Venom, page 2
Denegal eventually reached the conclusion that the correct solution was not to focus on the longevity of the technology itself, but rather the longevity of the organization committed to maintaining it. Since it was impossible to account for contingencies which, despite extraordinarily advanced mathematical models, were ultimately unknowable, the best you could do was put operations in place which were capable of addressing problems as they arose. Denegal compared a well structured organization to an almost infinitely powerful self-organizing supercomputer capable of solving whatever problems either humanity or nature could throw at it. As digital storage media and formats became obsolete, the HLP would migrate to new ones; as transmission protocols evolved, the HLP would adapt to them; and as regions of the world became geologically, meteorologically, or politically unstable, the HLP would procure new remote and impenetrable compounds in which to keep and protect the combined knowledge and experiences of the entire human race.
The charter of the HLP was simple: All knowledge. Forever.
The Mount Legacy facility in Ogden, Utah was the HLP's first and last data storage compound. It was embedded deep in the rock of the Wasatch Mountains where it was powered by its own geothermal installations and protected by a small private security detail. It was to be the prototype for at least a dozen more facilities dispersed throughout the world, but before construction could begin anywhere else, the facility was seized through a joint operation between the FBI and the Utah National Guard. Gabriel Kane — leader of the newly formed People's Party — declared the HLP a terrorist organization, and possibly the biggest threat to freedom and democracy that the country had ever faced.
Omo Denegal was exiled back to eastern Africa where he reportedly died of malaria within months, and the HLP became exactly what the government needed: a desperate and decentralized domestic enemy onto which it could project the nation's desperation and hatred; the impetus for the quick passage of laws giving the Executive Branch unlimited emergency powers; a diversion from the collapse of an unsustainable and plundered economic and political system; and finally, an excuse for martial law, and the formation of the People's Police.
After the HLP destroyed several federal buildings in Washington, D.C. and half a dozen other major cities throughout the country, Kane quietly moved his headquarters into one of the most remote and secure facilities in the country — Mount Legacy — where he is currently planning what he expects to be his final assault on the HLP.
* * *
Kane is not taking calls this morning, nor is he participating in any of his administration's daily briefings. Instead, he is sitting alone behind his desk, staring at a brushed steel-plated wall, running through scenarios in his mind and weighing consequences.
He is essentially playing a game of chess. Kane did not rise from a failed architect and mediocre painter to one of the most powerful positions on the planet by campaigning harder than anyone else, or by raising the most money, or by making back-room deals. Of course, he did all those things when they were necessary, but more than anything else, Kane owes his improbable ascendency to the time he spent sitting alone in a quiet room thinking. To be reactive was to be inefficient. To be defensive was to always be in a position of minimizing loss rather than maximizing gain. Kane's world was one where his enemies reacted to him. By thinking several moves in advance, and by understanding every possible option his enemies had available to them, he controlled the pace of the game, and ultimately, he would control its outcome.
He senses that the endgame is near. The maneuvering and positioning phases are more or less complete, and it is time for each side to make its final moves. Kane's strategy requires the illusion of passivity. The government and the American people need to be victims. Before he can take the initiative, he must wait for the HLP to strike first.
A soft silvery tone sounds so gently that there is no trace of echo off the concrete and metal surfaces around him. Kane swivels and looks at the wall to his right where the official government photograph of Marcus Karlsson smiles down from the top corner, his name printed boldly beneath. Kane's entire work area can pivot a full ninety degrees into the center of the room so he can remain seated in front of the interactive wall, but that is not Kane's style. Behind the President of the People's Republic of China, Gabriel Kane is probably the most powerful man in the world, but he is not lazy, and has never been considered a man of leisure. He stands, steps out from behind his desk, and centers himself in front of the wall, the thin carpet softening the sound of his leather shoes against the concrete floor.
He is dressed as he usually is whenever he is not giving an address: jeans, a soft white oxford shirt with an open collar, and a comfortable, casual sport coat. At 61 years old, he has only a hint of gray around the temples, and although he is a relatively slight man, his penetrating eyes and repertoire of solemn expressions give him an imposing presence. He gestures at the wall, and the room gradually doubles in size as Karlsson's rich, leathery office fades in.
Kane is standing in front of a surface which is comprised of close to eight billion quad-color photoelectric acoustic pixels which can both capture and produce light and sound at a level of granularity that lies just beyond the threshold of human perception, turning the entire wall into a combined ultra high-definition camera, microphone, screen, and speaker. Karlsson's office houses an identical installation. The rendering of each scene is adjusted to match the ambient light of the receiving room, and the sound is perfectly mirrored, putting the finishing touches on a truly exquisite optical and auditory illusion. Someone unaware of the presence of the wall would find it almost impossible to believe that if the two men tried to step forward and shake hands, their knuckles would bounce off the soft silicone surfaces in front of them just before they touched.
"What is it, Marcus?" Kane says. His voice is soft and measured, and is the perfect unsettling accompaniment to his bright blue eyes. There is a trace of an accent which has been smoothed out over the years, and is therefore impossible to trace with any certainty.
Karlsson is clearly uncomfortable. The most prominent feature of the huge man is his baldness which is accentuated by the remaining skirt of short mousy brown hair. His mustache is broad and thick, and his eyes are a dull grey. He is tall and overweight, and at first glance, he could just as easily be a teddy bear as a drunk who hits his wife and kids.
He is leaning heavily against his tremendous desk, clutching the thick dark oak surface. His posture does not seem appropriate for one standing before the President, but the look on his face shows that rather than being flippant, he simply does not trust his legs to keep him upright at the moment.
"They hit the White House," he says breathlessly. His tie has been loosened, and the fabric around his armpits is dark with perspiration.
Kane processes the information almost instantly. "How bad?"
Karlsson makes a gesture, and then both men are looking at the same live feed. Most of the East Wing looks like it has been crushed like a soft cardboard box.
"There's no smoke," Kane notes with interest. "Why isn't there any smoke?"
"It wasn't done with explosives."
"What did they use?"
"We don't know for sure, but probably some kind of a cyclonic device."
Someone enters Karlsson's office from Kane's right. It's an assistant bringing her boss something to drink. Her tight yellow dress and bright blue beads stand out against the austerity of Karlsson's office. Karlsson takes the metal canister off the girl's tray and tips it back greedily. The girl is halfway out the room when Kane's voice stops her.
"Good morning, Cindy."
"Good morning, Mr. President," the girl says as professionally as she can manage. She is clearly conflicted between the appreciation of having been noticed, and her desire to get the hell away.
The President dismisses her with brief smile while Karlsson struggles to catch his breath. Once the girl is out of the room, Kane looks back at his Chief of Staff.
"A cyclonic device?"
"Something that generates a huge amount of localized pressure," Karlsson says. "Something invisible to explosive detectors, but obviously still highly destructive."
"I see," Kane says. "Was the device inside?"
"It couldn't have gotten inside. We think it was fired from several blocks away."
"How many casualties?"
"None." Karlsson drains the canister and sets it beside him on his desk. "There hasn't been anyone in that part of the building for months."
"Was anyone picked up?"
"There were four confirmed HLP members in the area and we got them all." He pauses and watches the President before continuing. "One of them was Armonía."
Kane nods thoughtfully. "Are they all alive?"
"Yes."
The President clasps his hands behind his back and takes a few wandering steps. Karlsson picks up the metal canister, rattles it, and puts it back down. He has just begun to scan his desk looking for some other distraction when Kane speaks again.
"I want dead bodies in the rubble. Over a hundred. Mostly women and children. Classes of teachers and students on a field trip. Add fire and smoke to the footage and start releasing it as soon as possible. Make sure the bodies are visible. Get the prisoners scanned — full body and voice scans — then start generating confessions. Nothing contrite. I want them to come across as abhorrent and heartless. Make them gloat about what they've done, and swear to keep killing until their demands are met. Interrogate them, and when you're sure you've gotten everything you can, have them executed."
Karlsson looks confused. "What about Armonía?"
"What do you think?" This is not a sarcastic question, but a genuine — and very rare — solicitation for counsel.
"I think she's a liability," Karlsson says without hesitation.
Kane considers his Chief of Staff's advice. "Maybe, but she might still be of some use. Send her here."
"Conscious?"
"It doesn't matter," Kane says. "She'll know exactly where she is. And I very much doubt she will ever be able to leave."
Chapter 2: Scholarship Kid
1. A child who has been granted a sum of money which enables him or her to attend an academic institution which he or she would otherwise be unable to afford.
2. (Informal) An economically disadvantaged child — usually a minority — who is made to feel unwelcome among his or her peers.
Armonía Solorsano was born in a house which would have been considered a mansion had it not been inhabited by a total of 38 people from seven different families. The home was originally designed for a single family of between four and six to live in what the original brochure called "comfortable proximity," however with seven bedrooms, seven bathrooms (two of which were elevated to the level of "super baths"), two kitchens, a movie theater, an exercise room, two offices, three dining rooms, over 2,000 square feet of common area, a workshop, and a four-car garage, it had proven capable of accommodating several times its intended capacity.
Armonía's home was one of hundreds of nearly identical houses lining dozens of streets and cul-de-sacs in one of several developments located in a county outside of Washington, D.C. which, at one time, boasted some of the highest test scores of any school system in the country. The transformation from sprawling suburban gated community to tenement happened at almost precisely the moment the foreclosure rate hit what had previously been the unknown tipping point of 54.5%.
By the time the Hispanic communities began squatting, the government owned most of the mortgages, but no longer had the resources to maintain or even monitor the properties. The remaining legitimate homeowners gave up calling the police when it became clear that there weren't enough officers left in the entire state to even make a credible attempt at displacing what had become a close-knit, well-organized, and increasingly well-armed population. Their best bet, the police told them, was to do what everyone else in their area was doing: walk out on your loan, and don't look back.
As properties were appropriated and new tenants moved in, roofs were repaired, burst pipes replaced, flooded basements pumped out, and thick layers of mold were scraped away and sealed to keep the toxic spores out of the lungs of the young and the elderly. The federal government eventually approved a measure which allowed tax money to be used to pay basic utilities in these new suburban ghettos — a concession, it was said, to their Hispanic constituents. But it wasn't so much a concession as it was leverage over a growing and clearly disgruntled demographic. Allowing thousands of people to freeze to death in the winter or die from cholera outbreaks in the summer was as easy as flipping a switch or giving the order to tighten a few valves.
Armonía was birthed by self-appointed midwives in a bathtub in a basement with the moral support of her mother's sisters and sisters-in-law. A hospital was not an option for Armonía's people; without a valid identity and insurance card, it wasn't even possible to get past the gates of any medical facility anywhere in the state, much less into an examination or emergency room. But Armonía and her mother were both strong, and within three days, her mother was back at work cleaning houses while her newborn daughter was cared for by her grandparents and aunts.
As far as the state was concerned, Armonía was home schooled, but she actually attended the local CCE, or Centro Comunitario de Educación. The facility was located in an abandoned public library, and was funded and maintained by the community itself. The staff received a small salary, but otherwise had most of their needs — food, clothing, and housing — provided for by the families of the students. In addition to the fundamentals, the children received regular instruction from volunteers with specific domain knowledge. Masons taught the children how to engineer sturdy walls and foundations, gardeners helped the children maintain their plots in the yard outside the school, and cooks taught the children how to turn the fruits and vegetables they grew into meals.
Armonía's father, Ramón, worked the nightshift in one of the largest data centers on the east coast. He was an electrician by trade, but retrained when data centers started being built close enough to ghettos to take advantage of cheap labor, but far enough away that executives from the companies that owned them could visit in relative comfort. Ramón was able to get internship clearance for Armonía, and her biometric signature was linked with his, giving her access to most parts of the data center under his supervision.
One night a week, Armonía watched her father build servers, assemble racks, run cabling, replace faulty components, install software, and perform various diagnostics. There were locker rooms beyond the security checkpoint where staff were required to shower before starting their shifts, and cover themselves with microfiber thermal-insulated suits which kept them from succumbing to hypothermia in the forty-degree environment. Armonía had to watch some of her father's work on a monitor since she wasn't permitted inside any area designated as fire-safe. Fire-safe zones could be sealed and turned into high enough quality vacuums that neither fires — nor human beings — could survive for more than a few seconds.
Armonía began spending most of her time in the data center's scrap room where she learned to rebuild or repair systems which the diagnostic software had declared unsalvageable. She took the machines she built home with her and eventually had enough working consoles to equip an entire computer lab at the CCE where she went to school, and then several surrounding CCEs, as well. She worked with her father and her uncles to install satellite dishes, antennas, and transmitters which linked the labs to the Public Computing Cloud, and by the time she was thirteen, she was spending one day a week in one of her various computer labs providing training to anyone who wanted it.
As part of the federal government's experimental plan to integrate kids from suburban ghettos into mainstream education, several scholarships were offered every year to students who scored high enough on their state evaluations. At fifteen years old, Armonía scored higher than any other child outside of government-recognized education systems, and in the 97th percentile of children in public and private schools.
Her scholarship got her into the top science and technology magnet school in the state, and provided her with transportation, meal tickets, and a stipend for materials, equipment, and uniforms. Armonía's excitement at starting what to her was an entirely new life was quelled almost immediately when it was made clear to her by another student at the beginning of her very first class — right in front of the teacher — that scholarship kids were not real students. The program that placed her among them was not actually designed to help her people integrate or advance; rather, it created the illusion that the government cared in order to secure votes from certain key demographics. Armonía was not — nor would she ever be — one of them.
It was not in Armonía's nature to be aggressive, and she tried to win her peers over by proving that she did not represent a threat to them or to their way of life. She volunteered to do peer tutoring, but in two weeks, she did not have a single student sign up under her. When she asked her teachers and other staff if there was anything she could do to help out before or after school, the only opportunities she was offered were cleaning, or emptying trash cans. Even the older scholarship kids had formed their own clique before Armonía arrived, and would not make room for her at their lunch table.
The anger of injustice was building inside of Armonía — a kind of anger she had never experienced before. She was finding it increasingly difficult to stop herself from striking the other students when they stepped on the backs of her shoes in the hallways, or watched and laughed at her when she opened her locker and found that the cafeteria trash had been dumped inside. But she knew that violence was exactly what everyone wanted and expected. She was not a small girl, and her brothers and cousins had taught her enough that she knew she could crush a few boys' testicles and knock out some teeth before being pinned down, but that would only send her home for good and prove what all of them wanted to believe.
