Authors: Christian Cantrell
“Good morning, Madam President.”
“I certainly hope so,” Klein says. “Any change?”
“Actually, yes. We’ve added almost five thousand additional votes since last night.”
“That’s good news,” the president says, “but unexpected. Why are people waiting so long to sign on with us?”
“Idealism. These are no doubt people who were determined to cast their own votes, but it’s starting to dawn on them that if they don’t accept an offer from us today, they might not see any income at all until midterm elections.”
“A noble sentiment,” Klein observes. “So what’s the total?”
“Somewhere just north of two hundred million, which means not only are you about to shatter the record for the most presidential votes in US history—and hence become the most popular politician ever—but
Pearl Knight has already shattered the previous world record for the largest employer in history.”
“I guess that means you’ll also shatter the record for the largest round of layoffs in history in about forty-eight hours.”
“I think that’s the unfortunate reality.”
“Florian, I want you to know that you’ve been an incredible hiring officer,” the president says. “But I think you’ll make an even better chief executive. Personally, I never liked Laroche
or
Schmidt very much.”
“Thank you, Madam President. I appreciate that.”
“Once we’re through the election, I’d like to start exploring the possibility of adjusting or even dropping presidential term limits. I think you and I are going to work very well together, and it would be a pity for that partnership to only last the next four years, don’t you think?”
“I agree. You’ll have my full support.”
“Thank you, Florian. Is there anything I need to be concerned about?”
“Nothing at all. I can’t think of a single thing that can stop you from getting reelected at this point.”
“Good. But don’t think too hard. If anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”
“Fortunately we’re on the same team.”
“Speaking of which,” the president says, “Hayden has uncovered additional information about our Russian friend from the arrests at the compound.”
Florian looks from the window to the phone. “Really? Anything interesting?”
“How many people know that Alexei Drovosek was your legal guardian, and that he paid your way through school?”
Florian does not answer right away. He looks back out over the lawn. “Aside from whoever you and Donald have told, nobody.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“As I’m sure you can appreciate, that’s not information I’m particularly anxious to share with the world.”
“Good,” the president says. “You have my word that as long as our relationship remains productive, it won’t go any further.”
Florian smiles to himself at the president’s ceaseless groping for leverage over those around her. It’s no accident that she is where she is today. “Thank you, Madam President.”
“And on a more personal note, I also want to say that I understand how difficult it must have been for you to turn on him.”
“Not as difficult as you might think. His interests and mine were never exactly very well aligned.”
“Regardless,” the president says, “I hope you realize that you made the right choice. You’re on the right side of this fight.”
“I’ve never had a single doubt about that, Madam President.”
“Good,” Klein says. “I have to go. I have other calls to make. I’ll check in with you again this evening.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
The president closes the stream. Florian checks the time on his handset and takes a deep, deliberate breath. A large ten-point buck drops his guard as he begins licking at a sweet apple block below.
“Pearl,” Florian says.
His handset illuminates. “Yes, Florian.”
“I need to initiate a company-wide executive order.”
“I understand. Please continue.”
“This order is to be executed without the attention of anyone, including the board of directors. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Florian.”
“Good. How many jobs am I authorized to terminate?”
“As CEO, you are currently authorized to terminate 201,547,493 full-time, part-time, and contingent positions.”
“What percentage of those positions are bound by contracts with suffrage clauses?”
“Ninety-eight point two three percent.”
“OK,” Florian says. “When I give you the code word
phoenix
, I want you to execute the following order…” He watches the handset’s screen for the secure prompt. “Select all positions that I have authority over as CEO, and that are bound by a contract containing any type of suffrage clause, and terminate them immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Florian. I am prepared to terminate 197,980,102 positions. Do you have compensation instructions?”
“Yes. All terminated employees are to receive full compensation packages as well as maximum severance.”
“I understand,” Pearl says. “Would you like me to include the standard letter of dismissal?”
“No,” Florian says. “Send only this: The polls open at 6 a.m.”
“I understand, Florian.”
“Good. Stand by while I review.” He studies the details of the order on the screen one last time, takes a deep breath, and then very clearly enunciates the code word.
“Order executed.”
“Were there any problems?”
“No. All records were successfully updated. Compensation funds have been transferred and all communications have been sent.”
Florian takes a moment to consider what he has just done. He understands his decision rationally, but he finds that he cannot actually feel it. The layers of abstraction that have been allowed to build up between our actions and their consequences have accumulated into a form of dense emotional insulation. Our brains can no longer associate the tasks we obsess over all day every day with our own most fundamental needs: food, shelter, safety, and above all else, human connection. The machinery of innovation has compounded such that the leverage yielded by the powerful is beyond even their own comprehension. It is impossible for anyone to truly grasp that a simple voice command can result in the deaths of millions, or in billions of dollars in profits or losses for a single individual, or in the instantaneous restoration of an entire nation’s dignity.
“Thank you, Pearl,” Florian finally says. He stands from the window seat and stretches. “Until further notice, reject all incoming communication requests, even from the president. In fact,
especially
from the president.”
“I understand.”
He locks the device and slips it into the inside pocket of his coat. There are chairs and tables overturned and strewn throughout the room, and Florian steps among them cautiously. At the door, he squats down beside the dried pool of blood that has soaked into the pine planks of the floor. In the center is a hole with a high-caliber tungsten carbide slug still embedded.
“I’m sorry,” Florian says to the ghost of the man on the floor. “I should have known you would never surrender.”
As he looks down at the rust-colored stain, he begins to weaken. He feels dizzy, and he leans back and sits. It is becoming increasingly difficult
for him to breathe as something both terrible and wonderful rises up within him. He covers his face, and his body wracks and heaves with violent sobs.
For the first time since he was a boy, Florian lets himself feel.
Potomac Airfield is inside the Flight Restricted Zone around Washington, DC, which means Florian should not have been permitted to land. A squadron of Japanese-built, orange-and-black striped, very loud and very bold Suzumebachi drones should have escorted Florian’s jet out of the FRZ and forced it down in a remote airfield in Maryland, or blown it apart with a single Mitsubishi AAM-15 air-to-air missile, or herded it in the direction of the Chesapeake Bay, hit it with a focused electromagnetic pulse, and let gravity take care of the rest.
But Florian’s jet lands without incident. Obtaining the necessary security clearance would have meant providing too many people with too many details and logistics—something which is generally not in Florian’s best interests these days—so the feat was accomplished through decidedly less official channels. When he is picked up by the Marine One helicopter fleet, the Secret Service agent who greets him wants to know how he did it, and Florian promises he will divulge everything to President Constantine himself.
The Marine One fleet contains five identical Sikorsky S-100 attack helicopters which constantly change their formation during flight. This aeronautical shell game means that a terrorist firing a shoulder-launched, surface-to-air missile only has a twenty percent chance of targeting the correct aircraft. Earlier Marine One models were equipped solely with countermeasures—flares designed to mislead heat-seeking missiles, aluminum shavings and glass fiber dispersion shells to confuse radar-guided
missiles, and jammers to keep infrared ballistics from obtaining a solid lock—but the most recent update to the fleet has changed the game. Not only does each S-100 have new directed-energy defenses in the form of X-ray lasers, but they also have extensive, diverse, and in the words of an unofficial spokesman for Marine Helicopter Squadron One, truly inspired attack capabilities. The president’s options are no longer limited to just defense; if you piss him off badly enough, the commander-in-chief will bring the fight to you.
The S-100s fly at well over three hundred knots, which means the trip to Camp David only takes about ten minutes, give or take. There is snow on the ground, but there are hot water pipes under the helipad that keep it clear and easily visible from the sky. Florian is offered a heavy blue parka with the presidential seal on the breast, which he zips up to his chin as he is escorted to one of several electric golf carts. They take the main road up past the snow-covered tennis courts and the fitness center to the northeast corner of the compound where the president maintains a small office in Laurel Lodge.
At the entrance, his parka is reclaimed before he is backscattered. His left index finger and right ear are examined for tiny prosthetic reservoirs, then each location is pricked and two blood samples are collected. When Florian’s DNA has been verified, and when his finger and ear have both been bandaged, he is taken in to meet the president.
The office is sparse and modest. Everything is wooden and stained the same shade of blond. There is a black cocker spaniel curled up on a quilted cushion close to the fire, and he lifts his head but does not bother to get up. The president has already put away whatever it was he was working on and is standing behind his desk. He has salt and pepper hair, prominent dark eyebrows, and an olive complexion. Camp David attire suits Constantine particularly well: a taupe wool sweater over a wine-colored T-shirt and well-worn jeans. Florian imagines either hiking boots or sheepskin moccasins on the president’s feet. Constantine’s eyes are dark, and his smile is warm and genuine as he extends his hand.
“Welcome, Florian.”
Florian approaches the desk and accepts the president’s greeting. The man’s grip is firm, but not domineering.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Please, have a seat.”
It is warm in the president’s office, and Florian unzips his sweater before sitting. The president waits until Florian is comfortable before seating himself in his brass-studded, high-back leather chair.
“I’m sorry about the screening,” the president says indicating the flesh-color adhesive bandage on Florian’s outer ear by tapping the corresponding spot on his own. “The Secret Service insists on it. Pretty soon they’ll be genetically screening me.”
Florian shakes his head dismissively. “I understand.”
“Can I offer you something? Water? Tea? Coffee?”
Florian checks the president’s desk for a glass or a mug but doesn’t see one. “No, thank you.”
“I only have a few minutes this afternoon, but I’m hoping you’ll stay. Dogwood Cabin has been reserved for you for as long as you want it. I have plenty of time later in the week for us to get to know each other. I thought we might do some skiing or shoot some skeet.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to stay, Mr. President, but I appreciate the offer. I hope we can do it another time.”
The president’s smile says he is not sure how to interpret the rejection. “In that case, I guess I’d better get right to the point. I wanted to thank you in person for everything you’ve done, and I want you to know that you will always have a direct line to me. Anything you need, just ask.”
“I appreciate that,” Florian says.
“It’s the least I can do. This country owes you a tremendous debt.”
Florian repositions himself in his chair and crosses his legs. “There is actually something you might be able to help me with.”
“Of course.”
“Have you been able to find out anything more about the Russian?”
“Ah,” the president says. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back into the plush leather. “Alexei Kedrov, a.k.a. Alexei Drovosek. Not very much, unfortunately. We know that he began his official career with the Russian Federal Security Service, then at some point transitioned to the Foreign Intelligence Service. We believe he spent long periods of time outside of Russia; however we have no idea where or what his assignments were. He then returned to Russia at some point, where we believe he was involved in the death of Vladimir Putin.”
“What do you mean by
involved
?” Florian asks. He gives the president a perplexed look. “Are you saying Putin was
assassinated
?”
“Not officially, of course,” Constantine says with a meaningful look. “You understand that this conversation does not leave this office, right?”
“Of course,” Florian says. “What about Alexei’s money?”
“About that, we know exactly two things: Putin had amassed a secret fortune of billions which was never accounted for, and Alexei seems to have billions stashed in accounts all over the world. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”
Florian’s smile was subtle. “So Alexei used the secret fortune of an ex-KGB Russian autocrat to fund a political revolution in the United States.”