Project: Maldon
Project: Maldon
Politics and religion have always been entwined. Religious belief is merely worldly belief reflected upward in the cosmic mirror. And truly, our revelation explains how faiths and governments replace one another as we struggle upwards towards the Final Truth. The time has come to implement our belief, our vision given to us in these terminal days: to cleanse the Earth in preparation for the Coming of the Light.
The Last Convert, an authorized biography of Henry Stele, First Pastor, Temple of the Accord
Economics says the more there is of something the cheaper it is. Thus air (until recently) was free, while diamonds commanded a high price. The same principle applies to human life. With twelve billion people swarming the globe, life is cheaper than it used to be. How much cheaper we are still discovering.
Breaking Point, a collection of essays on Post Millennial topics
Henrikus Grobius
Friday, July 2
02:23 hours
Walking to the Operations Room, vulgarly known as the Hole, Wolfe stifled another yawn. His watch seemed stuck somewhere in that endless interval between midnight and dawn when the body most craves rest, the mind is most prone to unwholesome fantasy. He held the heavy metal door open for the Deputy Premier, then followed him through into the dimness. As usual, the Hole reeked of cigarettes and ozone. Beside the holo stage, Rickki was talking quietly into a headset. She had had her hair cut short for the summer; by some trick of reversal, the effect was to make her appear more feminine. As Wolfe entered with the Deputy Premier she looked over and waved.
Deputy Premier Beaufort was a large, shaggy bear of a man in his late fifties. Tonight, with his thick gray hair curling over the collar of his frayed tweed jacket, he looked more like a professor of literature than the nation's senior statesman. In fact, he had been an inventor, and a very successful one, before entering politics; behind the shabby facade was a finely-tuned intellect and a fierce determination to succeed.
It was he and Mrs. Clements, the fiery red-headed Premier, who held together the fragile coalition that was the Renaissance Party; Beauty and the Beast as one newscaster described them. Beaufort still leaned on a cane, a reminder of the injuries suffered seven months ago in a bomb attack by a disaffected group of Listers, but despite a marked limp he seemed robust and confident; as he entered the Ops Room he looked around with keen interest and gave the thumbs up--his trademark salute--to the technicians ministering to the motorcycle-sized projector at the far end. He paused for a moment to watch as a full-scale holo image flickered into being on the raised viewing stage, then melted in Henrikus Grobiusa sizzling rainbow of blues and reds.
Wolfe conducted him across the room, past the black-topped conference table to the row of leather viewing chairs in front of the holo stage. "Sir, you remember Rickki Harrow, our head of security?"
"Indeed I do." Beaufort bowed, a grade three inclination of equal to equal. "We had an intense discussion last summer on the merits of controlled violence. Over a jar of Flash at a reception at Hart House, as I recall."
"I remember it well, sir. You're about to see some of the concepts we discussed put into practice." Rickki's voice was dry. "I fear the theory is more appealing than its application."
Beaufort looked grim for a moment. "No doubt. I understand you're expecting to intercept a team of so-called Cleaners?"
"Correct." Rickki pointed at the holo, which had stabilized again. "That's the interior of a round-the-clock medical clinic. In the Eastern Free Zone, just outside the perimeter of Hub Seven. The screens beside the stage show overhead and ground views of the alley leading to the clinic."
Beaufort peered into the alley monitor, which revealed a ghostly gray-black scene of desolation: the corpse of a Ford three-wheeler decaying against the far wall, a Samsung desk console, its screen smashed, a scatter of cardboard boxes. At the far end of the alley was a door.
After a moment he turned back to Rickki. "Please continue."
"According to our information, an Accord Cleaner team is going for the staff. Cleaners, as you know, go in for mutilation and gelding. No backup, just hit and run. Mad dogs, real bad dreams. They butchered one of our operatives two weeks ago. Mary McGee--perhaps you remember the news item?" Rickki cocked her eyebrows in inquiry.
The Deputy Premier nodded his heavy head. "All too well."
So did Wolfe. He wiped the back of his neck, tried to suppress the fury that threatened to overwhelm him every time he thought of her. Mary McGee had been one of their best field operatives. She had died of blood loss in Toronto General, her breasts cut off with what the coroner described as a sharp knife with a curved blade. A fish-cleaning knife, a favorite tool of Accord secret squads. He had been about to go to lunch when the news had reached him. Instead he had gone first to the hospital, then into an adrenaline-boosted series of meetings with Security, with Helen, with an ineffectual delegation from Metro Police. That night he had deliberately remained sober, totally unmedicated, while Rickki and the off-duty staff held the traditional Flash-fueled wake. If he had been a better, more foresighted leader, she might have lived. He wanted his psyche to remember that for next time.
"Very well." Rickki lit another cigarette and wiped the light film of sweat from her forehead. "We're using our own operatives in the actual ambush, community militia as backup and recon. The local defense units are a bit green, but they have good leaders and seconds. It should be pretty hard to surprise us--we'll see major reinforcements long before they arrive."
"Splendid." Beaufort nodded cheerfully. "Your information seems very detailed. Do you have a source inside the Accord?"
Rickki made a careless hand gesture, her cigarette tracing a meteor trail through the air. "Evil will out, sir. A careless word, a data transmission in yesterday's code--we have many sources." She consulted her watch. "Five minutes to go, if the Accord is on schedule."
"Which it usually is," added Wolfe. "I suggest we take our places."
They seated themselves in the secondhand viewing chairs before the stage and Rickki put her headset back on. The holo had stabilized to show a neat white room. Six battered red lawn chairs were placed in a row along the side wall, and a stout oak-veneer table strewn with blue and white pamphlets on Tokyo flu stood at the far side beside a door marked Medical Staff Only. A young man in a white coat was pottering about, his eyes flickering nervously this way and that at the small noises of the night.
Rickki squirmed about in her chair to speak to them: "The one in medic's gear--he's the bait. An Institute operative, not a real doctor, needless to say. Hate to waste an honest-to-God quack if anything went wrong. Now then--the intruders will come in through that door there, probably grab him and put him on the table so they can slice him up." She glanced at the Deputy Premier who was fidgeting with a button on his cuff. "As soon as the procedure is sufficiently advanced as to leave no doubt of their intentions, our people come through the door marked Staff and from the utilities room, over here." She pointed at the display. "Stun grenades and automatics. The real danger is timing things wrong."
Beaufort looked up from his shirt cuff. "And then?"
Rickki stared. "And then what, sir?"
"What happens to the intruders?"
"At that point the intruders are noticeably dead. In accordance with the self-defense provisions of the Terrorist Act of 2021. What's left is turned over to an organ clinic for retrieval and disposal."
"Of course. Foolish question." Beaufort returned to his button.
"Tracking a vehicle coming in from the north," called the controller softly. "This may be it, brothers and sisters."
Rickki stared at the screens, a lithe black cat watching a mouse hole. Wolfe found time to admire her slender, muscular form in a detached, aesthetic way. At moments like this, she became a perfectly-tuned battle machine, a peerless field commander. She had come into her own since their Hong Kong days, matured in presence and ability. He silently congratulated himself on his good luck in obtaining her as security chief. A minute passed, two, then motion flickered on the right monitor. A minibus passed the mouth of the alley, slowed, turned and parked to one side. Six small figures, black smudges against the dark background, emerged and huddled together, apparently receiving last-minute directions. After a few moments the leader stepped back and raised both arms in a blessing; the others spread out into a loose vee and advanced with smooth, silent steps on the open door, black devils flitting through the turgid Post-Millennium night. All were carrying nine-millimeter machine pistols, slim deadly rods as long as a man's forearm.
The dim figures stepped off the screen and into the holo pickup. With a shock, Wolfe saw the skulking demons of the alley transformed into fresh-faced youngsters--three men and two women, their movements crisp, methodical, efficient. The leader, a blonde young man with a pink face and freshly-ironed white shirt, addressed the operative courteously. "Good evening, doctor. We're Cleaners, preparing the path for Adonai God. I'm afraid we have an account to settle. You have been aiding the forces of uncleanness. Your sin must be purged with a sacrifice of living flesh. As the Pastor says: `let us not show false mercy, nor seek ourselves to judge the hearts of the wrongdoers.'" He smiled pleasantly and held up a black-gloved hand to show a short, wicked knife with a taped handle and curving blue blade.
The youngsters pinned their victim's arms, hoisted him to the table in the center of the room and cut away his white trousers and jaunty blue-and-red striped underpants while the operative flailed in well-simulated terror and screamed for mercy. Two Cleaners forced his legs apart while a third sprayed pain-enhancer on the exposed pink flesh.
Turning his head, Wolfe saw the Deputy Premier stir uncomfortably in his chair, his knuckles a fishbelly white from gripping the head of his cane so hard. On the stage, two meters away, the holo of the leader moved closer with his knife, menace in every line of his body. "Now brother, we regret, but this is going to hurt. Let us pray: Oh Adonai, bless this sacrifice and accept this sinner into Paradise if you judge him worthy. Amen." He raised the knife and smiled around at his colleagues, reminding Wolfe incongruously of his father preparing to carve a Christmas turkey. He felt his nails biting into his palms. Now for God's sake, take them out now!
As the knife began to glide remorselessly towards flesh, Rickki spoke a single quiet word. The holo image flared white and flickered out for a moment as stun grenades exploded. When it cleared, the intruders were staggering and jerking back from the table in a grotesque dance of death, explosive bullets ripping through body armor, chewing out craters of flesh and bone, a stray burst stitching a line of jagged holes up the clinic's rear wall. Then miraculously it was over, five bodies sprawled on the blood-smeared floor, a trace of smoke in the air, and the queasy horror of sudden death in Wolfe's soul. He let out his breath and sat back, his neck damp with sweat. It was over except for disposal: five torn bodies, destined for an anonymous organ clinic, five souls experiencing the White Light or drifting on a dark ocean of oblivion.
Rickki's attention had switched to the screen beside the holo stage; she stared at the blurred gray figures on the monitor, her face so close to the screen it appeared she was trying to crawl inside. Abruptly she sat back and cursed. "Damn, damn and triple damn. We got the driver, but the team leader managed to dodge away. The man must have a charmed life--I had three snipers assigned to him."
"Any chance of cutting off his escape route?" inquired Beaufort, wiping his broad forehead with a red pocket handkerchief.
"At night in a free zone? Not a prayer. And his kidneys I specially wanted, for Mary's sake." Running her hands through her short black hair in vexation she turned back to the holo display and spoke into her headset. "Okay, brothers and sisters all, well done. Get them to a clinic in case any of them still have organs worth retrieving. Then get some rest. Debrief tomorrow at eleven hundred hours." She fixed Beaufort with a glance. "Are you feeling quite well, sir? There's a washroom next door if you'd like to freshen up."
Beaufort shook his heavy gray head and stood, leaning heavily on his cane now, his movements slow and hesitating. "No thank you." He hesitated. "You're right though--the concepts we discussed are shattering in practice. Even so, I'm glad our enemies aren't having it all their way." He motioned Wolfe away as he started to rise. "No, I can see you still have work to do. Just send one of your people to show me the way. And, well done."
Beaufort, Wolfe knew, was not one to waste time on meaningless courtesies. He meant what he said. "Thank you, sir. Sleep well." He bowed and shook hands. "Singh, escort the Deputy Premier to his car if you would."
Rickki watched them until they disappeared through the door of the Ops Room, then took her headset off and stretched in her chair. "It appears he was impressed. And that our defector is serious."
Wolfe made a non-committal gesture, trying to conceal his jubilation. They desperately needed the edge Mancuso's information might give them. "So it seems, thank Heaven."
"Routine takedown," called the technician; a moment later the holo flickered out. Wolfe sighed and sat back. "What about a glass of Flash and a breath of air before we turn in, oh Rickki my ferocious friend?"
"I accept with pleasure."
Stars were still twinkling in the western sky when Wolfe unlocked the heavy steel door and stepped outside into the roof garden from which Versailles took its name. The still night air was hot and breathless; a siren wailed in the distance. An almost imperceptible line of gray marked the eastern horizon; in the fraying night, specter-white metal tables and chairs loomed like smudges of ghostly furniture here and there on the terrace. Wolfe lit the candle on the nearest table, placed a bottle of Flash and two snifters on its painted surface while Rickki flopped down into a wicker chair and groaned. "Jesus come quick, I'm so tired."
Wolfe poured two measures, slid one across the table. "Then here's to a good vacation soon."
Rickki sniffed at the Flash appreciatively, took a small sip. "And to an unpleasant job well done."
Wolfe raised his glass then sat back in his chair, fixed his attention on the morning star, blazing white and low in the fading night. "Not a very edifying spectacle was it? A half-dozen kids, brainwashed into thinking they're working for King Adonai. Neatly gutted and disorganized by now I'd guess."
"And the worst of the lot still free and easy out there. The wicked slime--he must be the Devil's own child to have slipped away."
"We'll get him one day. Or Helen will." The morning star seemed to swell and deflate on the horizon; he realized he was very tired.
"Better it was us. I have a personal grudge." Rickki gestured vaguely towards the night-shrouded city. "Funny people, these Accord subscribers. A little overearnest and preachifying, then someone flips the switch and they turn into monsters. How's it done?"
"They believe too much, and Adonai God is an angry and vengeful deity. Jesus come quick, what's that?" Wolfe jerked his leg back as something soft brushed the skin of his exposed ankle. But it was only the Rooftop Cat, looking for company and handouts. He had become fond of the split-eared old feline over the last few months, sometimes brought him tidbits from the cafeteria, or even opened the window from the fire escape to let him into his apartment for a quick feed and snooze. "No food tonight, old soldier," apologized Wolfe as the cat inquired about a snack with golden eyes. The message apparently got through. With an amiable rub against his leg, the black and white cat disappeared back into the shadows.
Reaction thrilled and buzzed through his blood, post-crisis meltdown. He stirred uncomfortably, trying not to see yet again in his mind's eye the intruders jerking backwards in a red mist, blown by a hail of explosive bullets. The Flash tasted strong and fiery against his palate. "Jesus come quick, it's funny how things turn out. When I joined the Institute, I didn't have it in mind to become an executioner."
"Truly not," agreed Rickki. "You joined to save the world--we all did. Otherwise we wouldn't have been accepted. And we do alright sometimes. Remember when we intercepted that cargo of involuntary organ donors? You opened the boxcar door and they all began to cry, thinking the next stop was the operating table?"
"I remember." Wolfe smiled in the darkness. "And I didn't know enough Mandarin to really explain they were safe."
"No. In fact you said they would be used in a healthy manner, which just convinced them they were goners."
"Another night working for the Institute." Wolfe refilled Rickki's glass and then his own.
"Yeah. And I still remember what Helen said about that operation. `Sometimes we have to save the world one individual at a time.' That was good, I thought. So here we are, trying to save the despairing citizens of Upper Canada, one at a time. In the here and now though, I'm not sure we're succeeding." She fell silent for a moment, then Wolfe sensed rather than saw her turn towards him. "Tell me--are we succeeding? I'll keep it to myself."
Wolfe hesitated. Rickki was an old and trusted friend; he did not wish to mislead her. "I can't go into numbers. But you can figure it yourself. Food and power reserves are already stretched to the max. The more we cut back, the more Listers join the Accord. Unless we can reverse current trends, the Accord will reach critical mass here by early fall. Now we have Zacky the Zealot to deal with." He grinned at her in the darkness. "But we'll thread the needle somehow, Rickki." As he spoke he felt his own natural optimism assert itself. The Institute had triumphed in harder situations than this, and his team was getting better, tighter all the time.
"Sure we will, boss." Rickki tossed off her Flash at a shot. "And if we don't?"
"I try not to contemplate the possibility," admitted Wolfe. "We just have to have faith in the equations and keep on going." A dawn breeze tickled the yellow candle flame, making it waver and dance. He stared into the tiny flame, considering what he had just said. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that at the Institute too was a religion, or at least a set of beliefs. I believe in the final truth of sociocybernetics, and in the goodness of our AI, who is dedicated to the betterment of the Human Race. I believe I am doing good and not evil though my actions may be harsh or violent . . . A credo, propped up by equations and sophisticated science to be sure, but still an act of faith. In which case, how was he superior to the five youngsters he had just helped execute? Or was the word murder? He shivered and finished his Flash in a gulp.
"Oh yeah, I almost forgot." Rickki's voice was thick with fatigue. "We got the test results back for Dulles just before dinner last night. He was having some sort of severe toxic reaction to his medication yesterday morning--hence the weirdness. The shrinks say he'll be back to normal in a few days."
"We should sue BioAge. We could have been walking around minus gonads right now."
"Apparently quite a few people are doing just that--suing BioAge I mean." Rickki yawned loudly. "Here comes another day." She pointed to the east where a thin line of silver light was growing broader.
"Here's to it," agreed Wolfe. He yawned and stood up. "We'd better try and override the adrenals, get some rest."