The Brave New World - 167 Trouble At Home

“Yes, sir,” said special constable McCoy. Special Constable McCoy was one of the two cops standing guard at the building’s entrance. He was one of the five policemen employed by the Fort Baker Police Department: a sheriff, a deputy sheriff, and three special constables. There were no ordinary constables. Being a special constable meant a couple of dollars extra in the monthly moneybag, and a couple of dollars went a hell of a way longer than a hundred bucks used to, in the old days. The sheriff knew how to care for his people.

“I realize that an intimidating appearance can be helpful when maintaining order,” Kirk droned on. “However, there is no reason why you should glare at everyone who passes by. I want this office to project a friendly image, officer. I want people to like us. This is hard to attain when your presence makes people afraid of crossing the street.”

“I understand, sir,” said special constable McCoy, wishing the old windbag would fuck off and go back inside the building. His wishes were met. Kirk said:

“Thank you, officer.”

Then he went back inside the building to wait for Adam. It was almost closing time, just a couple of minutes to four. Kirk had set working hours to 8-16 to take maximum advantage of daylight.

As he waited for Adam, Kirk strolled back and forth across the former bank lobby. It had been empty for a while; most days, all the license applications were processed by two in the afternoon. Kirk had retained all of the bank’s fittings and furniture. Applicants for a colonial license approached a teller’s window, manned by the single clerk who processed their applications and collected payment.

Subsequently, the applicants went into the former office of the bank’s manager. They were seated in a chair previously used by people applying for loans, and instructed to read and sign a small stack of documents. They signed them after pretending to read them for a few seconds each, and received a colonizer’s or a colonist’s license, and a bag containing one or more implant kits.

The bags had been taken from a defunct supermarket in Sausalito. They bore the legend Happy Pepe’s, and featured a grinning Mexican. He had the mandatory mustache and sombrero and looked as if he’d just seen the greatest piece of ass ever walk down the street. Kirk quite liked that picture, although of course he’d have preferred more classy wrapping for the kits. He thought the grinning Mexican showed optimism and an upbeat attitude, the very qualities he wanted in new colonists.

There were some protests, particularly when they were told to change their plans. But having already signed an agreement to do so upon request, they had no choice but to obey. Having done that, they were congratulated on their new status, and shown out.

Kirk employed a total of four people to attend to these duties, and this was counting the cleaner/handyman who spent most of his time chewing a toothpick while comfortably seated in one of the many empty rooms. When discovered, he would explain he was just taking a short break: he prudently kept a mop and a bucket by his side at all times.

There really was absolutely no need to hire more people, Kirk thought. Adam and his ambitions! The governors of Maryland, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania were in the process of learning the costs of expanding too fast, and wouldn’t remain governors for much longer. Carlton Brock had told Kirk as much when they held a brief teleconference following Kirk’s move into his new office.

“I know you’re running three days late because of the train trip and shit,” Carlton Brock had said. “That’s fine by me. All I want is peace and productivity. I’m firing those three assholes the moment I have the right replacements. I’m tired of listening to all the wails and lamentations. I know I won’t hear any from you. Go for it, Governor; but go at your own pace. You’re the boss.”

“Yes, sir,” Kirk had answered, sorely tempted to say ‘yes, boss’.

The big, wind-up standing clock that served as the official office timepiece began to beat out four o’clock, and Kirk nodded to the clerk in the teller’s window. He used to be the bank’s assistant manager. Kirk would have employed the manager too, but the man had committed suicide. Such a waste!

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Kirk said, and exited. He left the locking up to his staff. He was a governor, not a goddamn janitor.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, boys,” he said to McCoy and his companion. The two cops said their goodbyes, and walked off in the direction of the police station.

Kirk’s official car was parked behind the building, but he waited for Adam on the front steps, admiring the view. Back in the old times, Fort Baker had throngs of tourists snapping pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco Bay.

How peaceful and quiet it all was, now! Even the birds were gone. There had been swarms of them at first, in the weeks following the catastrophe when all traffic had stopped. But they dwindled and melted away in the constant rattle of gunshots fired by Fort Baker residents who were happy to get something for dinner without paying, or having to travel too far.

“Hey Dad!”

Kirk jerked, his foot slipped off the step, and he had to perform a small acrobatic feat to stop himself from falling. He looked: Adam was walking down the street in his direction! Where the fuck was his car?

“Sorry I’m a little late,” Adam said, drawing near. “I ran out of fucking gas, can you believe it? Fortunately, just a few blocks away. You sure you’ve got a full tank?”

“I’m sure,” Kirk said. “It’s almost full. I had it topped up yesterday. I don’t drive around as much as you do.”

He began walking to the car park at the rear of the building with Adam by his side. Adam said:

“I forgot to tell you. The guys down at the city hall are complaining you never show your face.”

“Let them complain all they like,” Kirk said smugly. “I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Well, you should look in on them from time to time.”

“I’m planning to go down there next week to fire a few people. I’ll fire a few people every single time I go in there. It will be easy enough to find a few assholes who aren’t pulling their weight. Soon enough they’ll be begging me to stay away.”

They fell silent when they reached Kirk’s car: a big four-door Chevrolet sedan. It had been painted a matte green, and was at least thirty years old. It had bulletproof glass in the windows and light armor plating and had been too valuable to discard. The military liked hoarding plenty of old, useless vehicles, spending tons of money on keeping them serviceable. It had turned out to be a clever policy.

Kirk started the car up, and soon enough they were driving along the 101 through Sausalito. There was next to no other traffic, and the streets were empty of pedestrians. Everyone was conserving energy in all of its shapes and forms.

It was close to an hour’s drive to the Lander mansion in Napa Valley. Kirk and Adam amused themselves by making a bet on the number of vehicles they’d encounter along the way. They both bet in the low hundreds; it turned to be wildly optimistic. They had encountered twenty seven by the time they reached Petaluma, more than halfway home. Most of the vehicles they saw were army trucks, although they also passed an ancient Harley-Davidson motorcycle. It was hauling a two-wheeled cart filled with hay.

“I hope it’s not someone’s dinner,” Adam commented, craning his head to follow the vehicle with his eyes.

“A lot of people have taken to riding horses,” Kirk said. “I’m actually surprised we haven’t seen any.”

“I’d take a short cut across the country if I had a horse,” said Adam. “A horse is the ultimate cross-country vehicle.”

“That it is,” Kirk agreed.

“Maybe we should take a couple back to the office. Use them for shorter trips. I mean, I’ve burned up half the month’s gas ration in less than a week.”

Kirk chuckled, and said:

“Don’t worry, son. As the state governor, I’m entitled to issue extra gas rations when really necessary. Of course I can’t go crazy with them, but I can get you a few extra refills.”

“Thanks, Dad. I should have opted for an old clunker, like you. It looks like it’s very fuel-efficient.”

“Lighter armor, weaker engine, and no silly gadgets like guns or road spike strip launchers. But you had your heart set on driving a little tank.”

“Yeah,” Adam said gloomily. “I thought that, traveling around without an escort… You know.”

“I don’t, and I don’t want to find out. That’s for stupid assholes like the guys in Maryland and Pennsylvania.”

“You don’t think we’re going to have that kind of trouble here?”

“I don’t think so,” Kirk said. “California’s an agricultural state. We’ve got enough food for everyone, even assuming this year’s harvest will be a tenth of what it used to be. And very importantly, we’ve kept everyone’s hopes intact. Hope is key, Adam. I know that because I used to be a politician. A politician is a trader in hope. Take away hope, and you instantly have a shitload of problems.”

“And everyone here’s still hoping they’ll build themselves a wonderful future in the New World.”

“Exactly,” said Kirk. “If they’re going to be disillusioned, let them get disillusioned at the rate of ten a day. Not a thousand every hour.”

“Smart.”

“I like to think so,” Kirk said.

Twenty minutes later, they finally turned into the driveway leading to the Lander mansion. Almost instantly, they saw something was seriously wrong.

A crowd of at least a hundred people of all colors and ages was gathered in front of the entrance to the house. Some were carrying placards on sticks, and all of them turned to look at the car approaching up the driveway.

“Oh shit,” Adam said.

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