates that all the funny business started happening about two in the morning, the beeper didn’t wake me till about three, and by the time I got my groggy self to the modem and finally checked the number on the beeper thoroughly, and realized it was the funny FIRMM, it was even later.  So, I called Doug, and by the time we’d discussed it¾I’d never actually stopped to consider what if the thing goes off¾Doug and I decided that it was too sensitive a matter to just call security.  I mean, with a thing like this, for all we know, it could be someone in cahoots with security.  So, by the time Doug and I got here at five, the deed had been done.

     “So what all did they get ahold of?” Phil asked, “We don’t keep anything that terribly sensitive anywhere where anyone can just dump it out onto the FOS, anyway, right?”

     “Well, that’s the way its supposed to work.  Supposedly, our most sensitive data structures are all set up so that access is very tightly controlled, and no part of them is supposed to be able to get to FOUL’s host, let alone across the FOS without my specific authorization.  I’ve got a magnetic ID disk surgically implanted in my body, and only I am allowed to change security levels on these files.  All the experts told us this was totally secure; the only way anyone could bypass this was supposed to be by kidnapping or killing me to get my ID disk.  But, FIRMM tells us that the sizes of the files sent out match the sizes of our most sensitive files, that supposedly were impossible to send out.

     “Last night, someone accomplished a lot of impossible things.  They created a highly privileged account, used it, and erased entries in transaction logs that aren’t supposed to be able to be erased.  Let me skip the details, and just say that whoever it was, must’ve had information that our suppliers of computer hardware and software don’t give willingly to anyone.  I’m tempted to think that FIRMM is fibbing to us, but that would be ridiculous.  We are very lucky to have FIRMM’s detailed records, including all transactions to FOUL’s host, and all transactions of ten gigabytes or larger, that went out across FOS, on Uncle Sam’s accounts.  So far, it looks like we’ve been cleaned out, lock, stock, and barrel.  Everything they could get their mitts on. About sixty terabytes got copied and sent out last night.

     “The only good news that we have, is that our biggest simulator was running an utterly monstrous simulation last night.  One that...”

     Phil interrupted, “Great!  Yes, I stepped on some toes last night at about eight, and shoved everyone off the schedules, so that I could run that thing.  I bumped a whole bunch of small stuff.  If anyone was planning a raid, and had access to the schedule, it would’ve looked real good, till I got greedy.  Then, the main simulator tied up our most sensitive files, the ones on immune systems and brains, and wouldn’t have let anyone get at them during the simulation.  We’re damn lucky I got greedy last night.”

     Gary looked at Pam, and asked, “Anything else you’d like to add?”

     “Well, just one thing.  For all the sophistication this mysterious hacker supposedly would’ve had to have, he or she was awfully slow. As if they were working off of a written instruction list or some such, and weren’t really themselves that talented.  If this had been myself last night, I’d have done in a half an hour, what took them two hours.”

     “OK.  I’ve got a few questions,” Gary said in a take-charge manner. “First, don’t we have a log of who enters and leaves the building in the wee hours and weekends?  Who was here?”

     “No one but security, that we know of.  But, someone could have stayed here all night, and we’d not know about it, since we don’t track people during the day.”

     “Can’t we track destinations of transactions across the FOS? Where’d this stuff go?”

     “To an account every bit as bogus as the hacker’s ID.  The account doesn’t exist.  Somehow, the hacker set up an account that falls into the Uncle Sam group of accounts, but isn’t listed.  Doug experimented a wee bit, without risking too seriously the possibility of letting on that someone here knows about the security breach.  He called a little-known buddy of his, and had him play proxy, if you will. That is, he had him call a ‘wrong number’ that by total accident is this mystery account.  Doug even made his call from a public pay phone, in case this place is bugged nine ways to Sunday.  As of this morning, the account didn’t even exist, so it must’ve been open just for this transaction.  In other words, it wasn’t just an unlisted number used by government spooks or some such.” Doug nodded agreement.

     “Any hints at all as to who the thief was?  Any hunches?  A competing firm?  A foreign country?  The feds, even?”

     “I’d think we could rule out the feds.  They could get a court order to tap us through the snoop port any time they want to, and we’ve been completely above board, even far more than we really have to, with the regulatory folks.  The NIH and the EPA, you know.  I suppose that someone working for the feds might be in on this, though, without the knowledge of the feds.”

     “Well, I’ve really got to hand it to y’all.  You’re not only hackers from Hell, you’re also some smoothly operating cloak and dagger types.  I’ve got a few ideas that I’ve got to ask you about, to see if you can achieve some more hacking wonders.  Could you, by any chance, set it up so that your dingafunger doesn’t merely deliver an alert in case of a breach, but also shuts down the FOS, in such a manner that it would appear to be a random failure?”

     Pam and Doug batted a bunch of buzzwords back and forth, and finally concluded that such a thing was, indeed, possible.  Gary went on to say, “Do it.  If a breach happens again, we’ll have to turn it off, though, if we want to keep our ace in the hole a secret.  They are not gonna believe that the FOS just randomly happens to go down every time they try to rip us off.  So, we’ll need another plan for the longer term.  Phil, could you take those most critical files that we were so lucky with, and warp them in some plausible manner?  I mean, take your most central, creative secret discoveries, and butcher them, so that they wouldn’t work, but in such a manner that it’s not obvious.  Then, if they get ahold of these files, they’ll have a can of worms.”

     Phil thought about it.  “Yes, it could be done.  We’d have to go through tons of data, and twist bits and pieces of it in a lot of places, in order to stay consistent.  But then, we’d have to undo all this work, every time we want to use the data.  If we write some program to translate back and forth, it will be available on the computers, and so there goes the secret.  Probably not practical.”

     “Wait!” Doug chimed in, “We can put a HIRMM in every host.  These can twist the data without being accessible, and they’d be in the path to every simulator, so that the simulators and other hosts here would have the real McCoy that they need, while everyone else would get shit.” He noticed puzzled looks from all but Pam.  “A HIRMM is like a more general FIRMM, but it’s a Host Intelligent Remote Monitor/Manager instead of specializing in FOULs.  A data-warping and un-warping program would reside on the HIRMMs.  I think I might be able to break up the task of writing a data-warper, and have most of my troops think that it is something else, as long as Phil doesn’t make the algorithm too complex, and Pam does the final integration.”

     Doug, Pam, and Phil launched into a brainstorming session.  Hector started working on his computer on other things, and Gary left, saying he’d be back in 10 or 15 minutes.  The three worked out the general outlines of a data warping HIRMM program, so that any computer on the network without a HIRMM and special program, would get subtly warped data.  They also thought of deliberately bollixing the whole network internal to the ABC site, so that they could have a plausible excuse for needing to “fix” things by installing HIRMMs.

     Gary was back soon enough.  They explained their scheme to him. His reaction was, “Well, it sounds like a lot of money and time we could spend on developing our product.  But, we’ve got to protect our secrets. Above and beyond even these measures, eventually we’re gonna have to really crack down.  We can’t take a whole bunch of measures to increase security right now, without showing our ace in the hole.  But, if in a few weeks someone was to spill some juicy gossip to the media anonymously¾someone like Phil, for example¾we could get some good press without leaking anything too valuable¾then, we could be just totally outraged, and crack down.  I know a lot of people will hate this, but we’ll have to totally sever a lot of our machines from the network.”

     Phil stifled a groan.  Yuck!  Having to transfer gobs of data by hand-carrying storage devices would really slow things down.  Oh, well!

     “But,” Gary went on to say, “Whatever computers we can reserve for working only with non-sensitive information, we’ll still allow on the network.  You’ll need to invent some hopefully not too lame excuse about why we can’t afford to treat the gimped-up files as sensitive, also.  Whatever else you can dream of, that we need to add during the crack-down, in the way of enabling us to catch our spy, or preventing the dirty deeds, I’ll want to hear about.”

     Phil thought over the whole scheme, and noted how Gary had steered the thinking.  Hot Damn!  That’s not too shabby!  So this is why they pay Gary the big bucks!

     That, and, sheepishly, he thought briefly about how he’d been just about ready to dump on Pam.  She’d done an excellent job, and he’d almost shown himself to be incapable of being professional, of keeping his opinion to himself.  He’d narrowly averted a ding or two to his professional image.

 

 

CHAPTER 5

 

     “Hi.  I’m Hector Ramirez, project manager for Advanced Biotechnology Corporation’s project ‘Model T’.  Actually, during the four years we’ve had this project in development, we’ve changed project names quite a few times, just in case any spies (excuse me, ‘unauthorized personnel’) got ahold of any of our documentation.  ‘Model T’ is only our most recent project name, but probably the most fitting. What we’re about to unveil today will be the first practical commercial application of multicellular biosynthetic organisms ever.  It presages many more advanced products to come, just as the first practical automobiles did so many years ago.

     “I realize there have been many rumors about today’s press conference and what we’re about to announce.  Despite our best efforts at secrecy, there have been inevitable leaks.  Today we’ll quell all the wild gossip and let the truth, with all its promises, be known.  I believe that when you know the full truth, most of you, and for that matter, most of all the peoples of the world, will agree with me that what we’re about to introduce is not trivial.  While not as immediately, obviously Earth-shaking as the recent breakthroughs in controlled thermonuclear fusion, in the long run, I believe the technologies being pioneered here will provide just as many benefits to humanity, if not more.

     “Before I steal any of his thunder, I must get to my real purpose today, which is to introduce the man who originally came up with the ideas whose fruits you’ll be introduced to today.  He will fill you in on all the details, or at least, all of those that are no longer proprietary.  He’ll do a better job of this than anyone else is capable of.  First, though, let me make it very clear that there are many other brilliant, hardworking individuals who contributed a lot of long hours and creativity to this project.  In the front two rows we have about thirty of our top scientists and engineers, who we’ll introduce to you as the needs may arise.  Without these individuals, we’d have never accomplished the feats we’re announcing today.  Special mention should be made of our programmers, who took computers to biochemically simulated virtual realities where no computer had dared to simulate before.”

     Hector didn’t mention it, but behind the troops, in the third row, were the corporate bigwigs, all the way up to and including the president.  They were trying to look inconspicuous.  With a fairly great amount of willpower, they had managed to swallow their egos, and let a few of the front-line troops have the day’s limelight.

     “So, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, here he is, not only a great biochemical engineer, but also a good friend, Dr. Phillip Schrock.”

     Grinning with a modest amount of embarrassment, Phil got up from the front row in the hotel auditorium, and strolled to the stage.  He was dressed casually, in accordance with his substance-over-style principles, as were most of his co-workers.  Only Hector and a very few others had even bothered to wear a tie.  Hector’s bosses had done a great deal of worrying about this press conference, and had wanted a “professional” presentation in the sense of having some gray-faced corporate automatons present prepared statements and charts and slides, but Hector had badgered them into having a “professional” presentation in another sense: the professional whose job it had been to make the project work would address the press and other members of the public.

     Essentially, the way Hector had accomplished this was to say, “Now, look: You may regard Phil as a loose cannon with no sense of diplomacy, and you may want some bland presentation so as to not offend anyone. I’ll tell you, though, what with fanatical anti-biotechnology ‘defenders of the environment’ out there to whom logic is a foreign language, no presentation is going to appease them.  Our best bet is to put someone on the stage who won’t mince words or pussy-foot around.  We need someone who’ll stick it to them, but in a responsible and informed manner.  That person is Phil.  He doesn’t have it in him to try to compromise with people who are wrong.  Besides, he’ll get us lots of press.  Controversy sells.” Hector hooted and hollered till he had his way.

     Phil, as usual, knew the score and wasn’t about to let anyone down. His grin subsided as he trotted up the stairs.  He did his best subtly self-important swagger to the podium.  Solemnly, he adjusted an imaginary tie and announced that, “It has always been my policy to eschew extraneous excursions into obfuscation engendered by pedantic utilization of superfluous, sesquipedalian articulations.” He paused briefly.

     “That means, don’t confuse people by using too many big words.” He smiled at the few guffaws that brought.  “So, I’m trying to avoid any buzzwords or technical terms today.  What technical terms are not avoidable, I’ll be sure to define.  There’ll be a question and answer session afterwards, and I’d encourage you to save your questions till then.” Phil was quite relaxed, and didn’t seem to be planning to refer to his notes, even though he was carrying some.

     “OK.  Let’s get to it.  We’re announcing two products today.  Both are designed to eliminate small pests, primarily insects, but also spiders, worms, etc.  Unlike previous genetic engineering products, we didn’t just swap a few genes here and there.  We considered modifying insectivorous insects, such as lady bugs, or praying mantises, or such, but ended up designing basically from scratch, like we’ve been doing with bacteria for a few years now.  Yes, of course, just like bacteria, we borrow existing genes and overall schemes from nature.  But, just like ‘designed’ bacteria, we built from the bottom up; we didn’t just sneak a few genes into an existing critter.

     “The critters we designed do not fit into any group of natural organisms.  They aren’t insects, worms, spiders, vertebrates, or mollusks.  They form an entirely new class; call it synthetic life or whatever.  For simplicity, we could call them ‘insects’, even though they are entirely different in many respects.  Their behavior and forms resemble insects more than any other group.

     “They come in two types: one for indoors, and one for outdoors. The indoors version is indiscriminate but delicate.  It can survive only at room temperature, but can eat any small living things.  It was deliberately designed this way.  An indoor anti-bug critter needn’t worry about upsetting an ecosphere, so it can just eat every small living critter it finds.  It will even help you clean up by eating crumbs of spilled foods¾only crumbs, though; large items it will leave alone.  On the other hand, you don’t want it escaping to the outdoors, and wiping out a species or two.  So, we put in the limitation that it can survive only at room temperatures, along with other limiting factors that we’ll discuss in a little while.

     “The outdoor version can live in a variety of environments, at a variety of temperatures.  Just like the pests that it lives on, though, it’s active only in warmer weather; That is, it is cold-blooded. Unlike the indoor version, it can eat only specific species.  It recognizes its victims by smell, and is ‘programmed’ if you will, to eat only certain species.  We listed the top 153 species of agricultural pests, including various aphids, cut-worms, weevils, mites, flies, etc. We even included species that bother livestock and humans that work in the fields.  A full listing is contained in a prepared press release. Text file versions of this, along with summaries of what I am presenting, are now being released directly to the media on computer networks, but meanwhile we have hardcopies.” Phil beckoned to aides, who started to pass stacks of paper to the audience.

     “Please note that your press releases contain short biographies of all our major contributors, most of who are here today.  All of them are available to you for interviews.  We here at ABC don’t believe, as some companies do, in muzzling employees and limiting press contact to spokespersons.  We have nothing to hide; excepting some trade secrets, we’re all free to talk, now that we’ve announced the product.  We have taken exceptional pains to create an atmosphere where any potential whistle-blowers, any persons having doubts about the propriety, safety, or environmental impacts of any of our actions, are free to bring up their concerns without having to fear for their jobs.  In the interests of demonstrating this to be true, and in the interests of a well-documented history, we encourage the press to make full use of all of us.” And, of course, in the interests of ABC getting some free publicity, but we won’t mention the obvious, thought Phil.

     “This new method of pest control is far better for the environment than chemical pesticides, and cheaper as well.  A house can be treated twice a year for about $60, and farms and ranches can be treated twice a year for about $10 per acre, on the average, depending on specifics.

     “We’ve got trademark names for our products that even you media types should be able to remember.  The indoor critters are called ‘Bug-Buggers’ and the outdoor versions are called ‘Pest Pesters’. Unlike other big companies, we here at Advanced Biotechnology Corporation don’t believe in paying the big bucks to outside consultants or public-relations companies to come up with brand names for us.  We had a competition where employees submitted various ideas, and we chose the best ones.  The employee with the winning idea wins a bonus.  This helps morale at the same time as it saves us money.  The brand names ‘Bug-Buggers’ and ‘Pest-Pesters’ were submitted by Heidi Henderson. Thanks, Heidi.”

     Heidi, a young, perky data-entry lady, rose from the second row of seats to be recognized.  Not all the employees in the project had come to the press conference; mostly only the top-ranking scientists and engineers, and Heidi, specifically for having thought of the brand names.  She’s pretty cute, Phil thought.  But not as cute as Gloria.  He caught Gloria a few rows back with a smile; she was here to support him, despite her busy career as a surgeon.

     Phil thought momentarily about the brand names.  Amazingly enough, marketing had even bothered to consult with him and other scientists and engineers on what these names should be.  Phil had suggested that they go with very simple, basic names that would call attention away from the potentially scary technological nature of the beasts.  Who would think of “Bug-Buggers” as the sophisticated synthetic little monsters that they were?  Along the same line, they had selected a term and slogan to apply to both varieties of the little beasts.

     “We also selected a name that applies to both of our products, and that is simply ‘Anti-Bug Critters’.  You see, eliminating bugs is as easy as A-B-C; buy ABCs from ABC!” Everyone will hear that slogan in the next few months, Phil thought.  “Our thanks for this name and phrase to Aaron Lee.” Aaron, a computer hardware technician, stood up briefly in the second row to be recognized.

     “Now for some of the details.  As you might imagine, and as you might have already been made aware of through some speculation prior to today’s announcement, there is, and will be, quite a bit of concern about alterations to the ecosphere due to these new, synthetic creatures being used.  Also, ...” Phil was drowned out by a man in the rear of the auditorium with a bullhorn he’d managed to sneak in.  Press cards weren’t too hard to fake.  TV cameras swiveled to get a look at the commotion.

     “WOE TO STUPID SINNERS WHO REBEL AGAINST GOD’S PLANS!” The disrupter thundered.  Two accomplices unfurled a banner proclaiming “THE MEEK, NOT THE SYNTHETIC, WILL INHERIT THE EARTH.” Mr. Bullhorn went on to shout that, “HUMANS ARE NOT GODS, AND WILL PAY THE PRICE FOR TRYING TO PLAY GOD.” The rest of what he had to say soon turned incoherent, as security hustled the news impostors out.

     “Actually, I agree with Mr. Bullhorn.” Phil announced to a perplexed audience.  “We mess with an ecosphere every time we brush our teeth.  We wreak mass havoc and destruction on the millions of innocent bacteria who make their homes in our mouths.  To mess with God’s plans for tooth decay and halitosis, we must pay the price for a toothbrush and tooth paste.

     “As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, we’ve taken great pains to ensure that we know our ABCs; that they’ll do their thing where we want them to, and won’t stray into what’s left of the wilderness, where they could wipe out butterflies along with fleas and flies.  For that matter, they won’t even harm the fleas and flies in the wilds, where they are, after all, part of the natural scheme of things.

     “We are trying to protect the environment by safely eliminating the need for dangerous chemical pesticides, and also by reducing the total amount of farmlands needed to sustain human life.  By eliminating crops lost to insects, we can return some lands to the wilderness.  I’d say, the 50% or so of land surface whose output we steal for human purposes, including farms, ranches, and timberlands, is too excessive.  We need to return some lands to the other millions of species we share this globe with, and reducing waste by eliminating losses to insects is one way we can help to do this.

     “How we accomplish restraining our little critters is an integral part of how we designed them.  Bear with me as we go over the background to today’s announcement, and hopefully we’ll answer many of your questions before you even need to ask them.

     “I’d say at least 80% of our development effort was done by computer simulation.  We model the behavior of amino acids and other organic building blocks to the best of our ability, down to the tiniest of factors.  We build neural nets to emulate the brains of insects and other small creatures, and figure out how the behavior of these organisms is ‘programmed’ by their genes.  After all, insects don’t intelligently reason out how they behave; they follow their instincts. We had to figure out how, among other things, we’d get our ‘Pest-Pesters’ to only pick on the species who smell like the species we want them to kill.

     “Neural nets emulating the brains of even the tiniest of insects are not trivial.  They amount to hundreds of thousands of neurons, or nerve cells, and millions of interconnections.  Other computer technologies we dealt with include ‘knowledge bases’, where we attempt to codify the human experts’ knowledge and intuition on matters of biochemistry, and virtual reality, where we biochemists can actually get inside the molecules and shuffle building blocks around.  That applies both to what we build and to what chemical tools we use to build with. Many thanks to Doug Meyer and his team of hard-working hackers from Hell!” Doug Meyer stood up, and beckoned to his top troops, and all 20 or so of them also stood briefly.

     Phil could very faintly hear some ruckus from outside the hotel, where some large protests were doubtlessly taking place.  Phil wondered who’d get the most press: the press conference, or the protests.  I’d better make this good, he thought: I’ve got to feed the press some good stuff.  But I’d better do my best not to be too obvious, and to be, or at least appear to be, entirely rational.

     “After extensive computer simulations, we built and checked out our creations in the lab.  Not just any old lab, I might add.  The lab we worked in is secure against all but a direct nuclear hit, and nothing, I repeat nothing, escapes from it.  This, despite the fact that our creations are safe, according to every impartial expert that we’ve sworn to secrecy and brought in from outside the project to inspect what we are doing.  Our papers, and theirs, are also being released today.”

     “We have secured patents on our work.  The same National Institutes of Health that approved our facilities, along with the EPA, are now in the process of approving our creations for sale and release; we expect no trouble.  These products should be available in two to three months, assuming that the pesticides lobby doesn’t have too many politicians in their pockets.

     “OK, let’s get down to brass tacks.  The ways in which we keep these critters in check are many.  It is triply or quadruply impossible for them to reproduce without human assistance.  They have no sex organs, and must be cloned in extremely tightly controlled circumstances in the lab, in vats of precisely controlled chemicals.  The temperature, mix, and bacteria-free states of these vats require conditions unknown in nature.  In addition, certain synthetic organic chemicals are also required.  These chemicals include amino acids not found in nature, both in terms of actual molecular compositions, and in some cases, in terms of them being 3-dimensionally ‘mirrored’ from natural chemicals.  Not to worry; these chemicals are readily broken down by bacteria, if they should escape into the environment.

     “The cloning must actually be done in three separate parts.  This increases the odds against reproduction in nature, and simplifies matters for us.  Each of three parts of the organisms requires different conditions for cloning, and the cube-square law works in our favor when we clone in 3 parts.  This law dictates that nutrient and waste exchange is more rapid through surfaces of smaller pieces, allowing us to grow our critters faster.  When the three sub-sections are ready, they mate together to create the final assembly, which integrate with each other and grow in the lab for just a few days before they’re ready to leave the protective environment of the vats, and be shipped to the customer.

     “Three-part cloning also reduces the amount of genetic material required.  Multicellular critters of the natural kind, like you and I, carry a lot of excess baggage, in that all of our cells, with the exception of red blood cells, carry all of the genes required to make any cell in the body, most of which it doesn’t need.  That, and we’ve eliminated a lot of ‘junk’ genes that serve no real purpose, other than to ‘glue’ together the genes that do matter.  These are very artificial critters.  Some of their parts are actually bacteria, far simpler than the cells that you and I are made of.  Sure, you and I also carry bacteria essential to our survival, in our guts, but these critters actually use bacteria as some of their parts.  All of these little tricks end up allowing us to clone these critters far faster than natural organisms grow, cutting our costs and making the whole scheme economically feasible.

     “At the risk of boring you, let me add that we’ve cut one other corner, compared to natural organisms, that allows us to grow ‘em faster at the same time as improving safety.  Maybe I can ensure that you won’t be bored by mentioning that it involves SEX!” Actually, lack of it, Phil thought, but I’ll not state it that way.

     “Most multicellular critters carry two sets of genes that are exchanged sexually, to provide the species with variability so that it can evolve to survive in changing environments.  In other words, they carry twice as many genes as they actually express; the ‘spares’ are carried in the gene pool as a reserve in case the environment changes. Natural multicellular critters spend a great deal of time and effort on sex; they must get some benefit from it.

     “Adaptability to changing environments is that benefit.  Remember that on your next Saturday night date!  You may not think of sex as a huge waste of time, but to these artificial critters, it would be.  So, we didn’t give them the burden of extra genes.  In the totally improbable event that they should learn to reproduce in the wild, the lack of adaptability imposed by lack of sexual reproduction would also insure against them evolving into something harder to control than what they are now.

     “Artificial nutrients are the primary method by which we control their distribution.  But, more on that in a moment.  First, let’s take a quick look at them.” The lights were dimmed and a huge screen was turned on.  A six-legged, four-winged insect-like critter, colored bright orange with black stripes, was shown.  It had no divisions into head, thorax, and abdomen, like a real insect, though.

     “This is a ‘Bug-Bugger’.  It is the size of a house fly, and the only differences between it and a....,” Phil paused for the screen to change, “‘Pest-Pester’ is size, temperature tolerance, and menu.  The ‘Pest-Pester’ is a bit larger.  Both are cloned in 3 sections, those being 1) digestive system, 2) circulatory, immune, and nervous systems, and 3) skin, skeletal, and muscular systems.  The skin, skeletal, and muscular systems subsection envelopes the other two subsections in the final stage, and then they integrate.

     “Both forms are dependent on artificial organic compounds of the same sort that are present in the vats.  Despite being non-toxic in the environment at large, these chemicals would be harmful if you ate them. So, for the indoors version, we put the nutrients inside several layers of protective, perforated plastic boxes.” Phil held up a plastic box.

     “These nutrients are temperature-sensitive, to prevent users from abusing the omnivorous Bug-Buggers.  The chemicals only remain intact at room temperatures.  Designing delicateness into these nutrients comes at a price; their shelf life is only half of a year.  The Bug-Buggers themselves also can only survive at room temperatures.  We wouldn’t want anyone to be able to cheat on us, and use the indoors version outdoors, and have them eat butterflies and bees and such.

     “Users who want to protect granaries and other non-temperature-controlled indoors environments will have to use the outdoors version for now.  I might add that the indoors versions also can’t handle the ultraviolet light present in sunshine, and that we’ll be sure to tell users of the indoors version not to leave the nutrient boxes where toddlers could cut ‘em open and eat the contents.  One has to insure against stupid people winning the lawsuit lottery, you know.

     “Note of course the basic facts that this ‘leash’, this dependence on these artificial biochemicals, is analogous to vitamins and trace minerals, in that they are very low-volume dietary requirements that are vitally essential.  They are not food.  Food is their prey, and also scraps below a size limit that might crudely be called a crumb, routinely in the indoors version and only in a time of lack of living prey for the outdoors version.  After one day of activity without their ‘leash’ compounds, these creatures will start to die, and after three days of activity, they’ll all be dead, so they can’t stray too far from the presence of ‘leash’ compounds.

     “Note that I say a day of activity, because when a ‘Pest-Pester’ is cold and inactive, they burn very little of their nutrients, and so the clock doesn’t run.  Note also the other small details that the toxicity of these trace compounds is so low that only if one ate quite a bit of these deliberately hideous-tasting concoctions would one have trouble. If released into the environment, soil bacteria degrade them quite readily.  Note also that the indoors version has a built-in instinct to deposit its droppings into a chamber adjacent to its trace nutrients supply.”

     Phil displayed the box once more and pulled out a perforated drawer.  “Here you environmentally conscious gardener-type dudes and dudettes can nab yourselves some organic fertilizers for your flower pots or gardens, at the same time as you keep your houses guano-free.” Phil’s mild attempt at humor fell on deaf ears.

     “The outdoors version depends on a different mix of chemicals, and these are to be hung from trees, put on top of stakes pounded into the ground every few hundred yards, or in warehouses, or whatever.” Phil held up another, larger perforated plastic box with a small roof. “These nutrients, along with the Pest-Pesters, can withstand a wider range of temperatures.  The additional limiting factor in the case of the Pest-Pesters is that their behavior is programmed such that they will only kill and eat species on their ‘hit list’ of the top 153 most troublesome pests.  They won’t bother bees, butterflies, insectivorous insects, earthworms, or other desirable creatures.  They recognize legitimate victims by smell.

     “Let me also mention a few other small matters.  These critters are programmed to behave quite unnaturally in certain respects.  They never fight or squabble amongst themselves, and are also programmed to bring food to sick or wounded members of their own species while they heal. This makes them more effective or long-lasting, and hence, cheaper. That is, one needn’t buy fresh stock so often.  ABC does not believe in planned obsolescence.” Except to the extent that we didn’t allow these critters to reproduce, Phil thought, but we’ve got good excuses for that.

     “Finally, let me mention that the prepared press releases we’re sending out on the networks, hardcopies of which we’ve passed out, contain summaries of information we’ve gathered concerning what the chemical companies spend lobbying government officials, and through them, influencing regulatory agencies.  Some years ago, some legislators proposed spending a few hundred thousand dollars to study how farmers could make do with smaller quantities of pesticides.  This money would’ve been peanuts compared to the overall agricultural budget.  This proposal was shot down, and I don’t think I need to tell you why.

     “We’re depending on you, the media, to get the word to the citizens, that we now have a safer method of really reducing pesticide use, and that there are some powerful vested interests who will oppose us.  We don’t plan on making large political contributions in order to get the government to act in the best interests of citizens and the environment.  We’re depending on the media and the voters to help us see to it that the right actions are taken here.

     “That’s all I’ve got.  Questions?” Aides circulated in the audience, carrying portable microphones.

     Dozens of hands went up, and a chorus of chaotic squabbling broke out.  This was a den of media wolves salivating for some scraps of scoop.  “Hold it!  We’ll be here as long as it takes to answer all your questions!  Or at least, I’ll be here till I fall over for lack of sleep, if that’s what it takes.  Let’s be civilized, now.  You in the green dress.” Phil pointed to an apparently randomly selected news hound.

     “Yes.  I’d like to ask you if you’ve considered the impact to birds and animals that depend on eating the pests you’re about to decimate. Much wildlife depends on our agricultural lands.”

     “Yes, we have.  Before I address this concern, let me point out to the audience that Ms. Cunningham’s impartiality might be questioned due to the fact that her husband is a lobbyist for the chemical pesticide companies.  Let me also point out that chemically poisoned pests in the current pest-control scheme are often eaten by the birds and animals she professes to be so greatly concerned about.  But, her concern is a legitimate one.” Phil waited for the hubbub to subside.  ABC’s detectives had worked overtime to ferret out this and other information. Phil was serving notice, right off the bat, that Advanced Biotechnology was no bunch of chumps, and wasn’t going to take any guff.

     “There is not a whole bunch we can do about this problem.  Let me point out, though, that many of the most troublesome pests have no effective natural predators, or we wouldn’t have needed to come up with our scheme in the first place.  What I forgot to mention earlier, though, is this: To compensate for this and any other small adverse affects we might have on the environment, ABC is donating 15% of profits from these products to conservation and research into new products to serve specific conservation needs.

     “New plants, restrained from running rampant in the environment in a manner similar to what we’ve just discussed, for example, could be designed to provide food and shelter to endangered bird species in select locations.  Small plots of engineered crops and insects could be grown specifically to support endangered species.  Foreign ‘trash’ species like starlings could be held in check, allowing native, endangered species like songbirds to recuperate.”

     Phil hadn’t really forgotten to mention this, he had held it in reserve for this kind of troublesome question.  Ms. Cunningham had only momentarily been disconcerted by the mention of her lobbyist husband and was now wanting to get in a follow-up question.  Phil took it.

     “It seems to me that what we’re talking about, then, is a human-managed ecosphere, or a world-wide zoo.  How ‘natural’ is this scheme?”

     “We don’t have a whole bunch of easy solutions left.  Ever since we humans first evolved, we’ve been messing with the environment.  We’ve even figured out that when the Europeans first arrived here in the supposedly ‘virgin’ wilds of America, the natives were actually managing the lands with controlled fires.  Land left entirely to itself is substantially different, and I might add, less biologically diverse, than the land that the Native Americans managed.  Now, we have done great deals of damage to the Earth worldwide through over-grazing, deforestation, urbanization, pollution, etc.  Short of reducing our population, we have no real choice other than to manage what wilds we have left.  Biological, as opposed to chemical, pest control will add greatly to our tools.

     “If you’re really concerned about human impact on the globe, I’d suggest you write your representatives, and ask them to implement the policies you feel are most desirable.  Among those policies, I’d include the idea of letting the free market come up with better and cheaper methods of pest controls, like what we’re doing.  And, I think you and your husband should donate some of those big bucks he earns lobbying for chemical pesticide companies, to some of the hundreds of millions of third world women who want affordable, safe birth control, but have none.”

     That should shut her up, Phil thought!  And, he thought to himself, you might take pains to let that arrogant butt-hole of an Earth-raping Pope motherfucker know what you think of his going to third-world nations with excesses of starving babies, and offering his solutions of outlawing birth control and abortions!  These thoughts he obviously kept to himself.  “Next question.”

     “You, or rather Mr. Ramirez, mentioned that this is the ‘Model T’, and that more and better of the same are to come.  Other than the nature-management tools that you just mentioned, which we seem to understand you’ll research on the public’s behalf, what new projects will you undertake for profit?”

     “First, we’ll fill a few niche markets that our marketing people have already identified.  For example, neither of our two current offerings do an optimal job of covering certain uses defined as ‘outdoors’ by our criteria, even if they aren’t really outdoors. Examples are warehouses that are not temperature-controlled.  Other examples are non-agricultural outdoors environments such as picnic grounds.  In other words, the current ‘pest-pesters’ don’t zero in on the common house fly, most ants, roaches, or other pests that are troublesome in some places but not in agriculture.

     “We deliberately limited the ‘pest-pesters’ to only the bare minimum number of prey species that are most troublesome to agriculture, to minimize impact to the environment.  We plan a ‘Pest-Pester II’ to cover warehouses, picnic grounds, and other miscellaneous environments. The list of target species will differ; that’s about all.

     “Our biggest near-term new market, though, will be in the field of controlling weeds and foreign plants.  We briefly considered having the ‘Pest-Pester’ double up as a biological herbicide, but decided that in the interests of specialization and protecting the environment, that it would be better to create many different types of plant-eating critters. Unlike our relative ‘one size fits all’ approach on insect pest control, we’ll specialize a great deal on plant-eating critters.  There will be critters specializing in rooting out specific species of plants that are alien to a given environment.

     “Thus, we can undo what damage we’ve done to some environments by introducing alien species.  Other critters will specialize in eliminating all plants except a given species in a limited area where monoculture agriculture is practiced.  To do this safely, we need to work on a wide variety of artificial nutrients so that we can individually control each synthetic ‘species’.  That is, we wouldn’t want the corn monoculture herbicidal critter to cross over to the wheat field, or vice versa.

     “There are a few potential markets in manufacturing, especially the manufacture of very small objects, which we might be able to help in also.  These I am not free to discuss at this time.

     “Once we have wide public acceptance of our products, and a better body of knowledge of control techniques, we may want to let our pest-control critters reproduce in the field, to make them even cheaper and more accessible, especially in third-world countries and remote areas.  Specifically, what we’re thinking of, is moving the control factor further down the food chain.  We’d have trees that are only capable of reproducing in the lab, and they would provide the special nutrients that the pest controlling critters would need.  This way, you’d plant trees every few decades, instead of having to replenish ‘Pest-Pester’ stocks and special nutrient supplies twice a year.

     “On farmlands that we’d want to return to the wilds, all we’d have to do would be to cut down the trees, to ensure that the pest population returns to a natural condition.  We would have to come up with a fail-safe method of preventing the ‘Pest-Pesters’ from evolving to a state where they no longer need the special nutrients.  These are the only major ideas that we’re now working on, that we’re free to talk about at present.  Next question.”

     A scrappy TV news personality got the floor microphone next to take Phil to task.  “So, if I heard you right just now, as soon as the public accepts your present scheme, you’ll let your little monsters start reproducing in the field.  What’s next?  Must this show then go on till we have some ecological catastrophe, or till some whacked-out crazy dictator hires some scientific gene-slingers for hire to wipe out a specific ethnic group?  Or gays, for instance?  Seems to me we have a classic slippery slope situation here.”

     Just the type of question Phil had been waiting for.  He smelled blood, and intended to come out with guns blazing.  “First of all, we follow all established precautionary laws and procedures.  We submit ourselves to examination by any biochemically competent party willing to sign a non-disclosure form.

     “Secondly, and most importantly, the slippery slope is for intellectual weenies.  Each of us makes judgments every day that deal with the slippery slope.  I could argue against anything using the slippery slope theory.  We can’t let the cops put murderers in jail ‘cause next thing you know, we’ll be in the slammer for spitting on the sidewalk.  We shouldn’t let people brush their teeth, murdering millions of innocent bacteria, because people will think they’re at liberty to torture little puppy-dogs with lit cigarettes.

     “Take your concerns about this slippery slope to the voting booth, and to your conscience, like you do your concerns about any other slippery slope.  Whether you vote for the politicians in the pockets of the chemical companies, or the politicians who are concerned for the public welfare, and whether or not you purchase ABC’s products, is a matter between you and your God, gods, or conscience.  Next question.”

     “What, really, do you say to all the people who say you’re playing God?”

     “We’ve played God by selectively breeding plants and animals for thousands of years.  We’re just doing it more efficiently now.  I could claim that you’re playing God whenever you do anything with your body that isn’t ‘natural’, from heart bypass surgery to shaving.  Beyond that, I don’t have much to say to them; most of these people seem to have a direct line to God himself, or are his appointed spokespersons, and these people can’t be reasoned with.  Next question.”

     Questions were coming in and being handled at a lightning pace now.

     “Is there going to be a serious problem with birds eating your ‘Pest-Pesters?’“

     “We doubt it.  Like many natural insects, Pest-Pesters contain some very nasty tasting chemicals.  They will not kill birds that eat ‘em, but the birds won’t eat one more than once.  That is why the Pest-Pesters are colored bright orange with black stripes.  This is a natural coloring scheme saying, ‘Don’t eat me, or you’ll regret it’.  It also helps make them very visible to humans, who will want to know where they are to avoid harming them, and will want to count stock.  Next question, please.”

     “First of all, Dr. Schrock, let me assure you that we in the media are not all hostile to you.  Speaking as an environmentally conscious person, let me also assure you that many of us friends of the environment also realize what great things you and your co-workers at ABC are doing for the globe.  You must all have worked many long, hard hours...”

     Phil cut to the chase.  He didn’t like to listen to “questions” of questioners who liked to hear themselves talk, or who acted like sycophants.  “What’s your question?”

     “Well actually, I have two questions.  One is, how did this idea originally occur to you, and two is, what do you plan to do to celebrate your accomplishments, and what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?”

     “I think that’s three questions if I counted right.  The idea occurred to me as I sweated in suburban Atlanta, spreading poisons through my house to protect my precious puddy-tats from fleas.  What I plan to do to celebrate, is to work harder and faster till our ideas are actually on the market.  Primarily, this means making myself available to all you media folks, Congress, regulatory agencies, etc.  After that, I am taking a month’s vacation with my beloved to go hiking in some national parks, to enjoy some of the wilds that we have left; wilds that we at ABC are doing our best to help protect.  As far as the rest of my life is concerned, I’ll be back to working harder and faster again, like the rest of all of us wage slaves.”

     “What if the regulatory agencies turn you down?”

     “First, let me point out that we have all along been keeping government scientists from the NIH and EPA abreast of what we’re doing, after getting them to sign appropriate non-disclosure forms.  We have done this, and are seeking their final approval, despite the fact that we’re not required by law to do so.  Laws can change at any time, of course, so we’re just being prudent.  Tomorrow our plans could all be outlawed.”

     Phil chuckled to himself a bit, remembering how ABC’s lawyers had actually been able to pull one over on the feds, by using the Department of Agriculture’s narrowly written guidelines to argue that their new creations didn’t fall into the category of agricultural biotechnology. Their biotech regulatory division was fended off by saying, essentially, “See here, look at all these regs; we don’t fall under them for this and that hair-splitting reasons.  And you’d better not run off to Congress and get them to pass more laws to cover our specifics, ‘cause you’ve signed non-disclosure forms.” Lawyers are only slime-suckers when they’re on the wrong side, Phil reflected.

     “What we’ll do then, is cross that bridge when we get to it.  We may decide to move the operation to nations that have the good sense to approve these techniques.  Nations that, I might add, have less parasitic lawyers to bleed productive manufacturers dry with endless lawsuits.  Before you hoot and holler about us moving risky operations to third-world countries, let me tell you a few things: Pesticide companies are dumping risky chemicals to third-world farmers as we speak, and we often buy the contaminated products.  Why don’t you media types dig into what all pesticides we eat on imported products?  Our techniques won’t do anything of that sort.

     “Let me tell you another thing.  Concern for the environment, and most especially, ill-informed, overly cautious concern for the environment, is a luxury for rich people who don’t worry about where their next meal comes from.  The only ways we’ll get third-world nations to stop overpopulating and destroying their environments are to raise their standards of living, and to trade freely with them.  We’ll not help them by forbidding the export of technology to them, and we’ll not help them with the attitudes of ‘only Americans deserve jobs’.  This is no less fundamentally greedy than ‘only Georgia residents deserve jobs’ or ‘only Phil Schrock deserves a job.’

     “Finally, let me say that if the American voters, or the American politicians, which after all aren’t the same, decide to switch places with the third-world countries by continuing to use dangerous pesticides while the rest of the world moves to better and cheaper methods, then we’ll be disappointed.  But, I, and ABC, will most likely survive. Question?”

     “Dr. Schrock, what about the effects on the genes of wild animals on the fringes of farms and ranches, and on timber farms for that matter, that will contact these synthetic organisms?  It seems to me that the presence of a large numbers of such critters will affect the gene pools of wild animals.  What happens when animals or insects on the farms and ranches, or close to farms and ranches, adapt new characteristics in reaction to the present of ‘Pest Pesters’, and then interbreed with their cousins deep in the true wilderness?  Just because the ‘Pest-Pesters’ aren’t present in the true wilds, does not mean that their effects won’t be felt there.”

     “That question reflects a fair amount of insight and intelligence. It is probably our most serious concern.  However, just like our concerns about the food sources we’re taking away from wild creatures that populate fields and ranches, we’re hoping we can overcome the negatives of our actions with our positives, which I’ve already mentioned.  In addition, I might mention that the same is true of domestic animals that interbreed with wild creatures.  Artificial selection selects for traits different than traits selected for in the wilds.  A poodle may be able to breed with a wolf, but the poodle genes won’t last long in the wilds.  Similarly, we believe that traits evolved in reaction to ‘Pest-Pesters’ won’t interfere with the natural scheme of things.

     “I don’t believe in justifying one’s questionable actions by comparing oneself to those who are worse.  Nevertheless, I can’t resist using my soapbox to plug a few viewpoints.  Your concern about modifying the genes of wild animals is well founded.  Genetic engineering is not our only worry.  We should also worry about ‘wildlife farms’, for instance, bear and elk farms, where wild animals are semi-domesticated while being raised to cater to the superstitions of Orientals who like to eat antlers, gall bladders, and bear paws.  These artificially bred animals often intermingle with truly wild animals, messing with the gene pools.

     “Maybe we bio-engineers will someday create a domestic horse or cow with elk antlers, a bear gall bladder, a rhino horn, and bear paws, to humor those ill-informed consumers in certain nations.  This is only partially a joke.  I wish we’d just sell them some sawdust, and tell ‘em it’s whatever they want it to be.  It would be so much easier.  I wonder if they’d accept bio-engineered products as the real thing.

     “More fundamentally, again, the only way we’ll really reduce our impact on the environment is to keep human populations to a reasonable level.  Send your excess money to women in the third world who want birth control.  Write your representatives and tell him that’s where our foreign aid money should go.  Overpopulation causes wars and pollution, and these things do not respect international boundaries.” Phil was hot, and he wasn’t going to stop here, this time.  “Tell the Pope to think with his conscience and not with his little book of inflexible rules. Tell him to stop going to third world countries and telling ‘em to make more babies.  But don’t stand in the way of new technologies which, while not perfectly harmless, will reduce our impact on the environment.”

     The crowd rumbled and grumbled.  Hector shot Phil a warning glance. Phil knew Hector agreed with him, but there was only so far that one could go in getting some press coverage before one crossed the line to offending too many people.  Phil had probably already crossed that line. He deliberately didn’t look in the direction of the corporate big shots in the third row, and directed his gaze further back to Gloria instead. She was grinning ear to ear.  He could just about hear her thinking, “Way to not be a conformist geek and suit!  Tell ‘em like it is!!!”

     Phil was tempted to go on to say that one of the best uses that genetic engineering could ever be put to, would be to devise a new and improved Pope¾one with both a conscience and a brain.  Instead, he sent a subtle acknowledging nod in Hector’s direction and continued. He pointed to a reporter who had been waving his arms on and off for quite some time.  “Next question, please.”

     “I was wondering if you’d care to comment on the possibilities of growing new food crops, with plants and animals designed from the bottom up.”

     “We do not think there is a big market for this.  Consumers are too finicky about what they eat.  Insects are an entirely good source of proteins, for example, but most Western people won’t eat them.  Rabbits are a good way to raise meat, but most people won’t eat them because they’re ‘too cute.’ Ditto the Western mind blocks on horsemeat, cats, and dogs.  These mind blocks stand in the way of marketing ‘unnatural’ food stuffs.  Witness the totally irrational resistance to irradiated foods, and slightly genetically altered foods like rot-resistant tomatoes and freeze-resistant strawberries.  Many people will eat these things, but might balk at, say, lobster tails grown on trees.  Not to mention the troubles raised by religious food preferences¾can a cow with a pig gene be considered kosher?  Can a vegetarian eat fruits that have a fish gene or two snuck in?” Phil stopped this time, and didn’t venture any further into the forbidden territory of pointing out how stupid and irrational some rigid modes of thinking were.

     “We believe that there are consumers who will eat synthetic foods, and those who won’t.  We will go after the market for that first group of consumers the same way that some of our competitors are going¾by growing food in vats of strictly controlled genes and amino acids.  All we do is provide raw material, energy, an environment, and a food ‘design’ if you will, as encoded in DNA.  This is not yet economically competitive with natural foods, but some day it will be.  We think this will eventually be a better way to go than growing synthetic organisms, since both cases run against the prejudices of finicky consumers, and the vats require no farmland.  Next question, please.”

     “Is there any significance to the particular number of Pest-Pester victim species, 153, that you came up with?”

     “Sort of.  First, please understand that the lines between species are somewhat arbitrary.  Some experts might say we’re covering more than 153 species, while others would say less.  But, we actually came out close to 150 species when we tallied up the most troublesome species, and then we added just a few more to humor a math freak in our department.  At the risk of boring you, 153 is a special number: it’s the sum of the numbers 1 plus 2 plus 3 plus 4 and so on plus 15 plus 16 plus 17, and also is the sum of the factorials of the numbers one through five.  A four factorial for example is 1 times 2 times 3 times 4.

     “Finally, if you take any integer that is divisible by 3, and take the constituent digits, cube them all, and sum the results, then repeat the process over and over again, you’ll get to 153, then stay there. That is, take 351 for example: cube the 3, the 5, and the 1, and add ‘em together.  This will get you to 153, which is where you stay. Other divisible-by-3 numbers will take more iterations to get there but they’ll all get there.  Just a neat little number for math freaks.” Phil didn’t risk boring the audience with the additional details that playing with “neat” numbers (such as “friendly” numbers) dated back to the Bible, and that Jesus caught 153 fish at Lake Tiberias, while the “neat” properties of 153 weren’t discovered by modern man until the 1960s.  “Tall guy.  Question?”

     “Yessir.  I was wondering, doesn’t the chaos theory predict that something will go wrong with your neat little scheme?  Haven’t there been many ‘fail-proof’ schemes that have failed?”

     Phil was disgusted with the ignorant question, but wisely decided to give a reasonably respectful answer.  “There isn’t really any ‘chaos theory’; ‘chaos’ is more so a field of mathematics where mathematicians look into APPARENTLY chaotic systems and actually find that the systems are behaving in manners that conform to very complicated equations.  If you’re looking for a word from science that describes a general tendency for things to go to wrong, for orderly things to break down and decay, then the word you’re looking for is ENTROPY.

     “As far as entropy goes here with the Anti-Bug Critters, entropy is on our side.  Just as in natural mutations, or for that matter in human-caused chemical or radiation-induced mutations in natural livings things, the vast majority of mutations or entropy-induced changes are going to be detrimental to the organism.  That is, the vast majority of unexpected changes will cause the organism to die.

     “So, if Pest-Pesters decide to munch on Monarch butterflies to enlarge their niches a bit, unlike what their original genes called out for in their menu, then most likely other associated genes or characteristics will cause them to die.  In our case, even that one-in-a-million beneficial change will not be allowed to reproduce, since ABCs are sterile.  Not to belabor the point, but our design is also far less flexible than nature’s designs.  That is, we designed to specific, relatively rigid goals, unlike nature, which evolves, and therefore also evolves more generalist schemes that are adaptable to changing niches and changing environments.  We carry very little in the way of ‘junk genes’ which can sometimes acquire new purposes where there was none before, nor do we carry much in the way of extra neurons.  So, almost any small change is apt to really mess us up, unlike natural critters.

     “We can’t truly be called ‘fail-proof’ in the purest sense; we can only deal in probabilities.  What kind of probabilities do we want to worry about?  It is theoretically possible for all the hot air molecules and all the cold air molecules in this room to instantaneously segregate themselves, so that half us should freeze to death and half of us should burn to death, right now.  The possibility of ABCs starting to reproduce and evolve in the open environment is on the same sort of order of magnitude of probability as this temperature segregation.  We stop evolution in its tracks, then chain it.  Next question.”

     “What do you think of the possibility that some rogue operations will use your products to help grow illicit drugs?  Or design new drug crops, or cross different plants to have, for example, corn plants produce cocaine?”

     “Great.  Party on, dudes.  More power to them.  I’d love to see them make a fast-growing tree that oozes finger hash instead of sap,” Phil fantasized about saying, as he remembered some of the good ol’ days when he’d helped a friend of his run a greenhouse.  They’d pruned the plants by hand, and had carved some thick, tarry black goop off of their fingers afterwards.  They had mixed it with a bit of easier-burning leaves, and it had been without question the best stuff that Phil had ever smoked.  But Phil lived in the real world, and so his reply was quite different.

     “Well, most drug crops don’t need much protection from insects. The purpose that they evolved their toxins for in the first place, is defense against insects.  It is one of those ironic facts in life, that the reasons we humans like some plants so much, and have made them reproductively successful beyond their wildest dreams, as plant dreams go, is that they’re toxic.  I guess you could say the same of spicy and strong-tasting plants.  As far as ‘designed drug plants’ go, I’d say, don’t underestimate the costs of such development efforts.  These are not basement-lab operations.

     “We already have the benefits of many prescription drugs being produced by genetically altered plants and animals, more cheaply than by chemical synthesis, but still, as you know, there is a lot of money sunk into developing these strains.  If such products are ever devised to give us more bad habits, I’d say, well, this technology, like any other, can be used for good or bad.”

     Phil took the next question, which, following his “good or bad” quote, was, almost predictably, “What are the potentials for the use of these new biotechnologies in warfare?”

     “I don’t know.  Haven’t given the matter much thought.  Don’t know if I care to.  Next question.”

     “What is the probability that rogue genetic engineering operations will some day set loose a catastrophe?  How available is this technology to people who shouldn’t be playing with it?”

     “Not very.  The skills, knowledge, equipment, and supplies, and most especially, computers, are prohibitive.  Just ask our bean counters about it some time.  Next question, please.”

     “What gave ABC such a huge jump on its competitors that you’re coming out with multicellular products while your competitors have just barely begun to introduce single-celled eukaryotes?,” was the question from some science magazine’s correspondent.

     “Yes, indeed, we have a substantial lead¾what you’re referring to is that we’ve gone directly from designing bacteria to designing multicellular critters without having dabbled with intermediate levels of complexity, those being single-celled animals like amebas or paramecium.  Some details behind our successes I am not free to explain to you, but I will be telling you no secrets when I mention some things that are obvious after any expert looks into these matters.  I guess I’d boil down the essential creative breakthroughs to about four things. We’ve already mentioned the crucial importance of computers and programs to the project, but that is more so development technique than it is essential ingredients in the technology itself.

     “The essential ingredients, I’d say, in no particular order, were: 1) Very close symbiotic relationships with synthetic bacteria that actually form parts of the critters.  This is analogous to the way mitochondria are an integral part of each of our cells, but they carry their own genes.  Our bacteria include hemoglobin carriers, digestive elements, and immune system ‘enforcers’.  By using bacteria with their own genetic material, we decrease the amount of genes that need to be carried by the organism.  Thus, the organism can grow faster.  And no, it’s hardly likely that these bacteria would ever evolve to live independently.

     “Number 2 would be the immune system.  A designed system is actually quite simpler than, but more efficient than, a natural system. Immune systems are essential for multicellular critters; they are just too much good munching for many small pathogens and decay bacteria. ABCs have large cells roaming the bloodstream; these are in the business of examining any free-floating molecules larger than a small virus, and cells that form parts of the organism.  These large cells recognize key proteins in the various legitimate parts of the organism. Any molecule or cell not recognized as legitimate is ‘tagged’ with small, sticky molecules.  Enforcers are our ‘bouncers’ who give the bum’s rush to the invaders or to mutated body cells not carrying keys. We like to call the enforcers ‘alipuscles’, because they’re like corpuscles, but unlike natural immune systems, they carry their victims off to the organism’s alimentary canal to be digested.  If any cooties dare to invade ABCs, the ABCs figure they might as well get some use out of them, so they digest them.

     “Number 3 is simply having figured out some more of the details of how Momma Nature encodes liver genes to express themselves in livers but not in muscles, and vice versa.  We had to do the same thing, and did it in manners very similar to nature’s methods.

     “Finally, number 4, which we really can’t claim much credit for, is the brains of the organism.” Phil had been intimately involved in the first three items.  He wasn’t bragging about that, except in the roundabout manner of mentioning the one main item that he wasn’t much involved in.

     “We had a brilliant academic scholar who prefers to remain anonymous, as a consultant.  This person contributed most major elements of the brain’s design.  This includes how we genetically encode what the critter’s instincts are, or what it will and what it won’t eat.” Phil couldn’t understand why Dr. Glen Thomas wanted anonymity.  Maybe I’ll understand after protesters make a hell out of my life, Phil thought.

     “On the other hand, this person’s basic design ideas were fleshed out and given substance by ABC’s computer power and programmers. Special mention of our neural nets programmers, especially John Fletcher and Maria Ross, is appropriate here.  Next question?”

     “Won’t you have trouble eventually with disease organisms evolving the specific keys your immune system uses, to slip by your defenses?”

     “Yes, this is certainly a real possibility.  The beauty of our scheme, though, is that if and when this happens, we merely make our keys longer or change them.  Then, disease organisms that would pick on ABCs will have to start all over again.  Evolution is a slow and clumsy thing, even in rapidly reproducing pathogens, and so we should easily be able to change keys faster than evolution would ever be able to adapt. You in the yellow tie.”

     “What about genetically engineered human beings?  What are the implications of your work to human genetic engineering, and what are your opinions on where we’re going and where we should be going, in this field?”

     “I am no expert here at all, but I guess that hasn’t stopped me from commenting on some other matters, either.” He got a few chuckles. “I suppose it takes no expert, though, to see that what we’ve done so far to remedy illnesses is good.  In these cases, though, so far we’ve only remedied people’s body cells, and haven’t actually gone in to mess with their sex cells, or reproductive cells, or gametes, as you might call them.  This is no trivial matter, and we’re still many years away from doing so, just as we’re still many years away from actually designing from the bottom up, anything remotely near as complex as a human being.  Pseudo-insects are far removed from humans.

     “Generally, though, I’d say, let’s forge full steam ahead, with plenty of informed public involvement in the decision-making.  Some day, designed humans will arrive.  And why not improve on nature?  We carry some traits from our recent upright stature that could bear to be straightened out, like bad backs, fallen arches in our feet, and sinuses that drain poorly.  Other evolutionary artifacts that could stand to be straightened out include our wishes to eat too many sweets and fats, which date back to scarce-food caveman days when we had to glom on to as much fattening stuff as we could get, to put on some blubber for the lean days.  Either we could change our food preferences, or our digestive systems and/or other systems, so that we could be like bears, and eat as many fats as we felt like, and not suffer from it.

     “Other behavioral tendencies we’ve inherited from caveman days include our tendencies to fight too much.  Distrusting the stranger, and protecting your land and source of food from neighboring tribes made sense in the hundreds of thousands of years during which we evolved, but makes less sense in the days of weapons of mass destruction.”

     And, Phil thought to himself, maybe we could straighten out human mating behavior, where men think they’ve gotta knock up every babe in sight, and women think what they’ve got to provide is oh so much more valuable than what men have.  But this he kept to himself.  “Maybe we could finally straighten out our defective human nature.  But what happens when we’re all saints and the mutant comes along to take advantage of us?  This all gets into nature v/s nurture, free will, and all sorts of philosophical stuff that I don’t want to get into.

     “Let me leave it at this: someday we’ll be able to mess with the definition of a human being, and we’ll have to be ready when that day comes.  Yes, we can worry about everyone wanting the same ‘perfect’ babies, and everyone being totally, boringly the same, and about us losing the variability and gene pool that makes us adaptable to our changing environment, but let me express some last few thoughts: Some diseases, like sickle-cell anemia, evolved to give resistance to other, parasite-induced diseases like malaria, which we’ve now by and large conquered.

     “So, indeed, some ‘defective’ genes evolved for good reason.  In many cases, those reasons are now gone.  But I never could think of any advantages to many other diseases, or lameness, blindness, deafness, or stupidity.  If we can takes strides to reduce these, then why not?  Why not reserve the finite number of slots for human beings on this Earth for those who can enjoy life to its fullest, and contribute the most to society?”

     A reporter stood up and hollered, “BECAUSE THE REJECTS YOU WOULD DISCARD PERFORM A VALUABLE SERVICE: THEY REMIND US THAT THERE ARE ALL SORTS OF DIFFERENT KINDS OF HUMAN BEINGS AND THAT THEY ARE ALL WORTHY AND DESERVE OUR LOVE.  BECAUSE WE HAVEN’T THE IMPARTIAL JUDGMENT TO CHOOSE WHAT IS BEST.”

     A thought went through Phil’s mind that he’d had before.  It was that some people who objected to improving the human race, for all sorts of high-flown reasons, were really actually afraid that there would be no more “inferiors” for them to look down on.  It must indeed be scary, to think that one could be the last ugly, stupid, sickly and slow human, while everyone else ran all sorts of circles around oneself.  These insecure people would get off on knowing that they were sharper than the retards, at least, and couldn’t conceive of genetically improved people who would actually treasure the genetically un-improved, like themselves, as valuable human beings, because they themselves couldn’t regard the retards that way.  But this thought was one that was quite obviously not suitable for expressing at the moment.

     “OK, I asked a rhetorical question, and got some answers.  Fair enough.  Let me ask a few more rhetorical questions.  Do you or do you not choose to try to remain smart, to retain your hearing, to retain your sight and health?  This is judgmental on your part, but I wish all human beings would be in the position to be judgmental in the same manner.  Some of us haven’t the choice to try to retain these things. Some because of accidents, and some because of genes.  One is preventable now, and we do our best to prevent them; the other is becoming more and more preventable, and should also be prevented as best we can.

     “I surely don’t have enough knowledge or love to make choices for parents, saying, no, you may not have access to this or that technology to give you the healthiest children you can have.  If you want to make these or other decisions for parents, you’d better have an almost infinite amount of knowledge of and love for them, because otherwise, you’ll not make good decisions, and should let them make their own decisions.  Others know their circumstances and abilities far better than you do.  Put it another way: if being ‘defective’ is such a noble service to society, do you volunteer to lose your hearing or eyesight? Or, to gain a few hundred pounds?  If you won’t volunteer, you should want others to have the same choice to decline performing this involuntary ‘service’ as you have.

     “Finally, let’s not kid ourselves: natural selection no longer works on us very strongly.  Our medical technologies are wonderful, but they’re allowing us to reproduce even when we have genes that would kill us in the wilds.  This is all well and good in human and humane terms, but eventually we’ll have to deal with what’s happening to our genetic ‘load’ of bad genes.  No, am not being judgmental: tell me what is good about Tay-Sachs disease.

     “I’d like to see the day come when we can just go in and selectively fix a few genes in a gamete or zygote.  I’d like to be able to improve humans without breeding ourselves like animals.  It would be great to eliminate the clearly bad genes without messing with the system where each parent gets to contribute genes to their kids.  This would keep our genetic variability, while also still satisfying our deep-seated desires to have children that are biologically our own.

     “Certainly this would be far better than facing the choices of either watching the human gene pool deteriorate, going back to brutish natural selection, or having the government tell you to have someone else’s kid in some human breeding scheme.  Yes, we could go a few more thousand years the way we’re going, but eventually, we’ll have to think about it.  I hope we humans are around long enough in a civilized state that we’ll have to face these questions.  Enough of this speculation.”

     Phil had the good sense not to mention his other thoughts.  They concerned the implications to the gene pool of measly tax breaks for taxpayers who raise more probable future tax payers, versus the large benefits, especially considered as percentage of “base pay,” accruing to welfare recipients who raise more probable future welfare recipients, at public expense.  I don’t want to be crucified, he thought.  “Next question, please.”

     “What about the condemnation and scorn that will be heaped on the ‘defectives’ among us, whose parents choose not to participate in this brave new world, when it arrives?”

     “What of the millions of abused children among us today?  I don’t see what you’re implying.  If you’re implying that we can prevent human suffering by outlawing human genetic engineering, I think you’re fooling yourself.  Humans have always been cruel and thoughtless.  No simple laws will change that.  If we could legislate human morality, all we’d need would be one law: Everyone is required to love everyone else. Presto, no more greed, war, violence of any sort, or hunger.  Or overpopulation, I might add.  People who love don’t want overpopulated humans to starve, to fight wars over too few resources and too many people, or to cause the biosphere we call ‘Earth’ to collapse, with millions of species dead, due to too many humans.

     “If we’re going to outlaw human genetic engineering because of scorn heaped on the ‘defectives’ who elect to forego it, then why don’t we do the same with plastic surgery?  Or shall we just outlaw insensitivity?  Or¾and, I know this is totally radical, now¾maybe we could just reserve legal sanctions for those who cause harm to others, through malicious violence.  Maybe, in other words, we could legalize freedom, and let people make their own choices.  You in the brown suit?”

     Mr. brown suit commented, “You tell us you want public involvement in the decision-making but you say we shouldn’t outlaw human genetic engineering.  What, then, are we the mere public allowed to decide?”

     “It is of course my personal opinion, not the opinion of ABC or any group of genetic engineers or scientists, but I think it’s fairly clear that a deliberate attempt to outlaw human genetic engineering would put an end to many helpful medical procedures, and the promises of even more.  Any person wanting to stand between doctors and the patients whose suffering they’re trying to lessen, should be ashamed of themselves.  Short of whether human genetic engineering should be legal or not, though, there are many important questions we humans will eventually have to decide.  The media and the public have every right, even a duty, to be involved in these decisions.

     “You could decide whether or not we should allow ourselves to split into different ‘breeds’: football-playing breeds, chess-playing breeds, show breeds, warrior breeds.  Or whether we should be allowed to use any genes not occurring in nature in our own species, and if so, which ones. What percentage of a baby’s genes can be changed from what the parents have, before the parents start to feel, or can legally claim that, the child isn’t biologically ‘theirs’?  These decisions and questions all belong to the future.

     “And yes, as a part of a ‘democracy’, you have the ‘right’ to be a part of a dictatorial majority like the founding fathers warned us about.  As 51% of the voters, you can dictate that the other 49% should not be allowed to have genetic engineers go in and ensure that their children are free of horrible genetic defects.  You, the dictatorial majority, could also decide that the minority of people who might want to do any harmless trivial thing, like wearing blue ribbons in their hair, should all be put to death.  I would urge you to learn to practice tolerance.”

     Including tolerance of people who get a buzz off of substances different from the substances that you like to abuse, you bunch of zero-tolerance bastards, he added to himself.  Who were the damned douchebags who ever decreed that intolerance was such a fucking virtue, anyway?

     “For now, we need to decide who should be allowed to have genetic information on individuals: governments?  Doctors?  Insurance companies? Lovers?  But as far as actually engineering changes in human beings goes, this is all very speculative and distant, and not related to ABC’s releases today.  Next question.”

     Mr. Brown suit hollered, “HOLD IT!  I’m not done.  You were just telling us we should practice tolerance, yet a while back you were being very intolerant of the Pope’s right to speak out against birth control. How do you reconcile your statements?”

     “Well, we need to be tolerant of my right to speak out against the Pope’s stance.  My personal credo here is that I tolerate all but intolerance.  The Pope can speak out against birth control and abortion as moral choices all he wants; it’s just that when he and his ilk start talking about punishing people who disagree with them, by kicking them out of the church or sticking them in jail, that I object.  This creed I speak of, of tolerating all but intolerance, is paradoxical, as are many viable philosophies.  Common sense is required to flesh out the details.

     “Unfortunately, this common sense is often lacking.  Some years ago, people who are intolerant of gays were arguing that allowing gays in the military would be intolerant of heterosexual soldiers’ rights not to be offended by the presence of these subhumans, the same as bigots argued even more years ago that it would be intolerant of white peoples’ rights to not serve along with black subhumans in the military.  By these arguments I could say that you must be tolerant of my rights not to be offended by having to look at the blue ribbons in your hair.  We can be intolerant while preaching tolerance.

     “So, if the Pope wants to not have an abortion, or if he wants to not practice birth control, that is fine by me.  But when he or anyone else wants to impose their morals on me, I object.  Suppose I concluded that unfertilized egg cells have souls; would I then be allowed to require all women to have as many of their eggs fertilized and brought to term, as possible?” Preferably by me, when the women are good-looking, Phil added to himself. He made sure not to cast his eyes towards ABC’s suits a few rows back, thinking, hot damn, am I on my soapbox now, or what?  How’d I get here?  When do the suits beckon for the fuzz to come up here and haul me away?  When do I get my pink slip? Ha!  Let’s see those geeks try and fire my ass, and do without me! Fuck ‘em!

     “Or, if we’re going to say that a full complement of genes are needed in a human cell for it to have a soul, then keep in mind that soon we’ll be able to clone a human being from the living cells that you scrape off of the lining of your mouth, and kill, every time you brush your teeth.  We will then each be guilty of mass murder every time we brush our teeth.  Moral thinking must keep pace with technology.  And with our population density, I might add.  However, I’ve had enough of speculation over matters not closely related to ABC’s releases today. Next question, please.”

     “I heard you mention cloning humans.  How soon will we be cloning human beings, or parts thereof, as a source of ‘spare parts’ for transplants?”

     Read the news, you bum, Phil thought.  Keep up to date.  “Probably never.  We’ve already got the design for a pig that will grow organs with human proteins DAP and MCP which help to prevent human immune systems from rejecting the foreign tissues.  We’ve also substituted other proteins in the pigs’ tissues to further reduce rejection.  We’ve had it for a few years, and we know it works.  When I say ‘we’, I mean not only ABC, but other companies also.  Now, as soon as the regulatory agencies study it for another decade or two, and the animal rights activists stop destroying all the research labs, we’ll be sure enough that two in a million transplant recipients won’t have some slight problems and therefore win hundreds of millions in the lawsuit lottery, mostly for their lawyers.  Then, finally, maybe the public will be able to benefit from reliable interspecies organ transplants.  Next question?”

     Some windbag reporter got up and asked a rambling, multifaceted question about aborting fetuses with “gay genes,” or aborting fetuses without gay genes, or selectively adopting only children with this, that, or the other types of genes.  He seemed to alternate viewpoints, in the ways the questions were asked, and he also sometimes tried to look objective by using fancy, clinical-sounding terms.  Disgusted, and feeling like he was an intended pawn in manipulative word traps, Phil decided to have some fun, and try his hand at being a comedian.  When the long wind had finally run its course, Phil did a little dance behind the podium.

     “What he said,” he said, pointing to the reporter.  Then, he stepped to the side, pointing to where he’d just been, and changing his voice.  “Yeah.  I’m with him!” Cha-cha once more, change voices again. “Damned straight!” Step forward, yank of the thumb rearwards.  “The dude’s like, rad.  Right on.” Pause.  “We all agree with everything you said.” The crowd half-rumbled and half-laughed, nervously.  Nervously, as in, will I or my next question be the next victim?  Phil felt like maybe he’d been too hard on the jerk, but decided he’d really been asking for it, with a question like that.  He decided to give the old sliver another twist.  “And it’s a damned good thing that we agree with you, ‘cause I think there’s more of us than there are of you.”

     The questions went on and on, for another ten of fifteen minutes, but all the good ones had already been asked.  Phil refused to answer at any substantial length, any more speculative questions.  Liberals and conservatives alike tried to bait him, tried to get him to say something even more totally outrageous than what he’d already said, tried to put words in his mouth, and tried to ask him various versions of the “have you stopped beating your wife” question.  Phil deflected them all, politely but firmly.

     People started to get bored and leave.  Others milled around and talked to each other.  For about ten minutes, various reporters clustered around different groups of ABC employees.  Phil’s group was one of the largest.  Finally, Phil bowed out, and went over to Gloria and gave her a big hug and smooch.  They snuck out the back door to avoid the protesters outside.  Sympathetic members of the media actually helped them pull this off, some by staging a distraction, and others by lending them some cameras and microphones and escorting them to their car, so that they’d look like media types.  The security types seemed very relieved not to have confrontations on their hands.

     Phil and Gloria had a beer or four and a margarita or two that evening to celebrate and relax.  The day had been tough, and it was a huge relief now that it was over.

     They had another celebration approximately two months later when the ABC products were finally approved and started shipping to customers.  They were glad they lived in a high-security, walled neighborhood, where only residents and guests were welcome, because there was much hullabaloo from protesters.  Phil had to deal with it every day at work, but there was plenty of security there also, and the protesters were running out of steam.  The project was a success at last!


 

 

CHAPTER 6

 

     Damn your weaseling ass; why don’t you ‘fess up to your goofs and promise to do better, and deliver us something that works for once, General Frank Leech thought as he sat behind his imposing desk and glared at Stanley Eisner.  Frank remembered his days as a basic cadet at the USAF Academy, when the only acceptable answer to any “why” question had been, “No excuse, Sir!” If only Stanley had had such good training!

     “Why are you such a whiskey delta?,” he imagined himself asking.  A properly disciplined Stanley would have to reply, “No excuse, Sir!” But, Stanley, not having the benefits of such training, wouldn’t even know that “whiskey delta” was military phonetic for “weak dick”.  Frank wished he wouldn’t have to deal with whiskey delta civilians.  They caused too many SNAFUs (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up).

     “OK, Doctor, let’s go over the basic and indisputable facts: three years ago, you told us we’d see some results from our program in three years.  We have yet to demonstrate that we can even engineer a controlled bioweapon that can pick its nose, or even fight off common disease and decay organisms.” Frank referred to a trial build of their design, that the new, Democratic administration of Richard Kite had permitted, under the strictest of isolation of course.  The trial had been a total flop; the insect-like poisonous critters had such poor brains that they’d barely been able to walk, and their immune systems hadn’t been able to fend off opportunistic infections.

     “Three years ago, you told us that it’d take ABC another six to ten years to get their product to market.  A half a year ago, which is less than half of your most optimistic guess, they did it.  They’ve spent about three billion, while we’ve spent thirty billion.  They have a product; we have excuses.  To top it off, all this is in spite of the fact that we’ve handed you on a silver platter, practically all their data.” Frank watched as Stanley got flustered and red, and struggled to contain himself.

     “Now I’m having a very hard time convincing anyone that we should be given any more money.  What am I going to say to them?  How much more money are we going to spend?  When are we gonna see any results that amount to diddly squat?  Can we at least show any tangible, real gains so far?  I want the straight scoop, not a bunch of wildly optimistic crap.  Level with me.  What has been going wrong so far, and how do we fix it?” And you better not weasel any more, you over-educated piece of slime, Frank added to himself.

     “Well, first of all our detractors are going to have to realize that our danger levels and precautionary measures are several orders of magnitude greater than theirs.  This slows us down considerably.  Also, our product must be robust enough to withstand the rigors of the modern battlefield.  Military specifications are hard enough to meet, and all the paperwork, procedures, regulations, secrecy, inspections, and union rules don’t help us perform speedily either.  For these reasons, and a few more, comparing us to ABC is unfair.  We’re tackling much more difficult problems.  Plus, to an extent that we can’t really measure terribly well, ABC is just plain lucky.  We know, though, that they used somewhat of a ‘trial and error’ approach of many, many iterations before they were able to genetically engineer a viable brain that not only contained the instincts that they wanted to program, but also functions reasonably robustly.

     “This business of them not being able to ship them in crowded conditions is what gives them away more than anything.  If they really had everything under strict control, they wouldn’t be shipping what they’re shipping, the way they’re shipping it.  You know, the ‘Bug-Buggers’ can’t be packed very densely at all, or they’ll revert to cannibalism.  Similarly, the ‘Pest-Pesters’, despite the fact that you can pack ‘em more densely by chilling them, will go bonkers and eat each other after warming up if they’ve been kept too crowded too long while being shipped chilled.

     “This makes no sense at all, to design a product with these kinds of shipping limitations, unless they had to rescramble their brain simulations a few thousand times until they just barely got lucky enough to have something semi-acceptable.  Their story of this aversion to crowding being a ‘feature’ to help prevent damage to the environment from excessive concentrations of ‘Anti Bug Critters’ is just so much crap.  It reminds me of software writers who discover less-than-desirable aspects of their software, and then take these ‘bugs’ and promote ‘em to ‘features’!

     “Claiming we’ve been handed everything on a silver platter isn’t fair either; we haven’t gotten good, complete information from them ever since they beefed up their security a year and a half ago, and I for one frankly suspect some of the data I’ve seen is somehow, somewhere, somewhat flawed.  I don’t know who has messed with it, or what’s missing, but something smells fishy.”

     Stanley paused, noticed that Frank’s face was still pickled in a sour scowl, and hastened to fill the silence with his chatter.  “OK, so you want to know how much more time and money we’ll have to spend, when we’ll see results, and what results we can show so far.  We’re working on it.  We scientists have no crystal balls.  Anything is possible; we obviously can’t say for sure when we’ll be done, or how much money it will cost.  One cannot schedule creativity; I can’t say, oh, yes, the solution to this problem will come to me at 3:47 on the 15th.  I can say that a reasonable estimate, using our present models of our development effort, is that there is an 80% chance we’ll have something that we could use on the battlefield, safely, in another two years.

     “What have we got to show so far?  Well, we may not have functional bioweapons, but we’ve sure got lots of simulations to show the proper operation of various subsystems that we’ve developed.  Plus, we now finally have the tools with which to do the job!  Safe isolation laboratories, stocked with all the latest biochemical technology! Competent staffs!  Lots of computers!  Lots of software!” Yeah, software that we’ve stolen (oops, I mean, liberated) for you, thought Frank.

     Frank still scowled at Stanley as Stanley finally ran out of things to say.  He watched him squirm, and decided he rather enjoyed the spectacle of Stanley trying to cover his usually somewhat pompous ass. But this isn’t about amusing me, it’s about the taxpayers getting their money’s worth, he thought, as he prepared to skewer Stanley some more. Of course, there’s nothing to feel guilty about, if I get a bit of gratification from exercising responsibly the power that is my due, after having served my country for so long, he added to himself.  The well-deserved pleasure of giving Stanley his due was totally compatible with getting the most for the taxpayers’ money, after all.

     “Thank you, Herr Docktor.  However, you’ve conveniently ignored my last and most pressing question...  ‘what has been going wrong, and how do we fix it?’...  that’s the question I’m still grappling with.” Frank paused, as if to give Stanley one last chance to answer this one last question, but it was fairly clear that for Stanley to offer an answer, would have been like trying to smother the sun with deuterium.  Stanley was smart enough to recognize a fusion fire when he saw one, and he knew what they used for fuel.  He also recognized the nature of questions where any reply acknowledged the questioner’s premises... the classic example being, “Have you stopped beating your wife yet?” So, he offered no reply.

     “Well, Doctor, I’m afraid I’m down to just a few choices.  I need results.  I need them soon.  Not maybe, not someday, not probably.  Not to an 80% probability.  Not to a 90% probability.  We don’t pay you with probability paychecks.  I’m going to need to either replace you, or contract with ABC.  They, unlike you, actually seem to be able to produce something that’s worth a damn.  Which will it be?  I can’t see any other viable choices for getting us some good results soon, can you? Which choice do you recommend?”

     Stanley turned white instead of red this time.  He appeared shocked, incredulous, flabbergasted.  “What?  Those bunch of cowboys? Those loose cannons!?  They aren’t professionals at all!  Just look at that circus of a press conference they had!  You know they don’t know what they’re doing!  They’re hit and miss, trial and error!  Not scientists at all!  They...”

     “Yes, they’re hit and miss, but they hit, didn’t they?  Even if it was pure blind chance, a one in a gazillion, a random blessing from Lady Luck herself, then can’t we learn from what they’ve stumbled on through no virtue of their own?”

     Stanley objected, “But their lack of security is appalling!  And if we have to inform all of these... people who have no experience, and perhaps no qualifications, for working on a top-secret classified project, then we’ll be risking a lot!  Why doesn’t the government declare right of eminent domain, and muscle on in, and use for the good of all, what these oafs have just stumbled on?”

     “Oh, because of silly little things like laws and the constitution and such.  Besides, if we swiped their stuff outright, we’d piss ‘em off, and they might not play nice with us and share their toys with us. After all, this business appears to be as much an art as a science, and if we didn’t have their willing cooperation, then we’d lose out on all the zillions of bits of data that exist, undocumented, in all their heads.”

     “As far as secrecy goes,” Frank continued, “these guys have learned fast, and no other part of the industry has been able to get their scoop; even we haven’t gotten much of anything out of them lately.  It seems to me we gave the Chinese almost everything we had, right before the change in administrations flip-flopped half of our policies, anyway, and they haven’t shown any interest in it.” Frank was, quite frankly, glad of both of the major changes in policy, one being that hush-hush experiments, above and beyond simulations, would be allowed, and the other being that no more data was to be slipped to the Chinese.

     “So who cares if the Chinese get hold of some data, if they’re not interested anyway?  It would be next to impossible that all the data would get passed to the Chinese, what with ABC’s current protective measures, which could be beefed up by federal expertise anyway.  At most, the Chinese would get small pieces.  So, I for one am not too worried about secrecy.  Can you find any other potential problems with contracting with ABC?” Besides the fact that they aren’t a part of your empire, Frank added to himself.

     “They’re just plain too slipshod.  They don’t practice science, they practice alchemy and witchcraft.  I mean, they don’t really know what they’re doing.  They don’t analyze and thoroughly understand anything, they just go off and try things and see if they work or not. Trial and error.  We just can’t risk doing things the way they do them. If they make a mistake, they might trash the environment a little here and there, until they’d be stopped, and they’d have to go back to the drawing board.

     “I mean, there’s no real danger of their little beasties learning to reproduce on their own, so as to permanently trash the environment, let alone running loose and killing people, after all.  But since we’re in the business of making things that are designed to do precisely that, then we just have to be orders of magnitude more careful to make sure that everything stays under strict control.  They’re talking about messing up small sections of the environment temporarily if they goof up; we’re talking about the loss of millions of innocent lives.  We can’t afford to have ABC play bull in the china shop, here.”

     Frank had heard most of all this before.  Some of it he bought, and some of it he didn’t.  “I’ve heard this crap about them not being real scientists before.  Lots of academic people take aim at ABC with the gunsights on their noses.  Or at least, they used to, partly out of envy at being left out of ABC’s secrets, I suspect.  Now, it seems to me that academia is coming around, and paying more attention to ABC, now that it is obvious that ABC has a big success, and now that ABC is also trying to cooperate with efforts to use biotechnology in cleaning up alien and ‘trash’ species, in trying to restore environments to their original conditions.  Of course, they’re still guarding their most precious secrets.

     “But this business of pooh-pahhing their accomplishments because they were just mucking around instead of practicing real science is what gets me most of all.  Would you ignore someone who stumbled on anti-gravity technology just ‘cause they didn’t know how it worked? Come on now!  As far as trial and error goes, so what?  The vast majority of the trials and errors are in computer simulations, and so who cares?  That’s what computers are for!

     “OK, so you’re going to tell me, ‘but the time has to come when we stop simulating, and build the real thing to test it in real life, and woe to the human race when these cowboys start doing that with bioweapons.  The monsters will break through their twelve levels of isolation in the lab, and come and eat us all.’ Well, I’ve got some good news for you in these matters, to what extent this really causes justified fears.  Now that we’ve bought all the labs, computers, and equipment we might reasonably need, and now that space travel is becoming much more economical, we’ll be able to spend a part of our budget to do our trial runs in orbit.

     “If things go totally haywire, the entire facility can be boosted to a higher, almost totally stable orbit, where our isolation will be almost perfect.  For that matter, we could blast the thing into the sun, to be incinerated.  My bosses tell me we’ll be allowed to do this, IF we can justify our existence, and persuade them to fund us some more.  So, letting the ‘cowboys’ at ABC have some real-life trial runs at bioweapons wouldn’t be so prohibitively dangerous as you might think.

     “So what if ABC doesn’t sit around analyzing things all day? Sometimes we just have to go with what works.  And they’ve got something that works, and we don’t.  Which brings us back to us needing to do something to show some results.  I mentioned that I’m looking at the only two decent choices that I see, and that they are, contracting with ABC, and replacing you.  I see you haven’t addressed one of these options.  What do you think?  Do you see any other options?” Like, read between the lines, dude, you’d better accept us contracting with ABC, or your ass is out the door, Frank added to himself.

     Stanley, having heard this twice now, reacted more calmly.  “Well, if you’re in a big hurry, and taking risks with a dangerous project like this is acceptable to you, then by all means, let’s contract with ABC. But I’m hearing something more here, something about me having been part of the perceived problems so far, something about... what shall we say? Management shortcomings on my part.  Can we get a little more specific here?  What is it that I have or haven’t done that I shouldn’t or should have done?”

     Damn sharp on your part to perceive that I am not happy with your services at the moment, Frank thought.  “I believe in the chain of command.  I don’t want to encourage people who report to you, to bypass you and deal too much with me.  I don’t want to do your job.  But, in circumstances like this, where things aren’t going quite the way we’d like ‘em to, we’ll have to make some exceptions.  In other words, I suspect that there are plenty of good ideas generated among all your talented researchers, but you may be blocking some of them.  I am going to interview most, maybe all, of your senior researchers, to see what ideas we have out there that might work, that you’ve squelched.” And you’d better not yelp about that, either, you bum; read between the lines some more, Frank thought.

     “Before I do this, I want to hear from you: what ideas do some of your researchers have, that they’re enthused about?  Which of these ideas that we haven’t pursued much, might be likely to work?  I’ll want to hear it from the troops, later, without you filtering it, but first, let’s hear it from you.”

     Stanley paused.  He finally volunteered, “I can’t honestly think of any such ideas, with one possible exception.  That is, Melvin Sykowsky and a few of his buddies are all sold on the idea of incorporating non-living subsystems.  We’ve only funded them for simulations and theoretical studies, and I guess you could say they’re chomping at the bit a little, wanting to build some things.  But I’ve always thought that the advantages of truly living things, like nature builds, have always been clear.  Living things built mostly from watery compounds of carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen, unlike contraptions of plastic, steel, silicon, and ceramics, can reproduce and heal their wounds.  We can’t be out there constantly fixing busted parts, or installing the latest program upgrade.  Not to mention the cost differential between systems that we have to manufacture, and systems that manufacture themselves out of the flesh of their prey.”

     Frank remarked to himself that perhaps Stanley was biased because of his own background being in biochemistry, as opposed to a science or engineering field based more on inanimate matter.  “But don’t you see that there are so many things that machines can do much better than living things?  Traveling fast and carrying heavy loads, withstanding extreme environments, performing massive computations, and communicating over long distances come to mind.”

     “So?  We’ve already got these things now, I thought we were supposed to be developing something new,” was Stanley’s reply.

     “What about things that combine the two?  Wouldn’t it be nice to build a tiny radio receiver that can be powered from nutrients in the blood, and envelope it in bioengineered flesh that is not rejected by a living host, and have it interface with the host’s nervous system?  We could embed such things into bioweapons for strict control.  Or, maybe someday we could even put such things into human volunteers, so that we could constantly and reliably keep in touch with our pilots and soldiers.”

     “Yes,” Stanley ‘fessed up, “Melvin and a few others talk of, and study, such things.  Just having some vitally essential subsystem of a bioweapon be manufactured would in itself help to assure that the bioweapon would never run loose totally uncontrolled.  As long as you could be sure that your bioweapon could only get its manufactured subsystem from you, and not, for example, from the enemy who you’re using it against, then you can hold the leash.  But, now you’ve got to deliver these manufactured subsystems to the battlefield, for the bioweapons to incorporate them into themselves as they reproduce or grow.  Effective bioweapons would presumably be numerous and small, so we’re talking about a huge logistics effort to get these subsystems delivered to where they’re needed.  Delivering traces of artificial biological compounds, as ABC does, is much easier.  And before you start worrying about...”

     “Yes, I know,” Frank interrupted, “You’re working on it.” He referred to the dilemma of, “So how does one make absolutely sure that the enemy can’t do a detailed analysis of one’s ‘leash’ compounds, duplicate them, and turn the bioweapons back on their deployers?” Frank and Stanley had discussed the various possibilities again and again, without a really suitable option being found, and Frank didn’t want to go over this all over again.  “Well, you’d better work harder and faster on this, and many other matters.”

     “Meanwhile, I’ll be getting the ball rolling in the direction of contracting with ABC, and interviewing quite a few dozen of your top researchers.  I think I might be encouraging them to plug non-living subsystems into their creative efforts while I’m at it.” And you’d better like it, too, Frank added to himself.  He could just envision the wheels in Stanley’s head, grinding on this latest grist for the mill. Contracting with ABC?  Frank privately interviewing, without Stanley, all of Stanley’s top troops?  Where would Stanley fit, in this grave new world?

 

 

CHAPTER 7

 

     Phil and Hector sat next to each other in the largest of ABC’s Atlanta site conference rooms.  They had been called there by the site manager, Gary Peck.  Everybody who was anybody at this site¾all management involved in design, research, and development, in other words¾was there.  Financial, legal, and other miscellaneous management was represented also.  The conference room was really more of a small auditorium, with an only slightly raised stage and podium up front. Gary Peck, a few ABC Vice Presidents, and Bradley Collins, ABC’s CEO, all sat up on the stage, with two seats left empty.  Rumor had it  that this meeting was going to concern a large contract for ABC.

     Bradley got up, went to the podium, paused for some quiet, and announced, “All right, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get the show on the road.  We’re here to hear a presentation on a major contract for ABC. After the presentation, we’ll have a question and answer session. After that, or intermingled with the question and answer session, we’ll have to start working towards making a decision on whether or not we will accept this contract.  Note that these will only be preliminary discussions; we’ll have to take our time in building a consensus on this important matter.  This decision will really represent, to a large extent, a crossroads for ABC, and so we’ll want to make the decision wisely.

     “We need not worry about discussing in front of the gentlemen that I am about to introduce to you today, any of our innermost company secrets.  They have both signed non-disclosure agreements.  Yes, we all know and recognize that non-disclosure agreements are no guarantee of anything.  But, when you meet these two gentlemen and hear what they have to say, you will perhaps understand why we chose to trust them. They wield the guarantee of a very large and well-established institution.

     “Ladies and gentlemen, let me present to you, General Frank Leech and Doctor Stanley Eisner.  Both of them work for a government project whose name I can’t divulge to any of you today.  Please welcome General Leech and Doctor Eisner.” Two figures approached from backstage.

     Roraborawrumble, the small crowd muttered, over a smattering of polite welcoming applause.  Frank, resplendent as a quetzal in his bemedalled uniform, took the podium.  “OK, folks, before any of you make a mad dash for one of the doors to go and alert the media that your federal government is spending the taxpayer’s money to set Frankenstienian monsters loose to prey on human beings, let me set your fears at ease.  Our interests are purely defensive.  As I’m sure you’re aware, there is a huge global market out there for your products.  As you also know, we, the federal government, are responsible for making sure that Americans don’t export technology with military applications to nations that might make use of them against us.

     “Those of us who work for the federal government are Americans just like you, and we know how important it is for America to be competitive economically.  We don’t want to hamstring your exports; on the other hand, we don’t want someone to go and modify technology for the control of insect pests, and make it into a tool for the control of human pests. I’m thinking most especially of protecting pesky Americans who insist that all nations should endeavor to get along with their neighbors and to comply with minimum standards set by the U.N.”

     Phil knew that Frank was referring to China, which was the only power of any significance these days that was seriously bucking U.N. conventions such as minimum standards for human rights, and the payment of small royalties to the U.N. for the use of resources from environments belonging to no particular nation, such as the deep seas and space.

     “If we, the federal government, are going to have a good understanding of which biotechnologies are, and which are not, adaptable to military use, then we’re going to need to have a very firm grasp of the technologies themselves.  That, ladies and gentlemen, is where you could be of great assistance to the American people.  We want you to assist us in studying such matters, so that you, as the foremost representatives of your industry, and we, the government of the American peoples’ choice, can work together in devising ways whereby we can both protect ourselves from those who would use our technology against us, and also maximize our export potential.

     “In passing, I would like to mention that we will accept bids from other companies, as the law requires us to.  I do not think that it would be unjustifiably prejudiced for me to say that I seriously doubt that anyone besides ABC could meet our requirements, though.

     “We have actually been researching what military uses there might be for biotechnology for some time now.  This research has been purely from a defensive perspective, and has been done secretly, so as not to give other nations any ideas.  Today, the project’s existence will no longer be secret.  In about three hours, the President will make an announcement about our project at a press conference.  I’d strongly encourage you not to sneak out and leak this, just in the interests of most everyone getting the news on an equal basis.  Yes, I know you haven’t signed any agreements about keeping anything confidential from anyone.  But please be considerate, and don’t betray the trust that we are putting in you.

     “Anyway, the American government must know about biotechnology in order to wisely regulate it and its’ exportation.  Not only that, but we also have many uses for biotechnology that are peaceful, including military uses, such as cleaning up pollution on old military bases that date to way back when.  ‘Military’, you see, can often equate ‘peaceful’.  Other peaceful military uses might include, for example, biotechnology used in medicine that specializes in combat wounds.  What with all the importance of biotechnology to the military, most especially our interests in seeing that militarily useful biotechnology is not exported to unfriendly states, we can easily justify having the military study such matters.

     “But, though they may be peaceful and defensive in nature, some of our research is, and must remain, secret.  We don’t want an enemy to use our findings about what bad things they might be able to do, to go and do them.  And frankly, if an enemy does go off and use bioweapons, we’ll want to know everything we can, in order to take defensive measures. None of this is the kind of stuff that one can deal with openly, without secrecy.  Therefore, we can’t divulge any more details of what we plan to do, unless everyone we inform, has signed an agreement with the government, and has undergone a background check.  I’m not telling you that we don’t trust you, its just that I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any more details on what actual work we want performed.  We can talk about how many people and resources we might expect to need, how long it might take, and what we’d be willing to pay.

     “I’m truly sorry that I can’t share any more details with you. But, we feel we’ve gone far enough as it is, divulging even the existence of this project.  We had to do this in order to inform you that there are these opportunities available to you.  That is, we really don’t think we could keep a contract with you totally secret.  If we tried, and word leaked out, people would assume the worst.

     “So, we’ll publish the basic outlines, but not details.  We’ll discuss schedules, resources, and payments, but no more details about the work.  If ABC decides to pursue this, then those people who volunteer to work on this project, and receive security clearances, will have access to more details.  For now, let’s talk about some other details, like resources, schedules, and payments.  Dr. Eisner will address these matters.”

     Stanley got up, and the meeting got even more boring.  Phil sat there and thought various thoughts about his design activities at work and his life at home with Gloria.  The fifth or so of his brain power that he devoted to sorting the interesting things out of all of Stanley’s words, charts, and graphs, was quite sufficient.  Or at least, sufficient for sorting out all the things that Phil found interesting. The bean counters and legal eagles might find more here to get excited about, Phil reflected.

     Speaking of bean counters, there she is!  It’s that luscious babe from finance, Phil salivated.  He found Debra Kenner to be an immensely tempting distraction to stare at, just a few yards away, facing slightly towards him in the auditorium with the curving rows of seats.  Nothing like a buxom blonde to fantasize about during a dull presentation. Down, boy!  You’re a married man, or sort of.

     Stanley played the role of the organizational automation as unoriginally as anyone before him ever had.  He showed numerous charts and graphs, including “Gant Charts” of schedules.  Many headings were blacked out; specific project names and descriptions were not needed to convey an overall sense of the complexity, duration, and cost of the entire enterprise.  What little of Stanley’s dog and pony show that Phil found interesting included that the “Gant Charts” were entirely realistic in terms of timeframes.  The overall objective was to be achieved in anything from one to three years.  Phil thought this to be unusually flexible for federal bureaucrats.

     Also quite interesting was how similar the stages of simulations were.  Had the feds come up with practically identical simulation software, independent of ABC?  Or had the top ABC executives already coached Stanley on how ABC did such things?  Somehow, Phil thought it would be less than politically astute to ask.  Phil also noted that the feds wanted access to every last smidgen of ABC’s data and programs. At least the feds said that they’d pay separately for any of these data and programs that they used outside of the scope of the contract.

     Stanley finally finished, and Gary Peck got up.  He indicated that there would be a short question and answer session, after which everyone was to go home and think matters over before discussions at ABC would begin in earnest.  There would be no real need to keep all this secret from rank and file employees; on the other hand, there was no real need to involve everyone and their mother in the decision.  What degree of input the rank and file would make to the decision was up to individual managers, Gary pointed out, then sat down.  Q and A time was next.

     The legal eagles and the bean counters asked more than their fair share of hairsplitting questions.  Phil didn’t find any of this particularly enlightening.  He’d already heard the only legal and financial details he needed, which was that the feds wanted the right to use ABC’s software, and that they were proposing payments totaling about three billion for the whole contract.

     One of the few questions he found interesting was asked by Hector. “General, Doctor, could either of you talk some more about export licenses for ABC, and what interaction, if any, there might be between ABC’s decision to accept or decline your contract, and whether and how fast we might get our export licenses?” It seemed to Phil that Hector was trying to ask, in a polite way, whether export licenses, or lack of licenses, were to be used as carrot and stick in getting ABC to do the government’s bidding.

     The General’s reply was, “ABC is entirely free to accept or decline the contract, without fear of the government’s actions towards ABC being influenced by this decision.  Or at least, the government won’t deliberately undertake punitive measures.  However, if we don’t thoroughly understand the nature of your technology, then we’ll be less able to evaluate its potential military uses, and so we might be more likely to be conservative in allowing you to export it to potentially unfriendly or unstable nations.”

     Typical have-it-both-ways politician-type answer, Phil thought. Phil knew about ABC’s applications to set up factories in Scotland, Russia, Japan, Israel, China, India, Singapore, Australia, Cameroon, and Brazil.  He offered the next question.  “I understand that the military has a large input into decisions on export licenses.  Could you comment on what inputs the military has made on ABC’s applications for export licenses?”

     Frank replied, “Our input has been that we should approve all your requests with the exceptions of China, and pretty much the entire continent of Africa.  Africa we consider just too unstable.  Who knows, one day you have an iron-clad agreement with the current government, that your factory will be respected, and the next, Islamic radicals or some such have taken over, and they’ll steal your technology.  China? Well, I needn’t remind you that they remain the only non-democratic superpower unfriendly to the West.”

     Phil wasn’t done.  “What do you think would be the government’s stand on the idea of ABC setting up factory ships in international waters off the coasts of places where we can sell product, but aren’t allowed to set up factories?” This idea had been kicked around at ABC.

     “Yes,” Frank replied.  Phil thought he saw the hint of a smirk on the General’s face, and was quite sure he saw one on Stanley’s face. “We know about your shipping limitations.  You’ll have to have widely

     distributed factories, so that relatively short flights can deliver your product to holding and distributing areas, where they can be kept under less crowded conditions.  The idea you suggest is certainly a viable approach.  However, we might be concerned that other nations might be tempted to seize such ships, and so we might insist on guarding them with naval escorts.

     “In these days of tight budgets, the government may not be as generous in spending tens of billions in military expenditures to protect American business interests, as we did so very recently in protecting American oil imports, before the advent of cheap fusion power.  In other words, we may need to have ABC pay part of the costs of the naval escorts, above and beyond the taxes that you already pay.

     “If, on the other hand, you were to contract with the government, why, then, together, we could cooperatively find other, better solutions.  We might be able to set up factories that could at a moment’s notice destroy all data and technology that could be stolen in a revolution or other political instability.  Thus, we could have the advantages of land-based factories, without incurring security risks.”

     Ha!  We’re talking some not-so-subtle arm-twisting here, Phil thought.  For three nanoseconds of hilarious fantasy, Phil considered the idea of asking what would happen if ABC accepted the contract, and the feds subsequently found out about ABC breaking the law and secretly installing souped-up FIRMMs to snoop on the government’s snoop ports on ABC’s FOS.  Phil made a mental note to later bring up the fact that ABC’s transgressions might be likely to be discovered by the feds, if ABC accepted the contract, and the feds started inspecting the security of ABC’s computers.  Despite the CEO’s admonition to feel free to discuss all in front of these two feds, Phil knew that this was one subject that was out of bounds!  It would have to be discussed by only a handful of ABC’s top management later.

     The only other discussions that Phil found interesting had to do with government expectations in terms of procedures and forms, rules and regulations, and bureaucracy of all sorts.  It sounded quite depressing.  For starters, government computer security requirements seemed paranoid in the extreme!  No computer with any government data would be allowed to connect to any kind of network, or to any of ABC’s computers used for other projects.  This requirement alone would require hundreds of millions of dollars to be spent for more computers, and make work quite tedious at times.  How ABC would make much of a profit was a puzzle to Phil.

     The meeting concluded with Frank saying that ABC should feel free to call him at any time with any additional questions that might arise, and with Gary saying that all the ABC management should plan to meet again after the weekend, on Tuesday afternoon, to discuss the contract again.  He asked various people to prepare analyses of certain legal, financial, technical, etc., issues.

     Phil and Hector yakked a bit after the meeting, but they saved the really juicy stuff for Hector’s office.  Behind closed doors, Phil mentioned the dilemma of ABC’s snooping on the snoop port.  Hector’s opinion was that the “funny FIRMM” should simply be stashed away and all records of it destroyed, but they agreed that they should meet Monday morning with the only others who knew about ABC’s transgressions to discuss it.  They sent out a quick electronic memo to Gary Peck, Doug Meyer, and Pam Jones.

     Ambitious thoughts had already begun to race through Phil’s mind. If ABC accepted the contract, it would almost certainly mean that a new, separate, independent business unit would be set up.  Phil had already done the lion’s share of the really fun, creative work on the next generation of ABC’s products.  This government contract, despite the obvious drawbacks of bureaucracy, could provide new challenges to keep the beasts of boredom at bay.  Not only that, it could boost his career. Maybe he could head up the project!  Especially if Hector wasn’t interested.

     “So, what do you think, Hector?  If we accept the contract, is this a line of work you’d be interested in?”

     Hector didn’t pause long to reply, “No, I don’t think so.  I’ve talked to enough people who have worked for the government, and found it immensely frustrating.  The totally rigid and silly rules are so wasteful of energy and talent, it makes normal people, who want to feel that they’re actually contributing something of real value, feel like... well, like they might just as well take a bunch of rocks and move ‘em from one pile to the other and back all day.  Some people can take it; what the hell, they say, one has got to make a living one way or the other.

     “But, I guess if I’m honest, there are actually more fundamental reasons why I wouldn’t work for such a project.  Maybe I’m some kind of utopian bleeding heart, maybe there is a real need for all this.  I can’t deny that there are evil people in this world, and that they from time to time occupy positions of too much power in too many governments. Or would-be governments.  Nor can I deny that from time to time, force is needed to keep these... human hemorrhoids from becoming a fatal pain in the ass to too many victims.  And there is probably some legitimacy in the stance that the feds need to understand this technology in order to make prudent decisions on where we can export it to.

     “What I am not convinced of is the purity of our own noble nation. My country, right or wrong, doesn’t cut it with me.  It seems to me that we have to base our decisions on something more fundamental and universal than that, that we’re just another nation looking out for its own selfish national interests.  The general says we want to research these matters from a purely defensive perspective, but the lines between offense and defense are awfully hazy.  The best defense is a good offense, and all that.

     “What I see happening, all too clearly, is this: ‘Oh, we’re just running some simulations to see what might be done with such things, if the technology should fall into the wrong hands’, becomes, ‘Well, after all, since we’re doing all this with the details all totally secret and all, and who would deny that one has to keep such matters secret, then why don’t we just go ahead and verify that our simulations are correct.’ Next you know, the technology gets from here to there by God knows what means, someone is in the middle of a desperate war, where nothing but political survival, honor, power, prestige, or who knows what ideology, is of the utmost importance, and caution and prudence be damned.  All the safeguards fall to the side, in the desperation of the moment. Mistakes in the heat of battle, in the heat of the moment, result in some awful demon set loose in the name of national defense.  Something to make the older specter, nuclear war, seem mercifully swift and direct.

     “OK, I heard you at the press conference saying that the slippery slope is for intellectual weenies, and I agree.  We hang out halfway down the slippery slope, suspended by common sensical judgment and our needs of the day, and jerked around by the whims of passion, on a million and one issues every day.  Yet I think we’ve got to exercise our strongest restraint when it comes to certain steps up or down the slippery slope.  I couldn’t agree more with what ABC has done so far, in terms of using biotechnology to lessen the human impact on the environment.  But when we start to peer into the Pandora’s box of bioweapons, even for ‘purely defensive purposes’, we’re playing mind games with ourselves.  Kind of like the mind games we played with ourselves when we were back in college.

     “You know, you’d say to yourself, ‘Well, I really must study this weekend, but I’d also like to...’, whatever it was, go skiing, see your girlfriend, go to the beach, whatever.  So, you’d tell yourself you’d do both, you’d take that trip, but take your books with you.  So, you’d take your books with you, knowing damn well you’d never look at ‘em, just to make yourself feel better about taking the weekend to goof off.

     “So this ‘purely defensive purposes’ crap is in the same league of mind games; the feds know what they’re really after, and that’s offensive technology.  But we can get 95% of the way there, thanks to computer simulations, while still keeping up the pretense that it’s all totally from a ‘defensive perspective’.  The last few steps are just that: a few steps.  If I was totally convinced of the purity of our own government, I wouldn’t have a problem with that.  I guess I’m just not that much in synch with the government that I want to serve it any more than I have to.  Their methods, maybe even their objectives, differ too much from mine.”

     Phil just sat and listened.  He respected Hector, not just as his boss, but as his friend, and as a person who was not merely intelligent, but who actually also used his intelligence to think with.  Phil’s continued and expectant silence prodded Hector into continuing.

     “I agree that we can’t use the slippery slope theory to prohibit uses for biotechnology that are clearly not only profitable, but also beneficial to the environment, like what we’ve been messing with so far. We’ve just got to watch just how far we go down this slippery slope, just like any other.  Bioweapons research of any kind has the strong potential to become the La Brea Tar Pits at the bottom of the slippery slope.  Like the mob, once you’re in it, you can’t get out.  ‘Oh, but you signed these papers, you’re in it with us now, and we’ll bust you if you don’t go along with us now’, is what they’ll say to you after you find yourself going further than you’d thought you’d committed yourself to going.  ‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’, is what they’ll also say to you.

     “Even if I was thoroughly convinced of the benevolence and wisdom of the U.S.  government, I’d still have a problem with all this.  We estimate the probabilities of things going wrong, while assuming in our literal or figurative equations for estimating these probabilities, that all the humans involved are more or less rational creatures.  In reality, though, many of us have bats in the belfry.  Let me give you an example from the very recent past, before effective treatments for AIDS were discovered.

     “All the know-it-all, impartial, clinical, well-informed scientists and doctor-type individuals were running around telling the rest of us that we were biased, ignorant sons of bitches for not wanting to go to a dentist who has AIDS, and that dentists were ignorant sons of bitches for not wanting to treat patients with AIDS.  So, AIDS patients were suing dentists for not treating them, and all sorts of fun was had by all, especially the lawyers.  The oh-so-smart and oh-so-unbiased scientists were pronouncing how utterly infinitesimal the chances were of AIDS being passed in the dentist’s office.  Meanwhile, the utterly improbable, AIDS being passed in the dentist’s office, was happening.

     “The scientists were right, in that IF everyone behaved, and wore their gloves and sterilized their instruments, then the chances of passing AIDS were practically non-existent.  What they didn’t figure for was that some people do malicious things for no good reason at all. Some dentists deliberately passed AIDS along, apparently.  And, no matter how many layers of gloves a dentist would wear, a patient could always go bonkers and bite the dentist’s fingers.  Would you, as a dentist, have wanted to be required to treat a murder convict with AIDS, under fear of being sued for discrimination, knowing that there was no cure?  The scientists who loudly proclaimed the ignorance of those who feared AIDS transmission probably never had to stick their fingers in the mouths of people whose mental states were unknown to them.

     “Anyway, don’t bet on your technological innovations always being used by rational people.  We’re talking about war technology, after all, and war has never been known to be a terribly rational thing.”

     Phil still said nothing.  Hector had had his say, though, and wasn’t going to go on and on, endlessly.  “So how about you?  Do you think you’d be inclined to work on this project?”

     Phil reflected for a moment.  He knew that Hector wouldn’t be in the slightest bit judgmental about Phil’s views or choices in the matter.  Phil indeed did find Hector to be a little bit of a bleeding heart when they’d have their occasional political discussions.  But, they never let their differences get in the way of their friendship. Phil didn’t even feel like he was really expected to make much of an answer; Hector was just making conversation, and had gotten tired of expounding on his own views.  Still, Phil thought that it was important that Hector should understand and respect his views, to the extent that he had formed any on the matter yet.

     “I really suspect you’re right, about the mind games.  It just isn’t realistic to spend billions of dollars on simulations, and totally swear off ever doing anything beyond simulations.  I remember the General making some statement about our needing to know about bioweapons for ‘defensive purposes’ in case an enemy should ever use them first.  I suspect that his definition of ‘defensive’ is, indeed, quite broad.

     “Somehow I just don’t see any huge problems with such a stance. I’ve read my history, and know how easily many totalitarian, violent buttholes can stomp all over millions of people, and feel no remorse.  The only thing these people can understand is violence.  I would be most happy to deal in kind with the likes of Nero, Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amine, and Saddam Hussein.  I appreciate it when others protect me from such beasts, and I wouldn’t want to ask anyone to do for me what I am not at least in principle willing to do for them.  So I’ll be happy to support our troops with whatever it takes to keep the beasts at bay.  I just regret that we haven’t yet found a way to eliminate the buttholes without taking the innocent people with them.

     “It is indeed a sensible stance to not want to partake in violence, out of concern for the innocent.  I would question, though, just how many of the people subject to the rule of an asshole are truly innocent. If nothing else, they’re guilty of not grabbing the nearest piece of broken glass, and ramming it through the nearest asshole that they can find.  So what if one gets killed?  At least one is no longer a slave, and there is one less slave to prop up the parasitical shitheads.

     “In other words, a hundred people, even a hundred people with the only guns, do not rule a million people without some sort of consent from the oppressed.  The oppressed are guilty of valuing their lives more than their dignity.  Not the most heinous crime by any means, but a crime nevertheless.  And this crime is compounded when one allows the fucking buttholes to not only oppress oneself, but others, including others in other nations.  Stomp the guts out of the buttholes, and save your tears for more worthy causes, is what I’d say.

     “As far as realizing that the feds aren’t as pure as the driven snow, I’m with you.  I guess I could be too willing to choose a lesser evil over a greater evil.  But, our Western and democratic traditions just have too much going for them, compared to totalitarianism, that I’m willing to run the risk.  Despite my occasionally wishing to take a grenade launcher and go blow the pigs away, for minding everyone’s business on the behalf of Big Brother Uncle Sam, I am enough of a realist to realize that the oppressors who oppress us are practically angelic compared to some of the slime molds governing other countries.

     “Goddamn!  I must sound like a Nazi!  I want to go blow the buttholes away right now!  I’d better go home and drink some beer by the idiot box and chill out!”

     Or, far better, go home and toke up some good grass.  It would be far more likely to mellow me out than booze, he thought, but I’m not about to say that to Hector.  Who knows, he might want to come and join the party, if Gloria would let me commit such heinous crimes!  Wonder if he’d Bogart the joint?  Speaking of Gloria, wonder what she’ll think of ABC’s latest adventures, he wondered.  A semi-vague sense of dread ran through him.

     “No, you don’t sound like a Nazi to me.” Hector seemed to speak with a certain weariness, as if debating saying some more, but declining.  “But yes, I think we should go home and drink beer and mellow out by the idiot box.  My kid is home from college, and I’d better rush home so I can see him long enough for him to ask for my car keys.  Damned ungrateful brats.  You should have a few.  They’re such a sure-fire cure for tranquillity.”

     Phil chuckled and headed to his office to shut down his computer for the weekend.  Party time is here, he thought.  Time to blow off some steam.

     Phil zipped on home right at quitting time that Friday, and sat down to enjoy catching up on the news on his idiot box.  Gloria wouldn’t be home till seven, he recalled.  It wasn’t really much of an idiot box for Phil; he used his home FOS to scan text and photos from the news services, instead of watching vapid, meaningless, staged sex and violence.  The sex and violence in the news was just so much more... enlightening as to the human condition, Phil thought.  It gives me a more reality-based hard-on.  Maybe I should get off on watching some real-life cop shows; I could get off on imagining I’m one of the pigs who make the little kids scream as they drag Mom and Dad away for smoking a joint.  Nah, those are staged, too.  Maybe we’re all just actors and actresses for perverts like me who read and watch the news.

     He sipped some beer and scanned the day’s general news and commentary.  It was the same old litany of gangs and guns, Hollywood vixens, senseless violence of both domestic and international flavors, and natural and man-made disasters.  And, of course, editorials proposing to fix the world with more government, less government, more capitalism, more socialism, more cops, more jails, more rights for criminals, more guilt, less sex, or what have you.  OK, thought Phil, that’s all just great.  It’s just that I could have done without the picture accompanying the story about the guy they found in remote Utah, who got busted for necrophilia.  Who knows, next thing we’ll know, the NAMCLA (North American Man-Cadaver Love Association) will be proclaiming that they’re the last mercilessly persecuted minority, he thought.

     Then he read about the latest machinations at the United Nations. The member nations were feverishly trying to hammer out ways to gain more collective security by giving more power to the UN, without giving up too much sovereignty, and with each member also trying to get as much power as possible, in the UN pecking order.  In recent years, Germany and Japan had been added to the permanent security council members.

     Taiwan still had no membership.  Mainland China was the UN’s only serious “problem child” these days.  China was the only power of any significance, and certainly the only permanent security council member, which refused to pay small royalties on the use of non-national territory (space and the deep seas) into the UN budget.  That, human rights violations, uncontrolled arms exportation, and frequent vetoes of attempted security council actions had the other members scrambling to find new ways to organize the U.N. power structure so as to circumvent China’s power.

     Various methods for organizing the UN were being discussed.  China proposed that votes be weighed by the population of each nation, since its population was approaching two billion.  Hardly any other member stood by their proposal.  A cheeky young diplomat from Britain proposed that nations’ votes be weighed by the number of decision-makers in the member nation.  A true democracy would get votes equal to the number of its voters, while an oligarchy like China would get ten or fifteen votes, to reflect that only a few voices, such as those of the Central Committee, were being heard.

     More and more, though, security arrangements outside the UN, such as NATO, which now included parts of the former Soviet Union such as Russia, were becoming more powerful.  Members of such organizations worried about becoming entangled in conflicts with limited resources at their disposal.  But the U.N. could have greater resources to draw on than NATO, for example.  Nations that were not members of strong alliances were envious of those that were.  And the UN politicians themselves were also envious of the powers of regional alliances.  Many nations worried about World War III breaking out, due to two alliances getting into a scrap.  So, from many quarters, there was pressure to make the UN more powerful.  But no nation wished to yield substantial sovereignty or resources to the UN without a proportional voice in UN decisions.

     The proposal being given the most serious consideration for power-sharing was the idea of weighing each nation’s vote by the amount of resources committed to the UN, minus benefits obtained.  A floor would be imposed, so that each nation would have a minimal vote, to encourage participation, even if that particular nation’s account was in the red.  Soldiers committed to UN actions would be measured by their wages; high-wage industrialized nations’ soldiers were usually more effective than those of low-wage nations.  A floor on the value of soldiers would be imposed also.  Of course, there was lots of bickering over the fine points of accounting; the devil was in the details, as usual.  But the proposal was looking more and more feasible.

     Hot damn! thought Phil.  I hope it flies!  Not only would we have better collective security, but we’d also set a precedent hard to ignore domestically.  Maybe the US could follow the UN’s example, and weigh each voter’s vote according to the taxes they paid minus the benefits they got.  Weigh each Congressman’s vote according to their pork barrel account also.  Massive, cheap computer power and networking should make such a thing possible, he thought, despite the volumes of data needed to accomplish this weighing.

     Hell, we could put a real quick end to people’s pork of all sorts! We could prove wrong those doomsayers, who say that a democracy can only last so long as its voters don’t realize that they can vote themselves a bigger slice of the public till.  What a relief it would be, not to have politicians appealing to voters by telling them that they would tax the voter’s neighbors and give them the benefits.  Maybe we could actually move charitable functions back to the private domain, where private givers might be more able than a centralized bureaucracy to distinguish between the deserving and the undeserving poor.  Maybe we could have less welfare money going to powder people’s noses.

     After all, corporations were known to behave in a fiscally responsible manner, because stockholders got to vote according to how much money they put into the pot.  Maybe Uncle Sam, with the assistance of computers, could balance his budget using a similar setup.  Dream on, he thought.  There’s just too many parasites with their fingers in the rice bowl for us to pull that off.

     He did a search on biotechnology topics to see how the media was presenting Uncle Sam’s announcement and contract-fishing expedition to ABC.  Holy Shit, this had been a heady day¾he had gotten up that morning, knowing nothing other than that there might be a big contract in the offing for ABC, and now he was reading about it in the news! But, so far there were only brief, factual summaries, and the editorialists hadn’t yet gotten around to raving about this latest “slippery slope”.

     Phil downloaded the good stuff from the FOS, and saved it to temporary files that he arranged according to whether or not he thought Gloria might be interested.  To the middle, he put the few articles about Uncle Sam’s latest revelations about his research efforts, and his attempts to court ABC.  We’ll just subtly kind of bury this in here, and see how she reacts, he thought.  Then, he caught a brief nap, waiting for Gloria.

     Gloria was home soon enough.  She looked beat.  Phil gave her a big smooch, and offered to take her out to eat, mostly just as a polite gesture.  He figured she’d decline, and she did.  They sat down for drinks and sandwiches.

     “So how was your day?  How’ve you been since I last enjoyed your company, snoogle-woogle poogle-woogle boogle-woogle?,” Phil inquired.

     Gloria winked at Phil, and made a half-hearted attempt to wiggle her butt a bit.  “Hey, you strong and handsome big fella sweet-talking hunk you.  I sliced and diced like usual today.  I also saw the cutest baby.  We might want to get married and make us one, one of these years, you know.  Get some of my eggs out of the freezer and have my test tube get together with your test tube, before my incubator’s warranty runs out.” Gloria referred to eggs she’d set aside, when she was younger and their quality had been better.  The incubator she was talking about, though, was her body¾even biowhizzes like Phil hadn’t tackled replacing nature’s incubators yet.

     Oh no, thought Phil, not this again.  Better humor her a bit; she’ll be pissed enough when I tell her about ABC considering a contract with the Big Bad Warmongers.  They’d briefly discussed such matters in passing, hypothetically, and she’d made it clear that she didn’t want Phil to touch it with a remote telepresence manipulator guaniferator, or anything else.

     Phil momentarily pondered his position on his microslice of the planet-wide man-woman love-lust-power battlefields.  Let’s see, marriage isn’t a big deal to either of us, it’s just a formality and a piece of paper, so I don’t have any trouble with that, except Uncle Sam with all his family values would punish us for it.  So that’s not what she so subtly nags me about.  She wants to give up her job some day to take care of little ones, but she also insists that we use the latest and most expensive technology to insure to the very best of our ability that the kids have all the best chances at all the best of everything.  And she won’t cut any corners in how we get there.

     She won’t use amniocentesis and abortion to discard less-than-optimal embryos, because of some crazy illogical superstitious woman thing about not wanting to abort anything that she has grown attached to inside herself.  Or maybe she’s just scared of having someone stick a BAN (Big-Assed Needle) in her tummy, but is afraid to admit it.  But for some reason, she regards amniocentesis and abortion as totally different than discarding blastomeres after cherry-picking in a BABI (Blastomere Analysis Before Implantation) procedure.

     But since we have no family history of any genetic defects that are on the government-approved list of defects that government or insurance will pay for preventing, we have to shell out the big bucks if we want the procedure.  Thorough genetic analysis, including all known important and well-understood genetic traits, is expensive, especially when the lawsuit lottery costs are added.  And her fastidious sense of honesty stands in my way, when l broach the subject of going off and pulling some strings or having one of my buddies do it on the sly for us.

     So no amnio and no cheating...  Phil was tempted to point out that they could have their cake and eat it too.  She could quit work and become a mommy now, without having to worry about saving up gobs of money, after being raped by the taxman, to pay for BABI procedures, and without having to worry about having a defective baby, if only she would consent to being a little more flexible.  But they’d been down that road before, and now was not a time to piss her off.  What to say?

     “Hang in there, snugglebunny.  In just another two or three years, we’ll have enough money saved up, so that we’ll be able to enjoy more or less our present standard of living, with just me working.  And, we’ll be able to afford a BABI or two and a baby or two.” You would-be Oxytocin Queen, you, Phil added to himself.  “Then, we’ll be able to bitch about them, like Hector did to me today.  He said something like, they’re sure-fire cures for serenity, or some such.”

     He took a bite, masticated thoughtfully, and propelled a smooch in her general direction across his onion, cheese, horseradish, and braunschweiger sandwich.  She pouted pensively, and made puppy whimpering noises.  He wasn’t sure whether it was because she was offended at the idea of him giving her a grossschloppigischlichbraunschweigerschmoooch , or because he’d passed on Hector’s comment.  Hector’s comment could certainly be construed to be parentally incorrect, and prejudicial against rug rats, ankle biters, and house apes.  Oops!  I mean, chronological maturity impaired individuals, Phil added to himself.

     He suspected that the pout and whimper most likely referred to children rather than braunschweiger, so he hastened to amend, “Oh, Hector’s just jacking around.  At least, he’s never offered any of his kids up for adoption, that I know of.  Certainly not to me.  Even if he was serious, then you’ve got to realize, any kids that we’ll have, will be positively angelic.  Unlike his.  No one will ever be justifiably angry with any of them.”

     Gloria grinned.  “They’ll be naughty just like you, Big Boy.  Why don’t you come on over from apartment A to apartment B, and... see me sometime.  You star boarder you.” Wink, wink.

     “I’ll schedule your 45 seconds for eleven o’clock.  In the meantime, I did my usual predigesting of the news for you.  You’ve got to catch up, so we can make meaningful conversation.  In a few years, all we’ll say is goo goo, gah gah, poo poo, pee pee, bah bah, and bye bye.  So we’d better take advantage of opportunities for adult discourse, as well as intercourse, while we still have the stage to ourselves.  Pootie Pie.”

     Their bantering continued throughout their munchies feast.  Gloria opined that maybe they should lower their expectations as far as high living standards were concerned, so that she could quit and have BABIs and babies now.  He said that that would mean they’d have to leave the security of their walled-off, guarded suburban community, and that they would then have to live in a cheaper place where less security would mean they’d be robbed blind.  She said that maybe if they’d be less materialistic, no one would want to rob them in the first place.  He said they’d be mugged for their last can of who hash, and that the solution to the security dilemma was to be found in the other direction, which was to buy more security with more money.

     “Speaking of security for the rich and high and mighty, Ummel, you’ve got to see the news clippings I put together for you,” Phil commented as they put their yummy chow back into the ‘fridge.  “Looks like they’re making serious progress towards a ‘virtual cop’ system.  I mean, one that they’re confident enough of, to give it autonomy.  So, in a few years, we’ll be able to collect a few tens of millions of dollars of our spare change, and go and buy us our own personal robocop.  Let’s go lounge in bed and study up, before we’re left behind, and everyone thinks we’re a couple of trilobites.”

     They headed to bed at nine, to be totally decadent slugs and lay in bed and read the news.  They quite literally studied up, in that a thin-film computer screen covered half of their ceiling, right over the water bed.  Phil brought his disk from the FOS downstairs and slipped it into the bedside unit.  He grabbed the two pointers and passed one to Gloria.  They snuggled under the covers and split the screen, one half for Gloria to read the news, and one half for Phil to do some mostly recreational reading on sociobiology.

     Phil pointed out the ‘virtual cop’ article to Gloria, and she read about how the whole thing had started with intelligent systems helping humans monitor the images from remote security cameras.  These systems had the electronic smarts to recognize suspicious or hostile actions, and would automatically display to their human owners, the most worrisome five or ten images from fifty or a hundred cameras strung out through, say, a mall or other complex of public buildings.  It had been a short step from there to add telepresence-operated robotic gun emplacements.  Now, instead of needing to have humans licensed to use force to operate the robotic gun emplacements remotely, computer security experts were saying that they had hardware and software that was reliable enough to run the whole show.  Needless to say, it wasn’t cheap.

     “Oh, great,” was Gloria’s comment.  “Now in another twenty years, we’ll all be walking around with a backpack full of circuits and ammunition, and robotic camera and gun arms poking out of our backs and sides and above our heads.  One person goes bonkers, and every robopig in sight will start shooting.  Then, all of these robopigs’ neighbors will blast away.  Kind of like an electronic Wild West hybridized with a positive-feedback, runaway-process chain-reaction-type thing.  Like filling a whole room full of loaded mouse traps, each with a ping pong ball delicately balanced on it, and then throwing a single ball in there.  Ever see the video somebody made of that?  In about three seconds, every mouse trap had been triggered.”

     “Yeah, I saw that with you a few years back.  But it won’t be like that; only the rich will be able to afford such things.  So the poor people who can’t afford such things will be the moderators.  In your chain-reaction analogy, they’ll be the graphite rods in the old-style fission reactor, sucking up those extra neutrons.  Except the neutrons are bullets,” Phil said as he parked his cursor at the section he had been at before she had interrupted his reading.

     “So let’s outlaw both guns and computers, and no one will ever be able to do this.  Push back the technological tide,” Gloria proposed.

     “Heresy!  We have to do it because we can.  And because technology is God,” he replied.  “Besides, as soon as we teach computers to be not only shrinks, mathematicians, scientists, and cops, but also nurse maids, baby sitters, and house cleaners, we’ll all finally be able to sit in the park and drink beer all day.”

     They both got back to their reading.  Phil wondered how long it would be till she’d get to Uncle Sam’s bioweapons research, and how she’d react.  She read an article about how new controlled fusion power technology was being used in many countries to power new beam weapons for defense against aircraft and missiles, and commented about how it would be really nice if just for once, a new technology could be developed for peaceful purposes, without it being turned into a weapon. Oh-oh, thought Phil, she’s just getting warmed up for my big story of the day, which I’ve so sneakily been keeping from her so far.  He chuckled inwardly, looking forward to seeing her reaction, and maybe razzing her a bit.  Only a wee bit, though; she gets hot on these matters.

     He got back to his reading, just barely long enough to get interested in it again, when he heard Gloria catching her breath.  He glanced over and saw that she’d finally gotten to the stuff about the feds, ABC, and bioweapons.  Her jaw dropped.  She turned to Phil, noticing that he was watching her with a devious grin.  “Those scumbuckets came by ABC today, sniffing around for some help with their dirty work, and you didn’t tell me?”

     “I wanted to surprise you.  I wanted for you to hear it from the unbiased news media first.  Read on.”

     Gloria did just that.  What she had to say was, “I can’t believe that they really think they can hoodwink the majority of Americans.  Let me get this straight.  They’re going to conduct computer simulations of bioweapons, purely for defensive purposes.  They’ll never build any bioweapons; they’ll just simulate them, to see what could be done, so that we’ll know which technologies we can export and which technologies we can’t export.  And, of course, so that we’d know what to do if an enemy ever used such weapons.  But, of course we have to conduct all this research secretly.  So we’re gonna expect that we can have the boys sitting there with their toys, in secret, without them playing with ‘em.  And they’re coming to try and pervert my favorite, innocent little biowizard.” She peered at Phil intently, as if a sufficiently intense gaze would strip away all his secrets.  “Of course, my innocent snugglebunny is going to go and tell ‘em to get an honest job.  Right?”

     Phil sensed the danger, but couldn’t resist having just a wee smidgen of fun.  He kept his face and tone as neutral as he could. “Oh, come on now, snuggle humpschen, their hearts are in the right place.  They just want to be prepared to undo the Pope’s evil work.  Be ready to relieve Mamma Earth of a few excess billion humans.”

     She flared and glared.  “Listen.  Tell those ABC buddies of yours that they might as well sell their souls to the Devil.  You guys have plenty of stuff you can do, without getting down in the mud with the feds and their state-sponsored terrorism.  Oh, wait, I forgot; the enemy is into terrorism, and we’re into ‘defense’.  Haven’t we learned a damned thing from history?  From the spread of nuclear weapons, and the poisoning of the environment brought on by manufacturing nukes?  You, though, being spiritually advanced, are going to argue for sanity at ABC, aren’t you?  My big strong handsome guy is also a sensitive and caring guy who doesn’t want biosynthetic bogeyorganisms running amok, eating all the innocent little children, right?”

     Phil had had his fun.  He’d seen yet once more how much of a spirited woman he had here, how cute she looked when she got her dander up.  Now, he needed to calm her back down.  He didn’t agree with her, any more than he agreed with Hector.  But, why bother to fight this battle now?  There was a very good chance that ABC would turn the feds down, and so, there was no reason to piss Gloria off now.  He stroked her arm, repressed his urges to rant and rave, and assured her that, “Sure, snugglebunny.  I’ll put my two cents in that we should stick to peaceful work.” Like, peaceful in the sense that we’ll preserve peace through putting into the enemy’s head, the knowledge that we’ll stomp shit out of ‘em if they don’t behave, Phil added to himself.

     “So what do you think are the chances that ABC will get involved in this?,” Gloria wanted to know.

     “Oh, its hard to say.  This was a bolt out of the blue, you know. Making a semi-wild guess, though, just from having talked to some people, I’d say chances are good we’ll turn ‘em down.  Government contracts are just too much of a pain in the ass, you know.”

     Phil snuggled with Gloria while they read some more, then they both slept off the week’s excitement.  Their weekend was uneventful in a very relaxing way, and Monday swung around all too soon.

     Phil found himself sitting in Hector’s office again, just like Friday afternoon.  It was as if the weekend had never existed.  One of these days, I’m going into the woods in Montana and study my navel, Phil told himself.  This rat race has got to end.  But first, I’ve got to make my million.  Or at least, get my name in the history books.  And more than just a footnote.

     Gary, Doug, and Pam, as well as Phil and Hector, were there.  The bigger big wigs weren’t there, but Gary indicated he’d played golf and chatted with them a bit over the weekend.  Gary was free to use his good judgment.  Neither Phil nor Hector played golf, and Phil would have been irritated over the old-boy chumminess of this business of playing golf as a method of decision-making, if it wasn’t for the fact that he had a lot of respect for Gary.  Also, Phil was in somewhat of a quiet and introspective mood.  He’d told Gloria he’d try to convince ABC to turn down the contract, but he was quite ambivalent about it.  So, for the most part, he intended just to sit back and watch.  Besides, unlike some of the others, he’d never worked for the government, so he really didn’t have many inputs to make.

     The morning’s topic, though, was restricted to ABC’s snooping crimes; the bigger picture was reserved for a bigger meeting in the afternoon.  Gary was running the show, like usual.  “So we’ve got a dilemma.  If we accept the contract, they want access to all of our data.  We could remove our FIRMM, and try to destroy all traces of it. If we did that, we might miss something and still get busted.  I understand they’ll almost definitely want to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb.  At the very least, we haven’t a chance of completely hiding the data-warping scheme, and even though it isn’t illegal, we’d have a hard time explaining why we got so spooked as to go to all that trouble, without telling them what got us spooked.

     “I may have come up with a possible solution, as I was thinking about it this weekend.  It may sound a bit juvenile, but hey, we’re talking about the government here.

     “What I propose is that we essentially say to the feds, ‘Hey, look. You say you want all of our data.  Well, just maybe we might have something that might incriminate us just a wee tad.  If you won’t offer us immunity, we’ll have to destroy some data, and we know you want maximum insight into what all has happened here, what we’ve done, how we’ve done it, and why we’ve done it.  In order for us to accept this contract, we’ll either have to have immunity, or we’ll destroy data. Which will it be?’ I don’t think that what we’ve done is such a heinous crime, especially since we’ve documented, and can demonstrate, that at least we’ve stayed within the spirit of the law.  Nevertheless, the G-men won’t feel like giving us a clean slate on just any crime we’ve committed; they wouldn’t, for example, want to get embarrassed if the public later found out that we had, say, released thousands of tons of highly toxic but slow-acting trash that would come to light later.

     “So, what we’ll do is give ‘em a list of things that we might have done, and ask them which ones they’d be willing to give us immunity on, if we accepted the contract.  Then of course, if we don’t accept the contract, they’ll regard us as a suspicious bunch, and maybe investigate us for the crimes we’ll list.  If we make the list long enough, though, we won’t really give ‘em much of a clue.

     “Come on, give me a hand.  Here, I’ll start.  Maybe we’ve accidentally caused a species of bacteria to go extinct.  Or maybe we’ve cravenly, deliberately done the same, just to make a few extra bucks. Or, ditto those two cases on the extinction of a worm.  Or, ditto on a species of lizard.  Then, minor and major pollution, or dumping, crimes. List a bunch of ‘em.  Get the idea?  We’ll do the same for, say, worker safety crimes, discrimination, murder, espionage, illegal campaign contributions, patent violations, and (ahem) violations of employee privacy.  Hell, what with us having so many laws on the books that we’ve got to hire lawyers just to make sure we’re OK, we should have no trouble listing a shitload of hypothetical crimes.  Let’s do it to it.”

     Doug, being the most proficient at a keyboard, volunteered to type up the ideas as they were generated.  A lot of people even these days preferred to type, as opposed to dictating to machines, mostly because voice recognition systems were still slightly expensive and awkward, but also because such machines had to be trained each time they heard a new voice.  For collecting dictation from a room full of people, a human set of ears and brains still ran circles around any bucket of bolts and integrated circuits.  Doug’s labors appeared on a large wall screen for all to critique.

     In no time at all, they had listed about 60 crimes.  They included the ridiculous, as well as the plausible.  Gary had merely chuckled when Pam and Hector had cut up a bit, suggesting that it could maybe have been that ABC was responsible for sunspots, dandruff, halitosis, and whale lice.  These were included in the list to be sent to the feds. Phil wondered how Gary could fly so blatantly in the face of “professionalism”.  What a bunch of mavericks he had the fortune to be working for!  It had been remarkable enough that Phil had ever gotten to speak his mind at the announcement press conference.  Then he stopped to wonder if maybe Gary was actually trying to send the feds a message. Something like, “Look, you bunch of stuffed shirts, we at ABC won’t be forced into your mold.  We’ll do things our way.”

     In approximately another 3.51 units of no time at all, their room full of five people was on the FOS, transmitting and receiving voice and images to and from General Leech.  Gary introduced everyone in the room and explained their dilemma, and also explained that ABC was having a meeting Tuesday afternoon, and it would sure be nice to have this matter squared away when all this was being discussed.  ABC’s modus operandi was to make decisions and move on, Gary pointed out.  Phil, once more, had to admire Gary’s get-it-done approach.

     General Leech’s somber visage stared solemnly at them from the wall display.  He cleared his throat, and pronounced that, “Well, I guess we could see if we can accommodate y’all.  Why don’t you go ahead and send me your list.  You realize, of course, that you’ll have to fill out our Standard Form BR-549-XTRQZY, Application for Forgiveness of Hypothetical and Not-So-Hypothetical Crimes.” Frank kept his face so straight that only Hector let out a guffaw, and a delayed one at that.

     The General went on to say, “Come on, lighten up.  We’re in this together.  Or at least, I’d sure like to be.  I’m on your side.  All the forms and such, we’ll help to try and keep off of your backs.  As far as what we’re talking about here, I obviously don’t have that kind of authority to grant you those kinds of things.  But, I want you to know that President Kite personally takes very seriously this business of getting Uncle Sam caught up in the biotech field.  I will contact him with your list, and I’ll have an answer for you shortly.  By, say, ten tomorrow.  And I appreciate y’all contacting me with this matter, rather than just destroying your data, because we are indeed interested in everything that you have.”

     Gary spoke up.  “OK, so, shall we call you at ten tomorrow, then?”

     Frank replied, “No, I’ll call you.  Here at this same number?”

     “Please.  Thanks!  Oh, and please don’t discuss any of this with anyone other than those of us in this room.  We’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.”

     Doug broke the link.  Phil spoke up for the first time, to try his hand at this cloak-and-dagger stuff.  “Excuse my paranoia, but, just maybe we should play it safe when they send us our list tomorrow.  Let’s not dump it to the big screen, just in case they can record our eye movement closely enough to figure out which section we look at the moment it’s shown.  We all know what we’ll look at first, or longest, even if we try not to.” Phil didn’t suggest that they shut down their visual transmissions, because this was considered to be bad form, except at home in the odd hours.

     “Couldn’t hurt.  Let’s remember to dump it to printer, then,” was Gary’s comment.

     Phil got back to his usual business of running simulations, and tweaking this and that, on ABC’s next generation of products.  Ten on Tuesday rolled around right on schedule, and the gang was assembled in Hector’s office once more.  Phil wasn’t sure why Gary was so willing to meet in Hector’s office so often.  If Gary was a real, self-respecting bigwig, you’d think he’d want the meetings in his own, larger office. Who knows, maybe he just enjoys watching Hector’s tropical fish swimming around.  Phil had to admit, it was a very nice aquarium.

     The General was on screen shortly, and six pages dropped out of the printer.  Doug snatched them away before Hector could get at them, saying, “Stop!  You heathen!  I’ll duplicate these, and we’ll perform a proper, egalitarian, simultaneous ceremony of The Reading of The List.  Back!” Without examining them, Doug dropped them in the copier, which promptly spat out four more copies.  Doug passed them around face down, like a dealer at the high-stakes table, implying with exaggerated body language that anyone turning up their pages first was a cheat. Gary looked at him with a mixture of amusement and admonishment.  Gary refused to play the game; he turned his over as soon as he got it.  Doug was no dummy, though; he had deliberately started with Pam and Phil, knowing they were unlikely to spoil the ceremony.  So, Hector and Doug himself were the only ones to get a late start at the races.

     Phil looked the list over.  Some were marked “Yes,” some were marked “No,” and just a very few were marked “maybe”.  The sunspots, dandruff, halitosis, and whale lice had been marked with asterisks, whose explanation at the end of the last page was, “Unknown at this time.  We are forming a committee to study this matter, and will attend to these issues with all due haste.” The mild case of spying on employees, such as what ABC was guilty of, was marked “Yes,” as expected.  In fact, so was the moderate case of such spying.  Phil was surprised to see just how many “Yes” marks there were.  The feds must want this deal fairly strongly, he mused.

     “So does this put your fears at ease?,” Frank wanted to know.

     “Yessir, it does,” was Gary’s reply.  “Thank you.”

     “Glad to be of help.  Please be aware that this is not permission to continue your wayward ways, if they’re still going on.  Even the President doesn’t have the authority to set up different laws for different people.  We’re only offering immunity for past crimes, if you accept the contract.  The activity or activities wouldn’t be allowed to continue.” Unless the government does it for us, Phil thought.  Frank continued, “Also, I don’t imagine I really have to mention this, but please keep this all under your hat.  I imagine, and hope, that this would be as embarrassing to you as it would be to us, if it ever got out.  We may have had our fun with this, but this is serious stuff.”

     “Roger that,” was Gary’s reply.  They said their good-byes and hung up.

     That afternoon, ABC had the big meeting to discuss the contract. The various legal, financial, and technical dog and pony shows were presented.  None of it looked too terribly favorable for accepting the contract.  Then, the meeting became a free-for-all.  Various people got up and said that they had first or second-hand experience in working for the government, and that such work was, to a large extent, a crock of expletive deleted.

     Various other objections were raised, such as public relations.  In the last few days, there had been much editorializing, sermonizing, and demonstrating against such research, with a smaller segment of public opinion in favor.  Some meeting-goers worried about having to grow ABC in order to take the contract, since ABC was busy enough already.  What would this do to the informal, relaxed company culture?  And what about artificial divisions between the segments of ABC?  Would ideas and cooperation still flow freely within ABC, or would “us versus them” set in?  Would the government claim all of ABC’s inventions if defense-contract workers occasionally helped with other projects?  Would cross-fertilization cease, due to such fears?

     It didn’t take long for a consensus to evolve, and the decision was to not pursue the contract.  However, it didn’t seem prudent to just tell Uncle Sam to deposit the contract in a solar-photon-free zone. After all, they all knew who regulated export licenses.  So, they decided to make a counter-proposal, which would be heavily stacked in favor of ABC, and ABC’s ways of doing things.  The goal was to make a reasonably serious counter-proposal, so that the feds wouldn’t be too miffed, as would be the case if the proposal was a total joke.  Still, the proposal was to be so favorable to ABC as to be unlikely to be accepted.  ABC would make it clear that this was a final offer.

     For more than an hour, they all sat there and contributed to a list of contract conditions.  Either more money or less computer security restrictions.  Less red tape.  Carte blanche for contract workers to work on other projects without hassles.  Exemption from rigid government rules on unions, wages, security clearances, cost accounting, documentation, and contract administration.  Only broad goals from the feds; no micro-managing allowed.  Etc., etc., etc.  The legal eagles were tasked with trying to put it all into legalese.

     Phil’s only input was that he didn’t like Stanley, and that he’d like for Stanley’s duties not to include riding herd on ABC, as proposed by the feds.  This was deemed too personal, but the legal types promised to see if they couldn’t just write the counter-offer so as to make government oversight of ABC fairly innocuous.  Only on accepting the final products would the feds be allowed to be persnickety.  Gary asked that the contract explicitly state that ABC was merely treating Uncle Sam like any other customer: ABC didn’t want to be all tied up by the contractor, on how ABC got the job done.  On the other hand, when it came to results or customer satisfaction, the customer, as with the customer of any reputable business, was the boss.

     ABC’s lawyers promised to get it all written up, to be submitted for final approval by top management before being sent to the feds. Phil wondered whether or not this would be the last he’d hear of all this.  It would have been such a career opportunity, he thought.  Oh, well.  Back to the salt mines.  At least he hadn’t pissed off Gloria over nothing.

 

 

CHAPTER 8

 

     Stanley sat at yet another pre-meeting meeting preceding yet another meeting of the National Security Strategy Committee, the same as he had more than once before.  Frank seemed to be his usual surly self.  He was saying, “OK, so ABC made a counter-proposal that is totally outlandish in terms of the usual government contract.  President Kite won’t buy off on using some muscle tactics.  We’d better just lick a little boot and knuckle under to them, if we want to get the job done. Besides, don’t quote me, but there’s actually some potential for us to get a lot of good things out of ABC’s bullheadedness.  We can bypass a lot of Mickey mouse bullshit, if we can get the committee to buy off on accepting ABC’s proposal.”

     Shit! thought Stanley.  He didn’t consider the highest standards in safety, security, ethical treatment of workers, and well-documented honesty to be “Mickey mouse bullshit,” but he wasn’t about to say that to his boss.

     Frank went on to say, “Sure, we’d like to bug the President to see if we can’t, like, declare eminent domain, or bust ‘em up for being a monopoly, but he’s already let us know that he won’t consider risking ‘killing the goose that lays the golden eggs’.  Besides, he’s right: pissing them off does us no good.  And busting up a group of research workers that’s as small as ABC’s research group, with maybe only 50 top-notch brains, wouldn’t do any good either.  So I don’t want to hear any bellyaching along these lines tomorrow.”

     Frank was looking at Stanley as he was making this comment, since Stanley, as usual, would be the only one besides Frank at the pre-meeting meeting who would go to the Big Meeting.  Stanley did his best not to appear indignant, which he was.  Frank often subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, ragged on Stanley in front of others.  Frank reminded Stanley of his bosses at his post office job that he’d had so long ago, when he’d worked to save money to pay for his studies. Authoritarian postal bosses, despite being hardly any more educated or qualified than their workers, had treated Stanley and other workers shoddily.  And they wondered why postal workers periodically went bonkers, Stanley reflected.

     “I have some news from the DIA that, well, I don’t know how to put this.” Frank paused, as if debating just how much to say, and as if he was tasting a bit of crow at the thought of saying much of anything. “It’s good news and it’s bad news.  But the really good news is that we can use it.  President Kite is a lot more open about these things than our last president was.” Frank seemed to look a little ill as he talked about the last president.  “So, not only do we all know about these things, we all know that we all know and are allowed to know.  So, we can discuss it, not only here, but at the meeting.”

     So get on with it, you political airbag! thought Stanley.  Spit it out!

     “I mean, we’ve already been suffering the ill effects of the bad news all along, and so the good news is that now we finally know about the bad news, and we can use all this to say, here, see, this is why we haven’t been able to achieve as much as ABC has been able to do.” Stanley’s ears pricked up.  Here comes the good stuff at last, he thought.

     “It seems we’ve been getting less than the real McCoy all along, on data from ABC.  The agent at ABC managed to not only record what all was said at their big meeting, where they made the decision to make a stiff counter-offer¾and I might add, they made it stiff with the intention of having us turn them down, but they didn’t want to make it so stiff as to have us get POed at them, out of fear of export restrictions.  I don’t know why they think we’re such well-connected ogres.

     “Anyway, the agent also managed to stick a bug in a manager’s office, where some things got discussed that weren’t discussed at the big meeting.  It seems that ABC has been cheating.  They snooped on the snoop port, and apparently caught on when our agent dumped all the available data across the FOS on the federal accounts.  That was way back when, when we first got started doing this.  They got spooked, and apparently decided to start altering some critical data with some special gizmos, so that the data would be garbled to any outside user, and get ungarbled only when one of their machines was using it internal to itself.  So, we’ve been getting trash.  Subtle trash, but trash.”

     Frank paused and looked at Stanley, giving Stanley the chance to say “I told you so”.  But Stanley knew that this would count against him, so he swallowed the impulse to do so.  After a few seconds, Frank seemed to mellow out a bit, silently approving of Stanley’s self-restraint.  “I think I recall you actually saying once or twice that you suspected something was fishy.  Well, you were right.  I just wish we’d have had the smarts to figure this out more thoroughly a while ago, instead of letting these guys lead us on a wild goose chase.”

     Well, shit! thought Stanley.  Pat me on the back, then back up and boot me in the behind.  Admit I was right, and then imply that I wasn’t as right as I should have been.  He considered pointing out to the General that this was a prime example of garbage in, garbage out, and that designing the genes behind brains and immune systems was more of an example of black magic and luck than it was an example of a rigorous science like math or physics, where you were either right or wrong. There really wasn’t any realistic way that Stanley or his troops should have been able to figure this all out, he thought, but he also thought that it probably wasn’t a good idea to rile Frank over it.

     Stanley finally put his two cents in.  “So why can’t we bust  ‘em for snooping on the snoop ports?  We’ve already offered them the carrot, and they seem to want fifty sugar-coated carrots instead, so why don’t we try the stick?”

     “Because we’d almost definitely give away our ace in the hole if we did.  They’d realize that we have an agent among them.  So far, they probably don’t really actually suspect that their spy is acting on our behalf, despite the fact that the federal accounts were used in the first raid.  Really sharp hackers could have pulled that off, without the government being involved.

     “So we took their warped data, and warped it some more, before passing it on to the Chinese, under the old administration.  No wonder we couldn’t tempt the Chinese into starting their own biowar research, based on this.  This stuff we gave ‘em had been pissed on, not once, but twice, and they’re apparently sharp enough to know it.”

     Stanley nervously rubbed his sapphire ring.  His blood pressure, heartbeat, and sweat output stepped up a notch or two at the mention of this topic.  Fortunately for Stanley’s short-term political survival, he wasn’t hooked up to a polygraph, and Frank had no reason to suspect anything was wrong.

     Frank went on.  “But now that we’ve already suffered the ill effects of this bad news, we can squeeze some good out of it.  We can argue that this is why we’ve been shown up by ABC, and that since they’ve obviously shown themselves to be more on top of things than we are, even to the point of outsmarting us and all of our fancy computer security knowledge, then we need to humbly sit at their feet and take lessons.  I mean, look at this!  Their computer security is atrocious by our formal standards, and they hoodwinked us!  We’ve got an agent there, and only now have we figured it out!  I just hope the committee will buy into the argument that this means that we should do things their way, and accept their terms for the most part, instead of concluding that we’re just a bunch of chumps, and that we should drop the whole project.”

     Stanley had finally heard enough.  It had been all that he could do, to keep from interrupting Frank.  Stanley’s pride had been tromped on too much.  He didn’t pay much attention to Frank saying “we” fucked up; he heard, “Stanley and his charges” fucked up.  So he waded on in and objected, “Come on now!  Here these people are violating the law, playing fast and loose, and wanting to play even faster and looser, with a government military contract at that.  And we want to make heroes out of them?  Let ‘em bumble around with dangerous weapons technology? ‘Humbly sit at their feet’?  I think it might be more appropriate to put shackles on their feet.”

     Frank’s face went mostly blank, with a hint of the “this is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you” look that parents have before they spank the kid who’s been told again and again not to get into the cookie jar.  Stanley knew he’d played his cards wrong, but hey, one’s dignity is sometimes more important than staying on the boss’s good side.

     “Goddammit, Stanley, can’t you get it through your thick head that this is not about who is smarter, us or ABC?  They are Americans, and we are Americans.  We are all in need of defense against insatiably power-hungry bungholes who don’t give a hoot about anything or anyone except their own selfish selves.  We Americans, be we Army, Navy, Air Force, civilian government, or civilian civilian, need to be less selfish than the selfish scum who are our enemies or potential enemies. Or at least, if we must be selfish, let’s be collectively selfish, instead of individually selfish, so that we can present a united front against the real enemy.  Your enemy isn’t ABC, or Phil Schrock, or Frank Leech for that matter, it’s the enemies of a just, worldwide peace.”

     Stanley felt like grabbing a chair and sitting it in front of this windbag, and patting it as if to indicate, “Here is your soapbox”. Captain Dupuy and Harold Stokes, who had been silent all this time, still said nothing, but they both seemed to be somewhat embarrassed to be present while Stanley was getting his butt chewed.  Harold seemed quite embarrassed, while Bill seemed only slightly discomfited.  Stanley suspected that this was because Bill saw his boss do this kind of thing a lot, while Harold, who reported to Stanley, wasn’t exposed to it as much.

     Frank wasn’t done.  “The goal is to develop technology to save the lives of American soldiers, while still defeating the enemy, either by the use or by the threat of the use of safe, superior technology.  Safe for us, that is, obviously.  Whatever it takes for us to get there, we should do.  What it takes is that we’re going to have to co-operate with ABC, not be fighting them tooth and nail all the time.  Here is a prime directive: DON’T PISS THEM OFF without valid reasons.  I, or my bosses, will decide what are valid reasons.

     “I might add that, despite your only having been there once, you already seem to have done exactly that¾pissed off ABC.  Our source tells us that Doctor Schrock wanted them to put into the contract that you wouldn’t be allowed to ‘ride herd on’ ABC.  OK, so maybe you haven’t done anything concrete and specific to get on their bad side, but we need to watch our attitudes.  We want to work together with these guys. They, like most people, can sense a hostile attitude, and react to it.”

     Oh, great! thought Stanley.  Not only does he threaten to fire me¾Me!  A highly educated scientist who has forgotten more than he’ll ever learn¾he also rags on me in front of other people, and now he blames me for sending off bad vibes and hurting the sensitive baby feelings of this young snot cowboy-scientist Schrock.  I sure hope Frank stops riding my ass. If he doesn’t... well, I might have to rely on my special powers.

     At least for a moment, it seemed as if Frank was going to do exactly that.  “Anyway, let’s get back to the purpose of this meeting, which is to get our ducks lined up for tomorrow’s meeting.  We need to persuade the committee that we need to meet most, if not all, of ABC’s demands.  We can’t push them too far, or we have no contract.  Without the contract, we’re behind by years.  The DIA tells me we haven’t much hope of getting the ‘real McCoy’ from ABC, short of a contract or muscle tactics, and from what we understand about the hit and miss nature of brain-gene design, even the ‘real McCoy’ wouldn’t help us much, since we have to design brains with totally different hard-wired instincts.  We need their expertise, shared willingly, and nothing short of that is going to get us to where we want to go, in a reasonable timeframe.”

     After having momentarily stopped picking on Stanley, Frank returned to make yet another stab.  Or, at least, so it seemed to Stanley, who didn’t really consider the possibility that Frank was just trying to do his job.  “So, what are we going to say if or when the committee asks us, just why is it that ABC was able to not only achieve so much more than we’ve been able to do, but also to hoodwink us in so doing?”

     At least Stanley was being asked to state his case.  He asserted that this bioengineering business was more art than science, that a lot of random chance was involved, and that there weren’t clear-cut, discrete points on which one was either right or wrong, as in a mathematical proof.  He went on to add that the government’s computer, security, and spy types, most specifically those in the DIA, were the real bumble-heads here for having steered Project Epsilon wrong as to the integrity of the data.

     Frank nodded in acknowledgment, but added that he, rather than Stanley, should handle stating their case, since Alan Riggs of the DIA was going to be there, and the matter was a delicate organizational political-type thing.  Stanley thought, yes, Frank, you’re so much more diplomatic in passing the blame than I am.  They discussed and worried about some other things, and then concluded that they were prepared for the Big Meeting.

     At the actual meeting of the National Security Strategy Committee, Stanley remarked on how more than half of the attendees were different than the ones that had attended the first such meeting he’d been to. The change in administration had sure upset the continuity of things, but what’s so unusual about all the top jobs being based on politics instead of qualifications, he wondered.  The meeting itself was somewhat anticlimactic, after all of Frank and Stanley’s worrying.  President Kite seemed to be in an easy-going mood, and there were no accusations or episodes of slime-slinging.

     About the only time there was any sort of confrontation at all was when Admiral Sechler complained a bit about the idea of ABC being allowed to set a bad precedent, in bypassing all sorts of safeguards and procedures normally imposed on defense contractors.

     President Kite moved decisively to squelch her objections.  “We’ve got to keep the ultimate goals in mind, and not get too bogged down in the fine, legalistic details of how we get there.  If one obsesses too much about the letter of the law, one loses sight of the spirit of the law, the goals, and pleasing the customer.  Our customers are the peaceful, law-abiding citizens of the US and other nations who need protection.  And, I might add, the soldiers who are charged with providing this protection, whose lives we wish to protect by equipping them with the best technology.

     “Let me provide an everyday example that most of us would recognize as being ridiculously legalistic, and getting in the way of pleasing the customer.  A few years ago¾OK, maybe more than a few years ago, maybe a decade or two ago, before I was encumbered with all the security types standing between me and the regular civilian types. I was at the airport and witnessed a silly drama.  My wife and I had just picked up a friend, and we had just left the secure area, when she saw a lady behind her.

     “This lady wanted a luggage cart that was just barely outside of the secure area.  When she asked the guard if she could leave the secure area by a yard or two, just to fetch the luggage cart, without having to go back through the long lines for the metal detectors leading to the secure area again, the guard said no, the rules are the rules.  And no, he couldn’t step over there to get the cart for her, because to do so would be deserting his post.  So, my wife just backed up a bit, and pushed the cart back across this all-important, magical line.  I guess I should’ve been surprised that they didn’t arrest her on the spot for terrorism, seeing as the cart might have been made of metal-painted plastic explosives or some such.

     “I imagine that if I’d been that lady, I’d have been thinking, ‘I sure wish there was another airport I could use, that would be more concerned with serving my needs than this one is.’ Just because the people of a city have few choices of airports, and citizens have little real choice of which bureaucrats should tell them what to do, does not mean that such workers should be allowed to disregard the customer.  So let’s focus on pleasing the customers.”

     The thought occurred to Stanley that the customers wouldn’t be too pleased if the cowboys at ABC ended up shooting all the good guys in cowtown, due to them not being kept under proper control, but he obviously wasn’t going to say anything of that sort.

     At least Frank and Stanley didn’t get ragged on.  Most of their pre-meeting meeting worries had been for naught.  President Kite seemed to place high priority on Project Epsilon, and so he wasn’t going to let other agencies or projects shortchange them, out of jealousy or anything else.  Project Epsilon would get what it needed, and this included bending and even breaking a lot of rules, maybe even laws.  But, hey, these were black bucks they were playing with, and even if they’d made public announcements about their activities, they really didn’t have to account to Congress.  After all, they had a job to get done.

     So it was clear from early in the meeting that ABC’s demands would be met, for the most part.  Frank and Stanley and their troops were directed to see if they could at least nibble around the edges of ABC’s supposedly iron-clad demands, without scaring them off.  Mostly, this nibbling around the edges was intended to make sure that ABC didn’t take any security risks that were just too huge, in terms of ABC’s workers possibly being spies, or susceptible to threats from spies.  Or, that is, the wrong spies.

     “So, we really must get them to conform to most of our important requirements as far as this all goes.  Background checks, piss tests, that kind of thing,” the President concluded.

     This really sounded strange to Stanley.  But then, cloak and dagger stuff was totally strange in the first place, and so the President’s statements really had no need to be consistent with what Stanley had been hearing from the CIA.

     While President Kite was emphasizing how important it was to not have foreign spies working on the project at ABC, Stanley, in co-operation with the CIA, had been releasing slightly altered data to the Chinese.  This data included practically everything on the federal project, excluding the fact that a real-life trial run had been conducted.  Stanley had been told that the President knew about it continuing even into his own administration, even though he directed all his staff, including Frank, that it was to stop.

     The CIA agent, Andrew Henderson, which probably wasn’t his real name anyway, had explained all this to Stanley as follows: “The President feels that the more people who know about this, the worse are the chances of it backfiring on us.  Instead of getting the Chinese to dabble in this stuff, too, so that we can point to them as a method of keeping public opinion here tamed down, the public will hear about our scheme, and we’ll end up really embarrassed.  So, even Frank doesn’t have to know.  Besides, if and when the Chinese ever take the bait, Frank will be so much more genuinely and convincingly indignant, when he talks to the FOS cameras about how the Chinese are messing around with biowarfare.”

     Stanley interpreted this to mean that Kite was looking for “plausible deniability,” so that if busted, he could say, “Oh, that was the Republicans; I put a stop to that when I took office.  And if someone in my administration kept it up, unbeknownst to me, then, hey, I’m sorry I wasn’t more on top of things, but I can’t watch every federal employee all day.” And Stanley would be left to twist in the breeze.  He’d said as much to Andrew.

     Andrew had assured him, “No, No!  Kite wouldn’t do that!  We’d put you in the federal witness protection program or something, if we had to.” Stanley must have looked aghast at the prospect of being any kind of fugitive, even a government-aided fugitive, because Andrew had hurried on to say, “Oh, don’t worry about it.  We’ll take care of you. Trust me.  The President knows, and he’ll stand by you, too.  But don’t go approaching him about this, ‘cause you never know who is listening, and he might have to deny it.”

     Sure, Stanley had thought.  As if I’m ever going to see the President, alone, anyway.  He still didn’t know whether to believe Andrew or not.  Did the President know?  Was he just pretending to be worried about security at ABC, while data was being given to the Chinese?  Well, really, come to think of it, there wasn’t such a contradiction after all.  Some things were to be given to the Chinese, and some, such as knowledge of trial runs, were not.  Who knows, maybe the Chinese found out about that anyway, and now they’ll be sure to know that all we’re giving them really is totally worthless, seeing as how much of a flop the trial run had been!

     Stanley was sitting there, wondering whether the Chinese would ever get off their duffs and start researching, when conversation veered in that general direction.  He wrenched himself back to the present point of the space-time continuum.

     The conversation had just concerned how the public was reacting negatively to American biowar research, even if it was to be purely defensive, and only computer simulations, as far as actual weapons were concerned.  Polls still looked unfavorable.

     But, Daniel Shute of the CIA had some good news.  He pointed out that, “Our most recent intelligence, hot off the press, indicates quite clearly that the Chinese are planning to commit big-time to biowar research in a few weeks.  At that point, we’ll be able to very specifically point to where they’re doing it, and they won’t be able to plausibly deny it, by, for example, allowing the UN to inspect.  Public opinion should swing around, here.  We’ll now show that we were right to start studying this, out of fear of military applications.”

     A few people at the meeting seemed startled at this revelation, and the least of them was neither Stanley nor Frank.

     President Kite spoke up.  “Hold it.  I’ve got to play devil’s advocate here.  The peace freaks will say, ‘Well, the US started it. Our military is researching it, and so are they.  And we did it first. So have the UN inspect here, as well as in China.  What’s so different about what we’re doing, as opposed to what they’re doing?’ What are we going to say?”

     Frank chimed in.  “Well, first of all we’re a member in excellent standing with the UN, unlike China.  And we’ve got an established bioengineering industry devoted to peaceful purposes, whose technology must be protected and reserved for peaceful purposes, again unlike China.  And if the UN wants to inspect us, more power to them.  They’ll not find a scrap of evidence here to indicate that our intentions are anything other than peaceful and defensive.”

     The meeting went on.  They decided that the project should be neither stingy nor inflexible.  Mostly under the President’s pressures, they agreed that ABC’s demand of “less computer security restrictions, or more money,” should be satisfied on both accounts.  ABC would be paid more, and they would be allowed to pick and choose from the government’s computer security techniques as they please.  Richard Kite said that he took pride in accommodating those he perceived to be on his side, and competent.  He argued that ABC had earned the right to be treated with respect; after all, they sure had managed to bamboozle the feds.  They briefly discussed the doohickeys that ABC had employed to snoop on the snoop ports, and to warp data.  Stanley was amazed about how openly all this was discussed.  And Doctor Phil Schrock was such a “phenomenally brilliant scientist”.  The last comment irked Stanley.  When was the last time they’d noted how brilliant he was?

     There were apparently limits to Kite’s freewheeling openness.  He thanked the committee members, and suggested that since the major decisions had already been made, all but the CIA, DIA, and Epsilon members might want to be back to their other business.  The rest of the meeting would be boring operational details.  This was a semi-polite way of getting rid of all but those who had a need to know.  All but Stanley, Frank, Alan, Daniel, and Richard himself left.

     Then, some sensitive topics were discussed.  Richard apologetically announced, “Y’all know I take pride in trusting my people.  You know I trust everyone on the committee with the information that we have an agent at ABC, which is more than we can say about my predecessor. However, there are just limits to how useful certain information is to certain people, and why take a chance when one doesn’t have to?

     “Now, if one thinks about it the wrong way, one might find distasteful, what I’m going to propose.  One could interpret it as a ‘dirty trick’ against ABC, but it really isn’t unethical, because we aren’t hurting them, and it furthers our own quite legitimate interests. We MUST preserve the innermost secrets of this project, both at Epsilon and at ABC.  Remember, if any of this ever leaves a bad taste in your mouth, that we’re doing all this for the preservation of American lives, American soldiers, and even the Western and democratic values and traditions.  These aren’t small things that we’re defending.

     “We’ve got a problem.  ABC wants to slash and burn at our usual security requirements, and they say their offer isn’t negotiable.  We want to nibble around the edges of their terms, without getting the door slammed in our faces.  Hardly anyone in their whole industry knows what a government contract is, so they sure aren’t used to our security requirements.  And ABC’s a bunch of mavericks and dissidents, even for a high-tech industry, from what I’ve heard.

     “Well, I’ve got a solution, I think.  If they’re halfway co-operative at all, that is.  What we do is, we approach them and tell them, in the next few days, that really soon, in the next few weeks, there’ll be an announcement that will sway public opinion, and make it a lot easier for them to accept the contract.  We won’t tell ‘em what the announcement is about, though¾that’s just too risky.  But we’ll tell ‘em that we’re so serious about meeting their terms, that we’ll grant them the immunity that they’re looking for, even before they accept the contract.  You know, their little cat and mouse game on all their ‘hypothetical’ crimes.

     “Then we lean on them to let us investigate their computer security.  Make them all sorts of offers.  If they don’t want the contract, or aren’t sure yet, make all sorts of incremental offers. So much for so much of their software or data.  Offer to lend some federal expertise to their computer security efforts.  By hook or by crook, we get ‘em to ‘fess up to us about the fact that they know they have a spy amongst themselves.  Maybe we even hint that we really must investigate their computer security as a condition to granting export licenses.

     “Anyway, once they admit to us that they have, or at least had, a hacker-spy, then we’ll pounce on that to make them accept a lot of our security requirements.  At least, most of our security requirements on personnel.  We know that they’re sharp on computer security, but they don’t know that we know.  So we’ll be real generous, and let them slide a little on that.  But we’ve really got to reign in the free spirits, and make sure all their personnel are reliable.  Any time their workers give us a hard time on our security requirements, we can always nag them about their hacker-spy.  This means that knowledge of their spy, which they’ve limited to just a very few people, will become company wide, after we get involved.  We’ll use this to justify more secrecy, and secrecy will help us hide our real goals from wimpy bleeding hearts who might back out on us if they knew too much.

     “Hopefully, we can get them to ‘fess up to us about their spy, before we make the announcement about the Chinese having started their research efforts.  Then, we can get this show on the road pronto.” The President sure seemed to place some urgency on this project.

     “Sort of clever, I’d say, to use our agent there to bug them about their lax security.” Richard Kite chuckled with self-satisfaction. “But, it will increase the pressure on agent X. Alan, see to it that our agent gets a nice, big raise.”

     Frank and Stanley weren’t trusted with agent X’s name.  They had no need to know, though.

     Daniel presented what the CIA knew about China’s biowar capabilities.  He mentioned that China’s top biochemist and geneticist, Tao Chi, was “quite a talented individual”.  Frank interjected with an assertion that Phil Schrock could run circles around this Chinese character, which got Stanley’s bowels in an uproar.  Stanley was just about to protest how ABC was able to do so much better than the Chinese merely because they had far better computers, but Daniel beat him to the punch on this particular set of facts.  So Stanley just sat there and stewed in his resentment of this Phil Schrock smart-aleck, who Frank was so enamored of.

     Then a number of questions were reviewed.  One was, how would the work be divided between ABC and the federal employees of Project Epsilon itself?  Another was, if such things came to pass, how could there be much interaction between the rank and file at ABC, and those at Epsilon itself, without too many people realizing that the feds had been pirating ABC’s software for quite some time now?  So far, most of the federal workers thought the software came from a mysterious but legitimate source; few knew that it was stolen from ABC.

     Yet another question was, how could they move rapidly towards their goal of a system that could build weapons in a matter of days or hours, yet never cross the barrier from simulations to real-life trials, at least in the minds of the public?  In other words, how could one get hundreds of people to strive for this goal of bioweapons, yet hide till needed for use, the weapons themselves, or the ability to build them on a moment’s notice?  Secrecy was at its best when even the participants themselves were at least partially deceived.  The hundreds of workers at both ABC and Epsilon should be led to believe that the ultimate goal was simulations, and no more.  The US merely wants to know about all this for defensive purposes, after all.

     The final major question discussed was the most technical.  It was, how could “leash” nutrients be delivered to enemy territory, without the enemy being able to analyze and duplicate the “leash” compounds, thus gaining the ability to sic the weapons back against their makers.

     These questions were all spelled out primarily by the President, as he quizzed Frank.  Stanley really had to admire Kite; he seemed to have a knack of getting to the heart of matters.  Then, there was some unrehearsed hashing out of potential answers.

     It didn’t take long for the first three questions to be addressed by a broad scheme.  ABC would design bioweapons, and Epsilon would design counter-weapons.  Simulations from the two teams would fight it out in simulated battles fought in a simulated world, on the government’s computers.  This scenario allowed for only a handful of people being allowed to directly interact between the two groups, for a plausible reason other than keeping Epsilon workers from realizing that they’d been working with software pirated from ABC.  Ideas could still be exchanged, but only through official channels at the top.  In a few years, software shared by ABC and Epsilon would evolve.  No one would wonder anymore why the government’s software was so similar to ABC’s, and the issue would soon fade away.

     Having the two teams play opposing sides in simulations solved some other problems as well.  It made it easier to break the tasks down into smaller chunks, to hide from most workers, exactly what all was being accomplished.  And the simulations could easily be painted as the be-all and end-all, the alpha and the omega, that by which all things were judged.  It would be easier to forget that there were just a few small steps from simulation to reality.  Finally, opposing simulations would accomplish their actual, stated purposes of showing which techniques were more viable than others, and what counter-measures might be developed against various forms of bioweapons.  Epsilon would concentrate on an area where it had the most expertise, which was non-living subsystems, while ABC would pursue other things.

     So, now that realistic solutions to the first three questions had been proposed, they returned to the fourth, thorniest problem: how to safely deliver the “leash” compounds.  Stanley ‘fessed up that they’d given the matter quite a bit of thought by now, and still didn’t have a good solution.  Richard said he really didn’t feel too good about actually awarding the contract to ABC, or even, spending much more money on the project within Epsilon, without a good answer to this problem. The President went on to say that they should strain their brains, and see if they couldn’t come up with a good solution, right there on the spot.

     The way Richard put it was, “Now, don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not threatening to yank your funds away from you, after we pretty much agreed to going ahead and doing this, earlier today, when the full committee was here.  I just don’t think we should make the final commitment of all these funds, without an acceptable solution to this critically important dilemma.  But, I have every confidence in y’all. Certainly within a few weeks, hopefully in time for our announcement that the Chinese have started research, and maybe even in just a few minutes here, I’ll bet you could come up with a decent solution, if you put your minds to it.”  He excused himself momentarily to step out for a cup of coffee.

     Stanley thought, this is ridiculous!  This impatient idiot wants us to figure out in a minute or two, that which we’ve already thought about for more than a few months.  We want to spend billions of dollars to research this, but he wants the answers before we spend the money.  Is this putting the cart before the horse, or what?

     However, Frank appeared to do just that.  He seemed to just light up all of a sudden in the middle of the President’s coffee excursion, and mumbled a little, excitedly.  Maybe the scheme of the opposing simulations and the division of labors provided the spark in his brain. Or maybe, Stanley speculated later, Frank, or even maybe both Frank AND the President, had concocted this “spontaneous” idea ahead of time, so that Stanley should see how brilliant his boss was, and how, therefore, Stanley should knuckle under more willingly.

     Anyway, the idea that Frank came up with seemed quite feasible, and relatively simple.  As soon as Richard returned, Frank launched his spiel.  “Stanley and I’ve talked about how non-living systems and subsystems can do certain tasks better than living flesh.  These include making large numerical calculations, and carrying large loads, be they loads of information or material, fast and far.  We’ve also talked, here just now, about how we want to divide labors.  Yes, I agree that we should have opposing simulations, and that we should focus our workers on those.

     “But we should make some of those many tasks, which very few people know what they’re really for, mesh together from the ABC side and from the Epsilon side, to solve our ‘leash’ problem.  ABC designs the bioweapons, and Epsilon delivers the ‘leash’ compounds.  Hear me out.

     “What I envision is this: Epsilon develops a living/non-living hybrid miniature aircraft, containing almost no metal at all, so that even advanced radar can’t easily spot it.  Its brain is mostly organic, living flesh.  These brains generate aircraft control signals.  Some of the ‘brains’, and the ‘nervous system’, or control and sensor signals, are diamond and silicon-based manufactured circuits.  These circuits could give us some features not easily available from organic ‘wetware’, such as navigation, radio reception, and carrying the aircraft’s control signals.  The wings are made of lightweight but strong aerogells.  The engines are made of ceramics.  These small planes would be kept cheap, so as to be able to be mass produced.  They would deliver the ‘leash’ compounds.

     “The leash compounds would be delicate, and easily destroyed.  The aircraft would be programmed to destroy them, to prevent their capture, in the event of the plane’s untimely demise.  The aircraft would also be programmed to release them unharmed to the bioweapons who need them in order to live and/or reproduce, if and only if the bioweapons ‘mate’ with the aircraft, and exchange the right sequence of signals, be they chemicals or nerve impulses or whatever.  And the bioweapons themselves are also programmed to destroy the leash compounds, and the ‘key’ for getting the leash compounds, in the event of their capture or untimely demise.

     “Just as we get benefits from non-living parts that ‘wetware’ can’t deliver, such as being able to deliver the load accurately, rapidly, and over long distances, we also get benefits from the living parts, that non-living parts couldn’t do anywhere near as well or cheaply.  Wetware provides the highest brain functions and control of the payload, which includes the ‘key’ and payload destruction mechanisms.

     “Upon reaching the battlefield, the hybrid would either land, to deliver its payload to land-based bioweapons, or it would mate in mid-air with airborne bioweapons.  Or maybe we could even equip it with subsystems that are entirely organic, that detach themselves for terminal payload distribution.  Sort of like the old multiple warhead systems.

     “A fairly airtight scenario, I’d say,” Frank said, apparently quite satisfied with his inspiration and eloquence.  “Only we would know what the compounds were, and the enemy couldn’t steal that information, short of getting it directly from the designers.  Unscrambling the genes of the bioweapons themselves, to understand what leash compounds were needed, would take too long, especially under wartime conditions, and especially if we can find some way to also make these genes self-destruct if the bioweapon dies or is distressed or captured.”

     President Kite nodded approving assent, and the meeting was over. All that remained was to implement the plan.

     Stanley slunk off, thinking bummed-out thoughts about how his career might not prosper if Epsilon’s real focus would be heavily skewed towards non-living subsystems.  His specialty was definitely wetware.

     The first things he did when he got home to his condo, where he lived alone, was to smoke a few cigarettes to calm his nerves.  All the busybodies at work kept him and his nicotine separated for too long. Then he got into some nondescript, comfortable clothes.  He beeped Andrew, his good buddy at the CIA.  It wasn’t long till Stanley’s FOS-phone rang.

     Stanley picked it up.  “Hi.  Doctor Eisner here.”

     “Hey.  This is Andrew.  What’s up, Doc?,” was the reply.  Stanley punched some buttons, to send images as well as voice to Andrew, who didn’t respond in kind.  All right, be a snoot, Stanley thought.  I suppose spooks needn’t bother with any semblance of courtesy, like us ordinary folks.

     “I heard some stuff today, that I suppose might change our situation a bit.  Some stuff, I might add, that I maybe should have heard about earlier.  I want to talk to you about it.  Real soon.  Like, tonight.”

     “Sorry, old chap.  Got pressing engagements tonight.  No can do. In a few days, maybe...”

     Stanley cut him short.  “OK.  Not tonight, then.  Tomorrow morning. Get your chubby duff out of bed early, like a civilized person.  Meet me in the park.  Get us some fresh air.  Develops character, you know.”

     “You’re too much of a character already.  But, OK, if you insist. Place where we agreed last time, at nine in the morning.  That’s as early as I get.  You bring the doughnuts.  Can’t let this thing get too healthy, you know.  Fat pills are just the thing to ward off too much fresh air.” As if there was any fresh air in Washington anyway, Stanley thought.  “That OK by you, old man?,” Andrew wanted to know.

     “Yeah.  You’re on.  Nine tomorrow.  See ya.  Bye.”

     “Bye”.  Stanley hung up, actually more than a bit relieved that Andrew didn’t want to make it any earlier.  He smoked and drank and thought and worried, then showered, and finally popped a sleeping pill and went to bed.

     The next day he woke before dawn.  He put his boots on.  They made him feel like a gnarly Marlburro Man.  He brushed his teeth, and dunked his head into the tub, where he ran water to wash his face and sparse hair with, without actually taking a shower.  He dressed comfortably, and soon felt ready to face the day.

     He called in sick, and prepared for his meeting in the park.  He put in his pants pocket, an audio recorder.  His coat also contained one, but it was smaller, and hidden deep inside.  It was masked off by stiff padding, and accessible only through a small zipper in an awkward place inside a pocket.  He checked batteries and turned both on.  He packed a small pistol, not so much for spy games, as for simple protection from the hoodlums.  After all, he thought, DC’s got America’s highest murder rate, despite¾or because?¾it’s got the most government, and the most gun laws.

     He secured the condo, and walked on down the hall, to the elevators and to his car.  He felt like maybe he was in the movies or something, leading an exciting, high-stakes, even glamorous life.  He remembered Frank once getting drunk and singing some silly song about how he wanted to be an Airborne Ranger, so that he could live a life of sex and danger.  Well, Stanley was half the way there.  Maybe the sex would come along later.

     He headed off to a news stand to browse for just a few minutes. Even in the days when everyone who was somebody had a home FOS, hardcopies were still in style.  He killed some time, and made sure he wasn’t being followed.  Then, he meandered to a doughnut shop, and bought some.  He knew Andrew was mostly just kidding around, but buttering him up a bit would never hurt.  Always be kind to your neighborhood spook.  He then walked to the park, keeping a sharp eye out for spooks and hoodlums, and thinking.

     He’d wanted to make sure that if he was going to twist in the breeze, others would twist with him.  After the change in administrations, when Kite had put and end to officially sanctioned data-dumping, Andrew became his new contact at the CIA.  Andrew just called him at home one night, and stopped by. He’d made Andrew call him from CIA headquarters, and recorded the call, including its electronic signature verifying the source.  Andrew had agreed with Stanley that Stanley was simply being prudent, in insisting that Andrew show that he really was with the CIA.  However, Andrew wouldn’t let him come and visit at the CIA.  Someone might see Stanley, and there’d be too much talk.

     He’d also previously taped his private conversations with Andrew, and had even gotten some video footage with a hidden camera.  All his goodies were bought at private stores that specialized in such toys for aspiring amateur spooks.  His tapes he duplicated a few times, and kept copies in safe places.  Stanley thought he was some hot shit, sneaking this over his spook buddy, but he really felt that it was wise to make provisions to show who sponsored him, in case he ever got into trouble.

     Dealing with the Chinese agents was actually far less interesting than dealing with the CIA.  Stanley had no idea how the CIA had arranged his first meeting; he had just been told to meet so-and-so in such-and-such a place, tell them some other so-and-so had referred him, and that he had some data to sell.  Free sample first.  If you like, I bring more later.  Then, it had become a routine.  Periodically, Stanley would get a call.  Go to this-and-such pay phone, hang out.  Take a call which would tell him where to go, fairly close to the pay phone, and drop off the material in a specified spot.  Thus, the Chinese controlled where the deal was done, with minimal notice of where and when to Stanley, in case Stanley was trying to help the CIA bust Chinese spies.

     The CIA never tried to tail Stanley, or have him carry a bug, or do anything else during these operations.  They didn’t want to spook the Chinese spooks; the objective was to get the data to them, not scare them away.  Since the CIA didn’t keep close tabs on Stanley, he felt free to short-change them a bit.  He knew it was risky, but he liked money.  The Chinese paid cash, after delivery of each chunk of data, by leaving it at the drop zone on the next transaction.  More or better data got more money; the payment was highly variable.  How would the CIA ever know he was turning over to them, usually only about 60 or 70 percent of the money?  Stanley hoped the CIA’s links with the Chinese didn’t extend too far.  So far, he hadn’t been busted; he just hoped his luck would last.

     He strolled into the park, and sat down at the appointed bench.  He opened his box of doughnuts and munched on one.  He wished he’d brought something to drink.  It wasn’t long till Andrew showed up, and they both sat there eating and making small talk.

     Andrew looked around cautiously, then got to business.  “OK.  So I guess you heard that the Chinese are now definitely planning to start bioweapons research.  In a big enough manner that they can’t deny it, that is.  And you’re wondering, what happens to our little endeavor, now that our objective has been accomplished.  Well, you’re quite right to be wondering.  We’re done.  Kaput.  Finished.  Over and out.”

     “So what do I do the next time they call me?  Won’t they be suspicious, if I stop exactly at the same time as we announce their research efforts?  Should we maybe make one more drop?” Stanley had been afraid of this.  This would be the end of the excitement in his life, as well as the end of his tax-free income.  He wouldn’t even have the opportunity anymore to prop up the Chinese.  Tao Chi was one of the few individuals who might be able to show that this Phil Schrock punk wasn’t really such hot shit, especially if Tao got a bit of help to make up for the Chinese lack of computer muscle.

     “Suspicious of what?,” Andrew wanted to know.  “Of us having been giving them garbled data, deliberately?  So who gives a shit!?  We’ve got what we wanted; who cares what they think about us and our data?”

     “Well, if we can lead ‘em astray, they waste resources they might otherwise spend more effectively.”

     “Leading them seriously astray would probably take a lot more effort than it’s worth.  Our efforts are more wisely spent on our own development, than on trying to devise thoroughly plausible but badly skewed data.  That’s what I’m told, at least.  But I’m not here to debate policy with you.  I’m here to tell you the party’s over.”

     “OK.  So what do I tell them when they call me again?  I’ve got to tell ‘em something!” Stanley objected.

     “You’re a spy. You figure it out.  Tell ‘em anything you want. Tell them not tonight, you’ve got to wash your hair.  You’ve got a headache.  Or, the heat’s on, your boss is suspicious, and you’ve had enough.  And you’ve got as much money as you really need, by now.” Stanley took a good look at Andrew as he mentioned this last point, debating whether or not Andrew was giving him a funny look.  He decided Andrew was just yakking it up.

     “Well, it’s been a pleasure working with you, then.” Stanley stuck out his hand, and Andrew gave it a quick pump.  Stanley got up, and threw the empty doughnut box in a nearby trash bin.  He was fairly sure that he saw Andrew fumbling with something inside his coat, out of the corner of his eye, as he turned back to Andrew.  Andrew acted as if nothing had happened.

     “Come here.  Sit back down for a second or two.” Andrew beckoned to Stanley.  Stanley saw a man approaching from the distance, but he sat back down.  He fidgeted uneasily.  Andrew told him, “Oh, go ahead and have a cigarette.  Calm your nerves.” Stanley did just that.

     The approaching man seemed to be a healthy specimen, and was too well-dressed to be a hoodlum of the common variety.  He was carrying a briefcase, and from the way Andrew watched him as he made a direct approach, it soon became apparent that he was some kind of buddy of Andrew’s.  Stanley looked at Andrew with fear in his eyes.  Andrew tried to calm him down.  “Quit worrying.  This is the real world, not some silly spy novel.  No funny business.  We just want to talk to you.”

     The man finally arrived, and Andrew introduced him.  “Stanley, meet Bruno.  Bruno, meet Stanley.”

     “Hi, Stanley.” Stanley silently submitted his hand to be squeezed in Bruno’s vise grip.  Bruno, my ass!  If that’s his real name, I’ll eat this park bench, Stanley thought.

     Bruno sat down by Stanley’s side, opposite Andrew.  “OK, old man, what all are you carrying?,” Andrew wanted to know.  “And don’t worry about it.  We’re not the cops.  You can carry whatever you want, we just don’t want you to record any of what is said next.  ‘Fess up.  What’cha got?  Keep in mind that Bruno here has a scanner in his briefcase. We’ll want to inspect everything you’re carrying.  You can keep them all, we just want a look-see.  Hand ‘em over.”

     One by one, Stanley handed over his cigarettes, his portable phone, his key chain, pocket knife, and pistol.  Andrew inspected them all, and put them all in a pile on the ground.  Bruno stood to block the view while Stanley carefully pulled out the pistol for inspection.  This item, unlike the others, went into Andrew’s pocket.  “We’ll give it right back.  Don’t want the cops to stop by and see that on the ground. Can’t say I blame you, for carrying that thing around.  I’d get a bigger one, though, if I were you.  Now, where’s the rest?”

     Reluctantly, Stanley pulled the recorder out of his pants pocket. Andrew opened it, removed the cassette, and put the recorder on the pile.  The cassette went into his pocket.  “That one we keep.  You can turn in a petty cash claim form for the ten bucks if you’d like.  Might as well cover all the other tapes that we’ve stolen from you in the last few days, while you’re at it.  Could add up to a few bucks.” Stanley caught his breath.  Andrew chuckled.  “Yes, we knew about all three of your stashes.  Actually, we just bulk erased ‘em, so you can’t even claim reimbursement on the rest.  But, we’re wiping out almost all records of our operation, especially records from during the current administration.  Including your records.”

     On thinking it over, Stanley didn’t find it impossible to believe that the CIA could’ve snuck into his condo, found and erased his stash there, and done the same at the safety-deposit at the bank.  The most incredible idea, though, was that the CIA had managed to track him when he went into some remote woods in Virginia to bury some tapes there.  He resolved to check all the tapes, just to be sure, later.

     “My grandmother used to tell me something I’d say is relevant here,” Andrew reflected, “She’d say, don’t teach your granny how to suck eggs.  So, don’t try to spook the spooks.  What else have you got? We’ll smash anything we find with the scanner.  Maybe your fingers, too.” Andrew chortled deviously, and Bruno joined in.  Stanley didn’t see the humor, though.  He took off his coat and fished out the deeply hidden recorder.  This, too, was relieved of its cassette, and dumped on the pile.

     “What else ya got, old man?,” Andrew wanted to know.  Stanley shook his head.  Bruno got out his scanner, and fiddled with it.  He gave Stanley and his coat a quick inspection and approval.  Stanley put his coat back on and scooped up his loot.  Andrew returned his pistol. Andrew nodded to Bruno, who wandered off a considerable distance along the trail, where he stopped, barely in view.  He seemed to be keeping a watch, both on Andrew and Stanley, as well as for approaching traffic.

     “OK, old man.  Now we can talk.  I’ll make this short.  There are factions at the CIA and other parts of the government that would like to see our efforts continue.  The thinking is, a well-armed China can serve to keep the Russians running scared, so that they’ll tow the line at the UN and NATO a bit better.  There’s nothing like a powerful common enemy to keep alliances together.  These factions include my own noble self, and others at the CIA who were charged with supervising your activities. We are now also charged with terminating your activities.

     “We have just done so.  Officially, that is.  But, we might turn a blind eye to your continued activities.  If you think you were risking ‘twisting in the breeze’, as you say, earlier, then you haven’t seen anything yet.  This time, we’re washing our hands completely.  Dipping them in industrial-strength solvent, if you will.  I doubt that I’d do it, if I was in your shoes.  But, you get to keep all the money from here on in, if you’re a brave soul.  And earn the gratitude of myself and a few others, who regard an independent-minded Russia as a bigger threat than a technological laggard like China.  Not that my gratitude is of much value.  You won’t get any kind of support from anyone. You’re on your own, now.”

     Stanley finally “got it”.  Andrew had recorded their earlier conversation, terminating the operation, just in case Stanley could still somehow show that he’d had CIA sponsorship, even under the Kite administration.  But, when he’d fumbled around with his coat, while Stanley supposedly wasn’t watching, he’d turned off his recorder, so that this little addendum to the conversation wouldn’t be recorded.

     Stanley sat there for just a second or two, cogitating.  Andrew interrupted his thoughts.  “One last thing.  You’d better use some good judgment on just what kind of information you release.  Follow the existing guidelines.  Technical information, yes.  Stuff potentially embarrassing to the US, such as information about actual test runs, are completely off limits.  We’ll have your ass for lunch if you go too far. So what do you think?  Are you going to be a lion or a pussy shit?”

     “What kind of fool do you think I am?,” Stanley said as he took his leave.  “Why ask rhetorical questions?,” was Andrew’s reply, as Stanley marched off.  Stanley saw Andrew and Bruno get together, as he walked back towards his car so far away.  He wondered if the two of them were placing bets on whether or not he’d meet Andrew’s challenge.

 

 

CHAPTER 9

 

     Gloria pulled her van into the driveway after a hard day’s work at the hospital.  She noticed that Phil’s car was missing.  She thought she was bad enough for being a workaholic; Phil was even worse, these days. Come to think of it, Phil had seemed sort of distant and quiet lately. She wondered what he wasn’t telling her.

     She walked into the house.  It was clean, which wasn’t the usual state of affairs.  The maid had been there that day.  She went straight upstairs, stretched out on the bed, caught a short nap, and started reading the news on the ceiling screen.  She soon got bored, and called Phil at his office.  No reply.  So, she beeped him.  It wasn’t two minutes later before he called.

     “Hi, snugglebunny!  We’ve had a big day at work, here.  I’ll be heading home in half an hour.  I’ve got lots of exciting news for you when I get there,” was what Phil had to say.

     “OK.  See you in a bit.  Love you!  Bye.,” Gloria replied.  She went to cook some spaghetti for the two of them.

     Phil soon joined her.  He gave her a big smooch, and poured them each a glass of burgundy.  They sat down to eat.  “So what’s this exciting news you were telling me about?,” Gloria inquired.

     “Ha!  You remember how we pretty much kissed off the feds, and told them we didn’t want their contract, unless they would meet a whole bunch of our terms?  Well, guess what?  They’re meeting almost all of ‘em! ABC is accepting a contract, now that the feds are backpedaling on most of their requirements.”

     “What?!” Gloria dropped her implements of spaghetti destruction and stared at Phil wide-eyed.  “So this is a done deal?  ABC is really doing this?” So this is what he’s been hiding here lately, she concluded.

     “Yup.  We’re announcing it tomorrow.  Only a few of us have been told that top management is now thoroughly convinced that we should do it, and that the official announcement is tomorrow.  So keep it under your hat, don’t let the cat out of the bag, all that good stuff.  You are the proud owner of a BIG secret.”

     “Same deal as before?  ABC gives the feds license to look over everything ABC has done, and ABC does computer simulations of biowars? And you’re really gonna tell me this is all a big surprise to you?  Did you tell them that it all stinks to high Heaven, and that you’re not going to have anything to do with it, like you said you would?” Gloria’s eyes locked onto Phil’s, like guilt-seeking radar, homing in to pounce on any evasiveness or equivocation.

     “Yes, same deal as before.  No, it isn’t a total surprise to me. They’ve been hovering around and pestering us with this and that, proposing this, that, and the other deals, even giving us immunity for our sins.  Without us even having taken a deal.  You remember, that deal about our spy, and snooping on the snoop port, that ABC would have my ass for if they knew I ever talked about it with you.  The feds have just generally been making it fairly obvious that they’re really keen on this deal.  So, yes, I knew this was coming, most likely.  But, I’m being bad enough already, letting you in on secrets, without going and speculating to you.”

     She still stared at him, unblinkingly, saying nothing.  So he went on.  “Not that I don’t trust you to keep quiet.  It’s just that I want to be able to answer them with a straight face when, or if, they ever ask me if I’ve kept my yap shut.”

     “Oh, sure.  Always just like you to be so concerned about honesty. You couldn’t possibly face them with a straight face, and tell them you don’t talk about things with me.  So tell me about you telling them where to shove this particular undertaking.”

     “Quit it!  I never said I’d tell them that it stinks, that they should insert it in their collective anal orifice, or anything else of the sort.  I said that I’d put my two cents in that we should stick to peaceful work.  I’ve done that.  There is no work more likely to bring us a lasting peace¾an imperfect peace to be sure, but at least a better peace than we have now¾than work that defends the US, the UN, and advanced, Western ideas about democracy and human rights.”

     “So you fibbed to me about how you’ve felt about this thing all along!  You implied that you were going to speak out against taking the contract, and you’ve done the exact opposite!  And now you’re probably thinking about how you could maybe mealymouth your way out of it by saying, well, we never really did define peaceful.  And you think peace is about intimidating, beating, or killing your opponents, to the point that there’s no overt opposition to your own oh-so-noble government. Am I right, or am I right?” Gloria felt like she knew all of Phil’s thoughts by now, and sometimes she didn’t like what she saw.  Like now, for example.

     Phil replied, “Well, I’ve got to admit that a benevolent world government sounds awfully tempting to me.  I mean, a world government that has some teeth.  One that could give all nations a decent level of security from war, so that we could all cut our military budgets to the bone, and free up a lot of resources for better uses.  One like what we’re moving towards, except China would be on board.  Speaking of China: did you see what’s in the news, just as of today?  About China getting into bioweapons research?”

     “No, I didn’t.  What are they up to?  Do they dare to do the same thing that we so recently announced that we’re doing?  How could they!? Or are they just being more honest than we are, and actually admitting that they plan to go beyond mere computer simulations?  And how are you proposing to help China ‘get on board’ at the UN, by researching methods of genocide?”

     “Oh, come on now, snugglebunny!  Read up on the details, and then jump my shit!  The Chinese have no advanced commercial biotechnology at all.  Certainly no technology anyone would care to pilfer.  None.  Zero. Zilch.  They have no valid concerns, like we have, about controlling their biotech exports.  And they’re not admitting anything.  But the US plans to challenge the Chinese at the UN.  If China will let the UN inspect their research facilities, then the US will do the same.  This was announced at the same time as the CIA announced their findings on Chinese efforts.”

     “I don’t need to read up about it,” Gloria replied.  “All I know, and all that I need to know, is that it’s a short step or two to go from simulations to reality, and my dearest, sweetest, kindest snugglebunny is working for a company that’s going to design terror weapons for a government that knows no limits.  And lied to me about it, too.  So, I’m not too happy.  So, just how are we going to get the Chinese on board? Wipe out in excess of a billion people, and then colonize their land with peoples more compliant with UN demands?  And, most of all, what is my innocent, peace-loving snugglebunny going to do while ABC perverts the latest technology to serve the Grim Reaper?”

     “Goddammit!  We’re just researching some stuff, to cover our own butts!  What’s wrong with wanting to know what nasty things somebody could do with our own technology, if we should export it to the wrong place?  And just what your innocent, peace-loving snugglebunny is going to do, is that he’s going to consider all the various parameters of this complicated situation, and commit to doing the best he can do, as his knowledge and conscience dictate.  And ask the love of his life to please refrain from exerting an undue influence, or laying on a guilt trip.” He looked at Gloria beseechingly, but she showed no signs of being cheered up.

     “Pootie Pie, really and truly I’m sorry I misled you earlier about what my stand on this at ABC would be.  It’s just that we argue enough about theoretical bullshit that doesn’t really make any difference in our daily lives, seeing as how we’re just two of umpteen hundred million voters.  And cancel each other’s votes, as often as not, at that.  Until now, this has been just another one of those silly issues.  Why should I get you all riled up, if ABC wasn’t going to mess with this, anyway?”

     “Because you care enough to discuss with those who care about you, those decisions you’re involved in.  Instead of just dropping discussion of the topic, until it’s a done deal.  What’s not a done deal, though, or at least, I hope and pray that it’s not a done deal, although one never knows around here, is that you’ve already prostituted yourself or your services to these... unholy servants of state-sponsored violence.  We can still prevent that.  Which brings us back to an important question: what is it that the snugglebunny’s ‘knowledge and conscience’ is most likely to dictate to him?”

     Neither Phil nor Gloria had eaten a bite, since this little exchange had begun.  Phil sighed, paused, and ate a few bites, thoughtfully.  “Let’s just finish eating, clean up, and retire and relax a bit, and we’ll talk about it some more.  I’ve had a hard day, and I’ll bet you have, too.  I don’t try to manage your career, or try to make the decisions you make at your job, but discussing things objectively should never hurt.  So, let’s talk about it.  But not just right now. Honey baby sweetheart darling, light of my life.  OK?”

     “OK,” she replied glumly.  She returned to eating her spaghetti and sipping her wine, even though she really didn’t have much of an appetite anymore, now that she realized the likely seriousness of his intentions to facilitate monstrosity.  But, she figured she’d laid on enough indignity already; attempting to sway Phil by appearing too pensive might backfire by making Phil think she was just being entirely irrational and manipulative.  So, she fueled her body, silently, sadly, thoughtfully.

     She reviewed her knowledge of Philisms, and the various aspects of the behavior of a Phil, in his natural habitat.  She rehearsed the various intellectual stimuli that might be brought to bear to influence the behavior of a Phil.  This Phil organism, being anywhere near half as dedicated to rationality as he claimed to be, could surely be swayed to see the mortal dangers of bioweapons research.  Any kind of bioweapons research, no matter how innocently packaged.

     OK, she thought.  I’ve got to take the other, more sensible things he’s said and done, and maybe even some of his less than totally savory, commendable, altruistic opinions, and show how inconsistent they are with his stance here.  Phil hates big government and socialism, she reflected.  They’d had many the go-’round on that topic.  He’d said, on more than one, or even fifty, occasions, how he hated a system that rewards sloth, fatherlessness, and irresponsibility, while punishing work and marriage.  She agreed with him, but wouldn’t go quite so far in condemning all forms and degrees of socialism.  She was fond of pointing out to him that, “When someone has all the wealth, in a monopoly game or in real life, the game is over”.

     So, she’d argue, maybe a limited amount of wealth redistribution was actually good for the economy, and for everyone.  As a physician, she could surely testify that at least a limited amount of paternalistic, socialistic medicine was quite advantageous.  Even in a society that totally swore off all kinds of socialism, even the rich would eventually pay the prices for rampant TB, social diseases, and poor child and prenatal care.  But, how could all this be related to government bioweapons research, she wondered, other than in a general sense?

     Maybe just, well, see how the government fucks up everything it touches?  The bleeding hearts say, oh, look at the pitiful poor; we can’t let ‘em live like pigs.  So, we pass all sorts of laws, imposing minimum standards on what they can earn, IF they choose to work, and where they can live, and what foods they can eat.  Next thing you know, businesses don’t find it profitable to employ them, charitable agencies and individuals can’t donate food and housing that doesn’t meet the highest standards, and welfare mommas are making more babies to collect bigger welfare checks.  And lots of people eat out of dumpsters and sleep on steam grates, ‘cause the bleeding hearts are offended by the idea that anyone would choose to live in substandard housing, or eat substandard food.

     “So, Phil, you see how the government achieves the exact opposite of its stated aims?,” she imagined herself arguing to Phil.  She could certainly argue quite plausibly that the government could end up starting a war instead of preventing one, with this kind of research. Who knows, she thought.  We’ll just have to see, on this set of arguments.  Surely there must be better ones!

     Well, there are other matters where he hates all-intrusive government, she reflected.  Really and truly, it’s hypocritical on his part to bitch all day about a busy-body, heavy-handed government, and then sprint so spryly to get on this bioweapons bandwagon, to provide Big Brother with yet another Big Stick.  Carp about a government that fills its jails with people who smoke a joint, who buy such dangerous, subversive things as vitamins on the black market, or who dare to try to avoid paying three-quarters of what they earn, to the feds, who know oh-so-much better how to spend the money ‘fairly’ than those who earn it, and then turn around and serve this freedom-fearing ogre with yet more tools of his trade!  She got hot, just thinking about it, and it was all she could do to refrain from violating Phil’s dinnertime truce.

     She thought some more about various avenues of intellectual assault.  Neither she nor Phil said a word.  She figured he was stockpiling his ammo, also.  Dinner was finally done.  Phil thanked her for the delicious yummies, and they both cleaned up.  Phil suggested that they retire to bed, where they could both check out the news, so that she’d at least know what some of the facts were.  She reiterated that she knew quite enough already, thank you, and that the arena should be the living room.  She was afraid of his most persuasive techniques, which were stroking, snuggling, and caressing her in just the right ways, while mumbling sweet nothings.  This was far too important an issue for her to be swayed by such arguments.  She’d be able to fend them off in the living room far more effectively than in the bedroom.

     Phil offered her another glass of burgundy, which she declined.  He poured himself another one, and they retired to the living room.  Gloria claimed the armchair, with its defenses against roving snugglebunny appendages, so Phil was stuck with sitting on the sofa across from her. She waded right in, and clipped his chin with a roundhouse.

     “I assume, from the fact that you’ve evaded my question, that you’re planning on prostituting yourself to the purveyors of political power through semi-sanitized mass murder.  To the same people who polluted our planet with plutonium and our minds with the acceptance of the constant threat of annihilation, of species suicide.  I want you to understand completely and thoroughly that we’re talking about things that are a bit more important than your career, or chances for you to tinker with neat toys.  I’m not trying to ‘manage your career’, I’m trying to get you to think clearly and rationally, to see what a huge mistake it would be, to set loose deliberately designed death-dealing demons.

     “You’re not a teenager sneaking a drink anymore, where the worst you could do might be to kill a few brain cells.  You’re a very talented and therefore very powerful adult.  With that awesome power goes awesome responsibility.  You can say, no, I choose not to participate in this monstrosity; I’ll reserve my talents for helping people do constructive things, such as preserving the environment.  Your career will do quite fine, I’m sure, without you having to provide the oppressors with more tools of their trade.  I’d be happy to accept less dollars for a cleaner conscience, if that’s what we need to do.  God knows we have enough Ronco radish reamers around here already anyway.  Or, you can get into bed with the sleazy warmongers.  Which will it be?”

     Phil squirmed a tiny bit, then launched his counter-attack.  “I sure can’t understand how it is that we’re talking about some computer simulations one minute, and all of a sudden we’re talking mass murder. The two aren’t...”

     Gloria wouldn’t let him finish; she had to jump on this idea right away.  “That’s exactly what you, and a few billion other people, or at least, those that might be left¾might be saying a few years on down the road¾‘One minute we were talking about playing with some cute, innocent little computer simulations, and the next, we’re talking mass murder. How did this thing sneak up on us?’ Don’t play these stupid mind games with me, the public, or yourself.  Anyone with half a brain can see where computer simulations lead to.  We point at the Chinese, they point at us, and we both start building unspeakable weapons.

     “And you, the same sweet, gentle, kind person who pets and frets over our little puddy-tats, and cleans their ears with cotton swabs¾you are going to be party to mass murder.  Genocide.  After you’ve done so much for the environment, you’re going to go and pervert your talents to set loose on the Earth, monsters to spread death and destruction.  Why is it that you’ve decided that destruction is so much better than construction or preservation?”

     “What?  My chance to get a word in edgewise?,” Phil piped up. Gloria resolved not to interrupt him again, to let him have his say. We’ve got to stay semi-civilized, she thought.  I can’t go behaving like Phil seems to be planning to do, in getting down onto the opposition’s level.  One has to behave better than the opposition, in order to have the moral high ground.  That’s what this whole thing is about.  Maybe I’d better back off on some of the excessively emotional terms, too, she thought.

     Phil continued.  “Destruction and construction are both relative terms.  It depends on whose perspective one takes.  ABC’s efforts so far, which most people¾excluding anti-biotech fanatics¾would call constructive, in that they help the environment, are not very constructive from the perspective of a cotton boll weevil, or a Mediterranean fruit fly. Similarly, hundreds of millions of people would have regarded it as being a very constructive act, to put some bullets through the brains of Adolf and his henchmen, during World War II. Hitler and his chief fuck-heads in charge would have begged to differ. Must we become slaves to every would-be slave-master, for fear of being destructive of their destructiveness?”

     “OK, OK¾I understand your point,” she replied, trying to control her rage, to debate rationally.  “I may be an idealist, but I do try to live in the real world.  Before you bring up your favorite anti-pacifist analogy, yes, if I was on a balcony across the street from a madman who was shooting wildly into the crowd below, and I had a gun, but no other means to stop the madness, then yes, I would shoot the source of the problem.  BUT, I wouldn’t let loose biosynthetic bogeymonsters to kill everyone in sight.  One does not cut butter with a chain saw.”

     “But one does cut trees with chain saws,” was his reply.  “When the source of the problem is a nation, rather than an individual, then more than a rifle is called for.  China is the last roadblock, preventing the UN from establishing a system to prevent any really large wars.  And now, China is researching bioweapons.  I feel that I’d be doing the right thing, to help defend the US and the UN from China.”

     Gloria, frustrated with results so far, decided to change tracks. “Do you really, really think you can trust a hamfisted, hypocritical government like ours with this kind of technology?  A government whose citizens spend the big bucks, buying cocaine from impoverished Latin American farmers, and who then sends goons to shoot ‘em up for growing drugs, at the same time as telling them, ‘You people should grow legal crops’?  This, while we put up barriers against the legal crops they do grow, and provide subsidies to our farmers to trash the Florida Everglades with fertilizer, growing sugar in a place it makes no sense to grow sugar?

     “Are you prepared for Uncle Sanctimonious to take these tools that you would provide to him for the purposes of keeping the enemies of democracy at bay, and have him use it, instead, against those who merely sell to people that which they want to buy?  Are you ready to commit genocide against the peoples of Peru, because some of them dare to grow crops that make five times as much money to feed their kids with, than legal crops do?  Haven’t we fought enough ‘just say no’ wars in Panama, Haiti, and Columbia to keep you happy?”

     “Oh, come on now, Pootie Pie, I do trust Uncle Sam, despite his stupidity, to not commit genocide over these kinds of issues.  After all, we never used nukes in those wars, although we could have,” Phil replied.

     “But, nevertheless, there were American soldiers shooting up innocent civilians in these wars.  More than just a few, I might add, who thought to themselves, ‘Now, what the hell am I doing, shooting up innocent peasants, fighting wars to prevent people from freely buying and selling things, when I signed up to defend freedom and democracy?’ You say you trust Uncle Sam.  Genocide is something the Nazis did, but the US flag looks so nice and clean, with its pretty white stripes. Once one puts on the uniform of the American fighting man, one is somehow transformed to something so clean, that one barely needs to piss and shit anymore.

     “Well, I’ve got some news for you.  Read your history.  See what we did to the American Indians, the Japanese-Americans, and to the peoples of a village called My Lai, in Vietnam.  See what we did in the early years of the cold war, injecting Americans with plutonium without their permission or knowledge.  Getting native Americans to expose themselves to radiation, working in uranium mines, without telling them what we knew about what they were doing, or giving them protective gear.  See how we studied venereal disease among American black males in the early seventies, without treating them, which we knew damn well how to do. Study it well.”

     “Yes, sweetheart, I know about those things.  I also know that hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of Americans have died, trying to prevent atrocities far worse, or far more widespread, than those that we’ve committed.  You study your history, too.  Study, and think.  Till you really can understand what it’s like, to live under the Nazis, Stalin, Idi Amin, Saddam Hussein, the Red Guard, Papa Doc Duvalier, Kim Il Sung, or any of thousands of other brutal abominations who would’ve been happy to sacrifice another million people’s lives for another tiny token of power and prestige.  Study till you puke.  Then, think about the choices people had under these regimes.  They could forget about any semblance of dignity or self-respect, and kiss the butts of the butt-holes, or they could sacrifice their lives trying to take out the nearest jerk.  I would choose the latter.

     “But what I really want you to think about, is the fact that such evil monsters, whose thirst for more power can never be quenched, are never satisfied with butt-fucking everyone in sight in their own country.  They have to have more.  At that point, they become more than just a living national horror show, they go international.  Their problems become our problems.  Their whole country becomes our problem. We can either sacrifice hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions, of American lives, as well as their lives, or we can use a bit of high-tech sorcery and limit it to just their lives.  Some general once said it best; it’s not about giving your life for your country, it’s about taking theirs.”

     “OK.  Much as I shudder to hear myself say so, despite my pacifist inclinations, I’m still with you,” she confessed.  “All except the very last.  I mean, about the high-tech.  Yes, sometimes we have to fight. And obviously, it’s only justified from one side¾two sides can’t both be shooting at each other and both be right.  So sometimes, one side is right.  Far less often, though, than we think.  Far more often, both sides are wrong.

     “But, we’ve got to, we just MUST, get beyond our wild techno-apeman phase.  Someday, we have to learn to trust each other, restrain ourselves and each other, and not build the newest weapons that technology can provide.  Do you really, really think that we can survive for very long at all, speaking in terms of any stability over hundreds of thousands, or millions, of years, when we’re constantly fighting, pissing away resources and trashing the environment, and devising the worst possible ways to wipe each other out?  Wouldn’t it be nice to try to leave a better, more stable world to our children, so that they might have a chance for themselves to decide to give their children, and so on, a livable and friendly planet for a long time to come?”

     “Yes, I do.  I think, though, that more technology rather than less will solve our problems.  You’ve already seen all that ABC has done along these lines, first with synthetic bacteria, and now with multicelled synthetic life.  We’ve cleaned up a lot of our messes, and are reducing our impact on the environment.  Even when ABC got started, new technologies had already reduced pollution very significantly, compared to earlier times.

     “Technology helps reduce the impact of war as well.  Not just in protecting or restoring the environment, either.  Think about it.  Even in ancient days, they were trashing the environment so as to fight wars. Cutting down entire forests to build warships, and to replace torched cities.  OK, so technology actually made worse, the impact of war, and preparation for war, for a while.  We were at the height of trashing the environment, or threatening to, at the beginning and middle of the cold war.  Pollution, including radioactivity, and the threat of a nuclear winter, and all that.  Billions spent on weapons, on resources consumed by fighting and on getting ready to fight instead of on preserving the environment, or exploring space or improving health or sanitation, or any of many other, better causes.

     “But, we’ve finally, and clearly, turned the corner.  Technology is making things better, not just for our standards of living, but also for the environment.  And giving us, yes I agree, yuck, ugh, puke, gag and all that, but let’s say it anyway¾better ways to kill each other without trashing the environment.  First, we learned how to make neutron bombs.  Let’s face it, given a choice between destroying a city and all of its inhabitants, and destroying all the inhabitants and only a block or two, the N-bomb was a smart way to go.  And, we learned how to handle fissionable materials and make reactors and bombs without so much of an impact on the environment as earlier.  Now, due to controlled thermonuclear fusion, quasi-lasers, and advanced radar, we’re making nukes, offensive aircraft, and missiles largely obsolete.  So, most plutonium and enriched uranium is being burned in safe, civilian energy reactors, or is under UN control.  ‘Nuclear winter’ has thawed.

     “Bioweapons just represent another step along the road to war, if not without pain, than at least a little less painful.  We’ll stick to simulations, so long as the Chinese do the same.  But, if they don’t, then at least we’ll have some knowledge of such matters to assist in our defense.  And, yes, don’t quote me, and if you do, I’ll deny it, but, we’ll also be prepared to respond in kind if we so choose.  And I do, believe it or not, despite all my rantings and ravings against the stupidity of our government, trust them to make that kind of decision. After all, we never used nukes, other than at the end of World War II, in all the years that this terror weapon menaced the globe.

     “Bioweapons could be designed to be quick and merciful, and to have a minimal effect on the environment, excluding human life.  It’s as gruesome as the calculus on the N-bomb, but, once again, an improvement. This time, we save the buildings and infrastructure of the whole city, including those last few blocks that the N-bomb took out, and we neither poison the environment, nor cause people to suffer for more than a few seconds.  The N-bomb, you know, would have caused a lot of people to linger in agony.”

     Gloria remained granite-faced throughout all this, including the last, even though she felt like screaming at him, “Don’t you see how much of a monster you are”.  She also stifled her urges to yell about how the cat was out of the bag, how he’d finally revealed himself to be an advocate of genocide, how this pretense about sticking to computer simulations was just a big farce.  Her restraint was rewarded by some further ramblings by Phil.

     “Of course, ideally we’d design our bioweapons to zero in on individuals whose co-efficient of shitheadedness, defined as their bungholishness multiplied by the square of their actual political power, as measured by the level of their dominance hormones, so that we could just take out that small percentage of the population that is really causing all the trouble.  But, seeing as how we can’t dream up any ways of getting anywhere close to that kind of thing right now, we have to settle for just wiping out all local human life, including the innocents.  But, it’s better than wiping out all the human life, plus the environment and infrastructure.  It does still leave us with still better goals to shoot for.”

     “Yes, such as the goal of living in a real, genuine peace, defined as more than the absence of speeding bullets in one’s own, immediate vicinity,” Gloria put in.  “Have you ever considered the possibility that by making war too painless, we are depriving ourselves of the healing pain would bring us?  That by making war too easy to choose, we not only choose too much of it, we also fail to learn from our suffering from it?”

     Phil looked at her with that look he reserved for when he thought she was waxing too philosophical.  “So you think I’m being too touchie-feelie with this thing about the healing brought by suffering, and you want to know, healing of what?  How ‘bout, healing of our powerful urges to mind other people’s business, to protect them from what we think are their mistakes?  To be sure, sometimes we have semi-decent motives, but what we really end up doing is trying to protect them from the lessons that they’d learn from their mistakes, through their self-chosen suffering, and killing them to save them.  We need healing of our tendency to not do what’s right, which is to reserve physical force for those very few occasions in which we really have no other ethical choice.  That is, genuine self-defense, or defense of others.  Not defense of nifty slogans, either.  I just pray that we needn’t suffer too greatly in order for us to learn this lesson, that we must reserve violence for the most extreme emergencies.

     “Maybe, if we really have to fight, we should have the self-discipline to forgo the easy methods, and deliberately choose conventional war, where admittedly, more of our troops die.  But, we can exercise more control, be less indiscriminate, kill fewer innocents. Run less risk of paying a big price for technological mistakes.  We’re just too tempted by the quick fix.

     “But I guess that would all fit in with the rah, rah, reeh, kick-em-in-the-knee, all-American sport image of war.  Make it all look so neat, so antiseptic, so painless.  Reminds me of how, during the old Persian Gulf war, the feds controlled the media, and forbade the taking of pictures of coffins coming back, off of the airplanes.  We wouldn’t want to be reminded of the facts, that people suffer and die in war, now, would we?  Might undermine support for war on the home front. Might make people think.  Can’t have that.

     “You mark my words, biowizard-boy, if you slap me in the face, by disregarding my clearest warnings, here, you’ll find yourself, on down the road, designing into your pretty little bioweapons, features to turn the post-holocaust battlefield into a state fair of streamers, balloons and banners.  They’ll ask you to design into them, the strong urge to incinerate all the remains that they don’t eat, to plant flowers, and to make nice, big pretty ribbons and bows and signs that say, ‘War?  What war?  Everybody is Liberated and Happy here’.  But death is death, and never fooled anyone.  We only fool ourselves.”

     Gloria paused, and sighed sadly.  Phil didn’t fill in the silence.  She went on to ask, “So, are you really actually going to do this? Ignore your most favorite pootie pie, and make bogey monsters?”

     Phil gave her a long, slow, serious look, and nodded his head.  She at least appreciated that he didn’t quibble, saying that they were computer simulations of bioweapons, not bogey monsters.  But she sure didn’t appreciate the sense of his answer, or which way he nodded his head.

     “So tell me something, Phil.  Tell me why it is that you have so often told me how you admire me for being kind and sensitive, so saintly, so spiritually advanced, and then you turn around and ignore what I say.  Don’t you know that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery?  Couldn’t you try to imitate me and my relative pacifism, if you admire me so much?  Or is this just something you say, to butter me up, so that I’ll keep hopping into your sack?  Just a way for you to get some poon tang, as you men would say?

     “Remember how you said I was so deep and philosophical, and absolutely right, when I said that it doesn’t really matter at all, whether or not there is a God? How, regardless of His existence or non-existence, if we all pray sincerely for peace, then there will be peace?  How no one can sincerely pray for peace one minute, and stab their neighbor in the back the next?  Well, I damn sure don’t think you’re praying for peace very sincerely at all, right now!  And I do think there is a God, and he’s pretty damn heartbroken over dumbshits who won’t learn from all of humanity’s suffering.”

     Phil was finally roused from his quiet state of listening to Gloria getting on his case.  “Pootie Pie, I really and truly do admire your good nature.  I envy it, too.  It’s just that sometimes, different views are also needed.  Sometimes one needs to turn the other cheek, indeed.  But sometimes one has to defend oneself and one’s family and friends, one’s country.  Sometimes, pacifism gets oneself enslaved, tortured, and killed.  Sometimes pacifism is not practical.  I have tried to learn from humanity’s suffering, and what I’ve learned, is that the sources of our suffering must be put out of our collective misery, and their own misery.  Like one eliminates fleas, or disease organisms.”

     “So, if the Chinese get too big for their britches, and become too much of a threat to us, you’ll want to have your toys set loose on them? Wipe ‘em all out, like so many bugs and pests, innocents and all, for the crimes of their leaders?”

     “Well, we could limit these weapons, like most any other, to hit only certain areas.  We wouldn’t have to wipe out the whole country.  But yes, innocents would be killed, like in any other war.  But I’d argue that there aren’t as many true innocents as you would think.  If nothing else, the majority of the citizens of such a nation are guilty of allowing themselves to be enslaved, of treasuring their lives over their dignity.  It sure isn’t a position that I envy, but if I were in their situation, I’d think the ethical thing to do would be to try and take out the oppressors.  Even if it meant sure death, it would beat being a slave.  And then, the oppressors have one less slave.  Like I told Hector, a hundred people with guns do not rule the million people without guns, without some sort of consent by the oppressed.”

     Gloria was tired of this whole exchange, especially since it sure didn’t seem to be getting anywhere close to changing Phil’s mind.  But, she had to go on, to try every argument she could think of.  All avenues had to be explored, no matter how slim the chances of pay-off were. “You talk as if the only nations that ever commit aggression are repressive dictatorships.  Don’t you realize that there have been wars between democracies?  And don’t you realize that these technologies, once you’ve helped invent them, will spread across the globe?  Sooner or later, probably sooner, we’ll see the bio-bogey monsters being used in wars where no side has any remotely justifiable reasons to fight.  And some of these countries won’t be too terribly careful in just how they use them.  Next thing we know, all of human life, maybe all large animals, will be endangered.

     “And you can’t justify behaving like a beast, just ‘cause ‘it’s a jungle out there’.  Just ‘cause the other guy might be doing it, is no excuse to do it oneself.  One can’t make it more of a jungle out there, and justify oneself with the fact that it’s a jungle out there. Sometimes one has to behave better than the opponent, in order to have the moral high ground.  We just can’t continue to build every new war toy that technology can bring us, and expect to survive for long.

     “Now, if the Chinese already had bioweapons, and you were just devising countermeasures, I’d feel differently about it.  But it sure seems obvious to me that designing computer simulations of offensive weapons, before anyone else has them, is just too much.  And I don’t care how many military and political fat cats assure us how many times, that we’re just doing simulations.  We both know what the real goals are.”

     Gloria felt drained, in ways not related to her hard day at work. OK, she thought, we’ve got to make one last push, before I resort to means I don’t even want to think about just yet.  “So you are so enamored of the idea of a benevolent world government, that you’re willing to provide the tools to commit genocide.  Yet, you’ve seen how national governments, like ours, just tend to grow and grow and grow. How they take over everyone’s personal responsibilities.  You hate socialism, you bitch about how no one ever learned a damn thing by watching the old communist regimes collapse, you bitch about how arrogant Americans are.  ‘Oh, those people who tried socialism and failed, they weren’t Americans.  They were mere Vietnamese, Cubans, Europeans, Russians, Chinese.  We Americans can surely succeed, where all others have failed, ‘cause we’re so smart, and our human nature is so much better.’ Then, you bitch about how the main item on the agenda of any government is to take more powers to itself.

     “And now, you want to help in birthing a worldwide version of our busybody, bossy, all-encompassing, oh-so-compassionate government?  Are you prepared for a global inner city, where children are rewarded for having children, and a father who hangs out to take care of his kids is a fool?  Are you prepared for Globo-nanny to tell us what we can eat, smoke, and drink, what we can say and write, what we can buy and sell? Do you really think such a monster can refrain from buying votes, by bribing stupid voters who think that they can reap the benefits of their neighbor’s taxes?  You worry about democracies not being able to outlive voters figuring out that they can vote themselves a bigger slice of the pie.  Why is your world government any different?”

     Phil waited long enough to make sure Gloria was finished. “Actually, I do believe that a world government will be different.  It will be kept quite busy enough, just keeping a lid on various wars and threats of wars, that it won’t have time or energy left to play Globo-nanny in the socialist sense.  Besides, we’re moving towards votes proportional to resources committed to various projects.  You know, divide the UN budget into disaster assistance, peace-keeping, feeding the poor, health, etc.  And each government gets votes proportional in each category to how much resources they put in, minus what they take out.  It’s too bad we don’t do the same thing on a national scale.  Put a screeching halt to parasitism.”

     “Yes, Phil, you’ve told me often enough about your idea of weighing votes according to how much taxes one pays, minus benefits taken.  I think that would just reward the greedy fat cats even more than they’re rewarding themselves already.  Now, they’d be able to skew things for themselves even more, and get laws passed to give them all sorts of loopholes,” she objected.

     “So when they get loopholes and pay less taxes, they get less votes.  Whoever they shift the taxes onto, now gets to call the shots. It’s a self-regulating system.  End of problem.  It’s only fair that those that contribute the most, should have the most say.  How would you feel if you contributed half of the money to a company, owned half of the shares, and you got the same vote as some jerk with one share?  And the jerk votes himself a big slice of the company’s money?  And then, you’d have to bribe the board of directors with large campaign contributions, above and beyond the money you had to shell out for your shares, just to get your voice heard?  That’s what kind of farce we’ve got with the government right now.  Maybe our government needs to learn from capitalism, and from what the UN is starting to do.”

     Frustrated with the detour in conversation, she decided to try once more to relate the subject to his favorite nemesis, socialism, this time in a different way.  “But don’t you see that it’s one thing to protest against socialism, to object to having the fruits of one’s labor forcibly transferred to lazy or incompetent people, under threat of being jailed, on the one hand, and a completely different thing, on the other, to go and wipe out the people who aren’t up to your standards? In the first case, one may be justified, because maybe Globo-nanny or Uncle Socialism doesn’t realize that it’s not always wise to protect people from their own decisions.  Maybe suffering has a legitimate purpose, in that it teaches people to avoid the behavior that brought on the suffering.  But it’s one thing to refuse to protect people from the suffering that they’ve brought on themselves, and another, to bring suffering on them.

     “I was so proud of you when you talked at the press conference about tolerating all but intolerance.  Don’t you see that it’s the height of intolerance to commit genocide?  Or to provide the tools for doing so?”

     “Pootie Pie, I respect your opinion.  It’s time for us to just agree to disagree.  I think that providing a deterrent to keep our enemies or potential enemies from walking all over us, falls into the category of not tolerating intolerance.  And I do trust the US and the UN to reserve the most powerful weapons for self defense, for stopping or preventing wars, and not to use them against people who merely ‘aren’t up to our standards’.  Or, to practice proportionate response, just like nations did with nukes, so that only failure to meet the standards of not beating up on your neighbors, would be met with this kind of response.  I haven’t heard you proposing any alternate ways of defending ourselves.”

     Gloria just about exploded. “Defense, bullshit!  You know we’re talking about developing computer simulations of offensive weapons!  And that it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to building what you’ve simulated!  I propose that we defend ourselves by eliminating the hate, the fear, and the weapons, which are the real enemies.  And we can’t just agree to disagree on this one.  We’re not talking about another case where your and my votes are like farting in the hurricane, we’re talking about you playing a huge role in bringing synthetic bogey monsters to life.  Don’t underestimate the extent of my opposition here.”

     Gloria felt weariness, defeat and futility crushing her respect and love for Phil.  Couldn’t he understand the gravity of what he was getting involved in?  OK, she thought, one last try, and then I’ve got to tell him just how opposed I am to him doing this.  Her hopes were running dry, and she dreaded what she might have to say next.

     “Phil, think about it.  You’re not a teenager, shooting Galactic Zorgons at the video arcade anymore.  You don’t get to just put another quarter in if you fuck up.  We’re talking about the biggest stakes I can think of, which is the survival of the human race.  Remember that documentary that we watched, celebrating the demise of the threat of a global nuclear war?  They ran various footages of film and video and what not, about the history of nukes?  They ran a snippet of a documentary from the middle of the eighties.

     “In the middle of a highly secular time, when the ACLU would have a cow, if anyone even mentioned God in the public schools, this documentary, shown on the public airwaves, talked about a nuclear holocaust, and it called such a thing by its only appropriate name: It called it a ‘deep, dark sin’.  That’s what you’re about to partake in. That’s what I am begging you not to besmirch yourself with.”

     “Pootie Pie, you confuse me sometimes.  You tell me you’re sick of people who think that God is a Baptist, a Hindu, a Mormon, or a Catholic, and you tell me about how you’re so tickled with what Paul Dirac said¾‘There is no God, and I am his prophet’.  How you despise bigots who hate in the name of God.  And then you turn around and talk to me about what God thinks.”

     Gloria didn’t have much trouble with that one.  “It’s simple. Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.  Lots of people use religion for ill ends, like any other tool.  Like bioengineering, it can be used for good or bad.  But I’d argue that survival of the fittest applies not only to living things, but also to cultures and religions. Religions that teach no respect for life, die.  Like Jimmy Jones in Guyana.  Religions that teach followers to value each other and themselves, survive.  So, we might actually, occasionally learn some good things from religion.  Like how to live in peace.”

     “I agree with you wholeheartedly,” Phil objected, “No one can deny we’d all be better off if everyone disarmed.  Less resources pissed away, and we’d all sleep better at night.  But how do we get there from here?  Do you really want to risk playing the good guy, and disarming while the other side arms to the teeth, and get our guts stomped out? The ‘good guy’ becomes the chump, the patsy.  Yet, yes, you’re right, both sides would be better off if they could only both agree to trust each other, simultaneously, and stop arming.  But how do we stop?  One certainly can’t stop the progress of knowledge, either, even if such a thing was desirable.”

     “The only way to stop that I know of is just to stop,” was her reply.  “Not building the latest in offensive technology would certainly be a method of applying the brakes a bit, to get closer to actually stopping, though.  For example, at the heighth of the cold war, we swore up and down that we’d never launch an all-out surprise attack on the Soviet Union.  Yet we built first-strike weapons, fast, accurate ICBMs capable of wiping out hardened targets, even though we had the option of building only what would have been obviously second-strike weapons, such as slower, less accurate cruise missiles and bombers.  We chose the most confrontation that we could.  Massive retaliation, capable of surely wiping out their whole society, even if delayed by a few hours, wasn’t enough¾we had to hang the knife of a surprise attack over their heads.

     “But I’m not going to let you sidetrack me, and make me think that we’re just flapping our lips about some philosophical crap that we happen to think differently about, and that it really doesn’t make much of a difference what we think.  What you think about synthetic genocide organisms could make all the difference in the world.  Do you really think that one last genocidal war is going to bring a real peace?  Don’t you know that that’s the way we’ve been thinking ever since we walked on two legs?  That we’ve fought several thousand wars to end all wars? Isn’t it about time to try something different, before our toys destroy us all?  Isn’t it time that we at least stepped on the brakes a bit, instead of stomping on the accelerator, so that someday we might actually be able to stop?  Have I made any dent in your armor?  Are you going to reconsider designing yet another generation of killing machines?”

     Phil swigged the last of his burgundy, and paused for a motionless moment, regarding Gloria solemnly.  “No, sweetheart, this is my decision, and I’ll make it.  After due consideration of your opinion, to be sure.  But I won’t be swayed by... by pie-in-the-sky, by-and-by, thoughts of what could be.  Not that I don’t sincerely admire your kindness, your purity, your best of motives.  It’s just that I live in the real world as I see it, and that world contains assholes who understand no language other than violence.  And I intend not to stand by, helplessly, and watch our troops go and fight to defend us, without trying to give them as much help as I can.”

     Gloria struggled to keep back the tears, with almost, but not quite, total success.  “Phil, I love you,” she choked out.  “But this is a part of you that I haven’t seen before, and that I can’t love.  I... I can’t...” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.  Phil got up, and moved to comfort her.  Her body bristled like a pissed-off porcupine, warning him off in no uncertain terms.  He took her hand anyway.  She yanked it back.

     “Come on, Pootie Pie.  Darling of my dreams.  Let’s go get some sleep.  Look at this with clearer, rested brains, in the morning. Please, Pootie Pie,” he beckoned.

     She was about sick of his entreaties and endearments.  His babblings had given her a moment to regroup.  “I don’t sleep with whores,” she declared.  “Especially not whores for the State.  Why don’t you serve the State with your conscience, instead of with your sleazy violence.”

     Phil looked like he’d been slapped.  Gloria let him have it some more.  “I think I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom tonight.  Then, I’m going to take a week off, and go visit Mom and old friends in San Francisco.  Someday, I thought she might live with us.  Maybe not. Maybe I’ll have to move out there.  Maybe you’ll change your mind, while I’m gone.  But I can’t live with a monstrous monster-maker.  I really thought you were sweet.  I can’t tell you how disappointed I am.”

     Phil whitened by a shade or two.  Gloria started to head towards the stairs.  Phil stopped her with a light touch.  She fought off the urge to recoil in horror.  “Pootie Pie, please sit back down for a second or two, and let me talk to you some more.” She sat down on the stairs, making sure to sit in the middle, and taking up a lot of room with her arms, to defend against marauding monster appendages.  Phil took the hint and remained standing at the bottom of the stairs.

     “I can’t believe you’d throw away our love over a silly little intellectual disagreement.”

     “I can’t believe you’d throw away the love of God, and me, and the rest of human life, including your precious hide, for the lack of any sense, decency, morals, or conscience.  You hooker for genocidal militarists.”

     “Shit, Pootie Pie.  I love you.  But I don’t know why I’m continuing to try to talk to you.  I hope we can talk again, but better, in the morning.  More friendly-like.  More civilized.” He blew her a kiss.  She just stared at him.  “But I mean, really.  I could understand it if it was because I chased some wench, or ‘cause I spent all our money gambling, or if I was beating you or snorting up a storm of coke. But to threaten to leave me over what I want to do at work, when what I want to do is perfectly legal, and something that a lot of people will appreciate?  Something that doesn’t affect our cozy little home?”

     She replied, “All right, you with the precious hide, if the immediate here and now is all that matters to you, then think about this: maybe I don’t like the idea that somebody else, somewhere else, maybe thousands of miles away, someone as scared of bogey monsters as I am, might want to come prowling around here to shoot your precious ass. I might not appreciate being in the way.”

     He objected, “So anytime somebody objects to what you’re doing, and threatens you, you back off?  I can’t smoke pot ‘cause you’re afraid the pig state will come and take everything away from us, even though the risk to any cautious, sensible person is practically zilch.  I can’t even buy us black market, illegal dangerous substances like megadoses of vitamins, even though they’d help us live longer, ‘cause we might get busted.  Now, I can’t even do something legal, to help reduce the risks to our troops, for fear I might piss somebody off.  How long till we’re sending our money to the FOS-TV preachers ‘cause they threaten to tell God that we’ve been bad?  How ‘bout deciding whether or not to do something on its own merits, instead of being an easily intimidated sheep?”

     “Oh, bullshit.  Like there’s really any merit to genocide.  I just got done telling you why you shouldn’t do it, on its own merits.  You made me relate it to how it would affect our ‘cozy little home’ in the immediate here and now.  You’re trying to have it both ways.  And I don’t want to live in a cozy little home that is built on technobarbarism.  I don’t want to be like the wives of Nazi prison guards, who tortured, murdered, and maimed during working hours, and then came home to pet their dogs, kiss their wives, and play with the kids after work and on holidays.”

     Phil couldn’t let it rest.  “Don’t hold your breath, Pootie Pie, on me changing my mind.  I’ve got to draw a line, somewhere, on being manipulated.  ‘Give up pot or I won’t move in with you.  Do what I say at work, or I’m moving out.  Never go to the bar with the guys, or give me a divorce.  Give me a backrub, or give me death.’ Where does it all end?  I value my dignity, you know.”

     “Fuck you, your pot, your work, your bar-hopping, your backrub services, your dignity, and the horse y’all rode in on.  I’m not perpetually manipulative and you know it.  It’s just on minor matters like human extinction that I get this way.” She thought, lightning fast, before he picks at my inconsistencies here¾But think about it, now¾Ah, what the hell, what is really important, here, anyway?  Do it.

     “As a matter of fact, here’s a deal for you: I’ll show you I’m not a pushy bitch on little stuff.  You can behave like a college kid and be a weed fiend if you want, and I’ll not nag you too much, so long as you don’t throw pot parties, or sell or grow the stuff.  Wouldn’t want the DEA to confiscate Georgia, you know.  So I’ve whittled my nag list down to one: No Bogey Monsters Allowed.  None.  How’s that grab you?”

     Phil gazed at Gloria; she actually thought there for a second that he might be considering the deal.  “No, Gloria.  My moral, ethical, professional choices are my own, and not for sale at any price. Certainly, I wouldn’t trade trivial things like whether or not I get stoned, for... for making my own choices in matters of my work, for being able to save the lives of our soldiers, our defenders.  No deal.”

     You self-righteous hypocrite, you, she thought.  “You’re willing to trade humanity for your extra thirty pieces of silver every week, fame, a bit of career advancement, and some thrill of creativity, but you don’t trade trivial things for the important things.  No Sir.  Not you. Asshole!  Mass murderer!  I’m going to bed!  Without you!”

     With that, she tromped off to the guest bedroom, whose door she slammed and locked.  Phil at least was an apt enough pupil in the study of the behavior of a Gloria, in her natural habitat, that he didn’t test or knock on her door, or try to talk to her some more, at least not that night.  He went to bed, and she wept very quietly.  Couldn’t let him think she was a weak, hysterical woman, in need of being comforted by his monster-making arms.

     The next morning, a Thursday, Gloria slipped off to work especially early, to avoid Phil.  He just barely got to say good morning to her before she stalked out the door.  That day, she yanked a lot of schedules around, but, by hook or by crook, freed up her next week.  She made hasty arrangements to fly to California for a week.

     Phil and Gloria talked briefly and civilly that evening, just enough to agree to be sensible, and have Phil deliver Gloria to the airport Friday evening, and pick her up a week and a weekend later.  No sense in pissing away money on airport parking for a week, they decided, just to avoid each other, out of snappishness.  They were both level-headed adults, after all.

     A week in California didn’t weaken Gloria’s resolve one bit.  If anything, it helped solidify her position, and made her remember that there was more to life than Phil, Atlanta, and her current job.  Phil’s resolve didn’t soften either, and it wasn’t more than a month from her return from San Francisco, that she accepted a job there.

     Gloria had never felt so alienated, so alone, so estranged in her entire life, as during those few long weeks of living with a lover turned roommate.  She longed so much to throw her arms around him and tell him she still loved him! But this was too important for her to bend in any way.  She knew that Phil could be incredibly stubborn, that this was one of those things, and that twisting his ears any more was futile.  But, she wouldn’t be caught being any less stubborn than he was, in this case.

     During all this time, they treated each other civilly, if distantly.  Towards the end, they both broke down to confess to each other just how hurt they were.  Phil helped her pack for the movers, and even offered to help her drive her van to California.  This, despite his busy workload as the head of ABC’s newest division.  She declined; she didn’t want to drag all this out, and have to look at who she thought she knew, and what might have been, all the way to California.

     They both swore to each other, that they’d stay in touch, till death would part them.  Gloria had once looked forward to a different kind of vow, she reflected sadly.


 

 

CHAPTER 10

 

     Phil sat at his computer at work, looking over the basic outline of the simulation that ABC was charged with developing.  He felt mildly irritated that he’d spent the last two months looking at the big picture, instead of actually doing design work.  The current outline was the cumulative effort of brainstorming by both ABC and the government employees at project Epsilon.

     Frank and Stanley, though, had been the sole channel through which ideas had gone back and forth between the two groups.  Frank had explained that fairly rigid separation between the two groups was necessary, so that they could play opposing sides in computer simulations of weapons and countermeasures, without cheating by knowing too much about what the opposing side was doing.  The simulations had to be honest and realistic, after all.

     Phil wasn’t too terribly irritated about brainstorming instead of designing, though, because brainstorming was fun, too, even if it wasn’t quite as fun as designing.  Designing would come real soon, now, he thought, as soon as we hash over this outline a little more, and prioritize and strategize about just how we’ll do some of these things. So he sat there and thought and doodled on his computer, reviewing the basics of the bioweapon simulation that ABC would pit against Epsilon’s countermeasures.

     OK, he thought, so we’re talking about BELFRYBATs (Bio-Engineered Life Form, Really Yucky, Bat-like Assault Tools).  The powers that be had allowed them to use a silly acronym, seeing as how hardly anyone was supposed to know about it, anyway.  We’ll take the all-weather sonar-equipped flying capabilities and basic body shape of bats, and add some extra legs for more versatility in landing, taking off, carrying things, land locomotion, etc.  Borrow a design feature from the ancient flying reptiles of the Jurassic and Cretaceous, and strengthen their wings with stiff collagen fibers.  Liberate their hind legs from skin-stretching duties, without going to feathers, which can’t heal, or grow as fast as synthetic flesh.

     Then we’ll give them poisonous stingers.  Phil had already begun gathering data on various natural animal poisons, from insects, spiders, snakes, scorpions, etc.  To be sure, we’ll select quick-acting, merciful poisons.  And, of course, we’ll give them carnivorous appetites.

     Phil felt a little bad about picking on bats to serve as the basis for his simulated monsters, since he knew how essential bats were as rain forest seed dispersers, and as insectivores.  He liked bats and what they did for the environment, and felt they weren’t properly appreciated by the public.  He didn’t want to give the irrational public any reason to fear bats any more than they already did.  But, with any luck the public wouldn’t get wind of what he was working on, anyway.

     We’ll also give the BELFRYBATs the behavior of the social insects, where only the queen can reproduce, and the individual workers are totally devoted to the survival of the hive, not the individual.  In other words, an individual won’t hesitate to give its life for the hive. We’ll have two sizes of worker BATs, large and small.  The large ones will have a reasonable degree of intelligence, something on the order of a monkey.  Hardwired into their brains, there will be knowledge of how to operate simple human gizmos, such as doorknobs and latches.  Also, knowledge on how to lob heavy objects through glass windows, so that they’ll be able to go places where they’re not wanted, at least in a local sense.  So these are the bare-bones, basic features, Phil reflected.

     In addition to the basics, we’ve accumulated a lot of bells and whistles.  From previous projects at ABC, we’ve got the “alipuscles” immune system, and fast reproduction.  Rapid reproduction comes through the incorporation of engineered bacteria, and through each cell carrying only the genes that it really needs, instead of each cell carrying a bunch of “junk” genes, as well as genes needed only in other tissue types.  In other words, the only time the full complement of genes is carried from one cell to another, is when a queen makes another queen. Workers come in two sizes; numerous small ones and fewer large ones. They will carry almost all the genes, excluding queen genes.  But, only in their undifferentiated embryo stage will their cells carry all their genes; as soon as differentiation starts, unneeded genes are dropped, in each cell type.  Heck of a lot faster-growing and more efficient than nature’s kludges, Phil thought proudly.

     Then, Phil reviewed some of the newer features, primarily the “checksum” feature that had been devised for their next generation of pest-control products.  This next generation was almost completely designed already.  In this newer scheme, pest control synthetic organisms would be allowed to reproduce, unlike the first generation. They would depend on lab-cloned engineered trees that couldn’t reproduce in the wild, for their leash compounds.  Since the new pest control critters could reproduce, though, the environmentalists were hooting and hollering quite loudly that they could evolve away from a need for the leash compounds, and run rampant.  The “checksum” system was an answer to the problem, but Phil expected it to be many years before the idea was approved.

     After the public had realized that legislation lagged behind technology, and that ABC’s co-operation with the NIH and EPA had been voluntary, Congress had been quick to “solve” the nonexistent problem of unregulated parts of the biotech industry.  What the hell, he thought, ABC is probably making more money with the existing scheme, anyway.  But it sure would be nice to eliminate the need to deliver new critters all the time, to remote third world areas that need this stuff the most.  At least these regulations wouldn’t apply to this new project, since the government routinely exempts itself from the laws that it passes, he reflected.  Hypocrisy can be downright useful at times!

     He thought a bit about how neat the checksum system was, and how it could be used to make sure the BELFRYBATs couldn’t evolve into something out of control.  The idea had first been brought up by Martha Lonetree, an electrical engineer and computer type.  She’d apparently derived the idea from electronics techniques.  Too bad she’d decided not to work for Phil’s group, he lamented to himself.

     As strands of DNA unraveled and duplicated, in the queen’s reproductive system, they would create RNA, which would in turn create useful proteins, like usual.  However, under the right circumstances, they’d also create complex proteins representing a “signature” derived from the sequence of nucleic acids in the DNA, for the sole purpose of being “tasted” by special, small organs in the reproductive system. These small organs would snip a cell or two off of passing embryos, and perform the checksum technique.  Any mutation in the DNA would cause the signature proteins to taste wrong, and the small organs would release a poison to kill any mutated offspring.

     Phil also reviewed features concocted solely for BATs.  These included having a special side tract in the alimentary canal of the queens, so that sick, aged, and dying worker BATs could sacrifice themselves to be eaten by the queen.  The queen, instead of digesting their cells and proteins down to their constituent amino acids, and then building them back up to BAT proteins, would very efficiently salvage entire cells and proteins to be refurbished and built back into new BATs, thereby saving a lot of time.  Slick, he thought!  This, and a simple yet robust immune system, are nice side benefits of having them all be totally identical.

     Special information-carrying chemicals would accumulate in the brains of worker BATs, denoting field conditions such as food supplies, proximity and number of nearest other hives, etc., so that when aged, sick, and dying BATs were eaten by queens, the queens could “read” this information and make reproductive choices, such as whether to make more queens, or small or large worker BATs, and how many.

     Then, there’s the techniques for gathering and processing food, and making it into more BATs.  Workers would gather flesh, and carry it in their claws or in their gullets.  They would bring it to the queen, which would lay eggs in it.  The eggs, unlike natural eggs, would actually absorb nutrients directly, thereby maturing to larvae, and ultimately, BATs, much faster than any natural system.  Worker BATs, queens, eggs, and larvae would all secrete chemicals, including lactic acid and compounds stolen from nature’s bottlefly maggots, into the food supply for the purpose of preventing bacteria from decomposing the flesh before the BATs could use it.  Disgusting, yes, but hey, it’s just a computer simulation, at least so far, he reflected.  So long as everybody behaves, it’ll never become reality.  Just like the old bugaboo, nuclear holocaust.

     Then there’s the additional safety features we’ve got to design in, he thought.  The “cycle counter” that counts generations since genesis. How to introduce the first BATs to enemy territory was a big unknown, and an issue that didn’t really have to be addressed, since they were only doing simulations.  Anyway, the biological cycle counter would allow two things: In the first two or three generations, after introducing only a handful of BATs, the BATs would be programmed to lay low, to avoid humans, and to increase their numbers only by eating insects and wild and domestic animals.

     Only after building up their numbers would they attack humans.  At that stage, the cycle counter will trigger changes in their programs, so that they could only eat humans and already-dead animals, to minimize environmental impact.  They’d be programmed to seek humans by smell, and to die if their diet strayed too far from having the requisite predominance of human proteins.  Finally, they’d be programmed to stop reproducing after twelve generations, which was estimated to be plenty of time to wipe out an enemy, as an additional safety mechanism.

     And, of course, finally there’s the leash compounds, without which the queen can’t reproduce.  This was another big unknown, this matter of how these leash chemicals would be introduced.  It made Phil feel better that it wasn’t being addressed, because, after all, they were only messing with computer simulations at this point.  He could wait to worry about such matters till a later time, which would hopefully never come, when an enemy would actually deserve to have such a weapon unleashed on them.  Phil could always decide whether or not to continue participating later, as circumstances warranted.

     Anyway, even though the matter of how the leash compounds would be delivered wasn’t addressed, Frank did dictate to ABC that a mechanism should be designed into the larger BATs to exchange a series of chemical and nervous “handshaking” signals with an unspecified delivery system. The BAT would be attracted to the leash deliverer by smell.  After the large BAT conducted the proper rituals, the leash compounds would be delivered to it, and it would in turn deliver them to a queen, which would also have to conduct the neuro-chemical ritual to take delivery. The handshaking systems on large BATs and queens, as well as the payload of leash chemicals themselves, would immediately be destroyed in the event of death, capture, or other trauma.  All this would be done to prevent the enemy from capturing and analyzing the leash compounds, so that the enemy couldn’t turn the BATs back on their creators.  Pretty clever, Phil mused.  Gotta play it safe from the very beginning, even if we never go beyond simulations.

     So Phil spent all day, sitting there and prioritizing, estimating time, resources, and strategies needed for completing various tasks, and deciding which tasks might be delegated to which of his subordinates, and to himself.  It wasn’t the most fun he’d ever had.

     Fortunately, after every day there comes an evening, and Phil made the most of his.  He got out his bong and filled it with ice and cheap wine, and then filled the bowl and torched the mother.  Those old gurgling sounds and intoxicating tastes, so long forgotten until just a few weeks ago, felt familiar and reassuring.  Now that Gloria was gone, he could do as he wanted, both at work and at home.  He sure did miss her, but at least he had things to do, both at home and at work, to take his mind off of her.  Shortly, he was doing some touch and goes on the runway of reality.

     But, it did worry him a bit.  The feds had made him take a piss test when he signed up, and he was still eligible for surprise inspection.  So, he went and bought himself a copy of “High Times” to see what kind of countermeasures he could take, so that he could toke up while still working for Uncle Sanctimonious.  Too bad they’d found out about the spy at ABC, and used that information to twist ABC’s arms into accepting piss tests and other intrusions into people’s private lives, despite ABC having initially said that they wouldn’t take the contract with all the usual federal bullshit.  What Phil wanted to know, was, if pot was such a terribly bad thing for one’s job performance, then why’d they need a piss test to tell who was doing it in the first place?  It seemed to him that some people were perfectly capable of performing well, despite an occasional toke, and that others were perfectly capable of being idiots without so much as considering popping an illegal vitamin tablet.

     Anyway, he had looked through “High Times” to see what he might do to keep the feds off of his back.  He’d decided against buying clean urine, and putting it in a fake dick to be worn over his real one, so as to fool Uncle Snooper’s minions even when they watched the pissing ceremonies closely.  He had a certain amount of dignity, and wasn’t going to take it away from himself by wearing a fake dick, even if others didn’t respect his dignity as much as he did.

     He settled on taking large doses of a natural herb called golden seal, and a synthetic concoction called THC-B-Gone, from Holland. Either one alone was supposed to be enough to fool busybodies, but he took both to play it safe.  Sometimes he’d burp up a bit of golden seal, after having swallowed it in gelatin capsules. It would just about cause him to retch, it tasted so bad.  These things he bought from his local dealer, along with megadoses of vitamins.  Uncle Sanctimonious had done so much for the dealers when he’d outlawed vitamins.  Now, they had even more customers, and there was even less respect between lawmen and their subjects.

     So Phil sat in his living room and got stoned, and thought more than a few disgruntled thoughts about the dictatorial majority.  He’d sure like to actually live in a free country someday, he thought. Somewhere where the government didn’t make all of one’s charity and medical decisions.  Somewhere where people wouldn’t think that the solution to all problems was simply to put in jail, all those whose lifestyles differed from their own.  Somewhere where the government wouldn’t take most of one’s money to redistribute it for charity and medical care, and then use the fact that the public paid for health problems, to justify playing nanny to all the people and their health habits.

     What could he as a mere individual taxpayer do about mandatory minimum sentences for vitamin pushers, he wondered.  He thought about how the pig and shrink industries sure sucked a lot of bucks out of gullible voters, saying, see here how we’re having to set free the murderers, ‘cause we don’t have enough room in the jails, or enough shrinks, to take care of the dopers?  How could he, Phil, as a member of the most oppressed minority in the US, namely, drug users, do anything against the dictatorial majority?  Other than consume some of this good stuff, and pay a few bucks to the dealers?

     The bong, which Phil affectionately had come to name “Motherfucker,” from his college gang’s name for their bong, as in, “Hey, pass that motherfucker over here, will ya?,” gurgled some more, and he slipped away into one of his favorite pot fantasies as of lately. He’d be called to jury duty to bust some fiendish pot pusher, and he’d pretend to be such a good conformist sheep, just like they liked for jury duty.

     They’d pretend to amass a jury of the offender’s peers, as in, “Sir, can you administer the law as I give it to you,” and, “Are you willing to put the defendant in jail for twenty years for violating the law?” (Translation: Can you be a cog in the State’s machine, and put some little kid away for decades, for selling a few gram’s worth of shit to some government snitch?  If you’re not willing to do this, and admit it, then you couldn’t possibly be the offender’s “peer”.)

     Phil would pretend to be their dupe.  They can pretend, and I can pretend.  Undo pretense with more pretense.  “Oh, yes, of course we all need to obey the law.  If we decided we only had to obey the ones we liked, there’d be chaos!  And, oh, yes, of course I’ll listen to all the evidence impartially.” Then he’d be put on the jury, and he’d sit there and be bored to tears, listening to how the brave government troops spent half of the taxpayers’ money to take the taxpayers’ freedoms away.

     Then, he’d go to deliberate the case with the jury, and he’d rub all their noses in what a bunch of stupid sheep and dupes they were. How racist they were.  “Did you know,” he could hear himself saying, “That ninety percent of people in jail for coke are poor blacks?  The lawmen just regard this as a way to put all the niggers in jail.  Think about it.  A rich white person buys drugs once a month, in huge amounts, and doesn’t run as much of a risk as a poor person who buys every day. And, of course, he can afford a better lawyer.  And we’ll give the white cocaine dealer a lighter sentence than the black crack dealer, even though the crack’s got a heck of a lot less active ingredient.  Someday we’ll pay a huge price for our racism, above and beyond being gouged for more money for more jails.  Why don’t we just let addicts punish themselves, instead of paying out big bucks?  They can punish themselves far more efficiently than we can.”

     The other jurors would badger him about not trying to legislate, and harp on all the evidence.  He’d say, “Well, look at whose testimony this is.  Government hypocrites who buy and sell illegal drugs, and then bust people for buying and selling drugs.  Hypocrites who lie, who represent themselves as people looking to buy and sell drugs for private enjoyment, who are actually narks.  I don’t accept the testimony of liars and hypocrites.” The other jurors would object, saying, how can you be against sting operations?  How ‘bout stinging people who want murder for hire?  This is for our protection!  And Phil would point out that in murder for hire stings, at least the government didn’t actually commit the crime, murder, but in the case of drug stings, the government actually did the exact same thing that it was busting, which was buying and selling drugs.

     Phil thought about what an ethical juror would do, in a country where the dictatorial majority had decided to punish the wearing of blue ribbons with death.  Would he or she be honest, and say, no, please excuse me from the jury, ‘cause I don’t believe in this law, and allow the tyrannical piggy wiggies to have their wicked ways?  To go ahead and stuff their juries with their piggy wiggy fellow fascists?  Or would an ethical person lie, sneak onto the jury, and do what’s right?

     So, the mighty Phil would strike a blow for the rights of an oppressed minority, and hang the jury.  The oppressed minority would speak, in one of the few ways, other than picking up a gun, that it could speak and be heeded.  Others, as sick as Phil was of pigs who regarded the knowledge that someone, somewhere, might be getting an illegal buzz, as being every bit as threatening as being shot or mugged, would see what he’d done, and start a movement.  The media would come and interview him, and he’d be a big hero.  Maybe he’d start getting thousands of people together, and take a gram of coke and dilute it with a ton of baking soda, and pass it out among them, and they’d all march to the local pig station and all get mandatory ten-year jail sentences, each for a handful of coke molecules sufficient to stone a paramecium. People would come to their senses, and realize how much of a waste it was, to try to make everyone’s moral choices for them.  So, drugs would be legalized.  So went his fantasy, at least.

     Then he got tired of being grumpy, and moved his stoned thoughts on to other topics.  He sure missed Gloria.  It wasn’t just that he’d been reduced to playing with seedy CD ROMs on his home computer and cuffing his ‘nads; he also missed her company and intellectual stimulation. He’d tried once or twice to pick up the babes at the singles bars, but it was just no good.  They were all at the bar to see how many men they could say no to, or to see how many men they could get to kiss their asses, while they debated if any of them maybe might maybe be almost sort of good enough.

     Phil decided that maybe he should actually try to do something about it, other than just sitting around and moping, or calling Gloria to commiserate.  And there it sat, beckoning to him¾all that technological reaching-out power, all bound up in wads of silicon, plastic, steel, and glass¾his home computer and FOUL.  Reach out and touch someone.  But seedy CD ROMs were as far as Phil would go.  He knew all about high-dollar virtual sex parlors, and software that he could buy even for his simple home computer.  Such software could allow him to tweak every aspect of the body and personality of a silicon slut¾or whatever else he might be into.  For a few thousand bucks, he could even buy hologram projectors and other accessories.  Even software to allow him to swipe Gloria’s face off of home movies, or some famous young wild thang actress, and splice them onto his favorite seedy CD ROM action. But, Phil had his dignity.  Maybe technology could help him reach out in some other manner.

     So he fired up his home FOS and made a transaction or two, and spent a dollar or two hundred, and got access to the personals.  He started to skim through what wonderful wenches the local market might have to offer.  Most had images attached; a few didn’t.  Those that didn’t, he blew off, right off the bat.  DWF, SWF, blonde, redhead, likes moonlit walks, likes candlelight dinners, likes successful executives.  Very good-looking.  And modest, too, Phil added to himself. They’re all beauty queens.  Frosted blonde.  VGIB.  VGIB?  OK, he thought, I know that DWF and SWF are divorced and single white females respectively, but what the hell does VGIB mean?  What?  A footnote? Ah-ha!  Very Good In Bed!  Another modest one!  But at least she’s got a sense of humor!  That particular one was too old, though.  Phil wondered how many of them were lying about their ages, and how many of the images might be a decade or two old.

     He noticed that despite filespace being quite cheap, and there being hardly any limit to the length of the messages these babes could post on the computer dating service, most of them chose to just post short descriptions of themselves.  Most of them were either poorly written, or written with lots of glossy, immodest fluff.  He decided that any wench worthy of his own noble self would be a decent writer, and be willing to describe her thoughts at fairly great lengths.  So he started to read those that were of any substantial length.

     The trouble with those, though, was that sooner or later they’d all expose too many of their thoughts, and Phil would conclude that they were batty.  There they were, in all their glory.  The Elvis-worshipper, the Kennedy assassination conspiracy buff, the Bible bangers, the New Age cosmic vibes psychobabbler, the astrologer, and the man-eating womyn’s libber.

     So, he thought, maybe there’s a lot of babes out there who read these things, but don’t advertise.  Maybe I should go and write up the Manifesto of Phil, and see if I get any nibbles.  Or nipples, maybe, even.  They’ll probably think I’m as much of a kook as I think that they are, though, but what the hey, you never know if you don’t try. So, Motherfucker gurgled once or twice more, and then, Phil put it away and began to write.  Getting stoned and then actually doing something other than sitting around, or sitting around and thinking worried or grumpy thoughts, like thoughts of maybe getting busted, made it much more fun to get stoned, he reflected.

     “Dear Most Luscious Babe,” Phil began, and then immediately changed his mind and changed his writing to a slightly more sober “Dear Unknown Snugglebunny”.  Then he choked.  So, he decided to back up a bit, and go and read the rules of the game.  What?  A thousand bucks to post a message on this damned stupid service?  Maybe it’s time to go and look for a different one.  But, no, this was far and away the biggest such service in the area.  And, come to think of it, maybe I don’t really want to belong to a dating service that charges five bucks a head, either.  Maybe he’d write his manifesto first, and then decide whether or not it was worth posting.  He also read the other rules, such as how actual names, addresses, FOS and phone numbers, etc., would only be exchanged after mutual consent.  OK, he decided, let’s get back to writing.

     “Hi!  I’m number 038XJ57.  Pleased to meet you,” Phil wrote.  He could fill in the correct account number later, if/when he felt like dropping a grand, in addition to the two hundred he’d already pissed away.  “I’m a thirty-five year old scientist and manager, so I can serve as your ‘success object’ fairly well, although I should certainly hope to be much more.” Any more specific than that, he thought, and somebody might actually guess who I am, seeing as how I’ve had a bit of exposure in the media by now.

     “Just as you most certainly should hope to be more than a sex object to me, I hope that I will be more than a success object to you. Not that I insist that you be filthy rich, so that I can rest assured that you’re not a gold-digger.” Although, of course, that wouldn’t hurt, Phil added to himself.  “I have no problems in sharing my fairly good fortune, with those who share what they have with me, even if materialists who put a dollar sign to everything, would say that the accounts don’t balance.

     “I do resent being forced to share almost three quarters of what I earn, under threat of jail time, due to the ‘charity’ of the rich politicians who we elect, who find it so easy to be generous with my money, which they forcibly extract from me.  As you can see, I am vehemently anti-socialist.  I feel like, what starts out to be ‘From each according to their ability, to each according to their need’, in reality becomes ‘From each according to their willingness to work without proportional reward, and their willingness to be parasitized, to each according to how well they kiss the Party’s butt.’ Sure, we have two major parties, but they both constitute the Big Government Party.

     “That means I don’t vote Democrat.  On the other hand, I don’t vote for the Republicans, either, ‘cause they’re a bunch of witch-burners. It’s like, the Republicans want to fill the jails with gays, pornographers, abortionists, secular humanists, and witches, while the Democrats want to fill the jails with people who try to cheat the feds out of the 90 % of their incomes that the feds want for socialism.  I figure, one has an ethical obligation to cheat on taxes, ‘cause giving the feds a dollar more than one absolutely has to, is like giving booze to an alcoholic.

     “Given the choice between witch-burners and socialists, I vote Libertarian.  Libertarians are the only organized party that believes in legalizing freedom, and reserving jail space for people who deserve to be jailed.  Anyway, I’ll be reasonably generous with whatever is left after the politicians are done being compassionate with everyone except the taxpayer.  But enough of my politics; we’re talking about something more important, here.

     “We’re talking about Love, or at least, I sure hope we are.  And if we’re talking about Love, then I sure hope we’re talking about the one with the capital “L,” the one that outlasts puppy love, infatuation, lust, whatever.  The one that lasts while we grow old and decrepit with time, together.  I surely wouldn’t want to sully such a pure ideal as Love, with too many lists and conditions.  ‘Laundry List Love’ surely doesn’t have a good ring to it.” Phil actually stole the phrase from Gloria, who’d accused him of such offenses on occasion.

     He’d met Gloria through a video dating service.  But there’d be no reason to mention anything here about her, just ‘cause he’d spent eight years living with her.  Hell, he didn’t even have to call himself divorced, for fear of scaring away ladies who, like himself, counted a divorce or two or five as strikes against a potential mate.  There’d be plenty of time later to ‘fess up to Gloria’s failings later, after his new mate had fallen hopelessly, head over heals in Love with him, he decided.

     “But we’re talking serious matters here.  We’re talking about, hopefully, lifelong intimate companionship.  So I should hope to be forgiven if I say this isn’t a matter for equal opportunity legislation, or for any kind of ideas about being non-discriminatory.  Not that I’m talking about anything racial here; I’m fairly broadminded about your religious, ethnic, racial, political, national, etc., background.  I’ll have to ‘fess up that I strongly discriminate on the basis of sex, and sexual preference, in the matter of mate selection only, though.  Only heterosexual females need apply¾sure hope the equal opportunity folks don’t get wind of this!  Seriously, though, the main point I want to make is that no one can make me feel guilty for being discriminating, in its broadest sense, in this matter.  So, of course I have a List, as would any person who would try to be honest and rational about this. But I’ll keep my list short, broad, flexible.

     “At the top of the list would be the usual kind, sweet, humorous, considerate, loving, and lovable-type personality traits.  But, maybe more than anything else, I want an educated and intelligent mate. Educated doesn’t have to mean big, fancy degrees¾I’ve known a few degreed idiots in my day.  Maybe ‘informed’ would be better.  I want to be able to discuss and argue with my mate, about all the myriad issues of the day, and even of days future and past.” Like Gloria, he thought, but definitely a bit less...  strident?  Overly, falsely principled? Pushy?  Intolerant?  Bossy!

     Should he hint at the nature of his work, to make sure his next wild woman was tolerant of such things?  Nah!  Sensitive topic.  Plenty of time for that later, he thought.  Like, at least after I get laid once or twice.

     “So, even though we might disagree on a lot of things, I would surely hope that your opinions might be informed at the very least, and that the basic way that you think would be somewhat reasonable.  At a minimum, for example, I would hope that you believe in evolution, rather than literal creationism.  Now, it’s cool if you want to believe that maybe evolution created our bodies, and God created our souls.  I’m not much into God, myself, ‘cause I’ve never met Him.  But I could sure respect you for thinking that God created our souls.  If you think, though, that God’s got an appendix, a scrotum, and an occasional hemorrhoid, seeing as how we are literally, bodily created in his image, then maybe I’d better find another lady to have intelligent conversations with.

     “Other than that, I would just hope that you are generally open-minded or broad-minded.  Tolerant.” He just about added, tolerant of all but intolerance, but decided not to.  Too many people had heard of his speechifying, and a few could maybe ID him from that.  He didn’t want all the babes banging on his door; he wanted to have a look-see first, and just pick out the good ones.  Especially the good-looking young wild thangs, with big tits and no kids, of course, he thought. Come to think of it, I’d better not attach an image, and then, some will blow me off as probably being ugly, seeing as how I wasn’t willing to post my image.  Kind of like what I just got done doing on my first, recent window-shopping excursion.  Oh, well.  The prices of mild fame.

     “In other words, I really couldn’t respect you much if you were convinced that only Old Order New Orthodox Reformed Upper Michigan Peninsula Elvis Followers got to go to the Big Concert in the Sky. I believe that even Moslem atheists should be eligible to attend the Big Concert.  Anyway, I would hope that I could respect your views, and that you could respect mine.  Including my view that human nature itself has evolved through a few hundreds of thousands of years as intelligent and culture-bearing hunter-gatherers.  Bear with me for a few moments as I go over the rest of my short and general list, and I’ll review for you what I think sociobiology and other sciences have to say about what a reasonable and rational male-female relationship might look like.  Or, at least, what a logical person might think about relationships, bearing in mind what science has found, along with a few, bare minimum ethical concepts, such as the idea that we should try to treat others like we want to be treated.”

     Phil sat there and thought for a few minutes.  Now, how in the hell could he tell them that he liked to smoke pot, and they’d damn well better like it.  Or, at the very least, leave him alone if he felt like doing it.  He wasn’t going to go through another Gloria-like busybody. On the other hand, he sure didn’t want a coke freak or speed fiend, either.  Or anyone with a serious addiction, be it to any drug, gambling, sex, or even himself, he thought.  I sure can’t write down here, yes, I’m a moderate weed fiend, and please come and bust me now, piggy wiggies.  He almost decided to totally ignore the subject, but then, an idea or two inspired him.  Maybe a few hints and some sarcastic humor might do the trick!

     “I’d also hope that our ideas about what is right and what is wrong would be somewhat in harmony.  I don’t have much respect for people who think that right versus wrong corresponds exactly to what is legal versus illegal.  This isn’t merely true in places like Nazi Germany or modern-day Tibet, either.  Many people would recognize that, even if their governments approve of it, Germans burning Jews, and Chinamen tromping all over native Tibetans, are immoral despite being in accordance with their laws.  Or, Moslem peoples who tromp all over the rights of their women, and blame Allah or Moo-hamboned or whoever for it.” Phil looked at the “Moo-hamboned” term, thought a bit about the various brands of violent, psychopathic, foam-at-the-mouth Islamic terrorists running around loose in the world, and looked up the more respectful word, “Mohammad,” and made the change.  No use living too dangerously, unless it’s for a good cause, he decided.

     “Less of us stop to think that maybe the FOS-TV preachers in the US of A, right here and now, are doing legal but immoral things when they steal all the money from little old ladies, by selling them tickets to the Big Bingo Game in the Sky. Or, the government, when it steals a whole ranch for a single pot seed that sprouted, or a whole ship, ‘cause some passenger snuck a few illegal vitamin pills on board.

     “Keep in mind that I am a Libertarian.  I think we should just legalize all drugs.  Let addicts punish themselves; they can do it a heck of a lot cheaper than we can.  But I don’t mean to be talking about politics again.  What does all this mean to us?  It means, I don’t put the law on a pedestal.  I don’t snort coke, or do crack, or speed, or heroin, or PCP or LSD or PCBs or plutonium tetrachloride bicarbonate or any other vicious chemical, and I sure hope you don’t, either. Actually, I don’t even do nicotine, and I won’t plan on throwing too much of a fit if or when, a few years from now, they take my alcohol and caffeine away.” OK, I hope that maybe they’ll be sharp enough to pick out what I haven’t mentioned here.

     “And I don’t care too much about your habits in the latter categories, either, although I would hope that you don’t get all shit-faced drunk every night.” Phil immediately changed “shit-faced” to “falling-down”; he wasn’t sure what he could get by the censors.  Then he added, “And I will admit that I have a preference for non-smokers, or, more accurately, non-nicotine addicts.” Get the hint?

     Now comes the real fun part, he thought.  Make it real obvious that I despise Uncle Sanctimonious.  “But I must confess that I’ve got a serious weakness for those evil concoctions, vitamins.  You know how Uncle Sanctimonious, in all his wisdom, has decided that no one should be able to buy megadoses, defined as anything over the RDA, or Recommended Daily Allowance, of vitamins.  And you’ve got to get a prescription for those weenie 60-mg vitamin C tablets.  Can’t have the ascorbic acid heads out there, beating and robbing little old ladies for their next fix.  Even if years of research says that anti-oxidants help clear your blood of free radicals, and help you live longer.”

     Phil was tempted to explain his pet theories, about how the feds claimed they were just protecting people from vitamin snake-oil salesmen, yet were in reality just protecting the AMA’s turf and the FDA’s power.  Can’t have the people staying healthy without shelling out the bucks to the doctors and pharmacists.  The people are too stupid to make their own health decisions, without Uncle Sam taking care of us all.  But, he’d talked enough politics already.

     “So, anyway, I’ve got to warn you that I like to wreck devastation on my body with massive doses of ascorbic acid.  It really gets me off. But, I don’t want to violate the law.  No Sir!  No Ma’am!  Not me!  I respect the law!  So, I just slink off to several different grocery stores, so that no one will catch on, and buy a few grapefruits at each. Then, I stash them deep in my ‘fridge, way back there, behind the rotten milk and the slimy tomatoes, so that no one can see them.  Then, late at night, I sneak down to my ‘fridge, and have one-man ascorbic acid parties.  Far out.  Thousands of times the RDA!

     “But, please keep this secret between the two of us. Grapefruits haven’t been outlawed yet, but I sure wouldn’t want to have them have to make a new law, just to cover a fiend like me.  I’d hate to think that someday, I’d be dead and gone, and y’all would be left here to sing a song about ‘MAN KILLED IN GRAPEFRUIT DEAL GONE BAD’. Rue the day!

     “Other than that, I guess I’d like to add to the laundry list, that I’d like to have my own children.  Since I haven’t made any babies, and screwed up and left them and/or their Momma, I’d not want to be saddled with a ready-made family.  I used to feel guilty about my selfishness, but then I read some sociobiology, and decided I didn’t need to feel guilty about it after all.  More on this later.  Yes, I would feel differently about it if I’d already had my chance to pass on my genes, and messed it up, and abandoned a wife and child, or children.  But, since I haven’t, I’d like to have my own chance to start from scratch. Not that I insist that you be fertile; I’d be happy to adopt.  And I also couldn’t find it in my heart to hold it against you if you were a widow, with children, unless, of course, you had killed your husband, in which case I’d hope you’d spare me any of your ministrations.  It’s just that I don’t want a divorcee with kids.  My life is complicated enough, without having to deal with assorted, contorted, recombinant family issues.

     “That’s my laundry list, pretty much in it’s entirety.  I don’t really care what your hobbies are, so long as they don’t involve sticking pins in dolls that look like me.  We don’t have to share all of each other’s interests.  That could get downright boring, actually. There are some other minor things, like the fact that I’d much rather have you spend your time and money to buy me a beer now and then, instead of spending it all on makeup and fancy clothes and hairdos.

     “Finally, let me give you my perspective on relationships, in view of sociobiology and other recent scientific findings.” Oh, hell, thought Phil.  Give it a rest!  Tomorrow’s another night.  He resolved to finish up later, and not to just blow it off, or get all wrapped up in his work again, to the point of forgetting that there were other things to life. So, he got Motherfucker back out, took another few hits, and went to bed, where he slept peacefully, dreaming dreams of wild young wenches.

     The next day at work, Phil met with Dr. Eisner and General Leech. They met in one of the new secure rooms, where all sorts of precautions were taken to prevent sensitive conversations from being bugged.  These precautions were needed for both conversations within the rooms, and conversations between the rooms’ occupants and parties at the Pentagon. The clustered rooms were arranged bizarrely, almost weirdly enough to conceal from all but the most astute or well-informed onlookers, the fact that they had a lot of space hidden between them.

     As the technical leader of the project, Phil was one of the privileged few who knew that there was a fiber-optic link entirely separate from ONLINE, connecting sensors monitoring the cluster of rooms to the Pentagon, where high-tech wizardry guarded against spies.  It made him just a smidgen nervous, but it lent a certain drama to his life, to be privy to such important goings-on.

     Closing the heavy, special, high-tech door behind him had evoked the slightest hint of claustrophobia in Phil, as if he was being locked up in a bank with all the other valuables.  And the sensor lenses stared at him, and tracked his movements, giving him a tiny bit of the willies. But, really, all that he, and for all that he knew, ABC, cared about, was that all these facilities had been bought and paid for by the feds, and that there were no dangerous radiations of any kind emitted by the monitoring equipment.  Since he didn’t even entertain the vaguest notions of carrying bugs, Phil didn’t dwell on it much.  He cynically reflected that he’d bet this link wasn’t using the same snoopable codes as what the government was requiring all others to use.  Still, it was almost like being Agent Orange in “ESPIONAGE ANGELS,” sitting next to who knows how many millions of dollars worth of nifty gizmos.  Too bad he got paid about three percent of what that worthless what’s-his-face got paid to play Agent Orange.

     Phil reflected momentarily on the perversities of a society where he, a REAL top-secret scientist and defender of the nation, got paid such a small fraction of what the pretend-players got paid, and where Congress, needing testimony about the travails of being a farm family, invites, not farm housewives, but actresses who played farm housewives, to testify.  It sure seems, he thought, that Americans value unreality far too much over reality.

     Phil had to bring himself back to reality as he regarded the Doctor and the General.  He still hadn’t quite gotten to the point where he could address them by their first names, Stanley and Frank.  He wasn’t so sure he really wanted to, especially in the case of Dr. Eisner.  They went over the plans one more time.  Phil reviewed all the features that were to be designed.  The Doctor and the General both nodded sagely.

     “Yes, Doctor Schrock, it sure sounds good to me.  By the way, since we’ll be working together a lot, is it OK if we just call you Phil?” Phil nodded affirmatively.  “Good.  I’m Frank, and this is Stanley.  So, Phil, might you have any questions for us?  In the big picture scheme of things, or about what we’ll be expecting?”

     “Well, actually, I guess I do.  About military and political strategy.  We’re obviously designing these things to be as realistic as possible, and I’d think it’s not merely for purposes of making the simulations as realistic as possible, so that the data gathered from them is valid, but also for other reasons.  Reasons such as, if an enemy ever comes up with similar weapons, or in some other manner threatened us very seriously, we’d be prepared to move quickly from simulations to hardware¾or, I guess, ‘wetware’ would be a better term here.  In other words, the existence of these simulations will serve as a deterrent, to some extent, even if we have no intention of building them.  You’ve hinted as much, on occasion, and I have no trouble with that.  Or, with keeping real quiet about these matters.

     “It may be way too early to worry about such matters, but I have two questions.  One is, might it be wise, way on down the road, to actually verify our designs?  As long as we’re extremely careful, both in the doing of it, and in keeping it secret, then I can’t see why we shouldn’t do it.  The other, though, is, what’s the value of a deterrent that is kept secret?  How can we both let a potential enemy know that they’d better watch their steps, or else; at the same time as we keep the extent of our efforts secret from all the bleeding hearts and anti-biotech fanatics here in the US?  I mean, you’ve seen how they carry on about what we’ve done so far, just from us picking on their damn, precious bugs we’d otherwise be poisoning to death, along with the environment.” Phil decided not to add any comments comparing the magnitudes of what was being risked in the two different cases, of Anti-Bug Critters versus anti-human bioweapons.  He didn’t want to sound too doubtful.  Gotta be a team player, you know.

     “Well,” Frank explained, “The second question is easiest to deal with, so let me answer that first.  We’ve got to walk a fine line.  If we reveal too much, the protesters will scream even more than they do already, and the enemy will know precisely what we have, and so, will be able to take effective countermeasures.  On the other hand, something so secret that the enemy doesn’t even know about it, obviously doesn’t have much deterrent value.  So, we’ve got to walk that fine line.  And there are sometimes ways one can let the enemy know more about what one is doing, than one lets the public know about, without the risk of having the enemy letting the public know what’s going on.  But these are matters best left to the experts, like the CIA for example, and our political leadership.”

     In other words, don’t trouble your pretty little head about it, Phil thought.  And political leadership?  Do we really have any of that in this country, or do they all just knee-jerk whichever way the votes are blowing?  And buy votes with people’s pork?  And confiscate ranches because a pot seed or two germinated on the back forty?  Phil reminded himself that there were many nations far more oppressive than the US, and wrenched his consciousness back to listening to Frank.

     “...goes, well, this is a real sensitive matter.  But, you’re a big player in all this, and you’ve taken your oath and passed background checks.  So, I do believe that you should know about this.  I hope you’ll keep in mind just how extremely sensitive this is.  You do have a need to know, though, I think, seeing as how you’ll be the chief designer, here.  Yes, we’ve considered doing a trial run, unless you’ll be absolutely, completely convinced, at the end of the project, that everything will work exactly as intended.  Even then, we’d be tempted to make sure.  But this brings up a few questions for you.  First, how likely will you be to be able to completely prove that your simulations are correct?”

     Phil squirmed a bit.  “To be honest, there’s just so far that simulations can go.  We just run out of computer power.  This problem shows up most severely when we talk about how brains will work.” Phil thought he saw the hint of a superior, condescending smirk on Stanley’s face.  Hey, you bum, you couldn’t get anywhere close to doing what we’ve done here, he thought.

     “Especially with regards to the larger BATs, which will be far smarter than anything we’ve ever designed before, we’ll not be nearly so sure of ourselves as with other body parts and features.  Where we’ll be 99.999 percent sure of ourselves, with regards to other features, we might only be eighty or ninety percent sure of ourselves on the matter of brains.  Maybe when we have far bigger computers, and far fancier software, we’ll be able to accurately simulate every neuron and interconnection in a brain the size and complexity of what we’re talking about here, but I’d not expect something like that to happen for at least another six or seven years.  Certainly after we’re done with this project.  So, trial verifications would, indeed, be wise.”

     Frank nodded, then grinned.  “My next question is, how would you like to take a high-dollar boondoggle to Earth orbit some day?”

     Phil got bug-eyed.  He’d always dreamed of this ultimate joy ride, and seeing Earth from space.  He’d never thought of it as a realistic wish.  “Where do I sign?  I’d love to!  Does this have anything to do with what we’re talking about?”

     Frank frowned just a wee tad, as if he thought Phil was dense. “Sure it does.  That’s where we’ll eventually do our verification.  We wouldn’t want to run a risk, no matter how small, of our weapons not working quite right, and getting loose and running rampant.  Space provides us the ultimate isolation.  Something goes wrong, you blast the facility into a high, stable orbit, or even into the Sun.  But, of course such a disaster would be next to impossible, and we’d provide all the levels of isolation customarily provided on Earth.  And, hopefully you’ll still be our chief designer at that time, and so we’ll want you to be there.  Stanley, too, since he’ll be the only one with detailed technical knowledge of both ABC’s and Epsilon’s efforts.”

     Oh, great.  Nothing like a geek to take the fun out of a joy ride, Phil thought.  “Does that mean we have to design to accommodate zero gravity?  And if so, then, how are we really going to be sure that they’ll work right in gravity?”

     “We’re not talking about one of the handful of zero gravity stations.  We’re talking about the rotating, artificial gravity, international station we’re now building with the Russians, Canada, Europe, and Japan.  All the major contributors have their own modules. One of our modules will be top secret, limited access.  We’ll put some manned intelligence-gathering facilities in there, along with a biological lab with all the toys and isolation features that we’ll need. This module will be able to be isolated from the rest of the station, for this kind of activity.  And, we’ll be able to detach it and send it away, if the very worst should happen.”

     “Since we’re considering the totally improbable, then what do we do if somehow the rest of the station gets contaminated with runaway pathogens or some such?,” Phil asked.

     “Well, that’s still better than contaminating Earth,” Frank replied.  “And we could rescue survivors, isolate and treat them in space till we were confident that they didn’t carry anything threatening, and then, bring them back down.”

     What if they don’t know the score, and start coming down in their little life boats, Phil wondered.  I guess we’d have to blast ‘em from the sky, if we really wanted to play it safe, he thought.  He also wondered whether any of the other nations sharing the station knew about the US plans, but he sure wasn’t going to ask any more questions.  No use in sounding like too much of a troublemaker.

     That was about it for his meeting with Frank and Stanley.  They all agreed to go with what they had, and start designing.  First, though, there was yet another bureaucratic hurdle to be cleared before actual design work could begin, and that was to go and visit the project’s chief bean counter, Debra Kenner, and go over finances.  Phil wished Stanley and Frank a safe journey back to Washington, left the secure room, and wandered off to his office, where he made a few quick hardcopies of some numbers he’d thrown together.  Then he called Debra, to make sure she was ready for him, and walked on down the hall to her office.  Sure, he thought, finances are boring, but at least I’ll have something most pleasant to stare at and drool over, to keep boredom at bay.

     He was not at all disappointed.  She was wearing a fairly low-cut, sheer silk blouse, and a skimpy, flesh-colored bra.  He loved to watch those ample, supple breasts swish back and forth under the thin silk. Both her medium-length, wavy, shiny blonde hair and her smooth silk begged him for caresses.  It was all he could do to even keep a quarter of his mind devoted to going over the numbers.  She didn’t help matters much when she smiled at him so broadly, or when she stooped over to pick up a piece of paper that she’d dropped, giving him a prime view of firm cleavage.  Or, for that matter, when she stood behind him, and brushed her breast against his arm, as she stooped over him to point at some numbers.

     Phil squirmed a bit, mostly to make some more room in his pants. He looked at her fingers, looking for anything resembling an engagement or wedding ring.  He really didn’t know too much about her, other than the fact that she looked delectable.  He didn’t see any such rings, nor could he see any pictures of boyfriends in her office.  He was just about ready to start working up his nerve to ask her for a date, when he started to get his doubts.  He compared her momentarily to Gloria. Gloria would never wear long, painted fingernails, or gobs of makeup, like this Debra chick he was finding himself leering so lecherously at.

     Painted ladies spend all their time and money on looking spiffy, instead of buying beer or otherwise pampering their men, he reminded himself.  On the other hand, they’re a good, quick lay occasionally. Why would a woman primp and preen all day, after all, if not to attract a studly hombre like me?  I could always nag her into reform later, though, he thought.  Like, after she’s caught me, the studliest of any hombre she could ever desire.  But, really, I should stay clear of involvements with people I work with.  Gotta be professional, you know. But, boy oh boy, what a hunkette!

     Then, he remembered that work of literature, his romantic manifesto, that he’d worked on last night.  He decided he’d give that a chance, before embarking on a risky office romance.  Still, he found himself thinking of silly, petty little financial questions to ask her about, to prolong their visit a bit.  Maybe I can see a few more sights, he thought.

     He finally broke free, and wandered back to his office, where he promptly started to unshackle the design juggernaut.  There’d be no more of this business of just brainstorming and collecting data about genes and proteins, bats and maggots, spiders and scorpions and snakes and snails and puppy dog tails.  They had their basic design concepts and some data, a customer, an application, approval, and money.  What more could one want?  They were ready to actually start some serious designing.  They were off to the races!

     Phil got home at seven that night, which was a compromise between his urges to work harder and faster, and his urges to keep his sanity and some semblance of a real life, at home.  He got Motherfucker out of its hiding place in the downstairs closet, and had a few hits, and then munched a braunschweiger, horseradish, etc., sandwich.  He then promptly got back to his manifesto, but not before reflecting on what a busy life he was leading.  Working, getting stoned, chasing wild women.  What more could a man ask for?  Except, maybe, catching one of those wild women. One like Gloria, except less bossy.  But, we won’t think about her. That’s why we’re keeping busy.

     OK, now, where’d we leave off last night...  Oh, yes.  “Finally, let me give you my perspective on relationships, in view of sociobiology and other recent scientific findings.” Phil sat there and thought about it for a few seconds.  “OK, so you might think I’m a geek, applying science to romance.  But, what’s so bad about being rational, and communicating completely honestly?  That’s what I plan to do here. Those of you who follow theories of romance having to be this crazy, wild, ‘chemistry’ thing, and common sense and logic are just so un-romantic, well...” Phil was just about to write down, “Your thinking may qualify you for a short fling with me, but I’d like something more,” when he decided, no, those sorts of chicks don’t go for my type, anyway, ‘cause I don’t abuse ‘em just the right way.  So, he finished his paragraph with, “I, too, like ‘chemistry’, but I think for Love with the capital “L” to last, there’s got to be a lot more.

     “Anyway, there’s a lot to be said for being rational, and for reasoning from sound, demonstrable starting premises.  I think evolution is a lot more demonstrable, and a lot more informative as to human nature and ethics, than creationism.  To you who would argue that it is debasing to think we’re just another animal, that this gives us excuses for acting like animals, I would say, don’t get so wrapped up in how Godly and holy you are.  You have the same basic body structure as any other mammal, and despite all your churchgoing and other pretenses, you act in many ways the same as a lot of monkeys and apes.  At the very least, you can’t argue with the facts that you eat, breathe, sleep, urinate, defecate, and copulate basically the same as any other mammal.” Or at least, I sure hope you do, he added to himself.  Wonder if that’ll slip by the censors, he asked himself.  At least I didn’t say, piss, shit, and fuck!

     “I can even argue quite persuasively that there is at least one category in which belief in evolution is more likely to lead to ethical behavior than belief in creationism.  That is the category of beliefs having to do with preserving the environment and species diversity.  If you really believe that God arbitrarily decided one day seven or ten thousand years ago, to just snap his fingers and create various habitats and species, and that He then created us to be Lords of all Creation, then you might think it’s OK to wipe them out.  After all, maybe if we kiss His butt just right, we can persuade Him to snap His fingers again, and undo all the damage that we’ve done.  A believer in evolution, on the other hand, realizes that once we destroy a species, we can never get them back.

     “But, what I really wanted to discuss here, is the implications of evolution and sociobiology regarding human mating behavior.  Let’s see what we’d get, as far as rational mating behavior goes, if we took what science has told us about basic human nature, and a very simple formulation of ethics, namely, ‘Treat others the way you’d like to be treated’.  Let’s be honest about it, now.  What you as a female have to offer is far more valuable than what I have to offer, if we’re just talking about simple biology and mating behavior.  That which is rare, is valuable, and that which is plentiful, is cheap.  Simple economics. You have a few egg cells for every ten million sperm that I make.  You can only make only a few babies, while I could theoretically make millions.

     “In other words, setting aside ethics and civilization and such, my best reproductive strategy would be to go out and knock up every babe I can lure into my sack.  After all, the name of the evolutionary game is to pass one’s genes on as often as one can.  Animals who don’t have the urge to survive and reproduce, find their genes crowded out by the genes of animals who do have these urges.  So, evolution gave me an urge to drop my pants as often as I can.

     “You, on the other hand, can only give birth to a limited number of offspring.  So, your best strategy is to make your few babies count, to increase their probability of surviving to reproductive age themselves. After all, we’re complicated organisms, and require many years of nurturing to get to the point where we can pass our parent’s genes on to yet another generation.  The process of passing genes on to future generations doesn’t end at birthing your baby.

     “One of the best tactics for gaining that strategic end of making your few babies count, is to make sure Pop hangs out to take care of the little ones.  That means that you instinctively know that what you have is more valuable than what men have to offer, and that you need all the assurance that you can get, that he won’t just cut and run, to go and sow his wild seeds some more, as soon as you’re preggers.  You want commitment, stability, emotional attachment.  Male and female mating behavior is somewhat of an antagonistic contest at times, where the male tries to deceive the female, so as to be able to chase as many nubile young wild things as possible, while the female wants monogamy and commitment.

     “In other words, in our hundreds of thousands of years as hunter-gatherers, women who didn’t care who all they mated with, or whether or not any male really attached to them, didn’t get much help, come baby-sitting time.  No man was sure they were his kids, and so, none bothered to see that she got some meat, or to see that the little ones didn’t get munched by a saber-tooth tiger.  This was before the welfare check replaced the concept of fatherhood, remember.  So, the cave woman who insisted on commitment and attachment to her mate, was more likely to pass on the genes.  Of course, at the same time, there was, and is, a potential for males to hit an evolutionary jackpot by being the philanderer, the Don Juan, the playboy.  Men who manage to persuade several women simultaneously, that they’re passionately in love with them, may get to pass on quite a few genes.

     “If you have any doubts that yours is worth more than mine, just ask yourself two simple questions, which most people who have their heads above the sand, wouldn’t need to collect any data to answer:  1) What is the ratio of topless bars for men, to male strip-tease bars for women?” Phil regarded them all as foolishness, comparable to paying the restaurants to smell their food.  “2) What is the ratio of male heterosexual prostitutes to female heterosexual prostitutes?” Phil had never visited a prostitute, because he felt it was a violation of his dignity, to admit that hers was more valuable than his.  Now, maybe if they could agree to alternate on who pays....

     “It has also been in the interests of women, and in their reproductive interests, to attach to the most powerful male they can find, the best provider.  That’s the one that can feed their kids the best.  Of course, our behavior didn’t evolve for the modern world, so our instincts don’t take into account, for example, birth control, or wealth unimaginable to a cave man.  So, a man still wants to spread his seed, even after he’s had a vasectomy, and a woman still thinks that hers is more valuable, even when there’s no chance of procreation.  And a woman is still more likely to want a doctor or a lawyer, rather than a plumber, even though, today, all are fully capable of feeding the kids all the good food that they need, and despite the fact that the plumber might be a much nicer guy, in a lot of cases.

     “I guess I could gripe about women going for the richest guy around, but I won’t bother.” ‘Specially since, to most people, I’m one of those rich fat cats, he added to himself.  “What does bug me is that the vast majority of women are still thinking with their gonads.  Are we rational creatures, capable of rising above our instincts, or not?  You expect me to overcome my instincts that tell me to sow my seed far and wide.  Then why can’t you overcome your instincts that tell you that yours is worth more than mine?  How come the guy’s got to make all the first moves, make all the phone calls, pay for most of the dates?  Do you really believe that the golden rule has a little addendum, like, ‘Treat others the way you’d like to be treated, except if he’s a guy and you’re a gal, and he’s trying to chase you, in which case you should debate whether or not he’s good enough, while he makes all the effort’?”

     Maybe I should write it down here in real basic, simple terms, he thought.  Like that old geezer at the singles bar that I was bitching to about the wenches, trying to explain it to him in terms of sociobiology. He said to me, “Son, it’s a lot simpler than that.  Like they used to say in the old days.  ‘Sugar is Sweet, and so is Honey; Beat your Meat, and Save your Money’.” Think they’d get the hint, here, if I wrote it down that way?  Or, would they even be phased by my threat to withhold my precious bodily fluids from them?  Maybe not.  Maybe I’d better stick to the more high-brow arguments.

     “Women’s lib has been around for about a century now, and women expect to be treated as equals, after marriage.  That’s fine and dandy, except they’re still treating men as second-class citizens on the dating scene.  You want to be liberated, except when it means you might actually have to put forth some effort.  You say you can’t make the first move, for fear of rejection.  Do you think men feel any different?

     “There’s been this nasty gossip I’ve heard making the rounds, about how the gene that enables one to ask for a first date, resides on the “Y” chromosome.  As a well-informed scientist who takes pride in staying up to date on a wide variety of subjects, let me assure you that there is no truth to these rumors.

     “Another thing that gets my goat is how many of you can’t distinguish between the glib, smooth-talking guy who kisses your butt just the right way, who promises you the moon and the stars, and the guy who is more honest, stable, sensible, and therefore doesn’t promise you as much, but will deliver on his promises.  In other words, why do you insist on being promised the moon and the stars, and then, you’re disappointed when all you can find, are liars?  Can’t you see the difference?

     “I try to behave ethically, and rise above my instincts, when ethics require me to.  I would expect the same of you.  I’m not all hung up on passing on my genes; like I said, I’d be willing to adopt, or to marry a widow with kids.  I’m not a total ogre.  It’s just that I don’t want a divorcee with kids, and I’m not about to feel guilty about it.  I told you earlier that I’d explain why, in a sociobiology context.  Well, here goes.

     “I once read some sociobiology literature, actually from a few years back, by a fella named Robert Trivers or some such, that many females face a bit of a dilemma.  They’d like a Don Juan, a Casanova, a guy who knows how to sweep them off their feet, to promise them the moon and the stars.  Not only do they make them feel good, they’ve also got those philandering genes, so that the woman’s male kids might in turn know how to kiss butt just the right way, and pass some of his Mom’s genes along with his philandering genes.  This is all unconscious, of course.  But, the Don Juans of the world often don’t make such good, stable fathers.  So, the lady who wants a dashing Don Juan to sweep her off of her feet, also wants a dull, stable, sensible slob like me to come home and play with the kids.

     “If she can’t find a man who can, or will, do both¾and such men are rare¾she’ll try to get the best of both worlds.  Marry Casanova, who kisses her butt just right, and who gives her male kids the ability to spread her genes far and wide and wild, in the next generation, by being yet another Casanova.  Then, get divorced after he runs around too much (what a surprise, what heartbreak!).  Now, find a dull, boring, stable, solid sort who comes home to take care of the kids.  A good, nice chump.

     “When I read that, all traces of guilt over my reluctance to marry a divorcee with kids, vanished.  I finally understood why it was that highly eligible, nubile young wild thangs would debate for so long on whether or not I might be good enough, while the divorcees with kids would settle for me.” It may have been eight years since I’ve been on the scene, Phil thought, but I remember it like it was yesterday. “Well, I won’t be your chump.  If this goes on for too long, soon all the men will know all about kissing your butts, and no men at all will remember how to raise kids.  Butt-kissing genes, you see, will get passed on, while sensible, stable genes won’t.  Not a scheme to which I’d care to contribute.  Men who are willing to raise other men’s kids may be saints, but I’m not one of them.

     “Put it another way¾when you were a younger wild thang, and got pregnant by Don Juan, who you pretty much knew wasn’t going to hang out and help with Junior, then why did you keep Junior?  You knew two parents were better than one, you knew there were good potential parents out there just dying to adopt, and you also knew that you might meet a nicer man at some time in the future who’d also want to pass his genes on, just as you wanted to pass yours on, but you decided to be selfish. So, don’t blame me for being selfish.”

     Phil looked at his last paragraph, thinking, now, why should I put this in here?  If this applies to Ms. Right, then she’s not Ms.  right, anyway.  I’m just getting my licks in, probably at the price of scaring off the real Ms. Right.  It might feel good to blow off some steam, but I’ll just have to consider it to have been blown off, just right now.  I can’t save the world from women who want to be random, arbitrary, and capricious with their powers of procreation.  After all, what fun is it to have power if one can’t use it arbitrarily?  He deleted the paragraph, reluctantly.

     “Well, I was going to tell you all about game theory and what computer simulations of games can tell us about ethical strategies¾basically, they tell us that the best strategy is to return good for good, and bad for bad, or at the very least, lack of good for bad, leavened with some forgiveness, because sometimes other players do bad to us without having wanted to¾and, I was going to tell you of some other cases where we need to rise above our programmed instincts, other than my instinct to be promiscuous, and yours to regard your contribution to reproduction as being more valuable than mine.  But, I’ve got to wrap this up.  We’ve got to save some stuff to talk about, later.

     “Finally, let me mention a few concepts that I gleaned from a favorite book from a ways back, by Warren Farrell, called ‘Why Men Are the Way They Are’.  These ideas are that the price men pay for being success objects is war, while the price women pay for being sex objects is rape.  The book is about men’s liberation, and really, about women’s liberation, too.  About how we can break free of role-playing, and just be human beings.” He’d passed out many a copy of this book while he was on the make, as a method of putting his love interests on notice that they couldn’t get away with the usual shenanigans with him.  When he’d found Gloria, and given her a copy, she’d said she didn’t find anything at all unusual about the idea that men and women should REALLY act as equals, and that his was just as valuable as hers.  He promptly decided, at this point, that Gloria was the babe for him.

     “War and success objects?  Rape and sex objects?  What he was talking about may not be obvious, but think about it.  If women selected the most generous men, the ones that give most of their money to the poor, instead of the richest, most greedy men, who legally or illegally rob their neighbors blind, then maybe there’d be less war.  War is the price we pay for being success objects.  Similarly, if women didn’t think that their role was to do nothing other than look beautiful, and act as a prize, or reward, or commodity, for the most powerful men, then maybe there’d be fewer men who want to take their reward by force.  Not that I’m trying to make excuses for rapists.  It’s just that I like neither war nor rape, and would prefer that we’d play the roles of human beings, rather than being sex and success objects.”

     He looked at his last few paragraphs, about Warren Farrell’s ideas, and thought a moment or two.  Gloria had been quite offended by the idea that men could blame women for wars, pointing out that men could simply steer clear of women who were greedy gold diggers.  Maybe his target audience would be similarly offended.  Besides, he thought, if I get them to think about it too much, they’ll decide to go for that sensitive plumber, instead of Phil the success object.  So, he deleted his last two paragraphs.

     Then, he got to thinking about Gloria.  What would she think about me now, he wondered.  Would she compare me to the Nazi prison guards who maimed and murdered during the day, and came home to kiss their wives and play with their kids at night, because I prepare to destroy human lives at work, and then, come home and try to prepare for making human life at night, by chasing wild babes?  Work at destroying, play at creating.  Well, she just doesn’t need to know about my efforts, in either category, he thought.  That brought up another question, though: Might she be seeing someone else by now?  Bad thoughts!  Get back to work!  Or play, rather.

     “So, the bottom line is that I won’t promise you the Moon and the stars, but I will deliver on what I promise.  What I promise, is to treat you the way I want you to treat me.  That does not mean that I will let you walk all over me, because, if I was such a jerk as to want to walk all over you, I’d hope that you’d wake me up out of my arrogance, and tell me to shape up.  As a favor to me, just as I’d do the same for you, if you wanted to walk all over me.  The golden rule doesn’t require us to be patsies, you see, if this makes any sense.

     “So, if you wouldn’t think that I was very desirable, if all that I thought that I’d have to do, in order to contribute my part, was to look beautiful, then don’t you take that viewpoint, either.  If you want to be more than a sex object, then regard me as more than a success object. So, dearest Unknown Snugglebunny, call 038XJ57 for a good time.  I may not be romantic enough to light the fireplace very often, but I sure can light a can of sterno as well as the next guy, and we can roast marshmallows over the sterno fire.  You see, I don’t make extravagant promises, but I’ll keep the ones that I make.”

     Phil read over his great work of literature once or twice, and made minor corrections.  Then, he spent a grand of his hard-earned dollars, over the ONLINE, got his dating account number, and substituted the number for the 038XJ57s in his text, and posted it.  He never did get any nibbles, or nipples, for that matter, from his posting.  He sure couldn’t figure out why. I guess honesty is only appreciated when it’s sycophantic honesty, he thought.  I should’ve promised them the moon and the stars.  Oh, well.

     So, after a few months of slaving away at work, and not doing much at home besides reading, visiting with Motherfucker (which got to be boring, ‘cause all he’d think about while stoned, was work), watching his seedy CD ROMs, and occasionally calling Gloria, he broke down, and asked Debra Kenner for a date.

     The first date went well, although he found himself mentally scrolling through his laundry list, trying to fill in each square accurately, with the lowest possible margin for error.  Well, let’s see; she sure drove up in an expensive car and wore nice clothes.  Does that mean she’s really actually rich, or does she merely pretend to be rich, and live on the edge of bankruptcy?  And if she really is rich, then, through what means?  Can’t be too nosy about these things.  And she sure does primp and preen a lot, apparently.  Does that leave her the time and money to buy me a beer occasionally?  Time will in due course fill out these squares, he assured himself.  Patience is a virgin.

     He did manage, though, to ask her if her Lexus was in the government pool at work, referring to the pool of fifty or so vehicles that top government contract employees rotated amongst themselves.  He’d not seen it in the pool before.  This was a method, along with disguises and varying travel routes, that the most valuable or knowledgeable employees used to protect themselves from foreign agents and terrorists. Some employees regarded membership in the pool as a status symbol, but Phil regarded it as an inconvenience, having to know how to drive all these different vehicles.  He didn’t pay much attention to who belonged to the select group, and who didn’t.

     She replied that she was flattered, that he’d think that she was important enough to belong to this group; but that, no, hers was her own private vehicle.  She was just a bean-counter, but she sure seemed to be proud of being able to own her own Lexus, the way she said it.

     He was a little disquieted by the way she snapped at the waitress at one point; he wondered, if they got serious, how long it would be till she treated him that way.  He reminded himself that there were fun things to do on dates, other than preparing for a serious relationship, and concentrated on just relaxing and having a good time.  It wasn’t too long till they were at his place, having a few drinks and a few good snuggles.  They were tame snuggles, though, and Phil had no trouble making himself behave.  He debated sounding her out about her opinion about drugs, to see if she was a real party girl.  He decided that this, too, could wait.  It is best, he reflected, to whip out neither one’s dong, nor one’s bong, on a first date.  Gotta keep up appearances, you know.

     He dropped her off at her place at 12:30 that Sunday morning, and she gave him a reasonably affectionate kiss, and assured him that she’d call him for another date next weekend.  Well, he thought, if she does, that’ll reflect fairly favorably for her rating in square number one.

     She did indeed call him for another date before the next weekend, and Saturday night saw them out for a night on the town once more.  Lo and behold, she even paid, and Phil’s hopes rose.  Maybe his was worth as much as hers!  He debated giving her a copy of his favorite men’s liberation book, but decided he’d stick to less serious things.  He was still somewhat worried about dating a person he worked with.  But, at least once every few minutes, he found himself speculating about what a good roll in the hay she might be.  It’s been too long, and those seedy CD ROMs are just too far removed from the real thing, he thought.

     They drank a bit more that night than they’d drunk on their first date, and once more they ended up at Phil’s house.  Phil’s house was larger and more comfortable than her condo.  He steered the conversation to his libertarian views on illegal vitamins and drugs, and she laughed up a storm when he furtively offered to let her share in his stash of grapefruits as a source of ascorbic acid trips.  “Such a silly boy you are!” she protested, giving him a feminine shove.  It wasn’t long till they were both sucking on Motherfucker, although Phil refrained from introducing him by name.

     “I’d never have suspected you of being a head, you sly devil, you,” she confessed to him.  “You play the straight-laced one so well, at work.  Actually, though, this is something I haven’t done in years.” It seemed to Phil that she said this as though there were other, more high-class drugs that she might indulge in, and that pot was for hoi polloi.  Oh, no, he thought, not a coke whore!  He’d learned in college to stay away from women who were too good to smoke pot with him, but who were also only too happy to have men give them a toot or ten.  Oh, give her a break, he thought, at least she’s getting stoned with me.

     “But tell me,” she said, “Don’t you worry about piss tests? Doesn’t this stuff stay in your bloodstream for about a month?” Phil breathed a little easier; maybe she preferred something else to pot not because pot was for peasants, but because Uncle Sanctimonious could detect it so much longer than other drugs.  Great! he thought, here’s Uncle Sanctimonious, the same one that injected unknowing Americans with plutonium in the nineteen forties, supposedly protecting us from our own freely selected toxins of choice, but actually encouraging us to take lovely things like PCP, LSD, and coke, rather than harmless pot, out of concern over which stays in our bloodstreams longest.

     Phil trotted out his golden seal and THC-B-Gone, and told Debra what they did, and how he’d bought them from his dealer.  He also ‘fessed up about how bad the golden seal tasted.  She took one whiff of the capsules and agreed with him.  She accepted some THC-B-Gone, though. “All right, Big Boy, now that I can quit worrying about that, let’s party!” They both had a few more tokes, and she giggled like a schoolgirl.  She sat in his lap, put her arms around his neck, pushed her breasts into his chest, and gave him a big kiss.  “Thanks for showing me a good time, Big Boy,” she purred, squirming.

     Phil laughed, and commented, “And now, maybe we can talk about whatever pops up!”

     Debra chuckled, jiggling her breasts most enticingly.  Phil watched them over and through her low-cut blouse, trying not to be too obvious. “That’s about all we’ll do tonight, Big Boy, is talk about it.” She squirmed some more, just about driving him mad.  “You wouldn’t want to take advantage of me, in my inebriated state, now, would you?”

     “I’ll have to plead the fifth on that one,” he confessed, “Shouldn’t you read me my rights before asking me a question like that?” Under cover of the conversation, Phil’s right hand snuck into position to give her left breast a good workout.  Their lips sought each other, and his knee sought her crotch.  They had a good time for the better part of an hour, although their clothes stayed on.  He ruined most of her earlier efforts at primping and preening.  It was two in the morning when he dropped her off at her condo, this time.

     Yet another week went by, busy as usual for both Phil and, from what she told him, Debra as well.  Genes and proteins, bats and maggots, spiders and scorpions and snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, were all conspiring to keep his days fully occupied.  But, he did find time to call her and arrange for yet another Saturday night escapade.  It did seem to him to be a rather bizarre situation, though, when he got together with her that week to go over her monthly report on his department’s finances.  Here he was, being professional with a woman who he’d gotten stoned with, and whose breasts he’d massaged, just a few days ago.  If it bothered her, it sure didn’t show.

     So, for the third weekend in a row, Phil had something to do on Saturday night, besides playing with seedy CD ROMs.  When he picked her up at her place, she hopped into his car enthusiastically, and proceeded to do her best imitation of whatever it was that she was imitating; he wasn’t sure.  Maybe a puppy, wetting the floor over seeing its long-lost master.  Or maybe a teenage girl, on her first date.  Or, maybe all the above.

     She grabbed his arm and tugged on his sleeve.  “Hey, Big Boy, so tell me, tell me, tell me!?  Are we going to someplace really chic, or what!?” She leaned out of her seat, wide-eyed, and beseeched, “Can we, huh, can we, can we, can we?”

     “Sheik restaurants are passe,” he informed her.  “I’m taking you to a Trojan restaurant!”

     “Oh, you silly boy!” she giggled, giving him a shove.  They zoomed away in the Jaguar he’d pulled strings to get out of the government pool for the weekend, jabbering about this and that.  When the topic turned to work, for the first time on their dates that Phil could remember, she quizzed him about real-life verification runs.  “So tell me, Big Boy, what do you think about all the speculation in the trashy rags and editorials, about how ABC and the feds will sneak off in the middle of the night somewhere, sometime, and make sure all those computer simulations are correct?”

     Phil did his best to look pained, which wasn’t that hard to do. “Come on now, snugglebunny, you know we can’t talk about these things! Besides, I, for one, can think of aspects of biology that are a hell of a lot more interesting, anyway!” Debra seemed to nod slightly, approvingly.  He wasn’t sure whether it was because he was a good trooper, keeping the secrets secret, or because she agreed about other biology topics being more interesting.  He sure hoped it was the latter!

     Not too much later, they found themselves once more at his house, getting ready to party.  Phil was getting Motherfucker out, when Debra motioned to him to put it away.  “My treat this time, Big Boy.  Let’s toot the toot!” He’d much rather tweak her teats, he reflected, ostensibly watching her dig a mirror, a straw, a razor blade, and a vial of coke out of her purse, but actually concentrating more on her shapely gazongas.  He’d not snorted any in almost a decade, and wasn’t really enthused about it at all.  It made him a tad paranoid, as he recalled, and it sure seemed to be a waste of money.  Not good bang for the buck at all, like pot or booze.

     He sat and watched her chop it up and draw lines, thinking.  Well, I can’t accuse her of being a coke whore, ‘cause this sure is a new twist; she’s powdering my nose, instead of wanting me to powder hers! Still, the idea of chasing a lady whose tastes in drugs were more hard-core than his own, disconcerted him a bit.  If they ever got serious, how soon would they both be tooting all their money away?  Or, would she take up dealing as a way to raise more toot money, and get them both busted?  He felt queasy about running up some sort of unspoken party debt with her, snorting her expensive coke, but hey, he thought, it’s her free choice, and why do I always have to be so serious-minded about the wenches I try to chase, anyway?  Let’s just relax and have a good time.  Don’t be a prudish dweeb.

     So, they tooted the toot, although he was somewhat tame; she snorted twice as much as she could persuade him to snort.  She became animated and started to chatter at a mile a minute; he barely listened to any of it, being all wrapped up in worrying about the police maybe cruising by and scanning for coke-hyper brain wave emissions.  He put his left arm around her as they sat there on his couch, nodding at her pronouncements on occasion as appropriate.  These actions of his seemed to reassure her that he was listening carefully, and certainly served to keep him from floating entirely free into paranoid unreality.  Any world where there were solid, warm, snugglable babes to cuddle, surely couldn’t harbor police with brain wave scanners.

     He did make a somewhat serious effort to comprehend the overall theme of her ramblings, though, despite his paranoia.  Just in case there’d be a quiz afterwards.  As best as he could make it out, it seemed that it had something to do with her having been on the verge of becoming a famous actress or model in her younger days.  He thought about a younger Debra, and found it to be a rather fascinating concept, to envision her breasts as even more shapely and firm than they were now.  He captured that thought, and concentrated on it as an antidote to paranoid brain waves.

     Soon, he found his fingers doing a subtly syncopated squeezing action on her breast, keeping a vague beat with his nodding head, which in turn, marched to the distant beat of her faraway chatter.  This chatter soon subsided, to be replaced by hybrid purrs, moans, and groans.  Phil’s hands crept under her blouse, and loosened her bra.  He was proud of this feat, seeing as how he’d not practiced that particular skill in many years.  Finally, his hands caressed her breasts directly, free of interference from clumsy cloth.

     It wasn’t too long before Phil had a topless Debra on his hands, lips, and tongue.  When he slipped his hand into her panties, though, she stopped him.  OK, he thought, I can handle that.  So, he concentrated on giving those delectable bare titties a really, really good workout, and gave her the old dry humps.  He tried not to think of how much he might resemble a dog humping on some poor slob’s trousers, and shot his load.

     They relaxed a while in each other’s arms, and Phil swallowed his urges to ask her if it had been as good for her as it had been for him. She seemed to be ready for some more heavy petting, but he’d already blown his wad, so she eventually put herself back together.  Then, seemingly bored with Phil the hit-and-run lover, she dug her coke back out.  She snorted a bit more, but Phil declined.  She was soon yakking again, while Phil was nodding off.  She woke him up, a bit sharply, and made him snort just one more snort to keep him on the road while he dropped her off at her place.  It was three thirty by the time he got back home, and he had never been more glad to drop, exhausted, into his bed.

 

 

CHAPTER 11

 

     Frank Leech sat in the lab at the Pentagon, watching a tape of his and Stanley’s recent conversation with Phil Schrock at ABC, and listening to Seymour Brothers, the resident civilian expert, expounding on various readings of the remote polygraph.  He’d explained to Frank how various sensors detected faint electrical and magnetic fields given off by human subjects, and how sophisticated computer hardware and software could, with special lighting, analyze muscle tone and movement under human facial skin, and measure breathing and pulse rates, just by examining hologram images.  Still, Frank didn’t much care about all those details; all he cared about was the fact that they had yet another method of securing the national interests against evil-doers of both the domestic and international varieties.

     Frank, as the military authority responsible for operations at ABC, was one of a few truly select individuals to know much of anything about remote polygraphy.  Even Stanley didn’t know about it, officially or otherwise, and Frank had every intention of keeping it that way.  In fact, Frank had managed to have Seymour and OMNIGRAPH direct their talents towards analyzing Stanley as well as Phil, even though it was against policy to use OMNIGRAPH to investigate high-ranking government employees, without approval from the highest authorities.

     This policy was instituted in hopes that it would prevent OMNIGRAPH from becoming a tool in political witch-hunts, which would inevitably result in some high-powered person becoming pissed off, and spilling the beans, when they found out about being remotely shrinked by a machine. Still, what Stanley didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him, and only a small amount of Frank’s power of rank had to be exerted before Seymour bent the rules for him.  Besides, it was all so easy, since they already had Stanley right there, side by side with Phil, who was the actual, official target of inquiry.  Or at least, one of the official targets.

     “He’s afraid of you, big-time,” Seymour had told him, in reference to Stanley.  “He’s also carrying a whole bunch of something that is closely related to guilt, maybe more so, fear of getting busted for something.  We can’t really read minds, you know.  But, it’s not like whatever it is that he feels spooked about, is really, really anti-authority all the way.  It’s more like, maybe, he’s torn.  Some of the people who he fears would approve, and others wouldn’t, about whatever it is that he’s carrying around, all hidden and bottled up.”

     Shit! Frank had thought, this wasn’t too much different from psychobabble, Astrology, or New-Age religion.  Make whatever you can out of some vague mumbo-jumbo.  Spent a few hundred million dollars, and what do you get?  High-tech fortune cookies!  So Phil’s a suspicious character, and Stanley’s a suspicious character, and Agent X at ABC is hiding something.  We’re all suspicious!  Frank had pressed Seymour a bit on the matters of, well now, just how sure are we of all this?  What does it say about me, am I a communist spy also?  Just how do you calibrate this damn thing anyway?

     Seymour had done a bit of hopping up and down, adamantly insisting that, well, OK, so there’s a bunch of subjectivity involved, and it’s a new and somewhat unproven technology, and it could still have a bug or two in it, but still, I can swear to you that I’m basically onto something in all cases.  OMNIGRAPH is imprecise, but relatively accurate.  And no, OMNIGRAPH says you’re a good guy, not a communist spy. Frank had thought, of course you’re going to say that to me!  If I looked like the enemy, you’d be squealing to my boss, saying nary a word to me.  And how the hell am I going to double-check your good word for all this, anyway?  He could sure see how this technology could be perverted to be just another tool of political manipulation.  Sort of like psychiatry, but worse.  Frank just had a hard time believing the machine, when it seemed to say that almost everyone that it looked at was a devious or anti-authority scuzzbucket of some sort or another.

     Still, Frank found it to be tantalizing, helpful information to be considered, to see what OMNIGRAPH had to say about the reliability of various key players, especially Phil.  Phil was, after all, the key, creative genius behind the biggest chunk of all this nifty new biowarfare stuff, and his dependability was of paramount importance.

     So, Frank and Seymour were going over the recordings from the earlier conversation between Frank, Stanley, and Phil for the fifth time, concentrating this time once more on Phil.  Between each run, they’d submit some ideas as to what did and what didn’t make sense in terms of what they thought the characters were thinking, and OMNIGRAPH would take these ideas into account on it’s next run.  Eventually, within some fairly sharp limits, feedback between humans and machines was able to help reach some tentative conclusions.

     The purposes were not only to glean as much information as possible from this, one of the few sequences where sensitive topics were discussed, but also to prep Frank, in terms of how Phil (and, secondarily, Stanley) reacted to various topics and questions, so that Frank could provide the right stimuli later, to ferret out what it was that these characters were hiding.  Frank was awfully tempted to just get them into the secure rooms, and hammer away at them with question after question about subjects in which they might be guilty, but he knew that he had to restrain himself.  If he wasn’t subtle, they’d surely smell a dead rat.

     So, Phil’s image was saying for the fifth time, “....How can we both let a potential enemy know that they’d better watch their steps, or else; at the same time as we keep the extent of our efforts secret from all the bleeding hearts and anti-biotech fanatics here in the US?  I mean, you’ve seen how they carry on about what we’ve done so far, just from us picking on their damn, precious bugs we’d otherwise be poisoning to death, along with the environment.” Seymour stopped the action, and provided commentary.

     Stripped of all the references to the neat charts, graphs, numbers, pictures, circles, and arrows that accompanied the moving holograms of Phil, what he basically had to say was that despite the spoken contempt of rabid environmentalists, Phil really was an adamant defender of the environment himself.  It was probably just that he regarded himself as more practical.  Also, Phil was leaving some comment unspoken, that he sort of wanted to tack onto the end of his question, but didn’t have the courage to voice.  Something like, maybe, Seymour speculated, the stakes being a lot higher in the case of bioweapons versus pest control.

     Seymour, you young, impertinent snot, you! Frank thought to himself, can’t you see that high stakes cut both ways?  Sure, the price is a lot higher if we, by some improbable accident, fuck up, but don’t you also see that what we can gain is also more valuable?  In one case, we protect the farm environment from a couple of quarts of naughty chemical pesticides per acre; in the other, we protect our very liberties to be free, and to think red-blooded American thoughts, without too many innocent American soldiers having to shed their blood.

     Also, how the hell can you go off and question what we’re doing? We’re the good guys!  And, if you question us, we might think you’re not one of us.  Frank reminded himself that Seymour was merely giving voice to speculated Phil ruminations, as opposed to voicing his own thoughts. So, Frank restrained his impulses to preach.

     OK, Frank thought once more, we can forgive Phil for valuing the environment, as long as he also values national security, preferably more than the environment.  No tree-huggers need apply for the really sensitive government work, in Frank’s book.  He watched as Seymour started the records once more.  He listened to his reply to Phil’s questions, which, he reflected impartially, were quite articulate.  It ended with himself saying, “...But, these are matters best left to the experts, like the CIA for example, and our political leadership.” Seymour stopped the action once more.

     Seymour had finally, after all these sessions, started to catch on to the meaning of Frank’s impatient hand wavings during his technical talk, so he just cut to the chase, this time.  “He’s thinking some very doubtful, pessimistic thoughts here about the CIA and the political leadership.”

     So who doesn’t, Frank wondered, especially with regards to the slimy politicians?  Still, he noted these potentially heretical thoughts of Phil’s, just for background information, mostly.  One couldn’t really serve the State, and do it well, if one questioned everything, Frank reminded himself, though.  Seymour spoke a command at OMNIGRAPH once more, and the images and sounds resumed their march.

     “Well, that’s still better than contaminating Earth,” Frank replied to Phil’s questions about an improbable bio-accident in space.  “And we could rescue survivors, isolate and treat them in space till we were confident that they didn’t carry anything threatening, and then, bring them back down.” Seymour stopped the action again, and commented, “Here, Phil is very aware of the low probabilities of such accidents, but he still seems to have significant, lingering worries and questions that he’s not willing to ask.  OMNIGRAPH and I would guess that he’s worried about other personnel on the station not knowing about such an accident, and coming Earthwards, contaminated, in their life boats.”

     Well, hell, it’s a damned good thing that this Phil dude knows how to keep his yapper shut!  So what if he worries about the improbable? That’s a sign of a good engineer, scientist, or even, of a military man, he reflected, as long as they don’t obsess on it.  Cover all the angles as best you can, even when they’re improbable.  But, don’t dwell on the improbable to the point of demoralizing the troops, or to the point of not doing a good thing because of a small risk.  These parts of Phil’s apparent thoughts he had no trouble with.  In fact, he actually worried more about Seymour at the moment.  It was just too bad that, in order to get Seymour’s expert help, they had to expose him to all this totally top-secret stuff.

     At least Seymour seemed to be tempered by common sense.  He commented, “All in all, I’d say Phil is a very independent-minded sort, who does question authority a lot, even when he doesn’t admit it.  I’d say that at long as what we’re doing makes a reasonable amount of sense, and we take the trouble to explain things to him, then he’ll be a team player and a good sport.  He is quite the non-conformist at times, but I really don’t see a huge problem with him.”

     Seymour didn’t have to say more, because he’d already said it earlier.  Yes, Frank recalled, I know you worry more about Stanley and Agent X than you do about Phil; you think they carry more guilt by far than he does.  I do appreciate you not telling me all about it yet once again.  But I think his free-spirit tendencies could be more troublesome than these other two, since he’s a much bigger player.  But, I suppose creative geniuses are allowed their little foibles.  If they weren’t independent-minded, they’d probably never have original ideas in the first place.  Even if their prima donna ways get in the way of unit cohesiveness at times, which I can’t even really accuse Phil of, then, we still need these creative types around.  Still, Phil warranted continued close inspection.

     “OK, then, let’s look at Agent X’s records again.” Frank referred to her as Agent X, even though he’d known Debra Kenner’s name ever since ABC had taken the contract.  He continued to call her Agent X, ostensibly for habitual levels of secrecy above and beyond all the nifty gizmos they were using to keep conversations private.  Calling her Agent X instead of Debra Kenner, though, also served to keep him from thinking too much about her as a real human being.  He had demanded and gotten her name, as well as co-captaincy of the operation, along with Alan Riggs of the DIA.

     Frank briefly reviewed what he knew about Agent X. She had been recruited as a side benefit of some secret Pentagon psyche-war research, which included not only development of OMNIGRAPH’s abilities to infer emotional states, but also the ability to have a computer generate realistic holograms and voices of digitally fabricated humans.  Under various pretenses, including academic psychology experiments, advertising effectiveness surveys, and the recruitment of actors and actresses, the government had collected data on what kinds of people react in what kinds of ways to what kinds of images and sounds.  The feds had gone to great lengths to disguise their efforts, even going so far as to publish psychobabble papers about their research (ignoring the real gist of it, of course).  They also set up an advertising agency, and put on a few plays.

     Debra had been an amateur part-time actress at the time some years ago when OMNIGRAPH was being developed, and she and the feds had had the good fortune to run into each other.  She’d been recruited for some studies, where real humans played roles opposite computer-generated holograms.  This had all been done as auditions and rehearsals, though.  She still didn’t know the real purposes of the “acting” she’d done, as far as Frank knew.

     When word had serendipitously reached Alan Riggs, that Debra’s day job was at ABC, he’d had a creative idea or two.  They had used OMNIGRAPH’s growing abilities to scope out Debra, her attitudes, and her abilities.  It had all been so convenient, since she was already prancing around in front of all those sensors.  She’d checked out OK¾she tended to obey authority; you could even say she was patriotic.  She could keep secrets.  She didn’t have any drug habits, anti-American inclinations, or dark personal secrets.  Or, at least, she didn’t have any that could be detected at that time.  Now, though, according to Seymour, things had changed, or were changing.  Frank sure wished OMNIGRAPH could really read minds, instead of just serving up high-tech fortune cookies.

     Anyway, they’d done a detailed psychological study of Debra, mostly through her “acting” in front of OMNIGRAPH’s sensors, and discovered that she practically worshipped her idealized mother, who’d died in her early childhood, leaving her to the less than tender ministrations of a distant and sometimes psychologically abusive father.  Then, they’d figured out what Debra’s image of her mother was, and fabricated an image to get close to matching this image, so that Debra would be attracted to, and have a need to please, the image.  Then, they had waited a few months, to make sure she wouldn’t connect her acting with the feds, and had approached her about acting as an agent for the feds at ABC.

     She had accepted.  The tax-free covert funds had probably helped immensely in persuading her.  Some agents had set it all up, where she’d started coming to a federal building in Atlanta twice a month for debrief, in front of OMNIGRAPH sensors and her “handler”.  Her handler was actually a computer-generated hologram, deliberately created to resemble her long-gone mother to her subconscious.  Debra, of course, thought of Ms.  “Susan Doe” as a representation of a real person, and apparently didn’t think it too terribly strange that she’d never met her in person.  Frank could see where spooks might often act only from a distance, so he didn’t think of Agent X as being too terribly stupid for not being suspicious of “Susan Doe”.

     Alan Riggs and his agents used to have sole ownership of who actually did the communicating with Agent X. Now, Frank had a slice of the action, too.  Whichever authorized person wanted to debrief Agent X at a given time, would talk to her hologram, while she would see an image of Sue Doe, saying whatever it was that the authorized person was saying.  It took a few seconds for OMNIGRAPH to translate the words, inflections, body language, etc., of the real handler, to those of Sue Doe, but this communications lag was easily explained away to Agent X as being undesired side effects of some very special anti-bugging technology.

     So, there was Frank, watching a stale conversation between a fabricated female hologram saying the things that he’d said, and Agent X, in a secure room at ABC.  Frank had to fight off the occasional attack of heebie-jeebies, seeing himself as an older woman.

     It sure was nice, he thought, to have all the facilities right there at ABC, so that they could talk to Agent X easily and often. Unlike the old days he’d heard about, when it had been much harder to arrange a “meeting” with Agent X. The round-the-clock secure room guards at ABC had been instructed to keep absolutely secret, who went to the secure rooms, and when.  They’d shoo away any nosy ABC employees who might try to hang around and watch.  So, Frank and the other feds didn’t worry too much about anyone catching on to the fact that Agent X went to the secure rooms fairly often.

     “After my practically having to rub my naked titties in that self-absorbed numskull’s face, Don Juan has finally asked me out, and we went out this last weekend,” Agent X was saying, using the code name assigned to Phil.  Sue had hinted to Agent X that it would be quite useful to the feds to gain a lot more insight into Phil, who was, after all, one of the most critical elements of the whole project.  Sue had only hinted, though; they didn’t want Agent X to be too obvious, or to be too resentful of being pushed into things.

     “That’s great!” Sue said, after a few seconds of pause time.  Sue went on to praise Agent X, using terms that apparently had some sort of “insider” meanings.  Only the “That’s Great!” had been Frank’s words; the rest had been filled in by OMNIGRAPH.  Frank found it to be quite disconcerting, communicating through a damned infernal machine that edited his remarks, and put words in his mouth.  At least, when he was actually talking to Agent X, he couldn’t see all that; it was only the instant replays that were all confusingly fucked up.

     Frank had actually done that particular session in partnership with one of Alan’s men.  He and Joe had sat there, side by side, with Joe showing him the ropes.  They had a little lever that they’d flip back and forth, telling OMNIGRAPH which of the two of them should be used as the model for generating Sue at any given time.  That is, who was in control of communicating with agent X at any given time, or at least, to whatever extent it wasn’t OMNIGRAPH itself that was doing the communicating.  Frank would almost feel like he was back in pilot training, with the instructor pilot yelling “My plane!” and taking over the controls, whenever Joe would flip the lever his way.

     Anyway, Seymour and Frank reviewed recent recordings of sessions with Agent X, going over this, that, and the other thing.  Frank regarded it as some superb luck, to have Agent X be able to get this close to Phil.  Now, they might be able to really get a handle on just how reliable Phil was!  Stripped of details, what Frank got out of it all was that Agent X was making a big deal out of how she was compromising her principles and dignity and all, going out with Phil for the feds, while she was really actually enjoying it.  Sue, reacting to inputs that certainly didn’t come from Frank, had sympathized deeply with Agent X, for the great indignities she was suffering.

     They’d even given her another pay raise, to smooth her ruffled feathers.  This was above and beyond the pay raise she’d gotten when the presence of an unknown spy was announced at ABC, as a method of making sure ABC would toe the line on security.  First, she gets more money because of the stress of not being known, and now, she gets more money again, this time from the stress of perhaps getting to be known, carnally!  Frank was pretty disgusted, but he promised himself he’d make it all worthwhile to the taxpayers, someday on down the road, by saving the lives of hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of Americans, through this newest biotechnology, even if those ungrateful slobs didn’t appreciate it yet.

     They quit for the day, agreeing to meet again the next day well before five, for the call to Agent X in Atlanta.  Frank was chomping at the bit to do these missions solo, free of Alan Riggs or any of his boys.  He felt that after boning up on the behavior of an Agent X in her natural habitat, as revealed by an OMNIGRAPH, he was prepared to fly OMNIGRAPH solo.  But, he’d already broached the subject earlier that day to Joe, who’d said he was under orders to stay involved, at least for a while yet.

     Five of five the next day arrived fairly close to being on time, give or take a few femptoseconds.  Frank was there.  Joe was not.  There was a mission to be performed, and, although he sure could have beeped or called Joe, or Seymour, or even Alan, to get a substitute, he decided to snatch an excuse to go solo.

     The mission, of course, was the usual: have Sue debrief Agent X, AKA Debra Kenner.  He called the secure room at ABC at five in the afternoon on a Wednesday, as scheduled.  Five had been selected as a time when most everyone would be going home, or thinking about going home, so that no one would be likely to wonder where Debra was.

     After the usual pleasantries, which were pretty much entirely OMNIGRAPH’s show, they got down to business.  “So, how are you and Don Juan getting along?,” Frank wanted to know.

     “Oh, OK I guess,” Agent X said evasively.  OMNIGRAPH’s readouts, along with Frank’s sense of tactics, indicated to him that he should sidetrack a bit, be less direct, go to other topics, and come back later.

     “Any hints from Don Juan as to his loyalties, strength of belief in what he’s doing, depth of commitment, or the degree to which he keeps secrets, or any of those kinds of things that we’ve talked about?”

     “Well, I did try to get him to talk about his work a bit, like we talked about, but he shied away from that topic real fast.  He seems to be playing by the rules, at least with me.”

     Yeah, we know, sweetie, he thought.  We had a bug in that neat Jaguar in the government pool that Don Juan pulled strings to get to impress you with.  We may not have been able to hear much above the motor sounds, but we did hear that.  It’s a good thing that we can double-check on you occasionally.

     “Did you get a chance to probe around on whether or not he plays by the rules on personal security measures?  You know, taking different routes every day, wearing disguises, that kind of thing?  You know how highly we value his particular glob of gray matter.  Pound for pound, probably our most treasured asset.  How ‘bout it?”

     “Yes, I did.  He’s just a bit scared, so he takes it seriously. Plus, I think he gets off on it, on how important he is, that he’d need to take all these precautions to fend off unwanted attention.”

     “Any good scuttlebutt making the rounds at ABC, about anyone involved in the contract?  That we haven’t already talked about?” Frank dug at a stubborn booger lodged deep in his left nostril.  Having OMNIGRAPH totally revamp all the things he did and said had distinct advantages, he thought.

     “Apparently one of the computer hardware engineers, Hank Swain, is getting it on with a software lady by the name of Cindy Sanders.  They’ve been known to put on the occasional display, like teenagers in heat.”  Blah, blah, blah.  She filled him in.  Or, did she fill her in? To her, it was her, at least.  Frank hated to think about it.  He sat there and listened to Agent X go on about the young lovers, watching the readouts that seemed to indicate that maybe Agent X got just a bit aroused by this topic.  He grabbed his can of dip, put a pinch between his cheek and gum, and spat in his empty coffee cup.  Gotta get me a little stimulant to get me through all of this yakking, he thought. Thank God for OMNIGRAPH; she won’t see and get all grossed out, he thought.  Sure wish I could use OMNIGRAPH at home for those tedious social calls!

     Finally, she wound down.  “OK, sweetie.  Thanks for the update. Sounds pretty harmless, as far as national security goes.  But, of course we’re always happy to add to our collection of data.  You never know when a particular piece of data might come in handy.  You know, knowledge is good, that kind of thing.” Frank felt just a tiny bit embarrassed, saying such a simpleton thing.  Sure, it was nice not to have to be too terribly careful in how one said things, seeing as how it instantly got edited anyway.  But, I’m getting just too damned slovenly; I’ve got to see if I can do better, he thought.

     “They say that Man’s flight through life is sustained by the power of his knowledge, you know,” he said, quoting from the Eagle and Fledgling statue in the Air Gardens at the Air Force Academy.  He wondered whether such statements fit into Sue’s personality.  How much would OMNIGRAPH butcher what he was saying this time?  Would he some day say something truly great and original, a historical quote, and some damned wad of silicon would mangle it, and relegate to forgotten mediocrity?  Back to the here and now.  Butchery of his present pearls of wisdom?  The instant replay would tell him in a little while.

     “Anything else we might be interested in?  Don’t be afraid to pass on things that are a little less certain.  Even if they’re just rumors that might not have much substance, we’d like to know about them. Sometimes rumors are true, you know, and our situation is just too high-stakes for us to take any risks.  Besides, like we talked about before, we’re not about to go and ruin someone’s life purely on the basis of gossip.  But we do like to know about things, so that we can check them out if need be.”

     “Actually, yes.  I’ve heard that Woody Pike might be gay.  He’s got a male roommate, for a few years now.  Some kind-hearted older secretary lady tried to set him up with a chick from her church, and he wasn’t interested.  She even showed him a picture, and she was definitely a hunkette, from what I was told.  He didn’t even explain why, either.”

     “Humph!” Frank scratched his balls, thoughtfully.  A faggot; how ‘bout that!  Let’s see, now; the latest government policy, for civilian defense workers and military alike, is that, if you try to hide your gayness, out of devious sneakiness, then someone could make you spill the top-secret beans by threatening to tell the guv’mnt about you, and that’s just too risky.  So, if the G-men find out about it, out you go, ‘cause of the fact that someone might threaten to tell the feds, after all.  Makes perfect sense to me!  Now, this other part, about keeping the ones that are proud of their faggishness, the ones that always have to offend everyone with who they are, these, why, since they have nothing to hide, and therefore aren’t subject to blackmail, these we have to keep.

     It stuck in his craw big-time, this having to put up with militant queers.  But, there’s times when you just gotta click those heels, salute, and say, “Yes, SIR, sir!” and bend with the wind, and even pretend to like it, if you’re smart.  But, on to brighter subjects.  On, to heterosexuality!  “Thanks.  We’ll check it out.” DRUM OUT THE QUEER!  OK, now, we know she doesn’t like gays, either.  Now, in such close contrast with speaking of the evils of loving one’s own sex, maybe we can get her to brag a bit about her own, wholesome heterosexuality. We’ll have to see what OMNIGRAPH has to say about this.  Pause.  Get the silence to put her on her toes; make her feel she’s got to speak.

     “So, sweetie, how’s prospects of getting really, really close to Don Juan?” There was quite a delay for Sue to translate and say this. Frank sure wondered whether it was such a good rule to not be allowed to watch Sue in action, while piloting her, out of fear of getting distracted.  He waited for Agent X’s reaction.  BINGO!  OMNIGRAPH’s readouts say, you got it right, this time!  She’ll talk!  I’m an accomplished Sue/OMNIGRAPH pilot, on my first solo! he crowed to himself.

     “Well,” she said, shyly, slyly, “You could definitely say he’s attracted to me.  He’s made that obvious.” She tossed her hair, thrust those well-formed, sleek breasts out proudly, and batted her eyelashes a bit.  Frank noticed a bit of bagginess under her eyes, that makeup couldn’t hide.  Was Phil keeping her awake to the wee hours every night?  Nah!  He was too much of a workaholic for that.

     “So, has he scrogged your bones yet, or not?,” Frank felt like asking her, and letting OMNIGRAPH do its usual prettifying of everything he said, anyway.  However, since he was aware that all of his inputs were being recorded, he decided he’d have to keep it at least semi-professional.  “So, have you two, um, gone all the way yet, if I might ask?” Frank had been real skeptical of all this psychobabble mumbo-jumbo all along; this business of trying to manipulate Agent X by having her handler resemble her mother.  However, he could sure see how, in this particular case, she’d be a lot more forthcoming, with what she thought was her female handler.  Still, he thought, I shouldn’t give these shrink types too much credit; they had no way of foreseeing this particular set of circumstances.

     Agent X sat there for the longest time, trying to look stone-faced, but letting various faint expressions ripple across her face.  Sue sure was taking her good ol’ time on this one, he thought, trying to make sense out of the readouts.  What kind of woman-to-woman talk is this? This re-run oughta be real interesting!

     Finally, Agent X replied, after taking her good ol’ time herself, in pauses and various ahs and umms and fidgeting and qualifiers, saying, basically, that they’d “...Been almost there, but not quite.” She was all emotional, breathing fast, and her heart was beating fast.  Frank tried to concentrate on the readouts, but found himself concentrating instead on those tight, luscious mounds on her chest, heaving up and down in her emotional state, whatever it was.  Neither her clothes, nor her defensive posture, could hide those quivering, delectable bundles of squeezable play-dough.

     Frank found himself getting all aroused.  Jesus H. Christ, he thought, this is so much better than any of those seedy CD ROMs that I’ve ever seen, and she’s not even hinted at taking any of her clothes off!  How could this be?  Is it because her hologram represents something closer to reality than the CD ROMs?

     “Almost there, but not quite?,” he found himself asking what that meant.  Shit! he thought, this young punk scientist-snot is getting better fringe benefits than I am!  Could there be a way to get Sue to persuade Agent X that she should sleep with this nice, older General-type-dude, as well, also in the name of national security?  But, why? Maybe as a warm-up exercise for her activities with Don Juan, to make sure she did it right.  Nah! it’ll never fly, he concluded, after having thought seriously about it for approximately 1.53 picoseconds. They were, however, a very exciting 1.53 picoseconds.

     Frank repositioned himself in his chair, and straightened his crotch out.  He reminded himself that he was being recorded.  All this may be very tip of the top secret, he thought, and there may not be many chances of more than a handful of people ever seeing my inputs to Sue, but there’s no way of telling who those people might be.  I might be able to get away with picking my nose, dipping tobacco, and even scratching my dick on occasion, but there are definite limits.

     He sat there and wondered, how should I ask for details?  Or, does it matter, other than having to look semi-professional on the recordings, seeing as how it all gets edited anyway?  OK, we’ve got to keep this somewhat on track, he urged himself.  He didn’t need to do a detailed study of the readouts to figure out that if he got too nosy, she might balk at talking more about it.  Got to relate this back to the business of national security.

     “So, in your views, and in your experience, do you think that Don Juan is sexually normal?  I mean, does he have any tendencies towards weird, perverted things, that he might want to keep hidden, that might make him a security risk?  What is his sexual behavior like?”

     Frank used OMNIGRAPH’s/Sue’s translate pause time, and its/her more long-winded question-asking time, to consolidate his feces.  Getting his shit together, in this case, consisted not only in trying to get his mind back on the matters at hand, but also, in watching the readouts, and trying to determine Agent X’s state of mind.

     “Oh, I think he’s quite normal, all right.” She said, seeming to brighten momentarily, almost smiling gleefully, as best as Frank could make out from the readouts, and from watching her face.  Then, she seemed to slump back down into whatever negative emotional state she’d been in earlier.  “But what are you people trying to do to me!” she cried, “You’re making me into a whore for Uncle Sam!” She started to sob hysterically, bobbing those lovely titties up and down.  “And just to think, I’ve been saving myself for someone special, all along!”

     You lying slut, Frank thought.  I don’t need Seymour’s goddamn Ph.D. to figure out what the readouts say on this one!  You’re fibbing big-time, and you probably just want to dig into the public trough a bit more deeply!

     Still, this made Frank even more curious as to why he found all this so exciting.  If she was just acting, in this pseudo-emotional state that made her titties jiggle up and down so enticingly, then she was no more real than those seedy CD ROMs.  Come to think of it, this situation is pretty unreal, he thought, talking to Agent X, who plays one role for ABC and another for us, and who also plays false roles to try to deceive us, at the same time as a computer disguises itself, and myself, to her eyes.

     He found himself thinking back to his days as a Cadet at the US Air Force Academy, where they’d all spoken longingly of the “Real Air Force”.  Then, in the real Air Force, some of them, the ones who didn’t hang around, being military, too long after their obligations had ended, spoke of the civilian world as being the real world.  So where was the real world, anyway, when all its inhabitants ran around playing roles and deluding themselves and each other?  All except for me, of course, he reflected.  I’m firmly grounded in reality.  It’s just that a bit of fantasy gives me a good heterosexual hard-on now and then.

     So, why is it, then, that this pretty much fully clothed image before me gets me so aroused, he wondered yet again.  Then, finally, in a rare burst of introspective understanding, it hit him.  This sexual tension was heightened by the very fact that he could do nothing about it!  The hologram of Agent X continued to sob, wail, and moan, and Frank wanted to reach out and comfort her, and more.  There’s just this... something vulnerable, in need of protection, especially protection from other horny men, that she’s crying out for, he thought.  Something I’d just love to provide, but can’t, especially as “Sue,” damn her ass!

     His mind meandered into unexplored territory, thinking about the heightening of sexual tension that takes place when any action towards satisfaction is strictly forbidden.  Hot damn! he thought, this might be my ticket to millions, someday!  What we do, is, we sell yet another neat, expensive accessory with those CD ROM players!  One that projects a hologram of your mother, your high school principal, the Pope, or your favorite FOS-TV preacher, that scolds you if you so much as scratch your dick while watching your favorite porn!  Nah, on second thought, that sounds pretty corny.  You’d get over it in about three seconds.  We need more oomph, here, he thought.  Some more “zap!” factor.

     That’s it!  Some zap!  You get a hologram of Zeus, Thor, Jehovah, Allah, whoever¾the default would be Jehovah, in long white beard, flowing robes, and cop cap¾to sit on top of your porn screen or hologram images, and he throws out loud thunderclaps and holographic lightning steaks, whenever you scratch your crotch.  Nifty sensors and pattern-recognition software detect suspicious hand movements.  Maybe we even embed, like, a real Taser or cattleprod or some such, to deliver something really shocking, inside the holographic lightning.  Then, in the ultimate act of Power and Control, you push the remote control button to command God to Butt Out and Buzz Off, and then you can have your way with Rosy.  Submit to her charms, and cuff your ‘nads, with or without high-tech pleasure-enhancing paraphernalia.

     Get back to the job! Frank scolded himself.  The national security is at stake!  Besides, what if they have one of these damned mind-reading hunks of silicon and glass, peering into my mind right now? But, he did decide he’d file the idea, in his mind if nowhere else. Maybe he could make his millions after he’d retire.  Maybe I should file for a patent right now, before the idea occurs to someone else on the cutting edge of technology, he thought.

     OK¾back to quasi-reality¾she’s pissing and moaning about being a whore for the State, is she?  Well, what can I tell her?  “Listen, honey, baby, sweetheart, darling, we all have to do things at times that we don’t like to do, but we’ve got to do them, for the greater good.  Now, I’m not really saying you should sleep with him.  I’m just saying, we’re all whores.  It’s just a question of who or what you want to be a whore for.  As to myself, I’m a whore for my country, in many senses.  And that’s not such a bad thing to be.  For all its shortcomings, our government is just about the most nicest government you’ll ever run into.  In other words, count your blessings.  You could be a whore for China, or Iran.”

     Frank watched the readouts more than her breasts, this time, as OMNIGRAPH performed its magic.  Agent X seemed to calm back down a bit, and she came back with, “So, just what is it that you want me to do from here?  I guess I could go all the way with him, if you really, really want me to, but you know I can’t let him think this is like a real, permanent thing.  I’d just hate to break his heart, later.  He’s generally a pretty good guy, you know, and I’d hate to have to do this.”

     Shit! he thought, I sure wish I wasn’t soloing, now!  If only Joe or Seymour was here, to help make decisions, and share the blame if we fuck up!  OMNIGRAPH may be a great, even original, translator, but it sure can’t make strategic decisions, or decisions about objectives.  On the one hand, it sure would be nice to get a chance to get even more information about Phil.  And, this soap opera sure has been a bright spot in my life!  It would sure be quite titillating to see what happens next!

     On the other hand, she might want us to bankrupt the treasury in order to overcome her principles, and she might somehow spill the beans on just who she really is, to Phil (oops, I mean, Don Juan).  After all, he’s a brilliant, if nerdy, scientist, and she’s just a dumb dame.  He might figure it out.  She might get all emotional, sometime, and let something slip.  There’s danger to the mission, here.  Plus, I hate the thought of Phil getting better fringe benefits than I do!

     “Well,” he said, “You just do what you think is best.” That’s it! Give autonomy to the local commanders¾give ‘em just enough rope to hang themselves with, and you can wash your hands afterwards!  Frank knew how to make decisions, but he really preferred not to be totally responsible for the consequences, whenever possible.

     Agent X looked blank for the longest time, even after the readout indicated that Sue was done.  Finally, she said, “What?  You mean, you don’t know what it is that you want me to do?  I thought y’all had a master plan or something!”

     Oh, no!  Now what?!  Frank was just about ready to panic.  She’s as afraid of making a decision as I am, he thought; no one wants to make a decision alone, that might end up being a bad decision.  Then, inspiration hit once more.  “Tell you what, sweetie.  It’s not that we don’t care what it is that you do.  It’s just that we know that you have more information than we do, and that we trust your good judgment. But, we’ll do you a favor, and give you some guidance, so that you don’t have to make a tough decision.  Here’s the deal: It’s not just up to you; there’s no real choice.  If you want to do it, then, you’re required to do it.  If you don’t, then, you’re not authorized.  And that’s final.”

     OMNIGRAPH/Sue was ponderously slow once more in getting this concept across, but seemed to do so satisfactorily.  Agent X gave a playful salute, and they broke the link.

     Frank was anxious to watch the re-run, but took a few seconds to reflect, first.  OK, so what’s the big picture here?  What is really important?  Well, obviously, Phil’s reliability and loyalty is the real objective here.  At best, we want to ensure it; if we can’t, then we need damage control.  We’ve got to have firm control.  So OMNIGRAPH says he’s hiding something?  He seems to believe in what he is doing, at least so far, but he questions authority?  On the other hand, OMNIGRAPH says that just about everyone is bad news.

     Frank thought about it some more, and concluded that Phil was really probably OK.  After all, he reflected, he’s obviously a red-blooded all-American guy-type man fella, seeing as how he likes luscious young babes just like I do.

     OK!  Time for re-runs!  Yee-hah!  Maybe I can even sneak out some audiovisual data, for further study at home!  But, I guess that really wouldn’t be the same, somehow.  Oh, well!


 

 

CHAPTER 12

 

     He called her on a Wednesday night that week, even though it was really actually her turn to call him, but hey, who’s keeping track of these things anymore, anyway?  She’d fulfilled her general obligation to put out part of the dating effort so far, so Phil resolved not to be a bean-counting effortometer¾oops! he thought, she is a bean counter, I’ve got to reform my thinking, here¾I’m resolving to not be a... penny-counting tightwad, with my social interactions any more than I am with my money.  Not that I do any serious social interacting of any kind, other than at work, and now, chasing Debra, these days, anyway. Besides, I almost got laid, not but a few days ago!

     She seemed somewhat...  aloof?  Certainly, she wasn’t the enthused chatterbox she’d been at times.  Reticent.  Uncommunicative.  Like someone had just tromped on her, and she was still stewing, but didn’t want to talk about it.  She said she had a lot of things she had to get done this weekend.  OK, so, like what?  Like washing your hair, or what, Phil wondered, but he was far, far too much of a liberated man, far too inclined to give people their space, that he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask her what she was doing.  Could even end up in me and my foolish mouth promising to help her do whatever it is that she’s got to do this weekend, and regretting it, he thought.  Maybe she wants to go visit her friends in the country, and clean out chicken pens, for all I know.

     So, he told her to call him when she had a chance.  Suited him fine.  Motherfucker, seedy CD ROMs, and spare time reading, maybe even a bit of dragging the ol’ files home from work, and calling Gloria, would keep him busy enough.

     Sure enough, Wednesday next week she called him.  Asked him out, even.  Not to a sheik restaurant, either, but to Ruddfuckers and to a movie.  She said she felt in a low-brow mood, so he should make sure he got the high-rise truck with the balloon tires from the government pool, this weekend.  Too bad they don’t have drive-in movies, anymore, she said.  Too bad Elvis is dead, too, Phil thought, wondering, what the hell is she up to now, just being bizarre, or what?

     He definitely didn’t mind a big, fat, greasy burger now and then. Change of pace from pretentious restaurants, anyway, he thought. Besides, I can stuff myself with all the trimmings; just make, like, a salad.  Too bad I can’t get a bunny-bag for my pet rabbit at home, for all the extra salad I don’t eat.  Not that he really had any pets; Gloria had taken the pud-tats, which he missed, sometimes.

     He did actually manage to glom onto the high-rise pickup with the balloon tires for the weekend, and enjoyed driving it.  Slowly on the corners, to be sure.  He even wore a red plaid lumberjack-man type flannel shirt, to pick her up that Saturday night.  “So, what do you say we go take in some Monster Tractor Pull contests at the Local Fair?,” he asked her when he picked her up.  She just chuckled.

     He was definitely not disappointed with fare at Ruddfuckers; it was all that he’d dreamed that it would be.  It always was, somehow.  All that plutonium-free, distilled essence of cholesterol could never fail to satisfy!

     The movie, on the other hand, left something to be desired, in Phil’s mind, if not in Debra’s.  It was that damned Agent Orange again, this time in THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN FINGER.  Overpaid bum!  Cavorting around with all those good-looking babes, and getting outrageously overpaid for doing it!  Debra thought it was funny, but Phil found it boring and predictable.  Only the chase scenes were any good, and that was just ‘cause he found himself wondering how many cars and stuntmen they smacked up, making some of this stuff.

     The movie was over soon enough, though, and Phil found himself at Debra’s condo, this time.  She was definitely into a change of pace, it seemed.  She made them some drinks and showed him lots of photos from her days as a budding amateur actress, and he was, of course, very fascinated.  Really.  He was grateful that it was too late, and they were too tired, for her to whip out videos of her acting.  He did confess that some other day, he’d feel privileged to see them, though. It’s just too bad, he reflected, that he’d heard no indications of this acting of hers being the kind of “acting” that really got him going!

     So, they caught a snatch of the evening news.  They caught the tail end of something about international bickering over sea-floor mining rights, and then, they started into the usual rape, murder, mayhem type stuff, at which point Debra turned the channel to some vapid supposedly-funny talk show.  Phil used the loud, obnoxious canned laughter¾OK, maybe it wasn’t canned, but for all the sycophancy of the studio audience, it might as well have been, in Phil’s book¾to mask his encroachments on Debra.  By about the fifteenth round of the show’s officially sanctioned funny lines, he was squeezing her bare nipples, underneath her sweater, shirt, and bra.

     She seemed subdued, passive.  But she didn’t resist when Phil slid his hand down her panties.  Oh, goody, he thought, I get to have my way with her!  She just quietly let him lead her by the hand to her bedroom. There, he undressed her, admiring her shapely body.  Neither of them said a thing.  She just stood there, for the most part, regarding him with what she apparently thought was a neutral or thoughtful expression. The hints of emotion on her face, although not readily decipherable, made Phil uncomfortable.  Still, he thought, here’s this luscious lady, all decked out in nothing, waiting for me to ravish her.  Get with the program!

     He promptly got himself similarly attired, and pulled her down towards himself, sitting on her waterbed.  She came towards him, but remained standing.  He guided her onto his lap, where he got her to at least semi-sit.  She kept her feet on the floor, though, and one arm behind him, bracing herself on the edge of the waterbed.  He promptly got to work, massaging and sucking on her, in all the right places. Still, no real reaction.  Phil was starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable.  Oh! maybe that’s it, silly boy, he thought, she wants to hear some appropriate lines first.

     “But, honey, baby, sweetheart, darling!” he mumbled huskily, passionately, between mouthfuls.  “I Love You!” She chuckled, but looked disgusted, in a jaded sort of way.

     “Oh, give me a break.  I don’t want to hear it,” she said, somewhat coldly, it seemed to Phil.  What the hey! he thought, what kind of narcissism is this?  We’d all like for people to tell us they love us, while we fend them off.  Still, maybe she could be forgiven for doubting his sincerity, under the circumstances.

     “But I do love you.  Maybe not with a capital ‘L’, at least not just yet, like big commitments or anything, but I do care about you. Enough to say I love you, at least,” he insisted, stroking her breast. Enough to tell you whatever it is that you’re waiting to hear, soon’s I figure out what that is, he thought.  So, what are the magic words that need to be uttered, in order for us to have a suitably enthusiastic love-making session, anyway?  At least, give me a hint or two.

     “I don’t know if I’m ready for love,” she said, cynically.

     Phil started to worry just a wee bit about being accused of rape, if she didn’t sign a consent form.  You never know, he thought, what with her non-participatory apparent lack of enthusiasm, and the way “sexual correctness” laws and standards are, these days.  She sure seemed more enthused about making out, last time.  I’d better not mention a consent form, though, or she’ll really get pissed.  And it’s definitely not yet time to whip out my second “beeper,” that’s actually a condom carrying case, either, he thought.

     “Well, are you at least ready for some good, clean, wholesome fun, then?,” he inquired, petting her pubic hair.

     She relaxed a bit, actually sitting down in his lap, and lifting her feet off the floor, but still not getting anywhere close to abandoning herself to passion.  Phil found himself comparing his circumstances to the first time he and Gloria had made love.  They hadn’t dickered over its meaning, or debated about who loved who more than the other loved him or her, or anything of the sort.  He couldn’t even remember which had come first, the love sweet-talk or the love-making.  He sure as hell couldn’t remember ever telling Gloria that he loved her, and having her reply that she couldn’t handle it.  And Gloria had actually been an eager partner in their activities, instead of being a passive sex object.

     “I don’t know, Big Boy, can you show me some good, clean, wholesome fun?  Maybe you have to get me ready.” The words sounded good, but the delivery left something to be desired.  She still just sat there.  But he rolled back onto the bed, taking Debra with him, and stretching her naked body out alongside his.  He stroked and kissed her, but she pretty much just laid there, looking at him a bit wide-eyed.  He pulled some blankets over them, thinking, maybe if we just lay here, and get nice and warm under the covers, and have all this skin contact, she’ll warm up a bit, sexually as well as thermally.

     But, alas, such was not the case.  Phil started to debate if maybe his dignity might be more important than his dick, just as he was starting a slow, rhythmical hip motion.  She still seemed passive; defensive, even.  What’s the deal, here, he wondered.  Am I good enough to warrant some enthusiasm, or not?

     “Come on, now, babe!  Are we in this together, or not?,” he asked, stopping what he was doing.  She looked at him, as if to say, who, me? How could any real red-blooded Man not be just totally overcome with passion in my Naked Presence?  What more could you ask for, above and beyond a body as obviously gorgeous as mine?  Phil tried to tell himself he was reading too much into her demeanor, and that he’d better tread carefully, but his sense of dignity was at stake.

     “Shake a leg!  If I want to make love to a passive object, my pillow will do quite fine, thank you!” As soon as those words were out of his mouth, he knew that he’d gone too far.  Or, at least, his dick knew that he’d gone too far.  His dignity would’ve begged to differ. She drew a sharp breath, looking totally shocked and horrified.  Phil hopped out of bed, dodging her flailing arms.  He slapped on his clothes in a reasonable imitation of no time flat, while she clutched blankets to herself, screaming like a banshee.

     Phil didn’t listen too carefully, seeing as how he was concentrating on becoming fully clothed and gone, but he did catch just a tiny bit of what she was hollering at him.  It didn’t bode too well for the future of their relationship, or even of her good will, it seemed to him.  He took one last look at her, sitting there, tightly clutching cloth to those precious titties he’d so recently sucked and fondled.  They might as well be on the surface of Venus, now, as far as his prospects of fondling them once more were concerned, he reflected. But, she sure made a comical picture, and he almost wished he had a camera, right then, to capture it.  He didn’t even bother to try to think of something clever to say as he left, ‘cause she wouldn’t even have heard it, anyway.  He just grinned sheepishly and made himself scarce.

     When he got home, he dragged out Motherfucker and got good and stoned.  Relax.  Take some of the tension off.  You’ve had a hard day’s play.  Except, it just didn’t work out that way.  He sat there and worried about his last random piss test, the only one he’d had since he’d taken up with Motherfucker again, after all those years.  Or, since he’d taken up with Motherfucker II.  Motherfucker I was long gone, with some member of the ol’ college gang; he couldn’t even remember which member.  Long live the memory of Motherfucker I, he toasted, sucking on Motherfucker II.  Party time!

     It wasn’t party time, though.  It was worry time.  Not only had he had a recent piss test, with results, or actual efficacy of golden seal and THC-B-Gone still unknown; he now also had a pissed-off woman who knew his evil ways on his hands.  He might be a wee tad paranoid, he thought, but stranger things have been known to happen.  She might think that, since her drug of choice, cocaine, stays in her bloodstream a heck of a lot less longer than pot stays in mine, that she’ll clean up her act and then rat on my ass.  Her attitude just now certainly doesn’t rule out such actions.

     And they’re really hot to trot on busting users, these days, he recalled.  Gotta blame all that crime, and the shitty economy and state of affairs in general, on somebody, after all.  Why not have a war on drugs?  Maybe even lynch a drug pusher or two, or burn ‘em at the stake, and have some weenie roasts.  Take our minds off of our deteriorating society and environment.

     So he got stoned, but without any pleasure.  He then went to bed, but couldn’t get to sleep for a while, what with being stoned, and worrying.  When he did finally fall asleep, he dreamed dreams of running from here to there, moving his stash of pot from hiding place to hiding place, and sometimes watching the hiding places to make sure that no one had spied him or his stash.

     On Sunday morning, he arose at nine, got stoned once more and tried to read the news.  He worried again.  He looked at the scarce remains of the ounce he’d bought a few months earlier.  He took a final toke or two, toasting the long-gone college days and the old gang and a younger, more carefree Phil.  Then, he flushed the remaining pot down the toilet, cringing.  Now, this was REAL drug abuse!  Fortunately, there wasn’t much left, so he could bring himself to do it.

     Then, he put the glass form of Motherfucker in several layers of grocery bags, and sent him to the Happy Toking Grounds with a hammer, swearing not to resurrect a Motherfucker III till some sunny day when people might be free to decide what to put, and what not to put, into their bodies.  He took a short walk, and respectfully buried Motherfucker II in a trash bin in the neighborhood park.  He buried him with full honors, giving him a mental salute as he strolled on back to his house.

     Back at his house, to make matters complete, he took his vitamins and his handgun, and hid them quite well in the attic.  Silly, maybe, but it sure makes me feel a lot better, he thought.  Not much extra trouble to sneak up into the attic to support my vitamin habit, and security in this walled compound is good enough that I don’t need my handgun that handy, anyway.  He felt far less at risk over his gun and his vitamins than he had felt over his pot, because the penalties were a bit less, and the police dogs were generally only trained to sniff out drugs.  Otherwise, they’d be busting his grapefruits, he thought.

     He ate the rest of his golden seal and THC-B-gone, and ate a very hearty breakfast to dilute and keep down the golden seal.  He still had some raunchy burps.  He put these matters out of his mind, drove out into the country, and took a walk.  Then, he came back home, worked on some work files a bit, and got to bed early, in preparation for Monday back at ABC.  He thought about what it might be like, in a week or so, when he’d have to meet with Debra at work to go over finances.  Not something he was looking forward to, somehow, he thought, drifting off to sleep.

     Monday back at work was a relief, a return to the familiar and predictable.  Phil felt refreshed and renewed now that he’d made some decisions and choices, and now that his social life had been simplified. Even if his social life hadn’t been terribly complicated, it still felt better, yet more simplified.  Too bad that it came at the price of making some of his work life a bit more...  more...  soap-opera-ish, he thought, yet again dreading the next finances session.  Why did I do this, he asked himself.  I knew better than to date people I work with. On the other hand, it could be worse.  What if I had to see her in meetings every day?  What if I wasn’t such a hardheaded asshole about not going to meetings all day?  I know my hatred of meetings hurts my career, but there are up sides!

     Up sides included being able to actually do hands-on design work. Speaking of hands on, he thought, I wonder what that salty old dog, Don McCulley, is up to.  Maybe I could take a break from this genes and proteins thing, and go have a chat with him.  Nah, on second thought, there’s too many other things I’ve got to get done.  Besides, I’d be too tempted to slip into that earthy mode with him, and chat with him like we have in times past about the reproductive behavior of feminine humanoid life-forms.  And that’s just too dangerous of a topic right now.  I’d say to myself, now, surely I can trust Don.  And then, I’d share with him, the latest data from field research.  Maybe embellish it, just a tiny bit.

     Next thing you know, either he or I would enjoy the stories or the telling of them so much, that despite our most secretive resolutions, we might spill the beans too far and too wide for them ever to be cleaned up.  And then, a certain bean counter will have a field day with my field research data, and my ass will be grass.  And everybody and their mother will be the lawnmower.  The bosses.  The HR people.  The media. The feds.  The courts.  Get back to work.  Say nary a word to anyone, and hope she does the same.

     So, he put his nose to the grindstone, and got in a kick-ass day of design work.  The creative ideas just flowed from him like honey from a ladle on a warm summer day.

     He did take just a few minutes now and then for a cup of coffee, and reflected on his sexual adventures.  Maybe he needed to discover just the right bar or just the right crowd, where he could find luscious, lusty young babes with no ties to work, he thought.  Then, I can even collaborate with Don in our research efforts!  Maybe even, attribute the results of the mostest moistest choicest recent hands-on research to a later episode!  Nah, gotta behave; got to devote my life to more worthy, less earthy, causes.  Dignity rules; dick drools.

     He got home at seven-thirty that Monday night, and he brought all his unanswered and unexamined electronic messages with him.  Sometimes he wished he had some sort of bozo filter that would weed all the trash out of his messages; maybe even generate a non-committal reply, something like “I’ve received your input, and am giving it the consideration that it deserves,” automatically, in all the cases where the message actually broke through the bozo barrier, by meeting numerous criteria, those being, like, addressed only to him, directly; and certified, and containing ALL the keywords ASAP, attorney, class action, critical, demand, egregious, emergency, gross, immediate, lawsuit, malicious, negligence or negligent, urgent, utmost, and willful, and maybe a few more.  Maybe some of them at least twice.

     But, he did read them all, and drafted replies to some of them.  It sure seemed that he had a lot of catching up to do.  Some of the “urgent” matters were a week old!  Motherfucker and Debra must’ve taken up more of my time and efforts than I’d realized, he thought.  Speaking of Motherfucker, I sure miss him, he thought, just thinking about those cannibinoids percolating though his vessels.  Party!  Party!  But what’s to party with?  Crappy old booze, hangover-inducing shit that it is, and vitamins.  He dug out his ancient tobacco pipe, which he hadn’t smoked in years, and lit that motherfucker up.  It just wasn’t Motherfucker, though.

     Just about halfway through his bowl, which he found nauseating, Phil heard the doorbell from his back patio where he’d gone for his smoke, so as not to pollute the house.  Who the hell could this be, at past nine in the evening, he wondered, setting down his pipe and heading through the house to the front door.  Any guests are supposed to call from an entrance to this walled suburban community, and get authorization from their visitees.  So what kind of visitors might this be?  Better use the front door’s lights, video camera, and microphone to see who this is.  I’d also better lock the rear door I just went through, too, he thought.  Maybe this is the foreign assassins or agents that I’ve been warned about.  Maybe I’ll wish I had my illegal pistol handier than it is, hidden in the attic.

     As he headed back towards the rear door, he heard a heavy thump in the back yard.  Then, just as he got close to the door, it was flung towards him by the stomp of a heavy black boot.  The black boot was followed by a gun-toting, jacketed and helmeted storm trooper yelling, “Freeze!  I’m with the DEA!” Phil wished he’d been practicing loading his pistol in the back yard, just as this nightmare had hopped over the fence.  Too late now, he thought; they’ll be disappearing me into the “Nacht und Nebel,” or night and fog, probably over my stash of vitamins. No one will ever hear from me again.  I’ll be made an example of.

     “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, too,” Phil offered, “Can I get you a beer or something?  A joint, maybe?  I do wish you’d knock, though.  I mean, with your knuckles, politely, on the front door.  And do you have an invitation?” Phil restrained his impulses to follow up with his excellent rendition of oinks and squeals from a well-known domesticated ungulate.

     The trooper waved his gun towards the front door.  “Our invitation awaits you at the front door, pretty boy.  All nice and signed by His Honor, with your name and address.  I assume you are Phil Schrock.”

     “Yes, I am.  So nice of you to drop by. Care to introduce yourself? Can I return your kind visit sometime, in like manner?”

     “Shut up, asswipe, and open the front door!”

     Phil opened the front door.  About a dozen men stood out there, some in various uniforms, and some not.  Some with guns, and others with radios.  One had a dog on a leash.  The uniform closest to the door stepped forward, saying, “Mister Schrock, we have a warrant to search your residence for contraband.  Kindly step aside, and we’ll be on our way.  With or without you, depending on what we find.” Phil debated pointing out that he was “Doctor” Schrock to the likes of him, but decided not to sound like a pompous asshole.  There were enough of those around already.  He remained standing in the middle of the doorway, blocking access.  Not that it mattered much; one of them already stood behind him with a gun.

     “Let’s see that warrant first.” The warrant was passed to him, and he briefly glanced at it.  It seemed all official-like, but he sure didn’t have much experience in verifying the authenticity of search warrants.  He considered whipping out his lighter and torching it, but figured that such a small amount of satisfaction wouldn’t be worth the price, whatever that might be.  Destroying government property, or contempt of court, or witchcraft, or whatever they’d charge him with, it just wasn’t worth it.  Still, let’s not give in too easily, he thought. “So what kind of justification did you boys round up to enable His Honor to issue this to you?,” he inquired.

     “None of your business, Sir,” Uniform declared, “But, if you really must know, we got a tip.  Now, step aside.”

     Phil stepped aside.  The troopers trooped into his house.  They didn’t even wipe their feet on the doormat, he noticed.  “Why don’t y’all get yourselves some honest jobs?,” Phil glared at them as they filed by. Why, these slobs didn’t even seem to realize that they were raiding the home of a famous, genius-type scientist and defender of the nation, he realized, watching them march by. Didn’t these guys know he was one of the good guys?  Now, if he was a famous actor, even if he was third-rate, he’d be getting more respect, he thought.  Us technogeeks just don’t rank.

     Storm Trooper, his most enthusiastic guest, who’d made it to the party before any of the others, growled, “Shut up, punk.” He maneuvered himself behind Phil, and stuck a gun barrel in his back, giving Uniform a look that said, “Hang out here with me and help me watch this guy, while the rest of us execute this warrant.  This boy is a troublemaker.”

     Uniform took his post in front of Phil, just as Storm Trooper took up rearguard action.  The rest of them fanned out through the house, ripping up everything in sight like bears tearing through rotten logs, hunting for grubs.  The dog, whose name apparently was Charlie, was offered a sniff from the pipe he’d sat down on the patio, but Charlie didn’t alert on it.  He did, however, seem very interested in Motherfucker’s former abode, the downstairs closet.  Neither Charlie nor his master found anything, not even a seed.

     “Hey, Ed!” he heard a voice from upstairs, “Come and check this out!  He’s got copies of VENUSIAN VIXENS and NYMPHOMANIACS OF NEPTUNE!” He heard some other voice ragging on the first.  Something about professionalism.  Phil sure was glad his copies were legitimate, rather than bootleg.  He sat there and pressure-cooked.  He heard the attic door creak open.  Would they find his gun or his vitamins?

     Phil couldn’t stand it any longer, this business of standing there like a slave or a sheep, in his own home.  “What kind of a free country is this, anyway?,” he asked Uniform.

     “It’s a free country for people who obey the law, is what it is,” was Uniform’s reply.

     Phil just about groaned.  What kind of dipshits were these goons? Why didn’t they go bust some murderers or rapists or some such, instead of protecting law-abiding citizens from the evils of vitamins?  Phil debated asking Uniform if he’d obey orders to round up people who violated laws against being Jewish, but decided that he wouldn’t appreciate being called a Nazi.  Or, maybe, worse yet, maybe he would. Most likely, though, it would all be over his head.  History?  What’s that?

     A soft answer turns away wrath, Phil reminded himself.  After all, these were still the good guys.  Compared to the violent, criminal scum types, these were angels of mercy.  What would violent criminals do to his dignity, compared to his present humiliation?  He considered explaining to Uniform and to Storm Trooper that if only they’d refuse their orders to enforce the petty shit, and concentrate on the real criminals, that he’d be a 150 % law-and-order-type dude.  Shit, he might even quit his fancy job, and take an eighty percent cut in pay, to join their ranks, he’d explain to them.  He’d be that enthused about law enforcement, he’d say.

     Phil looked thoughtfully at Uniform, and even strained his eyeballs hard enough to get a glimpse of Storm Trooper, standing there behind him, protecting the world from the fearsome vitamin fiend.  Nah! he concluded, no sense in explaining his thoughts to these good ol’ boys. Besides, he’d be lying.  He’d never be able to join their ranks, unless he’d get himself a frontal lobotomy to go along with the cut in pay. And I’ve always enjoyed a bottle in front of me so much more!  And I would’ve, even during Prohibition, that monumental failure that we absolutely refuse to learn anything from, he thought.

     Still, Phil just had to at least try to reach through to these morons.  “Well, how free are a people when the Law itself ties them in a million knots?  Would you enforce laws that imposed the death penalty for those who wear blue ribbons in their hair, defying the will of Authority?”

     “Against the likes of you, yes I would,” grumbled Uniform, “Besides, you don’t look good in blue.  It’s not your color,” he insisted, lisping just a bit and drooping his wrist.  Storm Trooper chuckled dutifully to what even he apparently regarded as weak humor. Phil steamed some more.  He stared, dismayed, at the shambles his living space was being made into.

     “So, yuns dudes gonna be hepping me straighten out my house, graciously-like, seeing as how nice I’ve been, hosting your party?,” he inquired, sweetly and solicitously.

     “Fat chance of that.  We’re too busy chasing criminal scum like yourself,” Storm Trooper announced from behind him.  “Tight budgets, you know.  It would cost the taxpayers hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars in pay, equipment, overhead and such, helping you straighten out the mess you’ve brought upon yourself.  And those are scarce resources that we’ve got to save for chasing criminals.”

     Yeah, like vitamin fiends and peanut-quota violators, Phil thought. Maybe I should tell them that some of their good buddies are standing guard in warehouses, making sure that the quota peanuts and the non-quota peanuts don’t get mixed.  He could just hear himself say, “In a program dating back to 1949, farmers are allowed to grow peanuts for domestic consumption only if they have a ‘quota’.  Last year, the top quota-owning farmer could’ve ‘earned’ three million dollars, just by selling his quotas.  Quotas that cost all the consumers, while benefiting small special interests and the porkers who they funnel campaign contributions to.  And it’s the likes of you, mindless slaves of the State, who grease the wheels of idiocy, by protecting the public from the perils of non-quota peanuts.”

     Nah!  On second thought, that’s way too eggheaded.  Besides, it wouldn’t really express the force of my anger, he thought.  “What do you mean, that I’ve brought upon myself?  Did I ask you goons to come in here and root through all my personal belongings?”

     “Yeah, you did, you little twerp, when you took it upon yourself to violate the law.  We all know what Charlie got all excited about, just a few minutes ago.”

     “So pass a law against blue ribbons, and the ribbon-wearers are just asking for it, huh?”

     “Damned straight.  What the voters want, the voters gets,” Uniform intoned.

     Including parasitical piggy-wiggies who live on a different form of welfare, packing the jails with potheads and dealers and then hollering for more money for more cops and more jails, Phil thought.  At least, by all appearances they won’t be nabbing my ass and disappearing it into the Nacht und Nebel after all.  They haven’t found anything yet, as far as I can tell.  And, one wouldn’t expect for a troop of baboons to stumble onto some good yummies in their foraging, and not react, after all.

     Just when he was starting to think he’d get off scot-free, one of Atlanta’s finest rushed around the corner from the kitchen, displaying a slightly yellowed plastic bag.  “Hey, Earl!” he hooted.  Apparently, Storm Trooper’s name was Earl, and maybe he was calling the shots. “Look what I found!  Sure as hell smells like golden seal!” Phil’s heart sank, cussing himself for being such a penny-pincher as to save old plastic bags.  On the other hand, there’s the environment to be thunked about, he thought, being just a tiny bit pious.  Maybe I could’ve washed the powder out of that bag where I kept the capsules, though.  Still, his spirits rose again, when he reminded himself that the penalty for this particular heinous crime would be only a few hundred dollars in fines, tops, anyway.  Golden seal isn’t psychoactive, after all.  They really had nothing on him!

     Except, there’s still the attic to be worried about, he worried. These dummies won’t be able to outsmart my hiding abilities, I bet, and surely hope.  The vitamins might not be too troublesome, except that the quantities might make them think I’m a dealer.  But that revolver?  Real trouble there!  Jail time for me, for having dared to doubt their crime-fighting abilities, what with the half-hour it takes for them to react to calls; for taking matters into my own hands and buying a gun. Better hope real hard they don’t find it.  Yes!  Here they come, trooping downstairs, with nothing!

     They looked dejected.  Another prospect for filling the jails, and enhancing their prospects for extorting more money from the taxpayers, shot down in flames, Phil lamented on their behalf.  Quite sincerely, to be sure.  Phil felt his cockiness factor multiply geometrically, now that they were failing in their search.  Watch it, boy! he told himself.

     The troops conferred with Earl.  Some of them seemed ready to give up the hunt.  Earl told them to not give up so easily.  “Let’s give the carpet in that closet a real thorough going-over first,” he commanded. Three civilian-clothed types brought out some tweezers and magnifying glasses, and crowded into the closet.  Phil longed to ask them if they were going in there to beat off, but refrained.  They began to study the carpet meticulously, and Phil was sure glad he’d vacuumed there.  The other goons lounged around.

     “Maybe the rest of you could try to be good party guests, and straighten up the mess you’ve made,” Phil suggested.

     “Maybe you could shut your trap,” Uniform replied.

     “Maybe you bunch of sorry nincompoops could get some conscience, and stop being whores for the State,” Phil pointed out.

     “That’s enough!  Any more o’ that shit outta you, boy, and we’ll haul you in, for interfering with the execution of a warrant!  Now, shut up!”

     Phil clicked his heels together, and rendered his best Nazi salute. “Jawohl, mein Herr!  Sieg Heil!” Three troopers dove at him simultaneously.  He sure was tempted to get in a really good kick at one of their faces, but he practiced great self-restraint.  Besides, why get myself shot to death, he asked himself.  No use in paying all my hard-earned money to a bucket of slimy lawyers, either.

     They tried to read him his rights as they arrested him.  Even though he offered no bodily resistance, he did get his digs in, by oinking and squealing loudly and realistically throughout the attempted reading of his Miranda rights.  Maybe, if I can find form KKKGBXYZ-666-FSB, LEGAL APPLICATION FOR PETITIONER TO DISMISS TESTIMONY DUE TO LACK OF SENSORY COGNITION OF MIRANDA WARNING, and fill it out completely and properly, I can beat this rap.

     Sadly, he was mistaken.  They beat his butt, and made him pay proper respect to his rights.  Afterwards, though, he did his best to enlighten them all as to precisely what a low-bred batch of putrid slime molds they all were, as he was hauled off in handcuffs to the waiting paddy wagon.  The two officers accompanying him to the local hoosegow didn’t appreciate his lectures any more than they liked his oinks and squeals, so they cranked up the stereo.  Country-Punk Anti-Pebble music, at that, which Phil couldn’t stand.  Oh, well, he thought, putting an end to his presentation, all those oinks and squeals were getting pretty rough on the ol’ throat, anyway.  Plus, these turds aren’t about to be seeing the light anytime soon due to any of my efforts.

     Phil was pretty shagged when they got to the station.  He couldn’t believe these dorks, taking him in for lipping off!  And, me being a famous scientist, and all, too, he thought.  Wait till the media gets ahold of what a bunch of barbarous buffoons these jerks have been! Maybe I can call Frank, and have him twist some arms.  So what if the military has no real official powers here, maybe all that would be needed would be a whisper or two about what a valuable top-secret defense researcher he was.

     He really started thinking about just how much of a drag this all was getting to be, as he was sitting, then standing, then sitting again in various places, answering this, that, and the other questions, and being poked, prodded, stripped, teased, detected, neglected, and inspected.  In that whole station, there wasn’t a soul who knew who he was!  Phil tried to tell them, but one of them said, “Yeah, we’re all the Mayor’s brother, or Napoleon’s niece.  Take me, for example.  I’m Jimmy Carter’s brother’s son’s dog’s littermate’s owner’s uncle.  We still all have to obey the same laws.” Somehow, Phil guessed that Deskjob must’ve used that line many, many times in his long career.

     When they gave him a chance to make one phone call, he debated only briefly.  By state law, the police were notifying employers of arrests of employees, anyway.  Not convictions, but arrests.  Since he had nothing to lose, and no close relatives or friends in town, anyway, he called his boss, Gary, at work, and left a message.  No sense in waking him up in the wee hours.  Gary might not get around to his messages for a while, but he was generally conscientious about such things, as Phil recalled.  Unlike my own slovenly self, he thought.

     He was just about to the point of falling asleep while standing, when they gave him the piss test.  This got his worry neurons aroused, and they, in turn, helped keep him awake.  Oh, great! he said to himself; now, not only have I donated some of my precious bodily fluids at work recently, whose results I don’t yet know, I’ve got the local gendarmes sniffing at my ass, now, too.  You know, this could have the potential of cramping my career style a little, even, if things don’t go my way.

     He considered refusing the piss test, but he knew that such refusal would be interpreted as evidence of guilt.  He considered telling them he was too nervous to pee, but he’d already heard the answer, when the guy in front of him had used that line.  “We’ll be happy to strap a diaper to you, Sir, and collect the goods from you that way, if you’d like.” So, he peed dutifully, if resentfully.

     He got to the holding tank at one thirty that Tuesday morning, and found himself an empty bunk pad.  There, he got himself five hours of lousy semi-sleep, till six thirty, at which time he was rounded up for the first of several waves of prisoners to be herded through the showers.  Back from the shower but waiting for breakfast, Phil began to meet his fellow hardened criminals.  The first was Howard, a frail old store owner busted for the illegal handgun he’d stashed in a hidden but handy place, which somebody had tattled on him about.  Probably the snitch was a young punk with a machine gun, wanting to eliminate obstacles to his gang’s reign, Phil commented.  Howard didn’t see any humor in it at all.

     Phil decided to do a little survey.  Was he getting the straight scoop in the news?  Sure enough, it turned out that more than half of prisoners had no business being there, in his book.  The vitamin pushers.  The gun owners.  The pot fiends, and the crack heads.  The hookers and pimps.  The doctor who gave abortions without the five-day wait, and all the right brainwashing.  The gamblers who liked better odds than state-sponsored gambling provided.  The traveler who made jokes about bombs at the wrong place, and the other traveler who had lipped off to the stewardesses.

     To be sure, he did meet a few jailbirds who had it coming, apparently.  Either they were willing to at least admit what they were in for, even though they all claimed to have been framed, or they fended off all inquiries.  Phil doubted that there’d be anyone in the slammer for allegedly violating the peanut quota, who wasn’t willing to at least talk about the charges.  My mid-morning, after breakfast, roll call, cleanup duties, calisthenics, break, and medications dispensation, the survey had become a bit boring.  Besides, he was afraid someone might take serious offense to his questions, and whomp his butt.  He gave up the search for the peanut-quota violator.  He really wanted to meet one, so that he’d have a good war story to tell about his hopefully short tangle with the long arms of the law.  No such luck.  What a shame!

     Phil sat through the alcohol and drug abuse group therapy preaching session, totally bored and thinking of other things.  Things like scumbucket bean-counters who made anonymous tips to nosy narks, and whores for the State who obeyed every fucked-up order they got, and then begged for more.  And then, told their victims that their hands were tied; that they had to do what they had to do, against all the lawbreaking scum.  Orders are orders.  Follow the rulebook, like a good little boy, and no one will hassle you.

     Is Gloria right, he wondered.  Am I just another whore for the State?  Am I propping up a despotic regime?  Am I just like these automatons, blindly feeding the machine that eats Liberty, always thinking that one more addition of incremental force will solve everything?  A few more cops and a few more jails, and then, by God, we’ll lick this drug problem!  A bit more biowar knowledge, and we’ll be able to establish a new world order.

     Am I just like the politicians in ‘Nam, who couldn’t ever face the idea that maybe past policies were fucked up, and that America should change course?  How ‘bout that British officer who’d said that every time the effort was doubled, the error was squared?  And how ‘bout that butt-hole extraordinaire, the Pope, sitting fat, dumb, and happy, over there in Rome, telling the overpopulated, starving masses of the world that birth control is immoral?  A bit more preaching against the evils of birth control, and we’ll finally be righteous.  We might overpopulate and starve, but at least we’ll be righteous.  350 times, the Earth went around the Sun, before the Pope ‘fessed up that maybe the Church shouldn’t have been so rough on Galileo.  Maybe, if we’re lucky, only 3.5 billion starvation deaths later, the Pope will admit to not being infallible about the Earth’s ability to sustain ever-increasing human populations.  God forbid that we should ever admit that we were wrong!

     Just one or two more socialist share-the-wealth programs, just a tiny bit more government coercion, and we’ll finally break on through, to become the first nation in history to tax and spend its way to prosperity and fairness!  Am I just another over-inflated dipshit, incapable of admitting error and changing course, he asked himself.

     He reminded himself that there were nations whose regimes would make Altanta’s Finest and the DEA look like cuddly little puddy tats. Hamsters, even.  Regimes that would put you in the slammer for years, just for bitching.  Regimes that would shoot you for talking against them.  Plus, he thought, our military whores for the State are hookers of a higher class.  They, unlike the local gendarmes, actually have some smarts.  Haven’t they managed to keep the peace, for decades, by exercising restraint on the awesome powers of nukes?  Can’t bioweapons serve the same function as those obsolete nukes?  Preserve the peace through deterrence?

     Nah, I’m not a whore for the State, he fairly definitely concluded. And if I am, then I’m a heck of a lot of a higher-class hooker than the scum who’ve thrown me in here.  I’m doing a good thing, defending the nation and its freedoms, however tarnished they might be.  And if the Pope and similar idiots keep cheapening human life by insisting that we produce too much of it, if they keep us from choosing birth control as a method of population control, then Nature, or human nature, will select a different means of keeping us in check.  Starvation.  Pollution. Disease.  War.  And if it must be the latter, then I’m doing my best to make sure that we come out on top.  I’ve even helped make the technology far less messy and painful than past methods, he thought, remembering the poisons he’d helped select from Nature’s gene pools.  Fast action and low pain had been top-ranked attributes to consider.

     Phil’s mind drifted on to other things.  He began to wonder what his bail would be, and when there’d be a chance for him to make another call.  He wished he’d paid more attention to the endless dronings of the in-processing folks, last night.  Wonder how many times I’ve been beeped this morning, he thought.  Those slimebags even took my beeper away from me!  Just then, the group therapy facilitator (preacher, to Phil’s way of thinking) asked Phil if maybe he’d care to comment on what had just been discussed.  Phil didn’t much give a shit what had just been discussed.  As if this session was just dripping pearls of wisdom, he thought.  Phil was just about to say that he agreed with everything that had been said, when some flunky waddled up with news that there was an important FOS call for a Phil Schrock type fella.

     Phil slipped into the FOS-phone booth at the guard station.  It was Gary and Frank.  Frank explained that he was in town for a surprise visit anyway, mostly having to do with talking with none other than Phil Schrock.  Sometimes, it’s just got to be in person, Frank replied to Phil’s inquisitive looks.  Then, Frank proceeded to get a little inquisitive himself.  Phil found himself explaining how some ax-grinding, anonymous moron had falsely turned him in for contraband, and how, OK, so maybe they found a bag with some herb residues, but the stuff’s not psychoactive anyway, so I’m in no deep shit.  Except for lipping off to the fascists, and what can you do to help me, anyway?

     Frank said that since it was Phil that he’d come to see anyway, he’d drive on down to the station and see what he could do.  That was the extent of their conversation.  Phil resumed gathering lovely pearls of wisdom at the group therapy session.

     Three-quarters of an hour later, Phil met a stern-faced, uniformed and bemedalled General Frank Leech in the large, almost-empty visiting room. They faced each other through bulletproof glass.

     Phil grinned, and flicked on the microphone.  “Hey, man, thanks for stopping by to see my pitiful law-disrespecting self.  Are you going to help spring me from the clutches of these yokels, or what?”

     Frank didn’t smile at all.  “Well, I did put in a word or two with a few folks down here, and they’re getting the paperwork rolling, and you’ll be released in a little while.  But really, I’m not doing you such a big favor.  You’d have been out of here by late afternoon, anyway.  As you’re doubtlessly aware, they really have nothing on you.”

     Phil grinned some more, but Frank sure as hell didn’t.  “What’s the matter, Sir?  Hey, even I can see the humor in this, and it’s been a heck of a lot more of a pain in the ass for me than it’s been for you. It’s just that it would be even more funny if they weren’t pissing away our tax money, harassing innocent citizens, instead of going out and collaring some dangerous crooks.  Cowards!”

     “Innocent?,” Frank inquired, doubtfully.

     “OK, so I had some residue of an illegal medicinal herb¾a non-psychoactive one at that, mind you¾in a plastic bag.  Besides that, I had just gathered it, blowing down the street, as a service to the environment, not knowing what heinous, toxic substances lay within it,” Phil added, struggling to keep a straight face.

     “Listen, Phil, we got the results of your urinalysis, and I’m quite frankly disappointed in your lack of judgment.”

     The color drained out of Phil’s face.  “Well, these tests are known to fail, you know.  I want a retest, of course.” He paused for thought. “Besides, even if it’s positive again, it’s probably just from having breathed the air near a passing crowd of wayward youths.  Or maybe, from that brownie I bought from a streetside vendor.  It made me feel so funny, I can’t even remember where, exactly, I bought it, come to think of it.  I might have to have several rounds of testing.”

     Despite Phil’s best attempts at levity, the General’s demeanor was still quite grave.  “It’s not that we found anything highly incriminating in your urine.  Nothing that warrants a retest.  Just some herb called golden sea, or some such crap, and a few other assorted chemicals that might get you a few small fines, if they show up again in the pee that you doubtlessly donated here.  Nothing associated with jail time.  And, your employment test results aren’t shared with law enforcement, so you might even luck out on the fines, if their tests aren’t as extensive as ours.”

     Phil just sat there and grinned some more.  He felt himself turning into the Cheshire cat, stared at the General, and reversed the polarity of the neural signals controlling his facial muscles.  “So tell me, Sir, what brings you to ABC for a surprise visit, prominently featuring my own noble self, anyway?”

     “Your drug abuse.  I take it seriously enough that I felt that I need to address it personally with you, to give you one last chance.”

     Phil felt the color dropping out of his face once more.  In fact, this time, it dripped right off his nose and chin, and splattered on the concrete floor below.  “But, Sir!  Didn’t we just say that the worst I might be guilty of, is some damn non-psychoactive herb?”

     “We both know better.  You’re not the only one that reads ‘High Times’, or knows about these marvelous substances you’ve found.  We know what they’re for, and what they do.  It’s just too bad that the legislators haven’t yet gotten around to attaching the same penalties to this stuff, as is attached to what it’s used to hide.  But we’re not talking about courts or proof or anything.  We’re talking about your security clearance and your job, or at least, your job doing what you’re doing now.  You’re serving at the pleasure of the US government, and we can yank your clearance for looking at us cross-eyed.”

     Phil’s expression finally started to match Frank’s, and to stay that way.  “Now, don’t let it go to your head, but you’re one of the few people we’d let slide in such a matter,” Frank continued.  “That is, just once.  Now, we’re not going to find you messing around again, are we?”

     “No, Sir,” Phil found himself submitting, almost against his wishes.  He’d not done a damn thing wrong, he told himself, being ashamed for being ashamed.  Fortunately, he’d already come to the same decision himself, earlier, without prodding by Frank.  So, he could honestly say he wasn’t going to be a bad boy, anymore, without feeling an urge to secretly show Frank who was really the boss of his body, by taking up toking again.  He’d not been pushed around by Authorities, he told himself; he’d just finally re-jettisoned a vestige of his long-gone youth.  You can never go home, he told himself.

     “Great.  We’ll be continuing the random testing, and I trust you, so I’m not even going to recommend you for special attention, or anything.  I wish I could leave it at that, but there’s other issues and other people involved here, now, too.  Issues brought up by another employee at ABC, a Ms. Debra Kenner.  She claims you’ve been harassing her, demanding sexual favors and drugs, in order for you to not bitch to her boss about her support at work.  And, that you’re a big-time drug fiend.  She says she was trying to just keep a lid on it all, out of fear, but her fear of retaliation at work got to be outweighed by her fear of you, when you started to demand drugs, ‘cause she just didn’t know where to get ahold of any.”

     “That damned lying wench!” Phil fumed, “You know the extent of our interaction at work!  It’s more like I support her¾I just meet with her once a month, and give that little miserable bean-counter numbers and comments to put on her charts and graphs to please the yuckety-yucks at ABC and the Pentagon.  Her bitching about me would carry a lot more weight than my bitching about her.  I guess we’re seeing that just about now, though, huh?  Worst of all, she’s a worse drug fiend than any I’ve ever allegedly been!  You know this is crap!”

     Frank looked at him, like an exasperated parent with an unruly toddler.  “Well, this is a delicate situation, I can see that much,” Frank offered, “We know some things that I can’t tell you about how we know about them.  We, or, well, someone in Washington interviewed Debra yesterday.  We’d like to hear your side of the story.”

     “Here?  Now?,” Phil stared at the man at the far end of the room, who was trying to make out with his visitor through the glass barrier.

     “Don’t worry about it.  They’re all wrapped up in their own business.  Go on.”

     Phil just about choked, thinking about subsidizing the parasites, but he forced it out.  “Wait a minute!  I want a lawyer!”

     Frank looked as disgusted as the john who’d just discovered that the hooker who was giving him head, was also chewing tobacco.  “Silly boy,” he said, “I’m on your side.  This is unofficial.  It’ll stay just between the two of us.  Trust me.  It’ll keep me on top of things, and it’ll give you a chance to get your shit together, in case this thing goes further than we’d like it to.  If it’ll make you feel any better, though, I won’t mind if you throw in bunches of ‘allegedlies’ and other disqualifiers.  You know, like, and then you allegedly smeared the coke all over her cunt, et cetera, et cetera.  That way, you’ll not be confessing anything to me, if you insist on worrying about it.”

     Phil told him the story, with lots of “allegedlies,” and with heavy emphasis on how much of a coke-snorting bitch she was.  And not just allegedly, either.  Even the juiciest parts of the story were a lot less fun to tell, though, than he’d imagined it would be, telling it to Don McCulley.  Still, he could finally discern the traces of a smile now and then, on the stern visage of General Leech.

     “Sounds like the situation might be salvable,” Frank commented. “What I’d do if I were you, is that I’d challenge her to a polygraph party.  The courts can’t force a polygraph on anybody, but results can sure be used by companies and HR departments.  Your story and her story are enough different that a polygraph examiner should be able to tell the difference, and her failure, or her refusal to take the exam, will get you off the hook with ABC.  Harassment charges are, after all, a very subjective thing, and employers need any legitimate tool that they can get their hands on, to make a good-faith effort to straighten out these messes.

     “And don’t worry about the polygraph administrator asking questions about drugs.  Even if polygraph results indicate guilt in the drugs category, that kind of thing isn’t admissible to employers, let alone the courts.  You could, however, be considered to be confessing crimes to the administrator.  So, you’ve just got to pepper your talk with lots of ‘allegedlies’ around the drugs in your story, and you’ll be all right.

     “So there’s a good game plan for you, son.  If you’re telling the alleged truth, which I don’t doubt.  Allegedly.

     “No, seriously, I have strong reason to believe your version of things.  If she persists, she can still take it to court, but there, it’ll basically be your word against hers, and the standard is, after all, guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.  Unless some lawyer really twists the minds of the jurors.”

     Phil thanked Frank, and they were just launching into a comradely tirade against parasitical lawyers, when a guard strolled into the visiting room with a stack of papers, and Phil’s beeper, wallet, coins, keys, lighter, pocket knife, booger rags, and other implements of destruction.  Phil thanked the guard for a pleasant stay, and hit the road with Frank.

     Frank persuaded Phil that he should take the rest of the day off, and go home and take it easy.  It wasn’t hard to do.  So, they headed in that general direction.  Along the way, they talked about sports, hobbies, women, and cars.  Frank was an OK guy, Phil figured.  So he invited him in for a beer when they got to Phil’s house.  Frank accepted, and just chuckled when Phil apologized for the disarray the house was in.  “Truly a wild party,” Phil called it, “And they were all party crashers.  I hadn’t invited a soul.”

     Frank left soon enough, but not before Phil got in a little request.  Phil mentioned the possibility that things would simmer down, and that “...Debra and I might get back together, and make many more interesting episodes, all the rest of the days of our lives.  No, seriously though, if we both end up staying where we are, and we still need to work together, but she’s a bitch about it, and just generally makes a nuisance of herself¾not that I’m not willing to let bygones be bygones, and work in a civil manner with her¾Well, maybe, if it ends up being a real bad situation, do you think you could, like, see fit to yank her clearance or something?”

     Frank assured Phil that he should just not worry about that, for a little while, and see what happens.  With that said, Frank chugged his remaining beer, thanked Phil, and headed for the airport.  Phil had half-expected yet another final admonishment about changing his ways, but Frank had refrained.  Phil felt slightly embarrassed, thinking, I, with my wicked ways, have caused this busy public servant, this General, to have to spend a day traveling here to straighten out my sorry ass. His embarrassment was vastly outweighed, though, by resentment, as he took two hours to straighten out his house.  Not of Frank, but of the measly, numskulled, local variety of whores for the State.  Frank was much smarter than they were, and knew a good man when he saw one.

     Phil thought some pretty vengeful thoughts, straightening out his abode.  So, what can I do, short of blowing up the pig stations, or getting lucky enough to get seated on that drug, prostitution, gun ownership, or gambling-case jury, to strike a blow for the most oppressed minorities?  To be sure, I’d practice some good judgment on such a jury.  I’d send Idi Amin or Saddam Hussein to the gallows for smoking a joint!  But, short of violence or juror’s luck, what can I do? Ah-ha!  I can saturate the anonymous tipster mongers with false contraband tips!  If we all did our part, to saturate the bastards, the piggy wiggies wouldn’t be able to act on drug tips any more!

     He considered getting an electronic voice scrambler, and making calls to the bust-your-neighbor crowd from public pay phones.  He pondered the ethics.  Let’s see, now, if we can relate this to the golden rule, he thought.  Obviously, as one who wishes to aid and abet vicious vitamins in their pursuit from the ill wishes of the State, I would love it if everyone got up tomorrow, and resolved to make a false call to the snitchophiles, sometime during the day.  On the other hand, I’d hate it if only one or two people made a few such calls, and they happened to pick my name out of the phone book.  And I’d also hate it if everybody and their mother started doing this, but during the short time during which the oinkers came to realize that they couldn’t rely on their drug tips any more, someone came and murdered my ass, because the fearless piggies ignored a tip about my murderer, in the heat of pursuing false tips about vicious vitamins.  Shit!  Pretty complicated!

     Let’s go with it, though, and really figure this thing out, he thought.  So, we’ve got to have, like, a sudden, massive turn-on to this strategy, and offer only false contraband tips, and no false tips about murderers.  And we’re just going to have to hope that not too many murder tips go unheeded in the interim.  The critical thing is that the turn-on be massive, so that even dumbshit lawmen can figure it out, fast, without wasting too much effort.  I’ve got to start a movement! Shit, I can just imagine what that would do for my career, when word got around, he thought.

     He soon forgot about his vengeful thoughts, and devoted himself as never before to his creativity at work.  He never saw Debra again. Scuttlebutt had it that she’d been forced to resign in the face of drug investigations.  Phil breathed nary a word, and he never heard his name associated with her, in anything more than a minor way.

 

 

CHAPTER 13.000153

(NOTE: this is NOT an unlucky chapter!)

 

     Phil buckled himself in, which was pretty ridiculous, he thought, seeing as how it would probably be another hour before they even budged an inch, and then another half an hour before they’d leave the ground. He had brought lots of work files he could’ve messed with, there on his specially designed emissions-free work station.  But he was quite excited, to finally be on his way to becoming one of the select few to see the Earth from space.  His mind briefly flitted back almost two years, to when he’d momentarily endangered this dream, in a vain and foolish effort to capture youthful days now even further gone.  Good thing Frank had cut him some slack and let him redeem himself, he reflected.

     Even though he was excited, they still weren’t going anywhere.  The space plane INTREPID, one of America’s growing fleet of air-breathing, ceramic-engined aerospace craft, was a real laggard when it came to launch time.  He couldn’t even look out a window, and even though he could’ve called up views from video cameras around the periphery of the craft, there at his workstation, he didn’t think the views of the stationary runway would be enough to sustain his delicious excitement. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to be a supreme technogeek, sitting there and working on work files, at such a momentous time as this.  He’d thoroughly rehearsed all the work he’d have to do in orbit almost too often already, anyway.  So, he inserted his CD ROM about space travel. He’d seen it often enough by now, but once more wouldn’t hurt, and it would surely be more pleasurable than boning up for the exam once more.

     He hit the HISTORY menu, and scrolled through some text, clicking on the icons to update his graphics, or to branch to a different subcategory of text, whenever the text mentioned pictures or topics he thought he might find interesting.  He’d still not explored all the nooks and crannies of this CD ROM; it had several megabuckets of assorted guano and data and shit, and would doubtlessly take a few months of full-time study to fully absorb, he thought.  He soon got bored with the text, and just started methodically digging around for good pictures.  He stared at the good ones, even though none of them had scantily clad space babes in brass brassieres, except for one or two in a very short section on ancient science fiction.  He stared at them, thinking of vertebrate life crawling out of the atmosphere, as his fishy ancestors had crawled out of the sea, untold ages ago.

     So they’d finally retired those clunky old space shuttles about five years ago, when the US had gotten its share of the first production run of aerospace planes fully operational.  In a co-operative effort shared between Europe, Russia, America, Canada, and Japan, a fleet of 17 aerospace planes had been assembled, and America had gotten five of them.  Now, the new and improved model was starting to roll off the assembly lines, and the American fleet had grown to ten, soon to be twenty.  INTREPID was one of the originals, Phil recalled.

     We’ve finally figured out how to do it smart, Phil bragged to himself, claiming credit in a general sort of way for the technological prowess of all the rocket scientists and humanity at large.  After decades of idiotically carrying oxygen for fuel combustion, all the way from sea level to orbit, we’ve figured out how to get from here to there by breathing’s the atmosphere’s free oxygen instead.  We not only land like a plane, just like the old shuttle; we also take off like a plane, carrying just a smidgen of LOX (liquid oxygen) for maneuvers in orbit.

     Phil reviewed a bit of the new technologies involved.  Let’s see, a huge slice of the credit has got to go to ceramics wizardry, he thought. We’ve always known that ceramics are in some ways ideal for heat engines, especially, as for example in aerospace vehicles, where light weight is essential.  Ceramics can withstand extremely high temperatures, and the hotter you can get your engine, compared to its environment, the more efficiency you can get.

     On the other hand, ceramics are good in compression, not in tension.  Keep all parts of your ceramic turbine engine blades in compression, and you’re fine.  But, as soon as you even so much as side load it enough to put some small part of it tension, you run the risk of cracking it.  If it cracks, it may snap off and knock some of its neighbors off.  Presto, catastrophe.  Worst of all, turbine blades have always been entirely in the tension mode, seeing as how centrifugal force tries to stretch them out as they spin pointing out from their moorings in the center of the turbine.

     Being smart motherfuckers, though, we’ve figured out that if we mount the blades on an outer wall of a spinning turbine, and point them inwards, then centrifugal force humors the frailties of ceramic blades, putting them into compression.  As far as those pesky side loads are concerned, we’ve got to credit the metallurgists, there, ‘cause they’re the ones that designed the spinning metal cylinders that hold those ceramic blades.  As temperatures, spin and fuel-feed rates, and centrifugal forces all change, spring forces within the metal, some manufactured in and others generated by differing thermal expansion and contraction rates of different metals, conspire to twist the blades hither and thither, finessing them into constant compression.

     Our biggest headaches have included the vast increase in angular momentum caused by concentrating mass at the outer radius of the spinning turbine, where metal holds it all together.  This metal is put under terrible stress, as the spinning inferno tries to tear it apart. Spraying liquid nitrogen onto the metal keeps it cooler, while squirting liquid hydrogen through gaps in the metal, into the center of the blaze, fuels the thunder wagon.

     My biggest headache, personally, though, is how slow this stupid thing is in getting airborne, Phil thought.  We’ve got to start up real slow, lest those damned prima donna engine blades get upset.  First, we’ve got to sit here, like we’re doing now, letting all the earthbound accessories get us all revved up.  They play nursemaid, keeping our tanks and batteries topped off through umbilicals, and force feeding the engines with hotter and hotter air, faster and faster.  Soon, the mobile wind tunnels will gradually move away from the engines, and the umbilicals will drop.  Then, the large, wheeled vehicle being towed by the plane will slowly let off on its brakes, and INTREPID will start to creep down the runway, starting in a manner anything but intrepid.

     I can hear those engines starting to scream louder and louder, Phil told himself.  Soon, we’ll be rolling down the runway, and we’ll drop our link to the towed vehicle, just as it spools out the last few yards of tether.  After four or five miles of runway....  Spaceward, Ho! Gravity, let go!

     Except it was just way too slow.  By the time the wind tunnels started to pull away, Phil was already at 45,000 feet, getting his tanks of liquid hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen topped off, this time by a more conventional tanker aircraft.  By the time that they were blazing down the runway at all of two miles per hour, Phil was reviewing the CD ROM’s information on the amazing transformation that would start at 65,000 feet, ending at anywhere between 85,000 and 100,000 feet.  The variable-geometry wings, having moved backwards only slightly at a few thousand feet, and back forward for refueling, would now slowly sweep further and further back.  The turbines would spin faster and faster.

     Finally, an engine would be tortured to the ends of its endurance, and those monstrous centrifugal forces would wreak vengeance on metal and ceramics.  A turbine would start to fly apart.  The CD ROM, a combination of Hollywood documentary and NASA training manual, told Phil, “But this is all according to plan.  The craft will shudder mightily under the blows of a disintegrating turbine.  Do not panic. Automatic alarms will indicate serious abnormalities, which are highly unlikely.

     “In the first tens of milliseconds after the start of engine failure, sensors and computers will calculate the approximate nature of the failure.  Then, the computers will fire explosives into both engines, in a manner calculated to best achieve three objectives, those being, 1) gaining thrust by propelling the remnants of the turbines rearwards, 2) freeing up the center of the engine cavities, so that the newly exposed engine walls can now become variable-geometry ramjets, and 3) balancing the forces imparted to the craft by the exploding turbines, minimizing stresses on craft and cargo.”

     Hopefully, the turbines would hold out to the highest altitudes, increasing efficiency and allowing the craft to deliver extra fuels to its usual destination, a space station, for other uses.  Very few planes ever reached 100,000 feet, where intact turbines would deliberately be blasted to smithereens, so the exact time of demolition was usually a surprise.

     The turbines were designed to fail in such a manner that, although the ceramic blades would shatter into millions of fragments, the metal would usually stay in one piece.  It would be tattered and torn, to be sure, but it would mostly stay together.  A pod attached to the rear of the turbine contained homing radios and a parachute, so that rare, valuable metals could be recovered, and no unlucky ships on the oceans below would be hit by falling chunks of turbines.

     Then, the ramjets would kick in.  Having no moving parts, they could scream even louder and faster than the ceramic turbines.  They would scream almost all the way to orbit without LOX.  LOX (liquid oxygen) would combine with liquid hydrogen in small, separate rocket thrusters for the final boost to orbit, for orbital maneuvers, and for the small nudge needed to start the return to Earth.

     Phil took a momentary break from his CD ROM as they became airborne.  He displayed views from various cameras mounted on the craft, and took in the views of right, left, up, down, rearwards, and forwards. He got bored with the views from the video cameras as soon as they slipped above the cloud cover, which was fairly low and dense that day. Not more than a few minutes later, he became bored with the ROM.  So, he turned his attention to his delicate cargo, and to his work files, like the dedicated technophile that he was.

     INTREPID could be equipped to carry ten passengers, a crew of three, and cargo.  Today, though, Phil and Stanley were the only passengers.  Seats had been removed to accommodate cargo.  Robust cargo had been stashed in the cargo hold, and sensitive cargo was strapped down around two seats, one holding Phil and the other holding Stanley, at opposite corners of the passenger compartment.  This way, the two of them could each keep a close eye on two separate sets of delicate biochemical preparations.  Data cables snaked from well-secured heaps of cargo to Phil and Stanley’s workstations.  Some heaps actually had old-fashioned readouts of temperatures and chemical concentrations facing their responsible passengers.  The arrangement rather suited Phil, because he really didn’t enjoy trying to make small talk with Stanley, that obnoxious, humorless geek!

     Phil read his readouts and polled his data, and compared them all to their acceptable ranges.  None were close to being out of control, as expected.  Good, he thought, all of our precursor chemicals, all guaranteed to be way too simple to get anywhere close to being pathogenic, are in good shape.  Having these ready-made, instead of assembling them in orbit, means we stay in orbit for two weeks instead of three months.  Not that I’d mind space for a longer time; it’s just that it costs the taxpayers a lot of money, and Stanley will get on my nerves enough, in just two weeks.

     Phil took special care to monitor the data from the only live cargo, which was six weasels, which had been purposely caught from the wild for their ferocity.  He could also see them directly, two yards to his front and left, in their small, clear, padded Plexiglas cages. They were all fine.  He reminded himself not to get attached to them, seeing as how, hopefully, in two weeks they were to meet an awful demise, in the name of humanity’s scientific advancement.  The agile small mammalian carnivore’s fighting capabilities, pound for pound, were about the planet’s best, and the BELFRYBATs were going to need some live prey to really test their reflexes, speed, smarts, and general combat talents.  Phil hoped that this would be the first, last, and only occasion on which his computer simulations would be brought to life, and that these six weasels would be their first, last, and only victims.

     He reviewed the measures he’d have to take to shepherd his various cargoes, if anything bad happened.  Mostly, sit at my station here, and push a mouse, or peck at a keyboard, he thought.  In rare cases, I might have to unstrap myself, hustle on over there, tweak, poke, or prod this or that, and hustle on back to my seat.  Especially if we’re between 65,000 and 100,000 feet, and we’ve still not yet blown it all out our ass end, in which case I’m not supposed to even get out of my chair, except in the most extreme emergencies.

     He then started to review all the tasks that would have to be performed in orbit, at international space station UNITY.  First, unload the cargo, taking special care of the precursor chemicals, weasels, and Stanley’s boatloads of bulky data.  The tons of frozen meat in the cargo hold, at least, could be handled by the station’s personnel and machinery.  Phil reminded himself that the frozen meat was just a bunch of raw chemicals that needed refrigeration, according to the labels, and to the knowledge of everyone up there, except for Stanley and himself. He imagined the long-term UNITY personnel, who had to survive for months and even years, eating fresh foods from Earth only rarely, as a treat, hearing about tons of meat being brought up to orbit to sustain eggs, maggots, and BATs.  No, Sir!  No one would hear, and fresh-meat envy would be the least of the reasons why.

     Phil thought momentarily about the usual space fare these days, which he’d be eating, same as the other personnel.  Maybe he’d get tired of processed, highly artificial foods, generated in vats of DNA and amino acids, or extracted from algae, and start swiping an ounce or two of the choicest cuts of meat intended for the BATs, but he doubted it. He’d tasted some of these artificial foods on Earth, where, unlike in space, they were still more expensive than regular food, and he didn’t mind them at all.

     Nor was he bothered, as some people were, by the fact that the space stations recycled their feces, urine, carbon dioxide, and sweat into fresh food and drink.  So what if I eat my recycled turds, Phil said to himself, as long as they’re not turds when I eat them.  Hell, Earth itself is nothing but a giant recycler!  That attractive, sanitary omelet I ate this morning probably contained carbon atoms that’ve previously been dinosaur dung and mastodon menstrual fluids!

     Then, Phil got to thinking about his destination,  UNITY.  It was the latest and greatest of all space stations, and the only one to rotate, providing artificial gravity.  It had been complete enough to start rotating only half of a year ago, he recalled.  About half of the working and living spaces were configured in a giant wheel that rotated.  Centrifugal force generated “gravity” force about two-thirds of the strength of the real thing, as found on Earth at sea level.

     Another section of the station was used for docking space and aerospace vehicles, and for microgravity research.  This section was attached to the hub of the wheel, and did not rotate.  A few small structures, which housed experiments that couldn’t even tolerate the occasional shocks and jostlings provided by arriving and departing craft, and by humans and machines moving about, floated free in the vicinity of UNITY.  Most were joined by flexible cables, for moving fluids, data, and power between the main body and accessories.

     Power was generated in orbiting arrays of solar panels, and shuffled back and forth by microwave beams, so that no major facility was ever without the large amounts of power that it required, even when in the Earth’s shadow.  Phil knew, though, that everyone associated with UNITY was looking forward to the completion of the first fusion power plant in space.  At fusion reactor turn-on time, now scheduled for nine months away, there’d be a vast increase in power availability.

     UNITY represented the lion’s share of humanity’s investments in space, Phil recalled.  The US, Europe, and Russia had a few other manned stations up there, but they were all nothing, compared to UNITY.  Fifty billion dollars of Earth’s treasures had already been invested in UNITY, and another thirty billion would be spent, before all the presently planned features would be complete.  A large part of the expenses were for the rotating, artificial-gravity part of the station, but an even larger portion of the costs were going to the fusion reactor.

     Phil had intended to at least roughly review all the things that he’d have to do in orbit, but found his mind wandering, thinking about UNITY and what it meant to the human race.  He went back to checking out his CD ROM, concentrating on the sections about UNITY and its fusion reactor.

     “UNITY is aptly named, since it is the result of co-operation among many nations,” he read, “It has sections belonging to individual nations, including modules attached to the rotating section, as well as parts that are owned in common by all the contributing nations. Examples of the jointly-owned areas are infrastructure, frame, and the corridor along the entire circumference of the rotating portion.” Phil knew that he was destined for one of America’s five modules on the rotating section.  His module was the only top-secret American module, where access was tightly controlled.  He and Stanley would share it with some spook types, whose jobs, apparently, had something to do with interacting with all sorts of orbiting intelligence-gathering apparatus. Their module would be connected to, but mostly blocked off from, the circumferential corridor.

     Phil read some more.  “The fusion power station, when complete, will furnish UNITY and other orbiting stations with all the power that they’ll need for many years.  Power will easily be transferred by lasers and microwaves from one location to another, in the vacuum of space, without the interference of atmospheres and clouds.

     “UNITY will be the disembarkation station for most, if not all, manned and unmanned vehicles departing to explore the vast unknown. Some vehicles will carry dense carbon ablative shields on their posterior ends.  After being given a healthy boost by an electromagnetic rail gun, these spacecraft will have their backsides blasted by laser. The laser energy will excite carbon atoms loose from the ablative shields, propelling the spacecraft.  Some deep-space exploratory craft, especially those that explore the distant reaches of the solar system, where sunlight is quite sparse, will collect laser energy from UNITY with arrays of photovoltaic cells.  All this, and more, will be made possible by cheap, abundant fusion energy.

     “A potentially darker side of space-based fusion power involves military applications.  However, it could also be a brighter side, depending on voters, politicians, and policies.  Details are still being negotiated, ....”.  Details, my aching heiney-hole! Phil thought. China is standing in the way of everything, and things sure as hell don’t look like they’ll change anytime soon.  “....but there are already sections of UNITY owned by the United Nations, and, if arrangements can be found that are satisfactory to all the major nations, then UNITY will be able to enforce world peace.  The UN will use UNITY’s fusion power and lasers to beat back any aggressors.”

     Too bad that China’s got controlled thermonuclear fusion, Phil reflected.  Otherwise, their stance wouldn’t mean a hill of beans. Controlled fusion had been developed openly, through co-operation among the worldwide scientific community, and so any nation with the resources to do so, could build fusion power stations.  At least, China hadn’t been cut into the co-operative space exploration efforts, and Phil was thankful for that.

     So, as best as Phil understood, the current proposal was that all nations with large ground-based fusion-powered laser stations, which, after all, were capable of blasting UNITY out of the sky, would agree to have UN-monitored fire-control systems installed, so that they could only be used for self-defense, and not for shooting down UNITY.  UNITY, in turn, would be operated by the UN.  It’s fire-control systems would reserve its power for UN-sanctioned enforcement actions.  All nations, or, at least, all nations that mattered, which is to say, all nations with their own large fusion power stations, had agreed to the setup. Except for China, which apparently felt isolated and fearful enough already, without the UN dangling a weapon over its territory.

     The current work-around plan was to have UNITY’s fire-control system lock out all Chinese territory, and to have Chinese representatives on board, so that the Chinese government could verify that all was well.  This way, China should feel less tempted to take a shot at UNITY.  To discourage other nations from taking China’s route, though, China would no longer have a vote in security matters at the UN. The theory, which Phil subscribed to wholeheartedly, was that if you don’t pay, you don’t play.

     Just about then, INTREPID’s network muscled aside part of Phil’s workstation’s local autonomy, and momentarily grabbed a part of his screen to inform him that they were approaching rendezvous with the tanker, and that he might wish to watch, through the starboard video camera.  Phil did so.  There was the tanker, converging with INTREPID. Phil watched for a few minutes, then switched to the front camera’s view.  This camera had been turned upwards for the occasion, so he could watch the refueling boom descend to mate with the receptacle on the front top of INTREPID’s fuselage.  He was fairly sure he felt a small shudder during the actual moment of first contact.  All went well, though, and Phil soon got bored with viewing the operation.

     He got back to reviewing what all they’d have to do in orbit.  OK, so we’ve unloaded all the cargo now, and we’ve gotten it through the junction where the non-rotating part of the station meets the axis of the rotating part.  We’ve gotten the cargo “down” a strut of the wheel, via elevators, and we’ve hustled it along the corridor to our module. Now, we’ve got to take Stanley’s bulky, refrigerated data, and get it onto our computer.

     That, however, was as far as Phil’s review of in-orbital tasks got, before he was side-tracked once more, thinking about Stanley’s data.  A lot of it was actually ABC’s data, which Phil would work with, but some of it was Epsilon’s data.  It irritated Phil a lot, that Stanley had access to all of ABC’s data, but he had no access to some of Stanley’s data, and wasn’t supposed to know anything about some of Stanley’s experiments, while Stanley was free to know all about what Phil did.

     So they say that I can’t know all about Epsilon’s doings, Phil thought, because they’re the countermeasures department, and we want to have “fair” computer simulations of biowars?  Well, how come they get to know all about our doings?  Is that any less realistic, in a biowar, to assume that the defender knows all about the offense’s technology?  He’d not gotten any good answers from Frank, when he’d asked, and it had been plain to Phil that he’d better not press the issue.

     So we’ve got to get all this top-secret data to UNITY, Phil thought, and laser, radio, or microwave transmission is judged to be just too risky.  Even if we have fool-proof encryption techniques these days, we can’t risk having certain other nations asking too many questions about the volumes of encrypted data flowing to UNITY.  And we also worry about INTREPID crashing in unfriendly territory, with hand-carried top-secret data, so we say, damn the expenses, and cover all the bases.

     We encode all the data onto rhodopsin, which is a bacterial protein that can be written and read with polarized laser light.  The protein “remembers” the polarity of laser light that wrote on it, and this polarity can be read back, as a method of data storage.  The beauty of it all, for sensitive applications like our own, is that if some traumatic event, like a crash or capture, happens to the craft carrying the data, then refrigeration is lost, and the protein only works at the temperature of liquid nitrogen, or lower.  Unfortunately, the data density is poor, despite the media being produced as thinly, smoothly, and uniformly as possible, through the wonders of genetic engineering. So, we’ve got to wrestle with thousands of pounds of refrigerated data.

     When we get there, with our frigid data, we’ve got to move it all to our supercomputer, where it will be kept for the mission.  Large parts of it, we probably won’t need, but we’d rather be safe than sorry. We’ll lock it up, up there, stored in a secure location in a more conventional form, in case we should need to go up there again.  Knock on graphite-epoxy matrix that that’ll never happen, he thought, ‘cause even though space travel is lovely, we’re hoping to do it right this time, and fuck-ups don’t help my career.

     All the excitement had burned up his energies, and now, excitement had evolved into boredom for Phil, so he started to doze off a bit.  He drifted in and out of sleep and semi-sleep, thinking bizarre, half-formed and half-assed thoughts, for a timeless interval.  He was in semi-sleep mode when he was awakened most rudely by INTREPID, which was making horrible noises and threatening to splatter his brains all over the inside of the passenger cabin.  His body was slammed back and forth, straining his restraint straps, and it took all of his mental and physical powers to tuck his arms in, so that they wouldn’t flail around.

     Holy Motherfucking Jesus Almighty! he exclaimed to himself, I’m going to go and join the Challenger astronauts!  For the first time ever, one of these damned aerospace planes is going to go down in flames!  My shitty luck I’d have to be on it.  So what if I get to be a hero, like those before me, who have given their lives in Man’s noble quest to explore the cosmos?  Big fucking deal, being a dead hero!  I’d rather be a live mouse!  Why do I have to die to be a hero, anyway?

     After about five seconds of sheer panic, he noticed that the noises and motions were subsiding, and that there was a message on his screen, saying, “All systems NORMAL.  Converting to ramjets at 81,300 feet.” NORMAL?  This brain-battering routine was NORMAL?  Holy Shiites!  It took him another half a minute to consolidate his feces, which he was amazed hadn’t squirted into his pants, what with the panic he’d just been through.  He checked on his cargo.  Amazingly enough, all was still well, including a half dozen dazed and confused weasels.  The noise, though, which had previously been merely annoying, was now just plain awful, as thin air screamed through ramjets at ungodly velocities.  Phil dug out his earplugs and installed them gratefully.

     He then hammered out a message to Stanley, asking how his cargo was doing.  He got an almost immediate reply, basically telling him to stand by. It was another three minutes before he got a reply, saying, all is well.  Phil felt a momentary surge of pride, knowing that he was responsible for the most sensitive and delicate cargo, and had still done his job far faster than Stanley.  Who cares if Stanley gets to mess with stuff I’m not allowed to know about, Phil asked himself.  It’s still obvious that the powers that be, trust me more with the really important stuff.

     He finished his review of what all they’d have to do in orbit, as they screamed ever higher and faster into thinner and thinner air.  He took an occasional look outside via the cameras, but he could hardly see anything, apparently due to the shock waves of superheated air enveloping INTREPID.  He found it to be just a wee bit disconcerting, to think that he was sitting in a craft whose mostly ceramic surfaces were so blazing hot, that he might as well be in a blast furnace.  He could feel his weight decrease, as they slipped free of Earth’s bonds, and the ramjets lost their grip on the extremely thin atmosphere.

     Finally, he saw the message on screen, saying, “Prepare for rocket thrust”.  Half a minute later, he felt their force, pushing him gently back into his seat.  It was nothing, compared to the beating he’d taken back at blow-it-out-your-ass time.  He wished they’d get smart, and give the warning when it actually mattered.  The rocket thrust lasted for about three minutes, and then he was in free fall.  His belly did a few somersaults, and his head did the whirlybird, just for a minute or two, and then he was fine.  He pecked out a message to Stanley once more; Stanley said he was fine.

     Phil checked out the cargo one more time, expecting and getting nothing abnormal.  The weasels were floating around in their little cages, apparently taking it all in stride.  He could almost hear them say, “What, us worry?  We of the weasel tribe, ferocious little beasties that we are, don’t worry about silly little things like falling around the Earth at zillions of miles an hour.”

     Phil checked the time, and saw that it would be another half an hour before they reached UNITY.  He was tempted to get out of his seat, and play at zero-gravity acrobatics, but refrained.  He knew he’d get in trouble for it, seeing as how there was a small chance of unexpected rocket thrusts needing to be made.  Besides, there’s be plenty enough chances to play, later.

     So, he whiled away some time just day-dreaming, thinking about the last few years of his life.  It had been a busy, exciting and challenging time, but there was something missing.  Or, someone. Someone like Gloria, but less bossy.  He recalled how he’d ‘fessed up to Gloria, about trying to chase wild women, and just not having any luck at all.  She’d sympathized, and mentioned how her experiences were similar.  His mind slipped back to that phone conversation.

     “Well, Snugglebunny, it sounds like you and I need to get back together again, then,” he’d said, “We were like hand and glove for eight years; why couldn’t we do it again?” Pause; no words from Gloria. “Seriously, Pootie Pie, any time you change your mind, come on down. There’s a special place in my house and in my heart, reserved for you. Soon’s you come to see that my work is just another service, just another method of keeping evil people at bay, and that the bogey monsters aren’t going to eat all the little children, then, come on down to Altanta.  You know I still love you, Pootie Pie.”

     Gloria had sniffled a little, and declined.  “I love you too, Phil,” she’d said, “But, unfortunately, I think you’ve still got things to learn.  I may be wrong; I may be the one who’s got to learn.  But I doubt it.  In any case, whichever one of us has got some learning left to accomplish, here, I sure hope that the learning can take place without too much suffering.”

     That’s Gloria, all right, Phil reflected.  Carry on about this psychobabble, touchie-feelie stuff.  She’d gone on to say how she was volunteering some of her physician-type efforts as a public service, to fill in her time, and to give her some satisfaction.  That’s Gloria, too, he thought: putting her time and money where her mouth is.  We all appreciate her kind, except sometimes they’re pissing down a rathole. Soon’s you fix ‘em up, they go and make more babies of their own kind, who will in turn demand yet more public services.  I, now, on the other hand, perform a public service, too, giving butthole dictators pause for thought, before they go off and try to butt-fuck every helpless slob they can lay hands on.  I’m just more hard-bitten by the reality bug. At least, I’ve got to hand it to her, ‘cause she’s donating her own time and money, instead of running off and threatening to stick people in jail, unless they donate to the noble causes, like our bleeding-heart Uncle Sanctimonious, who loves to make our charity decisions for us.

     Docking time came soon enough.  Finally, the all-clear was sounded, and Phil unstrapped himself, floating free.  It was just, like, totally rad, man!  He had a good time, even while unstrapping the heaps of cargo, and pushing them around.  It was pretty awesome, pushing thousands of pounds around with a light touch.  The crew came back to help, and all the delicate cargo was soon on its way to its destination.

     Half a day later, Phil and Stanley were slaving away in their sealed-off module, stashing the cargo away and transferring frigid data to more conventional media.  By the time that he dropped off to sleep, twenty hours after he’d woken so full of excitement, every cell in his body was crying out for rest.  The artificial gravity, two-thirds of that of the planet of his birth, made his bed softer and sweeter.

     The next day, Phil and Stanley awoke, and got right to work. Precursor chemicals were warmed and fed to machines.  Genes were assembled, following computerized instructions.  By the end of the day, amino acids, nucleic acids, and trace elements were in motion in vats, building small subsections of BELFRYBAT queens.  The subsections would be operational in five days.  Entire queens wouldn’t be assembled; only the smaller worker BATs would be brought to term in any significant quantities.  The plans called for only a handful of larger BATs to be produced.  The queen subsections that they were starting with were to serve as instruments enabling all their other efforts; they were queen ovipositors and reproductive tracts, or egg-laying machines.

     The next day, they took cell samples from all four sets of growing queen organs, and analyzed them all in detail, paying special attention to possible pathogenic characteristics, and to the possibility that any of the cell types might be able to live free of the parent organism.  As expected, no such characteristics were found, but Phil agreed that it was better to be safe than sorry, especially when sorry might mean letting new diseases loose on humanity.

     They also prepared a few hundred incubators with meat and various trace chemicals and bacteria, so that when the eggs started rolling out, they’d be ready.  Most of the packages of frozen meat had already been injected, for purposes of seeing what the BAT eggs and maggots could and couldn’t handle.  They’d be raised at various temperatures, as well as in various contaminants, to make sure that they were as robust as designed.  Phil didn’t fully understand the complex ways in which all the variables had been thrown together, but he didn’t much care.  He was just a designer and experiment-conductor; he’d let the statisticians juggle and interpret all the numbers they’d gather.

     Phil strolled around the refrigerated incubator compartment, looking at all the labels.  All sorts of yummy contaminants here, he thought.  It’s a good thing that I like the artificial food up here, and that I’m not too tempted to steal any of this meat from our little pets. Only a fraction of all these meats are still edible by sensible humans. Just wait till we turn the temperatures up in here in a few days¾I’ll bet it’ll smell just lovely in here!  Good thing we’ve got some special air-handling equipment here.

     He took a look at one section of meats, trying not to think too much about where the meat came from.  There was no way, though, other than using human flesh, to verify the BAT feature whereby all but the first few generations of BATs would die without substantial proportions of human proteins, as a method of making sure BATs didn’t decimate non-human species.  Phil was to pull some tricks to advance the generational “cycle counter” on some eggs, and put half of them in human flesh, and half of them in beef, to make sure things worked as they were supposed to.  He stared at the meat, remembering how it had come from donors who had donated their bodies to science, and trying not to think of what the donors might think about the specific use that their flesh was about to be put to.

     The next few days were largely goof-off days.  Stanley and Phil traded off between just sitting around and monitoring the growth of the queen organs, and sneaking out of their top-secret module and exploring UNITY.  Phil really enjoyed playing in zero gravity, and just staring at the gorgeous, ever-changing Earth below.

     Finally, two days before the eggs were supposed to start arriving, they let the incubators start warming, so that the meat would thaw. Phil joked to Stanley about how they should’ve brought cute balloons, stuffed toys, and decorations for their nursery, but Stanley didn’t even crack a smile.  See if I waste any more good humor on you, you bum, Phil thought.

     Phil managed, though, to talk Stanley into giving him the lion’s share of goof-off time.  He made the most of his last two days of major hanging-out time, ogling Mother Earth and frolicking in the zero-gravity recreation section.

     Work time was back all too soon.  Phil and Stanley were kept completely busy for a few days, transferring eggs from ovipositors to incubators, analyzing eggs, and performing various experiments.  In some cases, incubators had to be infected with bacteria and other micro-organisms that couldn’t be frozen.  Phil paid extra special attention to five large eggs that went to larger incubators.  He knew that these were the only larger BATs that they’d bring to term, and that they were a critical part of the verification.

     After they filled the incubators with eggs, things were a little less hectic, but not much.  Now that they’d served their main purposes, the queen organs were fair game for experiments.  They were subjected to radiation and various chemicals, and the “checksum” feature’s ability to eliminate mutants was verified.  Reproductive shutdown in the absence of leash compounds was also verified.

     Soon, they had to completely seal their module off from UNITY, and the eggs turned to gruesome maggot-like creatures, and then to BATs. Going into the incubators was a chore, any more, since they had to wear protective suits, to protect them from both the bacteria, and from any BATs that might somehow escape from their little cages.  BATs in various stages of growth were killed and dissected.  Poisons were collected and assayed.  Bacterial cultures were taken from the meat.  Phil was pleased to see that the BAT eggs and maggots were quite proficient in secreting chemicals to ward off almost all kinds of bacteria.  There was no reason why BATs should have to share their loot with bacteria, reducing the reproductive efficiency of BATs, after all.

     Phil and Stanley recorded lots of data, and then started the job of destroying most of their creations.  The five large BATs, which were still growing, were set aside, along with twenty-five fully grown smaller BATs.  The rest were all killed and shredded, with the remains set aside for eventual contribution to UNITY’s hydroponic algae farms. In special cases, where the BATs had been exposed to toxic, long-lived chemicals, the BATs were incinerated.  Phil thought about the algae, in turn, being turned into foodstuffs.  He concluded that what UNITY’s algae-eaters didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt them, and that eating recycled BATs on UNITY was no worse than eating recycled mastodon menstrual fluids on Earth.

     Now that they had more room, the big day was finally at hand.  Phil got ready for the acid test.  He shuffled some cages around.  Stanley got three of the large BATs, and took them off to the secret area of the top-secret module, where he was to do things with them that Phil wasn’t privy to.  Phil didn’t dwell on it; he had enough things of his own to do, to keep him busy, without worrying about Stanley’s business.

     Phil set his two larger BATs aside, and set a large cage containing ten small BATs next to a cage containing three weasels.  He pitied the three small mammals, scurrying so innocently around in their cage.  So what if they’re fierce fighting machines, he said to himself, they have no poisonous stingers.  I’d place my bets on the BATs any day, even if the numbers were reversed.  He momentarily visualized himself making the black-market cockfighting and dogfighting rounds, pitting his pets against all comers.

     He set up the video cameras, secured the two cages together, and pressed the buttons to raise the mating doors.  This should be interesting, he thought.  These weasels are actually about the worst thing we could throw against the BATs¾they’re so small, they can move much faster than larger animals.  The weasels just scurried around some more; only one of them briefly stuck his head through the open door, in an exploratory manner, and then rejoined his buddies.  The three weasels had only recently been put together in one larger cage, in accordance with instructions.  Phil wasn’t sure what they’d do to each other, if they were kept confined with each other for long.

     If the weasels were timid, the BATs sure weren’t.  They were hungry, as a matter of fact.  Phil had made sure that this would be the case.  One by one, as soon as they seemed to figure out the score, they fluttered over into the weasel cage, hanging onto the cage ceiling’s thick wires above the weasels, and staring down intently.  The weasels hunkered down, and stared back up at the BATs suspiciously.

     One brave BAT swooped down, coming within inches of a weasel, which reared up and struck out, narrowly missing the BAT.  The sight of a creature striking out against a BAT seemed to trigger all the other BATs into action.  They all swooped down, fluttering around and dive-bombing at the weasels, which twisted and turned agilely, always facing the closest foe.  One, then two BATs went down, as weasel fangs grasped their throats.  Phil was starting to worry, when he noticed that the second BAT, in its death throes, had managed to plunge a stinger into its adversary.  After that, the BATs made short work of the weasels. Within a minute or two, all that remained in the cages was eight BATs; they even ate their fallen comrades.  Phil was tickled pink.  The BATs were awesome fighting machines!

     Great! he thought, now for phase two.  Let’s see how smart the larger BATs are, and whether they’ll work with the smaller BATs, like they’re supposed to.  He took his remaining three weasels, and poked a stick at them, through their cages, transferring each one individually into specially designed cages with various latches and doorknobs.  He then assembled a large cage, and put the small cages with their resident weasels inside the large cage.  Next, he mated a cage containing ten more small BATs to the door of the large cage, pushed the door-opening button on the BAT cage, and poked at the BATs till they all flew into the large cage.  There, they stared at the tempting contents of the small cages, but could do little else.

     Phil shut the door of the large cage, then removed the empty cage, and replaced it with a cage containing two large BATs.  The large BATs stared at him hungrily, pushing at the bars and gnashing their teeth. Hey, you bums, I’m one of the good guys, he thought.  He was half tempted to bash them on their heads, to teach them a lesson or two. Instead, he just pushed the button to release them into the larger cage. They needed no prodding; they just crawled right on over to the large cage.

     Phil regretted that even the large cage wasn’t big enough to accommodate the juvenile BAT’s three-foot wingspans in flight, let alone the five-foot wingspan of an adult.  Oh, well, he thought, at least we know that the smaller BATs, with their nine-inch wingspans, can fly quite well.  We’ll just have to trust our simulations on the larger BATs, since Frank didn’t like my idea of Stanley and I sitting in a cage, while we let a large BAT fly around the module.  Frank hadn’t approved of any of the risky plans on how they could go about killing or recapturing the BAT after its flight test.

     Phil briefly recalled Frank’s comment.  “Hell, if I approve of your plan, here, next thing you know, you’ll be wanting to test those anti-aircraft instincts you’ve designed into them, and there’s just no way I can get you that much room on UNITY.” Frank had referred to instincts that would cause BATs to fly into aircraft propeller blades and engines, bringing them down through FOD (Foreign Object Damage). The enemy sure as hell wouldn’t be able to fly very low over bat-infested territory, Phil thought.  But, this feature obviously will remain untested, other than in computer simulations.

     Phil brought his attentions back to the present nexus of the space-time continuum, watching the large BATs assess their new home. They peered around the cage, looking at the small BATs, and at the weasels in their cages.  They walked on over to the cages, and pushed them around a bit, examining them carefully.  Phil cheered to himself as they figured out how to work the various latches and knobs, and opened the doors to the small cages.  The weasels cowered in fear at the far ends of their cages, baring their teeth against their tormentors.  The large BATs tried a few times to get into those small cages, but discovered that no matter how hard they tried, their shoulders would smash up against the doorframes, preventing further entry.  Those weasels have got to be just about ready to shit their pants, Phil thought.

     Finally, the large BATs just retreated, and relaxed at the opposite end of the large cage.  It was the small BATs’ turn for some action. Phil looked at the cowardly weasels, thinking, if you little fuckers were really smart, just about now, you’d reach out and slam your doors back shut!

     The weasels did no such things, and the smaller BATs soon clustered around the open cages.  Soon enough, a small BAT crept into one of the cages, and a fight ensued.  The weasel won, in those tight quarters, but not before being stung.  Other small BATs crept into that cage, and disposed of the bodies.  Then, they finished off the other two weasels, with only one more BAT having to pay the price.  The larger BATs stood by, watching it all dispassionately, but they did come on over to join the party when the smaller BATs pushed one of the weasel’s remains out the door, so as to be able to get at it better.  The larger BATs grabbed the weasel flesh, and devoured it.  There was no real squabbling; the smaller ones just stepped aside, and one of the larger ones chewed the weasel in half, handing half of it to the other large BAT.  Hot damn, thought Phil, another success!

     After wolfing down their chow, the larger BATs cleaned themselves, while the smaller BATs finished up the remains of the last weasel, inside a small cage.  After their meal, the last small BATs crept out of the small cage.  The large BATs promptly shut the doors to all three small cages.  What the hell is going on now, Phil asked himself.

     It was made clear to him, all too soon, exactly what the large BATs were up to.  They methodically hunted down and killed all the small BATs!  The small BATs, at least, seemed to have properly functioning instincts; they refused to fight their own kind.  The only resistance they put up, was to try to flee.  Within minutes, all that was left was two fattened large BATs.

     Phil just about cried.  After all this time, he and his buddies at ABC had managed to design cannibals!  OK, so they get an A+++ for smarts, for not only figuring out how the doors work, but also for conspiring against their smaller brothers.  They’re just too damn smart, he thought.  Or, at the very least, they’re applying their smarts in the wrong directions.

     He sat there, totally dejected, for a few minutes.  Properly functioning large BATs were an indispensable part of the whole scheme. How would he face Stanley, and Frank, and so many people back at ABC? OK, so maybe there weren’t so many people at ABC who knew about the trial run, but the ones that really mattered knew.  He only briefly considered wiping out the video tapes he’d made of the latter goings-on, and coming up with some cock and bull story, but he knew he couldn’t live with himself, short-changing his country.  What if the weapon would have to be deployed some day, to save the American and Western ways of life, and failed, because of his deceitfulness?  No, that just wouldn’t do.  Better to pay the piper now.

     He got out his poison-tipped poke stick, killed the remaining BATs, and disposed of their bodies.  He cleaned up, till Stanley finally emerged from his mysterious research.  Reluctantly, he told Stanley his results.  Stanley seemed disappointed, too, but Phil thought he detected the hint of a superior smirk.  OK, so he’s not crabbing at me now, Phil thought, but there’s always later.

     They finished cleaning up, transferred the data that they’d gathered to refrigerated rhodopsin disk drives for the return journey, and called it a day.

     The next day had been set aside for unforeseen tasks, so they had it available as a goof-off day.  Phil’s heart just wasn’t into goofing off in a proper manner, though.  The return to Earth the following day wasn’t as much fun for him as the ride up, either, despite the absence of brain-bashing aerospacecraft reconfiguration routines.

 

 

CHAPTER 14

 

     Krista Chung sat in Stanley’s living room, listening to him brag about how he’d managed to swipe the data.  “It all went pretty smooth. Early on during our stay on UNITY, Phil was all excited, like the childish imp he is, about playing in zero gravity.  So, with all this time all by myself, I just took the opportunity to transfer all the good data to some more sensible media, instead of that bulky, stupid rhodopsin crap.  Then, I just stashed these high-density disk drives that I’d brought, back into my luggage.  Pretty simple, actually.”

     “You’re such a talented and resourceful genius,” Krista told him admiringly.  “I’d have no idea how to do all that computer stuff.  You just amaze me.  How can you know all your biochemistry, and still find room left over in your brain for computers?”

     “Yeah, I suppose you’re right, my Precious Jewel.  You really shouldn’t flatter me so.  You know it gets me all excited, and I’m afraid that if we do it too often, we’ll wear out my red star sapphire and my jasper.  But, if you really must know, I attribute it to my expert use of emerald, gold, and diamond, as psychic amplifiers of brain and creative powers.  Of course, as my collection grows, and as I gain more skills in how to use my gems and metals, why, then, who knows what I might be able to accomplish?”

     “You’ve already done so much, I can hardly imagine, Brilliant One. Do you think maybe we could admire your collection again?” Stanley gladly led her once again to his spare bedroom, where they admired his collection of gems and metals, discussing in great detail which crystals and metals were good for what, and how best to use them.  She listened with rapt fascination, just as she had when he’d first met her in a crystal shop.

     Stanley was fond of remembering that golden day, when he’d been browsing, and she’d approached him for a bit of advice on what might be best to keep her grounded, and to keep her in tune with the energies of the Eternal Cosmos.  He had been only too glad to help her, and when he found out that she also admired him for his scientific abilities, his joys had just about overflowed.  In fact, he’d had to resort to quite a few sessions with his malachite, bloodstone, and aquamarine, to restore his emotional and mental balance, and to retain his practicality.

     “It’s just so incredibly refreshing,” he’d commented to her, “To finally find a person who can appreciate both the rational, logical ways of modern science, and that which is above and beyond the rational. But, you know, there really is no conflict.  For example, science has shown that the efficacy of acupuncture needles is increased, if the needles are coated with silicon dioxide, or quartz, crystals.  Quartz can also strengthen your spiritual field, and protect you from some kinds of radiation.  I’d really like to conduct and publish some scientific studies of crystal power, but I’m afraid of what it would do to my career.  Damned... barbarians would probably want to burn me at the stake, for the sake of science.”

     She had looked at him with infinitely sad eyes, and commented about how she couldn’t begin to imagine the tortures of those who are way ahead of their time.

     When he had finally come to understand who she was, and where her loyalties lay, he’d been momentarily disconcerted.  But, he’d decided that she was just way too sincere, and way too much of a good thing, both in bed and otherwise, for her to be such a bad egg.  Besides, she was a naturalized American citizen, and he was just helping her help the nation of her birth, in getting some information to assist in their own defense.  And what’s so bad about defending oneself?  He was also helping Andrew, his old buddy at the CIA, and his pals, whoever they were.  Also, he was helping to show that Phil wasn’t the world’s only biowizard extraordinaire, so as to make sure that this particular egomaniac didn’t get too powerful.  Finally, he wanted to make Krista happy.  A happy Krista made him happy, too, by sharing her lithe and supple young body with him, and by bringing him lots of neat crystals and metals.

     The whole thing bothered him a bit, now that Andrew had made it clear to him that he was on his own.  He’d only heard from Andrew once since that meeting in the park, and that was when Andrew had called him to warn him that Frank was getting suspicious.  He remembered that one single call very well.  “He’s been bending and breaking a few rules, snooping on you, and he’s been talked to about it.  I really can’t give you any more details.  It will probably stop, but I just thought we should let you know.  You don’t know anything at all about this, now, mind you, but generally, just watch your step.  You might also want to avoid, whenever possible, going into the secure rooms at ABC.  That’s all I can tell you.  Lots of luck.”

     Sapphire helped Stanley dispel these stresses, and he made sure he wore his sapphire ring, on those few occasions that he couldn’t weasel out of going into the secure rooms.  The sodalite that he’d slip into his pocket would boost his courage, as well.

     After Stanley showed off his collection to Krista yet once more, they walked hand in hand back to the living room, where they got down to business.  “Here you go, my Darling.  Lots of good data.  Keep in mind that this business about UNITY and the trial run are strictly between you and me.  I’ve unzipped and gone through all the data, and deleted what few references there were to trial runs, and zipped it back up.” Stanley noticed her quizzical stare.  “Zipping and unzipping means, compressing and uncompressing the data.  Zip it for storing, so that it takes less room, and unzip it to use or modify it.”

     “You’re so clever.  I’d love to know just a small fraction of all the things you know,” she said, enviously.

     “You and a few other folks.  That is, those who at least are smart enough to realize how little they know.  Sorry to say, they’re far too much of a rare breed.”

     “And, geniuses like you, who actually do know something, are even more of a rare breed.  I feel so incredibly lucky to have a relationship with you, Stanley.” They sat on the couch, and made some passionate whoopee.

     Finally, in a small break in the action, Krista pulled a small box out of her pocket.  “I brought a little present for you, Ruby Stud.  I sure hope you like it.”

     Stanley opened the box, exclaiming joyfully when he saw the practically flawless twelve-carat diamond within.  He was so glad that she’d given him the diamond, instead of just giving him money to buy it with, since he knew that the resident energies and spirits within diamonds took offense at being bought and sold.  It was far better that he should receive it as a gift, he knew.  He remembered having mentioned this fact in passing, once, to Krista.  Good thing she listened so well, he thought.

     He fussed over it for a while, thinking of what a powerful energy amplifier he had, right there in his hands, and looking forward to seeing what he could do with it.  Along with his emeralds, this diamond could work wonders.  There’d be just about no limit to what he could accomplish, now!  He could barely wait the seven days he’d read about, during which he’d have to purify the crystal in cow’s urine.  This was one secret about crystals that he’d actually kept from her; he wasn’t sure exactly why. Maybe it was just that, well, despite all her well-balanced and well-grounded cosmic energies, she just wasn’t quite on the same higher plane as he was on.  It wasn’t exactly that he didn’t want to cast pearls before swine, but it may have been a milder version of the same syndrome, he thought, self-analytically.

     No, she’s certainly not a swine at all, he reflected, kissing her passionately once or twenty times.  “So tell me, my Brilliant One, what else you might need to make your collection complete?,” she inquired, gently rubbing his crotch.

     He paused a moment or two, till inspiration struck him.  “I know! I have a tendency now and then to be a bit excessive at times.  Like, working too hard and too long, and getting upset when people aren’t up to my standards.  And, platinum is good for curbing excessiveness, as well as for boosting brain power.  I could definitely use a nice, big chunk of platinum.”

     She nodded agreeably, and they smooched some more.  He led her to his bedroom, where he placed a red star sapphire ring on his finger, and a jasper earring in her earlobe.  He scattered a few pink tourmalines on the nightstand, and they conducted a centering exercise.  Then, they made mad, passionate love.


 

 

CHAPTER 15

 

     President Richard Kite was in deep, sound sleep when the buzzer started its raucous bellowing.  Even this horrible alarm wasn’t enough to wake him; Jennifer Kite had to shake him a bit before he woke.  He silenced the alarm by groggily punching the button on that special panel on the side of his nightstand, gave Jennifer a quick peck on her sleepy cheek, and walked into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face.  Almost wide awake by now, he slipped into his pants and shirt, strolled down the hall to the teleconference room, hit some more buttons, and watched the hologram flicker to life.

     It was Daniel Shute, of the CIA.  “Sorry to wake you, Sir, but there’s a bit of excitement in the South Pacific tonight.  It’s about seven in the evening there, actually.  I thought you might want to know about it right away.  We’ve just known about...”

     “Spit it out, man!” Richard huffed, grumpily.

     “OK, Sir.  Sorry, Sir.  It’s the Taiwanese.  They’ve lost contact with a bunch of their robotic manganese-nodule harvesters, and a manned submarine, and they’re all excited about it.  There’s mainland Chinese ships in the area, and the Taiwanese suspect sabotage.  We think they may be right.  Bunches of robots don’t just all up and decide to quit, all at the same time.  Could be some real trouble brewing.”

     “Shit!  God damn it!  Fucking Chinks don’t know when to quit, do they?  No, don’t answer that.  And forget I said that.” Richard mumbled a bit, thanking his lucky stars that the link was secure.  Gotta watch that racist potty mouth, he thought.  “OK.  If I’m gonna be up at this goddamn ugly hour, then get me some Navy brass on the line. Pronto.”

     “Yessir.  We’ve got Admiral Houser in Hawaii standing by. He’s been working the issue.  He’ll be on the line just as soon as we can establish a secure link.” Richard took the momentary break to think, and to let out a sigh whose weariness couldn’t entirely be explained away by his lack of sleep.  Let’s see, he thought.  The UN has sliced up the sea floor’s minerals to various nations, and requires the nations that mine the sea floor to pay royalties to the UN.  Everyone plays by the rules, except for Mainland China.

     China’s slice of sea floor is intended for both the Mainland and Taiwan.  They both mine there, and so far, despite the fact that they rag on each other a lot, they’ve stayed out of each other’s way.  Till now, it looks like.  And, despite the facts that Taiwan (not a UN member) pays royalties to the UN, and the Mainland (a UN member) doesn’t, all that the UN does is harshly wag its finger at the Mainland. And that’s about all that it looks like the UN will ever bother to do.

     Admiral Kirt Houser’s image shimmered, then stabilized in the teleconference room.  “Hello, Sir, what can I do you for?,” the image asked.

     “Can you give me some more details about the price of manganese nodules in China, and why this is relevant to presidential sleep deprivation?  Please be succinct, and rationally justify your arguments.”

     The Admiral chuckled just a wee bit, dutifully.  “Well, Sir, as you might know, the Taiwanese have for quite some time now been prowling the sea floor with a few hundred independent, robotic manganese harvesters.  They’re about as advanced as those of our own companies, maybe even more advanced, in some ways.  The Mainlanders have only recently gotten into the game, and they’re quite a bit more primitive about things.  They use telepresence.  Their gatherers are linked to human operators on the surface by redundant fiber optic cables.  That means we can’t spy on those links, but it also means that they’re susceptible to busted cables.

     “The Taiwanese approach, practically identical to our own, is to have truly intelligent, independent robotic harvesters pick up the nodules, and store them in huge buckets.  Periodically, huge manned submarines stop by and empty the buckets, and bring the contents to the surface.  A slight disadvantage here, compared to the labor-intensive Mainlander method, is that people are a lot less aware of what’s going on down there, since robots are doing most of the work by themselves.

     “As you know, we’re on good terms with Taiwan, and we exchange military and other intelligence with them all the time.  They tell us that at the same time as elements of the Mainland’s mining fleet appeared next to them, they started losing robots right and left.  I’ve just gotten word that they’re pulling a few dead robots up for a look-see.  The robots are equipped with ‘black boxes’, or ‘flight recorders’, if you will.  We should have preliminary results in a few hours.  Meantime, everybody and their mother is convinced we’re not looking at a coincidence.  Taiwan has been at this business for years, without these kinds of losses.”

     Silence momentarily descended on the teleconference room, only to be broken by the President.  “Assuming¾and I guess it’s not a huge leap, to assume¾that the Mainlanders are up to some foul play, then what will Taiwan most likely do, if they can show it was the Mainlanders?” He looked first at the Admiral, who shrugged, and then at Daniel.

     “The CIA’s best crystal balls tell us that we’re looking at a high probability of retaliatory raids on the Mainland’s fleet.  If that happens... who knows.  War.  Big or small, we really can’t say.  We’d just have to hope there’d be some restraint exercised,” Daniel offered.

     “Maybe we can encourage a bit of restraint,” Richard commented. “Dan, as soon as we’re done with our little chat, here, get the State Department to put a high priority on leaning as hard as we can on Taiwan, for them to keep their cool.  Kirt¾a bit of the ol’ ‘show-the-flag’ couldn’t hurt.  What kind of naval resources have we got in the neighborhood?  I’m thinking in terms of missile frigates and FLASHes, especially, here.  Whatcha got?”

     “A missile frigate or two, we can handle right off the bat.  We’ve got one a day’s journey away, east of the Philippines, and we can get another one there in two days, if we step on it, from...”

     “Let’s do it.  Both of them.  How ‘bout a FLASH?,” he asked, referring to a Fusion Laser At Sea Halberd.  Like most anyone who had any idea what one was, Richard was quite impressed by a FLASH.  He remembered quite well, the tour he’d been given of one once, and the video he’d seen of one practically vaporizing an old aircraft carrier. All that had remained of the carrier had been a small mushroom cloud.

     Kirt’s image visibly slumped, dejected, in his chair.  He studied the papers in front of him, reluctantly building up the will to speak. Richard suspected that he knew some of what Kirt was about to say; he’d heard it from the Navy brass often enough.  Nowhere near as often as the brass hears it, though, I’ll bet, he thought.  Richard used the momentary pause to reflect upon, and admire, what he knew about FLASHes, and fusion and fusion-powered weapons in general.

     The simplest and cheapest fusion weapons, if such adjectives could be used to describe hundred-million dollar weapons¾although the Chinese were know to shave a few bucks off the price, at the cost of safety¾were tokamak-powered infrared free-electron laser cannons.  These, with the guidance of advanced radar, could knock down aircraft and missiles. Military theorists claimed that any large future land war would be decided by taking territory, and then consolidating control by bringing in and assembling pre-fabbed laser cannons.

     These cannons, though, had significant drawbacks.  They had to convert the heat and light energies of the fusion reactions in their toroidal magnetic chambers into electrical energy, build up large amounts of charge in huge capacitors, and then turn the electrical energy into pulsed bursts of infrared.  Pulsing was used to overcome the common problem where the target would start to vaporize, and the vapors would absorb the laser energy, shielding the target from further damage. Converting power from one form to another several times, and having to build up large charges, meant that the whole scheme was rather inefficient, and that not many shots could be fired in rapid succession. This scheme was also not quite powerful enough to do significant damage to large ships, or to large orbiting targets, for that matter.

     For real orgies of destruction, what was used was a radically different, and far more expensive, scheme in which a fusion fireball was hurled around tracks on the surface of a sphere.  A long tunnel, lined with superconducting electromagnets to create the magnetic fields to contain the fusion fireball, and vacuum-filled so as not to impede the fireball’s travels, was arranged in numerous loops around a sphere.  The sphere would range from one mile to three miles in diameter, depending on how many tens of billions the owner wanted to spend.  This was the kind of reactor being built on space station UNITY, where the diameter would be as small as possible, due to the cost of launching components. Space’s free, high-quality vacuum made things a lot simpler, and allowed the diameter to be cut down to a “mere” half of a mile.

     Along with magnets, the tunnels were lined with photovoltaic surfaces for harnessing some of the fusion fireball’s light energy. Heat energy was extracted by water pipes, whose contents turned to steam as the fireball passed by. Extracting heat energy not only generated useful power, it also protected the tunnel surfaces.  The conglomeration of magnets, power and control wires, sensors, pipes, photovoltaic cells, vacuum pumps, and fuel injectors lining the tunnel surfaces was simply know as “fusion matrix”.  The beauty of the whole scheme was that by the time the fireball’s heat had soaked into the matrix, raising the temperature of the superconductors too high for them to work anymore, the fireball was already gone.  The fireball would only return to a given spot after many loops around other tracks on the sphere, giving the magnets time to cool.

     Such large fusion reactors had both peaceful and military uses. The peaceful use was simply that they were awesome electrical power sources.  The military use was that they were awesome laser energy generators.  Typically, about a third of the sphere would protrude above the Earth’s surface, with the rest being buried.  Above the surface, special side pockets on the tunnels could briefly capture most of the fireball, sending only a small remaining fragment of plasma on down the tunnel.  The side pocket would squeeze the plasma with powerful magnets, causing multi-trillion watt laser bursts to blast forth for a few tens of nanoseconds, without the inefficiencies involved with converting one form of energy to another, several times.  Sheer, overwhelming power would punch right through any vapor created at the target end of the beam.

     Physics and engineering limitations dictated that only half of the laser energy would be directed as desired.  The other half of the energy had to squirt out the side, at roughly ninety degrees with respect to the desired burst.  On a large, land-based reactor, this wasn’t such a big problem.  The side blast would be absorbed by the small remnant fireball as it continued its journey down the tunnel.  More fuel would be injected at this time, and the fireball would continue on its merry way, recovering its strength within milliseconds.  On its next loop, it would be ready to birth a laser burst once more.  Such reactors, especially the ones big enough to support multiple fireballs, could spit out huge chunks of hellfire, rapidly.

     Too bad we can’t put a mile-diameter sphere out to sea, Richard thought.  That’s why we’ve got the third form of fusion weapon, the FLASH (Fusion Laser At Sea Halberd).  Kind of a bastardized hybrid between the high end, and the low end.  We’ve got a tokamak as an energy source, and huge capacitors as a storage method, just like the low end. Like the high end, we start the fusion fireball by pinching a lobe off of the tokamak’s plasma, we push it down a tunnel lined with fusion matrix, and we squeeze the snot out of it to get our laser burst.

     Unlike the larger reactors, though, the tunnel is mostly linear, not curved, and the fireball is killed entirely when a shot is fired. The capacitors save power from the tokamak, pumping it into the fireball in its short journey down the linear tunnel.  The fireball travels slowly, since we don’t have much room on a ship, and the fusion matrix at the tail end of the tunnel gets irreparably scorched.  We’ve got to replace it between shots.  Essentially, the replacement tunnel is a giant, fifteen-million dollar cartridge that needs reloaded for each shot.  A given FLASH can only carry ten at a time, and replacing the cartridge and charging the capacitors takes time, so that we can only squeeze off a round every half of an hour.  Still, it allows us to blow away ships.  Unlike missiles, which can be shot down, a FLASH is practically invincible.  They’ve replaced aircraft carriers as the primo weapon at sea.

     Richard thought momentarily about the fact that no large fusion laser weapon had ever been fired in anger, hoping that he’d never have to give the order to do so.  He also thought about the major drawback of a FLASH: the side blast had to be wasted.  That’s where the “Halberd” in the acronym came from¾just like the halberd of fifteenth and sixteenth century Europe, which was a combination spear and battle-ax, a FLASH was a weapon with two cutting edges, each at ninety degrees with respect to the other.

     Since the side blast couldn’t be directed into the water, for fear of the water exploding into steam, setting off a tsunami, and destroying the FLASH, it had to be wasted skywards.  On-board radar, or a data link to land-based radar, was used to make sure no aircraft or spacecraft was in the way.  Richard thought it was funny that the science geeks speculated about how some distant alien civilization might interpret a bright flash, if they happened to be in the way of a terrestrial test blast.  Not that the beam would hold tight enough to do any damage, over many light-years of travel.

     Kirt finally got done shuffling his papers and getting his ducks lined up.  “Well, Sir, it looks like we’ve got MAGNUM in the Mediterranean, NEPTUNE cruising across the Atlantic to go and replace MAGNUM, STALWART all tied up keeping a lid on the situation in the Arabian Sea, and STARFIRE in dry-dock for refurb.  Then, of course, there’s the two new ones, all done except for finishing bells and whistles, unchristened and collecting dust, for lack of sailors.  So many potential sailors would much rather work for a few months, and then collect unemployment compensation for two years, than to actually have to work for a living, on a crowded ship.  Sometimes I can’t blame them. Socialism pays them almost as well for doing nothing, and the lifestyle is sooo much...”

     “OK, OK, I’ve heard it before.” Richard took pride in allowing everyone to speak their minds, but didn’t appreciate being woken up out of a sound sleep to listen to bellyaching.  “Seems to me that you forgot PEACEMAKER.  Isn’t she on her way back from duty near Madagascar? Wouldn’t it be easy to have her make a little detour, on her way back to Hawaii?” Richard was often far more preoccupied with domestic matters than with military matters, but he wasn’t totally in the dark.

     Kirt and his face slumped once more.  “That’s true, Sir. PEACEMAKER is on her way back after doing her duty for the UN, trying against all odds to help save the people of Madagascar from their own freely chosen idiocy.  But, her crew has been at sea for a year! Stretch it out some more, and we’ll have ninety-five percent, instead of merely half, of her crew quitting the Navy when she gets back home. Especially since the Supreme Court ruled that holding the recruits to their four-year promises often constitutes involuntary servitude.  I hear about it all the time.  It’s much easier to collect welfare.  Or, just go and get really sloshed, and then get the local doctor or shrink to certify you as being a disabled alcoholic, and collect Social Security disability payments.  Pay is almost as good, and...”

     “Come on, Kirt.  You know there’s not much I can do about it.  Look at what happened to my predecessor, who tried to cut back on socialism. The masses want their bread and circuses.  Get in their way, and they’ll vote you out and get themselves a bigger, better people’s porker.  So, I bend with the wind.  Oink, oink.  And so it goes.”

     “But, Sir!  We’re going to go the way of the dodo bird, if we keep on being dodoes!  Why don’t you just tell the voters that you love your country more than you love re-election, and that you’re going to do what’s right, instead of what the marching morons want!  You might actually be surprised at how many fed-up voters will stand by you, and what history will have to say.  Otherwise, we might as well start studying our Chinese.  These people are hungry, and they just might eat decadent countries for lunch.”

     Damned smart-ass brass! the President thought.  I suppose Kirt doesn’t have much to lose, and he knows it.  And I’m getting myself a reputation as a weenie, just ‘cause I let people have their say.  “All right, Admiral.  I didn’t call you up for political advice.  I will discuss such matters with the cabinet.  Maybe if we can get a modicum of co-operation from the press, we can get the American people fired up about these damned...  greedy, Earth-raping, sneaky, violent Mainlanders¾or, at least, their head jerk in charge, this Tu Ill Dung asshole.  They are, after all, the only remaining roadblocks to a decent UN-sponsored world peace.  If we can get the word out, we might actually be able to roll socialism back a bit, just for once, just enough for us to be able to resist the Chinese.  Meantime, I want PEACEMAKER to head for the Chinese mining fleet.  Now.”

     “Yessir.  I would like to ask a favor of you, though.”

     “Fire at will.” And it had better not be any more political haranguing, either, or I’ll chew your butt, he added to himself.

     “I was wondering if maybe you could find the time to send a nice, long, personal message to PEACEMAKER’s crew, telling them how you sympathize with them, being away from their families so long, and how the whole country appreciates their sacrifice, and all.  I could send such a message, but they’d all just have a good, cynical laugh.  I think it would make a big difference with them, if you could find the time. I’d consider it a personal favor, too.  Can you?”

     Hell, that was nothing.  Freebie political points, too.  “Consider it done.  I’ll do it tomorrow.  Now, I want to get some sleep.  We’ll have a cabinet meeting tomorrow at ten, DC time, in the big teleconference room.  I want you to ‘attend’, remotely of course, Kirt. We’ll want your latest updates.  Whatever they tell our liaison officer, and whatever else we can learn by other means.  Dan, besides the full cabinet, I want Leech, Flack, and Sechler in attendance.  Round ‘em up, please.” General Robert Flack was the current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Admiral Kathryn Sechler still represented the Navy.

     “Yessir.”

     “We’ll see y’all in a few hours, then.  Bye.”

     Richard wandered on back to bed, but he didn’t sleep too well.  Ten in the morning rolled around all too soon.

     The cabinet assembled in the large teleconference room, with slightly more than half of the meeting-goers there in the flesh, and the rest being represented by hologram images.  The President got right down to business, summarizing the events of the night before.  He asked Greg Parker, of the State Department, what kind of luck they’d had in attempting to persuade Taiwan to keep its cool.

     Greg’s answer was, “It’s anyone’s guess, really.  They’re pretty POed, and they feel like, if they don’t retaliate over this, after they get some proof, then the Mainlanders will just walk all over them. Can’t say I blame them.  We’re trying, though.”

     Richard nodded.  Kirt got on line just about then, a little late. There was a babble, as everyone wanted to hear the latest.

     “They’ve taken a preliminary look at some dead robots, and there are no visible signs of damage.  However, their electronics are all scrambled.  Magnetic recording media of all kinds, including not only their hard drives, but also their black box recorders, have been erased. It’s as if giant bulk tape erasers had subjected them to alternating magnetic fields,” was Kirt’s reply.

     “So, is there any way this could happen due to a natural phenomenon?,” Richard wanted to know.

     “No way.  Not in a billion years.”

     “So, will Taiwan call this a smoking gun, and retaliate on the basis of this alone, or do you think they’ll hold out for yet more evidence?”

     “I’d venture to guess that they’ll hold off.  After all, just ‘cause the Mainlanders were in the area, doesn’t prove it was them. Someone else could’ve snuck in, in submarines, and done the dirty deeds.”

     “Good.  That brings up the question of, what if they do come up with a smoking gun?  What do we do, if war breaks out between the two Chinas?  Do we just sit back, and pass UN resolutions against the Mainland, with the threat of yet more resolutions if they don’t start behaving, or do we roll up our sleeves and help Taiwan fight?  I’m not about to make that decision by myself; that’s why we’re here today.  I’m listening.”

     There was much discussion about military readiness and public support, or lack thereof, consultations with allies, economic impact, et cetera, et cetera.  The conclusion pretty much seemed to be that the US should stay out, although there was strong support for trade measures to be taken against the Mainland.  Kirt wanted to know, if that was the case, then why was the US bothering to send ships?  The predictable response was, well, we’ve got to keep them on their toes, at least. Keep ‘em guessing.

     Richard sure wished UNITY had that fusion power station up and running.  We’re in the home stretch, now, he thought.  If only we can keep the Mainlanders in check, just for a little while, now, we can finally establish some semblance of world peace.  Fire control systems, treaties, Chinese monitors on UNITY, all that is just so much crap.  If, after UNITY’s fusion reactor is all fired up, they start making serious trouble, we’ll fry their asses.  But, alas, completion of the reactor is still almost a year away.

     “I would like for us all to start thinking worst case,” Richard said ominously.  “If we let the Mainland get away with this, there’s no telling where they’ll stop.  Things are just getting worse and worse. The pending completion of UNITY is going to put the heat on them, too. I wouldn’t even put it past them to start taking potshots at UNITY, and other orbital targets.  I would hope that y’all, and the US at large, would support me when I say that if it gets to that, we’ll have to do more than just pass resolutions.  It’ll be all-out war.  I hope that, if we haven’t already done so, then we should make it quite clear to Tu Ill Dung and his henchmen, that this is the case.”

     Greg assured him that this had been made clear, quietly but firmly, and that the message would be passed again, along with some strongly worded complaints about recent events in the South Pacific.

     Richard had a few words about building up public support for a possible future war effort, in case worse came to worst.  “I hate to hear myself say this, but we need to start to get the public thinking about what might have to happen.  Let’s not be too obvious, here, but, every chance that any of us get, we need to emphasize what kinds of problems are being caused by Tu Ill Dung and his people.

     “Here’s a short list of things for us to harp on: How he has people shot for daring to complain about the abominable conditions in which most of his people live, while he and his buddies live like kings, and they spend hundreds of billions for new weapons.  How there is no democracy at all over there, and how everyone slinks around in fear, except for the oppressors.  How they exploit slave labor.

     “How the few, privileged rich over there, love to show off through conspicuous consumption, especially consumption of endangered wildlife. How raping Mother Earth is just another way to display one’s status. How Chinese society runs on ‘guanxi’, or ‘connections’, which are practically a monopoly of the ruling class, the party members and their offspring¾‘taizidang’, or ‘princelings’.” Hell, learn a few foreign words, and one can sound downright intellectual, real quick, he reflected.  Shall I mention that to the troops?  Nah, that’d sound to cynical.  God forbid the press should ever get ahold of my having said such a thing!

     “Last but not least, let’s not pass up any opportunity to point out how the Mainland is the only major international pariah.  How they cheat, in trade affairs.  How they’ve trashed Hong Kong, how they tromp all over the people of Tibet, and how they rape the seas without paying a dime to the UN.  How they’re the only obstacle remaining between us and UN-sponsored world peace.  How they love to peddle weapons and weapons technology to other no-good shitheads.  If we’re going to have a show-down with these...  barbarians, we’re going to have to whip up public support.  Get the picture?” There was a general murmuring of assent.

     A discussion on what might have to be done to boost military readiness had just started, when Admiral Kirt Houser’s image froze momentarily, indicating that he was preoccupied with something other than the meeting in Washington.  The White House Chief of Staff, Mildred Putnam, pointed this out to Richard, and the discussion almost completely died while everyone anxiously waited for Kirt’s image to come back to life.  Within a minute, Kirt was back on line, saying, “Word came in just now that Taiwan has recovered a smoking gun.  It seems the Mainlanders had some bad luck.  One of their telepresence vehicles died down there, and it was carrying a large AC electromagnet.  Both the vehicle and the magnet are now in Taiwan’s hands.”

     Holy shit! Richard thought, as adrenaline coursed through his veins, We’re not in Kansas anymore!  Raurabarawaura, the bodies and images in the teleconference room collectively muttered.  Richard took command.  “OK.  I’ve heard enough.  We don’t even need consultations with our allies; I want a total trade embargo on China right away.  No messing around.  Get the word out, to both the business and world communities.  Having the Mainlanders mine the sea floor without paying royalties to the UN is bad enough.  Now that we can show that they messed with those who DO play by the rules, we need to put our foot down.  We’ll also want to freeze all Chinese assets in the US, immediately.  Hop to!” A few images and bodies left the room, to hop to.

     The discussion returned to military preparations, with greater urgency.  There were some angry words exchanged, concerning warships sitting in dry-docks due to lack of sailors, which in turn was caused by excess socialism.  Richard resolved to take the matter to Congress, where he promised he’d ask for prompt action.  Not that such matters could be corrected within a week or two, he noted, but he’d do his best.

     A few bleeding hearts started to protest, but Richard put a prompt end to that.  “Piss and moan about lack of fairness to Tu Ill Dung, if you love the mercies of a centralized, all-powerful government so much, and see what it’ll get you,” he commented.  “The simple facts remain that if we want to beat back the Chinese, we’re going to have to wean ourselves of the welfare state a bit, at least to the point where we can staff our Armed Forces.

     “That, and socialism just costs too much.  Here we are, cutting defense to the bone, and paying half of our revenue to cover interest on the deficit, while people’s pork just grows and grows.” He shamelessly borrowed a line from Kirt.  “Unless we all want to start studying Chinese right now, something has to give.  We’re going to start twisting some arms in Congress, and the public will hear about those who refuse to co-operate, in the face of a grave national threat.  Our biggest job is to persuade the public that there is a grave national threat.”

     The consensus was that US conventional military preparedness left a lot to be desired.  That leaves our ace in the hole, bioweapons, Richard thought, with a chill or two running down his spine.  Wonder how they’re coming along?  Hope it doesn’t get to that.  Things’ll have to be just plain awful, before we can justify using something like that, to the public.  Shall we talk about this now, in front of the whole Cabinet? Maybe not.  The meeting went on to cover a few other, minor matters not related to the crisis at hand, and then it was over, just in time for lunch.  Richard immediately slipped into an adjoining, small private room, and called Frank Leech, Daniel Shute, and Alan Riggs, saying, let’s get together for a meeting after lunch, at one-thirty.  No use in letting everyone know they’re being left out of important meetings, he thought.

     Lunch was a hurried affair¾not very relaxing at all.  Richard just had the staff bring him soup and a sandwich, which he ate while sitting by his work station, waiting for important bulletins, and reading a few memos.  He’d just finished eating, when he heard the news that Taiwan had broadcast a message to the Mainland, basically saying, “Look, we know what you did, and we’re going to knock a ship or two out of your mining fleet, in retaliation.  Unless you offer to pay for all damages, and apologize, within three hours, and deliver within three days. Otherwise, we strike.  Leave it at that, and we’ll leave it at that. It’s up to you.”

     Fat chance, he thought.  Here goes war.  And, Taiwan, you poor dumbshits, you’re on your own.  At least, for now.  Unless the Mainlanders are a hell of a lot stupider than I think, and they carry on some more.

     The afternoon meeting was much shorter than that morning’s meeting. The images of Frank, Dan, and Alan flickered to life before him.  Once again, the President got right down to brass tacks.  He told them about what he’d just heard, about little old Taiwan telling the Mainland they’d better shape up, or else.  “So what’s the political situation like, these days, in and between the two Chinas, anyway?,” Richard asked Daniel.

     Daniel replied, “Yes, it sure does seem strange, a tiny little country like Taiwan giving a monster like the Mainland a hard time. Taiwan, though, is economically, and even militarily, a lot more powerful than one might think, with respect to the Mainland, just looking at the sizes of the two countries.  Taiwan will still get the shit kicked out of them, though, if war breaks out between the two, and other countries stay out.

     “I guess Taiwan just feels like there’s only so far that they’ll let themselves be pushed around, and they’re standing on principle; practicality be damned.  Maybe they’re right.  Somebody, sooner or later, has to make a stand against a tyrant.  If we all just figure, ‘Well, I’m just little old me, and I can’t do anything about it’, then the tyrant will have his way.  Maybe Taiwan thinks they can shame the rest of the world into joining them.

     “There is also another factor to be considered.  There are indications that the situation on the Mainland may be unstable.  The oppressed masses may finally have had enough of fear and starvation; we think there have been popular uprisings here and there.  Taiwan may think they can actually push things over the edge, and topple Tu’s dictatorship.  On the other hand¾and I wouldn’t discount this, at all, seeing how much of a closed society the Mainland is, and how little we really know¾the Mainland may have deliberately created that impression, to bait Taiwan.  Or, even, to bait other countries, including us.  I think we’d be wise to tread carefully, until we’re sure that we can annihilate them.”

     “All right.  I hear you loud and clear.  You guys know the score. War threatens, and we’re not up to snuff, conventionally.  How’s the bioweapons coming along?”

     Frank replied, “Phil and Stanley are on UNITY, finishing up on verification, round two.  As I’m sure you recall, we had a little bit of trouble with round one.  But, things are looking excellent, this time. They’re verifying a few last-minute add-on features, and then they’ll be back down with their data.  Then, we can tweak things one more time, and we’ll be ready to start production at a moment’s notice.  Interpreting the data and tweaking the designs one last time might take three months. Depending on just how close you’ll allow us to get to assembling a finished product, when we’re stockpiling precursor chemicals, parts, and supplies, we could....”

     Richard interrupted, saying, “Fuck interpreting the data and tweaking the designs.  I want to rock and roll, now.  Start manufacturing the non-living parts of the delivery systems that deliver the seed stock and the leash chemicals, now.  And manufacture and stock enough precursor chemicals, at an advanced enough stage, so that we could launch an all-out attack on China, with one week’s notice.  Can do?  And, like, how long till we can be ready?  Now, don’t shit your pants.  We’re talking, like, just in case, you know.”

     Frank hemmed and hawed, but basically committed himself.  After extracting a promise from Richard that they’d be given an opportunity to tweak the designs later, Frank ‘fessed up that they could be ready in three weeks.

     “Just what are these last-minute add-on bells and whistles you’re so concerned about, anyway?,” President Kite wanted to know.

     Frank puffed himself up a bit, saying, “Mainly, just one thing that amounts to much of anything, and it was my idea.  I got to thinking, after the BATs have done their thing to enemy territory, and have died out, due to their not getting any more leash compounds, or, if we’re in a hurry, poison gas, then, well, someone has to be the first one in. Our troops, allies, whatever.  And they’re going to have to see all the piles of bones.  Kind of upsetting.  And, you know, despite our best efforts to restrain them, media sluts would get in there, and take gory pictures.  Not good PR at all, to say the least.

     “So, I said to Phil, after the queens have gotten fat, dumb, and happy, munching out all day, and making zillions of babies, all of a sudden their job is done, and the front moves off into the distance. The smaller, younger queens might be able to migrate, but the older, larger queens are left behind to die and rot.  Seems like a shame and a waste.  Why don’t we design in a little feature, whereby they metamorphose into bone-eaters?  Their teeth and jaws become hyena-like, and their stomachs become huge and acid-filled.  They live a bit longer, extracting nutrients from bone, and they sanitize the landscape.  One large PR problem gone.”

     That’s thoroughly disgusting, Richard thought, sickened.  “That’s some sharp thinking, there, Frank.  Keep up the good work!  That’s definitely some astute public relations thinking.  You’d be a master politician.  Maybe I’ll have to sign you on as a political advisor after you retire.”

     The President went on to quiz Daniel about Chinese biowar efforts. Dan said, “From all we know, they’re not doing so hot.  I really don’t think we have anything to fear from them.  Tao Chi is indeed a talented scientist, but from what we understand, they just doesn’t have the computers, tools, and supplies that it takes to do a good job.  On the other hand, the Mainland is a very closed, secretive police state, and it’s next to impossible for us to know very much for sure.”

     They speculated a bit about public reactions to deployment of the BATs, under various circumstances.  It was all a bit too speculative for Richard’s tastes, but he reminded himself that he’d just praised Frank for his political savvy, so he’d better listen.  Still, he was secretly thankful when he was interrupted by an incoming urgent message.  Here’s respite from listening to political opinions!  After all, opinions are like assholes¾everyone’s got one.  He excused himself, and flipped the lever, freezing his image as seen by the other three.  No need for them to hear that which they had no need to know, after all.  Could be an urgent message from my mistress, even, he thought.

     He wasn’t thankful for the interruption for very long.  When he got back on line, his face was ashen and grave.  “Bad news, gentlemen.  The MANTIS has just been seized by the Mainland, right outside the twelve-mile limit to their territorial waters.  Of course, they say it was inside their limit.  Right off of Guangdong.” He noticed that the faces on the three images looked rather blank.

     “OK, so, before you ask, I’ll ‘fess up that I didn’t know, either. The MANTIS belongs to ABC.  It’s a factory ship, where they manufacture their ‘Anti-Bug Critters’, for the Chinese market.  You might recall, they can’t ship their product very far, in volume, and we wouldn’t let them set up a factory on the Mainland, for obvious reasons.  So, they manufacture at sea, in international waters.  I guess Tu Ill Dung figured since we were slapping an embargo on his ass, he’d grab while the grabbing was still good.  I’m sure scared of what they might be able to glean from the MANTIS, her crew, and cargo, in the way of biotech. Talk to me,” President Kite demanded, looking at Frank.

     Frank replied, “I recall the deal now.  The name MANTIS just didn’t ring a bell for me.  Just like ABC factories on Terra Firma, in more friendly countries, factory ships are supposed to destroy their data, equipment, and complex biochemicals in case of any kind of emergency where someone gets grabby.  We helped ‘em set it up, as a matter of fact, so that such destruction could be accomplished at a moment’s notice.

     “Even if that didn’t happen, though, there’s some strict limits to what they could learn by capturing a factory.  A factory doesn’t even need complete design information¾just some seed stock for the various components.  At the very worst, what we’d be looking at, here, would be that they can start making Anti-Bug-Critters, without paying royalties. That, and maybe learn a bit about manufacturing techniques and tools. You know, the thousands of little bits and pieces of information that never get thoroughly documented, ‘cause otherwise you’d never produce anything, ‘cause you’d be publishing volumes concerning each nut and bolt.  Kind of like most defense contracts.

     “Anyway, all these tons of small details that make biotech more of an art than a science, sometimes, are useful only along with complete design information.  And that’s something the Chinese don’t have.  I wouldn’t sweat it.

     “But, I’ve got a question for you, Sir.  If that was our ship, why don’t we declare war?  Isn’t that an act of war, to seize someone’s ship?  Can we prove that MANTIS was in international waters?”

     “As I understand, MANTIS was flagged as a Panamanian vessel, ‘cause all of our laws require high-paid American crews on American-flagged vessels.  So, of course, since we have such high standards, we have hardly any American jobs at sea.  Congress shoots us in the foot once more.  Oh, well.  Anyway, we could still grab this, or any of a number of other things, as a basis on which to declare war.  The plain truth is that we’re not ready.”

     The President turned to Daniel’s image.  “So, Frank tells us that the Mainlanders can’t learn much of value from MANTIS, unless they have good design information.  What is your take on this?  Is there any chance that they do have good design information for bioweapons, from us, from Tao Chi, from the Easter Bunny, from anyone at all?”

     “Just about zero chance of that, Sir.  Their own efforts lag way the hell behind, and we’re careful to the point of paranoia with our data.  You know how we encode it in that nifty rhodopsin stuff, and all, for transport, and how we keep a real close eye on ABC, with some more high-tech assistance from OMNIGRAPH.  No other nation is bothering to research this stuff, either.  I agree with Frank.  It’s not worth worrying about.  Or, that is, we already worry about it so much, that you shouldn’t have to.”

     Richard concluded the meeting, and met with his speech writer.  He had intended to take special pains to make a special speech for PEACEMAKER’s crew, but he ended up killing two or three birds with one stone.  The next day, he made a speech to the whole nation, explaining the situation, and asking the public to make do with reduced rations of people’s pork.  Except, he put it in much nicer terms.  That, and he got a few digs in, against Tu Ill Dung and his henchpersons.  Then, he took great pains to pick out the crew of the PEACEMAKER as examples of brave, self-sacrificing souls who did their best to help the nation, instead of mooching the nearest slice of people’s pork.  They, and other patriotic souls in the military and in defense industries, made him and the whole nation proud, he said.

 

 

CHAPTER 16

 

     Admiral Han Daquan made the rounds on deck, cheering the crew of the DENG as best he could.  He prided himself in being a people person, as much as he could get away with, in a People’s Republic where people were shot for lipping off about living conditions under the Great Leader, Tu Ill Dung.  Han was thankful, at least, that Tu was more of a low-key leader, who didn’t insist on having his face plastered all over the sides of buildings everywhere, like he’d heard Mao had done in the old days, and like they did in North Korea.  Han could handle making sure his officers and sailors towed the party line, but he was glad that he didn’t also have to enforce too much personality-worship.

     He remembered the one time he’d briefly seen the Chairman.  It wasn’t like the Chairman got off on getting everyone to kiss his butt. It was more like everyone around him, with the exception of an anointed few, walked on eggshells, in constant fear of being taken out back and shot.  Han had resolved never to be like Tu; he’d try to let the people under him relax, and perform more from a sense of... duty and pride, rather than fear.  So, Han tried to keep good relations with his officers and sailors.  Still, he sure wasn’t about to share his special rations or large bunk with them, and he made sure they saluted properly. He wasn’t about to push too many strange ideas, for fear of getting demoted, or maybe even shot.

     The crew of the DENG seemed to be in reasonably good cheer.  There was a strong sense of excitement, though.  This was normal for the circumstances.  They were, after all, on China’s only operational FLASH, and headed for the reactionary, Nationalist fleet, to teach them a lesson or two about picking on the People’s mining fleet.  Han was sure glad the Nationalists didn’t own an operational FLASH.  Future generations would revere the DENG’s crew as heroes, for defending the People’s Republic in its hour of need.

     Han made his way back to the bridge, where he made a few calls to the other ships, mostly missile frigates, in the task force.  All was going well, as they steamed by the Marshall Islands.

     Half a day later, he gave the orders to load the FLASH gun, and to charge the capacitors, as they approached show time.  Nervously, he reflected that they’d be within missile range of the Taiwanese fleet, in two hours.  After the gun had been loaded, he gave the orders for everyone to man their battle stations.  They manned them, rather than peopling them, because, despite being citizens of a People’s Republic, they weren’t anywhere close to being correct, politically or otherwise.

     There wasn’t much to do, other than worry, so Han, on a whim, left his second officer in charge, and strolled the now-deserted deck, on the pretense of inspecting, to make sure all was secure.  His real reason was just to get some fresh air, and some time alone, to think.  Even for the highest-ranking officer on ship, with the largest private quarters, it just got too crowded. The deck was almost completely deserted, in anticipation of the awesome, dangerous powers that would soon be released there.

     Han didn’t think about much of anything during his little stroll, other than wishing that he, and everyone else, could just sit around at home, drink beer, go fishing, and maybe work a wee bit now and then¾just enough to keep from turning into a slug¾instead of having to go and shoot at each other.  That, and he just kind of emptied his mind of the endless cacophony of life on a modern battleship.

     Recess was over all to soon, and they sailed into the thick of battle.  They were a sixty miles out, when the missiles began to fly. These were easily swatted down by the simpler, pulsed, fusion-powered lasers of the missile frigates accompanying DENG.  Soon, though, the missiles were flying faster and thicker, and the enemy was almost in sight.  DENG surged forward, to the front of the task force, so as to be the first to actually sight the enemy on the horizon.  The missiles were flying so fast, now, that the laser batteries were having a hard time keeping up with them, and the Mainland’s task force was having to dip into their precious supply of anti-missile missiles.

     The capacitors were fully charged by the time DENG’s sensors informed Han that they had a straight shot at a large enemy missile frigate on the horizon.  DENG was being battered by old-fashioned shells, bullets, and even an occasional pulsed laser, but her thick skin resisted all onslaughts quite well.  The last sailor had ducked below deck a long time ago.  Only an occasional sensor got scorched, and there were plenty of spares.  DENG bore down on the Nationalist ship some more, so that it would poke up out of the sea some more, providing a better target.

     Han gave the orders, and DENG turned slightly, exposing some broadside, but also maneuvering into firing position.  He sounded the alarms, and it seemed that the adrenaline on board ship almost oozed out of every square inch of human skin.  Muscles tensed.  Helmets were donned, and seatbelts were fastened.  Hatches were battened, and BATs were hatched.  No, wait!  We’re getting ahead of ourselves, now.  That came later, except on UNITY, and hardly anyone knew about that. Certainly, Han had no idea.

     Han checked the radar one more time.  It was a very special radar, capable of probing all the way to geosynchronous orbit with a powerful but narrow beam.  The skyward line of fire was still clear, where they were aiming their side blast, and would remain so for the ten seconds it would take to birth, build, and kill the fusion fireball.  He installed his earplugs, clenched his teeth, and flipped the levers, splotching the pages of history with the blood vaporized by the first large fusion laser blast ever fired in anger.

     The entire ship shuddered and hummed, as the fusion fireball roared down the tunnel, and hundred-ton capacitors and fuel injectors discharged their energies into the growing, growling, ravenous fireball. Powerful radio beams and deuterium-tritium fuel mixtures shot into that fireball, inflating it into an ever-growing, furious demon. Plasma-warping magnetic fields chained the demon as best they could, as it sped down the tunnel to its catastrophic extinction.

     Han braced himself against his seat, his seatbelt, himself, and everything that gave him any sense of solidity, and still the noise and vibrations built up.  He squeezed his eyes shut.  Finally, just when he didn’t think he or DENG could stand it for another femtosecond, he was simultaneously slammed around as if by a collision of freight trains, and assaulted by the loudest thunder he’d ever heard.  At least, at last, the ten seconds of terror were finally over, and DENG no longer shuddered and groaned.

     He’d just opened his eyes, pleasantly surprised to see an intact bridge still surrounding him, when the first wave hit DENG.  Even though they’d deliberately aimed a bit high to try to avoid the problem, the bottom of the FLASH beam had scorched the sea, midway between DENG and its target, where, due to Mother Earth’s shapely curvature, the sea bulged upwards.  Seawater had vaporized, creating a mammoth explosion. DENG was still rocking in the waves, when debris started to rain from the sky. Han was hollering into the microphones, goading the crew into action, and assessing battle damage as reported by whatever sensors still worked, when the second, much larger wave hit.  This one had been caused by the exploding target.  Han was glad he’d not yet unstrapped his seatbelt, and hoped that not too many of his crew had done so, either.

     Finally, the waves subsided, and the reports started to roll in. Battle damage seemed reasonable, considering the circumstances. Unfortunately, the Nationalists had been pretty damned smart, for reactionist pigs, and had dispersed their fleet, so that one FLASH blast wouldn’t get more than one ship.  They’d only nailed one ship, he was told.  The barrage of missiles, bullets, and shells from over the horizon continued, so Han gave the order to turn tail and back off, so that they could reload and recharge in peace.  He sure hoped that the Nationalists wouldn’t realize what they were doing and why, and pursue and harass them.  He also wished DENG’s FLASH gun was like those of the West, which could load a fresh “cartridge” without exposing sailors on deck.

     The Nationalists didn’t pursue.  Maybe they were too crippled, or maybe they were cowards, or maybe they were just plain stupid.

     It was only partway through reloading that Han got the bad news. The narrow-beam radar was crippled.  It wasn’t bad enough to show on the sensors, so the crew hadn’t caught on earlier.  It was only when the crew took it through calibration procedures, aiming it at a satellite in a known position, that the damage had come to light.  The damage, though relatively minor, was too severe to repair at sea.  They’d either have to go home for repairs, or waste their side blasts blindly skywards, taking a small risk of inadvertently bagging themselves a satellite or two.  Han sure wished his government had been less tightfisted, and had spent a dollar or two million for a spare narrow-beam radar.

     Han had just gotten on the phone to his land-lubbing bosses, asking what he should do, when some more bad news came in.  The Nationalists were in pursuit!  The sailors had been finishing up on changing “cartridges” when the bullets, shells, and missiles had started raining down once more.  A few sailors were wounded.

     Han relayed the latest events to shore.  Predictably, the answer came back: Damn the radar, stand and fight, smash the Nationalists. DENG turned.  The capacitors finished charging.  Once more, blinding starfire lashed out with brutal force, and another shipload of Taiwanese sailors was sent to meet their Maker.

     DENG and the task force patrolled some more, but met no more resistance.  Triumphantly, they headed back towards home.

 

 

CHAPTER 17

 

     Fortunately for Phil and Stanley, the top-secret American module on UNITY’s artificial gravity wheel was on the side away from Earth, sheltered by the bulk of the hub and other modules, when the DENG’s stray FLASH blast came barging up through the atmosphere, scoring a bull’s-eye on UNITY.

     When it hit, Phil was watching Debra, a queen that had been artificially, prematurely forced through metamorphosis, crunching on some bones.  Sure, they had a month in orbit this time, twice as long as the time before, and they had more, bigger, and better facilities, to ensure that this time they’d gotten everything right.  They still couldn’t sit around and wait, watching a queen get to the bone-eater stage naturally, after having taken two weeks to go from precursor chemicals to queen, and then having eaten them out of house and home for more than a month.  So, they had metamorphosed her early, using hormones.

     Phil had been somewhat insulted when Frank had insisted that they spend the big bucks to do it right this time.  Build entire queens, take ‘em through their paces, verify everything.  Didn’t they trust his and ABC’s designs, without verification, for even the smallest details?  Oh, well, maybe they’re right.  We did find a major goof last time, after all, he’d thought.

     When the module shook as if hit by a major earthquake, and the lights momentarily went off before the battery-driven emergency lights kicked in, Phil just about shit his pants.  When artificial gravity disappeared, as UNITY’s wheel fell apart and the module was flung into a higher orbit, he really panicked.  He’d been in zero gravity often enough; it was just that he’d never been surprised by it.  He felt like the elevator cable had just snapped.

     As soon as he figured out that UNITY must have exploded for some mysterious reason, and that their module was still at least reasonably intact, his panic subsided, just in time for him to return to the brink of shitting his pants, as he watched Debra and Wilma float to the top of their almost topless cage.  If it wasn’t really topless, it sure as hell was scantily clad.

     He’d named the queens, since he sure as hell wasn’t going to designate them by numbers.  Stanley had looked at him a bit funny, when he’d first given them names, and Phil had told him he’d named them after two bitchy teachers he’d known in elementary school.  That was definitely a half-truth.  They’d created two queens, so that they could be sure they wouldn’t attack each other.  One, Debra, had been turned into a bone-eater, early, and Wilma was still in the normal queen stage.

     Phil had a few regrets as he watched the queens float to the top of their cage, each flailing its six legs and figuring out the new laws of its altered environment.  First, he quite obviously regretted that there was no sturdy top to their cage.  They’d coated the heavy steel bars with abrasive, nasty-tasting, acid-proof ceramics, to make sure the bone-eating queen wouldn’t chew on them and slobber acids all over them, but they’d never figured that pseudo-gravity would fail.  The queens were flat-footed, with very little spring in their legs at all, almost like elephants, and so there was no chance of them climbing or jumping out.

     Who needs a heavy top, anyway?  Gotta save weight and launch costs. They’d topped the cage off with bars just sturdy enough to contain the large worker BATs, which, being flying creatures, were flimsy compared to the queens.  They had previously put some worker BATs in with the queens, to make sure there wouldn’t be any more premature cannibalism problems.  Sure, the queens were supposed to eat sick, dead, and dying worker BATs¾and they’d already verified that feature, too¾but they sure weren’t supposed to eat the healthy ones.

     Secondly, he regretted that he didn’t have a large-caliber gun, and that he’d starved them a bit lately, so that Debra would be hungry enough to eat bone.  Last but not least, he regretted that he and his coworkers had designed them with such smarts, and with poison stingers on their thoraxes.  They didn’t really need either; they were just baby-making machines.  But, what the hey, since the genes have gotta be there for the worker BATs anyway, why not just go ahead and turn them on?  It was actually easier that way, anyway.

     Debra and Wilma glowered and snarled at him hungrily.  This was nothing new, but the effects on Phil definitely were.  He looked at Wilma’s razor teeth and Debra’s bone-cruncher jaws, both set in bear-like faces, in an entirely new light.  He watched their forward-pointing stingers pivoting at their chests, swinging out of their protective sheaths, and pulsing back and forth, getting warmed up for action.  Saliva globs drifted from their hungry maws.

     How could these damned bitches even think about eating one of their creators?  Alas, they sure seemed bent on doing just that.  It wasn’t long till Debra and Wilma were bracing themselves at the tops of opposite corners of the cage.  Debra gnawed at the flimsy bars with her heavy jowls, and Wilma smashed her snout against the cage top repeatedly, vaguely resembling a stunted, mutated, enraged rhinoceros.

     Phil sprang into action.  He pushed against the wall, launching himself across the room.  He grabbed the poison-tipped euthanasia stick, checked the plunger and contents, fought back his fears, and launched himself across the room once more.  He braced his feet against the ceiling¾or, at least, it used to be a ceiling, now it was just another surface¾“above” the cage.  He debated for only a second before selecting Wilma for his attentions.  She was lighter and more spry, and represented a greater threat in microgravity, he figured.

     Seeing fresh, live meat so close to her sent Wilma into a rage. She battered at the cage, as more and more bars gave way.  As his heart threatened to spring out of his chest, Phil thrust the tip of his stick into her chest.  Almost instantly, Wilma started to go rigid.  Phil was trying to extract the stick when Debra, who apparently had felt left out of some promising hunting action, plowed into Wilma’s dying body, knocking the stick out of Phil’s hands, and catapulting him across the room.  He looked back, hoping that Debra would start to munch out on Wilma, and forget about tender Phil flesh.

     No such luck.  Phil remembered a feature he’d helped design, whereby any BAT, be it a large or small worker, or a queen at any stage of development, would go into a rage at the sight of anything or anyone harming a queen.  Gotta defend that Hive!  The all-important Hive was far more important than any BAT’s immediate nutritional needs.  Debra clenched the bars in her teeth, shaking the entire cage with renewed energy.  Phil found the spare euthanasia stick.  Filling it with a special treat for Debra was quite a chore; it hadn’t been designed for use in microgravity.  He captured the largest of the floating globs and secured them in the tube with the plunger, just as she burst forth from the shattered cage top.

     She got her footing on the “ceiling” and bounced back towards the cage, turning towards Phil at the same time.  He was amazed at how well she handled herself in free fall.  Her middle legs tended to splay out towards the sides, as opposed to pointing straight down like the others. They’d been designed that way for the purpose of providing roll resistance in gravity, but they seemed to come in very handy in the absence of gravity as well.  She used her middle legs to pull inwards, towards herself, on the tattered bars, keeping herself attached to the cage top.  She navigated around the hole where she’d burst out, and maneuvered herself to the corner of the cage.  From there, where she could get a good foothold on a surface perpendicular to her intended trajectory, she sent herself flying towards Phil.

     Three-quarters of Phil’s mind was overwhelmed with sheer terror. The other quarter was a strange mixture of admiration for Debra’s intelligence, and poetic ruminations about his situation.  Here he was, the brave hunter-gatherer-warrior, facing the charging rhino, saber-tooth, or boar, with nothing but a spear.  He could have been a Neanderthal, a Cro-Magnon, or a Polynesian Islander.  He was timeless. He was Man¾that which could be killed, but that which would never surrender.  Adrenaline coursed through his veins, as it had coursed through the veins of countless brave warriors before him.  Fight or flee, but never say die.  He bellowed and roared at his adversary, and fear had no more meaning.

     Debra looked startled, but inertia left her course unchanged.  Phil had thought that he should stand his ground, brace his spear on the wall behind him, and let Debra impale herself.  At the last second, he saw pictures in his mind.  He saw five hundred pounds of bio-engineered, furious flesh, poisoned and dying but not yet dead, splintering his flimsy stick, crushing his body against the wall, tearing at him and stinging him, in Debra’s last act of defiance.  He reminded himself that this was just an intimate dance between himself and Debra, and that there was no tribe here for him to sacrifice himself for.  He kicked with all his strength against another wall at his feet, and went sailing away, leaving Debra to smash into a hard wall, uncushioned by Phil flesh.

     Phil came to rest in another corner.  OK, he thought, so I can’t just let her impale herself.  I guess I’ve got to play javelin-thrower. Phil braced himself once more, and waited for Debra to attack again.  As she shot across the room, he hurled his spear.  She definitely wasn’t stupid; she saw the spear coming, and contorted her body in mid-air. The spear glanced off her back, pivoting as the tip briefly caught in her brown fur.  Phil thought, I sure hope some juice made it into her, as he dodged out of the way again.

     He did the microgravity mambo with Debra once more, maneuvering to fetch the spear.  He checked it out, thankfully noting that its contents were slightly depleted.  With any luck, Debra would soon start to croak.  The needle had been bested in its encounter with the wall, though¾it was now quite mangled¾so he just haphazardly threw it at her once more.  OK, what next? he asked himself.

     He looked around, searching for another weapon.  Let’s see, he thought, the dissection saws are out, ‘cause there’s no power, and I sure wouldn’t want to get that close to her, anyway.  His eyes lit on the fire extinguisher and fire ax.  He couldn’t quite see himself getting close enough to her to make use of the ax, either, so he yanked the extinguisher off the wall.  When she came at him again, he let her have it in the face.  He rocketed backwards as the foam shot out, surprising him only briefly.  The foam briefly covered and blinded her, and Phil grabbed the ax, building up his courage.  Chop her head off, quick, you coward, he told himself.  She’d shaken most of it off by the time he was ready to launch himself at her, so he gave it up.

     OK, so maybe fight is out, he thought.  Still, I’ll keep this ax handy; it’s the best weapon I’ve got.  How ‘bout flight?  Where can I escape to?  Bogey outta here, and slam and lock the door behind me. These queens may have the smarts, same as the large BATs, to work latches and knobs, but they just don’t have the dexterity.  He worked his way over to the door to the corridor.  It used to be “up,” at the top of some stairs; now it was just “over”.  He undid all the fancy bolts and latches, just in time to dodge Debra once more.

     He watched her paddling those six powerful legs, swimming in air, thankfully noting that her body wasn’t quite as adapted as his, to maneuvering rapidly in zero gravity.  His ancestors had evolved, way back when, to maneuver in three-dimensional forests.  She was designed to walk or trot on land.  This edge he had gave him time to accomplish tasks between her attacks.

     This is getting old, he thought, watching her hideous body come to rest against the door.  Debra launched herself at him the umpteenth time, and he traded places with her.  The door wouldn’t open.  Phil briefly considered smashing the door with the ax, but then considered how sturdy the door was.  Besides, he thought, it might not be opening because there’s air pressure in here, but not out there.  If so, it’s a damn good thing this door swings in, not out, and I’d better not smash even a small hole in it!

     Next, he considered escaping out another door to the lifeboat, on the “bottom” of the module opposite the corridor.  The module was mounted on the outer diameter side of the wheel’s corridor and structural elements, with the lifeboat at an even greater radius, so that centrifugal force would help it escape the spinning wheel, in case of an emergency.  The lifeboat was mounted outside a small airlock, which could be entered from either the biowar or spook side of the module.

     However, there was a long, narrow passage to the door to that airlock, along the “bottom” of Stanley’s lab, which took up most of the wall between the spook haunt and bioweapons labs.  Phil didn’t want to risk being trapped by Debra in that narrow passage, while fumbling with the door to the airlock.  Besides, escaping without knowledge of Stanley’s status might be sort of hard to explain to the folks back home.  Let’s play for all the marbles, he decided.  Be a hero.  Rescue the old geek.

     Stanley, you miserable old cur, he thought, I’ve finally got an excuse to barge in on you and your secret research in your secret room, he thought, launching himself away from the corridor once more, just in time to get out of Debra’s way.  Is that bitch finally starting to slow down, or am I just imagining it?  I’m slowing down, too, though¾I sure hope the poison is wearing her down, and that she’s not just getting tired, like me.  I’ve got to win this endurance race!  After all, my brain is more valuable than yours, you abominable death-dealing bitch!

     He grabbed the knob on the door to Stanley’s lab as he almost sailed right on by. It wouldn’t budge.  “STANLEY!  EMERGENCY!  LET ME IN!” he yelled with all the might his lungs could muster.  No reply. It was then that he noticed that the pain in his ears, which he hadn’t even noticed during his dances with Debra, had gone away when he yelled, and that he could hear a faint hiss at Stanley’s door.  Shit!  We’re losing air! he told himself.  He looked at the emergency space suits, rehearsing those procedures he’d thought he’d never need.

     Debra came seeking fresh Phil flesh yet once again, and he once again politely declined.  Politely for the circumstances, at least. “Hey, bitch, give it a rest.  Whaddaya say we call a truce while I slip into something more comfortable?,” he asked, staring longingly at the space suits.  Fat chance of getting into one of those between swinging with my partner, here, he thought, scooting for Stanley’s door once more.  He banged on the door with the flat side of the ax.  “STANLEY! STANLEY!!  STANLEY!!!  LET ME IN!  THERE’S AN UNGRATEFUL, HOMICIDAL BITCH OUT HERE TRYING TO KILL MY ASS!!  OPEN THE DOOR!!” Shit, I sure hope he’s not dead or unconscious in there, from lack of air, or from some worker BATs busting loose, he thought.

     Here comes the bitch again¾nothing like a good game of dodge-bitch, he thought, recalling dodgeball in elementary school, and wondering if he’d ever really been a little kid.  What would a ten-year-old Phil say, if someone had told him what future use he’d find for dodgeball skills, he asked himself.  It all seemed like alien memories that someone from another dimension, from beyond space and time, had planted in his brain.  He dodged, a little awkwardly.  The pain in his ears was back, so he yawned.  This is getting to be silly, he thought, starting to have some fun, even.

     “Hey, DEBRA, honey, baby, sweetheart, darling,” he muttered, “Whaddaya say we kiss and make up?  Slip me some tongue, baby!  I wanna FUCK ya, baby!  Fuck ya all night long!” He rolled at this clever wit. Man, am I a card, or what?  This is fun, he thought, I feel, like, drunk!  Let’s party!  I also feel a little tired, more than you’d think from just playing a little dodge-bitch, he thought.

     Then it hit him.  Anoxia!  Lack of oxygen was stealing his smarts away, and driving him batty.  All right! he resolved, firmly.  This is NOT fun and games, and any drunken moron neurons of mine will answer to ME!  We’re gonna watch it, now!  We’re gonna stay on our toes, and we’re gonna KILL this bitch if it’s the last thing I do!

     Chastened and sober, he cautiously scooted to the door once more. My muscles are drunk, too, so I’d better move conservatively, he thought.  He pinched the knob between his feet, to keep himself secured to the door, grabbed the ax handle with both hands, and hammered away, with whatever waning strength he could wrest from his dwindling oxygen supply.  By the time Debra came calling once more, he was glad to step aside to catch his breath.  He inspected the hole he’d made, behind Debra, as she pushed against the door, once more seeking Phil.  I wonder how soon she’ll give up, he wondered.  If ever.  At least this door is fairly weak.  Hopefully, I can make a hole in it, big enough for me, but not for her.  If I can get to the other side, and if she’s stupid enough to stick her head through, I can bash her brains out!  Yeah!

     When he got back to that jagged, narrow, foot-long hole, he put his hand against it to judge the rate of air flow.  Stanley’s room was definitely bleeding off air, but it wasn’t vacuum over there, either. He snuck a quick look through the hole before getting back to work.  He could’ve sworn he thought he saw a naked Stanley floating around in there, in yoga position, but he wrote it off to anoxia and got back to work.  He resisted the temptation to look again.  Time was precious.

     By the time he traded places with Debra once more, the hole was eight inches wide and two feet long.  When he got back to the hole, he took a good, long look, and got so upset that he didn’t even get in a single whack at the door, that time.  He saw a naked Stanley, wide awake, floating in midair in yoga position and surrounded by small, colorful, floating objects, at the far wall.  “STANLEY, YOU FUCKING DUMBSHIT!!!  WAKE UP!  HELP ME, YOU GODDAMN IDIOT!  LET ME IN!  DEBRA’S ON THE LOOSE!” All he heard was Stanley mumbling, something about Phil needing to leave him alone, ‘cause he was doing something vitally important.

     OK, Phil thought, he’s been in thinner air for longer than I have, and maybe he’s just not quite caught on to what’s going on, like I have. Give him a break.  He reached through the hole, trying to work the knob, bolt, and latches, without any luck.  More calmly, he called again. “Come on, Stan!  Open the door!  Let me in!  We can keep Debra out. I’ve got an ax.  Soon’s she gets partway in, if she does, we bash her. You’ll be all right.  I promise.”

     “Go away!  Your negative energies are breaking up the Channel!  My Cosmetic Crystalline Karma Conchishness... mumble mumble mumble.” Phil was sure he’d heard it right.  Some of it, at least.  Holy shit! he thought, skee-daddling out of Debra’s way yet once more.  Stanley’s blown his last fuse!  Next time he got back to the hole, he didn’t even glance through.  He just tore at it, imagining that one side of the hole was Debra’s face, and the other, Stanley’s.  Sure hope Debra doesn’t just decide to park in front of here, he thought.  But if she does, maybe I can find me some oxygen somewhere.  Get a leg up on that bitch!

     His muscles and lungs cried for relief as he dodged Debra once more.  This time, though, her head scored a bull’s eye on the hole, and the jagged edges of the hole jabbed into her shoulders like so many barbs on a hook.  She was stuck!  Phil chortled gleefully, hustled right up to her, and jammed one foot against the door frame and the other against her spine.  She squealed and squirmed like a stuck pig, knocking him loose.

     He assumed the same position again, this time also grabbing fur and a four-inch vestigial wing on her back with his left hand.  She squirmed some more, to no avail.  With the ax in his right hand, he whacked her spine in two.  Blood gushed out, polluting the air and walls with floating globs and sticky patches.

     Exhausted, Phil dropped back.  Victory is mine!  Now, I’ll just close my eyes for a few seconds, and catch my breath, he thought.  I deserve a break.  His eyelids slid shut, and relief flooded through his weary body.  WAKE UP! a few ganglions screamed at his lethargic body. He became aware of a yawning black chasm, hungrily reaching out to snatch his life like an insatiable black hole tearing at the fabric of the universe.  Phil fought back, mustering a mighty force that all sane organisms wield: the urge to survive.  It welled up, forcing his eyelids open, and his body across the room.  He fiddled with the suit, with fingers turned rubbery.  Oxygen flowed into his mouth, and strength started to ebb back into his aching body.

     He slipped into the suit, zippered up, and caught his breath.  He retrieved his ax, and started hacking at Debra’s body.  He had plenty of oxygen, now, but the suit slowed him down a lot, and his muscles were more tired than ever.  Slowly, he worked his way through the gore and through the door.  Barely able to see through his bloodstained helmet visor, he found a rag¾it was probably a piece of Stanley’s clothes, but he wasn’t picky¾and wiped it clear.

     Able to see decently once more, he stepped back to admire his work. There was the shattered door, there were the floating chunks of engineered flesh, and there were the globs and splotches of blood, all arranged very tastefully.  He briefly considered the artistic merits of the arrangement, and debated whether or not he might deserve an NEA grant.  Ah, hell, he thought, the feds are already paying for it, anyway, so what does it matter?  Besides, I’d better stop being a jerk-off, and think about important things.

     Now that he had decent access, from Stanley’s side, he was able to open the remnants of the door.  Then, he grabbed Stanley’s limp, naked body, dragged it over to the other suit, and pumped some oxygen into his mouth, squeezing his chest between squirts of gas from the suit’s hose.

     Presently, Stanley came back to life.  He seemed panicked, even though groggy.  His legs and left arm writhed around, but his right arm seemed rigid.  Phil noticed a gash on his right arm, and took a closer look.  Phil concluded that Stanley must have somehow managed to brush up against a BAT cage and get a glancing sting.  If the BAT had sunk its stinger in his flesh, he’d be a goner already, of course, Phil thought. As is, he’s probably not long for this world.

     Phil kept on pumping air into him, and tried to stuff him into the spacesuit, but Stanley fought him.  Finally, Phil gave up.  He momentarily abandoned Stanley, fetched the emergency medical kit, and broke out the epinephrine.  Stanley was passing out again, so he pumped air into him again, and injected him with a double dose of the stimulant.  Stanley started to come around.

     Stanley mumbled, cursed, and thrashed.  As best as Phil could understand, he was pissed at Phil for having interrupted his attempts to appease the cosmic vibes, which had been hissing at him through the walls, trying to get at him, trying to strike him down for his hubris, in that he’d accumulated too much crystalline power.  Phil tried to explain to him that the hissing he’d heard was air leaking through the walls, into the adjoining other half of the top-secret American module. The intelligence-gathering station over there must’ve been harder hit, and lost all its air, he repeated to Stanley, as Stanley became slightly more lucid.

     Phil’s ears pricked up as he heard Stanley babbling about Frank, diamonds, some lovely lady by the name of Crystal Chung, the CIA, some chap named Andrew, bad vibes in the secure rooms, crystals, metals, more vibes and energies, China’s legitimate needs for self defense, data, vibes, leash chemicals and how to deliver them, vibes, and more vibes. Phil opened his visor so as to hear better, despite the dissipating atmosphere.  Between gulps of air from his own hose, and feeding air to Stanley, he drank in Stanley’s semicoherent babblings.

     Stanley finally woke up enough to realize he was spilling the beans to Phil, the Philistine.  Phil could tell from the startled look in Stanley’s eyes, and wondered if maybe he should’ve kept his visor up, to maybe disguise himself at least a little bit.  “Don’t stop now, Stanley. I found this all highly educational.  Tell me more.  Krista, crystals, CIA, all that good stuff.  Please teach me.  I’ll need as much help as I can get, to get us out of this mess.  Teach me how to use the crystals.” No use telling him he’s a goner, just yet, Phil figured.

     “Fuck off.  I don’t cast pearls before swine,” Stanley snarled.

     “OK.  Fine.  We really need to get you into this suit, here, though.  The air is getting too thin.  Will you please co-operate?”

     Stanley finally co-operated, and Phil, relieved, snapped his visor back down and helped Stanley.  The air will last a lot longer with the visor down, Phil thought.  Getting Stanley suited up took quite a while longer than it had taken Phil to get his suit on, largely because Stanley’s right arm was stiff and sensitive.  After getting Stanley all squared away, they chatted over their short-wave radios.

     “Did you take a BAT sting on that arm?,” Phil inquired.  Like, were you totally stupid, and did you brush right up against a cage, instead of leaving the shields up and handling the cages only with their long handles, Phil asked him, mentally.

     “I think I do remember getting stung a little bit.  I guess I lost my shit, a bit, in there, what with the air being thin, and all.  I guess I leaned on a cage, or something,” Stanley ‘fessed up, a little sheepishly.

     Phil took a long, hard look at Stanley’s face, through two glass visors, and the lingering blood on his own.  Despite all the distortion, he could tell Stanley was seriously ill.  No telling how long he’ll stay lucid, he thought.  How do I handle this?  I’d sure like to squeeze a bit of information out of him.  Maybe more than a bit.  He’s a goner, any way I look at it.  Does it matter if I manipulate and use a dead man?  And a worthless scumbag of a dead man at that?  So, how do I manipulate him?  Oh, come on, man, he’s a dying human being, and at least deserves a bit of honesty.

     “Stanley, listen to me.  You’re not gonna make it.  I should know.  The poisons we selected for the BATs¾well, they’re a witch’s brew.  They’re quick and merciful, if you get a proper dose.  You just took a little scrape, so you’ll hang out for a little while, but¾I’m sorry¾there’s no real hope.  The stiffness in your arm is from your muscles permanently contracting.  It’ll spread, and you’ll stop breathing.  There’s nothing I can do.  You might want to make your peace with your God, think your last thoughts, whatever.”

     Stanley turned a whiter shade of pale.  Better just move on, here, and not let him just sit here and think about it, for too long, Phil thought.  “I would ask you, though, to think about who you’re leaving behind.  Like me, for example.  Now, I know you might not owe me any favors, but¾as a fellow American, as a fellow follower of the great Western humanitarian and democratic traditions, even just as a fellow human being¾and, I think it wouldn’t be going out on a limb to say our situation here is very likely the result of some serious problems down there on Terra Firma¾I need all the help I can get.  America, and Earth, needs all the help it can get.”

     What a speech! Phil thought.  Wonder if Stanley gives a shit? “Listen, man, I’ll do whatever I can for you.  Whatever you want.  I’m gonna see if I can grab the lifeboat and blow on outta here.  I’ll take you with me, live, dead, or dying, if you want.” Stanley just stared at him, blankly.  “I hope you don’t ask me to, but, like, if you’re really suffering, later, I can inject you with the euthanasia drug.  Wish I could do better.” Phil groped for words.  “But, like, seeing as how you’ll not be around, much longer¾and I can swear to you that there’s no avoiding that¾then, I’d sure appreciate it if you’d tell me everything you can,” Phil finished, lamely.

     “Fuck off, you vampire.  Vulture!”

     “Come on.  It’ll do you no harm, and help me, and the rest of the human race.  It seems to me, from what I think I heard, that you know a lot.  It’d be a shame for all that to just rot with your brain.  I don’t know what’s going on, who’s fooling who, and who’s fucking who, or trying to.  I just hope that there’ll be enough people with enough of the big picture to keep this whole thing from blowing up in our faces. I’ve got some of the big picture, but I need what you’ve got. Somebody’s got to keep a lid on this, and I’d sure like to try to help. This is your last chance to help us all.  Time’s slipping away.”

     Stanley just stuck his tongue out, doing the ol’ raspberry, spraying the inside of his visor with small droplets of spit.  With nary a word, he spoke volumes.

     “Listen, Bubba, are you ready to meet your Maker right after having callously told the whole human race you don’t give a shit!?”

     “You’re not the whole human race, you asswipe.  Just a very sorry specimen.  You can rot in the Hell you want to consign me to, as far as I’m concerned.”

     Fucking twerp! Phil thought.  Maybe I ought to twist his sore arm a bit.  Be easy ‘nuff to do.  Go for it!  Nah, he’d probably pass out from the pain, and then I’m stuck up the proverbial space station without data.  What to do?

     “Stanley!  I’m begging you!  This is really, really important!  Do you want to go down in history as someone who could’ve untangled a mess of lies, and prevented a lot of bloodshed, but chose instead to do nothing, for no reason other than spite?  What’s with this CIA crap?”

     Stanley just floated there, stone-faced.  “Come on, man.  I can get you a much better place in history, if I can just get back to Earth with what you know.  Help me!”

     “You have no need to know.  If they’d wanted you to know, they’d have told you.  Even Frank wasn’t authorized,” Stanley announced, smugly.  “Hell, I’m not even sure the President is authorized to know what I know.” Phil watched Stanley swallow, as if he’d just realized he’d said too much.

     “Well, tell me, and I’ll help you keep it secret,” Phil whispered conspiratorially.  He’d have had a hard time keeping a straight face, if he hadn’t been so desperate.  Wonder if this spineless wonder has ever seen DOCTOR STRANGELOVE, he asked himself.  Nah, probably too deep for him.  He wouldn’t have gotten any of it.

     “What kind of fool do you think I am?,” Stanley replied.

     This is pathetic.  I’m wasting away valuable oxygen, here, talking to Agent Orange/Keystone Kop, in the flesh.  Might as well have some fun, if I’m going to piss away some of my last air, trying to drag some sense out of this moron.  “Why ask rhetorical questions?,” was Phil’s comeback.

     Stanley sure looked at him awfully funny, Phil noticed.  OK, cut the shit, and think.  Gotta give it one last try. How the hell do I get through to this old fart?  What, if anything, does he care about?  Hmm. Maybe.  Just maybe.  “Listen, blockhead, if you don’t start talking, and soon, I’m gonna take that sore arm of yours, and shove it up your ass.  Slowly.  Next, I’ll dip your sorry carcass in the liquid nitrogen tanks, and break off a limb or two.  Then, I’m gonna round up your precious fucking gems and metals, and smash ‘em into several zillions of itsy bitsy pieces, using your misbegotten, frozen flesh as hammers.”

     Stanley’s eyes threatened to bang against his visor, and his face crept a few notches closer to looking like death warmed over.  Phil momentarily thought he’d gone too far, that Stanley would pass out. Stanley finally came back, shocked to the core, with, “You wouldn’t.” But there was morbid doubt in his voice.

     Phil mustered his sternest, meanest stare.  He glared at Stanley’s face, almost burning twin holes through two layers of glass.  Maybe this thin film of blood on my visor is actually of some use, here, he thought.  A butcher’s badge.  “I would.  And you can bet I’d enjoy every bit of it.  Try me.  I’ll even record it on video, for you.  Oops!  I guess you won’t be around to enjoy it.  Well, I’ll take it back to Earth with me.  Maybe make a few copies.  Surprise your lovely lady friend with a copy, even.”

     Stanley talked.  And talked.  Phil drank it in.  Fighting factions at the CIA and State Department, spies, spooks, lies, Debras, crystals, gems, mysterious bad vibes in the secure rooms that might be able to read minds, disk drives full of data for the Chinese, and Stanley’s verifications of a leash chemical delivery system, right here, in the room next door.  Stanley even told him where to find more gems, metals, and disk drives.  He had just started to describe Andrew’s appearance to Phil, when his batteries began to run dry. His breath was running too shallow to support his voice any longer.

     Phil put his visor right up against Stanley’s, watching his jaws and eyelids tense shut.  His head started weakly thrashing back and forth.  Phil banged on his helmet, and his eyes fluttered back open. “Do you want a lethal injection?,” Phil asked, as his heart flooded with pity.  Now wide-eyed, Stanley nodded affirmatively.

     Phil hustled, grabbing a bottle of the euthanasia poison intended for the BATs, splashing some floating globs of it into the hypodermic needle, and tearing Stanley’s helmet off.  It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his whole life so far, but he jammed the needle into Stanley’s neck and pushed the plunger.  As he watched peaceful oblivion wash over Stanley’s face, he knew he’d done the right thing.  He recalled taking his dying dog to the vet, as a teenager, to end its misery, and he knew then that humans are every bit as deserving of mercy as any animal had ever been.  Still, in neither case could he derive any pleasure from it at all.  He momentarily thought about wars, weapons, bioweapons, and deaths by the billions, and just about broke down.  He pushed the racing thoughts out of his mind.  Gotta go on, he thought. Gotta get back to Earth!

     He headed for Stanley’s lab.  There, he rounded up as many crystals, metals, and disk drives as he could find, dumping them all into whatever boxes and bags he could find, thinking, I’ll need some evidence when I get back down there, or they’ll never believe a thing I say.  His jaw dropped when he saw the diamonds sized like small bird eggs.  He didn’t doubt that they were real.  So what if tens of billions of dollars of UNITY investments had just gone up in smoke; he was at least saving what he could, as well as collecting evidence.

     He was tempted to snoop around, to find out all he could about what Stanley had been doing.  No time for that, he decided.  And, no time to waste trying to round up precious data we’ve gathered here; the rhodopsin would never survive the trip back in the lifeboat, without proper refrigeration.  I’ll just have to hope Stanley stole most of the good stuff, here, in his illicit disk drives.

     He stashed the goodies, along with extra oxygen tanks, into the lifeboat, and then tried the airlock door to the spook haunt.  No luck there, as expected.  He took his ax, and banged on the spook door with all his might.  No reply.  What if there’s someone still alive over there, he asked himself.  We’re playing for all the marbles here, aren’t we?  Still, this door could restrain an elephant.  Maybe I’d better go hack at the wall in Stanley’s lab.

     He hacked away at the wall, without much progress.  His muscles and chest felt like he’d been through the Thirty Year’s War in three days. He started to think, well, what if we’ve got a real shooting war going on down there?  What if the Chinese are behind this?  What if Tu Ill Dung and his butthole buddies see with their radar, that this module is still intact, and decide to blast it, too, for good measure?  Time may be precious, and my hide sure as hell is.  Let’s make like horse turds and hit the trail!  Let’s make like hippies, and split this joint!

     He rounded up some cords and wires, and strapped his booty into the lifeboat.  No use having this shit flying around inside here and conking me in the head or on my bippy, he thought.  There was room for six people in there, so all his loot fit with room to spare.  OK, heave ho! He worked latches and levers, shutting the boat’s door.  He strapped himself into the pilot’s chair, pulled the checklist down, and started following the procedures.  Rock and Roll, dude! he commended himself, feeling like Joe Jet Jock.  Shoot all of your sperm at once, and explode into space!

     When he got all the way up to step twenty-eight, though, his display flashed red, saying, “Latch disengage malfunction.  Click here, or press F2, for recommended workarounds.”

     “Shit!” he exclaimed, to no one in particular.  He placed his pointer on the screen, working the menu tree, picking the options rated as easiest first.  Ten minutes later, after trying all the options except the one rated as a huge pain in the ass, he banged his gloved fist into his chair in anger.  He was pissed, but not stupid enough to bang on anything that mattered.  “Goddamn cocksucking motherfucking piece of SHIT!” he called the recalcitrant latch.  OK, he said to himself, with a sense of dread, let’s see what this lousy bucket of bolts wants me to do for my last hurrah.

     “EVA required,” the bucket of bolts told him.  “Access panel C by twisting handle, following arrow.  Open panel door.  Pull on red ring, till ring and cable releases.  Remove ring and cable, shut and secure panel door.  Escape capsule will be flung free of the wheel, if on a wheel module; therefore, staying attached to the lifeboat is imperative. Obviously, personnel staying in the escape capsule during this procedure will need to be suited, since there is no airlock within the capsule.”

     Oh, just fucking GREAT! Phil thought, watching crude moving pictures of Joe and Jane astronauts monkeying hand over hand, hanging off a module, working their way over to a life boat, securing themselves, and doing the dirty deed.  He watched as the capsule, Joe, and Jane were flung free.  That was on a wheel module.  Then, he watched them again, this time in zero gravity, which looked a lot easier.  They just kind of floated along, grabbing the handholds to stay secure.  They positioned themselves on opposite sides of the boat, pushed it free, and hopped in.

     The animated movie explained that if there was air in the boat during latch disengage, it would scoot off like a deflating balloon, so Jane and Joe wouldn’t need to push off in that case.  On the other hand, they’d have to secure themselves to the capsule, just as in the case of releasing from a spinning wheel, so that the boat wouldn’t escape without them.

     OK, I can handle this, he thought.  We’ve got little or no air, so I’ll just hang on real tight, just in case.  Hell, I’ll even tie myself to the boat, just to be safe.  And I’m not on a spinning wheel any more, so I don’t have to swing off the bars like an orangutan.  I can get there the easy way.  But wait!  Just how do I get out there in the first place?  These are generic instructions on this boat; they don’t get into specifics on how to get to a particular boat.  As I recall, the only way to monkey on out there to the outside of the module is to get into the corridor, and go through an airlock on the floor of the corridor, on either end of the module.  But I can’t even get into the corridor!

     Shall I try to hack my way through the skin of the module?, he asked himself.  No, that’s some pretty tough stuff, with several layers, protecting me from the impacts of orbiting debris.  There’s a much thinner wall between me and the spook haunt.  Maybe, if I can get over there, I can get from there into the corridor, and then I’ll be home free.  He hauled himself out of the boat, and hacked at the wall of Stanley’s lab once more.  He gave up after a few more swings of his ax, and thought a little while.  Then, he wandered back and forth across the wall, placing his helmet against it, and tapping with the ax, listening to how solid the wall seemed to be.

     Finally, he found what sounded like a less reinforced, weaker spot. After only a few blows, he punched a hole clear through, and he felt a weak whoosh! as the last of his scant air escaped.  He hacked away some more, making sure he picked on the weakest parts of the wall.  It wasn’t much longer till he broke on through to the other side.

     He looked around, soaking in the sights of the forbidden spook haunt.  He saw racks upon racks of mysterious electronics.  All that he knew was that this was the hub of orbital intelligence-gathering, where data was collected from sensors on board the module and other orbiting facilities, analyzed, and stored on rhodopsin disks for regular trips back to the USA.  Only unclassified, non-sensitive information, or utterly urgent, time-critical, Earth-shaking intelligence was supposed to be transmitted Earthwards from the spook haunt, as best as he could recall.  These spooks types don’t like any risks at all, he thought. Even encrypted lasers aren’t good enough for them.

     He wandered through the facility, feeling as if he was a thief in the night.  I’ve got no need to know, he thought.  But, I’ve got a need to preserve my hide, and that overrides all other considerations.  Damn the spooks; full speed ahead!  He rounded a corner, and stumbled upon two space suits, one partially occupied by a cadaver.  After a brief shock, Phil realized that the poor son of a bitch had died trying to crawl into the suit.

     Phil paid his respects to the unknown spook, mentally, for all of a few tens of milliseconds, and moved on.  He chastised himself for not caring, thinking, if I was really a good dude, I’d gather his and Stanley’s bodies and drag them back with me, just for their loved ones. But, I’ve got more important things to worry about.  Let the dead take care of the dead.  Besides, some fucking legal eagle would find out I spared Stanley of five minutes of agony at the tail end of his miserable life, and hang me out to dry for ten years.  Fill that prison slot with Phil, the mercy killer, and let the child molester free for lack of prison space.  Yeah, right!

     It was then that he saw the huge gash at the end of the module, where the struts attaching it to the corridor had torn loose, apparently.  Ouch!  Rather their end than ours, though, he thought, shuddering.  He looked out, briefly, seeing only stars and mangled corridor skin.  OK, he mused, I can always go out through that hole, if nowhere else.  Let’s take a bit more of a look-see at this place, first, though.

     He snooped around, and almost stumbled over Fred’s body.  Fred had made no attempt to get to a space suit; instead, he’d spent his last few minutes scribbling on a printout.  His body floated by a long stream of paper, and tears welled to Phil’s eyes as he saw first what Fred had written last.  It was a big, crude, shakily drawn heart, doubtlessly drawn with Fred’s last, dying gasps.  It enclosed “Fred” and “Karen,” as if some lovesick, loony teenagers had carved it into a tree.  Phil wondered what Fred had really wanted to say, before his breath was so cruelly snatched away.

     Phil tore off the printout, and scanned it.  There were endless streams of meaningless characters, some not even English.  There were notes in the margins, like, “Shore to DENG,” “Taiwan missile frigate,” “DENG to shore,” “!!” “Ask Jim about this one!” “Damage report,” “Narrow-lobe radar down!” and “Hell/w radar¾fight fight fight!”.  They were all written quite legibly; Fred must’ve written them before disaster struck, Phil figured.

     The notes at the bottom were the ones that were scribbled hastily. They were also the ones that stopped Phil’s heart for a moment or two as he read them.  “GOD, I pray this is 2 someone.  CHINA FLASH BLAST ACCIDENT!!  Should’ve xmitted this 2 USA right away.  2 late now; pwr down.  DENG lost radar; fire FLASH BLIND!!  U MUST BELIEVE.  Low prob., yes¾but true!  NO WAR!  KEEP LID ON!  GET DATA DOWN!!” Then, that heart.  That heart-rending heart, the one that tears at mine, like a wildcat on my back, Phil thought.

     I may not have been to the war college, but I sure as hell know about FLASHes, side blasts, and narrow-lobe radars.  But, cripes a-mighty¾to think that they bull’s-eyed us by accident is like winning the fucking lottery jackpot in all fifty states with fifty bucks, for crying out loud!  Still, why would Fred lie?  Does his data lie?  By God, I’ll do my best to find out!  This has GOT to get down there, and PRONTO!  He gathered up the paper, folded it, tucked it firmly into a pocket on the outside of his spacesuit, and mashed the pedal to the metal.

     Frantic, he hunted around, hoping he wouldn’t have to go back to his side of the module.  He found a suitable length of long, sturdy patch wire, tied it to his waist and to a structural element, and zoomed out the hole.  For just a moment, he feared he’d overdone it, and that the wire would snap, leaving him to float in the void, but he had the good sense to grab a loop at the last minute.  He squeezed it tight in his hand, letting the friction slow him down as he reached the end of his rope.  He came to a gentle halt.

     He looked around, squelching the panic that first rolled over him. All around him, there was nothing.  A hungry, thirsty nothing, hungering for his life, thirsting for his air.  Come on, Phil, he said to himself, this is no different than the vacuum inside the module.  Beyond the nothing, real close, are things I can touch.  Solid things.  Look at them!  Over there’s a mangled corridor, and there’s the module.  Down there, a wee tad further away, is Earth, beautiful Earth.  Home.  Let’s go home!  There, I can even see the lifeboat.  There it is, and there’s the path of handholds leading to it, just like a zipper stitched down the side of the module.

     Unfortunately, there’s a ten-yard stretch of smooth module skin between my hole and the nearest handhold, he noticed.  Now, how in the hell am I gonna get my ass on over there, he wondered.  Let’s try some acrobatics¾here, pull myself back down to the hole.  He made sure he did it carefully, so as not to tear his suit on the jagged edge of the hole.  Once inside, he crawled back out, and launched himself from the edge of the hole towards the corridor, twisting his body so as to land on his boots, to prevent the torn corridor skin from tearing his suit. From there, he launched himself once more, this time towards the handholds on the module.

     Despite his best efforts to land gently, he bounced back off the module.  At least he landed on the far side of the handholds, so that he could pass them as he pulled himself back towards the hole, using the wire.  He did this, but had drifted too far out to grab the handholds by the time he swept by them.  Let’s see, he thought, if I try this too many times, I’m begging to rip a hole in my suit.  Plus, I’m wasting time and air.  Speaking of air, it smells sort of stale and pukey in here.  Oops!  Check that gauge!

     Sure enough, it was time for fresh air.  He hustled back in, and traded tanks with the spare suit, trying not to look at the body in the other suit.  Fresh, sweet air flowed once more.  Phil hung out to think for a moment.  It sure would be nice if these suits had maneuvering jet packs on them, he thought.  But, they’re just simple emergency suits. What kind of maneuvering rocket can I rig up?  Maybe I could just blow air out of a spare oxygen tank, but they’re designed to let it out slowly.  Kinda wimpy.

     Wait!  How ‘bout a fire extinguisher, he thought, remembering the backwards kick he’d gotten when he’d blasted Debra.  He scurried around, gathering two extinguishers and some more wire, and tying them to himself.  He also carried some spare wire wrapped around his waist.  He secured himself to the long wire at the hole, and launched himself once more.  He even managed to enjoy himself a bit out there, playing rocketman, spraying the foam around, and maneuvering over to the nearest handholds.  Once there, he untied the tether securing him to the hole, and tied it to a handhold.  Now, he had a route to follow, even if he exhausted the extinguishers.

     He zipped along the zipper of handholds, arriving at the lifeboat in a matter of seconds.  Once there, he didn’t even bother to secure himself; he just opened that panel and ripped the cord out.  The boat didn’t budge.  Remembering the instructional graphics, he muscled himself into position between module and boat, and pushed.  Still no results.  He figured out that the side component of his force was twisting the boat’s mating mechanism.  He visualized the problem as if he were an ant on a flat board, trying to push a dowel rod out of a hole in the board.  By pushing here, I put a twisting motion on the rod, so it catches in the hole.

     Now, if there was another ant on the other side of the rod, we could both push together, and our side forces would cancel.  Just like in the graphics, where they showed Joe and Jane working together. Suppose I push on both sides, alternately.  Walk it out.  He tried that, without the boat budging.  Finally he gave up, retraced his route, and entered the empty airlock from the spook haunt side.  Recalling Newton’s laws of action and reaction, he shoved hard when he launched himself from the airlock into the boat, so that when he landed in the boat, his momentum knocked the boat free of the module.  Finally, it’s show time, he thought, heaving a sigh of relief.

     He shut the door, strapped himself in once more, and skimmed over the first part of the checklist, making sure he didn’t have to repeat any of the steps again, after all this time had passed.  The next step was to release a few puffs of pressurized gas, to get some decent separation distance between module and boat.  He flipped the appropriate lever, and felt some mild thrust.

     The next steps told him how to turn on the radio to contact Houston, so that Mission Control could assess the boat’s position via a combination of downloading data from the boat’s inertial navigation sensors, and ground-based radars.  Mission Control would then upload appropriate commands to the boat’s automatic flight control system, so that the rockets would fire in such a manner as to bring the capsule down safely, in an easily accessible stretch of open ocean.

     Holy BAT guano, Phil said to himself, if I’d have realized that there’s a radio on this bucket of bolts, I’d have called Houston earlier, to tell them about the FLASH blast having been an accident. Stupid me, I should’ve figured this out a long time ago, he thought, mentally delivering himself a swift kick in the rear.  He hurried though the procedure, flipping switches right and left.  He patched the boat’s radio into the speakers and microphone inside his helmet.

     “Houston, this is Phil Schrock, UNITY survivor.  Come in, Houston.” Nothing.  After what seemed like eons of sounding like a broken record player, trying to raise Houston, Phil got a little pissed.  “HOUston, DAMN your fucking asses, get on the goddamn horn!”

     It was then that Houston finally came through.  “Hey, you!.  How ‘bout a little professionalism, huh?  These are public airwaves.  You wanna answer to the FCC?”

     “Fuck the FCC! We’ve got some more important stuff to worry about! Now, listen up!  UNITY was hit by an accidental FLASH blast by a Chinese warship!  I don’t know what’s going on down there by now; I hate to imagine.  But, keep a lid on it!  This was an accident, I swear by it! I’ve got proof!  A printout from the spook haunt!  I’ve got it right here, in front of me.  Call the appropriate spooks, and I’ll read it to you if you don’t believe...”

     “Mystery-man potty mouth, this is Mission Control, Houston.  Please identify yourself,” Houston replied.

     “This is Phil Schrock, UNITY survivor.  I need your navigation commands, and you need to hear what I have to say!  Contact the authorities at the highest levels, and let them know the UNITY disaster is an accident!  We’re talking WAR, I’ll bet, and we’ve got to prevent it!  Or, stop it, if things aren’t too cool down there.  Now, are you going to help me, or not?”

     There was only what Phil guessed to be shocked silence from Houston, for a few seconds.  Then, “UNITY survivor, we hear you, but we don’t believe you.  The war is on.  In fact, we’re calling attention to you, orbiting up there like a sitting duck, begging for a shot, if you really are who you say you are.  We’ve got to pipe down on the chatter. Now, you’ve got to hit your transponder, and download your position information to us.  If you’re not who you say you are, we’ll have you busted for wasting our time and the taxpayer’s money, as well as being a potty mouth.  Now, hit your transponder.  We’re open.”

     Phil hit the appropriate button, and his screen shortly informed him that the transmission was a success.  “There, you bums, you believe me now?  Are you going to help stop the war, or are you gonna sit on your duffs?  I’ve got...”

     “UNITY survivor, pipe down and prepare for commands upload.  We’re not going to tell you again.  The war’s on, and you and I won’t stop it anytime soon.  Stop begging for the... enemy to fry you.  We’ll contact the authorities, but in the meantime, this chatter has got to stop!  You never know who is listening.  Are you ready for upload?”

     Phil hit the switches.  “Houston, go ahead.  Now, hear me out! I’ve got the goods...”

     “Shut up!  This is our last transmission.  You’re over Africa right now, and you’ll be a nice, fat target for the Chinese real soon.  We’re splashing you down by Hawaii.  Get your tourist shirt and glasses out, whatever, but, for Christ’s sake, turn your radio off!  That, and cross you fingers.  They’ve been shooting at orbital targets for a while, now. Ever since half an hour after they zapped UNITY.  We weren’t sure why they paused, after the first shot.  You may have the answer, but we sure have a hard time believing it.  Stay strapped in; we’re getting you away from the module first, just in case they shoot at it.  Then, we’re bringing you down.  Your systems are ready.  Turn your radio off NOW! Houston, over and out.”

     Phil swallowed his defiance and complied.  Not more than ten seconds later, he heard the solenoids click, as a few liters of nitrogen tetroxide and hydrazine flowed towards the rocket engines.  He felt mild vibrations and acceleration, as the oxidant and fuel exploded upon contacting each other.  The lifeboat turned, and fled from the module. All was quiet.  Phil played with some controls, until he caught the receding module and corridor scraps with an external video camera, and displayed the image to his screen.

     He mentally bade it, and its contents, good-bye.  Bye-bye, Wilma, Fred, Debra, Stanley, unknown spook, and BATs large and small.  Rest in peace, y’all.  It’s been nice to know you.  Or, at least, it’s been memorable.

     Minutes later, he cranked up the gain on the camera, and could only just barely track the speck any longer.  It was then that it exploded into a red fireball.  The glow lingered for a few seconds, then dissipated.  Seconds later, the solenoids clicked again, nitrogen tetroxide and hydrazine flowed once more, and a sustained, throaty roar reached his ears through the craft and spacesuit.  Acceleration pushed him back into his seat.  He was homeward bound at last!  Now, if I can just help stop this war, I might have a decent planet left to come home to, he thought.

 

 

CHAPTER 18

 

     Phil felt rather helpless, being a sub-orbital, descending, sitting duck.  He tried to push it out of his mind, as his ablative heat shield turned red, orange, yellow, and then white, as furious molecules protested being so brutally impacted at ungodly velocities.  He thought many thoughts.  Any thoughts other than those concerning Chinese radars and fusion weapons, as related to atmospheric re-entry vehicles.

     First, he considered the improbable odds that an unaimed side blast of a FLASH weapon would accidentally zero in on the primo orbiting target.  But that’s what the Fred said, he told himself.  And surely those racks upon racks of high-dollar electronics are worth something. OK, so maybe the Chinese faked their busted radar, and deliberately paused half an hour before taking more potshots at orbital targets, doubtlessly from land-based fusion reactors, so as to make us THINK that the first blast was accidental.  Maybe they even waited to take additional shots, until after the West started to retaliate for UNITY’s destruction, so as to score propaganda points.

     Now, they can claim the war started accidentally, and hopefully bring it to a premature conclusion favorable to themselves.  Meanwhile, they no longer have UNITY’s nearly-complete fusion laser station to worry about, and there won’t be another one for years.  Maybe never, seeing as how the UN and the West won’t want to sink billions of dollars into another one, just to have it shot down again.  Sound feasible?

     Nah, he told himself.  I don’t really know much about these things, but I’d think that their FLASH would’ve had to lock onto UNITY with radar in order to accurately aim an intentional blast, and the spooks sure as hell would’ve detected that radar.  Conclusion: Fred didn’t lie, and the blast was accidental.

     But, that’s just too incredible!  What percent of the sky, from the Earth’s surface, is filled by UNITY?  What is the probability of randomly zapping that tiny spot?  Now, I’m no prob-stat freak, but I’d be willing to stick my neck out enough to say that such chances are pretty slim.  Maybe roughly as slim as the chances of electing a politician who wants to reduce the powers of his office, and having him not change his mind when he gets to Washington.

     Does that mean they somehow pulled the wool over our eyes?  Or Fred’s eyes, at least?  Or does that mean I’m stupid, and just don’t understand some critical part of the equations?  Somehow, I’m still left believing we’re just looking at an extremely improbable event that somehow, against tremendous odds, managed to happen.  Improbable events do happen, after all.  Put infinity minus one monkeys¾yes, I know infinity isn’t a legitimate number, so I’m subtracting one¾at infinity minus one keyboards, for infinity minus one years, and sooner or later, one of those infinity minus one monkeys is going to type out, totally randomly, but also, flawlessly¾Solzhenitsyn’s entire three-volume GULAG ARCHIPELAGO.

     Or, more practically, put trillions of molecules of organic goop in hundreds of thousands of square kilometers of ocean, shake and bake at random for a few hundred million years, and sooner or later, a complex RNA and protein assembly, capable of reproduction, assembles itself out of random shit.  I’m living evidence that given enough chances, improbable events do occur.

     Still, how many random potshots did this damn DENG ship take? Maybe a few, or even more than a few, but surely not millions, or even hundreds.  So, we’re back to looking at a miracle.  Or an anti-miracle, if we’re going to get theological here.

     But, wait.  Aren’t we ourselves highly improbable, as sentient, technological creatures?  Even if we try to leave aside the theological talk of “miracles,” the best of modern science tells us how improbable we are.  Way above and beyond the primordial soup, there’s all these extra considerations.  The Earth-Moon twin planet system is totally bizarre, apparently the result of a stupendous collision in the early solar system.  The Moon is formed from the ejecta of that collision, and is therefore formed of the lighter materials found at the surface of the colliding proto-planets.  Only due to this improbable collision, the surface fluff was largely blown away, and the heavy elements were left behind on the Earth, producing an improbably heavy, metal-rich planet. Only such a planet¾and at the proper size, and radius from the proper type of sun, at that¾would allow life, and then, metal-using technological life, to develop.

     But, that’s not all.  There’s more.  Much more.  Only the larger planet in a twin-planet system, like Earth, displays the proper spin stability to have a stable climate.  Our climate varies enough as is, wandering into and out of ice ages, just because of tiny wobbles in the spin axis.  Take away the Moon, and it’s stabilizing contribution to the angular momentum¾gyroscope effect, if you will¾and the Earth would wobble all over the place, and the unstable climate would fuck us up so bad that complex life could never evolve.

     There’s more.  Without a Jupiter-sized gas giant out there, sweeping up the solar system’s debris, there’d be so many impacts on the Earth, upsetting the climate every time there’s a big one, like the one that wiped out the overgrown lizards, that, once again, complex life couldn’t evolve.  And who knows what other improbable events brought about humanity, that we haven’t figured out yet?  Like, maybe, having not too many asteroids impact Earth, but also, having that gas giant out there, and getting a now improbable asteroid impact at the right time, wiping out those stupid damned lizards with the hyperactive thyroid glands, and clearing the way for their betters.

     So, Phil concluded that humanity itself was somewhat of a miracle. He couldn’t attach numbers to it, and doubted that anyone could.  Planet formation just wasn’t that well understood, to his knowledge.  He’d not been witness to creation, either.  So, if we’re a miracle, then who is the miracle-maker?  Phil engaged in some uncharacteristic, unscientific speculation.  Suppose there’s this Cosmic All-being out there, subtly tweaking the odds, shoving a molecule here, twisting a graviton there, pinching a gene now and then.  Pushing things just a little, working towards a goal of a technological civilization, for some perverse reason.

     Maybe we’re part of a large experiment in ethics.  Can powerful, autonomous, selfish, intelligent organisms overcome their selfishness, and work together for the common good, without some monstrous, all-consuming State dictating their every move?  Or even, more likely, in spite of such a State?  Can free will be exercised responsibly? Would such a Cosmic All-being appreciate having some of the actors on its stage take actions that endanger the entire set, and the whole cast? Dangerous thoughts, here.  Get back to the main thrust!

     So if the miracle of our existence was pushed by the All-being, then, well, every dog has his day.  The improbable happened, we’re here, and now the Anti-being calls the shots for once.  That random FLASH blast hits the bull’s eye, and we all pay.  Armageddon stalks the globe, sowing death and destruction.  To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, at the cosmic level as well as at the level of dumb, stupid, inert matter.  God pushed, and Satan pulled.

     Or, maybe, they’re not even tweaking the odds at all.  Maybe that’s a part of the deal.  They’ve got a bet going on!  If neither of us fucks with things at all, they’re saying to each other, if we both keep our grubby paws off, then, hey, I’ll win.  Without lifting a finger, they’re telling each other.  Creation wins over destruction, says the All-being. No, says the Anti-being, death is more powerful than life; hate consumes love.

     Or, more likely, I’m just a silly mush-brain, Phil thought.  Who needs a fucking goddamn Cosmetic All-being anyway?  Even that saintly ex of mine, Gloria, says it doesn’t matter.  Pray to the All-being for peace, understanding, or righteousness, sincerely, and in the very act of asking for them, sincerely, they’re yours, she said.  Regardless of whether or not the All-being exists, or not, she said.  It’s like, It transcends existence itself, she said.

     OK, this is too heavy for me!  Besides, I can’t handle this “sincerely” shit.  If I ain’t sincere, then what do I do?  Pray for sincerity?  If I could just snap my fingers and will myself to think differently than I think, why, then, I’d be God Himself.  I’d be the Master of Space, Time, and Dimension if I could command my own thoughts; I’d be my own God.  And I’m sure He doesn’t welcome challengers, ‘cause he’s a jealous God.

     Besides, I’d have to kill the old Phil, every time I decided to change my way of thinking, and killing is wrong.  Or, so they say.  But, they also said that the world is flat, ‘cause the Bible refers to the four corners of the Earth!  And the Pope says I can’t wear a dwonky cover, ‘cause every sperm is sacred.  As if he knew a damn thing about normal human sex, anyway.

     So, let’s look at this probability thing again.  I think I’m improbable, just ‘cause I can’t imagine the alternate life form that might be here if things were different.  If the asteroid had hit at some other time, there’d be an intelligent armadillo here, thanking his lucky stars that the asteroid hit when it did, ‘cause otherwise he’d be road kill.  And if there was no Moon, maybe some really, really tough life form would evolve that could handle outrageous swings in climate, and it would be sitting here, thinking what a drag it would be if everything stagnated because everything was too stable.

     Another thought: That stray beam can be explained very simply: Shit happens.  Guano transpires.  Or, if that’s not sophisticated enough, put it this way: Regardless of what tiny one billionth of sky the beam scorched, you could always say afterwards, Holy shit!  Now, having that beam hit that particular spot had a probability of only one in a billion!  UNITY just happened to be in the wrong one billionth of the sky, and that’s all there is to it.  No miracles, no Cosmic All-beings required.  Fuck it!  Be rational, live in the real world, and don’t think too much.

     Moments later, his ‘chutes opened, jarring him and his thoughts. Hot damn! I’m finally down far enough to probably, almost definitely, be out of China’s range of fire!  Now, I can stop trying to kiss God’s butt by pondering His existence, now that I’m out of danger, he thought sarcastically to himself.

     Not too long later, he splashed down.  Belatedly, he realized that he’d been sitting there in his spacesuit, uncomfortable for no good reason, for quite some time.  He could’ve pressurized his cabin and popped his helmet off the moment he’d shut his door the last time, he realized, but it hadn’t really been stupid to not bother.  After all, he could’ve lost air pressure up there at any time, so it was smart to stay suited.  Since he was suited, why pressurize the cabin?

     Now that he was down at sea level, though, he was well past the point where staying all suited up was ridiculous.  He flipped a switch, allowing outside air in.  It rushed in to fill the vacuum he’d brought down, bringing a few cups of seawater with it.  He promptly flipped the switch back the other way, since he didn’t want to fill up with water and sink, and didn’t feel like taking any chances.  He’d had enough close calls for one day, maybe even enough for a lifetime.  Next, he yawned, and cracked a valve on his suit, and pressures equalized once more.

     By the time he crawled out of his suit, he got a little surprise. The rocking motion of the waves just suddenly stopped!  He hustled over to the camera controls, fighting a disorienting feeling of a spinning motion, fiddled around, and caught pictures of a ship’s deck spinning by slowly.  He figured out that he was being lifted out of the water by a crane and a net, just in time to receive a loud jolt, as his craft settled onto the deck.

     Frustrated, he fiddled with the camera controls once more, wishing the designers had just put some plain, good old-fashioned windows in his bucket of bolts.  I guess that just wouldn’t be high-tech enough, he thought sarcastically.  Or, maybe the designers had stock in the video camera companies.  He selected the best-positioned camera, pointed, focused, and zoomed it properly, just in time to see the last of a bunch of sailors running up to his craft.

     Hell, why don’t I just start opening the door, and get out, he thought.  Take a good look around, see for myself.  Get reacquainted with Terra Firma.  Or, at least, Terra Sorta Firma, on this big ol’ boat.  Why am I dicking around with stupid cameras anyway?  All this damned technology just kind of distances me from the real world, and sterilizes my thoughts.  He began to tackle the complicated procedure of opening the triply hermetically sealed, quadruply safety-latched door.

     It was then that he heard mechanical clanking sounds on the outside of his door.  The explanation wasn’t long in coming.  “SIR, WE’RE SEALING YOU IN, AND TAKING YOU TO A DECONTAMINATION FACILITY ON SHORE. JUST RELAX; YOU’LL BE OUT SOON ENOUGH.” He heard the bullhorn through the multiple layers of his craft’s skin.  Decontamination!?  What the bloody fuck are these fools up to now, he wondered.  If, as is surely the case, these guys are in contact with feds that know all about what’s going on, then they know that early on in our last trip, we verified that none of the constituents of the large and small worker BATs are even vaguely pathogenic.  And, ditto early on in our current foray, with respect to the queens.  That data should have made its way down here on rhodopsin disk, on the mid-mission return shuttle flight, too.

     Goddamned idiots!  Lemme tell them a thing or two, he thought.  He grabbed an oxygen bottle, loosened it from the wire he’d used to tie it down, and began hammering at the door with it.  The sound of steel on steel rang out, loudly, along with his voice.  “LISTEN, YOU PACK OF MORONS, I’M NOT CONTAMINATED!  GET HOLD OF FRANK LEECH-” Oh, shit, that’s GENERAL Frank Leech to these morons, to help them hop to¾“GENERAL FRANK LEECH AT THE PENTAGON, PROJECT EPSILON.  HE’LL TELL YOU! NOW, LET ME OUT!  I’VE GOT REALLY IMPORTANT DATA, THAT’S GOT TO BE LOOKED AT RIGHT AWAY!  THE UNITY FLASH BLAST WAS AN ACCIDENT!”

     It was then that Phil spotted a major clue to the nature of his mysterious circumstances.  On his monitor, barely in the camera’s view, he saw a sailor putting his ears up to the lifeboat, to hear what Phil was yelling.  The sailor was promptly shooed away, and Phil finally caught on.  The feds didn’t want anyone to know that UNITY had been shot down accidentally!  Whether or not the feds believed it was an accident, probably didn’t matter much, either.  The war with China was on, and they didn’t want anyone putting doubts into people’s minds.  Sit back, and enjoy your vacation in Hawaii, Phil told himself.

     Presently, Mr. Bullhorn was back.  “ALL RIGHT, YOU IN THERE. WHAT’S THE RUCKUS?  ANY EMERGENCY?  ARE YOU SHORT OF AIR OR BADLY HURT? BANG AGAIN.  ONE BANG MEANS NO, TWO IS YES.  LIE TO US, AND YOU’LL ANSWER TO THE AUTHORITIES.  NO GAMES.  WE CAN’T ENDANGER ALL OF HUMAN LIFE, RISKING CONTAMINATION.  IF YOU’RE HURT, WE CAN MAYBE HELICOPTER YOU TO THE ISOLATION FACILITY, CAPSULE AND ALL.  YOU’D BETTER NOT WASTE THE TAXPAYER’S MONEY.  NOW.  WE’LL GET YOU THERE IN TWO HOURS.  CAN YOU MAKE IT?  ARE YOU OK, YES, NO?  ONE NO, TWO YES.  WE’RE LISTENING.”

     Phil debated only briefly, and banged twice.  Hell, I don’t have any decent choices at all, he thought.  I wonder what they’re telling the sailors about my space cooties?  Are they telling them we discovered some space bugs, or are they ‘fessing up to biowar research on UNITY? In any case, I’ll bet they’re all being sworn to utmost secrecy.  So, why don’t they just tell them I’m loony, if I say the war is an accident, and forbid them from repeating what I say?  Who knows, I guess they’d rather risk loose talk about bioweapons than about the war being an accident.

     Sit back, and enjoy the ride, he told himself.  He flipped the switch allowing air to circulate freely between capsule and environment, thinking, there, you fuckers, take that!  Have some airborne Killer Cooties from Space.  Nobody noticed, and nobody cared.  OK, dudes, let’s hope you don’t notice this, either.  Let’s see, turn the radio on here, yank the wires to the suit out of the jack here, turn the cockpit speakers and mike on here.  Stop the war.  Give peace a chance.  Get the word out.

     “Phil Schrock, UNITY survivor, to anybody.  Come in, anybody.” So, am I locked into a NASA channel, here?  Let’s see if I can figure out how to change channels.  He twisted a few knobs, continuing to call.  It wasn’t long till he heard a panel door clanking, and he was left without power.  Shit, he thought, these guys know their stuff.  Oh, well.  Time to give up.  He actually managed to stretch out and catch a nap, in those tight quarters.  After all, he’d had a hard day.

     He woke to a sharp pain in his right shoulder.  He discovered shortly that he was being held down, and given a shot.  “Hey, you cocksuckers, did I say you could give me a shot?  What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Phil tried to flail his arms, but the medics didn’t let him.  Besides, it was too late¾he’d already been shot.

     “There, there, this’ll help you sleep.  Take it easy,” one of them said, in an attempt at being soothing, and rubbing his shoulder. “You’ve been through a lot.  In eight hours, you’ll wake up all refreshed.  Just relax, now.”

     Dizziness pulled at his consciousness, but he was pissed.  He noticed they were dressed normally, and that there was no pretense about Space Cooties anymore.  “Hey, you bums, don’t you know I’ve got the Space Cooties?  You better watch out, or we body-snatchers’ll getcha!” He tried to look menacing, but that was kind of hard to do, what with three people sitting on him.  They looked at each other knowingly, as if to say, see, our bosses were right in telling us we’ve got to give this guy a shot.  He figured it out correctly, once again, as he went under. The sailors had dropped his capsule off and left, and that was the end of the infamous Killer Cooties from Space.  His new masters were totally unaware of the grave dangers his presence had once represented.

     He awoke in a nice, clean bed, in a room that for some reason reminded him of the secure rooms at ABC.  He felt groggy, but ravenously hungry and thirsty.  He recalled his recent adventures, and the fact that he hadn’t eaten or drank anything for quite some time now, what with being in the midst of all the excitement.  Two men were sitting in the room with him, reading magazines, when he first started to stir. They put the magazines down and watched him return to the land of the wide awake.

     “Man, I am starved!  And, like, I could sure use a beer!  What is there to eat and drink in this joint?” Phil sat up, saw the pitcher and glass sitting there by his bed, and downed three glasses of icewater. One of the men left, saying he’d get Phil something to eat.

     “So, where am I?  And who are you?,” Phil wanted to know.  “I assume you’ve got the drop on me.  If you don’t, I’m Phil Schrock,” he said, as the man approached him.

     “Yes, we did manage to figure that out,” he replied.  “I’m Seymour Brothers.” They shook hands.  “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Shrock.  Mind if I call you Phil?”

     “Please do.  So, who, more exactly, might you be?  Are you with the CIA?  Did you guys get that printout I brought back?  Are you trying to stop the war?  What’s the story on the war, anyway?  What have I missed?”

     Seymour smiled, like a second-grade teacher with a child whose questions never stopped.  “So many questions.  We’ll try and answer as many as we can.  Of course, we’ll be needing some answers from you, as well.  Let’s see.  As far as the war goes, I doubt that you’ll be surprised to hear that there’s not one functional piece of hardware in orbit anymore, other than the ones in geosynchronous orbit out of China’s range of fire.  The Chinese cleaned our clock within a matter of hours after they so brutally snuffed out almost a hundred lives with their surprise attack on UNITY.  They...”

     “But, didn’t you see the printout I brought back?!  That was an accident!  I told the guys at Mission Control!  What did...”

     “We’ll talk about that printout later.  We want you to tell us all about your adventures, especially about the disk drives and gems you had in your escape capsule.  But, I’d just as soon you waited till Joe gets back with your food.” Phil must’ve looked like he was constantly wanting to cut Seymour off, to protest about the FLASH blast having been an accident.  Seymour waved in a manner indicating he didn’t want to hear it.

     “Let me give you a bit of advice.  We’d all be better off¾you especially¾if you’d just forget what was scribbled in the margins of that printout.  Humans are a deceptive bunch, you know.  The Chinese aren’t stupid.  They may be a lot of things, but they’re not stupid. They just managed to pull the wool over Fred’s eyes.  That’s all. Now,...”

     “How’d they manage to aim their blast without Fred, his spook buddy, and all that equipment managing to detect their targeting radar?”

     “Good question.  Maybe they have extraordinary tracking technology of some sort.  Maybe, for example, they can calculate completely accurately, exactly where a target will be, just from knowing where it was a few orbits back.  Maybe our equipment or computers were busted. Maybe Fred wasn’t on our side.  Maybe a lot of things.  Maybe we should wait for Joe to get back.  Maybe he or Edwin could answer some of these questions better than I can.  But, any of these maybes is a heck of a lot less likely than, ‘Maybe they fired one blind shot, and hit the only yacht in Lake Michigan, firing from Saint Louis.’ So, I’d advise you not to press matters, here, at all.  You know, there’s a war on, and we all need to stick together.”

     I get the drift, Phil thought.  Maybe I’ll pick up where we left off, when these other characters get here.  I’m not satisfied with your answer, but we’ll let you slide for now.  “So, you were telling me about the war.  What else is going on?”

     “Yes,” Seymour nodded approvingly, as if to say, “Good boy, here’s a bone.” “We were talking about the war.  What you’ve missed, is that the US and its allies immediately reacted by knocking down all Chinese satellites, although what they had up there was a tiny fraction of what we had up there.  So, now, communications and intelligence-gathering capabilities are severely impaired.  Navigation, too, what with how everyone uses satellite navigation systems these days.  In some ways, technology-wise, we’ll be back to fighting World War II, now.”

     “You’ll be pleased to hear that the DENG, China’s only FLASH, and the one that almost killed you¾you’re the only survivor, by the way¾DENG is no more.  It may have cost us your and my combined salaries for the next few thousand years, but we saturated their task force with missiles, including laser-triggered fusion bombs, and took them out. They couldn’t shoot them all down fast enough.

     “That’s not the only way we’re paying them back.  PEACEMAKER, one of our FLASH ships, is patrolling off their coast, moving in close enough wherever there are no land-based heavy fusion weapons, and taking out targets.  We’re cranking up our factories to make more ammo for FLASH ships, delivering them by sea, and moving more FLASH ships over there.”

     Seymour seemed to say these things with relish, but Phil found himself just a little sickened.  He’d seen enough senseless death and destruction in his last few waking hours to last him a lifetime or two.

     Seymour went on.  “On another front, things don’t look so good. They’re just rolling over Russia, Mongolia, and the southern parts of the former Soviet Union.  Russia’s NATO allies, the US and European nations, are sending troops to help Russia, but there just aren’t anywhere nearly enough trained troops, especially compared to the Chinese Army.  They’re a real powerhouse, on land.  It’ll take us a while to get up to strength, and like I said, communications are poor. We don’t know much about how the land war is going.”

     “So, what are the diplomats doing?  Sitting around with their thumbs up their asses?  Is anyone trying to stop this thing?,” Phil asked.

     Seymour looked at him a bit funny.  “Phil, have you been sitting around with your nose in test tubes, ignoring world events?  Don’t you know what they did to Taiwan, and what they’ve been doing for years before then?  There’s more than a few nations that don’t want peace with these recalcitrant barbarians.  They want the bums out of the way.  They want a UN-sponsored, genuine world peace, and I’d be real surprised if you’ve had your nose so deep in the test tubes that you’re not aware of that.”

     “OK, fine.” Phil paused a second, and a dreadful thought passed through him.  Maybe I’d better approach this carefully, he thought. Like, maybe I’d better make sure I know who I’m talking to, before we discuss this.  “I’ve got another question for you, but I want to make sure you’re authorized to talk about these things first.  Do you know just exactly what it was that I was doing up there in UNITY?”

     “Yes, I do,” Seymour replied, as if a bit offended by the question. “But, I think we’d better wait to discuss this, till the others get back.”

     “OK, well, I don’t know them, either.  Suppose you prove to me that y’all know what the deal is?  How’m I supposed to know you’re not all a bunch of Chinese, who happened to get to the capsule first?”

     “No sweat.  You were up there for the second round of verifications, to make sure you got the BELFRYBATs right this time, that they didn’t eat each other any more.  And that’s Bio-Engineered Life Form, Really Yucky, Bat-like Assault Tools, by the way,” Seymour replied, with the hint of a smirk.

     “So, are y’all considering setting them loose on the Chinese?,” Phil wanted to know.

     “Not so fast.  Wait till Joe and Edwin get here.”

     “So who, exactly, are you guys?  Who do you work for?  And, where am I?”

     Seymour fidgeted, hemmed, and hawed a bit, and then was rescued by the arrival of Joe and Edwin.  Joe carried a tray with a sandwich, some soup, crackers, and, lo and behold, a beer!  Phil felt quite certain he wasn’t in a hospital, at that point.  Certainly not a normal hospital.  Seymour introduced the two as Joe Horlacher and Edwin Fetterhoff, and Phil was polite enough to greet them before attacking his food and beer.  He momentarily considered wise-cracking that he wished he’d asked for a joint, too, to go along with the beer, but thought better of it.

     “Good stuff, aye?,” Joe commented, watching Phil devour the provisions.  “Microwaved it myself.  I’ll bet your mother never microwaved it better, did she?”

     Phil didn’t bother to reply, since it’s not polite to talk with one’s mouth full.  The other three made small talk while he ate. Halfway through gobbling it down, he paused long enough to ask them just exactly who they were, and where he was.  They didn’t tell him a whole bunch, but did inform him that he’d been flown to Washington, D.C., while he was sleeping.  That got him to thinking about his rude treatment, like being accused of harboring space cooties, and being injected against his will.  He was POed, but decided to keep it to himself for a while.

     When he got done eating, he washed the last food fragments down with the last swigs of beer, gratefully.  “You guys are all right,” he commented, “My Momma didn’t brew beer any better than this, either.”

     Seymour broke the sociable interlude.  “So, Phil, we’ve answered a few of your questions.  Now, do you suppose you might be able to tell us about your adventures?”

     Phil told them in detail, omitting only a few facts.  These included the facts that he’d spared Stanley of a few minutes of dying agony, and that Stanley had told him a few things.  These included that some elements of the CIA and Sate Department were in favor of Stanley slipping data to the Chinese, that Debra had been a spy at ABC for the feds, and that Stanley thought there was some sort of mind-reading bad vibes or some such hoo-hah in the secure rooms at ABC.  No use playing my whole handful of cards at once, he thought.

     “OK, are you bums happy now?  Satisfied?  Convinced I’m not a Chinese agent?  Or, like, possessed by intergalactic cooties?  Y’all ready to take your turns answering questions?  How ‘bout, let’s start with an explanation of why I was treated like I was some kind of infected, cootie-laden slime mold when I splashed down?” They just stared at him.  He regretted having lashed out, but they’d gotten on his nerves, what with the way they’d looked at him so critically, so clinically, like he was some sort of strange organism, while he told his story.

     They just sat there and stared at him some more.  Clinically. “Listen, you bums.  We’re wasting time.  The Chinese have all sorts of data that they shouldn’t have.  Does Frank Leech know that?  Why don’t y’all do something useful, and either, like, get me back to my job at ABC in Atlanta, and let me look at the data that Stanley stole on those disks, and talk to Frank, or, at the very least, get Frank in here?”

     They stared at him some more, and then at each other.  Phil got even hotter.  “So, tell me, what the hell is going on here?  Am I accused or suspected of something?  Are you guys going to help me, or what?  Do I need to sashay outta here, find a phone, and call Frank? You guys gonna sit here all day, and look at me as if I were a new, bizarre species of toad?  Shake a leg!”

     Edwin spoke up.  “No, we’re not accusing you of anything.  Frank’s a busy man, but we’ll see what we can do.  Let me assure you, we’ll not just sit on our duffs, with respect to what you’ve told us.  But, we would appreciate if you’d just hang tight, and stay with us here for a little while.  Joe, here, will make sure all your needs are met. Seymour and I will go and see what we can do with what you’ve told us. We’ll be back within, at most, an hour, I’d say.  Meanwhile, just relax. Read a few magazines, take it easy.  You’ve earned it.”

     “Yeah, well, I’ve also earned some honest answers.  If it’s so clear that the Chinese FLASH blast wasn’t an accident, then why’d so many people go to so much trouble to infect me with bogus space cooties, and drag my drugged ass to Washington?  Did anyone make any serious attempt at all, to get to the bottom of this, and see if maybe it was an accident?  Seems to me, that if a war was started by accident, then, just ‘cause there’s been a lot of murder and mayhem, doesn’t mean it’s got to go on.  If the Chinese stumbled into this, then they may not be bent on continuing it.  If I don’t get an honest answer to these questions, I’ll be itching to bust outta here, and talk to the media. This is too important to be buried in secrecy.”

     “I’ve got some news for you, son,” Edwin informed him.  “You’re not exactly free to leave.  You see, there’s an aspect of the war you apparently don’t know about yet.  That’s the home front.  President Kite has had to severely curtail the welfare state, in order to free up some funds and some recruits for the armed services, and there’s been welfare riots.  And, there’s been a lot of hell raised by the ‘peace-at-any-price’ crowd.  We’ve had to declare martial law.  Many constitutional rights are suspended.  Democracies aren’t obligated to let democratic rules be used to destroy democracy, you see.  You’ll have to give up a few of your rights for the greater good.”

     Phil sat there, stunned.  He was on the verge of muttering those dreaded words, “I want an attorney,” but he strove mightily to refrain from enriching the parasites.  Besides, he figured it wouldn’t do much good.  “So, what few rights might I have left?  Do I get a hearing?  Why are you holding me?  What am I suspected or accused of?”

     Seymour spoke up.  “We’ve already told you, you’re not suspected of anything.  Now, if you want to be adversarial, we can get you an attorney.  However, we can get adversarial, too, but there’s no need for that sort of thing at all.  Co-operate, and we’ll get along just fine. Like I said, you could start by forgetting what was on the margins of that printout.  You...”

     “I could stand by while we fight a needless war, and let millions, maybe billions die.  Is that what you’re saying?  Now, I’m not saying the Chinese have haloes, and that I’m against the war under all circumstances.  I’m just saying we should maybe try to negotiate, and investigate the possibility that the war started by accident.” He saw Seymour open his mouth to protest, so he stepped up the volume and hurried on.  “Now, before we talk probabilities again, think about it. Whatever one billionth of the sky they hit, we can always say afterwards, ‘Now, look at that!  Chances of hitting that particular slice of sky were only one in a billion!  Something’s fishy!’.  We need to consider the possibility that UNITY was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all I’m saying.”

     Seymour looked tired and disgusted.  “Look, you can’t pull this shit on me.  I’m a Ph.D., too, you know.  What you say is true.  Still, it won’t wash.  When a gambler goes in and starts cleaning out the house, winning every time, the house doesn’t sit there and philosophize about probabilities.  They throw the bum out.  We’re throwing the bum out, too.”

     Phil was getting steamed, since they didn’t even show the slightest interest in listening to what he had to say.  “Yes, but the house deals with millions of dollars at most.  We’re dealing with trillions of dollars and billions of lives.” Still, they all sat there, looking unfazed.  He hopped off the bed, and started getting into their faces. Somehow, he didn’t feel he was intimidating them much, prancing around in his PJs. I suppose they figured on that when they changed my drugged body, he figured.  Put a man in a loony-bin outfit, and three-quarters of his dignity, compared to the gods who wear regular civvies, flies out the window.  Still, he was going to try to get through their thick skulls.  The stakes were too high not to try.

     “And how ‘bout my other questions, anyway?  Why are y’all such a pack of liars, if you’re not afraid of the truth?  Let’s see, I was told I was working on a deterrent, and that we weren’t addressing leash chemicals delivery.  Now, I find out that’s what Stanley was working on up there.  You fib to your own sailors, telling them I’ve got the space cooties.  You...”

     “That’s enough!” Edwin thundered, standing up.  “Now, if you won’t sit down, and act civilized, we’ll bring some muscle in here to help you!  Do I make myself clear?!”

     Phil sat back down.  Edwin continued, a bit more calmly.  “Now, listen up.  Let me spell this out to you very clearly.  We’re not interested in peace with the Chinese, except under our conditions. Those conditions will most likely be, unconditional surrender.  There’s no need to negotiate.  We’ve seen again and again, what appeasing a butthole gets you.  Do the names of Hitler, Saddam Hussein, and Kim Ill Sung mean anything to you?  The war is on.  ON, spelled Oh En.  It will stay on, until Tu Ill Dung is in jail, or dead.  Preferably at his own hands, like that spineless Hitler wimp.  Or, at the hands of his countrymen, like Mussolini, so that we don’t have to waste money getting the lawyers to mumble fancy words over his flea-bitten ass.  Now, it’s time for you to decide whose side you’re on.”

     Phil sat there and glowered back.  “Consider me to be on the side of Truth, whatever that may be.  Why run and hide from Truth?  Why not seek it?  The Truth will set you free, you know.”

     Edwin informed him about the nature of Truth.  “Truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.  If you’re going to insist on spreading your version of the Truth to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that you run into, it’ll do just about anything for you, except for setting you free. Working for us, continuing the good work you’ve done so well, providing a tool against dictatorial barbarianism¾and, I might add, keeping your mouth shut, on certain matters¾now, THAT’s what will set you free.  Get my drift?”

     My work will set me free, eh?, Phil thought.  Free to do what?  Pay most of my earnings to float the socialist boat?  That, or rot in jail, right?  He knew, of course, that taxes and socialism wasn’t exactly what Edwin was talking about.  Phil got his drift.  He wasn’t about to knuckle under, though.  Maybe we’ll just change topics, he thought. “So, are we preparing to set the BELFRYBATs loose on China, then?”

     Edwin turned the question right back at Phil.  “We’re not about to discuss that with you, until we get some sort of commitment from you, that you’re going to keep your trap shut.  Got it?”

     This was a matter of Principles, now, to Phil.  Principles, and Truth.  Reluctantly, he began to consider their price/reward ratio. Freedom didn’t seem to appear anywhere in the equation.  OK, so, just how deep of a wad of shit am I in, anyway, he asked himself.  Ouch! Maybe it’s time to find out.  “Let’s talk about what sliver of rights I might have left.  Do I get a hearing?  Is anyone at all going to maybe pay a modicum of attention to what I have to say, which might help us to discover Truth?  Which might help us stop a war?”

     Edwin threw his hands up, turning away.  Seymour took over, almost chuckling.  “Yeah, we can get you a hearing.  Maybe even a trial. Hardly a speedy one, though.  Maybe in a year or three.  The courts are clogged with crackheads.  We’ve got to crack down on the criminal underclass, if you know what I mean.” Seymour winked knowingly.  Phil turned red with rage, at having one of his hot buttons hit so hard.

     Seymour seemed to show the slightest sign of surprise, at Phil’s reaction.  He went on, maybe obliviously, maybe deliberately.  “You know, the voters are upset about crime, so Congress throws ‘em a bone or two.  Raise the minimum sentence, and lower the minimum quantity, on how many milligrams of crack gets you how many years.  Gotta keep the crackheads in their place.  In jail.”

     Phil knew all too well what, and who, Seymour was talking about. Phil was tempted to add, “Yeah, and meantime, we raise the amount of powder coke that the white user or dealer can have, and just get probation.  Hell, we might as well just go ahead and pass laws against Afro-combs, rap, and Afro hairstyles.” It wouldn’t do any good, of course, he thought.  Just alienate my captors, and let them have the satisfaction of knowing they got my goat.

     He sat there, furious, pondering the injustices perpetrated by dumbshit racists and socialists.  Let’s see, he thought.  We extort money from smart, responsible, hard-working folks, be they Red, White, Black, Yellow, or Brown, under threat of sticking them in jail, and then we turn around and give it to the underclasses, proportional to how many fatherless babies they can spit out.  Make the productive members of society less able to have children, and reward the parasites for producing more deprived, angry, alienated offspring, till we’re all back in the caves, and technological civilization breaks down, to the point that the human population crashes, catastrophically.  That’s enlightened egalitarianism.

     Requiring temporary sterilization of welfare recipients is genocide.  Never mind whether the requirement is colorblind, or that the recipients can opt out of the welfare program; it’s genocide, just like Hitler and the Jews.  Every bit as bad.  Just can’t have it.  The poor have the God-given right to reproduce¾to get fertility treatments, even¾at taxpayer expense.  Every sperm is sacred.

     Of course, we’re the good guys.  We try to help the underdogs out. We make the Black kids sit side by side with the White kids in school, shipping them around for miles and miles, ‘cause everyone knows they can’t learn a damned thing, unless they sit next to a White kid.  And, just to prove that we’re the good guys, we’ll interpret those colorblind laws to discriminate against Whites and Asians, to level the playing field.  Now, the Black doctor can tell his customers that he’s a doctor ‘cause he’s smart, not ‘cause he’s Black.  If the customers don’t believe it, socialized medicine will pick their doctor, and educate their prejudices away.  And, if that Black doctor is the sharpest cookie around, yet is looked upon as a token, and feels insulted by all this, why, then, that’s his problem.

     And, we’re making progress. In the late twentieth century, we, in our frustration, called them welfare slaves.  Now, we’ve given them a promotion, to “bear croppers”.  We call them this, since we reward them according to how large a crop of fatherless babies they can bear.

     So, finally, we top it all off by telling the Blacks, hey, look, Mighty Whitey, the majority voter, knows best.  We know what you should and shouldn’t be putting in your body.  If you gotta do coke, then snort powder coke, like we do.  It’s not nearly as bad for you as crack, like you dumbshits smoke.  And, if you can’t see the light, why, then, we’ll stick you in the slammer.  For your own good, of course.  We care about you.  We really do.  Trust us.  Those real criminals we let back out, to prey on you, to make room for the crackheads?  Oh, don’t worry about it. We wouldn’t want to violate their rights, now, would we?

     It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that we’ll get more of whatever we subsidize.  And if all those dispossessed, fatherless young Black males resent all this, then we can always build more jails, hire more cops, and pass more laws.  And the more laws we pass, the more criminals we make.  But, we can always build more jails! And when they express their rage in rap music, and the local cop doesn’t like the Black record store owner who sells albums about cop killers, he can always “find” a little vial of crack in the Black guy’s car.  Then, we can keep him where he belongs, with the rest of “those people”.  In jail.

     Fuck all you paternalistic, racist assholes! Phil thought.  What’s next?  Are you going to ask me to design a version of the BELFRYBATs to zero in on dark skin, to help you take care of your little problems?  I wonder how the penalties for White v/s Black welfare rioters stack up against each other?  Lots of sins can be hidden away under a war effort, after all.  Just look at the NAZIs.  I thought the feds were a higher class of whores for the State, than the stupid, local law and order freaks.  Was I wrong?  Just look at this Seymour slime!  I wonder what Gloria would think of this racist asshole!

     Oh, get off your high horse, Phil told himself.  Seymour’s just an isolated jerk.  There’s other, smarter, more level-headed good dudes and dudettes, at the highest levels of the federal government, to keep assholes like these jerks in line.  Frank, for example.  Don’t get carried away.  This isn’t NAZI Germany, or anywhere close to it. Genocide doesn’t happen in America.

     They all sat there, looking at him expectantly.  “I want to talk to Frank,” is all he had to say.

     “OK, suit yourself.  Joe, and then, later, some other folks, will take care of your needs,” Edwin informed him.  “Since you’re being so bull-headed, we’re not going to bother to talk to you again today, after all.  You can cool your heels for a while.  Maybe we can get Frank in here to talk to you, one of these days.  I just hope he’ll have better luck talking some sense to you, than we’ve had.  Have a good day!”

 

 

CHAPTER 19

 

     President Richard Kite was pretty damn tired.  There’d just been way too much excitement, these past few days.  War, riots, kissing butt with allies, to make sure they pulled together with the US, and, now, having to worry about data getting spilled to the Chinese.  Just about the most precious data we’ve got, at that, he thought.  That, and worrying about this damn Phil Schrock character, whose head holds more than a few critical keys to it all, or, at least, so I’m told.

     So, I’ve got to fight off my need to sleep, and pay some attention to all these flunkies begging for my attention.  Thank God for better living through chemistry!  But, it’s legal speed.  I’ve paid my dues to my doctor, the AMA, and the pharmacists.  And, of course, we politicians make sure that not only we, but also all the other law-abiding citizens, pay their dues to the AMA and pharmacists’ unions, not only for speed, but also for mind-bending things like antibiotics and vitamins.  Then, the doctors and pharmacists turn around, and pay their dues to our campaign funds, in turn.  All in all, I like it!  You fill my wallet, and I’ll fill yours.  A time-honored convention.

     “So how’s our problem child doing?,” he inquired of Alan Riggs, Frank Leech, Seymour Brothers, and Edwin Fetterhoff.  “And, while you’re at it, let’s also hear about just exactly why this prima donna is so critical, and why we’re behind schedule again.” He stared balefully at Frank, indicating that maybe he’d better lead off.

     “Yessir,” Frank submitted, “Well, you see, Sir, it seems that, when the researchers at Project Epsilon started looking at the data that Stanley sent back at mid-mission, we discovered a few problems.  We got even more confirmation when we looked at the data that Phil so fortunately stole from Stanley, who had stolen it from us, on those illicit hard drives.  We don’t think the leash security system will stand up against concerted Chinese efforts to crack it.  Tao Chi and crew are no dummies, even if their technology leaves a lot to be desired.  We risk having them crack the chemical code, so to speak, and making their own leash chemicals, turning the BELFRYBATs back on us.”

     Ha! Kite thought.  A likely story!  Alan Riggs told me that his sources say that one of Stanley’s direct reports figured this out a while ago, but was afraid of Stanley retaliating if he pointed it out. He only had the balls to come forward, now that the witch is dead.  And, frankly, Frank, I’ll bet you know that, too.  But I’ll not skewer you for it.  At least, not right now.  I’ll hold that card for possible use later.

     Frank must have noticed Kite’s expression, which didn’t look very pleased at all, so he scurried off to try and accentuate the positive. “On the other hand, the BATs themselves look real solid, as does the delivery mechanism.  We’re looking...”

     “I want to hear about our problems and what we’re doing to fix them.  And, how long it will take,” Kite grumbled.  I don’t have time to listen to you tooting your horn, he thought.

     “OK, Sir.  A sharp biochemist can take the aftermath of our security system¾you know, the partly-inert, partly-living delivery mini-planes, or the larger worker BATs, and their capsule of leash compounds, which is destroyed if the carrier is subjected to capture or trauma¾anyway, these enzymes are released, and they destroy the leash chemicals, so that the enemy can’t capture and analyze them.  And, the receptors on the queens are destroyed, likewise.  But, we figured out that if they’re sharp¾and, by all appearances, the Chinese are sharp¾why, then, they can analyze the enzymes, and the molecular fragments of the destroyed leash compounds or receptors, and figure out the original compounds.  Sort of like re-creating a crime scene from the evidence.

     “Now, we’ve got to worry about what all kinds of data Stanley dumped in their laps, too.  Sure, we can just come up with a new variation of the leash chemicals, to make the Chinese start from scratch, in case they got a description of the leash compounds from Stanley.  Unfortunately, it looks like the same security problems would attach themselves to any variation of the current scheme.  We’ve got to start from scratch on the leash compounds, and security self-destruct system.  That means the receptors, the BAT queens, have to have this one small part redesigned, just as we have to redesign the leash chemicals.”

     What a bunch of overpaid, incompetent nincompoops! Richard thought.  He didn’t particularly take pains to hide the disgust plastered all over his face.

     Frank shuffled and danced, maneuvering himself into damage control position.  “Delivery mechanisms are sound; Epsilon delivers!  Non-living subsystems, and the living brains of the mini-planes, are all kicking butt.  We just weren’t very talented in the biocryptochemistry department.  Not to speak ill of the dead, but Stanley was supposed to be our whiz, here, and he just didn’t cut the mustard.  I’m afraid we’ve got to have Phil help bail us out.  That, and we sure could use his help, in cranking up the manufacturing systems to produce seed stock to put on the first wave of mini-planes.

     “Not that we couldn’t do all this without him.  It’s just that he can speed matters up a lot, and increase our safety or security.  You know, make more sure that the BATs won’t run loose somehow.  That’s a real long shot, of course, unless the Chinese figure out the leash system.  We’ve just got to play it real safe here, and Phil can help us a lot.  I’d say, with Phil’s help, we can knock this thing out in a month or two.  Without him, we’re looking at four to six months.  Unless we want to cut corners, which scares me a bit.  I wouldn’t recommend taking any chances here.”

     President Kite sat there, reluctantly absorbing the bad news.  He decided it would be ridiculous to kill the bearer of bad news, or even rag on him.  “Understood.  I’ll agree that we don’t want to take any chances.  Why don’t y’all fill me in on our favorite globe-trotting geopolitician wannabe?”

     Richard looked at Edwin expectantly.  Edwin deferred to Seymour, saying, “Seymour’s our expert.  He can fill you in.”

     Seymour knew better than to waste the President’s time with technical details, Kite noted approvingly.  “Well, sir, Phil told us the truth.  Maybe not the whole truth, but the truth.  No fibs.  We think Stanley told him more than he’s letting on, but that’s about it.  But he’s just a totally obstinate blockhead!  He just won’t let go of these ideas that the dastardly, sneak attack on UNITY was an accident!  Just about the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.  We told him again and again that even if it were an accident, it wouldn’t matter.  But, he’s on a Mission.  To save the universe, I guess.  Damned bull-headed...”

     Kite cut him off.  “Did you guys try at all to maybe humor him? You know, something like, ‘Yes, Phil, we really appreciate you bringing that printout back down, and we’re looking into it.  Anything you’d like to add, we’ll be glad to listen to.  But, please understand that this is a matter for the experts, and we really can’t have the public get any of this story before we’re sure.’ Sometimes a soft answer turns away blockheadedness, you know.  Bury his silly inputs with a solicitous concern song and dance, is what I’m trying to say.” Kite shot Alan the briefest of sidelong glances.  He was one of the only four people who realized that Phil’s inputs weren’t so silly, and the only one present besides Kite.

     “Well, no, Sir,” an embarrassed Seymour mumbled.  “We didn’t really think of that.  I, uh, well, I wonder if it might be too late to backpedal.  If we try that now, now that he’s on a Mission, he’ll probably see right through us.  But we can certainly put it in our bag of tricks.”

     Yeah, you ham-fisted blockheads, you just love to use the bulldozer approach, don’t you, Kite thought.  You’re probably as blockheaded as Phil.  No finesse.  And, you infallible types wouldn’t be able to backpedal convincingly to Phil at all, now.  We’ll have to drop that idea.  Do I personally have to do everything, so that these dumb slobs don’t hose up?  “Yes, I bet it’s too late for that,” he sighed.  “So, what else have you got in your bag of tricks?  You know how important this is.  We’re getting clobbered on the ground, and things aren’t going to get any better soon.  Unless we pull our ace out of our sleeve, and soon, many American soldiers will die.  The public won’t put up with that for long.  Gotta get Phil on board, by hook or by crook.  I’m listening.”

     “Well, Sir, we can always accuse him of being the one that was stealing data and gems, and blaming it on Stanley.  It’s always easy to blame the dead guy, we’ll tell him.  In fact, we could even accuse him of killing Stanley.  His stress indicators went up fairly strongly when he was talking about Stanley’s death, as a matter of fact.  There may actually be something fishy here.” Seymour watched Kite, apparently disappointed at the lack of positive reactions.

     “It seems to me that I recall reading in your written summary that Phil wasn’t much phased by your effectively taking his freedom away,” Kite objected.  “I don’t see why threatening him with more imprisonment for more crimes is going to make much of a difference.

     “Not that I’m totally against what you’re saying.  I just don’t think it’s very persuasive; you might even punch his self-righteous martyr button.  The human mind is perverse.  Virtue in suffering, as long as the suffering isn’t too bad.  And, you know prison in our society is pretty tame.  Not that I’d want it to be any different, at least in his case.  His skills are just too valuable.

     “Maybe we could threaten him with things that would hurt him more, like loss of money, job, house, career, professional or public reputation, that kind of thing.  Maybe find out what is most valuable to him, and threaten it.  But, I’m really not too enthused about the stick. Or, at least, heavy reliance on the stick, for reasons of the martyrdom syndrome.  We’ve got to have some carrot, too.  I may have some ideas, here, but I want to hear from you, first.”

     Seymour just sat there, dumbfounded.  Edwin rushed to the rescue. “Sir, we could play good cop/bad cop.  He seems to think highly of Frank.  Frank will be the good guy, but only if Phil comes around a bit. You know, ‘Oh, that Edwin dude, he’s a tough nut to crack.  Now, if you’ll just work with me a bit, I’ll see what we can do, together. Soften him up a bit.  It’s easier to catch flies with sugar’, and so on. And, way up there, in the scheme of things, we’re going to have to butter him up.  Frank will tell him how much he’s needed, how talented he is, how we’ve got to have his help, lest the Chinese get there first, now that they’ve got our data.  He’s our last, best hope; that kind of thing.

     “If that doesn’t bring him around, we’ll point out to him that we’ve got enough technology by now, that we can just do it.  We’d prefer to have his help, but we’ll do it without him if we must.  American soldier’s lives are at stake.  If the safety, security-type features aren’t quite up to snuff, and there’s a disaster¾well, he could’ve prevented it, by helping us.  The blood would be on his hands.  Still no luck?  He says the blood is on our hands?  Then we say, well, maybe we’ll just do it safe, then, but we’ll do it four months later, ‘cause you wouldn’t help.  Meanwhile, millions of allied troops die, who wouldn’t have died if you’d have helped us, and many Chinese are dead in either case.” Edwin paused, pleased with himself.

     Richard was pleased, too.  He nodded.  “Sounds good.  A carrot/stick mix, smoothly blended.  We’ve already talked sticks.  Do we have anything more purely in the carrot mode?  What floats his boat? Money?  Women?  Cars?  Men?  Crystals?  Donkeys?  Whiskey?  Whores? Publicity?  What do we know about this character?”

     Frank spoke up.  “I probably know him better than anyone else here. He’s not really got any major hooks, in these categories, that we can grab ahold of.  The only thing that stands out like a sore thumb, is his... hatred of big government.  He’s a fringer, a libertarian, anarchist-type guy.  Believes in minimizing the size of the government, and reserving jail for people who not only hurt others, but who also do it by violating the victim’s free will.  Wants to put many of us public servants out of work.  He’d just about cut his dick off, if it meant he could eliminate socialism, victimless crimes, and government subsidies. Except, of course, for government subsidies of science and technology, which is his racket.  Now, if we really could get him to believe that, in exchange for his help, we’d, say, legalize pot...”

     Kite belly laughed.  “Ha!  I’d sure love to see him in my office, and just try to pull that one off, on ol’ Joe six-pack, sitting there getting sloshed, feeling holier than thou ‘bout the goddamned hippies down the street, getting stoned!  We’ve all got to have someone to feel superior to.  But, yes, that’s pretty good!  Tell the fucker we’ll make him Grand Pooh-bah of the Universe, for all I care.  As long as he’s got a decent chance of believing us, go for it.  Just remember, he didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.”

     The President suddenly turned more serious.  “We can’t take his good word for it, of course.  Unless the remote polygraph swears up and down that he’s come clean, and really is going to shut his trap.  Even though we know Fred made a mistake, we just can’t have a rumor floating around, about the war being an accident.  He’s GOT to clam up!  Now, I may be wrong, but I don’t think that the skunk changes it’s stripe. Especially not a skunk on a Mission.  You guys, and OMNIGRAPH, have told me as much.  That Anti-Bug Critters product introduction way back when demonstrated perfectly well, that Phil is utterly incapable of keeping his opinion to himself.  So, we can’t take risks.

     “Number one priority is to get Phil to help finish the job. American lives, and a peaceful world, rid of the last large militaristic dictatorship, are at stake.  Number two, though, is an awfully close second, because we can’t prosecute the war without fairly decent public support.  Number two priority is to make sure our world-saving hero doesn’t flap his lips, spreading misconceptions.” Kite paused momentarily, gathering his thoughts before continuing, to spell out how priority number two could be safeguarded, while still accomplishing number one.

     Frank apparently thought Kite was done talking.  That, or he didn’t care; he had to get his brilliant ideas in right away.  “Sir, why give up so easily?  We may actually be able to get Phil to agree to clam up, without extreme measures.  He’ll work more enthusiastically and willingly for us, if we don’t have to twist his arm constantly.  And, of course, like you say, OMNIGRAPH will tell us whether or not his commitment is sincere.  If he’s sincere, and we periodically make sure he stays that way, simply be getting him in a secure room at ABC and mentioning the topic, then we can stop worrying.”

     Kite sat through the interruption semi-patiently, but slightly perturbed.  It must have shown on his face, because Frank hurried on, to conclude his thoughts.  “What I mean to suggest, Sir, is that maybe you could have a talk with him yourself.  Appeal to his better parts, his patriotism and such.  His sense of duty.  You’re a persuasive speaker, you know, and the power of your office is bound to sway him.  What do you think?  Isn’t it worth a try?”

     Kite frowned.  Yeah, go ahead, butter me up, but I still won’t buy in.  “No, I don’t think so.  He’s got enough of an over-inflated idea of his own importance, without me confirming it, by personally going to plead with him.  He’ll run more scared, if he doesn’t know exactly who, or which faceless level of the chain of command, is actually making the final decisions on what we’re going to do with him.  Puppets of an unseen master are less likely to get too many notions about how they’re just as smart as the boss.  Less likely to think that the boss is just a fallible human like themselves, and that they should just do what they think is best, irregardless of what they really should be doing.  In other words, no.

     “Now, I was going to talk about what we can do to make sure Phil stays in line.  I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to get him to commit himself to keeping his trap shut, but I am saying that unless OMNIGRAPH can swear that he’s sincere, which I doubt¾that we’ll almost definitely need to verify that he behaves.

     “This is what I recommend: we track him night and day, with a team of four or five agents.  We’ll not hide this from him, either.  Escort him everywhere he goes, including his house.  Eliminate or tightly control his access to phones, and ONLINE, of course.  The agents will even do his shopping and personal errands, to eliminate excuses for contact with the public.  He’s got to agree to it, else we threaten to hit him all the places where it hurts the most.  Those places are for y’all to figure out.  We also surgically imbed in him, a tracer, so that if he manages to give us the slip, we hunt him down.

     “Also, what with our oversight of all major media, under martial law, we’ll put the word out that any media types publishing his lies will have their feet held to the fire.  He’s off limits, entirely.  No mention of him in the media, at all.  National security is at stake. And, we’ll tell him that.  Take the wind out of his sails, if he’s thinking he can run to the media.”

     “But, Sir!” Edwin protested.  “Do you really think we can get away with something like that?  Prior restraint, the courts...  there’s limits to martial law, even.  What if the courts...”

     “Ask Abraham Lincoln about constitutional rights in wartime,” Richard growled.  “He did the same thing I’m doing.  He threatened to put big-shot judges in jail, and I’ll do that, too, if I have to.” He paused, thoughtfully.  “But, actually, I may be going too far.  You may be right, but for a different reason.  Telling the media ahead of time to lay off of a topic, would just whet their appetites.  Let’s not do that after all.  But, let’s tell Phil we did.  Or, maybe not, for the same reason; we don’t want to put ideas in his head.”

     Goddamn it, I’m sounding totally scatterbrained and indecisive, here, he thought.  Like a sleep-deprived speed freak.  Get your shit together!  “Do what y’all think is best.  You know him, and OMNIGRAPH, best.  I just want results!  Millions of American and allied lives are at stake!  You’ve heard my ideas.  I’m not saying you have to use them all; I don’t want to do your jobs.  Once again, I would caution you to use a bit of carrot, as well as stick, though.  Butter him up a bit. Hell, slip him a few tax-free bucks if you have to!

     “Finally, one more caution: Don’t underestimate him!  He’s no dummy!  For one thing, I’d advise you not to be running back in and out of the interrogation room to check with OMNIGRAPH all the time, on whether or not he’s fibbing, or what his emotional state is.  He might actually catch on.  Then, we’d be stuck like with the old polygraphs, where the subject’s knowledge of the presence of the polygraph itself fucks up the readings.  Not to mention, we’d have one more thing to worry about, on how many cats he could let out of the bag.  If you’ve got to have it semi-real-time, have Seymour monitor, and broadcast to you inside the room, and wear those eardrum magnetic doo-hickies.”

     “But, Sir!” Seymour protested.  “The magnetic fields from the necklaces that we have to wear, that drive those tiny little receptors, screw up our reception of the subject’s magnetic fields!  There goes a big slice of our data!”

     “Then, you’ll have to do without some data, or without real-time readings during interrogation.  I don’t want him to catch on, though. OMNIGRAPH is one of our most precious secrets, and he’s not as stupid as some of the people that you’ve had in those rooms.  I’ve heard some of them have been pretty baffled, by how often you guys run back and forth for ‘coffee breaks,’ ‘pit stops,’ ‘phone calls,’ and all your other assorted phony missions.”

     President Richard Kite put on his most harried, important, man-on-the-go look, staring at his watch with dismay.  “I’ve got to go. You guys do what you need to do.  Good luck, and don’t fuck it up.  A lot depends on y’all.  No more time for speeches.  Later!” He made a mental note to be sure to call Alan Riggs, later, to make sure that Phil’s surgically imbedded tracer would be one of those with a special feature.  The others would have no need to know.

     With that, he hurried off to see his mistress, before the speed would wear off, and he’d have to crash.  Thank God my secret service men don’t ask questions about who I’m meeting in these hotel rooms, he thought.  The phrase “National Security” sure comes in handy!

 

 

CHAPTER 20

 

     Phil was getting a little worried by the time his captors came calling again.  How’s my house, he wondered.  What do the bosses and other important people at ABC know about all this, and what do they think?  How long are they going to continue paying me, to sit here and rot, and how long till the taxman comes and swipes my house and belongings?  What will my friends and family think, since I’m staying out of touch for so long?  What will Gloria think?  OK, so I haven’t made many attempts to stay in touch, except for Gloria, but still, they’ll worry about me.  At least, I hope they will.

     It had been a long, boring two days.  There’s only so many times you can read a stack of magazines.  So, he’d just sat around, thinking a lot.  They had moved him out of his original room, right after that debriefing.  He’d gotten around to thinking about that original room, and how there’d been so many sensors, feebly disguised, of the same sort as in the secure rooms at ABC.  When he’d left, there were those heavy, complicated doors, just like at ABC.  Suspicions began to grow, in his mind.  Hadn’t Stanley warned him about the secure rooms?

     Let’s see, he’d mused.  They surely knew they themselves weren’t carrying bugs, and they had every opportunity to inspect my body, while I was in that drugged sleep.  I don’t know just how costly they might be, but surely these special rooms have got to be expensive.  They wouldn’t waste the use of one, unless they have some secret purpose. Mind-reading bad vibes, Stanley thinks.  Maybe they do secret rituals with crystals!

     Or, maybe they actually have something that works.  Something with a sound scientific basis; a remote polygraph of some sort.  When they herded him back into that room, he was virtually certain that he knew what was going on.  He resolved to exercise his perceptive powers, and to see what his own, intuitive remote polygraph had to say on these matters.  He’d bide his time, he thought, and slap them in their faces with the Truth, and see how they’d react.  At just the right time, he’d lash out at them, and their reactions would tell the tale, he decided.

     “So where’s my good buddy, Seymour?,” he asked of Joe and Edwin, as soon as they were seated in the room.  “And where’s Frank?  Is he too busy fighting wars, to worry ‘bout little ol’ me?”

     “Frank can be here in a little while, if we determine that there might be any use in having him visit you,” Edwin grumbled.  “He’d sure like to have you back on the project.  He tells us you’re very talented, and that you could help save, possibly, millions of American and allied lives.  But, he’s pretty busy.  He, and all the people at ABC and Epsilon, have got to keep this show on the road, with or without you. And, frankly, we’re quite seriously worried about whether any of us should waste any time on you.  We can’t trust you.  You tell quite the convincing story, but some of the details just don’t jive.  It’s so easy to blame the dead, isn’t it?  Just where did you get all that loot, and who were you planning to give that data to?”

     You asswipes don’t waste any time at all, do you, Phil wondered. Well, I won’t either.  He stood up, angrily, and almost, but not quite, got into Edwin’s face.  He wanted a reaction to what he said, not to how much he invaded Edwin’s personal space.  His eyes flashed, and locked onto Edwin’s face.  “You’re a lying sack of shit.  You know that, I know that, and I know that you know.  You’re the one that can’t be trusted. Stop lying to me, or you won’t get so much as a peep out of me.  Now, are you going to be honest with me?  Are you going to start by ‘fessing up to having deliberately lied to me?”

     Phil watched intently, not blinking once.  Edwin blinked, and more. Phil’s intuitive remote polygraph readings flooded his brain, screaming, “Guilty as charged!  Guilty!  Guilty!  Guilty!”

     “How do you...  I mean, what makes you so sure...,” Edwin stammered, before Phil pounced.

     “Exactly.  How do I know.  Not, what makes me think, but, how do I know.  I know, ‘cause I wasn’t born yesterday.  That, and I’m, like, psychic.  Maybe Stanley’s crystal vibes wore off on me.  Anyway, I’ll not be your whipping boy.  Now, if you want a damned thing out of me, you’ll start by retracting your accusations.  An apology might even be warranted, if you’re capable of one.  Finally, it might behoove you to get a responsible person in here, one with a modicum of decency.  And, I sure as hell ain’t talking about Seymour.  I want to talk to Frank. Now.”

     Phil sat back, glowering, but inwardly hooting with glee.  He’d told that slob a thing or two!  Turned the tables on the twerp.  They probably want something out of me pretty badly, he thought.  I wonder if they actually want it badly enough to treat me with the respect due to me, not only as respectable human being, but also, as a talented engineer and scientist.  Is this egomaniac capable of apologizing?  “I’m waiting.  Do you want to repeat after me?”

     “All right, Phil.  I’m sorry.  I take it back.  There.  Happy now?,” Edwin uttered, crestfallen, like a schoolboy taken to task by the principal.

     “So where’s Frank?,” Phil inquired, thoroughly enjoying the game, now.  Maybe these goons are seeing the light, coming around, and treating me with some respect, Phil reflected.  Maybe, just maybe, if they start being nice to me, I’ll be nice to them.  He noticed Edwin’s face suddenly looking slightly distracted, as if listening to faraway thoughts or voices.  He seemed to be doing the thousand-yard stare momentarily, before he got up, pacing and stroking his chin.  Maybe he’s talking to his conscience, Phil thought.  Maybe he’s downloading a Mission from God!

     “He’ll be here any minute, now.  Meantime, maybe we can start all over.  I’m sorry, we really did use the wrong approach.  It’s just that, you see, we really do need your help.  Keep in mind, the Chinese have some of our data, God knows how much.  Frank will fill you in on just how badly we need you, and why. But, you’ve also got to understand how vitally important it is that... we not let fall into the wrong hands, that which you saw scribbled on that printout on UNITY.

     “Now, I know you’ve been through a lot.  You saw a lot of death and destruction up there, and you damn near got snuffed yourself.  We, or at least, certainly, I, respect you a lot, for pulling through, and not losing your shit.  It must have been tough, and I really can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” Edwin paused, gravely, doing his best to appear deeply sympathetic.

     Phil felt almost completely certain, now, that he was being observed by some sort of remote polygraph, and that Edwin was circling around, preparing for another, albeit subtle, assault, in which he’d try to extract a promise from Phil, that Phil would drop the matter of the notes on the printout, now and forever.  Then, they’d see whether or not he was sincere.  Phil knew damn well he couldn’t sincerely make that kind of promise.

     Quick, you complacent, self-satisfied slouch, get your shit together! Phil thought.  Drown yourself in guilty thoughts, from now till the end of this friendly little chat!  They won’t be able to figure out Jack Shit!  OK, so what to think about?  Mercy killing Stanley?  Maybe¾but not quite.  I feel bad about it, but it wasn’t my fault.  I did the right thing.  As long as I keep my yap shut, there’s no way in hell that anyone will ever bust me, either.

     I know!  I’m sitting here, and I was cleaning the stems and seeds out of my hooch, on this tray, here, and smoking this pipe, when these uncool, just-say-no squares busted in on me, and I hid it on my lap, under the table, here.  At any minute, they’ll figure it out!  Worry!  Worry harder, worry faster!

     Phil worried harder and faster, concentrating on his heinous imaginary crimes, and about how maybe he might not be worrying as hard or persuasively as possible.  He was largely successful, although he did have a hard time thinking about his guilt, as opposed to how pleasantly relaxing it would be, to just lift up that pipe, and give that motherfucker a toke or two dozen.

     “Now, I might be able to imagine, just a little bit, how much that must have affected you, in the midst of all that senseless death and destruction up there, to see the heart that Fred drew with his last, dying gasps,” Edwin was saying.  “And we, the entire inner circle of defense analysts, are profoundly grateful to you for having brought that intelligence back to us.  But, you’ve got to look at that data dispassionately, and regard Fred’s analysis without excess emotion. We’ve done that, as well as analyzed other data, and concluded that Fred was wrong.

     “Now, we don’t mean to brush you or your concerns off.  We are certainly willing to hear any additional inputs you might like to make. I, personally, will make sure that what you’ve got to say, makes it to where it’s needed.  Every last detail.”

     Edwin peered at Phil expectantly.  Phil shook his head, negatively.  All right, here it comes, he thought.  Prepare yourself!

     “But, you really must try to imagine what kind of effect these kinds of unsubstantiated allegations might have on the war effort.  Now, can we rely on you to... be discreet?”

     The tray, pipe, evil weed, and guilt all went up in a cloud of smoke.  As an afterthought, Phil inhaled that cloud, deeply and calmly.  The molecules of imaginibinoids suffused his lungs, bringing peaceful relaxation.  “I’ll hush up,” he said, through the haze.  “You can count on me.”

     “Good.  Great, as a matter of fact.  Now, we’ll get you out of here and back on the job, just as fast as we can.  First, there’s just a few small details we’ve got to take care of.  You see, we’ll...”

     Just then, they heard latches and bolts, and Frank walked in.  Phil rose, and they greeted each other warmly, grinning, backslapping, and shaking hands.  “Welcome back, you lucky devil, you!” Frank said, amiably.  “How many of your nine lives do you have left?”

     They chatted for a short little while, and then Frank filled him in on the serious problems that they’d uncovered with Stanley’s leash chemicals security system.  Phil rolled his eyes a bit, thinking, surprise, surprise!  Damn Stanley; he’d’ve had a hard time pissing in the public pool, and hitting the water.  While swimming, that is.

     Phil debated ragging on Frank, for not having let him in on all that development work in the first place, but thought better of it.  No use in pissing Frank off; he’s one of the good guys, and he’s probably already aware of the fact that he fucked up.  Besides, maybe they were actually right.  Maybe I wouldn’t’ve actually gone so far as to support developing the leash, at that point.  But, things have obviously changed, now that we’re at war with that Tu Ill Dung guanohead, and now that, worse yet, they’ve got our data.  Do unto them, before they do unto us!

     Frank didn’t have much trouble getting Phil fired up to get back on the job, and to do right, that which Stanley had fucked up.  “I’ve got some bad news for you, though,” he informed Phil.  “We’ve got to step up security.  They nabbed one of Epsilon’s researchers.  She just disappeared, into the blue, under mysterious circumstances.  We’re still investigating, but it sure smells like foul play.

     “If they took the trouble to knock her off, I’m sure they’d just salivate at the prospect of knocking you off.  If they know a damned thing about who’s who, and we’d expect that they would.  And, I might add, despite all of our precautions, employees at ABC have reported being followed, and even shot at.  We came damn close to catching one of the perpetrators, once, but no luck so far.”

     Yeah, right! Phil thought.  Just another day on the freeways in Atlanta will get you shot at.  Can’t clean the scum off the streets and put them in jail, ‘cause we might violate their rights.  Besides, all those mandatory-minimum-sentence crackheads, potheads, vitamin fiends, and peanut quota violators are taking up all the jail cells.

     “Anyway,” Frank continued, “We’ll want to take extra special precautions with you.” Frank went on to explain what Phil would have to put up with.  Agents with him night and day, including in his home, and a small electronics tracking package in his flesh, just in case he’d get kidnapped.  Phil was pretty flabbergasted, and looked like he wanted to interject his two cents worth.

     Edwin stepped in.  “Look, Phil, you’re not the only one.  Some other folks at ABC and Epsilon are having to do some of this stuff, too. Besides, just look at the bright side.  You can get these guys to do all your shopping, personal errands, even mow your grass and rake your leaves.  We wouldn’t want you to get shot, out there, now, would we? Hell, if you treat ‘em real nice, maybe you can even get ‘em to pick up chicks for you!”

     “What if I say no?,” Phil grumbled.

     “We can’t take any risks,” Edwin explained.  “We’ll have to keep you confined.  Someone might want to kidnap you, and extract some information from your head, by hook or by crook.  You don’t have much choice.”

     Phil turned to Frank, who avoided his gaze.  Edwin looked a little sheepish, and continued.  “That’s not all.  We’re going to have to keep a tight leash on your communications, too.  Stanley having dumped all this data to the Chinese has given us a rude awakening.  We just can’t take any risks, here, either.  Once again, you’re not the only one.  I’m sorry, but you’ll not be allowed to talk freely on the phone.  We’ll have to restrict your private communications to written media, and we’ll want to look those over before they go out.  At work, you’ll also be followed.  We’re sorry, but we really have no choice.”

     “You don’t trust me, is what you’re trying to say?”

     “We trust you.  It’s just that we need verification.  It’s just like arms control, you see.  Trust, but verify.”

     Phil felt pretty violated, but he submitted.  They inserted the electronics package under his skin, in his left love handle, that very afternoon.  Then, they flew him to Atlanta, via small government aircraft.  He was quite relieved to finally be back home, in his own house, even if the security spooks made feel a bit nervous.  The most awkward moments were when Phil went over to see the neighbors, Pat and Tammy Glick, to thank them for watching his house while he’d been gone. He got his extra key back, thanked them for watering his plants, and made a feeble attempt to introduce and explain the presence of his shadow.  He wondered if maybe they’d wonder whether he was just concocting stories to explain away his new gay lifestyle, what with having rotating male roommates.

     That night, he wrote letters to friends and family, explaining his new communications limitations.  He realized, with a little shock, just how few friends and family he had, anymore, so he wrote a lengthy letter to Gloria.  Too bad I can’t tell any of them hardly anything about my adventures and predicament, he thought.  Wonder how much the censors will butcher even this tame stuff?  He gave the letters to his shadow, on diskette.  They hadn’t been satisfied with letting him stay on ONLINE, with a path restricted to the censors; they were afraid he’d hack his way out, apparently.  Me, a hacker! he thought.  How absurd! Hell, I can’t figure out how to peck at the keyboard and scratch my pecker at the same time!

     When he got back to work the next day, it was like putting on a favorite pair of old blue jeans, despite his shadow, and the slight pain in his left love handle.  By mid-afternoon, he’d caught up on all the paperwork, mostly because he did a real shitty job of it all.  He figured, the more he fucked it up, the less they’d give him in the future.

     Then, he promptly got to work, looking at Stanley’s shoddy biocryptochemical schemes.  He was utterly astounded at how rudimentary and crude Stanley’s approach had been.  He went home, chauffeured and chaperoned by his shadow, to relax, have some beers, and think about his design problem.

     The next day, he entered the basic outlines of his plan into the computer.  He picked a new class of compounds for the leash chemicals, and then concentrated on the self-destruction security system.  Once again, he stole from nature.  This time, he used the fastest biochemicals to be found: those in the synapses, where nerve signals, transmitted along nerve fibers (axons and dendrites) as traveling waves of electrical depolarization, had to jump the gap.  Electrical polarization of the cell walls, maintained by cellular ion pumps, could break down, and then trigger the neighboring area of a nerve cell to also depolarize, so that traveling waves of cell wall depolarization could travel the length of a nerve cell.

     However, when that wave got to a synapse, or bridge between adjacent nerve cells, it had to be transmitted in some other manner. That manner had to be fast.  Phil stole some of the chemical designs that nature uses in synapses, most especially acetylcholine.  Now, he could imbed tiny little encapsulated beads of enzymes, acids, and other destructive compounds throughout the container of leash chemicals, which would be carried to queens, enabling their reproduction.  The destructive chemicals would be deployed in the event of trauma to the carrier, by nerve signals originating in the brain of the carrier, and ending at the little beads.  The little beads would be set free very rapidly, using acetylcholine.

     It took Phil only a week to finish the design, with only a little human help, and lots of computer power.  The simulations ran flawlessly, and indicated that the destruction was far more complete than in Stanley’s approach, preventing reconstruction of the original compounds by analysis of the remains.  Also, the destruction was orders of magnitude faster.  Phil even put living trauma sensors all around the capsule of leash compounds.  He noted proudly that unless someone could pull a sample out of the middle of the capsule of leash compounds, without triggering the trauma sensors in the carrier (semi-living mini-aircraft or large worker BAT) and on the periphery of the capsule itself, then the leash compounds were secure.  They’d be destroyed within fractions of a second after any trauma.

     He handed off his design to less talented employees to be implemented, and moved off to redesign the leash receptors and security systems in the queens.  Now that the leash compounds had been changed, the receptors would have to change, also.  The Chinese almost definitely had gotten copies of the keys, so the locks, as well as the keys, had to be changed.

     At home, he relaxed as best he could, what with the perpetual presence of the agents.  He read the news, which disturbed him profoundly.  The war wasn’t going well at all, and he was quite sure that his weapons would be set loose soon.  The public, by and large, was clamoring for a return on the investments of billions in tax money that it had made in biowar research.  Far too many American soldiers were dying, over there on that man-eating, monstrous maw called the Sino-Russian front.  Chinese troops were still rolling forward, slowly but surely, with no end in sight.

     There was very minimal media mention of war protests in the US, although Phil knew very well that there was immense resentment among the population.  Even as isolated as he was, he heard grumbling at work every day.  It wasn’t just the lives being lost, it was also the lack of automotive fuel, electronics, toys, clothes, decent food, alcohol, cigarettes, and even toiletries.  The economy was hurting big-time.  Phil felt quite lucky to be being taken care of by his agents.  If this is what the people with jobs are saying, he thought, I wonder what those without jobs are saying?  Especially the people who used to be on welfare.  So the young ones are now cannon fodder¾what is happening to the older ones?  Have the feds trucked them off to camps?  Phil had no idea, and couldn’t get many hints from the media.

     He kept searching for any sign in the media, that maybe an effort might be made to stop the war.  There was only anti-China propaganda, and certainly no mention of the war possibly having started by mistake.  He paid careful attention to the periodic mention of the strong war-ending powers of bioweapons.  They had no details; they made biowar sound mysterious, high-tech, effective, safe for America, and painless for victims and perpetrators alike.

     The letters back from Gloria didn’t gladden his soul, either.  They were cryptic, sketchy, and disturbing.  They pleaded with him to remember certain things she’d said at certain times, when they’d discussed this, that, or the other, without getting into specifics.  Avoiding the censors, no doubt, he thought.  I wonder what they’ve cut out, anyway?

     As Phil put the finishing touches on his finishing touches, he was no longer able to sleep very soundly.  At ABC, prototype bioweapon manufacturing facilities were being tooled up, and starting small production runs of workers and proto-queens.  He knew that, similarly, the semi-living mini-aircraft leash and seed-stock delivery systems were starting to be built in quantity at Project Epsilon.  He thought that this was taking place somewhere in, or close to, Washington, but wasn’t sure.

     His doubts grew.  There didn’t seem to be much freedom of the press any more, and he personally sure didn’t have many freedoms.  So I’ve still got my freedom to vote for the party of Big Government Witchburning, or the party of Big Government Socialism, or I can even continue to throw my vote away to the Libertarians, he thought. Somehow, all this just isn’t very reassuring.  Nor is it very reassuring, not only to have to put up with the unrelenting, oppressive presence of my captors, but to have to listen their hateful, racist, intolerant talk, all the time.  They’re poisoning my soul.  So, like, what am I defending, anyway, he asked himself.  The usual reply, that Tu Ill Dung was the other choice, was starting to ring hollow.

     His nightmares, in which he saw screaming little Oriental boys and girls being chased through the streets and parks by flying lethal demons, were the last straw.  He woke at Oh Dark Thirty one morning, sweating.  He decided to do something.  Inaction was no longer acceptable; it was a violation of his dignity.  So, what do I do, he asked himself.  I can’t do like Stanley did, and help the enemy, because they’re actually worse slimebags than our oppressors.  And, I can’t just passively protest, and get hustled away into the night and fog, like symbolically protesting the rape of the environment by laying down in front of the bulldozer, and getting my guts squashed out.  I’ve got to do something that actually has a chance of stopping the nightmare!

     So, what do I do?  What is my most ethical, dignified choice?  Is it time, like I’ve said before, about the ethical choices left to the citizens of an oppressive regime, to grab the nearest shard of broken glass, and ram it through the throat of the nearest whore for the State? But, maybe Gloria was right, way back when.  Maybe the nearest whore for the State is my own noble self.  Phil shuddered, chilled to the bone at that thought and its implications.  He swore mightily that it would never get to that point, and that he’d ram that shard of broken glass through a thousand throats of other whores for the State, before he’d do it to his own.  His own self, he could always reform.

     He wasted only a few minutes on twenty-twenty hindsight.  First, he debated whether or not he’d made the right choice recently, when he’d decided that helping to kill Chinese was better than sitting back, and watching the Chinese get killed anyway, after millions of allied troops were killed in the meantime, due to bioweapons being late.  Or, of course, watching even more people killed, because, for lack of his expertise, the weapons were released without proper safeguards.  He’d made the right decision, he concluded, although he sure didn’t feel good about it.

     Next, he looked all the way back to his original decision to work for the feds, alienating Gloria.  He thought, now, that was more clearly a mistake.  But still, maybe the same logic applies.  Maybe there’s just choices between oppressors “A” and “B,” and you’ve got to pick the least offensive.  Sort of like voting!  If we weren’t just about ready to release bioweapons, maybe our only choice would be to begin studying the proper etiquette of kissing Chinese heiney.

     Still, I’ve just got to do something, he decided.  And, philosophizing about past decisions doesn’t count, either.  For starters, I’ve got to escape.  Gotta shake my shadows!  Then, I’ll take my information to the media, and get the word out about the war maybe being a mistake, about there maybe being choices other than war.  Like, negotiation.  Like peace.  And, I’ve got to do this soon, before it’s too late.

     OK, so the media is a government lapdog, these days.  Surely there are alternatives!  Surely there’s an underground press!  I’ve just got to escape, and get word to them, and give peace one last chance, before the bio-bogey monsters are set loose.  So, how do I do this?  I need to not only escape, but to stay escaped.  And, they’ve got that damned electronic tracker in my love handle.  He sat there, and pondered the problem.

     Slowly, a solution presented itself.  A critical part of his plan involved selecting someone at ABC who was working on the BELFRYBAT project, who he’d be authorized to communicate with, on job-related matters.  This person would also have to be smart, willing to risk his neck to defy the authorities and to help Phil, and be likely to be able to connect him with the underground press.  It didn’t take Phil long to settle on Don McCulley.  Don was the only choice at all, actually.

     The next day he called in sick.  It wasn’t that much of a lie; he’d not slept much.  He then got on his home computer, explaining to his shadow that he’d had some nagging last-minute reservations about some possible design flaw in the BELFRYBATs.  Oh, don’t sweat it or bother to call anyone about it, he told Shadow.  It’s just one of these one-in-a-million possible design flaws that we’ve got to check up on, and make sure that it doesn’t really exist.  And, while I’m here at home sick, making sure I don’t spread the bug to my co-workers, I’ll just write this little document that I’ll give to Don McCulley to look over, tomorrow.

     He wrote, napped, wrote, ate, wrote, drank, napped, and wrote again, throughout the day, catching up on his sleep.  He embedded a message to Don into a faked technical document, using the third word of every sentence.  The document had a lot of fancy words and nonsense, but he was sure his censor wouldn’t catch on to the lack of valid technical content.  What quasi-valid technical content there was, referred to the need to test the leash chemicals security system for resistance to EMP (Electro-Magnetic Pulse), as given off by small battlefield laser-triggered thermonuclear weapons.

     He explained to Shadow that he’d need to have Don help him get the EMP generator facility set up at ABC, but that there was no real need to get anyone else involved.  “Here, why don’t you look over this document, then, and give me the thumbs-up on it?,” he asked Shadow.  “No need to transmit it.  I’ll go visit Don tomorrow, and hand it to him.” Phil worried a bit, hoping Shadow wouldn’t pass the matter higher into the food chain.  Shadow was co-operative, though; he just looked it over and nodded OK.  Phil breathed a sigh of relief, thanking his lucky stars that he’d not done anything to piss off the Shadows yet, and that the Shadows were totally stupid concerning biotech matters.

     Despite being a bit nervous, Phil slept well that night.  The next day, a Wednesday, he went to visit Don.  Don gave him a hard time about being too scarce, about not coming slumming, and not visiting the low-lifes often enough.  They sat there, cutting up like in the old days, but being careful not to talk any sort of dissident politics, in front of Shadow.  Actually, it was a different Shadow than the one from the day before; they rotated often.  Still, they were all just Shadow to Phil.  Shadow had told Shadow that Phil’s document was kosher, so Phil just passed the hardcopy over to Don.  Cutting up didn’t last long, what with not being able to talk dissident politics, so Phil and Don talked about planning Phil’s experiment with the EMP generator.

     Don looked at Phil quizzically.  Don hardly ever messed with the EMP generator, and knew hardly anything about it.  Shadow was bored, and not paying much attention to Don and Phil.  Phil had his back turned to Shadow, so he repeatedly touched his chest with three fingers, and winked at Don.  Talking technical crap all the while, he also tapped the document on Don’s desk.  Don still didn’t get it, so Phil touched the third word of each of the first three sentences.  Don scanned the document, and finally lit up.

     Phil explained how he’d need to know all about the building’s infrastructure, there by the generator, because of possible antenna effects.  He also explained how Don would need to crawl into the air ducts and such, making sure the blueprints were accurate, and installing a few extra EMP sensors to map the exact characteristics of the pulse.  This was partly for Shadow’s benefit, just in case he was listening, but mostly so that Don could catch a plausible explanation of why he needed to crawl around in the air ducts.  Don didn’t rate a shadow, like Phil and just a very few others, so Don would be able to accomplish a lot more, unseen, than Phil.  Still, Don would need a good explanation, if he was caught crawling around in air ducts.  Phil had had enough of a hard time, writing Don’s instructions into the document, without having to write cover stories in there, too.

     Don and Phil agreed that they’d do their thing on Friday morning, and Phil went back to work.  Don came by later, dropping blueprints off to Phil.  They briefly talked about sensor placements, and where Don should investigate the most.

     Don stopped by on Thursday, and they talked EMP sensors placements some more.  That night, Phil wiped out his computer file of the document he’d passed to Don.  He’d also instructed Don to wipe out his copy, and to try as hard as possible to make it appear that Don wasn’t co-operating with Phil’s nefarious schemes willingly.  Don would tell them that Phil had just pulled the wool over his eyes, and hopefully, Don wouldn’t be hammered for his role.

     Phil also dug his container of mace out of his closet, and slipped it into his pocket.  Shadow didn’t pay much attention then, or when Phil dug some cords and flexible metal screens out of the garage.  These, he folded up, put in his pockets, and carried to his bedroom.

     Friday was the big day.  He sure was glad that they at least allowed him some privacy, and stayed out of his bedroom, he thought, as he put on one pair of underwear, strapped metal mesh around his privates, and then put on yet another pair of underwear.  He wasn’t really sure exactly what a strong, close EMP might do to his gonads, but he wasn’t taking any chances he didn’t have to take.  He wasn’t sure anyone really, truly understood these matters, so he was playing it safe.  He wished he’d paid closer attention to those few physics courses he had to take, way back when.  Hopefully, the conductors in the mesh would shield him, by providing paths for the electric fields and voltages induced by magnetic fields, to be neutralized.

     At nine that morning, the experiment was all set up.  Don had helped him.  The pod of leash compounds, carrier emulator, and instruments were all set up in front of the generator, inside the shielded room.  “You all set now?  Can I get back to my regular job, now?,” Don asked.

     “Yes, you sure can.  Thank you very much!” With his back turned to Shadow, Phil winked at Don.  Don gave a thumbs-up sign, and skee-daddled.  Phil looked at his notes and the set-up once more, pseudo-carefully.  He picked up the little gizmo Don had left on the bench, and shooed Shadow out of the shielded room.  He briefly inspected the safety door, subtly slipping the safety bypass into place.  He shut the heavy door behind him, and latched it.

     Shadow sat there calmly, watching, mildly interested.  Phil muscled the heavy bus switches into place, and the room hummed, as the giant capacitors in the adjacent room charged.  The counter started counting down ten minutes.  Phil left, to go and get a soft drink from the vending machine.  Shadow followed.  They were back soon, watching the counter count down from seven minutes.  Phil sipped his drink, feigning boredom.

     Shortly after the counter showed two minutes left, Phil got up and paced, thoughtfully.  When he was behind Shadow, he whipped out his mace, and blasted him.  He whipped the cord out, muscled Shadow’s hands behind his back, and tied him up.  Shadow was howling, so Phil crumpled up some paper, crammed it in his mouth, and tied it into place, too. Finally, he roped up Shadow’s feet.  Then, with seconds to spare, he rushed into the EMP room, dashed the experiment aside, and put his left love handle up to the generator.

     A loud WHOMP! emanated from the generator, and the guts of Phil’s embedded electronic tracker were fried instantly.  The electromagnetic pulse induced hundreds of volts instantly across each inch of semiconductor.  Electrons flowed, neutralizing the voltage differences, and punching holes in millions of tiny silicon gates.

     For a very brief moment, he was knocked backwards by a very peculiar sensation.  It was almost as if every cell in his body had simultaneously touched a doorknob, after walking across the carpet.  He was almost knocked to the floor, but managed to remain standing.  That was the least of his troubles, though.

     Phil hadn’t done all his homework.  EMP-induced energies scorched his left love handle instantly, inducing a howl of pain, as well as electronic damage.  That was only a small problem, though.  The tracker, being small, didn’t generate much heat.  The mesh in his pants, containing far more square and linear inches of true conductors, as opposed to semiconductors, generated a lot more heat.  It didn’t take the heat long to soak into his underwear and skin, sending out puffs of smoke, and more howls of pain.  He dashed out the door, grabbed the remains of his soft drink, and splashed them all over his crotch. Shadow’s grunts and moans subsided momentarily, as he watched Phil in amazement.

     “Shut up!” Phil commanded.  “It’s not funny!” Phil glanced around madly, saw the fire extinguisher, grabbed it, and gave himself a blow job.  Finally reasonably cooled back down, he grabbed Shadow, and dragged him into the EMP room itself, as an afterthought.  It would take them that much longer to find him there, he figured.  “There’s a real hot babe hiding in here.  She’ll come out and set your pants on fire, if you just sit here quietly, patiently, and calmly for a little while,” he commented to Shadow.  Then, he pulled the cover off the air duct, and disappeared.

     He found the bag where Don had left it.  He pulled out the flashlight and tool pouch, and strapped it on, trying to ignore the pain in his crotch.  The maps and instructions, he slipped into his pockets. I sure hope Don was sensible enough to follow my hints, and have someone else write this stuff out, he thought.  That, and keep his fingerprints off, just in case I get busted, with this stuff still on me.  He crawled up the air duct, got his bearings, and hurried as best he could, while hunched over, to the far end of the building, two hundred yards away.

     There, he peeped out of a grate, making sure the coast was clear. He got out a chisel and hammer, knocked a few bars loose, reached out, and opened the grate.  He was in a large utility room.  He snuck over to the water chillers, where there was a large drain, just in case there was a large leak, and slipped down into the storm sewer.

     The storm sewer was a lot bigger than the air ducts had been, so this time he was actually able to run.  Seven hundred yards later, winded, he emerged into broad daylight.  He caught his breath momentarily, dropped his pants, and tore the scorched mesh off.  Then, he strategized.  Should I hang out, and hide for a while, waiting for the excitement to die down?  Or, can they trace me fairly rapidly?

     He crawled out of the sewer, and then out of the creek bed.  He brushed himself off, trying to look respectable and calm.  He walked along the trail in the thin stand of tall pines.  He pulled the map out, looking to see where Don had stashed a vehicle for him.  It was a few hundred yards down the creek, hopefully hidden under branches.

     So, do I hide for a while, or do I bogey now, he asked himself. Seeing a few police cars rushing by towards ABC, on the nearby road, helped him make up his mind to bogey immediately.  He found the spot that Don’s map indicated, and looked around, panicked.  No car was in sight, nor was there any clump of bushes or pile of branches big enough to conceal one.  But, what’s that small pile over there, Phil asked himself.

     Phil found the motorcycle.  It had been years since he’d driven one, but he did recall telling Don that he used to enjoy riding one in his younger days.  It was pretty old and beat, but it did have current plates, at least.  Phil looked at it, baffled.  No keys!  So, how does he expect me to start this damned thing, he wondered.  He dug his papers out, and found a few written paragraphs.  He scanned over a long letter, and read on.  Finally, he found what he was looking for.  Don had done most of the hot-wire job for him, and left instructions on how to complete it.  Good job, Don, he thought.  Now, if they bust me, it will be less obvious that you co-operated.  I hope this isn’t even your bike.

     He almost decided to throw away his tool pouch after hot-wiring the bike, but thought better of it.  He strapped them to the rear of the bike, and gunned that mother up.  Shortly, he was out on the road, zipping along, putting miles between himself and ABC.

     Or, so he thought.  There were only fractions of a mile, actually, till he saw the roadblock.  The police weren’t taking any chances, it seemed.  He slowed down, and flipped the bike around.  One of the three cars at the roadblock gave chase.

     Ha! he thought, I’ll leave you bums in the dust!  Good thing I’m on a bike!  It may be a street bike, not a dirt bike, but we’ll see what we can do!  He remembered the trail to the right, up into the hills, away from the road and creek, halfway between the roadblock and ABC. It’s a good thing we’re out here towards the boondocks, instead of in the middle of Atlanta, he thought, watching the cruiser in his rear-view mirror gaining on him.  He tried to coax a few more MPH out of his two-wheeled jalopy.

     Then, he killed his speed, swerving and skidding off the road, and shooting up the trail.  The oinkers never stood a chance on that narrow trail.  He chuckled at their feeble attempts to chase him, first, for just a few yards in their car, and then on foot.  They were out of sight and out of mind in no time.

     Five forks in the trail later, he heard a helicopter hovering over the woods.  When he saw the edge of the woods a hundred yards away, and the edge of suburbia a few hundred yards beyond that, he decided not to make a run for it.  Rather than risking being seen by the helicopter pilot, as he made his way across the meadows between woods and suburbia, he killed the bike, and hid in the bushes.  He ignored all the thorns that pulled at him, as he pushed himself and his bike deep into concealing foliage.  Once there, he made himself as comfortable as possible, and waited for nightfall.  The helicopter left after half an hour.

     He sat there, worrying about bloodhounds.  He figured that the pigs would keep a sharp eye on all exits from the woods, and they’d figure out that he was still in there, hiding in the bushes somewhere.  Then, despite the fact that bloodhounds would only be useful in sniffing down a human of known smell, rather than a motorbike of unknown smell, they’d come with the hounds, sniffing for where he’d left the trail for the bushes, on foot.  He kept a sharp ear out for baying hounds, prepared to spring out of the bushes with his bike, and make another getaway.  He never heard any baying, or even a whimper.

     Doubts started to creep into his mind.  Maybe, now that he’d given the feds what they wanted, he wasn’t so important to them anymore. Maybe they didn’t care if he blabbed to some measly, local, rumor-mongering underground press, anyway.  It was a hard thought for him to stomach, sitting there tired, thirsty, hungry, thorn-scraped, and crotch-burned.  Have faith, he told himself.  This can’t all be for nothing.

     He became profoundly bored, sitting there hiding, so he pulled out his papers from Don.  He found the letter, and began reading.

     “Hey, Buddy!

     I sure hope you know what you’re doing.  You’ve sure got more balls than I do.  That, or a lot less sense, I’m not sure which.  Maybe, too, it could just be that you’re less aware of what’s going on out there, and what it’s like, than I am.  You’ve had your nose glued to the screen, and to the test tube, for too long, maybe.

     Still, I hate this damned repressive ogre of a government of ours enough¾Oh, sure, there’s worse ones out there, but that’s no excuse for not trying to stick it to these bastards¾that I’m rooting for you, on the off chance that you can actually do something about it.

     Here’s the deal, that the lapdog media isn’t telling you, in a nutshell.  Partly they’re not telling you ‘cause the government’s got them on a choke chain, and partly, I suspect, it’s ‘cause of the fact that the damned bleeding-heart media has themselves to thank for the jam we’ve gotten into, in many ways.  Pooh-pah the idea of personal responsibility.  You murdered?  Oh, you were temporarily insane; your doctor prescribed you a Killer Medication.  Or, you ate too many twinkies.  You’re in poverty?  Oh, it must be because of discrimination.  Let us reward your sloth.  Your feet hurt, when you try to stand on your own?  Here, sit down.  Let us Help you.  We, the mighty, oh-so-generous liberal intelligentsia, will help you, by taking money from your responsible neighbors, who couldn’t be relied upon to make private charity decisions in an unbiased manner, and we’ll let a centralized bureaucracy decide what is fair, and who is deserving.

     So, when the federal debt was about to eat the Universe, and they couldn’t staff the Armed Forces anymore, ‘cause of too much socialism, and the war with China flared up, practically the whole welfare state collapsed.  The media doesn’t reflect a modicum of the truth, but the whole thing has collapsed.  High taxes, high minimum wages, employer mandates, crime, and welfare have decimated the ranks of the middle class.  If you didn’t have enough skills, or connections at the country club, to justify having your employer pay you zillions of dollars, when mandatory benefits are included, then, hey, we’re sorry, but there’s the street.  Over there’s the welfare office.

     Meanwhile, we rich bums isolated ourselves from all the crime, in our walled suburban compounds, ‘cause the courts were busier hanging high the handguns, than they were slapping the hands of, let alone hanging high, the criminal trigger-pullers.  They deserved counseling and probation, not the hangman’s noose.  The liberals and the press pointed at the handfuls of criminals executed in one state, compared them to the neighboring state without capital punishment, and said, “See, there’s no deterrent”. Never mind that it’s not the punishment, but the inevitability of the punishment (of which there was none, except for tax evaders), that matters.  Besides, when was the last time you saw a dead man commit a crime?  And, of course, the courts crammed the cells with vitamin fiends, but we’ve talked about that often enough, at least in the old days, when you actually had the time to come and chat. You bum!!

     OK, Phil thought.  I’m with you.  You’re not telling me anything new.  This is vintage Philism.  That’s why it was always so much fun to talk to you, Don.  Confirm my opinions.  Who wants to talk to people who are wrong, anyway?  So tell me something new.  He read on.

     “Anyway, there’s very little middle class left, and we ‘rich’ (Rich?  Really?  Do you feel rich, after the feds rape your paycheck?  Who really is rich, besides the bureaucrats, anyway?) folks, all isolated in our compounds, have lost sight of the wretched, crime-befestered masses.  What with a war and the economy and all to worry about, who’s going to worry about the poor?  The poor are imprisoned in a few sections of town, in camps, in old public housing, where they’re just given a minimum of food, water, shelter, and clothes.  Literally imprisoned; I kid you not.”

     Phil left out a whistle, before remembering where he was, and that he’d better stay quiet.  So, my worst fears have come true, he thought. Well, almost my worst fears.  Got anything worse for me, Don?

     “The younger ones have been hustled off to become cannon fodder.  I’ve heard horror stories about how we’ve even copied tactics from the Chinese.  Send the first two waves of soldiers out onto the battlefield with weapons, and the next three waves without weapons.  They’ve got to pick them off of their fallen comrades, as they rush forward.  And, just think: we’ve been destroying guns by the millions, here in America this last decade, to try and make the streets safe.  Anyway, it’s just a huge slaughterhouse.  You can bet, though, that these techniques are used only by the conscripts. The few trained, professional soldiers get the best, latest, and greatest weapons.  Not that the conscripts would know how to use them if we had enough of them, anyway.  They didn’t get good educations, ‘cause everything was dumbed down.  Wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s self-esteem, by giving them a bad grade.

     This, and more, I get from the underground press.  But Phil, I’ve got to warn you.  This underground press doesn’t reach very many people at all.  We’re all too busy worrying about fuel, toys, food, cars, clothes, and staying in the government’s good graces, to worry about Freedom and Truth.  If you think you’re going to start the revolution, well...  Good Luck!  But, it’s very sincerely that I wish you good luck.  If we all just sit back and say that we can’t change a damned thing, then it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.  I almost wish I could join you, but I’m an old man.  Godspeed!”

     So tell me about the underground press, and where to find it, you bum, Phil thought.

     “There’s just a few scattered pockets of real people, neither rich and beholden to, and owned by, the feds, in their walled compounds, nor in the ‘poor camps’.  Even the janitors with ‘official’ jobs, with mandatory benefits and wages, are now ‘rich’. Of course, they’ve got to work their balls off, 14 hours a day, and not get sick, so as to justify their artificially high pay, but that’s OK.  The only vestiges of the middle class, with some semblance of freedom, are the ones with ‘illegal’ jobs.  You know, under the table, ‘cause employing them officially would cost you your right gonad.  Maids, yard boys, nursemaids, baby-sitters, private craftsmen, day laborers, etc.  And, yes, prostitutes, vitamin pushers, and drug dealers.  The government doesn’t bust ‘em, ‘cause too many of the truly rich and powerful need their services.  This is where the underground press operates.”

     Truly rich? Like Gloria and I, when we used to hire a maid? Well, that was in the days before things got really bad, Phil thought. And so what if we circumvented the self-esteem insurance employer mandate?  No need to be overcome by guilt.  If we hadn’t done that, we simply wouldn’t have given the maid a job at all.  Simple as that.  OK, so is he finally going to tell me where the underground press is?

     “I still can’t believe you’re doing this, Phil.  You know, effectively what you’re doing is that you’re going into self-imposed exile from the rich, and joining the twilight workers. Don’t expect to raise a big hullabaloo, and get the public to clamor for your agenda, and for getting you your old job back.  The twilight workers and their press won’t pay you much, if anything, for your story, either.  They’ll expect you to get a job of some sort, just like they have.  They don’t tolerate thieves or mooches among them, not that I’d think you’d be like that.  And, if you ever try to come back, you can bet you’ll be cooped up in the slammer.  Be prepared to rake lots of leaves.  I hope that you thought all this through, and that the freedom that you gain, will be worth your losses.”

     Phil re-read that paragraph once or twice, thinking, no, Don, I guess I didn’t think it through.  But thanks for being honest with me. How ‘bout that underground press, now?

     “The best recommendation I can make for you, is that you should go to Tonkytown, Center Street, and ask for Wicked Wanda. Tell her that the Lone Porksword sent you, and that the number of the Anti-Beast is one hundred and fifty-three.  I’ve notified her. Once again, my admiration and fondest hopes are with you.  Please destroy this letter immediately after reading it.  Let Freedom Ring!

     Forever Sincerely (up) Yours,

     The Lone Porksword, AKA ANC

     Tears welled to Phil’s eyes, and he would have cried, if he hadn’t been sitting there puzzling over Don’s “ANC” reference.  Finally, he chuckled, albeit quietly, remembering their joke about him being an “Ancient Nether Cough,” or old fart.

     OK, Phil thought, I can handle this.  Tonkytown¾I know where that is¾Center Street, Wicked Wanda, Lone Porksword, and the number of the Anti-Beast is 153.  Who the hell was that, way back when, who was so fascinated by that number?  We bent the number of target species of the original Anti-Bug Critters to match that number.  He couldn’t remember, so he gave up.  He whipped out his lighter, burned Don’s letter, and took a nap.

     Rain woke him up.  What started as a drizzle soon became a downpour.  It still wasn’t dark, though, so he hung out, waiting, soaked to the bone, and thoroughly miserable.  At dusk, he got up, left the bike behind, and prowled around, scouting the terrain.  What if they’re watching all the places where the trail leaves the woods, he wondered. Should I drag the bike along the periphery of the woods, to that gully over there, so that I can walk the bike out, unseen?  Can you imagine me, in my present state, trying to pull that off?  Through a rain-washed gully, yet, at that?

     He settled for just using the regular trail.  As a minimal gesture of stealth, he did walk his bike out, as opposed to firing it up and making lots of noise.  No one saw him, and no one cared.  He was almost disappointed that the feds didn’t value his hide enough to chase him. He walked up to the fifteen-foot-tall walls of suburbia with his bike, fired it up on the muddy utility road by the wall, and rode slowly till he reached the main, paved road.  From there, he gunned it up, speeding downtown to Tonkytown.

     When he got there, his stomach was bare, so he stopped at a tiny, private eatery that doubtlessly met neither fire nor sanitary codes. What the hey, he thought, they’ll doubtlessly feed me some good chow for a decent price.  I guess the regulators really do leave the zones of the twilight workers alone, by and large.  Wish the rest of us could be so lucky!

     He parked his bike where he could see it through the window, and went inside.  He counted his money.  He had only two hundred dollars. He wished he could’ve brought more, but he hadn’t wanted to arouse the suspicions of the shadows, by withdrawing too much cash.  After all, the shadows had done his shopping, to keep him away from the public, withdrawing straight from his electronic account.

     He paid his thirty bucks for some third-rate chow, but he thought it was just plain delicious.  He’d been starving and shivering in the rain for quite some time, after all.  No one told him that the meat was literally dogmeat, as in, from, not for, a dog.  It was wartime, though, and meat was hard to come by, especially for people who didn’t have federal goons do their shopping for them.  He probably wouldn’t have cared much, even if they had told him.

     He found Center Street easily enough.  Once he got there, he just banged on the nearest dilapidated door.  He had the good luck to pick the door of old Mrs. Haverford, a kindly disposed lady.  “Do you know a Wicked Wanda?,” he inquired.  She begrudgingly ‘fessed up that she might, with a hint of fear in her eyes.  She probably thinks I’m a fed, come to snoop around about the underground press, Phil thought.  He debated telling her that the Lone Porksword had sent him, but remembered that his instructions had told him to tell that to Wicked Wanda.

     Mrs. Haverford promised that she’d get in touch with Wicked Wanda, and that she’d tell her that a certain gentleman was looking for her. She also pointed the local crashpad out to Phil.  It was just an old, vacant building down the road, where vagrant bums like Phil could hang out for a day or three, with a semi-decent roof over their heads.  But, not forever, she pointed out to Phil.  The local vigilance committee didn’t take kindly to men without visible support hanging out too long. “And, who might I tell her is looking for her?,” Mrs. Haverford inquired of Phil, with a sharp, suspicious stare.

     Phil debated only briefly.  “Tell her that the Lone Porksword sent me.” She nodded, not cracking the slightest smile.  Apparently this wasn’t too unusual, to have strange characters coming by, looking for Wicked Wanda, and giving code names.  He thanked her, and scooted on down to the crashpad.

     When he got there, he said hi to three other residents, pulled his bike in, grabbed a few old rags laying around, and made himself a bed. He used some cord he had left over from his earlier adventures, and tied it around his neck and around the bike’s front wheel.  So, they’ll just cut it, if they want to steal the bike, he thought.  Still, that’ll take them a few seconds longer.  Seconds during which I might wake up, or during which one of my good buddies, here, will wake up, and wake me up. Time to go nappy-poohbie-bye, he thought.  This is what crash pads are for, after all.  He went nappy-poohbie-bye.

     In the dead of night, he was awakened by bright flashlights, yelling, hooting, hollering, and scuffling.  In short, he was awakened by pandemonium.  By the time he really woke up, and untied himself from his bike, some group of hooligans had dragged one of his three buddies out onto the street.  Phil followed, sickened but somehow attracted by the gruesome violence, as the hooligans beat the tar out of his newly made friend.

     “Hey!” Phil yelled, getting into the thick of things.  “What are you hoodlums doing to this poor man!  Leave him alone!” He grabbed one of Buddy’s assailants, dragging him off.

     He got grabbed in turn, spun around, and flung to the ground. “Listen, asshole,” someone said to him, out of the dark, shining a flashlight in his face.  “Your good buddy, here, raped a woman, and broke her nose and arm, here in Tonkytown, and we’re trying to teach him a lesson or two.  Unless you need a lesson, too, we suggest you maybe butt out.  Got that?”

     Phil got to his feet, all indignant.  “Well, why don’t you take it to the law, like civilized folks?” He looked to his left, watching his buddy flinching and moaning feebly in pain, spitting blood, and still getting the crap kicked out of him.  A man was probably dying over there!  “How can you barbarians do this!” he exclaimed.  “How can you be sure it was him, without having a trial?!”

     He heard a few snickers, guffaws, and babbling, clamoring voices competing for his attention, but he ignored them all.  He just barged on over to rescue his downtrodden comrade.  A hoodlum stepped in front of him, assuming a combative stance.  Phil’s self-defense training course techniques flashed into his mind, and he struck out, kicking for Hoodlum’s knees.  Instantly, Phil was pummeled by what seemed to be a thousand fists and boots.  He curled into fetal position, and scrambled to pull his weenie pocketknife out of his pants pocket.  As he pulled it out, he took a full kick in the face.

     Fortunately, Mother Nature in her mercy flooded his body with opiate-like endorphins, killing some of his pain, and then causing him to pass out, as they kicked his body to within millimeters of death. Even more fortunately for him, as his good buddy passed away to his eternal reward, and as he himself lay there bleeding nearly to death from multiple orifices, the whores for publicly sponsored violence made a rare foray into that section of Atlanta, and chased away the whores for quasi-publicly, more locally sponsored violence, and rescued his sorry near-carcass, dragging him off to a hospital.

 

 

CHAPTER 21

 

     Hongson and Chong, electrical engineers for the People’s Republic of China, were buried deep in the labyrinthine innards of a fighter cockpit.  Hongson was watching the o’scope screen, referring to the schematics, and calling out directions as Chong moved several clips on the ‘scope’s hydra-headed probe to various electrical nodes.  They had to resolve the factory’s latest problems, lest China’s air warriors run out of air power in the latest struggles against the imperialists of the West.

     Air power in the early 21st century was less important now than before.  Advanced, vast stationary fusion-powered engines of war, equipped with the latest radar and infrared laser cannon, could annihilate enemy aircraft and missiles out in the blink of an eye.  Penetrating deep into enemy airspace was no longer advisable. Still, China needed airpower on the fronts in order to set up these engines in the first place, to truly secure new territories.  Or, of course, to prevent the imperialists from doing likewise.  In other words, air power still had an important role to play on the fronts.  So, the heat was on: get these planes out, for the Republic’s sake!  Never mind about such matters as adequate sleep.

     But, one would have had to be completely asleep to miss the racket that interrupted Hongson and Chong.  They both dropped what they were doing as soon as they heard the wailing alarms.  These alarms were on just long enough for the two workers to begin looking around to see what the ruckus was all about, when the sound of screams, gunfire and shattering glass cascaded off the walls to them from the far, entrance end of the factory.  Off in the distance they could see swarms of small brown fluttering creatures attacking guards and workers, and large flying creatures methodically dive-bombing windows, lobbing small dense objects into shattering windows.

     The guards’ rifles were totally useless against the swarms of small creatures inside the factory, and the guards soon caught on to the futility of firing at the larger creatures through the windows, for the swarms of the smaller creatures could enter windows broken by gunfire as easily as they could enter the windows broken by their partners from Hell.  The swarms were rapidly moving across the factory, killing everyone in their path.

     Hongson’s and Chong’s adrenaline negated their sleepiness in about no time flat; they immediately secured all access to the cockpit and slammed the canopy down just in time to squash a screaming monsterling. A foul stench pervaded the air.  Horrified, they watched as small, bat-like beasts plunged stingers into workers, some a mere few yards away.  The victims didn’t suffer long, though; their screams were quenched within tens of seconds.  Workers flailed wildly at the bats, actually killing a few, but after one or two bats would plunge a stinger into a person’s back, the bats would just back off and wait for the victim to die.  Hongson didn’t watch for long; he couldn’t bear to.

     He was stared in amazement as a dozen “bats,” if you could call a creature with six legs and a ventral thoracic stinger a bat, repeatedly plunged at the canopy.  Their wingspans were about 9 inches. They didn’t persist for long; they weren’t as stupid as a fly banging its heart out against an unyielding pane of glass.

     Chong, stronger of stomach, watched as some of the bats tore flesh off of their victims, and others gathered greedily around pools of blood.  Even he was shortly caught up in the dry heaves.  Not having had much to eat, he didn’t have much to throw up.  Even after doubling up and averting his gaze from the carnage outside the canopy, the heaves were getting worse, and Hongson started retching, too.  For the first time since the madness began, words come to Hongson.  “What a stench! You suppose it might be poisonous?”

     “Yeah, let’s get rid of that wad of slime!” was Chong’s emphatic reply.  “Couldn’t hurt to try and make it smell a bit better in here.”

     “But how?  We can’t open the canopy wide enough to scamper down there!” Hongson didn’t have to say why such a maneuver into the tight space between the front of the canopy and the firewall would be unwise.

     Between spasms of retching, Chong suggested they look around for some object long and slender enough to serve as a poke stick.  After some scrounging around, Hongson mentioned, “Well, no sticks, but here’s a fire extinguisher; what say we blast it out?  This thing’s got quite a bit of pressure!”

     “Say no more!” Chong grabbed the canopy latches while Hongson prepared to blast away.  They opened the canopy for only a few seconds and the job was done; not long enough for the creatures outside to take more than a moment’s break from their gruesome feasts.  Hongson flipped a few switches, and the cockpit cleared.  They still had electricity from the factory through an “umbilical cord” to the aircraft.

     Nausea soon faded away and the two were left to assess their predicament.  “Chong, will you keep an eye on the goings-on out there while I check things out in here?”

     “Roger.” Hongson puttered around with cockpit controls, dials, and gauges, and most especially, with the small handheld computer that was hooked to the factory’s central computer via the “umbilical,” for purposes of downloading schematics and documents, and for “chatting” with other workers.  Unfortunately for Hongson and Chong, grunts at their level had no access to communications outside the factory; too much secrecy and political paranoia stood in the way for that.

     The first things Hongson did were to put the aircraft’s storage batteries into “fast charge” (no telling how much longer main power might last, and at this point, who would care about a battery life shortened by overcharging?), and to put a blanket message on the factory’s net, saying, “Help!  Is there anybody out there?  This is Hongson and Chong, sealed up in the cockpit at station G3”.

     Chong steeled himself to watch the winged demons about their dastardly deeds.  Surprisingly, the swarms of the smaller creatures were thinning out, as many of them flew back out the windows.  The corpses of the factory workers were still being fed upon, but only lightly.  Only a few of the larger “bats” swooped down to join the waning feast.  A few more fluttered about, coming to rest in elevated locations around the factory.  Chong watched as they in turn seemed to watch the factory with sharp eyes.  Chong recalled them lobbing objects through the windows to break them¾obviously intelligent creatures, he thought.

     Invaders from another planet?  Surely a race advanced enough to traverse space would be using advanced weapons, if it was bent on conquering, and surely they wouldn’t depend on eating their victims for their sustenance!  Chong was too well educated to seriously consider the supernatural, literal “demons from Hell” hypothesis.  This left only one reasonable (if one could use this word in such a context) thought in Chong’s mind: the imperialists of the West must have had some amazing breakthroughs in some hidden biological warfare research lab.

     Chong stared intently, trying to gather as many clues to the nature of these beasts as he could.  Both the larger and the smaller “bats” followed the same basic body plan; both were somewhat bat-like, with furry bodies, stiff-skinned wings, and fox-like heads with protruding muzzles equipped with flesh-shearing teeth.  A few characteristics were decidedly non-batlike, though; they had six legs in addition to their wings, and stingers mounted on the bottoms of their chests, almost entirely retracted in flight.  The many small ones were about nine inches wingtip to wingtip; the fewer larger ones’ wingspans were about five feet.

     Chong got the distinct impression that the two types worked in concert, with the larger ones being the more intelligent “bosses”. Maybe the term “masterminds” might be more appropriate, he thought; he’d not seen the larger ones dominating the smaller ones in any way.  Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any squabbles between any of the creatures, like one might expect between most of the creatures of the Earth, excluding the social insects.

     So, what were the beasts up to?  What was their “plan,” if they had one?  Chong thought about it a bit, and came to the sickening conclusion that events in the factory probably weren’t isolated; all across the city, and perhaps the nation, similar gruesome attacks must be taking place.  The swarms in the factory were smaller than before, because, after “securing” the factory, the services of these minions of the imperialists were needed elsewhere!  Chong strained his ears to hear¾the factory’s security alarms were still saturating the air.  But, he thought he heard the scream of military jets, and perhaps even the occasional rumble of tanks.  OK, so bats wouldn’t be able to assault soldiers in tanks or jets, he thought, but conversely, tanks and jets weren’t much good against thousands of swarming small beasts, either. Things didn’t look good for the home team.

     Hongson, meanwhile, was checking out the aircraft’s condition and supplies.  Hongson and Chong were extremely fortunate to have been in one of the only two aircraft in this, the first production run of this latest model, that had been flown.  The other one had been further torn down after the first test flights, and so no workers would have been able to take refuge in it.  Also, this was the only one almost completely ready for flight, all except for fuel and survival supplies, to Hongson’s great disappointment.  At least they had plenty of room¾“fighters” in the early twenty-first century weren’t the small, agile, glamorous craft of yesteryear; long-distance, “standoff, fire-and-forget” missiles made maneuverability pointless.  So, this aircraft had room for a crew of three¾pilot, copilot/missile-man, and navigator/electronic warfare specialist.  That, and room to spare.

     “What’s the word, Chong?  How soon can we leave and go home?”

     “Not anytime soon¾there’s less of these critters around than there were earlier, but there’s still far too many.  I think they’ll leave us alone as long as we leave them alone, but I’m not volunteering to bust out of here right now.”

     “Is there any chance they’ll break through the canopy like they did through the windows?  Do you think we should put up the radiation shields?”

     “No, it’d take ‘em a while to do serious damage to our shatterproof glass; we’d have time to put them up later, and I’d hate to lose sight of what’s going on out there.” Hongson was referring to the 1 1/2 inch thick lead plates that could slide up inside the flat plates of the many-angled, boxy canopy.  These plates were intended to shield the crew from the radiation of the low-yield “clean” nukes of the modern battlefield.  Laser as opposed to fission triggers had indeed made fusion weapons “cleaner” as well as smaller, but by making them more acceptable, they had made their use far more prevalent.

     “So do you think there’s anyone else alive around here?,” Chong asked.  “Any chance of stirring someone up on the net?”

     “Well, I did put out a broadcast message, and haven’t heard anything yet¾I can think of only two other places in the factory where people might take shelter¾one would be the administration offices, and the other would be the foundry¾make that three; there’s quite a few plumbing and electrical utility rooms that one could button up in.

     “I’ll bet the security guards in admin fought back and got themselves all killed.  And I doubt we could get any kind of help from any of the utilities types.  That leaves the foundry¾if there’s any hope at all, it’s connected to the workers who almost definitely survived in there.” The foundry was a tightly sealed area of the factory where workers processed special advanced alloys in an oxygen-free atmosphere, mostly nitrogen.  This atmosphere prevented fires and oxidation of the alloys¾magnesium especially being highly combustible.

     Hongson paused thoughtfully, then spoke up.  “They haven’t replied to my message on the net¾they’ve got to know something really strange is going on out here, and have better things to do than check their electronic mail.  But I think I know a way to get their attention¾I can set off another alarm inside the foundry, in addition to the factory-wide alarm.  That is, I can change their oxygen-level alarm threshold to zero.” Workers in the foundry wore oxygen masks, and exhaled some oxygen to their environment.  Sensors made sure the oxygen levels never got too high.

     Hongson began hacking on his portable.  He was fortunate enough to be authorized to get into almost any part of the factory’s computer system that he cared to mess with¾keeping in mind that all transactions were logged, but this was the least of Hongson’s worries at the moment. “This’ll take a while¾why don’t you see if you can learn to soothe those savage beasts while I do this¾maybe they’ll leave us alone if we can just reason with them.” Hongson joked.

     “No, thanks, but if you don’t mind, I could use a nap.”

     “Suit yourself.” The two settled side-by-side into the pilot’s and copilot’s chairs, Hongson hacking away on the portable and Chong napping lightly.  Hongson paused briefly to admire Chong’s ability to relax in the middle of a nightmare, then got back to his hacking.

     Chong woke about 10 minutes later to the muffled sound of another alarm going off behind the foundry wall, and Hongson hooting with glee. “There it goes!  As soon as they double-check their oxygen level, they’ll know someone’s been messing around on the computer!” The two chatted a minute or two while waiting for a message from the foundry. Hongson said, “So, you’ve had a chance to watch our little pets for a while¾what do you make of them?”

     “Well, with 6 legs, and not looking at all like insects, they’re obviously off of the evolutionary mainstream¾I think the only reasonable ideas are that they’re either from another planet, or they are artificial life engineered by the imperialists.  Of the two, I’d say we’re looking at a weapon.”

     “One designed by the Americans, or one that got loose from Chinese researchers?,” Hongson asked, slyly watching Chong for his reaction.

     Indeed, Chong was shocked by the suggestion. He sputtered a bit, and just spat out, “I should certainly say this is an American abomination.”

     “And how would the imperialists protect themselves from eventually becoming victims of their own fiendish creations?”

     “I suppose the same way that their artificial insect-eating insects are kept in check¾I remember reading about that¾the only way they could get this idea approved, so that their environmentalists wouldn’t scream, was to make the artificial insects dependent on traces of chemicals that would only be sprayed on the fields where they were desired, so that these new creatures wouldn’t run amok.”

     “Yeah, I know¾I think we even imported some of those insects for use here before the war.  I remember the environmentalists hollering about it anyway, even though those trace chemicals were supposed to be far less harmful than the pesticides this scheme replaced.  But how would they be able to deliver their trace chemicals in the middle of China, what with all of our advanced radar and air defense?”

     “Beats me¾maybe they’ve replaced dependence on trace chemicals with dependence on yellow skin pigments or slanted eyes,” Chong replied.

     “Or maybe non-western political thoughts¾give me a break!”

     Finally, Hongson’s portable beeped at him to indicate an incoming message.  “Hongson!  Chong!  What the BLOODY FUCK is going on out there!!!”

     “Careful, comrade; as a network administrator, I have to warn you that our conversations are recorded and monitored.” Hongson typed back.

     “Hey, MONITORS, come and monitor my butt-hole!  Or was it you that got the only person we’ve sent out our air lock since the alarms went off?”

     “No, believe it or not....  we’ve actually got something out here worse than party hacks.” Hongson was becoming infected with the sacrilege of his partner in the foundry.  “These are literal bloodsuckers, not figurative.” If he couldn’t strike back at the immediate threat, he could at least release some of his tensions by letting loose some bile at another, now-doubtlessly-diminished foe.

     Chong, looking over his shoulders, chortled a bit.  “We’ve got some real nasties out here¾probably cooked up by the Americans¾As best as we can make out, six-legged flesh-eating bats, with poisonous stingers. This is no joke.”

     “How do you know they’re poisonous?”

     “Just from watching how they’d sting their victims, and then back off to wait for them to die shortly afterwards.  Also, we crushed one under our canopy when we slammed it shut, and it gave us the pukes till we got rid of it and got some fresh air.  On the other hand, we’re circulating fresh air from the outside, and it’s OK.  If you have any fights with these critters, and have to share air with them, you might wish to avoid spilling their guts.”

     “What do you suggest, then?”

     “Hang in here on this line and we’ll figure out something together.” Just then, Hongson’s computer went down, along with all the alarms and all the lights in the building.

     Seconds later, the distant chug-chug of gas-fired engines reached Hongson and Chong as the emergency power generators kicked in. Mercifully, the alarms weren’t backed by this power system, so they could start to hear themselves think, now.  However, the lighting was much reduced.  The aircraft’s umbilical cord was still powered, at least.  Chong remarked on how the dimmer lighting did so much for the atmosphere to complement their little Dracula friends, while Hongson ignored him and reestablished the link to the foundry.  “Time may be short¾let me fill you in.” Hongson busied himself describing everything they’d seen, to let the foundry workers know what they were up against.

     In the meantime, recalling how the larger beasts had shattered glass, Chong decided to roll the radiation screens partway up the insides of the canopy.  Better to do this now, while there was still power, than to have to roll them up slowly, manually, later.  He left just enough room uncovered at the top of the canopy to be able to sit on the tops of the seats and watch the factory.

     “All right, now you know as much as we do¾what are we going to do?  We vote that we NOT sit around to starve or thirst to death while these beasties do their nasty deeds to the bodies of our buddies. What do you have in the way of weapons¾arcwelders, oxyacetylene torches?  Poisons?”

     “If we use poisons, what about you?  Do you have some oxygen in your fighter?  We’d not want to poison you.”

     “Yes, we have a few hours worth¾don’t worry¾we’ll be happy to expire early if you can take some of these nasties with us.  If you do scare up some truly poisonous stuff, it’ll probably dissipate out the broken windows by the time we run out of air anyway.”

     “OK, we’ll consult here and look over our stuff, and we’ll get back to you.”

     Hongson wasn’t going to let them sign off this easily.  “Wait¾let’s at least talk a bit now about preliminary ideas.  What do you have?”

     “We do indeed have welders and torches¾but as you describe these flying swarms, they’d obviously not be much good.  As far as whether or not we have any poisons that can be sprayed, and that are effective, we’ll definitely need to think it over.”

     “Well, at least, let’s deprive these nasty beasts of their food¾can you dispose of what’s left of the bodies?  Can you drag them off to be cremated in your furnaces?”

     “Yes¾we have gas furnaces, and as far as how we can do our work out there once we bust out of here, we should be able to work in our suits and in our sealed vehicles, without too much danger.”

     “Even inside your vehicles, we’d suggest you wear your suits¾remember what we said about them breaking through glass.  By the way, if you guys can come up with a way to fight these critters back, we’d appreciate if you could swing by our plane and pull us out.  Bring an extra set of suits.”

     “OK, give us about a half an hour, and we’ll get back to you and we’ll hammer out some more details.  Keep an eye on the opposition; we’re relying on you to be our eyes and ears.” The foundry had no view of the rest of the factory; their oxygen-free atmosphere had to be well isolated.

     While Hongson took a much-needed nap, Chong kept watch.  There were only maybe a hundred small bats, and half a dozen large bats, hanging around the factory anymore, and none were munching out on their gruesome fare any more¾maybe a quarter of the available flesh had been consumed. Chong got the distinct impression that the remaining bats were there merely to keep watch on the bodies; the rest had doubtlessly gone off to wreak some more mayhem on other parts of the city, after having eaten just enough to refuel.  So, a frightening question was raised in Chong’s mind: What were the bodies being saved for?

     A half an hour later, as promised, the foundry came back on line. Chong woke Hongson.  “Get your butt up¾put your military hat on; this is now a war room!” Hongson got his butt up and put his “military hat” on.

     “OK, what’s the battle plan?”

     “We couldn’t come up with any decent poisons, but we can rig up some flame-throwers, and best of all, we think we can modify our sputtering machine to throw bits of burning metals.  We’ll mount it on our vehicles, since it’ll be quite heavy.”

     “How long will all this take?”

     “About 8 hours, we figure.  Then, we’ll need to knock down a wall with our heavy equipment, before the battle can commence.”

     Chong said to Hongson, “Ask them about plans to give our fallen comrades out there some decent disposal¾I get the distinct impression that these damn bats are keeping watch over the bodies for some more munching later.” Hongson did just that.

     The foundry came back with, “We do believe our furnaces will do fine.  We want to make sure, though, and also, we want to make sure our suits will stand up against the beasts.  We think we should make a preliminary test excursion, with two suited men with flame-throwers going out to retrieve a body.  Then, not only will we test our simpler weapons, we’ll also be able to test the settings on our furnaces¾this is far from the usual task for our furnaces.”

     “Sounds good to me.” Hongson typed back.

     The foundry’s “suits” were almost like space suits, but heavier¾they had to withstand occasional splashes of red-hot metals, as well as providing their wearers cool oxygen.  Internal force amplifiers (hydraulics mostly) made the suits capable of more than human strength; human strength alone would have been hardly capable of even moving the suits.  Heavy, mobile equipment with well-protected cabs and human-operated quasi-robotic arms were also used.

     Most of the heat energy in the foundry was derived from gas and coal; even in these days of cheap fusion electrical power generation, gas and coal were the cheapest ways to generate large amounts of heat.  Plus, China still had vast reserves of coal, both for direct use and to generate gas from. So, the foundry had “gas to burn,” and then some.  Air lines fed air from the outside world into the furnaces, and a few work areas, inside the mostly oxygen-free foundry.

     “So when are you sending out your test cases?” Hongson inquired.

     “As soon as we rig up a flame-thrower¾about 5 minutes.  Rigging up our real weapon, the sputtering machine, will require much longer. We’ll have to widen the aperture, equip it with portable tanks of shredded combustible metals, tweak the air-gas mixture, and mount them to vehicles.”

     “Good luck!!!” The sputtering machines were used to spray drops of molten alloys onto the surfaces of pieces of metal being worked.

     A few minutes later, Hongson and Chong saw the outer door of the air lock to the foundry slide open, 60 yards away, along the side of the rest of the factory.  Two huge, suited knights in high-tech armor strode forth, each carrying a tank attached to a hose and a wand belching small flames.  They were immediately beset by hordes of small flying beasts. A few of the larger ones fluttered out the windows.  “Uh-oh¾off to get reinforcements, I’ll bet.,” Chong muttered to Hongson.

     Meanwhile, the two suited figures turned on their flame-throwers full blast, burning off the wings of their attackers with 12-foot flames sweeping the air.  The bats backed off for the most part, but a few would still swoop in from behind to try and sting the foundry workers. None seemed to be able to penetrate the heavy suits.  Chong was right; reinforcements did indeed soon begin to arrive.  What had been maybe a hundred small bats soon turned to several hundred, and at least twenty large ones fluttered about.

     The two “knights,” having proven the effectiveness of both their suits and their weapons, proceeded to complete their mission.  They walked, somewhat slowly and stiffly in their heavy suits, towards the nearest corpse.  The bats stayed out of the range of their flames, for the most part.  However, the larger bats began swooping to the factory floor, picking up heavy hand tools and other small heavy objects, and flying off with them, to dive-bomb the humans, staying out of the flames’ reach of course.  Having to release at a distance hurt their accuracy; only a few objects made their mark.  The knights bent over to pick up a corpse, one at each end, with one hand kept free to wave the flame-thrower wands.  They then waddled off as fast as they could, which wasn’t very fast, back to the air lock.  A few bats joined them in the air lock, but these were quickly dispatched, no doubt, with the flame¾throwers after the lock closed.

     Hongson got on the line.  “Well done!  We did notice, though, that they called in reinforcements fairly fast, and you might want to see what you can do about the larger ones bombarding you.”

     “Don’t worry about them¾our sputtering machine, if it works the way we think it will, will take care of them!”

     “Will it set fire to the building?”

     “We doubt it; the building itself is mostly brick and other non-flammables, and what flammables are out there, such as fuels or chemicals, are mostly in protective containers or in small quantities. The sputtered burning materials will be in such small pieces that they won’t go through metals or impart much heat to wood, but oh boy, will they be harmful to living flesh!”

     “OK, we’ll be looking forward to watching you decimate the nasties. Don’t forget to rescue us afterwards.”

     “Gotcha.  Let’s go have a beer or two when this is all over.  Give us about 7 or 8 hours; we’ll check our messages periodically during that time, and suggest you do the same.”

     “OK¾later, guys!”

     Hongson and Chong needed to kill some time.  They decided Chong would sleep for 4 hours, while Hongson kept watch, and then they would trade.  Hongson promptly busied himself watching the bats on and off, and scrounging about the cockpit, acquainting himself with what all was available.  Chong snoozed away in the pilot’s chair.  Hongson found not one scrap of food, but he did find that his tool kit still contained a liter of water.  This was used to wet his solder sponge, which was in turn used to clean his soldering iron.  Unfortunately for their palates, this water was kept in an old detergent squeeze bottle from home. Hongson wasn’t that thirsty yet, but he did make note of this resource.

     The bats seemed to have thinned back down to only slightly above their numbers right before the “knights” had provided them with some excitement.  Hongson plopped himself into the co-pilot’s chair, thinking he’d just relax and conserve his energies a bit, but soon fell asleep.

     Five hours later, Hongson and Chong were both still asleep.  They had both been short on sleep, and had slept soundly.  Chong, though, was first to stir out of his sleep, prompted by renewed commotion outside. Chong scampered to the top of his seat, to look out the top of the canopy, above the radiation shields.  It was now early evening, so what little daylight had been streaming in the relatively small windows mounted high along the sides of the factory, was now practically gone. But Chong could quite clearly see, in the dim glow of the emergency lighting, that the numbers of bats had again gone way up.  There must have been thousands of the smaller ones, and at least a hundred of the larger ones.  At the far end of the factory, barely inside the front entrance, the largest numbers of bats seemed to be swarming about some object moving into the factory, on the floor.

     “Hongson!  Wake up!” Chong shook him awake.  “There’s tons of bats out there again and they’re up to something!” Hongson woke, startled, and glanced sheepishly at his watch.

     After taking a brief look at the bats, he checked the computer for incoming messages.  There was a slew of them.  “How’s it going out there?  Things are shaping up in here; still a ways to go.” “Hey, what’s the haps out there?  What are the bats up to?” “Hey, guys, are you sleeping, or what?” “Hey, dudes, are you dead?  I thought we were going to check in with each other periodically?!” Etc, etc.  Finally, “Come on!  If we don’t hear from you soon, we’ll have to make another scouting expedition.”

     Hongson got on line pronto.  “Hongson here.  We’re still here.  We did indeed both fall asleep, after I had agreed to keep watch.  Better hold off on that scouting expedition¾there’s zillions of bats out here again, and they’re up to something.  Let’s see what they’re doing, and we’ll get right back to you.” Hongson joined Chong at the lookout point at the top of the canopy.

     The moving swarm of bats, fluttering seemingly protectively about some object on the floor, was moving to the center of the factory.  Some bats were again munching on their gruesome fare.  Small streams of bats were constantly commuting between the main swarm of bats, and those that were picnicking on the corpses.  Chong jumped to a horrifying conclusion, but he decided to keep it to himself till he was sure.

     Confirmation didn’t take long.  The larger bats were doing the same things that the smaller bats were doing, except that every once in a while, Chong could see one carrying a chunk of flesh or a small body part off towards the main swarm.  Chong pointed it out to Hongson, commenting, “Check it out!  I think we’re watching the arrival of the hive queen, and these devils are feeding her.  We’re slated to change from an aircraft factory to a bat factory!” Chong pretended to retch, but Hongson didn’t seem to see the humor.

     Sure enough, the object of the main swarm’s attention soon ventured into view, dimly seen through scant lighting and swarms of bats.  It appeared to be a long, low, dark, round animal the size of a large pig, but longer.  It was voraciously snorfling up whatever was dropped in front of it.  Hongson imagined (or did he?) that he could see it fattening and slowing down by the minute.

     Chong offered his interpretation of the dance of the demons. “These critters are like bees and ants¾they all belong to a large hive. Notice how they never squabble amongst themselves, like normal animals? And how they’ll attack with not a whole bunch of attention paid to their individual survival?  That’s because, for them, all is for the hive, and the queen, not for themselves.  Only the queen can reproduce, so the only way the individual worker can pass on its genes, or participate in the evolutionary saga, is to promote the survival of the queen and the hive.” Chong had been a student of biology, before he figured out that electrical engineers made more money, even in a then-supposedly non-materialistic China.

     “Sort of like communism, huh?” Hongson chimed in.  “I guess that makes our Dear Leader, Tu Ill Dung, a queen.” Chong looked aghast, as if he expected Hongson to be shot for heresy, within seconds.  Hongson didn’t seem to care about such things any more.  “But remember, these likely aren’t even the results of evolution, so we shouldn’t expect them to be ‘rational’, even by evolutionary standards.”

     Hongson was frustrated by the limited view of the queen.  “Chong, I want to fire up the remote cameras¾can you tell the factory what we’re seeing while I get us a better view?” Hongson messed with the controls to three video cameras, each capable of viewing visible light and infrared, mounted on the leading edges of the two wings, and on the fuselage above and behind the cockpit.  These were for photographic reconnaissance, and for visibility when the radiation shields were up. They also had zoom lenses, light amplifiers, and computer enhancement.

     Chong got on line.  The message back from the foundry was, “About time you bums got up!  Sleepyheads!  What’s up out there?!”

     Chong filled them in.  “Better hold tight while we get us some more poop and scoop on these bastards.  Hongson is getting them on the remote cameras now.”

     The foundry came back with, “OK, no scouting expeditions for now¾we’re still an hour or so away from getting the big guns ready.  Holler back to us when you learn some more.”

     Hongson fiddled with the controls, zooming in and out and trying various settings.  They were lucky that their aircraft had been somewhat elevated for working on its guts from the bottom, affording them a better view.  The swarms of bats were the main hindrance, but they could still just barely make out that the queen had six short legs, no wings, and a squat, long, round body.  It’s head was wide, and it’s muzzle¾well, it was too damn hard to see.

     Hongson cursed at the cameras and fiddled some more.  Chong lost interest and resumed watching the bats by less high-tech means.  The cameras’ computer enhancement capabilities had been intended to remove clouds and other obstructions from stationary, not mobile, subjects, so the composites Hongson generated to remove the obscuring swarms of bats were composed of patches that didn’t really fit together right. Suddenly, though, his subject froze to concentrate, apparently, on letting out a belch, and Hongson quickly reacted to generate a composite during about 2 seconds during which the subject moved very little.  He stored this image to memory.

     “Chong!  Look at this!  I finally got a good image!” The image was still slightly patchy, but they could clearly see the critter’s wide, blood-stained muzzle filled with razor-sharp teeth.  The head was bear-like, but much wider.  The body was long and squat, with 6 muscular, sturdy legs.  It was covered in brown fur, just like the bodies of the “worker bats”.

     “Isn’t that a pretty sight?,” Chong commented.  “Pretty hideous!”

     The “queen” waddled on.  The workers seemed to direct its course with the most elementary of techniques: they laid out a line of scrumptious fare in front of it.  Both the large and the small bats did this both by regurgitation and by carrying small chunks of flesh in their six legs.  Hongson and Chong could bear to watch only because they couldn’t see the details.

     Chong noticed a most bizarre behavior on the part of the bats: Not only did they bring dead bats along with human flesh to feed to the queen, they also on occasion flew right up to the queen’s ravenous maw, and sacrificed themselves to be eaten alive!  Chong pointed this out to Hongson, who replied, “Now what sort of sense does that make?  In the midst of all this food, they practice voluntary cannibalism?  Of what possible benefit is that, Mr. Biologist?”

     “You’ve got me stumped on that one.”

     Finally, the queen worked its way to the center of the factory, where a pile of its unspeakable fare had accumulated.  The queen settled in for some serious dining.  After about ten minutes of this, it settled down to relax, perhaps to sleep.  Hongson took another composite photo, and it was clear that the queen was considerably larger.

     Hongson got on line to the foundry.  “How’s it going in there?  Our queen out here is getting quite fat¾it is now apparently sleeping.  We may wish to wait until she gets even more immobile, or starts giving birth or laying eggs or whatever, to give her a little baby shower.”

     “One baby shower, coming up.  We’ll be ready in about a half of an hour.  Are the corpses still in good enough shape for us to carry them off to be cremated?  We have verified that our furnaces will do the job.”

     “I’d suggest you either give up on the idea, and poison or burn the remains out here, or bring loaders or other heavy equipment to scoop up and carry this mess, because that’s mostly what’s left¾one heap of gore around the queen.  Probably still some other remains strewn about the factory, though.”

     “Seeing as how we have no idea what poisons might work, we’ll opt for a combination of two methods without poisons¾loaders to the heap, and individuals with flame-throwers to dispersed remains.”

     “OK; sounds good to us.  Let us know when all is ready, and then we’ll give you the “GO” when it looks like an opportune time out here. PS, if you knock down significant quantities of bats, you might want to incinerate them too¾they seem to be food, too.”

     “OK.  Tell the Central Committee to get some medals ready for us.”

     Hongson and Chong got back to the business of bat-watching.  They noticed that bats were streaming in and out of the windows, doubtlessly adding to the obscene heap.  The queen still reposed in temporary peace. Nothing new seemed to be happening, so Hongson and Chong relaxed a bit. Now that they had caught up on their sleep a bit, though, they were too full of excitement and anticipation to sleep.  They wanted to see pay-back time!

     The only unusual occurrences they noted was that twice, larger bats swooped in from the windows carrying light-colored cylindrical objects about 3 inches in diameter by a foot or so long.  These were taken straight to the queen, which woke just long enough to eagerly devour them.  She showed no more interest in her regular fare; she must have been sated.

     Chong was no dummy.  He speculated to Hongson that these objects most likely contained essential chemicals that the queen had to have to reproduce.  The imperialists of the West would use methods to contain their diabolical creations within the area that they desired, that were similar to those that had been invented to contain synthetic insectivorous insects.  “But how do the imperialists get these packages through our tight air defenses?” Hongson referred to the fact that modern radar and beam weapons made deep penetration of enemy airspace practically impossible.

     “Maybe they don’t¾maybe they manage to somehow sneak then through our borders, despite our legions of border guards.  Maybe with the help of Chinese traitors.”

     “I can’t imagine anyone with any knowledge of these creatures playing a willing part in such a scheme, short of militarists in America.”

     Hongson and Chong were just commencing a philosophical discussion on the insane nature of war, when the foundry came back on line.  “All raring to go here, and we’re chomping at the bit.  Any last bits of advice?  Give us the word¾how long shall we wait?”

     “Let’s wait till these bastards have invested as much work into this mess as possible, without them actually starting to crank out young capable of independence, if we can hold out that long.  Who knows, though; that could be hours or days.  We’re getting hungry and thirsty. How long can you hold out?”

     “We only have a few box lunches, and all the water we need.  After we bust out, we can raid the cafeteria.  We’d not want to delay more than a day.”

     “Understood.  Stand by.”

     Mention of hunger and thirst made the latter worse for Hongson.  He broke out the detergent bottle, took a swig of the tainted water, grimaced, and passed it to Chong.  Chong did likewise.  “Not to be too pessimistic,” Chong spoke up, not letting on to the true extent of his pessimism.  So what if they beat back the bats in the factory for a little while?  There were doubtlessly more of them all across China. “But, what if they can’t pull us out of here right away?  If they can fight back the bats just enough to get here, but not enough to protect us while we get out without suits on, then maybe we should ask them to drill a small hole in the canopy to pass us some food and water.”

     “What can we use for a water container?” The two could only come up with a large metal tool case whose hinges could be torn off to make two deep trays.  They put in the request to the foundry.

     The foundry’s reply was, “OK.  We expect no problems getting you out; the sputtering gun should make short work of the beasts.  But, being a mechanical contraption, it may of course break.  We’ll bring along a drill, a hose, and a water tank¾the later might be helpful for fire-fighting anyway.  What do you want our priorities to be, get the queen first, or rescue you guys?”

     Hongson looked at Chong; Chong needn’t have tried to hide his pessimism.  It showed in his face.  Hongson was no dummy either.  This whole show was a holding action.  Taking as many enemy with them as was at all possible was all that mattered at this point.  “SLAY THE QUEEN!!!” Hongson hammered at the keys, tears in his eyes.  He wondered about his wife and his kid briefly, before putting these thoughts aside¾they were too painful.

     “OK¾We’re proud of you.  So what are the beasties up to now?” Hongson and Chong took another look.  The queen seemed to be stirring again.  Since the gruesome heap around the queen was already quite built up, the activity of the surrounding swarm had died down quite a bit, and visibility was much improved.  The queen braced herself, and dumped something out of her rear.  Immediately the swarm was again busy, carrying small round objects from behind the queen, and burying them into the obscene heap.

     Hongson wasted no time in informing the foundry that, “Our queen is dumping eggs.  Care for am omelet?”

     “After you.  What are they doing with them?”

     “Burying them in the heap.  You want to give the baby shower now, or wait till the eggs start hatching?”

     “Let’s party now.  I imagine we’ll have enough of a hard time dumping this mess into the furnace, without beasties crawling out of it while we’re about the business.”

     “Good luck!  Give ‘em Hell!!!”

     Hongson and Chong’s desire to watch vengeance wreaked upon the bats almost reached out through the canopy to strangle the enemy.  If it could be said that some wars were somewhat half-hearted, because, despite humans’ best efforts to depersonalize their human enemies, they still recognized humans as humans, then this argument certainly did not apply here.  There would indeed be a real war unleashed here!

     Part of the wall between the foundry and the rest of the factory was actually a set of giant doors, semi-permanently bolted shut with large bolts.  This arrangement accommodated infrequent movements of large machinery into and out of the foundry.  Hongson and Chong watched as wisps of smoke rose from between those two doors, as bolts inside were cut with torches.  No need for finesse now!

     A minute or two later, the doors swung open under the force of heavy machinery and foundry workers in suits that endowed them with superhuman strength.  All Hell immediately broke out, as the swarms of thousands of angry hive members assaulted the invaders.  Fifteen 12-foot flaming swords flicked out from the foot soldiers, sweeping vermin from the sky.

     Intermingled with the foot soldiers were five large mechanical beasts¾two robot-armed vehicles roughly comparable to sophisticated bulldozers or loaders, one plain utility dump truck, and two bizarre, obviously jury-rigged vehicles tied together.  To the rear of this pair was a truck containing a large tank and a hopper bin, both connected to a turbine.  A hose connected the tank to the rear of the turbine, and the hopper bin was mounted partly onto the rear of the cab, gravity-feeding into a mixer at the forward end of the turbine.

     From the forward end of the turbine there was a protruding waste-heat vent that had been severed from its original flue.  From the rear end of the turbine an air intake, likewise severed from its original pipe, also protruded.  This intake was covered with a metal mesh, and guarded by a trooper walking behind the truck with a flame¾thrower.  The foundry workers didn’t want their turbine clogged with dead bats.  Heavy cables traveled from many points on the turbine to the truck’s cab.  Snaking forward from the truck to a robot-armed vehicle was what looked like a giant metallic segmented three-foot-diameter worm.  This worm terminated at a cylindrical nozzle with a blunt tip.

     Hongson and Chong watched as most of the foot soldiers fanned out across the factory, burning down crazed bats, and hunting for remains to eliminate.  Periodically, they would pause, and black smoke would rise from the floor.  It wasn’t long before Hongson and Chong had to seal their aircraft and start using their own oxygen.  Also, the factory’s fire sprinkler system kicked in, obscuring their view some more.  They could still see that four of the soldiers had turned towards the center of the factory, trying to fight their way to the prize: the queen!

     From tens of yards, on four sides, flame-throwers started to converge towards the center.  Here, though, the swarms of bats threw all caution to the winds.  Even as most of their bodies burned, so many threw themselves against the soldiers that they could make no more progress, and three were knocked off of their feet.  Mechanically amplified strength didn’t mean better balance.  Two did not rise; stingers must have made their way through weak points in the suits.  The remaining two beat a ponderous retreat.

     In a short while, the flame-throwers were becoming visibly less powerful, and the fighters began to trickle back to the foundry to refuel.  Meanwhile, slow but sure, the convoy of vehicles progressed towards the center.  The large bats were again about their business of bombardment, dive-bombing the vehicle cabs with small heavy objects.  If a few small cracks appeared here and there in the shatter-proof glass, Hongson and Chong couldn’t see them.

     What had been a muted rumble grew to a roar as the turbine fired up.  The flames wielded by the turbine’s solitary guard were flickering dangerously low; the increased intake rate sucked bats right through the flames and onto the air intake grill.  Two freshly fueled “knights” lumbered over to ward off the bats and incinerate the ones on the grill.  Bat ashes were less harmful to the operation than lack of air.  After the turbine slowly roared to a maximum, and the intake had been cleared, the hopper was opened.  The segmented metal tube to the nozzle handled by the leading vehicle started to glow faintly; bats unfortunate enough to crash into it fell smoldering to the floor.

     A fountain of fireworks emitted from the sputtering gun’s nozzle grew to 20, 30, and then easily 50 feet in length.  The “robot” arm of the leading vehicle raised the nozzle high in the air, and the broad fan of burning metal droplets brought down a virtual torrent of bats.  The two vehicles lurched towards their goal.  Bats seemingly bent on suicide flocked to the defense of the queen, even pouring into the building through the broken windows.  So many bats rained down that the queen, apparently screaming for help, was half buried in the bodies of the little monsters, and the convoy of vehicles had to slow down to clear some of them out of the way, lest they bog down in bat bodies.

     Chong found himself pounding at the top of the canopy and screaming obscenities.  Hongson had to pull him down and talk some sense to him. “Save your energies for better uses later¾we may need it.”

     The swarms of bats had now visibly thinned, despite the streams of bats coming in through the windows.  The queen struggled her way to the top of the heap that had threatened to bury her, as the rain of bats temporarily subsided while the offense regrouped.  Two groups of flame-wielding soldiers flanked the machines, each in a circle protecting each other’s backs.  They were waiting for the big gun to bring down enough bats so that they could wade across the gore and move in for the kill.  After the advance machines had cleared the way once again, the sputtering gun once more rumbled forward.

     The rain of bats resumed as the convoy crept forward.  40 yards to the target became 30 and then 20.  Only the queen’s head and the top of her back showed above the heap of bats around and beneath her; this time she was trapped for good.  The diffuse rain of molten metal drops reaching the queen was, however, far less harmful to the queen’s apparently thick skin than it was to the thin membranes of the bats’ wings.  The vehicles stopped their advance as they started to bog down once again.

     The soldiers, encouraged by the fact that the swarms of bats had become mere smatterings, waded towards the queen from all sides.  Soon, though, they were up to their mid-thighs and dared go no further; they were too dense in their heavy suits.  So close, yet so far!  They must be chomping at the bit real hard, Chong commented.  This was definitely the end game, though.  The sputtering gun was brought back to an idle for lack of worthy targets.

     Finally, the soldiers came up with a good idea.  Four of them lumbered off to fetch some heavy sheet metal.  These sheets were laid across the heap to make a path up close to the queen, where 2 sheets were laid down along the sides of the queen.  Four soldiers fanned out across these 2 sheets, and trained their flames on the screaming queen till she was dispatched in black, greasy flames.  A helpless, defenseless POW was cut down in cold blood, and all that Hongson and Chong could do was to cheer!

     The operation was a big success!  The next day or so consisted mostly of mopping up and housecleaning activities.  Since nuisance levels of bats still persisted, and trying to eliminate them all seemed futile, Hongson and Chong’s aircraft was towed off to a section of the foundry where it could be isolated.  There, the few bats that had strayed in were hunted down, and the canopy was opened at last!  Hongson and Chong guzzled some water and ate some canned food that had been liberated from the factory’s cafeteria.

     The foundry workers toiled away for ten hours loading up the heap of gore and dead bats, and trucking them off to be incinerated.  The knowledge that there were eggs incubating in that unspeakable mess motivated them quite well¾no overtime incentives were needed!  After this task was completed, the furnaces were cleaned, and the bodies of the workers’ two fallen comrades were removed from their suits.  With very little attempt at ceremony, these were cremated.  The suits were cleaned and repaired.

     Some small amount of reconnaissance was conducted at the same time as the factory was being cleaned.  Two foundry workers modified their suits to breathe air from the outside, as opposed to stored oxygen, to give themselves longer range, and went for a stroll outside.  They reported no signs of animal life besides bats.  The nearby airstrip was deserted; abandoned weapons, from small arms to armored personnel carriers, lay strewn about¾apparently the heavy defenses of the airstrip were of no use against poisonous, carnivorous biological weapons.

     After the factory was cleaned, the foundry was set up as a home base and bat-free zone.  The massive doors were again swung shut, and blocked from the outside with heavy equipment and supplies.  The air handlers were modified to circulate air from the outside (filtered for bat-proofing of course), since there seemed to be no reason to seal the foundry to the outside any longer.  In any case, supplies of oxygen were limited, and the large doors would have been very difficult to reseal. After shutting the doors, a very thorough bat-hunting exercise was conducted to free the entire foundry of this hazard, to provide a safe home base.

     The foundry workers set about fixing up “war wagons” (trucks and buses) to go bat-hunting with.  A few regular (as opposed to the specialized anaerobic-atmosphere foundry vehicles, which were too slow) vehicles had all breakable windows welded shut with plates, and even the “shatter-proof” front windshields were covered with grates.  This would allow the drivers to at least take their gloves and helmets off inside the vehicles, allowing them to drive without being too clumsy or too afraid of bat attacks.  Many foundry suits were modified to breathe outside air, and weak spots were fortified against bat stingers.  Some suits were allowed to continue to use compressed air or oxygen, although oxygen supplies were low.  This was done so that at least some of the bat-hunters could venture into air poisoned by crushed bats, or fires.

     Some guns and ammunition were rounded up, primarily from the remains of the apparent battle at the airstrip.  Guns might not be effective against swarms of bats, but queens might make good targets! The sputtering gun would be left at home base; it was too huge, unwieldy, and short of supplies.  The plan was to burn down any buildings containing bat hives; the factory was one of the few large local buildings not constructed primarily of wood.

     Some workers, especially those who had lived close to the factory, in the surrounding city of Guangdong, begged that the first missions should be to travel to their homes, to see if any of their loved ones had somehow, miraculously, survived the onslaught of the bats.  The foundry’s foreman had prevailed against this idea, primarily simply by allowing those workers to take a short stroll outside, to see the extent of the utter devastation.

     Finally, two days after their initial victory over their foes, the foundry workers set out in their war-wagons to hunt for bat hives. Hongson and Chong were left at home to hold down the fort.  They were to scrounge for food, equipment, and supplies, and to cannibalize video cameras from aircraft to install at various points around the factory. These were to be wired to the foundry, to provide around-the-clock electronic sentries for the home base.  Sitting at home watching monitors was a lot easier than posting suited guards in the batty zones!

     Hongson and Chong joined the foundry workers to send them off to battle.  Everyone cycled through the airlocks, which by now really should have been called batlocks.  Half of the time the outer doors would open, a diehard bat or two would flutter in, hoping for a meal, apparently.  These were without fail incinerated with flame-throwers.

     After watching the convoy of bat-battlers rolling away in their war wagons, Hongson and Chong got to work.  The factory’s cafeteria had yielded fairly adequate provisions, so the highest priority at the moment was gathering video cameras for the sentry system.  If there were any in the supply room, neither Hongson nor Chong knew where to find them, for the inventory computer was not powered by the emergency power system, and even if they had somehow managed to power it, neither Hongson nor Chong had ever bothered to learn how to operate such a mundane piece of software.  Ripping cameras out of aircraft was the only option left.  This was fairly mindless work, even if it was made more difficult by working in clumsy suits.  Fortunately, the suits were equipped with short-range radio, so Hongson and Chong chatted a bit while getting the work done.

     Hongson: “So how do you rate our chances to survive?  And maybe even repopulate China?  Or to find some other survivors?”

     “Well, we’re sure doing pretty well so far, as far as survival goes.  Certainly better than I’d have expected.  We can scrounge preserved foods from the remains of civilization for years, maybe.  I can’t see us farming or living in a self-sustaining manner long term wearing suits every day.  Our energy supplies might last us another month or two, who knows.  As far as repopulating China, we’ve got two women among the 18 remaining foundry workers¾and if I were one of them, I’d sure not want to bring a kid into this world the way it is now. Unless, of course, a dashingly romantic electrical engineer named Chong came along and offered to be the father.  Really, our only chances to regain some semblance of a normal life is to find more survivors.  Do you think we could find a decent radio?”

     Wartime China had really cracked down on the free flow of information¾the citizen’s few sources of information were state-controlled fiber-optic cables and the rumor mill, with some radio and TV broadcast stations and receivers left in rural districts, where the smaller potential for counter-revolutionary uses was outweighed by the prohibitive costs of laying cable.

     Hongson remarked, “Well, we could rig up some aircraft radios, but we’d have to set them up outside of this metal-infested factory.  Even then, they’re limited as to their frequencies.  Maybe if we’re real lucky, we can kludge something together.  So what if we did?  If what has happened here is representative of what is happening to China, how many other people would have the good luck and knowledge to be able to find and set up a radio?  On the other hand, we might be able, with a good setup, to pull in transmissions from other parts of the world.”

     Hongson paused, then went on.  “Speaking of the rest of the world¾do you really think the imperialists will be able to limit this scourge to just the areas they want to hit?”

     “Sure beats me¾It’s really hard to guess, not knowing what all methods they’re using.  We can be fairly sure they’re trying to limit their reproduction by only enabling it with synthetic chemicals.  I suppose there might be some chance that the bats would evolve out of their dependence on these chemicals.  You could certainly envision some very obvious selective pressures in that direction.  Even though I live in the city, and haven’t seen a wild animal in quite some time, my knowledge of and interest in biology makes me ask another question: Did those assholes in the West who made these critters try to limit their victims to humans, or are we looking also at the decimation of all of China’s wildlife?  Even if they designed them to just pick on humans, again, you can imagine the selective pressures for them to widen their menus¾especially when there are few humans left.”

     “Chong, you amaze me¾here we are looking at the possible extinction of people in our country, and you worry about animals!”

     “But stop to think about it¾we humans are the top of the food pyramid¾knock out a few layers, and how are we to survive?  OK, so you’re going to tell me we can eat foods created by the new synth-life vats of genes and proteins that we can just feed energy and raw materials?  What percentage of the population were we ever able to feed with them?  Where do we find one of these vats, what shape would they be in, and do we know how to operate them?  Fairly hopeless, I’d say.  Real hopeless.”

     “So it’s fairly clear that we’re looking at the practical annihilation of people in China.  On top of that, if the crazy Yankees didn’t do their job ‘right’, we may be looking at the extinction of people worldwide, or even, of most large vertebrate life,” Hongson stated questioningly, looking at Chong.

     “I’d say that’s accurate.” Chong looked to Hongson, looking for a reaction.  There was none.  So, he went on.  “Well, what a bunch of prime, grade A-1 assholes!  Why can’t the imperialists stay at home and mind their own business?”

     “Don’t turn me in to the Central Committee, but it could have to do with China slurping up all the manganese nodules and oil and even living space that it can get its greedy hands on, on the ocean floor, without acknowledging UN authority the way the rest of the world has.  Or it could have to do with shooting down space stations.” Hongson was more cynical about the righteousness of his government than Chong was, since Hongson, unlike Chong, had studied for a few years in the US.  Maybe it also had to do with the fact that Hongson was ethnic Vietnamese.

     “You believe the anti-state propaganda rumor mill about the stations?  Well, maybe it’s true¾we know that the State tells a few fibs now and then.  Or did,” Chong granted. “I wonder if there’s any Chinese State left by now.  But don’t tell me the Westerners were never greedy when it came to natural resources!”

     “Yes, but they paid for them, even when they got them from countries with little virtue other than having had the good foresight to be born over the right geological formations.  What did China pay to mine the oceans?,” Hongson asked.

     “OK, so maybe they’ve got the right to be peeved¾but wiping us out?  Come on now!”.

     “We really did probably wipe out many lives and many billions of dollars that they had put in orbit, too¾not too many good excuses for that,” Hongson pointed out.

     “Well, how about plain old self-defense!  You know what they were putting up there!” Chong protested

     “I know what I’ve been told they were putting up there.  Even if it were true, that wouldn’t justify us wiping out every facility they had up there, including obviously entirely innocent ones.”

     “OK, OK, I’ll not try to dissuade you of your counter-revolutionary thinking.  Or turn you in to the Central Committee, which is probably central to some bat bellies by now.  I guess I could even admit that I am amazed by human greed on both sides¾99% of humans who have ever lived on Earth anywhere would have thought we were in Heaven here and now, what with all the material wealth we’ve gained with our technology, especially cheap fusion energy lately, and what do we do¾find new things to fight over.” Chong paused, seemingly full of sadness and disgust.

     “And new things to fight with,” Hongson  amended.  “Besides, it’s not the absolute level of material wealth, it’s the relative wealth. I’ve often thought, if I ever live in Heaven, where everything is perfect forever for everyone, I hope I get a bigger corner office and more secretaries than you do.  I obviously deserve it.”

     “You mentioned the ocean floor¾do you suppose we can survive out of the reach of the bats down there?,” Chong inquired.

     “Not for long.  Us regular surface types are needed to supply those folks, or at the very least, to protect them, from the imperialists.”

     “Come on over here and help me with this¾I don’t have enough hands for this last little operation.” Chong helped Hongson remove their first video camera for the day.  For just a little while, they concerned themselves primarily with their work instead of chewing the fat.

     Chong was soon back to yakking.  “So why did we have no warning of this?  Surely the imperialists couldn’t sneak this many bats, including large queens, across our borders.  Surely they’ve had to have some time to munch, grow, and multiply.  Why didn’t we know about it?”

     “Maybe the State didn’t want us to know about it.  Such knowledge might have hurt our morale and productivity.  I think I heard a foundry worker mentioning having heard some garbled rumor about rabid, crazy, bizarre bats eating livestock in the countryside.”

     “Ha!  Doubtlessly counter-revolutionary propaganda!  How could the State be so short sighted as to worry about our morale instead of our self-defense?  And why didn’t they come and steal our foundry suits from us for their own defense?,” Chong protested.

     “Maybe they didn’t think of it.  I also doubt that there was enough warning time to equip much of the armed forces with decent body armor of the kind that we were lucky enough to have here.”

     By mid-afternoon Hongson and Chong had managed to extract a dozen video cameras from aircraft, and judged that to be sufficient.  Being a little hot and sweaty from having worked in the suits for so long, they decided to set up some showers inside the only bathroom inside the foundry.  These consisted of nothing more than hoses hose-clamped to sink spigots, suspended from the ceiling, and connected to crude shower heads.  “We’ll be heroes to our returning warriors,” Chong commented, “They’ll probably need showers even more than we do.”

     Chong may have been right, but the warriors had other priorities. Not more than 15 minutes after Hongson and Chong had enjoyed the benefits of their newly rigged showers, the homecoming was announced by some boisterous honking of horns outside.  Hongson and Chong had just managed to suit back up and get into the “bat-lock” when some jubilant troops entered from the outside.  They were carrying loot, mostly liquor they had scared up somewhere, but some food as well.  Few people would bother with showers tonight; there was partying to be had!

     The evening was definitely a celebration!  Even Chong, who rarely drank, got down.  Hongson and Chong both got more than an earful of war stories that evening.  Apparently, the troops had burned down four large wooden buildings infested with bat hives, with only minor injuries sustained by two troops.  One queen had come running out of each of two of these burning buildings; these were promptly mowed down by gunfire. Another building had yielded three queens, which were also sent to the happy hunting grounds.  And the fourth?  Well, we suppose its resident(s) were burned in the hellish flames they deserved.  Chong was amazed how such a basically simple story could be told so many ways by so many people.

     Unfortunately, no other survivors, or even hints of survivors, were uncovered.  By all appearances, the entire human population of the local metropolis, Guangdong, had been eliminated, with the exception of a fraction of the aircraft factory’s workers.  Neither Hongson nor Chong found any partying warriors willing to discuss the implications of these facts.  Hongson noticed that along with the wild boasts and loud swaggering, there were clumps of dejected workers quietly speculating as to how their loved ones might have died.  He wasn’t sure whether the booze, which was too expensive for many Chinese workers normally, was being consumed more in celebration of victory, or in attempts to drown sorrow.

     The next day dawned with a vengeance.  The partiers of the previous evening had to face the reality of a bat-infested world with a difference, that being that the world was now also infested with hangovers.  It was almost noon by the time that the warriors set out for another set of raids.  Hongson and Chong didn’t really mind being left at home; they didn’t really fit in with the gang, and they were the only ones with the electrical skills needed to set up the video cameras. Wild parties aside, everyone would rest a little more soundly if guarding the perimeter was made easier.

     Chong was outside of the foundry, adjusting a camera being monitored by Hongson on the inside.  Hongson was relaying some advice on adjustments over the radio, when he heard the strange sounds.  They weren’t terribly loud or impressive; just a sort of “screech-boom-whoosh”.  Hongson started to ask Chong what was going on out there, but  the answer became all too clear.  He watched, horrified, as the monitor showed Chong gagging, retching, and foaming blood from the mouth.  It didn’t take Hongson long to conclude that they were under a poison gas attact.  He barely had the time to wish that they had rigged their suits to run off of bottled, compressed air instead of outside air, before he realized that he’d better get his ass in gear.  The foundry breathed outside air as well!

     Hongson dashed about madly, collecting a few bottles of compressed air and oxygen that had been set aside, and putting them on a cart.  As nausea started to set in, Hongson shoved the cart into the former airlock, now batlock, now again airlock.  This was the only place easily sealed against outside air that he knew of.  Unfortunately, the air in the lock was already contaminated.  After shutting the doors, Hongson breathed long and hard of his bottled air.  Slowly, he started to feel better.

     After the nausea, adrenaline, and excitement faded, Hongson sat for a time without time, just listening to a silence punctuated only by the very distant chug-chug of the emergency generators, and a very faint, nameless hum of what little equipment was powered by this energy source. How long would the generators run after he, the last human being in his world, had perished, he morbidly wondered?  Would he die of suffocation, thirst, or hunger, he wondered.  Maybe after a while he should go get food and water, even if the poisons were now far more concentrated outside of the airlock, he thought.  Maybe the poisons will dissipate, he hoped.

     After some unknown interval, the relative silence was broken by helicopter noises from the direction of the airfield.  Hongson sat and wondered.  Was this a resurgent Chinese armed force, coming back to claim back territory from bats, now that all humans were presumed lost locally?  Or was it imperialists, here to wrest territory in turn from the heinous monsters that they had turned loose to wrest territory from the rightful owners?  Hongson would never know.

     Exercising great willpower, keeping himself convinced that the outside of the airlock was more poisoned than the inside, Hongson stayed inside the airlock, breathing mostly bottled air.  After a long time listening to various noises, including the coming and going of helicopters, Hongson heard the sound of large fixed-wing aircraft landing at the nearby airstrip.  His bottled air was about exhausted, and he could feel nausea setting back in.  Surely the poisons outside the airlock would have dissipated!  OK, let’s go for it, he thought¾only, which direction?  Into the foundry, or to my rescuing heroes at the airstrip?

     Nausea and foggy thinking got worse by the minute, as bottled air ran low.  Hongson did at least think clearly enough to realize that breezes would clear poisons out faster outside the foundry than inside, so he crawled out the airlock traveling out of the foundry.  This didn’t make much difference, since it was a relatively windstill day.  This, of course, was one of the reasons why this day had been selected for gassing the bats in the first place.  Hongson didn’t have much time to ponder such matters.

     As soon as he got out of the airlock, he realized he’d made his last mistake.  Not that it mattered much¾just a matter of minutes, now, he thought.  Some of his last thoughts were of his family, as he wondered whether he would meet his wife and child in a better place soon.  His tears mixed with the blood foaming out of his mouth as he breathed his last breaths.  At least his body would be spared the indignity of being eaten by bats; Hongson had held out against the grim reaper longer than the bats, or at least, bats of the local variety. His very last thought was something to the effect of, “Now how in all of our sickest, death-worshipping depravity have any of us miserable humans ever managed to let lose on this Earth, such an abomination as this man-made species?”

 

 

CHAPTER 22

 

     President Richard Kite stood in the war room, nervously assessing the situation, wondering.  Will the Chinese shoot down Omega Ten, our first spy satellite we’ve launched since they swept the skies clean four months ago?  Have the BATs done their job thoroughly enough by now, that all their large laser fusion stations are down?  Or, will Omega Ten come down as cinders, as soon as it gets into their range of fire?  We sure could use some decent intelligence, and Omega Ten will increase our available information by orders of magnitude, as long as it doesn’t get shot down.

     “All right, any second now,” Alan Riggs was saying.  President Kite and General Frank Leech watched anxiously, as screens and holograms displayed the status of Omega Ten, and its controllers, both human and electronic, back on Terra Firma.  The electronic map of China showed the known positions of each of the eleven large Chinese fusion stations, and the time till Omega Ten would be in range at each station, as the satellite moved westward over China.  The station at Hangchow reached zero count first, and everyone in the war room seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the satellite to get shot down in flames. Three seconds later, when it became clear that Omega Ten hadn’t been shot down, and wasn’t about to get fried any time soon, a loud cheer arose.

     The map showed wide swaths being drawn across the Chinese coast, as the satellite scanned its target, dumping millions of megabytes down to the computers in the Pentagon every second.  Kite grew happier by the minute, as the satellite swept ever westward, dumping more and more precious data to the computers for later analysis.  It wasn’t until the fusion station at Suchow, way inland in the middle of China, reached zero count, that Omega Ten finally met its demise.

     Alan looked at Richard and Frank with jaw agape.  “I can’t believe it!  This is too good to be true!  This seems to indicate that the BATs are succeeding beyond our wildest dreams, that the whole coast is so wiped out that they can’t shoot down our satellite.  They must’ve just about laid down and surrendered to the BATs, taking hardly any effective counter-BAT measures at all, despite what data they got from us.  Might as well start bringing the boys home now!”

     Kite grinned, but replied, “Not just yet.  It’s not over till it’s over.  By the way, there you go again, calling them BATs.  We’ve all got to drop that habit, now that we’re starting to let the public know about them.  I don’t know why we let ‘em be called BELFRYBATs for so long, even just among ourselves.  Bad connotations there, you know.  Bad PR. Slicks, slicks, slicks.  Remember that.  Slicks, Es El Kay. Schrock-Leech-Kite; isn’t that slick?”

     “Yessir.  Slick, real slick,” Alan intoned.  “They sure are pretty damn slick!  I’m sure the troops, and the folks here on the home front, will be pleased!” Frank and Richard grinned, ear to ear, to hear that Shrock-Leech-Kite acronym, which not only sounded so much more sane and sensible than BELFRYBATs, but also contained their names, guaranteeing that they would be that much more firmly affixed in the history books. What could be more sensible than naming a weapon after the engineer/scientist who had been most instrumental in designing it, the military genius who had been responsible for implementing it, and the political leader who’d had the courage to use it?

     Kite also grinned because the war on the home front was going so much better, now that the SLK weapons were turning the tide.  Things would only get better from here on in, and the administration was starting to get that word out to the public.  Happy days are here again! he thought.  Or, right around the corner, at least.  Real soon now, in plenty of time for the voters to forget all these bad times, before the next election¾and the hard times are the fault of the Chinese, not me or the Democrats, anyway¾we’ll be able to resurrect the welfare state, just in time to buy lots of votes again.

     “OK, troops,” the President commanded.  “I don’t know about y’all, but I’ve got to get some rest.  Let’s let the computers and analysts stew over all this satellite data for a while, and meet again here tomorrow at nine.  In the morning, of course.  I know y’all would say twenty-one hundred if you meant at night.”

     “Anyway, tomorrow we should be able to tell where we need leash chemicals the most, and where we can stop dropping them off.  We can be much more efficient, now, with all of our data.  Save the taxpayers lots of dough.  We should also be able to start picking out air and sea landing zones.  Maybe we’ll even find isolated pockets of surviving civilians here and there, and we can drop off supplies to them, all humanitarian-like.  Good PR, you know.  I just wish we could’ve targeted military sites alone, without getting the innocent civilians, but you know how the soldiers would just have moved into the safe zones where the civilians were.  It’s just a shame,” the President lamented.  “See y’all tomorrow morning.”

     The next day, most of the data had been reasonably well digested by men, women, and machines.  The president and his troops sat down to go over the results.  “Well, looks like the SLK weapons just spread like wildfire across China,” Alan said.  He pointed to the electronic map of China, showing the advance of the SLKs.  “We’ve already sent out instructions to the mini-plane launching ships to retarget the leash compounds.  We’ll be able to stop targeting the coast, and just concentrate on the inland perimeter of SLK penetration.”

     “Sounds good,” Kite replied.  “I trust y’all to take care of those kinds of details.  Let’s move on.  Where, and when, shall we start landing, to secure territory?” The President didn’t want the emptied Chinese territories to just sit there and return to nature, nor did he want them to attract armies from neighboring nations, where they might fight over the spoils.  America and its allies would take over, under UN auspices, and the territories would be parceled out according to who was in the UN’s good graces.  Tibet and certain other sparsely populated regions were to be spared in their entirety, and locally governed after the war.  Tibet would be free at last!

     “Sir, that’s a real hot topic,” Alan replied.  “We were talking a bit about that before you got here.  We generally had been planning to wait a little while, before going in, so that the metamorphosed queens could do their clean-up jobs, and so that they’d all die out, so we wouldn’t have to deal with them.  But, there certainly are advantages to getting some airstrips and beachheads, early on in the game.  We can always gas the remaining BATs¾I mean SLKs, so that we can go in safely.

     “The spy satellite showed us something most peculiar in Guangdong, and they’ve got a good airstrip there, too.  We’d sure like to make that target number one.  What we’ve seen there is one isolated case, the only one that we know of, of people actually fighting back, with some success.  It seems they were traveling around in vehicles, and setting fire to SLK hives, and getting away with it.  We’d sure like to know how they managed to pull that off.”

     “By all means, then, Guangdong it is.  Go for it!” the Commander in Chief ordered.  “Well, that was easy enough.  What else do y’all have on your minds?”

     Daniel Shute of the CIA, present via hologram, spoke up.  “Sir, it’s the PR thing that has us a bit concerned.  As we ease back up on the media, and let them in on all the goodies about the Schrock-Leech-Kite program, well, this program name kind of draws attention to Phil Schrock, as well as to you and Frank.  You and Frank, they can always interview easily enough.  We can’t very well let them interview Phil.  They’re already wondering.  What are we going to tell them?  Are we going to fire up OMNIGRAPH, and synthesize a Phil hologram for them to interview?”

     “Good question,” Richard replied.  “I really haven’t thought about that at all.” He turned to Frank.  “So, how’s the Schrock in the Schrock-Leech-Kite triumvirate doing, anyway?”

     “Oh, about as well as could be expected, what with him having gotten the shit kicked out of him.  Y’all know, right?  He decided to save the world from injustice, after he gave us the slip¾busted his tracker with an EMP blast, and skee-daddled¾he ended up in a twilight zone, apparently trying to hunt down some underground press, and flap his lips, the traitor¾Anyway, he saw some slimeball bum getting the snot kicked out of him, by a twilight zone vigilante gang, and he was telling them how they should have a jury and all!  He’s a crazy dude, that’s for sure.  You’ve gotta admire him, though¾he’s got balls the size of a wright whale’s.”

     Richard sat there, smugly congratulating himself on how he’d called Alan, the moment he knew that they had Phil in the hospital, and had that tracker pulled out of his love handle, before anyone caught on. The tracker was bad enough, but suppose some surgeon with no need to know, had busted it open, and discovered the remotely-released poison feature?  There’d have been hell to pay!

     “Fortunately, we were lucky enough¾and this is really lucky, let me tell you¾some of Atlanta’s finest were in the neighborhood, and rescued his sorry ass.  As soon as they knew who they had, they called us, and we got him into a really decent hospital.  They’re giving him the latest, the works.  Phil-clone fetal cell injection, and everything. I’m told that five years ago, he’d have been a cripple for life.  As is, he’ll suffer a boatload¾these procedures aren’t any fun at all, despite the painkillers, I’m told, but he’ll be almost like new.  It’ll be a few more weeks, though.

     “I suppose I should go see him, as soon as he’s fully conscious. It’d be wise, I think, for me to stay in his good graces.  But, I don’t think we should let any media people see him at all.  He’s not to be trusted, and he’s no dummy, either.  We’ve got to keep a sharp eye on him.  In my opinion, if we fire up a synthetic Phil, via OMNIGRAPH, for media consumption, we’ll have to lock him away for life.  He’d never forgive us for it, and wouldn’t do another lick of work for us, ever. He may not be inclined to do that, even now, anyway.  But, for him to be of any value at all to us, we can’t do that.  That’s just my opinion, though,” Frank said, deferentially looking over towards the Commander in Chief.

     Richard agreed.  “Frank’s right.  We may have gotten what we want out of Phil, for now¾and, a fine job he’s done¾but, you never know when we might need him again.  Y’all keep on taking really good care of him.  Not just his body, but his mind, too.  Give him access to all the computers and books that he wants.  Lock him off of ONLINE, of course! Well, censor his letters, like usual.  Y’all know that, what am I saying?

     “OK, so, the media, and Phil.” Richard looked real thoughtful, and then his face lit up.  “Come on, guys!  You gotta be creative!  If someone hands you a lemon, make lemon juice!  Check this out: What we do, is we fluff up a nice story about Phil, the hero, who just happened to be in the bad section of town, when he saw violent injustice.  He couldn’t bear to see it, so, against all odds, he acted.  Now, he’s all indisposed, and will remain so, for the foreseeable future.  Not only is this mostly true, we can also get lots of publicity about the lamentable conditions in the twilight zones.  After the war, we’ll be able to subject those folks to the rule of law, again.  Bring some civilization back to the heathens.

     “OK, anything else?” The President looked around, and saw no takers.  “All right.  I’ll be looking forward to hearing about what techniques they’ve cooked up for fighting back, over there in Guangdong. Maybe we can make use of it someday.  Gas kills BATs, sure, but it’s sort of an indiscriminate weapon, you know.  You guys keep me posted. See y’all later!” With that, he was off to see his mistress.  Power was, indeed, the best aphrodisiac he knew of.

     It was only two days later that Kite got a call from Alan.  Alan described the armor and flaming-metal-droplets sputtering guns, as used by the aircraft factory workers in Guangdong.

     “Those sound like some handy things to have around.  God forbid, now, but just suppose we ever need to use the Schrock-Leech-Kite weapons again sometime,” Richard hypothesized.  He loved the sound of the that program name, for some reason.  “And, suppose we’ve got to rescue some important people, during an attack.  We can’t very well use gas, for that kind of thing.  Why don’t you see to it that we start some development work, along the lines of light personal and vehicular armor, and sputtering guns?  Top priority.”

     “Yes Sir,” Alan replied.


 

 

CHAPTER 23

 

     Phil came to semi-life slowly, dimly.  The first thing he became aware of was the pain of at least a hundred needles in his body, pumping nutrients, drugs, and Phil-clone fetal cells into him, and waste products out of him.  At the end of five days of dawning agony, he was finally able to watch FOS-TV, and to channel-surf, using the remote control.  Although the programs were as mindless as ever, it distracted his mind from his pain at least a little bit.

     Only an hour or so into rotting his mind, he stumbled onto a news program where, lo and behold, the newsman was waxing poetic about the war-stopping, wondrous powers of the latest slick arms, bioweapons dubbed by a program name of Schrock-Leech-Kite.  Despite being soaked to the gills in painkillers, Phil just about hit the roof.  How could they dare to attach his name, without his permission, even, to these unspeakable, horrible biosynthetic beasts!  As his muscles powered up, so did his pain, stabbing him like electrified knives.  He forced himself to relax a bit, and some of the pain washed away.

     OK, he thought, so maybe I was a lynch pin in this operation, but don’t they understand that, up till the last minute, I thought it was all just simulations, with an occasional verification?  That, at that late point, I didn’t really have much choice anymore?  And, that I was trying my best to stop the madness?  Why are they attaching my name to genocide?  Don’t they know that I was lied to, till it was too late? Don’t they know that I’m one of the good guys?

     The program talked briefly about the background of the SLK weapons, and showed brief interviews with General Frank Leech and President Richard Kite.  It was then that the newscaster launched into some song and dance about how Phil had been in a twilight zone in Atlanta, doing some volunteer work, despite his busy professional life.  While trying to help the low-lifes, he’d seen some unspeakable, totally senseless violence, and he’d heroically, single-handedly, against all odds, stepped in to the rescue.

     The low-lifes had shown their gratitude for his civilizing influences, by beating the brains out of this brilliant scientist.  As we speak, the newsman said, he’s hanging on for dear life, in a semi-comma.  We wouldn’t want to violate his dignity, barging in on him with cameras, with him in a state like this.  There were unsubtle insinuations that this just went to show how sorry the situation was in twilight zones, for lack of respectable government and the rule of law, and how this would have to be straightened out after the war, pronto.

     Phil sat there with his jaw hanging down, thinking, and getting madder by the minute.  Holy shit! he thought.  Do these guys have the power to twist things, or what?!  There I was, trying to prevent deaths by the hundreds of millions, by getting the word out, and giving peace one last chance¾OK, so I did blow it, by getting all caught up in one little life, and not minding my own business¾and they totally ignore that.  Instead, they concentrate on the symbolism of two tiny little lives, my good buddy alleged rapist and I.  Because I was half asleep, and too stupid to mind my own business, they’ll go in there, now, and tear down an effective local justice system, and replace it with five million more lawyers, more rights for violent criminals, and mandatory minimum sentences for crackheads.

     So, now I’m a hero, for helping Frank and President Richard Dickhead Kite wipe out hundreds of millions, and trying to save one, he thought.  And they totally fib about why I was in Tonkytown in the first place!  His muscles tensed in anger once more, half at the lying buttholes and half at his bumble-headed self, and he almost passed out. When he swam back to a reasonable semblance of full consciousness, and enforced calmness, he made a solemn oath to himself that, by God, he was going to do everything he could to take the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite.

     First item on the agenda, he thought, is that I’ve got to stop rotting my brains with airheaded TV shows, and, even more so, I’ve got to stop boiling my blood and stabbing my flesh, every time I get pissed off about goddamn lies on these farcical news programs.  Also, not to let the news make me think too much about how I’ve contributed to so much of this unfolding madness, especially now that it’s out of my control.  He turned the FOS-TV to the interactive mode, slowly and painfully moving the pointer, and dialed into the hospital’s local library.  Let’s see, he mused, what is there that I’ve always wanted to read, but never had the time for.  Something that’ll stimulate my mind, educate me, make me think.  Something useful.  He glanced over what was available, and was utterly astounded at the vastness of the library. This has got to be a really high-class joint, he thought.

     He shut his eyes for a while, relaxing, but thinking.  What to read?  A devious notion started to form.  I’ve got to keep this quiet, he thought.  I’ll have to be sure not to talk to the staff, here, about what I’m reading.  They laugh at me already, when I try to tell them that this war is a monstrous mistake, a genocidal accident.  They think I’m a traitor, a dissident, a rabble-rouser, a crazy, trouble-making non-conformist.  Or, is it all irrelevant?  Are those books even here, anyway?  Dare I hope?

     He scanned through the library, and found what he wanted.  They’d been short-sighted, and left dissident literature there for him!  He’d be able to read all about how one can fight back, how one can dare to be a free human being in an oppressive, freedom-fearing, bureaucratic, socialist State.  He called up the images of pages that had been turned to electronic and photonic bits and bytes many years ago.  He called up Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO, and began to read.

     He was immediately ensnared.  Sure, it was about a different time and place, but somehow it was about Phil, and life in America, in the early twenty-first century.  It was about trying to survive with dignity, despite all the coercion, manipulation, and lies.  It was about the human experience of living under an all-consuming State.

     Phil chapter-surfed a bit, but he read a lot.  He read about how good ol’ Alexander had been an Army officer in his younger days, and about how he’d been less than a savory character.  He read about how ol’ Alex had basically thought himself better than others, about how the low-life enlisted troops, who were allowed hardly any personal belongings, had to carry Alex’s heavy luggage for miles and miles, and how Alex had never lifted a finger to help, and never thought anything of it.  How it had taken him many, many years to see the evil in him, and around him, and to reform himself.

     It was then that he stumbled onto that awesome paragraph, the one that sent chills down his spine, and tears down his face.  There it was, in all its glory, on page 615 of volumes III-IV, under a section called “The Ascent”:

     “It was granted me to carry away from my prison years on my bent back, which nearly broke beneath its load, this essential experience: how a human being becomes evil and how good.  In the intoxication of youthful successes I had felt myself to be infallible, and I was therefore cruel.  In the surfeit of power I was a murderer, and an oppressor.  In my most evil moments I was convinced that I was doing good, and I was well supplied with systematic arguments.  And it was only when I lay there on rotting prison straw that I sensed within myself the first stirrings of good.  Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either¾but right through every human heart¾and through all human hearts.  This line shifts.  Inside us, it oscillates with the years.  And even within hearts overwhelmed by evil, one small bridgehead of good is retained.  And even in the best of all hearts, there remains... an unuprooted small corner of evil.”

     (Copyright 1974, ‘75, Alexander Solzhenitsyn; HarperCollins Publishers)

     Phil read it several times.  That’s me! he thought.  Why have I been so consumed by the idea that all we have to do, is figure out who the good guys are, and who the bad guys are, and herd the good guys over here, and the bad guys over there, and exterminate the bad guys?  OK, so, maybe, in an emergency, one has to rely on force.  Maybe, sometimes, those who show absolutely no regard for human life, should be treated as the loathsome abominations that they are, and be put out of our misery, and prevented from ever committing an atrocity again.

     But, to systematically prostitute oneself to the State’s violence, without understanding exactly what one is doing, and why¾without making an individual determination in each case, that one is doing the right thing, the only, last-choice thing¾why, then, one is a murderer, and an oppressor.  Just like Alex says.  One is a... one is a...  Goddamn it, one is a whore for the State!  I’ve been a fucking whore for the goddamn State!  Me, Phil Schrock!

     So they lied to me.  That’s bad.  But, I believed them.  That’s bad, too.  Maybe I’ve been too caught up in winning the approval of oinkers.  I suppose I’ve made the mistake of trusting them too much, of somehow thinking that those in power have better information, or maybe even better, more level heads than I’ve got.  Well, hell!  I’ve got to stop thinking I’m not up to snuff!  OK, so, humility can be a good thing, in the right place.  But, by God, I will NOT make the mistake anymore, of thinking that I’ve got a second-class conscience, that my conscience is any less capable than anyone else’s, be he General, President, or Grand Pooh-bah.  I’ll have some real balls!  I’ll trust my own conscience!

     I’ve got to resolve never again to think that I have to save the Universe from the bad guys.  Or, at the very least, I’ve got to swear off trying to save it by killing indiscriminately, or helping anyone to do so, in any way.  The only thing that I can save the Universe from, is the evil that I, myself, might commit.

     OK, so there’s those rare cases, where one might be on the balcony with a rifle, and the madman across the street is shooting down, killing people below, and the evil that I have to save the world from, is the inaction that I might commit.  I have to shoot the bastard.  But, those are rare cases, and one shouldn’t dwell on them at all, because they warp one’s perspective.  In other words, by dwelling on the exceptions, one loses sight of the general rule.  By taking the golden rule, and tacking all sorts of amendments and conditions on it, one sullies it, and ends up dealing from a compromised position.  The rule needs an “Amen!” not an amendment.  Besides, in the heat of the moment, one will make spur-of-the-moment interpretations anyway, taking reality and common sense into account.  One can be flexible without nibbling away at the edges of ethics.

     Phil thought some more about that common mistake of amending the golden rule.  So, way back when, I accused the wild wenches I was trying to chase, of amending the golden rule with, “..., except if it’s a dating situation, in which case he’s got to grovel for me, while I play passive, and debate whether or not he’s good enough.  After all, mine is worth more than his.” So, they slam the doors on possible good relationships with their amendments.

     I was far worse, with my amendment, that being, “..., except if it’s my country right or wrong, and the other side appears to be more of a bunch of dictatorial low-lifes than our side.” Women slam the doors on relationships, and I slammed the door on peace and human lives.  I didn’t even have the weak excuse of doing this to become a better success object to attract a better sex object; in fact, I chased away Gloria, who was a quite adequate sex object, and so much more!  So I made the bigger mistake, feeding the machine that eats life and liberty, and then I had the nerve to rag on those who make the smaller mistakes!

     OK, so I fucked up, he thought.  Yet, there’s blame to go around. Like, to the vast majority of our politicians and big-shot religious leaders, those bunches of whores for power!  So, they rag on China all the time for enforcing population-control measures, because every sperm is sacred, and overpopulation and starvation is so much better than abortion and birth control.  But, come wartime, it’s perfectly OK to wipe ‘em all out!  And the Pope, damn his sanctimonious, brainless, blockheaded, evil ass, goes around treasuring human life by insisting that we make enough of it to kill us all, and the planet to boot!  But, just ‘cause our leaders are mostly arrogant nincompoops, doesn’t mean I have to join them.  I can best serve the State, and the Church, by opposing them both, by and large.

     So, I guess Gloria was right all along.  There is no political solution.  We will not solve our problems by concentrating power in the “right” hands.  Nor is there a technoviolent solution.  We will not solve our problems by inventing ever better, cleaner, more effective, more painless methods of committing mass murder.  There is only a spiritual solution, where only if enough of us pray sincerely enough for peace¾never mind whether there is a God, an Allah, or an All-being, or not¾only then will selfish violence be subdued. Goodness, or ethical behavior, cannot be imposed, by violence, or any other coercive measures.  It can only be freely chosen.

     His pain and suffering had finally pushed him over the edge.  A lump built up in his throat, and a few hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He shut his eyes, scanned his thoughts, and reviewed his new-found understanding.  Along with understanding, there was more than a little guilt.  He had the blood of hundreds of millions on his hands!

     What to do, he asked himself.  How do I extinguish my guilt?  Is it time for ritual hara-kiri?  No, that’s absurd!  No one ever solved anything, or made the world any better at all, with such methods.  I’ve got to hang around, and do what I can, to take the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite.  I can’t do that as a dead man.  Where do I start?

     He shut his eyes again, and sent his thoughts out into the void, seeking to confide in the perhaps, perhaps not, hypothetical All-being. OK, so, well¾dare we say it?  He prayed.  He prayed for forgiveness. Then, he gave his thanks for having gained some understanding.  Finally, he prayed for sincerity, for yet more understanding, and most of all, he prayed for peace.  There was no obvious reply, and no halo grew around his head.  But, he sure did feel a lot better afterwards.  Useless guilt had been dissipated.

     What next, he asked.  Next, he wrote a long letter to Gloria, ‘fessing up that she’d been right, and that he’d been wrong.  It was hard for him to do, not because he had to peck at a keyboard, while in pain, since he dictated it to a machine, but because he had to ‘fess up that he, Phil Schrock, had actually been wrong, and wrong big-time.  Not only that, but he had to ‘fess up to a human being, rather than some unseen, perhaps even non-existent, All-being.  All things being considered, though¾especially his large, but shrinking, ego¾it was easier than expected.  He tried to write it specifically enough that she’d get the meaning, but vaguely enough that the censors wouldn’t butcher it too much.  He sure hoped his captors would send it, what with the media having said that he was semi-comatose.

     Next, he got back to reading Solzhenitsyn, right where he’d left off.

     “Since then I have come to understand the truth of all the religions of the world: they struggle with the evil inside a human being..... It is impossible to expel evil from the world in its entirety, but it is possible to constrict it within each person.

     And since that time I have come to understand the falsehood of all the revolutions in history: They destroy only those carriers of evil contemporary with them....  And they then take to themselves as their heritage the actual evil itself....”

     (Copyright 1974, ‘75, Alexander Solzhenitsyn; HarperCollins Publishers)

     Interesting, he thought.  So do we assimilate evil, when we fight it with evil?  Do we then just become the new boss, same as the old boss, as ... Who? The Who?... said?  And is Alex right?  Can religion, properly interpreted and applied, constrict the evil?

     He got to reading some bits and snippets of the Bible.  It was with a little fear that he did this¾mostly, fear of becoming a sanctimonious would-be kisser of Divine Heiney.  Mostly, though, he liked to think that it was just to educate himself a bit, and to see what it actually said, and what he’d think of it, with his altered, new-found perspectives.  Some parts of the Bible he found ridiculous, silly, contradictory, or barbaric.  Examples were the ideas that God loved the smell of burning sacrificial beef, and that gays should be killed.  Other parts he found downright boring.

     He did find parts, though, that he found most interesting.  The only chapter in the Old Testament that he found interesting was Ecclesiastes, and that was mostly because he saw so much in there that the holier-than-thou crowd avoided like the plague.  Ideas such as, wise men may claim to know, but no one knows what happens to us after we die. That, and the idea that the same fate comes to all; those who are religious and those who are not, those who make sacrifices and those who do not.

     Phil took it to validate his conception that there was no percentage to be had in trying to kiss God’s butt.  Why didn’t they make a really good translation, that just came right out and said it in those particular words, he asked himself.  Maybe I’ll do it, someday.  Add an eleventh commandment.  Thou shalt not attempt to suck thy God’s butt, in any way, shape, or form.  If He had wanted us to do so, He’d very obviously have created us quite differently than He did.

     Then he read the Gospels.  These he had a bit of a hard time absorbing, largely because of all the parables.  They certainly did stimulate his thinking.  Mostly, he was left in awe of this towering pillar of strength, this non-violent man of principles, who had balls so huge that he wouldn’t take back a single word that he’d said, when faced with the choice of either sucking the butts of the authorities, or giving up his life, which he so obviously loved.

     Now, there was some real dignity!  This man knew, and treasured, dignity.  He knew that dignity had nothing to do with three-piece suits. He knew that the pursuit of dignity is not a zero-sum game, where one gains dignity by stealing it from a neighbor.  He knew that dignity is a runaway, positive-feedback process, a synergistic effect, whereby one gains more dignity by adding to one’s neighbor’s dignity.

     A few things stuck in his mind.  One was that Jesus was not a rule-book man.  When asked what belonged to God, and what belonged to the oinkers of the day, he didn’t say, well, serve in the military, or don’t serve in the military, or serve in the military only if they follow this set of guidelines.  Nor did he say, pay your taxes, or don’t pay your taxes, or pay your taxes only if they’re not used to subsidize pornography for the NEA, or to buy more nukes.  He said, give to God, that which is God’s, and to the oinkers, that which belongs to the oinkers.  Y’all are big boys and girls now, he said.  You figure it out.

     Once again, he noticed things that the FOS-TV preachers weren’t too fond of harping on.  Things about going into a private room, and shutting the door to pray to an unseen God, unseen, instead of making a big show.  Things about removing the log in one’s own eye, before fussing about the speck in one’s brother’s eye.  Things about hypocrisy. He also noted that Christ had talked about giving one’s own money to the poor, of one’s own free will, not about threatening one’s neighbor with jail, unless the neighbor would care to kindly cough up the big bucks, taxwise, to subsidize Big Brother Welfare State.

     Finally, he was particularly impressed with a short statement about what Jesus really wanted.  “It is kindness I want, not animal sacrifices.” Phil wondered about the value of Divine-Butt-sucking rituals, and the spectacle of grown men pontificating on Deep Questions of the day, such as, “Should little girls, or should they not, be allowed to light the altar candles.” What would Christ have thought about concern over such rituals, when there were matters of suffering to be addressed?

     Phil got tired of reading.  He got to thinking, OK, so, what concrete steps can I take, to work towards taking the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite.  Well, I’ve got these talents in the biotech field. Maybe I can devise some organisms to undo the effects of past warmongering.  Maybe there’s not much I can do anymore about what the BELFRYBATs¾not SLKs, mind you¾are finishing up on doing to China. Maybe, though, I can help to rectify those cesspools of nastiness, of radioactive slime, left over from the Age of Nuclear MADness.

     So, some of it is highly concentrated.  Biotech can’t do much with that.  That stuff is fairly safely secured, anyway.  It’s the low-level stuff that contaminates wide areas that is most troublesome, that I might be able to help with.  Just like I earlier helped to clean up chemical slime, by bioengineering bacteria to decompose it.  OK, so biology and chemistry can’t change one element to another.  Fat chance of me inventing an alchemical biosynthetic element-transmuter or transmogrifier!  Yeah, that’s it¾a nuclear biobogey monster¾might as well work on designing time travel, faster than light travel, or anti-gravity¾maybe even an honest, unselfish politician or lawyer!  OK, let’s get serious.  No more fuckin’ around.  I’ve got serious business to attend to¾like, de-Schrocking Schrock-Leech-Kite.

     There’s nothing that says we can’t design biosynthetic bogeymonsters to go and collect up the radioactive slime, atom by atom. So what if they can’t decompose the stuff?  We’ll just have them gather it up, collect it, concentrate it, and then we can safely dispose of it, cleaning up those wide, contaminated areas!  Let’s see, we’d have to do something new.  We’d have to devise an entire biosynthesized food chain, where bacteria grab the stuff, atom by atom, and single-celled critters eat the bacteria, and very small multi-celled critters eat the single-celled beasts, and so on, at least up to the scale of insects. Maybe even further up.

     So there’s problems.  Mostly, there’s the problems of ionizing radiation emitted by the very poisons that the critters would be collecting.  The critters would mutate, causing cancers, low reproduction rates, etc.  But, we’ve got considerable technological tricks to rely on, by now.  Obviously, we use leash compounds to limit the critters to the areas to be cleaned, to protect the environment from artificial species running rampant.  Further, though, we’d use the new checksum feature, not only to keep mutants from escaping from their chemical leashes, but also to let parent organisms save biological resources, by re-absorbing non-viable offspring.

     Maybe we could invent doubly or triply redundant genes, so that only the genes expressing the correct checksum would be implemented! Hell, that would give us some real radiation resistance!  Higher up the food chain, where greater complexity might make this difficult, and where rapid reproduction is much more costly, we might make use of Epsilon’s idea of incorporating non-living subsystems.  That is, give each critter a little lead bucket to keep his radioactive shit in, and shield the family jewels!

     Phil got downright enthused, sitting there and thinking about it all.  He had his caretakers/captors put in a message to Frank Leech, saying that Frank should drag his butt on over, and talk to Phil.  He didn’t mention why; he wanted to give Frank a pleasant surprise.

     Phil was tickled pink to get a long letter back from Gloria.  He was quite puzzled to see that her letter was almost as cryptic as his had been.  Why was she pussyfooting around the censors, and what was she trying to say?  She wrote about how her mother had died, how lonely she had been for a while, and how she now spent her weekends helping some religious community north of San Francisco, in a place called Kelseyville.

     They were apparently of some group called Baha’is, which he’d never heard of.  Gloria wrote of them in glowing terms, about how gentle, peaceful, accepting, and broadminded they were.  She said that theirs was about the only religion whose doctrine explicitly stated that all religions share the truth; that we are all, regardless of creed or beliefs, brothers and sisters, and social equals.

     Sounds good, he thought.  But, I sure wonder how such heresies would fit into the prevailing scheme of things, where the politicians, judges, bureaucrats, corporate bigwigs, and lawyers sure as hell wouldn’t want us all to be their equals!  And, of course, each narrow-minded minister surely wouldn’t take very kindly to the idea that maybe he didn’t have the exclusive patent on the hinges on the Pearly Gates.  Mostly, though, I wonder why she writes so funny, as if she was trying to hide something from the censors, while still telling me.  So what the hell is so heinous about donating time to help a religious group, in one’s spare time?  What is she trying to tell me?  He shrugged, and gave it up.

     His cheeks burned a bit, but joyfully, when he read about how she was so proud of him, for finally coming around, and for not being what he used to be.  She wasn’t specific, apparently for fear of the censors, but he knew what she meant.  She meant, a whore for the State.

     He wondered whether he could dare to hope that maybe he could get back together with her someday.  Someday soon, he’d be healthy again. Maybe he’d even be free again, once the war was over, and the government would put an end to censorship, martial law, etc.  Maybe he could go back to working at ABC for peaceful purposes, and he could sweet-talk Gloria into coming back to him.  He smiled dreamily, thinking about it. There was nothing in her letter to rule such things out, although he did worry about the fact that she listed an address and phone number where she could be reached in Kelseyville.

     Hopefully, she was just covering the bases, and wasn’t getting too serious about this group; like, thinking of giving up her job to join them.  I can handle broad-minded religious folks, he thought, but I’m not quite ready to retreat from the world to join a...  community, commune, sect, cult, whatever, no matter how free-thinking.  I’m too caught up in the thick of things.  I’m committed to the mainstream, for better or for worse.  We’ll sink or swim together, and I’m not going to take the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite by going off to find myself, away from the world and its troubles.  Not that I think that that’s a bad thing to do; it’s just that it’s not for me.  I’ve got a debt to pay back, and I’ll not pay it off by retreating from the action.

     He made a hardcopy of his letter from Gloria, and put it in his small stash of treasured items, there by his bedside.  Then, not having much else to do, he just read whatever he could find, that didn’t bore him to tears.

     Frank came to visit him the next day.  He seemed genuinely glad to see Phil, and greeted him like a long-lost comrade in arms.  Phil thought, you know, this Frank fella¾he’s not such a bad egg.  Not evil; just misguided.  It’s just such a shame that there’s so many like him, who think so shallowly, and that there’s so many of us who just blindly follow them, for fear of taking responsibility, ourselves, for our own actions.  We’re too often like little puppies: glad to have someone to lick, to pee on, and to wag a tail at.  We’re all too willing to hump the leg of any nearby being who we can conceive of as being bigger than us, somehow.  But, really, we should shoot for so much more!

     They chatted for a while¾or, maybe more accurately, Frank chatted, and Phil inserted an occasional grunt or comment¾about nothing and everything.  About the war, in vague and general terms, and how it would soon be over, and everything could get back to normal, all comfy-cozy-like.  About politics, women, and technology.  About how, now that the bad guys would soon be completely gone, space could be explored and exploited once more, and how, soon, any day now, a genuine UN-sponsored world peace would be at hand.  Maybe the old war horses would be put out to pasture, Frank commented.  Maybe he’d learn to paint, or invent things, or just sit back and drink beer.

     Frank put it rather peculiarly, somehow, about finally getting out of active service.  “There’s something just not quite right about being a soldier at sixty-three,” he said.

     Finally, though, Frank wound down.  “So, champ, somehow I get the feeling that you called me over for more than a friendly chat.  Not that that’s not a sufficient reason.  I’m glad to see that you’re on the mend.  Wouldn’t want the worms to eat your gray matter before its time. A damned shame, is what that would be.  Anyway, son, speak your mind. I’m no dummy.  I’ve been sitting here, watching you wonder when I’ll shut up, so that you can have your turn.  So, like, what’s the haps? What be goin’ down, bro?”

     “I want to take the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite,” Phil said, solemnly, finally, and laconically.

     Frank looked a little startled.  “Now, why’d you want to do a thing like that, son?  We’re all very proud of you, you know.  Not only did you help save the lives of countless American and allied troops, you also demonstrated remarkable courage, trying to bring civilization to those heathens in the twilight zone.”

     Frank grinned and winked at Phil, but when Phil just continued to sit there, without the hint of a smile, Frank started to match his mood. “I don’t know, Phil.  Somehow, I just don’t know.  Listen.  Hear me out. You were a vitally essential contributor to our success.  Absolutely, completely, and without a doubt, you played a key part.  We couldn’t have done it without you.  You deserve every bit of credit that anyone could ever give you.  Don’t be so humble.  It doesn’t become you.”

     Seeing that he was having no luck in cheering Phil up, Frank changed tracks.  “Listen, now.  Just listen to me, with your heart, with your instincts, and not with your head.  We needed you, and we still need you.  We’re a triumvirate, inseparable.  You, me, and the President.”

     Phil looked disgusted, so Frank hurried on.  “Come on, now!  Just listen, with your gut reactions!  Schrock-Leech-Kite!  Poetic, complete, authoritative!  Now, listen to this: Leech-Kite!  Leech-Kite, for Christ’s sake!  Now, how in the fuck does THAT sound to you! Leech-Kite!  We can’t have that!  We need you!  You gotta stick with us, buddy!  We belong in the history books together!”

     “Snap out of it, Frank.  I don’t give a shit about my name, your name, the fucking President’s name, or the goddamned history books!  I care about taking the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite!  I want to wash the blood off my hands!  I want to make this a better planet!  I want to do something...  helpful.  I...”

     “Phil, you’ve already done so much!  You deserve a break.  You should just take it easy for a while.  Those twilight zone bastards conked your head too many times.  You’re like a dog who’s been beat too much.  You need to just lay on the porch a bit, and let your bones mend. You...”

     Phil cut him short, just as he’d been cut short.  “OK, so, maybe I put it badly.  Let’s just take names, egos, and history books out of this.  I feel bad about it, but I’m not gonna try to lay a guilt trip on you, or, God forbid, the President.  But, I’ve got an idea.  An idea that I’d love to work on, that could make this planet better, more livable, for all of us.  I could help do something to undo some of the butchery that we rapacious, warmongering bastards have committed on our poor, dear, long-suffering ol’ Mamma Earth.  I’m talking low-level nuclear wastes, that we’ve spent billions trying to clean up, and that we’ll have to spend billions more to clean up, or suffer the consequences.  Biotech can help, and help big-time.  Will you hear me out?”

     “I’m all ears.” Phil filled his ears, and filled them well.

     “So, what do you think?,” Phil inquired eagerly.  “Do you think you could help see if maybe we could scare up some bucks to do this with? Maybe even get me hooked up to the computers at ABC, so that I can start working on it?  Like, real soon, while I’m still sitting here, recuperating?”

     Frank looked a little sad and blue.  “Phil, if you weren’t my friend, I’d do what so many people in Washington so often do.  I’d say, yes, brilliant idea, I’ll mention it to all the decision makers, and we’ll consider it, even if I knew it had a snowball’s chance in Hell. But, I’ll be honest with you.  It is a brilliant idea, and I, personally, would love to see it get funded.  It wouldn’t just clean up the environment; it would also help remove some of the bad image that the defense establishment acquired during the cold war.  And, indeed, I will push for it, and push hard.  I’ll have to give it up, though, if I’m told to.  That’s what I suspect will happen.  I’ll still try.”

     Phil’s face took on a distinct resemblance to that of a bloodhound. “But, why? OK, so maybe not the Pentagon.  But, wouldn’t the EPA or DOE or somebody be interested?  Haven’t we already spent billions trying to clean this crap up, with little success?  Wouldn’t it be neat to have a better, cheaper way to do it?”

     “Yes, it would.  Absolutely!  There’s a few problems, though.  Some dumbshit voters will object, saying, well, you’re just moving it from here to there, not really, actually getting rid of it.  They seem to be more worried about concentrated wastes, stored away very safely, more than they worry about low-level contamination.  Low-level contamination just isn’t glamorous enough, I guess.  That’s a very minor problem, though.”

     Frank looked around, leaned over, and lowered his voice, conspiratorially.  “I’ll tell you what the real problems are.  Top secret.  I never said this to you, and if you repeat it, I’ll deny it. The real problems are, there’s no skids to be greased.  Oh, yes, I know, and I agree, yes, we’d make the planet better for everyone.  Unlike EPA laws, though, where we ding private businesses and individuals, to make them clean up messes¾or, try to, where the problems are often ridiculously low-level, and we spend billions on questionable remedies for minor contamination¾sort of like spreading asbestos fibers through the air, to tear it out of old buildings, where it’s safely locked away¾well, shit, I’m rambling.  But, I know a wee bit about it.

     “Let me put it to you this way.  We spend more money to get rid of a few molecules of contaminants in each gallon of drinking water, than we do to worry about things that are far, far more dangerous.  Like radon gas in homes, for example.  But, you can’t sue Mother Nature. She’s got no deep pockets; there’s no skids to be greased.  Or, formaldehyde and such, that outgas from synthetic fibers, and contaminate indoor air.  We just haven’t decided that we want to sue the companies that make all those fibers, and pay three times as much for carpets and clothing.  Lawsuits are somewhat dictated by the whims of fashion, you see.

     “You know, about three quarters of the money spent by government and business to clean the environment, is actually spent to hire lawyers to point fingers at each other; for government to try and make businesses pay, and for businesses to say, no way, Jose, we didn’t do it.  Didn’t you use to work in designing cleaner-upper bacteria?  Don’t you know about this?”

     “Well, yes, I guess I heard a wee bit about it.  I may have had my nose in the test tubes, mostly, but I got wind of a little bit of it, now and then.  So, what’s this got to do with cleaning up nuclear messes?”

     “A lot.  You see, the nuclear messes belong to the government, for the most part.  It’s real tough to successfully sue the feds.  Sovereign immunity, you know.  So, the taxpayers would have to pay, and there’s no huge legions of lawyers to get rich on this one.  No rich lawyers; no payola¾Oh, wait¾no campaign contributions¾then, no action.  I hate it, too, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.  But, like I said, I’ll try.”

     Phil looked at Frank, baffled.  “So what’s so secret about that? OK, it’s ugly as sin, but I guess I can see your point.  But, how political is your job, anyway?  Do you have to constantly sing the praises of every rotten aspect of slimy politicians?  Would they really hammer you, if I whipped out my tape recording of you saying these things?”

     “Well, it wouldn’t help my career.  Probably wouldn’t be a really big deal, though.  A certain amount of cynicism is to be expected.  No cynicism, and they’ll think you’re a simpleton.  Too much, and they’ll start to think you’re a dissident, and not a team player.  So far, you’d probably think I’m middle of the road.  I’m not done, though.  There’s worse.  Far worse.  You see, one of the main functions of socialist bureaucracies is to serve as engines of incumbency.”

     If Phil had looked baffled before, well... this time, he looked as perplexed as a practicing attorney in an ethics class.

     Frank noticed immediately, and took mercy.  “OK, I can’t really expect you to read my mind on that one.  Hear me out.  One of the biggest vote-getting functions of Congressional staff is to straighten out the messes created by bumbling bureaucrats.  Help Granny straighten out her Social Security check, help Joe Blow with how the IRS just totally fucked up his returns, help Momma land that federal job for inner-city Junior, being a self-esteem, anti-drug, anti-gang counselor.

     “Hell, for that matter, help Momma get that federal job for her dog!  Help struggling, Starving Artist get the feds to pay for the new, avant-garde movie about the mucous vampire.  Whatever it takes, to keep the voters happy, and to spread the good word, about how wonderful and compassionate Congressperson X is.  The more bureaucracies, the more there is for Congress to save the voters from.  This helps the incumbents, of course.  No upstart challenger ever had this kind of advantage.”

     Phil still didn’t get it.  “OK, so let’s create a new bureaucracy for cleaning up radioactive wastes.  If they insist, we can even go out of our way to make sure the anti-nuke biobugs aren’t too inconspicuous, somehow.  Make all the voters fill out forms about nuclear wastes on their property, or stand on their heads and spit purple marbles every time they see an anti-nuke biobug.  Surely, we can come up with some aspect of this deal, to have Congress protect Joe Taxpayer from!”

     “You really don’t have a clue, do you, Phil?  Think socialism. Think socialized medicine.  Why do you think the feds still subsidize tobacco growers?”

     “Why, to buy the votes of the Senators from the tobacco-growing states, I suppose.  And, to raise taxes from the sale of tobacco.  But what’s that got to do with socialized medicine?  I’m afraid you’re going to have to beat me over the head with this one.”

     Frank gave up.  “The more sick people we have, who have to fight over long waiting lines for rationed, socialized medicine, the more those Congressional staffers have to help Joe Taxpayer with.  That much more reason for bigger staffs, and that many more brownie points for the incumbents.  Congress loves it!  Low-level radioactive contamination helps make people sick, and keep them sick.”

     Thinking about it made Phil sick.  He was about to object to Frank, saying, surely the Congress-slimes don’t sit around, discussing with their staffs, how they’re going to keep the people sick, so that they’ll need Congress more, when he realized what the answer would be.  These things are unspoken, and mostly unconscious.  But, the underlying premise, that government just loves to grow, by making the people more dependent on government, he couldn’t deny.  He got real quiet and pensive, so Frank didn’t hang out much longer.  Frank repeated how he was on Phil’s side, and how he’d do his best, but wasn’t hopeful. Besides, he said, money is real tight, and the President is bent on reviving the Welfare State, as soon as the war is over.  All those poor people deserved nothing less, after all their suffering, according to the President, Frank said.  Then he split, leaving Phil to mope over his mortally wounded dreams.

     Phil stayed depressed for all of an hour or two.  Then, he decided that moping wasn’t going to help him take the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite.  Since there was nothing on the horizon to help him reach his goal, he decided not to obsess.  Some other day, maybe he could do some good deed, without bashing his heart out against some mad, greedy, power-hungry fools’ roadblocks.

     Maybe it won’t even be something big and flashy, he thought.  Maybe my good deed will just be some tiny, unsung little thing, like a kind word to a little boy, who then grows up to be a decent human being, instead of another Adolf Hitler.  Or, a Richard Kite, or even an unreformed Phil Schrock.  Or, maybe a kind deed, which causes another kind deed, which...  Small causes can have large effects, especially in complicated affairs, such as the socialization of human beings.  I’ve just got to be patient, have faith, and be on my toes, looking for those opportunities to de-Schrock Schrock-Leech-Kite.  Probably I’ll have to do it in zillions of little steps, instead of one big one.

     In any case, he decided he wasn’t going to build Rome during that particular day.  He got back to some pleasure reading.

     He stumbled on some novelette about an ancient time, when the Oriental Japanese colonized Japan, pushing aside the primitive Whites, called the Ainu.  He knew that the Ainu had been all but wiped out, surviving only on small reservations, much like Native Americans.  He found himself wondering when it was that the Orientals had displaced the most hairy race of Caucasians.  Was the author just lazy in her research?  Or did she feel that it would be too artificial, to have the main character think about what year it was, especially in terms of a Western calendar?  It was, after all, entirely written from the perspective of an Ainu man.

     And didn’t she know that the latest genetic tests show that the Ainu aren’t really Caucasians?  Oh, cut it out, Phil commanded himself. He decided to not be a geek, to just read for enjoyment, and to not intellectualize too much.

     Ainu-Dude was a young man when he first heard rumors of the hairless ones, off in the distance.  It was years more before he actually saw a tribe of them passing through, and yet more years by the time he came back from a long, slow, thoughtful foraging trip in the woods, by himself, to discover that his tribe had been driven off by the hairless ones.  They had obviously left in a hurry, by the way the camp looked.  He found some signs of struggle, and a few splotches of blood here and there.  So, the hairless ones have finally decided they don’t want us here any more, he reflected sadly.  Even more sadly, he realized that he wasn’t a young man at all anymore, and that his eyes had grown so dim that he couldn’t even follow the signs of his entire clan, tromping through the woods.  He was lost, left behind by himself!

     He ate what few scraps of food he could find in the remains of the camp, and then headed for the lowlands, where the feared hairless ones monopolized the more productive lands, doing strange things with soil, seeds, and plants.  Maybe they’d take mercy on a harmless old man, and tell him where they’d chased his tribe off to.  Failing that, maybe they’d let him share their scraps with their dogs.  It was all he could hope for, because he knew he couldn’t hunt and gather enough food to support himself, by himself, in the mountains for very long.

     Ainu-Dude was, indeed, very lucky.  The hairless ones took pity on him, and let him hang around.  They couldn’t tell him where his clan had gone, and they didn’t invite him into their homes, but they did let him wander around the periphery of their camp, and steal scraps from the dogs.  On good days, they even fed him leftovers directly.  He provided an oddity, a pet of sorts, an amusement for their children, what with his strange appearance and hairy body.

     He gleaned scraps from their crops, and built himself a small hut, in an out-of-the-way place not too far from their camp.  He tried not to do anything to piss them off, for fear of endangering his limited privileges.  He sure did miss his clan, especially the little ones, who had been such a joy to him.  He couldn’t speak the language of the hairless ones, and so he wasn’t able to really make friends with their children, let alone the adults.  He wished that there were things that he could do to make himself valuable to the hairless ones, but he was a weak old man.  He could only cling to life in his latter days, barely surviving, and missing his clan.

     Phil read all this with avid interest, losing himself in the story. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was just that it was well written.  Maybe it was that he, too, felt alienated, wanted to contribute, but didn’t know how, and feared old age.  Maybe it was because he, too, was a White man living in a time and place where Whites were losing their dominance.  Or, maybe it was just because the story was written so sympathetically, and because Phil’s capacity to care for others had so recently grown so much.

     Ainu-Dude was feeling especially sick and weak, one morning.  He knew he had to do something for his health, and soon, or he’d be a goner.  Despite the wretchedness of his existence, he still loved life, and wanted to hang on.  Maybe, if he hung on long enough, he could find out where his tribe had gone, he thought.  Maybe he could see his tribe’s delightful little ones again.

     Once again, Ainu-Dude’s luck came through for him in a tight spot. The hairless ones were in a festive mood, for the Chieftain’s son had slain a large deer.  The Chief, in an ostentatious display of wealth and generosity, cut open the deer, and offered the choice of cuts to Ainu-Dude.

     Now, Ainu-Dude knew he shouldn’t stretch his luck.  He knew he should probably just take a slice of flank, or a front leg, or the heart.  But, he also knew that he wasn’t feeling very well at all, and that he needed some top-notch nutrition, and soon.  So, he cut out the liver, and limped away with it.

     The tribe was outraged that he could be so greedy, but the Chief quieted their rumblings.  His reputation as a generous man was at stake. Ainu-dude shuffled off to his hut, where he cooked and ate the liver, savoring every bit of it, and gaining back a fraction of his long-lost, youthful health and strength.

     That very afternoon the hairless children, who had sensed the hostility towards the liver-mongering old freak, came by to harass him. He had just been sitting outside, enjoying a pleasant day and a full stomach, when they came by, casting sticks and stones at him, and calling him names in their bizarre tongue.  He retreated inside his hut, but one of them reached in to taunt him some more.  He lashed out, like an animal trapped in a corner, and hurt his tormentor.  They, in turn, became furious, that he could dare to strike back, against the bravest of them.  They dragged him out of his hut, screaming, and beat him to a bloody pulp.  They slunk off, back to their camp, where they’d wait to have their misdeeds discovered, and get yelled at by their parents.  He crawled back into his hut, to suffer and die.

     Phil just sat there, in the privacy of his hospital room, tears streaming quietly down his cheeks.  All thoughts of Phil and his troubles, of America, of Japan, of here, or there, or now, or then, or fiction, or non-fiction, fled from his mind.  All that was left was a strong wish that all children¾and they, after all, are still the pliable ones, who can be taught¾could be shown how to Love.  Not how to make huge sacrifices, to write big checks for charities, or to suffer martyrdom, but just, how to Love.  How to refrain from harming others. How to shun senseless violence.  How to see themselves in others, and to empathize.

     This overwhelming desire to reach out, and to show the little ones what this strange thing called Love is, flooded Phil’s mind, to the exclusion of all else, other than maybe the knowledge that it’s all still their choice, and that all that anyone can do, is to show, and maybe try as best as one can, to tell.

     Then, a very strange thing happened to Phil.  His mind was invaded, in a non-invasive manner, by a nameless, alien, but harmless Thing.  It could perhaps best be described as a bright, friendly light.  It was definitely not just a part of Phil, though.  It was Something Else. Something from... who knows where?  For just a brief moment, Phil’s thoughts coincided with Its thoughts, to such a degree, that It inhabited Phil’s mind.

     Almost instantly, Phil perceived the Presence, and forgot about little ones, and Love.  Instead, he thought about It.  He reached out, asking, who are you?  What are you doing here?  What, exactly, are you?

     It just fled from Phil’s mind, leaving nothing other than an impression that maybe it just wasn’t for Phil to know these things, or at least, not here.  Not now.

     Phil still just sat there, thinking.  What was that?  Just an artifact of traveling waves of electrical depolarization on neural cell walls, and firing synapses?  Somehow, he didn’t think so.  He also seriously doubted whether such things could ever be subjected to the harsh glare of laboratory lights.  It hadn’t been a terribly big deal, he thought.  He’d just been visited, that’s all.  Nothing to get upset or worried about.  He wasn’t going crazy, or anything.  He was still the same Phil that he’d been, a few minutes ago.

     Just to be sure, though, he reviewed his thoughts.  Had the Invader left things as they were, or was he now a were-Phil?  Had his brain been washed, so that he would now sing the praises of socialism, for example? It didn’t take him long to discover that his sanity was still intact. He still didn’t believe that a centralized bureaucracy was more capable of good charity decisions than private individuals.  He still didn’t think that the Pope was particularly spiritually advanced, to travel, well-fed, well-dressed, and guarded by all sorts of troops, to starving, overpopulated third-world nations, to tell them that birth control is a Big Sin.  Phil was still Phil.

     He did begin to think, though, about how much he’d changed in the last few weeks and months.  He’d been through a lot, and his thoughts had changed.  Not in one particular minute, but gradually, over time. It wasn’t just about being a whore for the State; it was about other things, as well.  If his thoughts about socialism hadn’t changed, not even over the long run, his thoughts about voluntary charity had changed a bit.  He now realized that, in the absence of socialism, old charity habits would have to be resurrected.  That shouldn’t be too hard, he thought, if the government ever decides to be charitable enough to leave any money to me, the taxpayer.  And, I’d probably feel a lot better about giving, if my other choice wasn’t jail.

     Maybe socialism’s worst fault is its crass materialism, which robs charity of spiritual benefits to givers and receivers. Voluntary charity shows givers the deep pleasures of helping, and receivers the obligations of gratitude and trying to pay back.  Forced “charity” robs the spirit, in pursuit of the bottom line¾how many dollars were transferred?  How noble can one feel about choosing to give, instead of going to jail?  And what gratitude does one feel to a bureaucracy that dispenses “entitlements”?

     But, maybe, just maybe, charity isn’t really about working one’s balls off, trying to claw and stab one’s way to the top of the corporate ladder, devising newer and better forms and procedures for one’s co-workers to fill out and follow, so that one can be perceived as a management type.  Never let it be said I wasn’t willing to help my co-workers; I was always willing to prioritize their action items, and devise more forms to help them do their jobs!

     Maybe charity isn’t about dressing for success, either.  Maybe it really isn’t that charitable to buy more, fancier, and better suits than the next guy, and drive a better car, so as to be a success by looking like a success.  Maybe it’s just not that smart to consume all those resources, and pollute the environment with perchloroethylene dry-cleaning fluids, rather than wearing tattered blue jeans, just so that you can suck-cede, so that you can write bigger checks to those environmental groups that then spend your money to cut down trees to make more paper to beg for more of your money.  Maybe charity is just taking less, and giving more!

     So, when I become a Big Guy, I can sign Big Checks for charity, Phil thought.  Maybe even host and chair big, fancy charity events, and tell everyone else to give money, sitting there in my big mansion.  Is that really charity?  Maybe not.  Maybe charity isn’t grabbing the best fishing spot from one’s neighbor, and then making a big show out of giving him some fish, and making him dependent on your fishing skills. Or, more likely, on the fishing skills of your subordinates, and on your ability to hob-nob at the country club.  Maybe charity is taking the time to show your neighbor your best fishing techniques, and sharing your fishing spot with him.

     Maybe charity begins at home.  Maybe we just need to each make sure we teach our kids to fish, and, when we have some time left over, help the neighbors.  If we all did that, we wouldn’t need a Big Brother Welfare State, Phil ruminated.  So what if a few suit-makers and dry cleaners make less money and work less overtime if we slow the rat race down a bit?  Not only will the environment be better off, but, if those workers spend a few more minutes at home with the kids, they’d be better off, too.  Maybe the most charitable, environmentally conscious thing that one can do, is to raise happy, well-loved little ones.  This would cut back on the most lethal contaminants of all, human hate and violence.

     He thought about how paradoxical it was, that this most precious attribute that anyone could ever help to teach to a child, empathy, was actually other-centered.  Yet, no person could ever truly be happy without it.

     Then, he got to thinking about the fact that he didn’t have any kids, or a wife, or even a steady girlfriend.  It would be a shame if he never got to practice his kid-Love theories.  He got to thinking about Gloria, and how nice it would be to see her again.  Shall I write her, and tell her about my being visited by the whatever-it-is, he asked himself.  The Holy Spirit.  The All-being, or whatever, and the fact that It very specifically did NOT visit me when I was trying to suck butt.  Religion was nowhere near my mind, in the usual sense of trying to fathom God, going to church, or philosophizing and speechifying.

     No, he thought, I’ll want to tell her about it in person, some day. And, she’ll probably be the only one I’ll ever tell.  She’s the only one I know who would understand, and not just think I’m loony.  That, or think I’m trying to brag, or set myself up as some Prophet.  As if I could claim credit for a gift, anyway.

     He got back to thinking about how he’d changed over time.  Maybe he was a little less willing to deliberately offend people, now.  He still realized that afflicting the comfortable is every bit as important as comforting the afflicted, but his emphasis had somehow slipped over to the latter.  He recalled how, in the days before he’d ever met Gloria, when he was first on his own, he’d answered his home phone with all sorts of funny lines.  His favorite had been, “Schrock’s Abortion Clinic¾our mottoes, you rape ‘em, we scrape ‘em, and, no fetus can beat us.  May I help you?”

     Once, he’d gotten some old biddy, who’d called him by mistake, and she’d proceeded to try and rip him a new anal orifice.  He’d snarled back at her, telling her to mind her own business, that this was America, the Land of the Free, and that he’d answer his phone any goddamned way he felt like.  That, and that she was welcome to bring her own coathanger.  She made harassing phone calls for a while, and then left him alone.  He’d stopped answering his phone that way, and grown up a bit.  He could still, to this very day, see the humor in it, though.

     OhmiGod, he thought.  I forgot!  Quick, check one more thing!  I hope the Invader didn’t give me a frontal lobotomy, and turn me into a creationist!  He checked, and was relieved to find that that wasn’t the case.  Compared to weeks and months ago, though, he was more willing to consider that, although evolution had created his body, maybe a Creator had created his soul, his consciousness.  After all, mechanistic evolution might explain bodies, biochemicals, genes, and instincts, but how could it explain consciousness?  Couldn’t a survival-and-reproduction machine function just as well, without these strange things called consciousness, conscience, and Love?  Maybe “Creator” was yet another synonym for his recent Visitor, he thought.

     Then, he had some of the strangest thoughts he’d ever had, in his whole life.  He began to wonder, what if I have another creator, in yet another sense?  What if I am nothing but the fragment of some mad bum’s imagination?  What if there’s this society, somewhere else in all the folds of the many space-time continua, which is almost just like ours, except not quite as technologically advanced?  What if they’re just as sick, stupid, socialistic, violent, and brainless as we are, and as I sit here thinking, some poor slob is sitting at a keyboard, hunting and pecking away about my life and times?

     What if a few of their fundamentalist, turd-brained Moslems are every bit as rabid as those few of ours?  And, what if my “creator” is so stupid that, way back there in Chapter Ten, when I momentarily called their Prophet “Moo-hamboned,” in my letter to the wild wenches that I was trying to chase, before thinking better of it, and deleting it¾well, what if he was psychopathically honest, and reported this tiny transgression of mine?  Am I guilty, even for my thoughts?  Even if I do nothing but think them?  Who knows!?

     But, he thought, this hypothetical creator of mine is probably a totally spineless weenie, unlike my own, courageous self.  He’d probably be willing to suck the fleas out of the jockstraps of a thousand of the Grand Ayatollah’s camels, rather than risk a FATWA.  So, maybe I’d better take back my thoughts about Mohammad being “Moo-hamboned,” just as a personal favor to my “creator”.  I really owe it to him, to see if I can save him from his pervasive, perverted habit of reporting every last lousy thought of mine, which might get him in trouble one of these days.

     He cranked up the gain on his thoughts, and discharged his obligations.  “ALL RIGHT, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” he thought, loudly enough to jump the gaps between all the folds in all the space-time continua. “I TAKE IT ALL BACK!  MOHAMMAD, MOHAMMAD, MOHAMMAD!  ***NOT*** MOO-HAMBONED!!!  YOU HEAR ME?!  ***NOT***, I REPEAT, ***NOT*** MOO-HAMBONED!  THERE, ARE YOU VIOLENT, CAMEL-COCK-SUCKING MOTHERFUCKERS HAPPY NOW?!”

     Shit! he thought, there I go again!  Backsliding, not being spiritually advanced, again!  Now I’ve really blown it, since that stupid “creator” of mine probably ratted on my thoughts again!  OK, I’ve got to think this through, and be very careful.  No more obscenities.  I really shouldn’t have thought about them being camel-cock-sucking motherfuckers.  They’re merely unspeakably vile, death-worshipping, selfish, power-hungry fanatics.  Or maybe they’re just ignorant, and don’t realize that if we all got up and put forth all of our definitions of God, including definitions of God as being non-existent or transcending existence, then we still couldn’t encompass or define God. Or maybe they’re just plain evil, and I do them no favors in not thinking of them honestly as just that¾evil.  Call a spade a spade. Still, hate is always wrong.  I’ve got to change my thinking.  What can I do, to replace my hatred with Love?  I’ve got to try.

     He took back the part about them being camel-cock-sucking motherfuckers, very humbly.  Instead, he prayed.  Most importantly, he prayed for peace, and for Love in his heart.  Then, he prayed that all the violent, intolerant, pushy people in all of the space-time continua, be they Christians, Moslems, Buddhists, Atheists, Jews, or Elvis-worshippers, should come to see Allah/God/Holy Spirit/Visitor/All-being as He/She/It really is, a Being of Love, who abhors violence of all kinds, including violence supposedly in the defense of Himself/Herself/Itself.  As if such a noble, ethereal creature needed to be defended by puny, slimy, misbegotten, flea-ridden humans anyway!

     Then, after praying a prayer on the behalf of all foam-at-the-mouth fuckheads everywhere, Phil prayed a more specific prayer, directing it to the aid of those few Moslems in all the space-time continua everywhere and everywhen, who were giving other, more tolerant and broad-minded Moslems a bad name.  He prayed, asking that the rabid ones would come to see that they should be ashamed of themselves, for besmirching the names of Allah and Mohammad with violence, threats of violence, and mistreatment of women.  Genital mutilation of women in Africa, intolerance of just about everything among Shiites, and lack of women’s most basic rights in Arabic countries, among other things, came to his mind, as he prayed thus.

     He also thought about how, during the Middle Ages, Moslems had actually been far more tolerant and broad-minded than Christians, generally speaking.  He prayed that the rabid ones would come to realize that they’d been left far behind, in this crucially important category of spiritual development called tolerance, be ashamed of themselves, and reform themselves, just as Phil was reforming himself, with the help of the All-being.

     Then, he promised himself that he’d not think any more weird thoughts about being the fragment of a writer’s imagination.  He managed to keep his promise till the end of the book, although the editors had to do a lot of hooting, hollering, and arm-twisting.

     Finally, he considered his less-than-noble thoughts, and the question of whether or not one’s thoughts, alone, could be considered to be sins.  It didn’t take him long to conclude that, generally, it’s only when thoughts are turned into words and actions, that the really serious sins are committed.  A good person, he thought, has a sharp editor, who constantly edits those thoughts, before they come out as words or actions.  A bad person thinks themselves infallible, and so, pushes aside, or ignores, the editor.  An ethical person realizes that not all of his/her thoughts are sane, and so, is constantly on the lookout for insanity.  Evil, insane people think themselves infallibly sane.  Paradoxically, it’s only by constantly doubting one’s sanity, that sanity can be retained.

     Phil promised himself that he’d always doubt his sanity, so that he could stay sane.  That, and to not try too hard to unravel that particular paradox!

 

 

CHAPTER 24

 

     Tao Chi lived in the underground bunker, slaving away over his test tubes, computers, and cryo-electron microscope.  Tu Ill Dung and his henchmen constantly came by to harass and bother him, constantly reminding him how many lives and resources had gone into getting him his equipment, supplies, and leash chemical samples, and how the defense of China and the Revolution depended on him.

     Tao wished they’d just leave him alone, so that he could get his job done, and figure out what those crazy Yankees had done.  But, Tu was the boss, and Tao couldn’t very well ignore him.  Tao humored Tu, but didn’t exactly sweat bullets.  So what if Tu had knocked off a few of Tao’s research assistants for smelling funny, or something; Tao didn’t worry about Tu doing the same to him, since he was so indispensably valuable to China’s last-ditch defense effort.

     Tao had been extremely disappointed with Tu, when Tu had ignored all of Tao’s desperate entreaties to have the government prepare China for the onslaught of the imperialist nightmare biobogeymonsters.  All Tao had gotten out of Tu, was measures to protect the very topmost levels of the government and military, and China’s bioweapons research efforts.  Mass-produce personal body armor, Tao said.  Mass-produce intricate, bat-proof locks, he said.  Get the word out to the population, and shutter all windows, Tao begged.  We know what’s coming; let’s prepare for it.

     If Tao had been anyone besides Tao, Tu would’ve had him turned into little bits and pieces, and fertilized the fields with them.  Tu told Tao as much.  Still, Tao persisted, but to no avail, beyond the protective measures limited to the important people.

     Tu had explained it all to him.  Can’t demoralize and frighten the people, he’d said.  Can’t hurt productivity.  Besides, there’s nothing to worry about.  Tu had gone on to explain exactly why this was the case, even though he was taking Tao’s advice, as far as protecting the important people went.  The bats will flop, and this is why, Tu had said.  Tao felt quite flattered, ‘cause Tu didn’t usually bother to explain anything to anyone.

     Tu had couched it in terms of traditional Chinese medicine.  “Tao, you see, you Western-corrupted scientists know a lot, but you don’t know everything.  Our ancestors knew a lot of things you haven’t even figured out yet.  For example, they knew about the five sets of diseases and organs, that correspond to the ending digits in one’s birth year, according to the lunar calendar.  People born in metal years, ending in zero or one, are prone to diseases of air and the lungs, like bronchitis, asthma, and such.  Water years end in two or three, and they lead to kidney problems.  Wood years end in four or five, and correspond to liver troubles.  Fire years end in six or seven, and have to do with the heart.  Earth years end in eight or nine, and can cause lumps and tumors.  Cancers, you would call them.”

     Tao had looked at him quizzically, skeptically.  “So, what does that have to do with how badly these bats will decimate us?,” he inquired.

     Tu had looked as if he was explaining calculus to a first-grader, saying, “This is the year 4712, if you’re so hooked on Western thinking that you’ve forgotten that.  That means it’s a water year, and so is next year.  Not good years for lung-type, or airborne, diseases at all. We won’t have another metal year, where airborne bats will do well, for another eight years.  These bats will flop, I tell you.  The Yankees are too late, by one year.  Or, too early by eight, whichever you prefer.”

     Tao had just nodded, and gone back to work, thinking, by all my Ancestors, this man is mad!  Why can’t our leaders be rational, well-informed, and scientific-minded, like the Westerners?  Our decisions would be so much wiser!

     Then, he got around to remembering some recent history.  Hadn’t there been an American President Ray-Gun or some such, during the 1980s, not so many decades ago, who had implied that creationism should be taught in the schools, since evolution was “just a theory”?  So, whose creationism did he want to teach, anyway?  Inuit?  Polynesian?  Navajo? Satanic creationism, maybe?  Maybe they’d’ve had to teach them all, so as not to be biased!  That, and he and his wife were big-time into this Astrology crap.  And, who knows what they got away with, that the media never got ahold of?  Secret witch-burning ceremonies, maybe.

     And, after that regime, wasn’t there a drooling dumbshit VP Underbrush, or under Bush, or some such, whose name wasn’t worth remembering, who was a bigshot on their NASA committee?  The one whose IQ approximated that of a small bowl of smashed potatoes?  A big-shot NASA leader who made some statement about there being canals, water, and breathable air on Mars?  Tao decided maybe it wasn’t all that bad, being stuck with his particular brand of dumbshit leader, after all.

     So, here he was, now, having the extremely dubious pleasure of being able to tell Tu just how wrong he’d been, and how right he, Tao, had been.  Tao knew things were bad, out there above and beyond the bunkers, but not just exactly how bad.  He had no need to know, you see. But, he had some inklings.  He knew by the way that Tu and his henchmen acted, that these were the Last Days, the Gotterdammerung.  Tao wasn’t sure whether or not he cared any more.  Maybe all that mattered, now, was paying the Yankees back.  Give ‘em a taste of their own medicine, those damned foreign devil imperialists!

     Tao was grateful for the scoop they’d gotten from Stanley, but it fell seriously short in some categories.  He just didn’t have enough design information on the bats, to go off and re-engineer them to his liking, and to build them from scratch.  For that matter, he didn’t even have the tools to do that.  The plan was to simply work with clones of the American design.  It was vitally essential to unscramble and replicate the leash chemicals, though.

     Tao sat there at the cryo-electron microscope, bundled up against the artificial, ‘nad-nipping cold.  Hoses blew warm, fresh oxygen into his suit, and took away his colder exhalations, as he sat there, peering at the screens, tweaking knobs, and thinking about how brave, armored soldiers had wrested frozen samples of leash chemicals from the beasts. That, and how, in the West, they had cryo-electron microscopes that isolated super-cooled samples from researchers like himself.  But he had to make do with whatever second-rate crap his bosses gave him.

     He’d helped devise the toys and tools, but he sure as hell hadn’t volunteered to go up there and get the samples!  He didn’t have a hard time believing that more than a few troops had given their lives to collect those samples.  They’d had to sit out there, armored, for hours, waiting for mini-planes to come by. That, or they had to muscle their way into the hives, and wait for the large worker bats to come by, with canisters of leash compounds.

     Either way, they’d then had to fire their specially designed guns, that would fire super-cold projectiles at the canisters.  The projectiles would slam hollow, cryogenic tips into the canisters, instantly freezing a small sample.  Sure, destructive enzymes and acids would start their work on those compounds, as soon as the projectiles hit, but the temperatures that made a liquid out of air, were sufficient to slow down those chemical reactions, so that the frozen compounds could be brought to Tao, who would then work his magic on them.

     He’d looked at the partially destroyed compounds and enzymes under the ‘scopes for hours and days.  Now, he was finally close.  So close! Just another molecule or two, and he’d have that witch’s brew down cold! They had everything else ready to go.  Stanley had helped them so much!  Delivery mini-planes were all ready to go, in some hidden bunker close to the sea, he’d been told.  There, they’d be loaded with bats and leash compounds, just as soon as Tao got his job done.  The loaded planes, in turn, would be loaded onto a submarine.

     The sub would slip quietly eastwards under the Pacific, surfacing and unleashing its deadly cargo somewhere off of California.  The Yankees would pay!  Tao couldn’t really understand how China could ever deliver enough leash compounds to sustain the effort, what with China being on its last few, dying gasps, but he didn’t think about it much. Just live day to day, and humor this Tu Ill Dung shithead, he told himself.  Cling to life till it’s gone, like any other poor slob.

     Triumphantly, Tao jotted down a few formulas, now that he’d ferreted a few more molecular structures out of that frigid miniature mess.  He scurried off to a much warmer lab, convinced that this time, he had it.  He’d been through this a few times before, cranking up the synthesizers, making another version of the brew, and slipping it to the queens’ reproductive tracts, there in those labs.  They still hadn’t produced any viable eggs, but somehow, Tao knew that this time, they would.

     Half a day later, he injected the mixture into the reproductive tracts, laying there in a nutritive, antiseptic bath in front of him. They hadn’t bothered to make entire queens, since they weren’t stupid. There were plenty enough of those up on the surface, and they knew what they were like!  Reproductive tracts were all that they needed, anyway.  The stolen data from the West allowed them to clone the reproductive tracts, and to defeat the trauma sensors that destroyed leash-chemical receptors.

     Tao waited for the reproductive tracts to do their thing, while entering his latest formulas into the mass-production automated synthesizers, as opposed to the hand-operated prototype synthesizer he’d used before.  He sure wished he had better equipment.  In the West, they’d do what takes me a day, in five minutes, he thought.  He had just enough time to catch a one-hour nap, after entering the formulas, before an assistant woke him, telling him that the eggs were slithering out.  It took him only a glance to see that they were finally viable. Proudly, Tao dashed off to tell Tu.

     Tu took it calmly enough.  He didn’t shout gleefully, as Tao half expected. “Good.  Now, on to the next step,” he told Tao.

     “What?  You mean, mass produce the bats and proto-queens, load ‘em up, and ship ‘em out, right?  Do you really want me to help with all that?  Could I maybe get a break, now that I’ve got it down?  Other people can do this other stuff.  I’m really, really bushed, you know. Need to catch up on my sleep, pretty badly.  Whaddaya say, Chief?”

     “Sorry, Comrade.  You’re not done yet.  And, no, it’s not grunt work that I’ve got in mind for you.  Now that we know what the leash compounds are, we need to go on to the next step.  We need to take the leash off.”

     “What?  You mean, set these beasts completely free?  No leash at all?  I don’t know.  That would require a significant redesign.  I’m not so sure we can do it with the lousy computers we’ve got, even if we had all sorts of time.  I don’t know.  I thought we were just setting these back on the sick bums who sicced ‘em on us in the first place, with leashes still in place.  This is a major change in plans.  Why haven’t you let me in on your plans before?  I could’ve...  I mean, this is...”

     “Comrade, we simply don’t have the resources to deliver enough leash compounds.  Not now anymore.  The Americans will have only themselves to blame.  We need to take the leash off, before we drop the bats on the damn Yankees.  Now, get to work.”

     Tao was pretty offended by the idea that biobogeybats should be given free reign over the entire planet, just ‘cause of the damn Yankees, and China’s need for revenge.  He seriously considered telling Tu to shove it up his ass; that Tao simply didn’t want to be part of exterminating the human race, just so that he could have the dubious pleasure of being allowed to live like a rat in a hole, under a slave-driving maniac, for a few more days.

     Then, he realized that there was another choice, which was to state the simple truth.  “Look, most esteemed Chairman, there’s just no way we can do the redesign with the tools we’ve got, in anywhere near the amount of time we’ve got, before we run out of food, supplies, and energy.  I don’t care how many times you command it, there’s just no way we can colonize Mars in a day.  It’s just not going to happen, no matter how many times you crack the whip at me, or how many of my assistants you kill.  I’m sorry.  Really, truly sorry that we can’t pay the Yankees back properly, but we just can’t do it.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go and get some decent sleep.”

     The esteemed Chairperson got kind of a-steamed up, being talked to that way.  He controlled himself, and talked to Tao, as sweetly as he could.  “Tao, you forgot something.  We don’t have to redesign the bat queens.  There’s another method.  Don’t you remember, early on during the bat attacks, we worked on some possible methods of fighting back? Of bioengineering parasites and diseases to go and wipe the bats out? When we actually managed to design a strain of bacteria capable of living in queen guts?”

     “Yes, I do recall.  When we figured out that the damned Yanks had done such a good job with their batty immune system, we had to give that approach up.  No pathogens could successfully, directly target living bat flesh, we decided.  Certainly not very easily at all.  Then, we thought about having intestinal bacteria poison the queens, and we got partway there.  There was all these problems¾spreading the bacteria far and wide, making them capable of withstanding the rigors of the intestinal environment, and having them be poisonous enough to kill the queens.  Some of these are a bit contradictory¾like, having them kill queens, and still be able to spread.  Any self-respecting parasite knows that once you kill the host, the host isn’t going to help you spread your good cheer around, any more.

     “I figured out that it would take a lot of effort and resources to complete this effort, and you yanked the rug outta under our feet, and told us to put all of our efforts into figuring out the leash chemicals instead.  Offense, not defense, you said.” Revenge, not self-defense, Tao thought.

     Just like I read about Hitler, who had these kick-ass jet fighters, before anyone else had jets, Tao reflected.  But, Hitler was obsessed with revenge, and mass destruction, instead of defense, so he took excellent air-defense fighter technology, and tried to turn jets into offensive bombers instead.  You slime-bag dictators, all safely hidden away in your bunkers, always love revenge so much more than defending your country, don’t you?  Allowing the citizens to defend themselves is not a politician’s concern, when the politician himself is well-defended.  Sort of like telling the peons they can’t have guns, while surrounded by a dozen armed guards.  However, Tao, too, could see the merits of revenge.  He wanted for the Yanks to see what it was like, to be at the receiving end, too.  He just didn’t see the sense in wiping out the rest of humanity, just to get the Yanks.

     “So, what does all this have to do with taking the leashes off, anyway?,” Tao inquired of Tu.

     Tu puffed himself up, savoring the spectacle of having to explain the obvious to a brilliant, but stupid, Western-corrupted scientist. “So we take these intestinal bacteria that we’ve already got, that are capable of living in queen guts, and we modify them a bit.  Now that we know what the leash compounds are, we redesign the bacteria to make leash compounds.  Simple, but brilliant, eh?”

     Tao ‘fessed up that it was simple, but brilliant.  There were a few other adjectives he’d have wanted to add, as he stood there, thinking about bats spreading freely across the entire globe.  Then, he remembered that the Yanks had added a cycle counter feature, whereby, twelve generations after genesis, as measured by the lab-generated proto-queens being generation zero, the juggernaut would screech to an abrupt halt.  The twelfth generation of queens would be sterile, as an additional safety measure.  The checksum feature would prevent mutations from bypassing the general humans-only dietary restrictions, and the only-twelve-generations feature as well.

     Tao decided that twelve generations of bats would be enough to teach the Yanks a lesson¾so what if a few bats slopped over into Canada and Mexico; that couldn’t be helped¾and that, since the other safety features of bats would protect the rest of humanity, and other species, that Tao could do what Tu wanted, in good conscience.  Just bypassing the requirements for specially delivered leash compounds, didn’t mean that the bats would rule the planet.

     Tao postponed getting some proper sleep, and got to work.  It didn’t take him more than a few days, till those bacteria were cranking out leash compounds.  It didn’t take long to equip the proto-queens with the bacteria, and ship them off just a few tens of kilometers, to that hidden submarine on China’s coast.  Finally, Tao could get some well-deserved rest!

     Or, so he thought.  It was then that Tu came by to tell Tao about how, now that China was hurting so bad, the Russian and allied armies hadn’t only pushed back all of China’s efforts to regain her rightful, long-lost territories, they were now pushing into what was not only China, but had always been recognized by everyone as being China. Except for those crazy Taiwanese Nationalist slime-sucking pigs, who thought the whole universe belonged to them.  Thank the Ancestors that the People had finally put them in their place, Tu said.  Tao gathered that that meant, Taiwan had been wiped clean, before the bats had arrived, setting the People’s Republic’s efforts back considerably, to say the least.

     When Tu got done foaming at the mouth, he finally got to the point. Tu had a special brand of revenge in mind for Russia.  Twelve generations of bats wasn’t good enough for slimebags of their variety. Besides, their nation was physically so huge, that twelve generations of bats might only get half of the way to Moscow, where the real shit-headed, dictatorial politicians, who so richly deserved annihilation, sat, picking at their duffs, smugly, comfortably watching China’s demise.  Tu wanted Tao to take the leash off, and to do it right.

     Tao had heard enough.  OK, so, in his most private thoughts, just for a technical challenge, he’d already considered the problem.  He’d figured out that he could make yet another strain of bacteria, which would manufacture hormones that could reset the cycle counter.  They could migrate to the wall of the intestines, after making those hormones, and penetrate the intestinal wall, dumping the hormones into the bloodstream.

     But, there was just no way he’d ever do it.  He didn’t want it on his conscience, not even for his last few days or hours, that he’d helped wipe out the human species.  Maybe humans were all sick, and deserved extinction, but maybe another generation or two deserved another few chances, to finally get it right.  Maybe, just maybe, future generations should have the right to decide for themselves, whether humans should commit species suicide, or not.  Maybe it would be arrogant for Tao to decide for them.

     So, he decided to have some balls, and stand up to that Tu Ill Dung asshole.  “Fuck you,” he said, to Tu’s shocked countenance.  “I’m not going to do it.  I’ll not have the blood of my entire species on my hands.  Take me off and shoot me right now, but I’ll not do it.  Fuck off and die, asshole!”

     Tu’s eyes narrowed to slits.  He peered at Tao, as if Tao was just some species of toad, that had to be poked and prodded in just the right manner to make him hop the right way.  “Tao, let me tell you something. I know where all your shrines are.  Not just the photos and memorabilia that you keep here in the bunker, or even, the ones that you’ve got back in your home, topside.  I know where your relatives lived, and where they kept their shrines.  I know, because I, or at least, my agents, took special pains to gather this information.  For a rainy day, you see.  It’s raining pretty badly, now, I can see that.  Now, unless you want me to piss, shit, and spit on every last photo and piece of memorabilia of your ancestors that I can find, you’d better co-operate. Now, are you going to get to work, or not?”

     Tao was pretty upset.  He asked himself if Tu would really do such things, and decided that maybe he would.  Nevertheless, he thought, the human race is more important.  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  Fuck you.  You want me to spell it for you, or what?”

     “Listen to me very carefully, Tao.  Not just with your ears, but with your mind’s eye, as well.  Imagine my faithful troops torturing you, burning holes in your eyes, spilling your guts on the floor, slowly.  Then imagine me, personally, dipping your sorry remains into a vat of liquid nitrogen in your cryo-electron microscopy lab.  Now, imagine us making implements of destruction out of your frozen limbs. Imagine my armored troops, up topside, digging up the graves of your Ancestors, to four, sometimes five and six, generations back.  Imagine your frozen limbs swinging through the bones, spreading fragments and dust into the breeze.  You like that picture?”

     Tao didn’t like that picture at all.  He got to work.

 

 

CHAPTER 25

 

     Captain Joe Smith, of the California Air National Guard, had been sitting there on the alert pad, smoking a cigarette, when the emergency call came in.  They said that there’d been some unidentified submarine that had surfaced twenty miles off of San Francisco, that had been spotted with both radar and optics by some newly launched satellite. Shit! Joe thought, just when this war with China is all but over, we have to go chasing more... stupid shadows, or whatever.  Probably just some Russian sub coming up for air, that forgot to let us know they’re in the area.  Fat chance of it being the Chinese, he thought, as he and his buddy scrambled out onto the runway, and hopped into their F-152s.

     They were airborne and out over the Pacific in minutes.  By the time that they got to where the sub had been spotted, though, the sub was nowhere to be seen.  There were, however, a flock of small, funny-looking aircraft that looked almost like birds with rigid wings and tiny jet engines, headed off towards land, skimming just a few yards off of the surface of the water.

     Joe turned on his video cameras, and began to beam images back to Beale Air Force Base.  He’d never seen such totally bizarre aircraft, and among all of them¾Joe, his buddy, and their flight controllers¾no one had ever seen exactly what the American-designed BELFRYBAT/SLK seed-stock and leash-chemical delivery systems looked like.  They had no need to know, you see.  Nor did they know that BATs were instinctually programmed to fly at aircraft, in order to induce FOD (Foreign Object Damage).

     So, it took their controllers quite a few minutes to decide that unidentified small aircraft heading for American soil should just be blown away.  By the time Joe and his wingman began strafing the small aircraft, they were within sight of land.  When the small, brown, fluttering objects burst free from destroyed miniature aircraft, Joe didn’t know what to think.  He kept on blazing away.  It wasn’t long till some BATs found their way into Joe’s, and his buddy’s, turbine engines.  Blades shattered, and the aircraft went down into the drink.  BATs and proto-queens, some riding comfortably in the tiny little airliners, and some not, found their way to land.

 

 

CHAPTER 26

 

     It was Friday night, and Gloria was traveling north on I-29, leaving San Francisco, and heading towards Kelseyville for the weekend. In the rear of her van, she had a large stash of medicines she’d managed to pilfer from the recently nationalized hospital where she worked. She’d had enough of playing by the rules, and was determined to do what was right, instead.

     She’d had enough of watching her new-found Baha’i friends pay, pay, and pay some more taxes, giving up more than three-quarters of what they wrested from the land, growing grapes, pears, and walnuts in their orchards and vineyards by the sweat of their brows, and then having to wait years and years for big-daddy Uncle Socialism to give them some shoddy medical care, when they needed it.  The Baha’i had no political connections, so they couldn’t hop to the front of the lines, like the rich and powerful folks in the big city.  Nor were they rich enough to afford to go out beyond the twelve-mile limits of US territorial waters, where the floating hospital ships provided decent medical care to those who were rich, but not politically connected.

     Private doctors had recently become a thing of the past. Socialized medicine would brook no competition.  It just wasn’t fair, to allow sleazy private doctors and insurance companies to take money from people for that which was their basic right, so Uncle Socialism had put an end to it.  People like the Baha’i paid, but got very little benefit. Gloria had decided that by hook or by crook, she was going to help them.

     She was driving a sedate fifty-five miles an hour, up highway twenty-nine, making sure the oinkers wouldn’t pull her over and discover her stash of medicines, when the news came over the radio.  Bioweapons were loose, just south of San Francisco!  The Chinese had somehow managed to fling some BELFRYBATs at the coast of California, apparently from a submarine.  Gloria noticed that they weren’t calling them “slick” SLKs anymore, now that they were loose on American soil.  BELFRYBATs?, she asked herself.  She’d not heard the acronym before.  She listened to the radio intently, and eventually heard an explanation.  The less-slick name had only recently leaked out, now that wartime censorship was winding down.

     She stepped on the gas pronto, as she listened to more details coming in over the radio.  She was doing ninety before long, and she noticed that others were doing the same.  A lot of south-bound traffic soon started swerving across the median, though, and north-bound traffic soon snarled.  Ninety MPH became twenty MPH.

     Gloria sat there in her van worrying.  The newscaster’s attempts to calm listeners by explaining how the BATs would spread slowly, only after some queens reached maturity and laid lots of eggs, didn’t help much.  She wanted to get to the Baha’i community, and fast!  They, and Gloria, would need to follow the advice being given over the radio, and shutter all windows and barricade or very securely lock all doors, and hang tight indoors, until the BATs were brought under control.  Gloria noticed that the question of exactly how the BATs would be brought under control, and how soon, wasn’t being addressed.

     She spent a few minutes trying to imagine what things were like in San Francisco.  Probably the traffic was at a stand-still, she thought. Probably everyone is looting and fighting, trying to grab and hoard supplies for the coming onslaught of BATs.  Hopefully, lots of people have supplies laid away for earthquakes, that’ll tide them over during the BAT attacks.  So, how many supplies do we need, anyway?  How long will this last?  Or, will there be no end¾just, an End?  Why do I assume that the USA will be any different than China, anyway?

     Earthquakes, mudslides, riots, and now, BELFRYBATs.  I’d sure love to leave California, if I knew of a better place to go, she thought. Maybe these damned bioweapons will decimate the entire US, anyway.  So, what did I read about these “slick” BELFRYBATs?  Weren’t they supposedly limiting them to China, with leash compounds?  Leash compounds that were protected from prying Chinese weapons researchers, by all sorts of nifty technological tricks?  So, what did the Chinese do?  Surely, they wouldn’t bother to dump a handful of BATs on us without them being able to reproduce!  Did they figure out the leash compounds?  If so, how do they expect to deliver enough compounds to sustain an attack on the US, what with there being almost no China left?

     It was then that that most chilling thought ran through her mind. Had the Chinese somehow managed to take the leash off?  Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought them back.  She had to keep her eyes on the road, even if she was down to 15 MPH. Why couldn’t she somehow have kept Phil from helping to create such monsters!  Why had she failed!  Should she somehow have been able to see the future better, and killed Phil at that point, to save humanity?  What a ridiculous thought, she thought.

     She’d done the best she could, and he’d finally come around, now, apparently.  Even if it was too late, he’d come around.  Obviously, one can’t go around killing people to save the world from what they might do, even if they announce their intentions.  Else, we’d never give them a chance to reform themselves.  OK, so, maybe, if they’re always running around and threatening to kill people, we’ll let them reform themselves in jail.  Still...

     Her thoughts were interrupted when she realized that she was within a mile or so of the exit to the Baha’i community, but that the traffic wasn’t moving any more at all.  I can’t handle this, she thought, and swerved right, onto the rough, narrow shoulder, four-wheeling it.  She was quite thoroughly aware of the fact that California was really cracking down on all the drivers who used to always do this kind of thing, in all the traffic jams.  She had been enviously watching as a few police cars had driven by her on the right, amazed that all the BAT-crazed drivers weren’t following the example set by the police.

     So, rather than wait for the herd instinct to take over, and for hundreds of cars to clog the shoulders, as well¾after all, a few cops couldn’t arrest hundreds of drivers¾she decided to go for it.  She’d be the first, and there was only a short little ways to go, to her exit!

     As luck would have it, there was a cop behind her, zipping over the top of the hill behind her, just as she pulled out.  She stomped the pedal to the metal, and the van slowly picked up speed, with the trooper closing in on her.  Oh-oh, now I’m a real criminal, she thought.  Just wait till they find my stash!  OK, here comes that exit, now¾just take it, and hope that Trooper is on an Important Mission, far more important than busting poor, pretty, little ol’ me.

     There he is, pulling up alongside me now, she thought, taking the turn.  She slowed down to a crawl, turned, and smiled and waved at the officer in the most charming manner she could summon, what with being a completely nerve-wracked almost-mess.

     Trooper smiled and waved back, and continued on his way, although he did wag a finger at her.  She breathed an utterly humongous sigh of relief, and drove on down the country road to the Baha’i community.  This business of being a heinous criminal has got to stop, she thought.  If only my conscience didn’t require me to be a criminal!  Stealing, you say?  So what?  What do you call this thing that the government is doing to taxpayers?

     So now that we’re heavily socialized, we’ll be just like the Soviets used to be¾the only way we can get decent stuff, is to pilfer it from work.  Take-home pay is low, and so are supplies, due to price controls.  Letting the market determine prices is just so unfair, so we’ll let political connections determine who gets what, instead.  Even more so than before, playing by the rules is now for chumps.  Everyone pilfers.  I’ll just see if I can’t pilfer a little less selfishly than the rest, and follow the right “rules beyond the rules”.  I’d sure prefer that things were otherwise, but they haven’t asked me to be the Big Cheese, yet.  Probably won’t happen anytime soon, either.

     The Baha’is had already gotten the word, and they were busy doing something about it.  Not being particularly stupid, they’d decided to stick together.  The cube-square law dictated that larger structures contain more volume for less surface area, but they didn’t think of it that way.  They just knew that they had far fewer doors and windows to barricade and shutter, if they all got together and stayed in the large, old church building that served as the focus of their community.  Sure, it would be a wee tad crowded, but it would be far better than having to shore up forty separate, individual houses.  Plus, there was strength to be found in numbers, in community.  They were calmly busy, hauling food, supplies, clothing, and bedding into the church, and boarding up the windows.

     Gloria promptly hauled her loot of medicines into the church.  No one asked any questions.  She looked over the latest scrapes, bruises, and ear infections on and in a few children, and dispensed a few antibiotics.  She thought, this sure is a welcome change from doing government paperwork all day, and every once in a while, doing some surgery.  Too bad she couldn’t put this experience on her resume!

     After completing her doctoring duties, she got to work dragging food and supplies into the church.  They were well aware of the fact that it would take the BATs at least a few days to get to them, but most of them decided to play it very safe, staying in the barricaded church that night.  A few were brave enough to remain in their homes, though.

     Gloria dropped off to sleep that night at eleven, exhausted, in the church.  She didn’t fall asleep right away, though.  She took a few minutes, first, to reflect on what she’d seen that day, and to compare and contrast it to what she knew must have been happening in San Francisco.  OK, so, in southern San Francisco, BATs were stinging and killing people, and proto-queens were fattening up and losing their wings, in preparation for laying thousands of eggs.

     But, that’s not what she was thinking about.  She was thinking about how everyone in the Baha’i community was pulling together, and calmly, rationally working for the common good, while, without a doubt, in San Francisco, they were looting and fighting over survival supplies. Probably, in places, they’d be tearing down each other’s houses for supplies for boarding up windows and barricading doors, she thought with a shudder.  She resolved not to worry too much about what would happen to her condo, or her poor little puddy-tat, and dropped off to sleep.

     The next day, they finished up making absolutely sure that the church was as secure as it could possibly be.  Then, they built a secure passage to a storage building only ten yards away, where church supplies, such as extra furniture, were kept.  These were carted off to the nearest house.  The storage building was shored up, also.  Now, they had as much room for supplies as they could ever realistically need. Yet more food and supplies were cached.  Hardly a scrap of non-perishable food was left in any house.

     They had all been making sure that they were eating their perishables first, because they weren’t so sure that electricity would last too much longer.  That turned out to be a good idea, because, sometime during the middle of the night on Saturday night, the electricity failed, and didn’t come back.  Gloria figured that either those BATs must be reproducing and growing awfully fast, or people were doing it to themselves, in a BAT-induced panic.  Their battery-powered radios didn’t tell them much, either, besides that they should barricade themselves, and that they shouldn’t panic.  Gloria wondered just how much panic was being induced by the radio announcer always telling the listeners not to panic.  Panic?  I shouldn’t panic?  You mean, there’s something to panic about?  Hey, let’s panic!

     On Sunday, they had a perishable-foods party.  Everyone had their fill of mushy ice cream, steaks, milk, etc.  They tried to enjoy it all as much as they could, knowing that it might be a while till they’d be able to enjoy those particular foods again.  Sunday was mostly a goof-off day, during which they took it easy, and tried not to worry too much about the approaching BATs.  About the only work they did, was to tear fuel cells and fuel tanks out of a few automobiles, and set them up in the church, so that they’d have a reliable source of electrical power for a few small lights and battery-driven radios, long after their last chemical batteries were used up.

     Periodically, Gloria tried to call back East, to see if she could get through to Bethesda Naval hospital where they were keeping Phil, to leave him a message that she was OK.  The phones were always tied up, though, and the Baha’is had never bothered to get hooked up to ONLINE. Finally, Sunday morning, she at least got to leave a message with the hospital operator, before being cut off abruptly.

     She knew she probably wouldn’t be allowed to talk to Phil directly, what with him apparently having fallen from grace lately, but she wasn’t sure.  She resolved to keep on trying periodically.  By noon on Sunday, though, the phones had died.  No electricity, and no phone.  They were on their own!  Water, at least, they had plenty of.  They had a windmill-driven water pump, a large cistern up on a hill, and gravity-driven flow through pipes, down to the houses and church.

     Sunday night, everyone slept in the church.  They didn’t know just when the BATs would start to show up, but they were getting more and more nervous with each passing day.

     On Monday, they had a town meeting.  First, they tackled a difficult problem: what to do with the animals.  There were the usual dogs and cats, as well as flocks of goats, which grazed in the orchards. Obviously, they couldn’t all share the church with the humans, when the BATs came.

     There were long and passionate discussions about whether it would be best to kill all the animals, so that they wouldn’t suffer, when the humans had to abandon them, or whether it was best to just let them run, and fend for themselves as best they could.  Finally, consensus was reached: individual cat and dog owners should decide for themselves. However, under no circumstances would anyone be allowed to bring pets into the church with them.  It was just too crowded.  There would be no exceptions.

     The goats, they decided, were to be slaughtered, to provide additional food for their cache, if the meat could be canned, salted, or smoked in time, before the BATs got there.  Also, this would prevent all the goats from becoming a major source of food for the BATs, inducing them to hang around.  This brought up the questions of whether or not BATs ate livestock, and just how long it would be till they would get there.  Also, how would they arrive?  One or two at first, or a whole flock at once, with no warning?  They didn’t want to get caught out there, slaughtering goats, when the BATs came.  On the other hand, they sure didn’t want to slaughter the goats in, or close to, the church, for fear of rotting wastes smelling to high heaven, and presenting a health hazard.

     Despite all the unknowns, consensus was achieved.  Two guards were to be dispatched, with binoculars and two of the few guns kept in the community, to stand watch from the church’s bell tower.  They would constantly scan the horizon for arriving BATs, ringing the bell, and firing their weapons, upon seeing any BATs.  With this protection, they would risk staying outside, a hundred yards away from the church, slaughtering goats, for just a few days.

     The meeting broke up, and people left for the very sad task of either setting out pet food for pets to be abandoned, or gathering up pets to be euthanized.  Most pet owners chose euthanasia, but a few dogs, mostly large, robust ones, were allowed to run.  No one attempted to lay any guilt trips on anyone else about their decisions.  A bulldozer dug a large trench for pet bodies and goat-butchering wastes, a hundred yards from the church.  Children were herded into the church, a few guns were brought out, and the grim task was executed.  The strength of numbers came out once more; no one had to execute their own pet.

     Gloria stayed with the kids; they needed all the comforting they could get.  She tried not to think certain thoughts, but found it impossible to control her mind.  Months from now, will we starve, wishing we’d not only stashed available pet food, but also canned and smoked cat and dog meat?  Yuck!  What about my poor kitty-cat, back in my condo?  Could I eat her, too?  Maybe it’s just better to starve with dignity!  If we ever get to that point, though, we’ll be thinking differently.  After all, in a pinch, humans have been known to eat the dead.  OK, push this crap out of my mind, and take care of the little ones.

     Slaughtering the goats was considerably easier than slaughtering the house pets.  So, it was a little hard, and the children had to be kept out of sight for the goriest parts, but the job got done.  Gloria even helped.  By the end of Wednesday, the job was done.

     On Thursday, everyone stayed inside and took it easy.

     On Friday, the children were quite restless, and there were still no BATs in sight, so the guards were posted to the belfry once more, and the children were allowed to play outside.  It was then that the lone, large scout worker BAT showed up on the horizon.  Chow in San Francisco had proved especially plentiful and fattening, and the BATs were blazing on to new feeding grounds.

     Shots and shouts sounded, and the bell clanged.  Gloria had no idea that it was just one lone scout BAT, scouting rather than foraging. Still, without a thought to her own safety, she dashed out there and helped grab the screaming children, herding, dragging, and carrying them into the safety of the church.  The siege was on!

 

 

CHAPTER 27

 

     Phil, having sworn off mind-numbing FOS-TV, wasn’t watching the news that Friday night in Bethesda Naval Hospital.  He was feeling quite recovered by then, and was starting to suspect the hospital was really serving as more of a jail, in his case.  He was skimming through an anthology of science fiction, trying to find something of substance, or at least, excitement, to read.

     A nurse/guard/agent/whatever-he-was, who obviously knew exactly who Phil was, barged in on him, gravely suggesting that maybe Phil would like to watch the news.  They put a news channel on pronto, and Phil was in time to catch most of it.  He had plenty of time later to hear it again¾the newscasters beat the topic to death, repeating each little snippet of news over and over again, as they seemed to be so fond of doing, whenever there was “Big News” to be covered.

     It didn’t take Phil long to catch the gist of it.  BELFRYBATS were loose in California!  His mind raced, taking only seconds to figure it out.  OK, now: would a dying, last-gasp Chinese government squander precious resources to dump a few handfuls of sterile BATs onto the US, just to induce a fleeting few moments of terror?  Hardly likely.  Ergo, they’ve figured out what the leash compounds are.  Still, would they bother, without being able to sustain deliveries of leash compounds, which they’re surely no longer capable of?  They’ve taken the leash off! How could they!  Never mind how; all that matters, is that they almost definitely have done it.  His blood ran cold, and waves of guilt and terror washed over him, threatening to wash him into the abyss.

     He fought back, summoning strength he never suspected he had.  He dispatched an entreaty or two to the no-longer-imaginary All-being, and a firm resolved energized every last cell in his body.  What technology could create, technology could destroy, with a little bit of help. Soon, very soon, they’d come by begging for his help, and he, in turn, would beg for some help from an unseen Source.

     He’d be allowed to go back to ABC, and he’d slave away.  It didn’t take him long to see that at all.  They would devise some pathogens or parasites, or some combination of the two, specifically tailored to wipe this BELFRYBAT abomination off the face of the Earth, and send it back to the darkness from which it had sprung.  The darkness of “creative” imaginations of the likes of the former Phil Schrock, that is.  Here was his chance, so soon, so unexpectedly, and so obviously¾but also, in such a regrettable manner, since this was a chance to be a hero he’d rather not have had¾to tear the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite!

     It was all that he could do, to refrain from trying to call Frank, and twisting his ears.  He couldn’t exactly fathom why, but for some reason, he knew that he needed to wait for them to come to him.  He pondered a bit.  Maybe they’d think he had some hidden agenda, if he sounded too anxious to get to work, destroying that which he had so recently helped to create.  As if any decent human being needed much motivation to try to save humanity, he thought.  But, most of these people aren’t decent human beings.  Who could blame them for thinking that I’m just like them, always operating from hidden agendas?  What hidden agenda could possibly lurk behind wanting to preserve human lives by the millions?

     Then, he had some embarrassing thoughts, because they reminded him that he was still nothing but a greedy, power-hungry, selfish human being, like anyone else.  His only virtue was that he was now aware of, and on the defense against, his dark side.  He thought, indeed, what power I might be able to grasp at, by saying, OK, now, I will only help destroy the BATs if you...  what?  Legalize drugs?  Abolish socialism? Limit government to only the things that governments absolutely have to do, out of the knowledge that governments are made of fallible human beings, and therefore, the best way to limit government fuck-ups, is to limit government itself?

     Hell, I might as well demand that they make me Grand Pooh-bah of the Universe!  Then, I could pass that one special law: Everyone MUST love everyone else.  Violators will be shot at dawn, but in a loving manner.  Then, I could resign my office, and everyone would live happily ever after.

     Obviously, I can’t go tacking conditions on my providing help, in wiping these gruesome monsters off the face of the globe, he realized. Acting like that would be as beastly as the very beasts that I helped to create.  But, I should surely demand one thing, not as a price, or reward, but simply as a method of allowing me to get my job done: no muzzles, and no shadows!  I need, and will have, my freedom!  And if, someday, after this is all over, I use my freedom to write a book¾even if I have to move overseas to do it, and publish it¾and if I embarrass these assholes, hopefully so badly that the next set of assholes will have a much harder time of plying their trade¾then, that’s just too bad for the bungholes.  But, I surely am not going to worry about that now, nor am I going to mention that to them!

     He went to bed early that night, thinking, maybe I can build up a sleep reserve for the coming lean times.  He tossed and turned all night, drifting in and out of sleep, dreams, half-sleep, hypnogogia, and semi-sleep.  He didn’t feel any more refreshed than usual that morning; probably somewhat the opposite was true.  But, some ideas had crystallized in his mind.  He had become convinced that there was just no way that the Chinese had been able to redesign the BAT queens and their leash chemical receptors in such a short time, and that the only way they could have pulled off what they’d apparently accomplished, was to design leash-manufacturing intestinal bacteria.  Now, all he’d have to do, was to figure out how to wipe out the bacteria.  His mind was already cranking on a vector, or method of getting anti-bacterial agents to the queens.

     So, he figured, we’ve got to attach the very highest priority to getting some samples of these intestinal bacteria.  Should I be on the horn to Frank?  No, I’ve got to let those bums think they’re calling the shots, that they’re the movers and shakers.  I can’t be cutting into their turf.  It’d be best if I just sit here and try to think creative thoughts, even if my information is extremely limited.

     Phil chomped at the bit pretty badly, but exercised great self-restraint.  His patience was rewarded late that Saturday morning, when, lo and behold, through his door came tromping, not only Frank, but also the President!  Almost all of Phil’s intentions of being meek and humble crumbled instantly.

     Phil had never met the President before, but he did his best to appear as if Important People of the likes of Popes, Presidents, and Pooh-bahs paid their respects to him on a regular basis.  The President looked quite haggard, as if he’d been through the spin-dry cycle a few times too many.  Frank didn’t look like freshly cut daisies either, but he wasn’t quite down to the President’s standards.  Frank introduced Phil to President Kite, not bothering to say anything about the three secret service goons trailing behind the President.

     “About time you lard-asses got here,” Phil intoned in a flat voice, boring into Kite’s face.  “So, did y’all bring the bail money?  Ya think that maybe I might be the lesser of evils, and that maybe I should be allowed to take a crack at tearing the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite?”

     Kite looked only mildly shocked, probably because he was so beat. He didn’t say anything for a second or two, and Phil didn’t bother to look at Frank.  Instead, he took his chance to get a few more digs in. “So tell me, did ya bring me silver, did ya bring me gold, to save me from the hangman?  Did you bring lawyers, guns, or money?  I’m in a fix, here.  Maybe you could help me.  I’m all fixed up, but I seem to have no place to go.  Nothing to do, even.  Y’all think maybe you could find a poor ol’ dog a bone to worry?”

     Phil could just about see Frank shitting a concrete block, out of the corner of his eye, but he kept watching Kite.  Kite finally spoke up, wearily.  “Yes, Doctor Schrock, I think we could find something for you to do.  In fact, I’m sure of it.  As I’m sure you know, we seem to have a little problem out there on the West Coast, and we think you might be able to help us out.  What do you think?”

     The President, asking me what I think?  Now, this has got to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Phil thought.  Probably, he’s just getting sloppy, what with being so bushed.  Still, I can’t turn this down.  This isn’t kicking a man when he’s down, it’s afflicting the comfortable.  The usually comfortable, at least.  “I think I might be able to work more effectively without shackles on.  Without muzzles, shadows, or busybodies looking over my shoulders, or vague, nebulous, and mysterious possible charges hovering over my head.  Now, I’m not demanding anything, besides a chance to take the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite.  I’m just telling you what things might help me work harder and faster.

     “Actually, while we’re at it, though, I can think of one other thing that might motivate me.  I think it would just energize me as almost nothing else could¾you know, renew and refresh my faith in humanity, and all, and make me realize how even the lowest semi-human slime are worth saving from the damned, vile BELFRYBATs¾if I could actually witness the spectacle of a big-shot politician admitting error. Apologizing, maybe, even.”

     Kite, despite looking like the cat had just dragged him in, reacted as if he’d been slapped with a whole slew of false accusations.  Phil hurried on, to answer the question implied by Kite’s expression.  “For fibbing to me, and to the public.  For fibbing to all of us at ABC, about just how far along this crazy BELFRYBAT project was, earlier on. Epsilon was developing leash delivery systems, without breathing a word to us, while we were being told all this was just for simulated biowars, with only a few of us even knowing about verifications.  For fibbing to the sailors about my space cooties.  For fibbing to the public, about what I was doing in Tonkytown.  For taking my freedom from me, when I did nothing wrong, and for having goons accuse me falsely.  For taking the whole country’s freedoms away.  For committing genocide against the Chinese, without giving peace a real chance.”

     Phil could see that defensive wall sliding up behind Kite’s eyes. Well, hell, he thought, if none of this is going anywhere, anyway, I might as well have my fun.  “For fibbing to the whole country, about how the government is going to make everything perfect forever, with more laws, more taxes, more jails, more cops, more weapons, more socialism, and more lawyers.  For...”

     Kite finally had enough.  Disgusted, he broke into Phil’s tirade. “OK, Doctor.  You’re the Doctor.  Whatever it takes.  I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve ever done.  For all the bad things I didn’t do, too. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.  I’m the sorriest son-of-a-bitch that ever lived.”

     Phil wished he’d gotten that on tape.  A short and truthful political speech, at last!  Kite went on.  “Frank, see to it that Prima Donna, here, gets whatever he needs.  Give him immunity for all his treasonous acts and attempted acts.  Get him some goodies lined up, if he pulls this off for us.  Sign on the dotted line for me.  If he delivers for us, whatever he wants.  Czar of all peanut quota enforcement, an NEA grant for his turd sculptures, federal jobs for his house plants.  Whatever it takes.  Keep him happy, by all means.  Now, I’ve got to roll.  C’mon, boys.” He beckoned to his Secret Service goons.

     Phil was embarrassed.  If Kite wasn’t capable of a sincere and specific apology, then Phil would show him how it was done.  Maybe, someday, if enough people demonstrated, Kite might catch on.  “Sir, I’m sorry.  You’re probably having a rough enough time, without me acting... childish.  Come on back, and I’ll try to talk like a civilized person.”

     Kite came back, and dropped into a chair.  He shut his eyes for just a moment, and sighed.  Phil got down to business, as he now realized he should have done right away.  “Sir, it’s imperative that we get some samples of what I suspect is in the guts of the BAT queens. We’ll skip my logic, but I’m convinced that what they’ve done, is to put microbes that make leash compounds into their intestines.  I can’t believe that they managed to figure out the leash compounds in the first place, but that doesn’t matter now.  What matters, is that they did it.

     “We need to get samples of those microbes, and the more different ways, the better.  In other words, we should try to just kill a few queens, grab some intestinal contents, and culture the microbes in a similar environment during their trip to ABC.  I’d suggest you call Brad Kissinger at ABC.  He’d be able to fix you up real quick with simulated queen guts, to get the gut-bugs back to ABC.

     “Just in case that doesn’t work, we might build real queen intestines in vats, without the hassles of transporting entire queens. We’d inject samples of intestinal contents from freshly slain queens into the guts, and get them back to ABC.  If even that doesn’t work, we’ll have to capture live queens and bring them to ABC.  With any luck, the simplest and easiest method will work.  I just want y’all to be aware of the contingencies, ahead of time.

     “It gets worse.  If the Chinese were extremely devious and clever, then they may even have tied the microbes into the trauma detection system that destroys the queens’ receptors if the queens are captured or hurt.  I doubt that they had the time to do that, but you never know.  I mean, they may have rigged it so that the intestinal bacteria die if the queens are molested.  In that case, we’d have to devise some sort of weapon that shoots a hollow sample-retrieving needle into their guts, so that, milliseconds after first trauma, we’ve already got our sample isolated from the queen.  If anyone has that kind of technology laying around, we’d want to have it handy, just in case.

     “The bottom line is that we’ve got to get samples, and the sooner, the better.  I can start working on a vector, or method of getting an agent to the queens to wipe out whatever they’ve put in there, but we’ve got to know what we’re shooting at.  Without that knowledge, we’re dead in the water.  I pity the poor troops who’ll have to fetch these samples, but it’s got to be done.  I’d volunteer to do it, if I didn’t feel that maybe my skills might be put to better uses elsewhere.  I mean, I hate to be asking people to do things for me that I wouldn’t do, at least in principle.  But, you know, I’m half of the way to being an old fart, like you guys.  Send them my moral support, but we’ve got to get some brave souls to pull this off for us.  Can do?”

     Richard and Frank looked at each other, and grinned a bit, despite being bushed.  Frank spoke up.  “Good news on at least one front.  We’ve learned a few things from some ingenious aircraft factory workers in Guangdong.  They had an anaerobic foundry, suits of light armor that they used to work in there with, and sputtering guns that spayed out droplets of molten metals.  Apparently, they were able to adapt this stuff, and fight back against the BATs with a fair degree of success. We’ve been working on some weapons of the same kind, just in case we’d ever need to fight BATs without having to use gas.  Looks like this ace in the hole is just what we need!  We should be able to get troops in there, and pull it off without too much danger to themselves.”

     “OK,” Kite agreed.  “Let’s do it!  Queen proto-poop, full speed ahead!  How are we going to get the troops out there and back, fast, without the BATs knocking them down with FOD, like those two poor fighter jocks who went out there to check out that sub?”

     “No sweat,” Frank chimed in.  “HALO jumpers.  High Altitude, Low Opening.  We’ll suit ‘em up in armor, give ‘em oxygen for the first part of their descent, and all the equipment and weapons that they’ll need when they land.  We’ll fly ‘em in at very high altitudes, way outside of the BATs’ envelope.  Drop ‘em off, and they’ll open up their ‘chutes real low.  ‘Chutes, of course, don’t get foreign object damage.  Then, they’ll get the samples from the queens, load ‘em onto small rockets, and shoot ‘em way up into the air, above the BAT’s envelope, where they’ll be scooped up by aircraft.  Can do.

     “We’ll do that first, and keep the troops there for a while.  Drop off whatever supplies they ask for.  If we have to, we’ll then have to drop in queen guts in vats, cages, pooper scooper hollow needle weapons, whatever.  Keep ‘em there till the job is done, in other words.  We can figure out later, just exactly how to get vats or caged queens or what have you out, fast, if we have to.  As far as getting the troops back out, we can ‘chute in vehicles for them, if they can’t just commandeer abandoned cars or something.  Our intelligence says a lot of roads out there are clogged with abandoned cars, so we might even have to drop robotic, legged ATVs off to them.  Anyway, not to worry.  Can do!”

     Kite nodded appreciatively.  “All right.  Let’s go for it!  Doctor Schrock.  What else might we do for you?”

     Set me free!  Get out of my way!  Knight me Sir Grand Pooh-bah, Phil thought.  But, we’ve been down that road before, and there’s nothing but a dead end.  “Just get me back to ABC, and let me get after these damned BELFRYBATs.  Let me take a stab at removing the Schrock from Schrock-Leech-Kite.”

     Phil wasn’t absolutely sure, but he thought he could tell he was getting under their skins just a bit, with the Schrock-Leech-Kite thing.  Well, let ‘em be annoyed.  Maybe someday they’ll want to take the Leech and the Kite out of Leech-Kite.  The President got into his speech-making mode just long enough to remind Phil how so much depended on him¾as if he needed reminding!¾and how America would owe him so much if he could help to slay the BATs.

     Phil was on his way to ABC soon enough.  Frank even helped him pack his few belongings, and get him out of the hospital without too much red tape.  Gingerly, Frank mentioned to Phil that, although he’d be a free man, many people would breathe a lot easier if he’d agree to either stay at ABC till this thing was over, or let some agents guard him on trips to his home.  Preferably, Phil would stay at ABC.  They just couldn’t afford to have Phil take any risks at all.  Phil reluctantly agreed, and Frank promised to see to it that ABC would find a room for Phil to live in temporarily, and that agents would bring Phil whatever he needed from his house.

     Phil got to ABC just barely in time to help Brad Kissinger, who’d been called in that Saturday for this special purpose, to check over the hastily contrived queen-gut-bug incubator before it was shipped off to the troops.  Brad and Phil called in a handful of other essential workers, and they put their noses to the grindstone.  They worked very efficiently during the weekend, since there was hardly anyone there to bother them.  He didn’t even waste more than a few thousand picoseconds worrying about whether the EPA would bust him for violating the Endangered Species Act, by wiping out the BELFRYBATs.

     Phil slaved away all of Saturday and Sunday, day and night, taking mostly just half-hour naps.  Early Sunday afternoon, he got the message from Bethesda Naval Hospital, that Gloria had left a message.  She had made it to the Baha’i compound in Kelseyville, and was safe!  Probably she’ll be a lot better off there, than in San Francisco, Phil figured. Still, he worried a lot about her, and sure hoped she’d stay safe.  He tried to call a few times, but gave it up as hopeless, and got back to work with renewed energy and motivation.  Gloria’s predicament added a powerful personal dimension to Phil’s urgent efforts.

     By noon Monday, when the queen-gut-bug samples got to ABC, the framework for the vector was pretty solid.  Phil and the gang had worked harder and faster than ever before, and had designed the major parts of a new creature in just a few days.  The very latest and greatest computer, delivered only a few weeks earlier, had a bit to do with it, though.

     The plan was to load up the semi-living leash-delivering mini-planes with special capsules, containing a little substitute surprise.  The capsules would smell the same as the real McCoy, attracting the large worker BATs, which would conduct the usual neuro-chemical rituals to retrieve the capsules from the mini-planes, either in flight, or after the planes had landed.

     The capsules wouldn’t contain leash chemicals, though.  They would contain hundreds of small, flying insect-like creatures specifically designed to parasitize BATs and queens of all kinds.  They wouldn’t even need a leash, since they would be completely dependent on proteins found nowhere but in BAT blood.  When the neuro-chemical capsule-transfer ritual would be performed the second time, upon transfer from larger worker BAT to queen, the capsule wouldn’t be swallowed by the queen. Instead, the capsule would burst, and the bugs would parasitize not only the queen, but also many worker BATs in the vicinity.  The bugs would be capable of reproduction.  They would, however, be equipped with the checksum feature to prevent mutations.

     Upon trauma to the mini-plane or to the large worker BAT, instead of cargo destruction, bug release would be triggered.  In fact, after a certain time, even abandoned capsules would release their contents.  By hook and by crook, by mini-plane and by reproduction, the whole population of BATs would be rapidly infested with tiny, flying, blood-sucking skin parasites.  The fact that, unlike social insects, worker BATs had no loyalty to a specific hive and queen, meant that worker BATs would migrate between hives, spreading the parasites like wildfire.  The parasites would slowly poison their hosts, and dead and dying worker BATs would be eaten by the queens.  Queens, after all, had been designed to do exactly that, and they would also eat the skin parasites along with the dead and dying workers.

     All that remained was to flesh out the basic framework of the parasite design¾not that that was a minor task¾and to figure out exactly what goodies should be stowed in the parasites, to wipe out the unknown Chinese-designed queen-gut-bugs.  The BAT-killing poisons in the parasites had to be designed to be mild and slow-acting, or else they’d kill their hosts too fast, and therefore not spread efficiently. However, the parasites could be loaded with agents immediately deadly to the so-far-hypothetical leash-compound-manufacturing queen-gut-bugs.

     Phil promptly dropped his design work when the queen proto-poop samples got to ABC.  Within a day, they’d cultured large amounts of simulated queen poop, and isolated the leash-compound¾manufacturing synthetic bacteria.  Lady Luck had smiled on them!

     Phil promptly got on the horn to let Frank know that the troops had done an excellent job, and that they could pack their bags and go home. If Phil hadn’t been so preoccupied with getting back to work, he might have noticed that Frank was uncharacteristically quiet, and didn’t offer glorious war stories about how the queen proto-poop had been collected.

     Phil and the gang worked even harder and faster.  About the only thing that Phil thought about, other than wiping out BELFRYBATs, during this time, was Gloria.  He started to nurture schemes to cash in on some debts, and make Frank and the feds help him go and rescue her from the BATs, as soon as the parasites were shown to be effective, and rolling off the assembly lines, so to speak.  Actually, the seed stocks of bugs were to be grown in vats.  If she’s still alive, he thought, despite his most valiant attempts not to think that particular thought.

     Sitting back and waiting for the BATs to die off would be way too slow.  He’d have to know Gloria’s status as soon as possible, after he’d done his duties.  However strongly he cared about Gloria, there were millions of other lives involved.  Taking the Schrock out of Schrock-Leech-Kite, as best as he could, had to be assigned top priority.  Who knows how far the BATs will get, in twelve generations, before their cycle counters trip and shut them down, he thought, if we don’t get these parasites out there soon.  Hell, maybe they’ll get all the way to the East Coast!

     Thursday had rolled by when doubts crept in.  What if the Chinese had managed to design not just one, but several leash-compound-manufacturing strains of bacteria?  What if their sample of queen proto-poop didn’t provide the whole story?  Phil took some time off from completing the parasite design to devise a kit that could be sent out to the field.  Now, troops could sample queen guts, and, within a matter of minutes, isolate any intestinal fauna capable of manufacturing leash compounds.  The entire genotype of any such fauna could then be compared to the known strain, also in the field.  ABC could be notified of any mismatches immediately, and samples could then be sent to ABC.  Thus, they’d cover all the bases, without tying ABC down in drudgery, and without incurring long delays in shipping samples for simple analysis.

     Phil called Frank to let him know about this, and to suggest that maybe some troops should get some more samples, just in case.  Frank’s response was, “So, if we do find different strains out there, how far does that set us back?”

     “Not far,” Phil replied.  “We’re almost done with the insect-like skin parasites, and they, being the complex part of the system, are the difficult part.  Finding more target strains would merely mean that we’ve now got to devise yet more microbes to load into the parasites. Being much simpler than the parasites themselves, such microbes take a lot less time to design.  In fact, we’re also almost done with the microbes that kill our first¾and, hopefully, only¾target bacteria. I’d say that by Sunday, we should be ready to rock and roll.  Even if we discover more strains, we should get this effort started now.”

     Frank agreed.  “OK.  Make us bunches of your bug-laden fake leash compound capsules, and send them to Epsilon, just as soon as you can. If not sooner.  We’ll take care of the rest.  Meanwhile, start cranking out your kits.  Can you get me, say, a dozen or so?  And, by when?”

     “We sort of cobbled this together.  We’ve only got parts for ten, and it would take weeks to get more parts.  We really should keep one here for correlation to the field.  I can spare you nine.  We can ship them to wherever you want them, tomorrow morning.”

     “OK.  Just let us know exactly when you can get them to Atlanta’s airport, and we’ll have military air transport take it from there.  To Hill AFB in Utah, where we’ll take three of them for our front.  The rest, we’ll ship on over to Russia.”

     This baffled Phil.  “What the hell are we doing, sending this shit over there?”

     “Keep it under your hat, but it seems we’ve got an outbreak of leashless BATs on the Russian front.  We’ve got fairly good transport infrastructure here on our Western BAT front, so three kits, to one destination, should do it.  We’ll handle it from there.  The front over there is a much bigger mess, and covers a wider area by far.  We’ll probably split the remaining six kits, and send them on at least three different aircraft, and hopefully, some of them can get through to decent airfields fairly close to the front.”

     “Can’t you ‘chute this stuff in?  Each kit is only a few hundred pounds, and we can pack it really good, and send plenty of spares for the few delicate parts.  We’ll also see to it, that we write up some decent instructions on how to use them, so that any reasonably intelligent person in the field can use them.  For that matter, in order to get speedy results, why don’t you just drop in armored HALO jumpers, right on top of the BATs, like you did when you got us the first samples?”

     Frank’s hologram image just stared blankly at Phil for a few seconds.  Reluctantly, Frank ‘fessed up.  “Well, it seems we didn’t quite do our homework right, on that first drop.  We bundled ‘em up in personal armor, for defense against BATs, and dropped ‘em.  Sure, their powered armor is quite formidable, and we did think of giving them extra large ‘chutes, to cover the extra weight.  Unfortunately... we didn’t think much about their stiffness.  We thought that the internal padding would protect them.  We were wrong.  We dropped off twelve troops.  Nine lived, and four of the survivors were badly hurt.  We can’t do it again.”

     “Well, can’t you crate ‘em up in really well-padded boxes, and drop ‘em off like so much cargo?”

     “Sure.  And, we can do that to your kits.  Maybe we will.  But, what happens when that blind cargo package hits a corner on a cliff, a tall building, or a tree?  It goes tumbling, and maybe gets busted up. So, maybe we could add computer steering, or human steering from inside the box, in the case of the armored troops.  But, all that would take time.  We’re not equipped for it, right now.”

     Damn! Phil thought.  I guess, there goes my idea of asking them to drop me and some troops off to go and heroically rescue Gloria.  “So, how do you get the troops in there and back out?”

     “The old, slow way.  In tanks, mostly.  We’ve got these new, eight-legged robotic vehicles, now, too.  Robospiders, the troops call ‘em.  You can’t armor them anywhere near as heavily as you can a tank, but you can travel over far rougher terrain with them.  And, one doesn’t need much armor to fend off BATs.  In a few special cases, we’ll even drop poison gas, to clear the BATs out.  Like, for securing an airfield. Generally, we prefer not to do that.”

     Yeah, Phil thought, I’d sure as hell not want to do that to the Baha’i compound in Kelseyville!  So, shall I ask Frank now, about them seeing what we can do for Gloria and the Baha’i?  Or, should I wait till I’ve done my duties?  I probably should wait.  The more time he gets to think about it, the more reasons he might think of, why we can’t do it. Still...  “Are y’all hanging onto a reserve of tanks and robospiders? You’re not committing them all to the fronts, are you?  I’d think we’d want to have a reserve, for special, unforeseen needs, you know...”

     Frank looked at him as if Phil was trying to teach a fish how to swim.  “Of course.  That’s basic military strategy, almost always.”

     “Great!  Earmark a robospider or two for me and ABC, if you would. A couple of powered, armored suits, too.  After we’ve done our job, here, we might... have some special field research we might need to attend to.”

     Frank looked at Phil very quizzically.  Phil just said, “Oh, come on.  Humor me, and don’t ask any questions.  OK?”

     “OK.  Y’all get back to work, now, you bunch of slouches!”

     “Aye, aye, Sir!” Phil got back to work, and worked harder and faster.

     By mid-day on Sunday, the design was almost completely fleshed out. There were only a few finishing details to be added to the parasitical bugs, and anti-queen-gut-bug micro-organisms had been completely designed.  Phil was just about ready to call Frank, to tell him the good news.  That’s when the news came in from the Russian front.  There was, indeed, at least one more strain of queen-gut-bug out there!

     Oh, shit! Phil thought, on hearing the news.  Now, it’ll be that much longer till I can bogey outta here, and go play knight in shining armor for Gloria.  If there’s any Gloria left, banish the thought.  Will you bums please hurry, and get me samples of this Russian bug right away!?

     By late Monday, the vats were gearing up to crank out parasites and microbes by the tens of thousands and hundreds of billions, respectively, and Phil had already moved off to designing yet another microbe, this time targeting the Russian strain of queen-gut-bug.  Phil was a little startled to see that the Chinese hadn’t settled for merely taking the leash off with yet another strain of bacteria; they’d also apparently been trying to constantly reset the cycle counter.

     Hot damn, if we wouldn’t be right on top of this shit, we could be talking human extinction, he thought.  Or, at the very least, the collapse of technological civilization, by the time that human population density got down too low to support the BATs.  Wait!  By constantly resetting the cycle counter to generation zero, they could always be munching on other animals, as well as humans!  The first few generations, in order to gain a quick foothold, aren’t limited to a humans-only diet.  We’d have been talking about the extinction of most vertebrate land animals.  This Russian strain is bad news!

     Phil and the gang worked furiously at a counteragent to the Russian strain.  Two days later, when it was clear that the design would be finished and verified in a matter of hours, Phil called Frank once more. Phil told Frank about his schemes, and how he wanted Frank to secure some help, in conducting a raid on Kelseyville.  “I’ve got to finish de-Schrocking Schrock-Leech-Kite.  This lovely lady told me ages ago not to do this, and I didn’t listen.  I owe her, and I don’t want to sit around on my duff, waiting for the BATs to die off slowly,” Phil explained.  “I want to bust on through, and go find out how she’s doing, and help if I can, now.  And, you bums owe me.”

     “I don’t know,” Frank hedged.  “If the media finds out we’ve been playing favorites, lending you troops and millions of dollars in gear, so that you can go and rescue your old flame, well...”

     Phil got a little POed.  “The media can go to hell.  Besides, they’ll be all over me, wanting to know all about all the fun we’ve had, after this is all over.  Now, if you and your good buddy, Richard Kite, want me to speak halfway kindly about you bums at all, maybe you’d better put out a little.” Phil figured he’d better not mention to a soul, other than Gloria if she was still alive, that he was wanting to write a very dirty book, some day, about BELFRYBATs, Schrock-Leech-Kite, and all the sleazy lies the government had propagated.  Good thing I’ve been refusing to make my calls from those damned “secure rooms” lately, too, he thought.

     Frank’s hologram image just sat there and looked doubtful.  “Look,” Phil continued, “As y’all are so fond of saying, whatever it takes.  A hook, a crook, or by the book.  Probably not the latter.  Justify it as a research expedition to see, on the ground, what the BATs have done, and how effective and fast our counter-attack is.  If you can’t pull that off, then, well... tell me where I might ‘hijack’ a robospider, personal armor, arms, and a willing hijackee who can help, and show me how all this stuff works, and I can pay whatever price, later.  I’ve got to do this, though.  I’ll wrap myself in tinfoil armor, carry black-market small arms, and walk if I have to, but I’m going.  I’m a free man now, remember.  How are you going to help me?”

     Frank huffed a bit at the suggestion that maybe he couldn’t pull this off, as Phil had hoped he would.  “We’ll get you a robospider and whatever you need, and we’ll do it legit.  A research expedition is exactly what it is.  We’ll stay in touch with you via satellite, as you make your way west.  Beam us all sorts of good pictures and data.  You and two of our troops will man the spider.  You can even pick which troops you’ll take, out of a pool of volunteers.”

     “I’ll take you up on interviewing the pool.  But, I’ll take one, not two.  I’ve got a good buddy in mind, who I’d trust implicitly, to do most anything for me.  I haven’t asked him yet, but I can’t imagine him turning me down.  If he does, I’ll take two of your troops.  Otherwise, one will do.  Deal?” Phil had thought of this maneuver on the spur of the moment.  He didn’t want to run the risk of being outvoted on the spider’s three-man crew.

     “Deal.  We’ll have air transport in Atlanta for y’all tomorrow morning at eight.  From there, it’ll be to our staging grounds at Hill. There, you can select your crew member or members, and we’ll get you a day’s training if you’ll put up with it.  From there, we’ll load y’all and the spider on a big flatbed, which will take you as far into BAT-infested territory as roads and traffic jams permit.  There’s shitloads of abandoned cars on the roads, near the big cities, you know. We’ll send a tow truck with the flatbed¾all the drivers will be armored, of course¾but, sooner or later, you’ll have to take the spider the rest of the way.  It can’t do more than thirty miles an hour, tops, in smooth terrain, you know.  How’s that grab you?”

     “Sounds good, but cut that training to half a day.  That one trooper that we’ll have with us, can lend us expertise later.  On the job training, as you might say.  And, Frank?  I really appreciate this. Thanks.”

     “No sweat.  Like you say¾we owe ya, buddy.  And, you’ll be shipping us lots of good data, same as anyone else going out that way. Good luck!”

     Phil promptly tromped off to have a talk with Don.  Don was just sitting around and goofing off when Phil got there, since all the excitement was dying down in R&D, now that the show pretty much belonged to manufacturing.  “Don, you old geezer, how are ya?  How’s my favorite ancient nether cough?”

     “Oh, not too shabby for an old fart.  What brings your smiling face down this way?”

     “I’ve come to ask a big, big favor of you.  Don’t be afraid to turn me down, just ‘cause I’ll never talk to you again if you do.  No, seriously, this is a big favor.  Say no if you want; I won’t be pissed. I promise.” Phil looked around a bit, and lowered his voice.  “But, I’ll be sure to re-embarrass your expenses, just like I did last time.  Pay you, even, if you’ll let me, unlike the last time.”

     “So,” Don wanted to know, “Are you going to actually get some decent results out of my help this time, or you gonna go and pick fights, and land up in the hospital again?  I don’t want to be part of getting you crippled or killed, you know.”

     Phil looked a tiny bit embarrassed, and proceeded to tell Don what was in store.  Don let out a low whistle.  “Why are you asking an over-the-hill old geezer like me to help you go and swashbuckle?  I’d think you’d want a spry, strong young whupper-schnupper to help you pull this off.”

     “We’ll get our spry young whupper-schnupper at Hill Air Force Base. These suits of armor are powered, you know.  Strength doesn’t count for much.  Now, don’t let it get to your head, but there is this nebulous thing that some of you old farts collect over time.  Wisdom, or some such.  Plus, I just trust you a lot.  I’d like for you to come along, if you’re up to it.  Prune juice is on me.”

     “Hey, if you’ll have me, I’ll go.  I don’t have hardly any more adventures these days, besides wondering if someone will shoot me on the highway, and when I’ll have my next bowel movement.  Sign me up!”

     Phil got a good night’s rest¾in his own house, at that¾for the first time in many days.  By noon the next day, he and Don were at Hill AFB, learning how to operate robospiders, powered suits of armor, and all sorts of weapons.

     Phil got all bundled up in the powered armor, which was custom assembled and adjusted to suit him.  The trainers outfitted him and Don in front of a huge mirror, so that they could see exactly what all was being done.  It took them a half an hour to get armored, but the trainers explained that, now that parts selection and adjustments had been made, and with practice, it would usually only take about two minutes to get in and out of armor.  They’d sure not want to sleep in armor, inside the robospider.  When they were all done, Phil took just a few seconds to admire himself in the mirror.  Man, an I a cyborg from hell, or what?! he asked himself.

     Phil and Don were taken out to the firing range, where they learned to operate the armor’s various accessories.  Flame throwers, grenade launchers, magnesium-aluminum sputtering guns, and machine guns using both rifle and shotgun cartridges were included.  Laser targeting mechanisms made it all pretty easy.  After he and Don blew up all sorts of targets in all sorts of ways, they strutted on back to base, where they learned how to make the most out of their powered-armor amplified strength, and how to operate robospiders.  They interviewed only six volunteers, before settling on Sergeant Rusty Collins.  Rusty, a short, swarthy, powerfully muscled, easy-going young man, would complete their crew of three.

     Rusty, Don, and Phil helped load the weapons, armor, and ammo onto the spider.  The bulk of the ammunition was for the shotguns and sputtering guns, which had been shown to be most effective against BATs. Phil reflected for just a few seconds on how ironic it was, that they were equipping themselves with the very latest in weapons, to go off and fight yet another set of latest-and-greatest weaponry.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to just not bother with any of it?  But, there’s always those buttholes to be dealt with...  one’s just got to be sure not to become one of them.

     The robospider was loaded onto the flatbed, and the three of them got into the spider, at about eight that night.  The flatbed, accompanied by a fuel tanker and a tow truck, hit the road at eight that night.  The trio slept as best they could, as the caravan rolled westwards across Nevada on I-80.  They were headed towards California, to extinguish the ache in Phil’s heart.

     By the next morning, they were definitely in BAT-infested territory.  They could see a few large scouts high in the air, wheeling around and looking for prey, like vultures.  They’d descend when they saw the caravan, but Rusty, Don, or Phil would man the spider’s gun, and blast them away if they got close enough.  Not that killing a single BAT made that much difference; it just made them feel good.  But, Phil reminded himself, some of those scouts might actually be carrying proto-queens, and no parasites.  One never knows!  Nevada was so desolate, though, that they saw hardly anything.  Occasionally, but more frequently as time went by, they’d have to stop and move cars, when both lanes were blocked.

     By the end of the day, they were in Reno, Nevada, just outside of California.  It took them all night to clear the road through Reno.  The work of moving the cars was a living nightmare.  BATs had smashed the windows of cars to get at terrified occupants.  Human skeletons, some still being stripped of flesh by the synthetic demons, lay scattered in and around vehicles.  A few fancier cars, with shatterproof windows all around, instead of just on the windshield, contained intact, rotting corpses.  They must have died of thirst, rather than leaving their cars.

     Phil tried not to, but couldn’t help imagining the scenes of panic-stricken citizens trying to flee.  Despite the government’s best efforts, and days of advance warning, the attempts at an orderly evacuation had been a fiasco.  Calm, cool, rational flight would have saved millions of lives, but, not being rational, the crowds had panicked, and bollixed the whole affair, in city after city.

     Rusty, Don, and Phil stood guard as the caravan crew cleared the road.  Their shotguns made quick work of BATs which were still feeding on their gruesome fare.  Phil concentrated on shooting as many BATs as he could, in an attempt to block out the sights of what they were feeding on.  Still, he just couldn’t force himself to eat any of their rations at all, as they tried to relax in the spider, after clearing Reno.  Even sleeping was barely possible, and that was only in small catnaps.  He’d drift off to sleep, only to be startled awake by the movements of the caravan, or by nightmares.

     Nightfall on the following day found them in Sacramento.  There, the roads were so hopelessly jammed, that the robospider and crew were unloaded and left on their own.  The caravan crew, in the midst of fluttering small worker BATs that they’d by now gotten tired of wasting ammo on, bid Rusty, Don, and Phil good-bye and good luck, and turned back towards Utah.  The really fun trek lay ahead, now.

     The journey became arduous indeed, from there towards the coast. The spider had to crawl very slowly in places, over and around the abandoned cars, as best as it could.  Periodically, they’d examine a few BATs that they’d kill, and be heartened to see that most had small skin parasites.  This and other information was relayed to the folks back home.

     The first time that they saw a hive, in a building not too far from the road, they decided to go and investigate, to make sure that the parasites were really doing their job, and cutting the BELFRYBATs off at their source.  This was the only time that they made use of their sputtering guns, where the target density was high enough.  They marched into that building spitting showers of fire, getting rained on by falling, smoldering, dying BATs.  The stench was just unbearable, so they backed off, and retrieved bottled air from the robospider.

     Phil soon figured out the source of the putrid smell.  The heap of unspeakable gore had some anti-bacterial chemical agents in it, from the grown BATs that had carried some of it in their gullets.  But, since there were no viable eggs or maggots in it, to provide yet more preservatives, and to consume it, the heap was slowly rotting.  They fought their way in to the three queens, and Rusty blew them all away, each with a single grenade.

     Phil poked around in the heap of gore, trying not to think about where it came from, but having little success, just long enough to make absolutely sure that there were no eggs or maggots in there. Shuddering, they retreated, swearing not to waste ammunition investigating hives again.  The BATs grew and lived fast, but they also died fast.  In a few weeks, they’d all be gone, without troops having to go in and blow them all away.

     Phil thought a few philosophical thoughts, as they robospidered on down the road.  Destruction is so much easier than creation, isn’t it? Here, it took us years to design these beasts, and only weeks to destroy them.  And, the human lives that they destroyed in a few days¾or, any human life, snuffed out instantaneously by a light touch on a trigger, and a speeding bullet¾took years and years to build.  Must easy, simple, quick destruction, then, win over long, slow, laborious creation?

     NO! he resolved, the choice is ours, and it may take all of eternity minus a day or two, but, by God and by faith, creation will surely kick the snot out of destruction!  Evil is mindless and self-destructive, and will surely destroy itself.  So, have faith. Define faith simply as thinking, “There is, and will be, justice in this world, with or without me and my violence, and it’s not normally my personal responsibility to see to it that justice is achieved.” Maybe, he thought, if I and a few billion other humans can think this way, and be patient about seeing justice come about, then we can stop dispensing so much senseless violence in search of instant justice.

     So, they’d finally killed enough BATs to get it out of their systems, for the most part.  They stopped taking potshots at large worker BATs on the road, and just pressed on.  On the northwest outskirts of Sacramento, though, where they saw the bone eaters snorfling through and around cars, looking for remains, Phil couldn’t help it.  He stationed himself on top of the spider, and dispatched a few of them as they rode through.  So he wasted ammo.  It was for a good cause, though: it made him feel much better.

     They took I-5 north from Sacramento, and reached route 20 west a day after leaving Sacramento.  Progress was slow, but at least their spider didn’t take much driving, being highly automated.  The spider walked day and night, in, around, and over cars, stopping for nothing, except for the few occasions on which the crew would stop, and raid the tanks of abandoned cars for more fuel.  Phil found it quite amazing, how soon he became used to the scenes of horrible death and destruction all around him.  He could only hope that, somewhere in the buildings by the roads on which they were traveling, many people had managed to barricade and supply themselves, so as to live through this nightmare.

     Another day later found them traveling south on route 29, towards Kelseyville.  Phil could hardly stand it any more; the goal was so close!  Is Gloria OK, he asked himself over and over again.  He found himself referring to the maps more and more frequently, counting the miles.

     Right before the exit to the Baha’i community, they found themselves in a severe traffic jam.  There’d been an accident involving a huge truck, and the vehicles were so arranged that even the robospider couldn’t crawl over them.  This wasn’t the first time that they’d faced this kind of jam; all they’d have to do, was to get out there, and have all three of them heave at the offending vehicles, with their powered armor.  Soon enough, they’d clear the way for the robospider.

     They backed the spider up to a clear and level spot, got out, and started to walk towards the mess.  Rusty took the lead, Phil followed, and Don brought up the rear, as they walked single file through, over, and around the wrecked vehicles.

     Phil stepped to the side and turned towards the rear when he heard the noises.  First, there was the thump-thump-thump of feet on pavement, that didn’t sound anything like an armored human.  Then, there was the harsh sound of metal smashing against metal, as the large bone-eater queen barged right over Don, flinging him into a car.  Phil was quite lucky that he heard the sounds, and stepped to the side; otherwise, the queen would have smashed him good, too.  As was, he was clipped on the side, and spun down to the ground.  He scrambled to his feet, and let fly more than a few rounds of machine gun fire at the queen.  Rusty had already nailed her good, by that time, though.

     They both turned back to attend to Don.  He was stretched out on the pavement, motionless.  They promptly carried his still form back to the spider.  Phil noticed the blood running out of his nose, and cranked up his worry factor a notch or two.  Very gingerly, they took Don out of his armor.  He was definitely still alive, but looked like he was in very sorry shape.  There were definitely a few broken bones.  They secured him in his bed as best they could.  Phil sniffled and blubbered a bit about how he wished he hadn’t asked Don to come along, and how he’d never forgive himself, if Don went off and kicked the bucket.

     Rusty didn’t seem to be too badly bothered by the sight of a grown man crying, as Phil pleaded with Don’s still form.  However, Rusty did have the presence of mind to goad Phil into action.  “Come on, man, you’re not going to help Don that way.  Didn’t you say your lady friend is a doctor?  We can’t be more than an hour or two away from there, now. We’ve got to blaze on through!  Let’s go move some cars, and blow on outta here.”

     Phil and Rusty secured the spider, and hurried on over to the wreckage.  Soon enough, they were on their way again.  Phil was quite torn between cranking the spider up to full speed, and getting there in a hurry, but giving Don’s poor, abused body a rough ride on the one hand, and taking it easy on the other hand.  After talking it over with Rusty, they decided to take it slow.  Rusty performed the minimal amount of steering that the spider required, while Phil tended to Don, as best he could.  Basically, that just amounted to making sure Don was still alive, and that his body didn’t get too contorted, as the spider slowly pitched and rolled on to Kelseyville.

     Phil agonized over Don, and worried about Gloria. Very briefly, he considered that he should take his emotions and multiply them by a billion or so, to approximate all the suffering he’d been instrumental in bringing about, but decided he’d better not think about it too much. Down that road lays nothing but madness.  All that could be done, was to learn from the suffering, and to resolve to do better in the future.

     An hour and a half’s worth of eternity later, they parked in the Baha’i community.  They made sure no BATs were close enough to dash through the spider’s door, and opened it just long enough to jump out. Desolation greeted their eyes.  Empty houses, with broken windows and doors swinging in the dusty breeze, stood all around them.  The first few BATs that flew too close, were promptly brought down by streams of shotgun blasts, and the rest kept their distance.  A few BATs, both large and small, lazily lounged on the tops of houses, eyeing the armored men like vultures watching rhinos, waiting for them to die.

     Phil and Rusty tromped solemnly from house to house, looking for even one that was boarded up, that might still harbor some humans.  Off in the distance, they could see a large worker BAT half-heartedly lobbing a rock through a window, either just for something to do, or on the off chance that it might find some good munchies inside.  It swooped upwards after its dive-bombing run.  “Here, you son of a bitch, here’s something for you to eat,” Phil snarled, and let a few rounds fly.

     Phil missed, because the BAT was way too far away.  However, the BAT left, squawking in protest, and headed for the church.  They could see it land on the bell tower, and it sure looked like there might be more than a few more BATs hanging around, over there.  Phil and Rusty promptly followed it.

     Phil’s heart skipped a few beats when they rounded the corner, and saw not only that all the church’s windows had been boarded up, but that there was an obviously hastily built, but secure, passage from the church to a nearby small shed.  With any luck at all, they’ve got to be in there! he thought.  That’s probably why all these damned BATs are hanging out here¾they can smell the delectable humans inside.  Phil and Rusty walked to opposite sides of the church, and began blazing away at the BATs on the roof and in the belfry, with streams of shotgun blasts. Some of them managed to escape the slaughter by flying away, and some of them huddled inside the walls at the base of the belfry, up above the roof, out of the reach of gunfire.  Many fell to the ground, though.

     Phil and Rusty tromped around, dispatching any BATs that they’d brought down, that were just wounded rather than dead.  Even these abominable beasts didn’t deserve to suffer, Phil figured.  They were just doing what they’d been designed to do, by a bunch of sick motherfuckers.

     Phil walked up to a boarded-up window, and tried to peer through the small holes in the wood.  It was too dark in there, and too light where he was, to be sure, but he could’ve sworn he saw some eyes at those holes, which drew back as he approached.  Can’t blame them for being afraid of cyborgs from hell, blazing away at the BATs with guns, he thought.  They don’t know who we are, or what to expect.

     He told Rusty what he thought he’d seen, and they debated a bit about what to do next.  Phil wanted to take his helmet off, so that if Gloria was in there, she could see who it was.  Rusty persuaded him that he shouldn’t do such a thing, until the BATs in the bell tower had been eliminated.  Sure, Rusty could stand guard with his guns, but why take any risks?

     So, there’s BATs in the belfry, Phil thought.  Worse yet, I helped put them there.  I did more of the design work than anyone else, by far.  BATs in the belfry, by design.  Well, hell, I can always get rid of these goddamned BELFRYBATs.  Blaze away at them, as soon as I can figure out how to get up there.

     Then, for the rest of my life, I’ll do my best to smash any and every goddamned BELFRYBAT, BAT, or bat, in every belfry I ever see, in any and every way that I can, God willing.  And, I don’t give a damn exactly how “slick” those bats are, either!  Long live bat-free belfries!  Well, maybe we have to settle for less than perfection, but at least we’ll shoot for perfection.  I guess low-bat belfries will have to do, in the real world, most of the time.

     Phil and Rusty had a quick conference.  They decided that Phil should stand guard, to shoot any BATs that ventured out of the belfry, while Rusty fetched the robospider.  Rusty maneuvered the spider up to the lowest spot on the church’s roof that they could find, had the spider crawl partway up the wall, and propped a leg right up to the edge of the roof.  Phil scampered up onto the spider, up the leg, and onto the roof.  He signaled that Rusty should get out to join the fun.

     As Phil approached the belfry, guns blazing, up on the roof, Rusty shot the few escaping BATs from the ground.  The butchery was soon complete.  Not one more BAT had escaped their wrath!

     Phil scampered down, and they took a good look around.  No live BATs were to be seen anywhere, so Phil took his helmet off.  Rusty stood guard, just to be safe.  Phil just stood there, in full view from the small holes in the boarded-up windows, for a few moments.  He resisted the temptation to walk up to the church again, for fear of scaring away his observers, who he was sure were watching him.

     In a short while, a hearty cheer arose from the inside of the church, and a door was flung open.  Out ran Gloria, straight into Phil’s armored arms.

     “Hey, snugglebunny, what brings you out our way?  And what’s with all this damned racket out here?  You scared the kids, and interrupted our board games!  But, that’s OK.  We can forgive you for that.  Why don’t you and your friend come on inside, and have a bite to eat?  Y’all must be tired, coming all this way to rescue us.”

     Slowly, warily, a few more brave souls were traipsing out of the church, as Gloria gave Phil a big smooch.  Phil hated to interrupt, but there was Don to be taken care of.  “Snoogle Woogle Poogle Woogle Boogle Woogle, Pootie Pie, Love of my Life, I hate to break this up, but we need your help, and the sooner the better.  We’ve got Don¾remember my good buddy, Don?¾wounded and unconscious, in the spider.  Can...”

     “Say no more.  Let’s get to work!”

     They carried Don’s limp form into the church, and Gloria worked her magic.  Those “liberated” medicines sure came in handy!  It took her over an hour, but she got him all medicated, bandaged, and splinted up. Then, they had a celebration.

     Don slowly woke up that evening.  They gave him lots of painkillers, but he was awake enough to enjoy the party.

 

 

CHAPTER 28

 

     Phil persuaded ABC to put up its own, private money to fund development of his anti-nuke cleanup bugs.  Actually, he presented the idea for a different purpose: the scheme would be used as an environmentally friendly, low-cost method of mining for valuable, low-concentration metal ores.  Nuclear clean-up could come later, as a by-product, after the concept had been proven out for mining.  He began talking to some environmental groups, and they were quite enthused. They assured him that they’d find the money, if the slimeball feds wouldn’t.  Phil’s work was cut out for him, for the next few years. They’d have to design entire ecosystems!

     Gloria moved in with him again, in their Atlanta home.  Phil begged her to marry him, but she put it off, saying, “Wait until I’m sure I won’t miss my job.  Can’t have those good-ol’ family-values feds taxing us to death, with their marriage penalty, you know.” She quit her job, and helped the neighbor down the street run a private day care, just to see whether or not she could handle staying at home with kids.

     Phil wanted to make absitively, posolutely certain that he’d stay honest, and never be a whore for the State again.  He decided that one source of insurance might be to make sure he’d always have a bit of THC in his bloodstream, so that he’d obviously be morally unfit for whore-for-the-State duties.  That way, he’d always be reminded that the State punished some fairly harmless things, while sponsoring mass murder.  Gloria had assured him that, as long as he stashed it in a smell-proof container and hid it from the oinkers real well, and didn’t throw pot parties, she’d not mind his business.  You’re a big boy now, she said.

     So, drugs would keep him attached to the reality that the government was staffed by lobotomized, drooling idiots.  For a very small price, that being the equivalent of drinking some beer every few weeks, he could make it obvious that he was a fearsome, pot-smoking fiend, a threat to the very fabric of civilized society, and not to be trusted with, say, the noble, elevating functions of amassing the instruments of Armageddon, for example.  If, in a moment of stupidity, he applied for legally sanctioned mass murderer status again, they’d find the THC in his blood, and they’d say, “We’re sorry¾we see you’re a pothead, and we just can’t run the risk of having the enemy making you spill your guts to them, by threatening to tell us that you’re a pothead.  You can’t play with our toys.  So sorry.”

     Still, he was torn.  He didn’t want to trash his lungs, and he knew that that’s what he’d do, if he kept it around all the time.  So, he decided he’d just visit a good buddy of his, religiously, at least once every three weeks.  They’d commit those evil, heinous crimes together, and get good and stoned.  He’d maintain his THC levels, to fend off any temptations towards prostituting himself to the State again.  That’s how he explained it to Gloria, at least.  He wasn’t sure how much danger there really was of him becoming a whore again, without THC. Maybe he just enjoyed his buddy’s company, and getting stoned.

     He didn’t much worry about what straight-laced law worshippers might think of his crimes.  So what if they’d call him a peace-love hippie freak?  What’s wrong with peace and love, anyway?  After all, which sounds more plausible¾“Humans went extinct ‘cause too many of ‘em toked up too much hooch,” or, “Humans went extinct ‘cause too many of them played with too many weapons of mass destruction”?

     He worked on his book, on and off.  He sure hoped that he could find a publisher who’d be willing to risk the wrath of the almighty State, and publish it, someday.  Maybe he’d have to circulate it in the underground, he thought.  Like good ol’ Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

     After he got the gang at ABC well on track, towards developing the mining-bugs ecosystems, he and Gloria took a two-week vacation to the beaches and jungles of Hawaii.  They strolled the beaches, talking of marriage, children, and Gloria staying at home, long-term.  They decided that they’d do it!

     That night, they lay in their hotel bed, getting amorous.  Phil stroked her smooth, ebony skin, thinking mostly of how much he loved her, and wanted to be her parenting partner, but also about genetics and race.  Hitler and other assorted shitheads were as wrong as wrong could be.  Racial mixing wasn’t only good for hybrid vigor, it was also good as a real “final solution”¾some sunny day, racism would be impossible. Sick, twisted humans might still fight over nationality and religion, but they wouldn’t be able to fight over skin color if everyone’s skin color was uniform.

     Now wasn’t the time for genetic mixing, though.  They’d want to assure their progeny of the very best, using BABI procedures.  Still, BABI just somehow... took a bit of something nebulous... romantic?... away from procreation.  Oh, well.  Science and technology have their prices.  He reached for a dwonky cover.  Gloria brushed his hand to the side.  “We don’t need those any more,” she said, smiling.

     “But what about BABIs?,” Phil asked, perplexed.

     “Babies are OK by me,” she said.  “More than OK.  I want one.  We need a baby.”

     “I mean, Blastomere Analysis Before Implantation,” he said.

     “Oh, never mind that.  Let’s just go for a random dip in the gene pool,” she said.

     Phil laughed lustily, and gathered her into his arms.

 

 

CHAPTER 29

 

     Phil sat at home in the living room one evening, trying to polish his thoughts and memories into a conglomeration of autobiographical bits and bytes, to be called BATS IN THE BELFRY, BY DESIGN.  He was arguing with his newest computer, banging on a keyboard, slashing the air with his pointer, and cussing and swearing at that stupid hunk of semi-animate matter, when he had another of those utterly inexplicable series of thoughts.

     He got to thinking, now what if that hypothetical “creator” of mine in a parallel universe somewhere is still working on his version of the haps here in my universe.  Still banging on some really primitive keyboard.  That lucky devil has access to the thoughts of the other slimebags (besides myself) in this story, unlike me.  On the other hand, I’ve got a...  famous?  Infamous?  Depends on who you ask, I guess... name to help me sell my book.  That poor slob, he’s got to go and grovel to all the agents and publishers, ‘cause he’s not as famous, as photogenic, or as stupid as Dan Quayle.

     On top of that, all his potential publishers are probably spineless, weenie limp-dicks who are afraid that, my God, if we publish something besides meaningless fluff, something that actually takes a stand or two, we might offend somebody!  We might even get a FATWA slapped on our asses!  Maybe, once more, I’d better help my “creator”. Pull his fat out of the fire, yet again.  Even if he’s got more fat than he needs, I owe him.  He’s the boss, after all.  Un-think my offensive thoughts.

     So, Phil thought.  He thought about all the other things that he’d been wrong about, besides being a whore for the State.  He decided that the Pope was infallible after all, and that the Earth has an infinite carrying capacity for human life.  Especially, like, if we all learn to kiss God’s butt with the precisely correct rituals to appease Him, so that He’ll feed us with manna, as we stand there, three to the square yard.  He decided that it is right and good that the jails should be filled with potheads, vitamin fiends, and peanut-quota violators, so that the cops can demand more jails, lest the murderers should be set free.  He decided that the State is the best caretaker of private lives after all, since we just can’t be trusted to make our own charity, medical, and ethical decisions on our own.

 

    

                

            INTRODUCTION TO BATS, FROM UP FRONT, AS IN HARDCOPY

           

                 During the past fifty years, in the name of “science” or “military preparedness” or “proactive defense,” the American government has injected or bathed its citizens, without their knowledge or consent, with plutonium, LSD, clouds of simulated germ warfare agents, and deadly levels of hot air.

                 During the next fifty years, we’ll spend billions of dollars developing new uses for genetic engineering.  To what ends?  Some have speculated that we’ll build an amusement park featuring dinosaurs.  But, as we look back to the Manhattan Project, we remember that we didn’t spend billions to split the atom because we wanted a place to play.  No, we wanted a big bang for our buck.  Human nature hasn’t changed; we still want that big bang.  And, the lessons of history notwithstanding, smart money says our energies will continue to be directed toward building weapons of mass destruction.  Unfortunately, as the building and experimenting proceed, you won’t hear about the mistakes, the failures, the dead ends.  This is classified information, top secret.

                 Weapons devised in darkness and tested in secrecy can bear monstrous fruit, and the desire to save American lives can turn into genocide.  This is a major theme of Bats in the Belfry, By Design.

                 This book isn’t for those who don’t want their thinking challenged, who believe in “My country, right or wrong.”  Rather, it is for those who care about the free exchange of information and ideas, freedom, and a future for the human race, and who also want a few good chuckles and some chills and thrills.

                 Author Dude “RocketSlinger” B. Bad sounds a warning in Bats in the Belfry, By Design about the dangers of genetic engineering that may not be revealed to the public for another fifty years... if we’re still here... if the secret schemes don’t go too haywire...

           

 


Also by Dude “RocketSlinger” B. Bad; a sequel to BATS…

Freedom From Freedom Froms

 

               It’s been decades since the civil rights movement, but race relations are deteriorating.  We still fail to judge people by their character rather than by their skin color.  We’ve made even less progress towards legally recognizing, let alone socially accepting, the private lifestyle choices of our fellow human beings.  Yet we stand on the brink of technological breakthroughs which could pose far tougher problems.  Genetically engineered human and non-human beings and conscious computers are coming our way.  Are we ready?  Will we allow them to vote?  To defend themselves?  To own property?  Or will we simply say that since they’re not human, they have no rights?  Slavery, Part II?

We’ll face these and many other vexing problems, equipped with two main ideologies.  Welfare Statists on the left, coercive busybody moralists on the right.  Socialists give us “freedom from housing discrimination” by punishing us for advertising our houses as having “walk-in closets”.  By doing so, they say, we convey our intent to discriminate against those in wheelchairs!  Witchburners give us “freedom from sin” by protecting us from “lewd” Calvin Klein ads.

               Perhaps genuine freedom and broad-mindedness could provide some solutions.  Instead of sponsoring quarrels between the NAACP, NAAWP, NAACC (National Associations for the Advancement of Colored People, White People, and Conscious Computers), and so on, we’d be better off with the NAACB (Non-exclusive Association for the Advancement of Conscious Beings).  Maybe.  Or maybe not.  But we definitely need “Freedom From Freedom Froms” when the “freedoms” that our “leaders” foist on us are false ones.  Prepare your mind for a thought-provoking trip into the future.  If you love REAL freedom, vicious political satire, and science fiction, this book was written for YOU!

 

 

Also by Dude “RocketSlinger” B. Bad; NOT a sequel…

Jurassic Horde Whisperer of Madness County

WELCOME TO MADNESS COUNTY!!!

 

               Welcome to Madness County¾a place of myths and madness¾a place where the Horde Whisperer reigns.  A place where Tom Edisonosaurus tries to invent things for the betterment of dinosaur society, but Lawyersaurs constantly sue him, since a certain Whinasaurus is always getting hurt by his latest inventions, like the wheel and fire.  Dinosaur society progresses only after Tom and his friends take drastic actions against the Lawyersaurs.  But then the Horde Whisperer strikes, and brings all the dinosaurs to an end.  The Horde Whisperer flees for millions of years, returning to the Earth to stir up more trouble and weirdness only when the ape-men come down out of the trees.

               But it’s in modern times that the Horde Whisperer does his worst.  He causes the mad scientists at the government’s THEMNOTUS agency to invent Chewdychomper Chupacabras, a vicious beast who in turn whispers in the ears of an ambitious man by the name of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba.  Ale Run in turn invents his famous V-Meters and Ping Things, and His Church of Omnology.  All troubles are caused by scamgrams, and only the Experts of His Church can fleece them away, using their V-Meters and Ping Things!  All manners of modern madness are manufactured in Madness County, it seems.  Far, far too many to be anything but the wackiest of wacky fiction, we tell ourselves.

               But then we get to the annotated facts in the factual endnotes (almost 20% of this book), and we’re left with disturbing knowledge.  Jurassic Horde Whisperer of Madness County is based on facts¾facts far too irrational, crazy, and destructive to be pure fiction.  The Horde Whisperer is still with us, still Whispering his destructive, irrational lies in far too many ears.  Just look at the government, media, Hollyweird, and church-sponsored madness all around you.  Especially examine cults like $cientology, as this book does.  This book is some zany fun, yes.  But it’s also a warning about the Horde Whisperer’s lies, about how destructive irrationality runs rampant in our modern, supposedly enlightened age.

 

 

 

Rear cover of well-illustrated Jurassic below…