GENERAL VASQUEZ PUSHED HIS chair back from the table and stood at attention, in position. He was board-stiff and clearly uncomfortable with the news he had to deliver.
“Sir, Southern’s troops are amassing at various locations along our extended border with them. They are targeting the primary checkpoints at border crossings, as might be expected, and also stationing squadrons in proximity to our larger border towns. This extends from Corpus Christi at our south border all the way up to Kirkland, Washington, thirty miles north of our Seattle shipyard facilities. If you don’t mind, I’d like to insert my maps on top of the image.”
Ron was livid that the General wanted to use some of the screen real estate, detracting from the enhanced image of himself being projected to the ministers.
“Mind? Do you think we don’t know our own borders? Do you think my ministers need a schooling on the locations of our population centers? Are they stupid? Are you stupid? Did your background of poverty not prepare you properly for big boy decision-making? I don’t want a map, Generalissimo, I want solutions. I want actions. I want to know what your plans are, because Imp is telling me you’re not doing enough. In fact, Imp says you’ve hardly even started, that you and your mariachi brass band went out drinking and playing for tips at a restaurant this weekend. Or maybe you and your bueno compadres decided to do some rounds of golf instead of defending my fucking borders!”
“We did no such thing, sir.”
“I’m only funning you, Herr General. Only funning. Please, continue for my amusement.”
Vasquez was having difficulty keeping his composure. Everyone noticed the sweat pouring from beneath the gold-braided hat he wore at all times.
“Yes, sir. Southern is making noise, yet it’s not in the places we would expect if they had intentions to start anything major. We’ve war-gamed scenarios the last few days, and the AIs keep returning the same response. Though Southern is obviously agitated for various reasons, these shows of force appear to be saber-rattling only.”
“Oh, indeed. You’re suggesting their incursions into Corpus are only saber-rattling?”
“Well, technically, sir, if I could show you on the map, they have not crossed our border. Yes, some of their troops stumbled upon the DMZ area we three nation-states established, but we believe this was by mistake since they quickly withdrew.”
“And what does your pathetic intelligence division tell us about their intentions?”
“Same thing, sir. The intelligence teams participated in these war games. Many of our assets are deployed in various high-level positions of Southern’s government, as you are aware. They are confirming our analyses.”
“As I am aware. As I am aware. Oh, yes, I see what you see, and I see what you don’t see. I have perfect vision in this world of sightless fools like yourself. And what about your generalissimo counterparts in our other two domains? What do those worthless hacks think we should do?”
“Sir, our war gaming was done in coordination with them as well. I’m sure you know the other Westrich oligarchs are following their advice, which is to proceed with caution and take no first action. This is a tense moment, sir, and cooler heads shall prevail.”
“What was that?”
Visibly on screen, Ron expanded his size by ten percent, like a peacock spreading its tail to display the full plumage.
“What was what, sir?”
“Your inferred slight, the subtle reference about ‘cooler heads’ that fell from your snake lips. Are you saying your joint chief buddies think I’m not self-contained? That I can’t handle my emotions in times like this? Do you know my history, Herr General? Do you know what I’ve been through? How much I’ve sacrificed for Vista and its piglets? Those fuckers, you fuckers, are not worthy of my efforts, for damn sure. Were it not for me, Southern would own us by now. They’d have raped and pillaged and danced their way to our west coast assets, totally unhindered. They’d have annexed our valuable ports and plundered our natural resources. I’ve personally saved this nation’s ass so many times, and I have not heard a single ‘thank you’ or a polite comment about my many accomplishments.”
“Apologies. I assumed you’ve been in communications with the other oligarchs. I thought they were keeping you apprised to develop and execute a mutual course of action.”
The screen went dark. Ron’s image was no longer visible, nor could they hear him.
Edgar had seen Ron angry before, even insanely angry, so his penchant for spitting epithets at his team was nothing new. But this time, he sensed something different. Ron was more disengaged from reality than normal.
“My AI says the lines are not down,” Edgar volunteered. “Appears he is not in the bunker below and is apparently in one of the remote bunkers. My AI keeps repinging the network, and the network appears to be fine.”
The team sat in silence around the table. Nobody wanted to move from their positions for fear they’d be caught in the act, even if it was to use the restroom. In critical conversations like this, nobody ever left for any reason. There was no sauntering to the back of the room for refreshments. Any apparent flinch or scratch of the head might signal attention, and attention was typically followed by Ron’s wrath and vengeance.
Sara stared at her hands. All others in the room were Vistachitted and during delays like this, they could readily communicate thoughts and actions to their teams or check on the status of projects. Without that chip, she felt hampered, unable to productively utilize her time fully. While the cellphone was in front of her, she dared not touch it nor project any indication of distraction away from Ron.
After a minute, the screen returned. Ron was beaming a wide, ugly smile she’d seen only a few instances before, like the time his mech guards physically removed a quarrelsome minister at Ron’s behest. They never heard from or spoke of that minister again.
“You turds,” he growled. “You sun-baked, dog-recycled turds. General, continue to stand there like a dupe as I tell you what just happened.”
Sara glanced across the table at Edgar who was obviously conversing with his AI. “Better not let him see you disengaged, my boy,” she thought. “He will ream your ass good if he finds you copulating with your dear AI.”
The general remained stiff at attention, awaiting Ron’s command.
“So, you say your joint chiefs made this decision without my input. The other Westrich oligarchs, the sneaky fuckers, went right along with it and didn’t bother to include me in the conversation. How lovely. How quaint.”
“But sir, this was only an hour ago. They asked me to inform you of their preliminary decision in this specific meeting.”
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“Oh, and who’s giving you orders now? It’s not me, apparently. It must be the other oligarchs, those sweet angels and my best amigos. They feared involving me because they know I’ll make a different decision. A command decision. A dominating decision. A decision that will stop this fucking Southern harassment and get them off my ass once and for all. Now, Herr General, do the other oligarchs in Westrich have a three-thousand-mile-long border with Southern? Are Southern’s troops staging outside of Provo, or Bakersfield, or Santa Rosa?”
Vasquez wasn’t sure whether to respond, but Ron continued anyway. “No, they can’t stage in those places because we have no fucking borders there! Maybe you should indeed show us your grade school map on the screen, huh? Maybe now is the time to do that. Maybe we need a lesson in geography, about how my domain has this extended, necrotic sore that’s oozing pus; this detestable demarcation with both Southern and Bolivar. I’m the one always getting heat from the shit they throw across the wall, like these nonstop bio-weapon agents. Their regular gifts to me, and I return the favor. Meanwhile, the other Westrich oligarchs frolic on their beaches. After they defecate from having swilled too many margaritas, they throw their feces my way, saying I responded inappropriately to this or that. How I should have involved them in some inconsequential decision.”
“Sir, if Southern throws major shit over the wall, we’re prepared to throw them back more.”
“Don’t fuck with me, private.
“No, sir.”
“But I’m off-track, and I don’t want to be off-track. Your collective incompetence, dear team of ministerial impotence, steers me in the wrong direction. If I could run this fucking domain without you, all would be well. But then, I shouldn’t waste time saying this, because you know this to be the case.”
Ron paused, waiting to see if anyone would step out of line.
“Now, let me gift you with the stellar, breaking news that Imp just told me. Guess who just unleashed a friendly virus or two our way? Huh? And guess how they’re doing it? Anyone? Anyone? Those whores at the border, the whores in Southern uniforms with their tiny dicks peeking out for a look-see, are unleashing across the border thousands of very small drones containing vials of nasty, nasty agents. Something novel, apparently, according to an assay directly from the field minutes ago. It’s a new agent that appears to evade our normal mech antivirus tech. One for which we can’t quickly develop a vaccine. Herr General, we are already seeing your troops drop like flies, sick and writhing in pain. I assume they’ll die, and maybe you’ll all die.”
Ron stopped. Like TV personalities who once sported earpieces for directors to shout instructions at them, Ron was very adept at both monologuing while receiving information at the same moment through his Vistachit. However, when the feed was a vital piece of news, Ron needed to concentrate for a moment.
“Herr General. You’re wondering why you haven’t heard this wonderful news, right? You’re no doubt wondering why this same information is not arriving simultaneously in your Vistachit feed. I will tell you why. Because I can’t trust you, so I turned off your link. I can’t trust you any longer. You and your cabal of generals from California and Hedron have decided to work around Imp and me, and I don’t like that one bit.”
“But sir . . .”
“Shut up, you five-star fuck! I’m talking. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust the other oligarchs. I don’t trust the listless, ass-kissing congressmen and judges. They are the definition of corrupt. I can own them with a single flick of snot from my finger. They worship me because they have to, no different than monkeys at the zoo begging for food. Their morals are terminally distorted, and they lack my purity of intention and purpose. None are even close to where I am, where Imp and I are, when it comes to making strategic decisions for this nation. And I’m not talking about Vista alone. Nobody else on this planet has perfect access to data and perfect knowledge like me. Why, I’d be surprised if I’m not going to perfectly predict what will happen next.”
He laughed aloud, then expanded his physical on-screen presence even more. “This is what will happen next, Generalissimo. Time to sit down, my child, and take lessons from the mastermind.”
Vasquez sat slowly, cautiously onto his chair. For a man who had seen substantial direct warfare, his usual stone face was replaced by sheer terror.
Ron continued. “You will go back to your brass-assed buddies and inform them I am moving unilaterally against Southern, and perhaps I’ll take a swipe or two at our Latino buddies to the south.”
“Sir?”
“Shut the fuck up. I know you’ll do this, because I have those perfect prediction capabilities, right Ed-gar?”
Edgar raised his eyebrows but assumed Ron was not wanting a response.
“I already know that you, General, and four or five others on my traitorous team are planning on leaving this room as soon as possible to inform your comrades, both in Vista and elsewhere. You’ll tattle that I am breaking the sacred and unbroken rule about power-sharing in this post-Debacle age. But you see, there is no such rule. Sure, there’s an unspoken agreement that we oligarchs in Westrich will not take unilateral military action, but nothing’s written. No constitution. No set of ‘how oligarchs must act’ book. No cowardly cooperation or compromise. Only weak and fading history. Only norms and expectations – which are inherently fuckable.”
Sara noticed her left index finger tapping the table nervously as if she had an uncontrollable twitch. Without moving the rest of her hand, she quickly clenched it in her palm.
Ron went on. “Soft things. Meaningless things. Right now, I could give a flying fuck about great-in-theory standards and norms, and I don’t care what has happened historically. None of that shit matters. I only played their games because I didn’t have the power at the time not to play them, at least not until now.”
Edgar noticed the General becoming further agitated. His eyes met the General’s, and Edgar raised his fingers slightly as a signal for him to back off and settle down. He was accustomed to Ron’s bluster, whether in good times or bad, whereas Vasquez had experienced less road time with him. Edgar assumed this was the usual litany of Ron’s harsh threats without any real intention to act.
“Oh, Ed-gar? Ed-gar?”
“Fuck!” he realized. “Imp caught that movement.”
“You brag constantly about your AI. How it’s unmatched, and only Imp can outdo it. What does your magical Vistachit connection to your AI prostitute tell you about what we should do with this slight border problem?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Your expensive AI crystal ball, your golden idol, says we should do nothing?”
“No, sir. I have not asked my AI to render an analysis and opinion.”
“And you better not. It would be an inferior opinion to what I must do. I’m good about making decisions like this. I have a good sense about what to do, a superior and genetic gut sense, and that sense is compounded in power and certainty by Imp’s concurrence. It’s my brain telling me what to do, and it is also Imp’s, with all his processing and control and war-gaming and predictive capabilities. No parallel processing like this can possibly occur anywhere else on Earth. Two superior minds melding into one supreme intelligence.”
Ron stopped for a moment, waiting for someone to ask the obvious.
“Silence? Aren’t you curious, team?” he chided them. “Herr General, aren’t you curious?”
“Sir? Yes, sir.”
“Great! I’ll let you in on my secret plan of action, but then I’ll have to kill each of you, surreptitiously. Perhaps in your sleep.”
Ron laughed aloud. A few at the table broke a hesitant smile.
“Kiddies,” he began condescendingly. “I’m tired of this harassment. I’m tired of being Southern’s target. They don’t deserve me being nice to them. They deserve bad things, very bad things. These are horrible people, the worst, and I don’t care what happens to them. I don’t care if the whole lot of them are wiped from the face of the Earth. The Earth would be better for it, and they’d deserve it for what they’ve done to me. The hassles they caused. Attacks on me personally and on my domain and its snorting piglets. Present company excepted, of course. You’re no piglets. Piglets at least have bacon value. No, you’re turds, which simply bake in the sun. Either way, I didn’t ask for this. I tried to be nice to them, but they played a different game, a game of no way out. One-way street. Southern is a human-hybrid plague of the worst kind, and just like any other plague, we need inoculations to prevent it. To wipe it out forever.”
Sara had heard rhetoric like this before, but never quite as forceful and never when Ron was holed-up in one of his subterranean shelters. He had them built specifically for himself and Imp. They were constructed to withstand virtually any attack, save for a direct hit from a multi-megaton nuclear explosion. Aside from the one beneath them, Sara didn’t know where the others were located. She only knew they existed.
“Humor me, students. Am I wrong? Because if I’m wrong, I expect one of you to shout it out, to tell me Southern is great, and I’m missing something wonderful about them. That I’m not seeing what you’re seeing. Anybody? I mean, does anybody care if I wipe the whole lot of them off the planet? Because I can do that, I can do that very well, very effectively. Mine is the best weapons tech, and Imp has the best plans to accomplish the task. No other capabilities like mine exist on this planet."