The Brave New World - 172 Lonely At The Top

However, this time Kirk’s calculations misfired. Carlton Brock snarled:

“Stop sounding so pleased with yourself, Lander. You’re sitting on a rebellion. We are all sitting on a rebellion! We’re a step away from a revolt. A fucking revolution!”

“I know things are bad in some state territories,” Kirk said soothingly. “But they are peaceful here, Your Excellency. Well, I had a group of demonstrators come to my residence, but they dispersed after I talked to them.”

“What the fuck are you talking about! I just got some numbers from California. Over a hundred riots in the past six days!”

“There have been no riots in the Northern California region,” Kirk said firmly. “But I admit I haven’t received a report yet from Libby Placek – you know, the governor of Southern California. I did hear she’s not doing so well.”

“She hasn’t let you know at all what’s happening at her end?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s a disaster. A fucking disaster!”

“I agree she’s a disaster, sir. With your approval, I’ll start looking around for someone to replace her.”

“Okay. But we also have to do something immediately to put out this fire before it spreads. We’ve got a whole fucking Army corps in New Jersey, Kirk. An Army corps in addition to all the cops and the National Guard. And they all have their hands full.”

“But aren’t those protests directed at the national, elected government? I mean they are the ones responsible for the ordinary people.”

“They’re directed at us, Kirk. A lot of ordinary people acquired colonial licenses, and when they did, they became our responsibility. Colonists and colonizers aren’t entitled to the guaranteed monthly income, Kirk. They sign their right to that money away when they receive a colonial license. They all think they’ll import New World food, and get rich on the colony profits. Then they’re dead within a day, I mean our kind of day, ten days in the New World. They can’t even feed themselves over there, they can fucking forget about sending any food back here. So they’re left with no food and no money and very poor job prospects. Sure, they can reapply for the guaranteed income when they return their licenses, but they won’t be getting any for a month or two. It takes time to process things now that we’ve regressed into the Paper Age. And who is to blame for all that shit? We are!””

“We must enforce strict limits for new licences on all levels of government,” Kirk said.

“Kirk, Kirk, Kirk. Every governor, irrespective of level, is fully independent – remember? They can be fired and replaced at a moment’s notice, but we can’t give them orders.”

“Time is something we don’t have. We need an immediate solution.”

Kirk sighed, regretting that he had done such a good job of impressing Brock earlier on. Impressing someone once wasn’t enough. They expected to keep being impressed. A failure to impress repetitively counted as a failure.

“Offhand, I can think of only one thing,” Kirk said. “And it’s not a perfect solution.”

“There are no perfect solutions to anything. I’m listening.”

“Increase the number of implants received with a colonist’s license to two. That will mean every failed colonist to date will get an extra implant, a second chance. And all new colonists will have a backup implant.”

“We can’t change the license fee. You know that. And it’s not like we have an unlimited supply of implant kits.”

“But we have over ten billion worldwide! More than one per every person living.”

“Kirk,” said Brock. “How many implant kits have you used so far on your capital in the New World?”

“Around fifteen hundred. I exported a lot of domestic animals and seedlings, and I’ve got around three hundred colonists there at present.”

“And there are a million governors worldwide,” said Brock. “Do the math. What’s more, we need to keep at least a couple of billion kits in reserve. We don’t know how to make them. It’s a strictly limited supply situation. It let us promise everyone could get an implant because we calculated no more than half the global adult population would want a license. At most four billion people, most likely less. But if we start giving everyone two kits it could be eight billion total. That leaves us with no reserve.”

Kirk became painfully aware that he had over seventy thousand illegal implant kits stashed in the wine cellar he’d built inside a cave. The cave was located a short walk from the house, and the kits plus some hiber beds and a few documentation scrolls were hidden in the enormous wine barrels lining the cave’s walls. The entrance to the cave was blocked by a tall steel fence and a locked gate. A large notice on the gate read: NOT TO BE OPENED BEFORE SUMMER 2040.

“A good wine has to age,” Kirk had told the inquisitive sergeant in charge of the Marine squad. “And this is going to be the best wine ever produced in California.”

The sergeant was impressed, and left it at that. The secret stash of items taken from the cube was safe. But it weighed on Kirk’s conscience, and he had to clear his throat before he said:

“Like I said, it’s not a perfect solution. But it’s going to take a while to process two billion applicants. It’s going to take a very long while once all governors start to apply limits to the number of new colonists. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What matters is that this change – two kits per colonist, a replacement kit for everyone who has fucked up – this should go a long way to solve the existing problem, the problem we have right now.”

Brock was silent for a while. Then he said:

“It might work. But people are still going to fuck up the second time around. They’re still going to die over there.”

“It will be exclusively their own fault,” Kirk said. “They’ll only have themselves to blame. And they’ll know that. Anyway, they’ll have a choice: take the extra implant, or surrender their colonial license and reapply for the guaranteed income. Once people have a choice, they’re easier to manage. Even when it’s a fake choice. And there’s another small extra step we can take, too.”

“Go on.”

“Let everyone apply to become a colonist in one of the colonial administrative centers in the New World. It’s like a job, really. They can send back food and industrial goods within limits set by the governor in charge. Or they could leave handling their quota to the governor, and would get a cut of the profit once the goods are sold. We don’t need to hire everyone who applies, of course. We’ll hire the people we select and naturally that takes time, and people understand that kind of thing because that’s exactly the process they go through when looking for a job.”

“Kirk,” Brock said. “That’s brilliant. You’re a lifesaver. I knew you’re the man to call about the current shitstorm. Think on. You get any new ideas, I want to hear them right away. And fire Placek’s ass and put someone in charge who’ll do what he’s told. Rinse and repeat for every governor who dared overrule your new colonist limit. Of course, that’s only my advice. I cannot order you to do anything.”

Brock didn’t need to say ‘but I can fire your ass anytime I want to’. Kirk heard it loud and clear anyway. He said:

“I’ll do exactly what we agreed on, sir.”

“Thank you. Thank you! Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” said Kirk.

He left his study, and went to look for Adam. He needed to talk to the governor of Northern California immediately, and inform him of the latest developments.

Kirk found Adam on the magnificent back terrace of the mansion. Adam was refreshing himself with an unidentified drink while looking sadly at the defunct fountain in the center of the garden. With water costing one new dollar per cubic meter – one thousand liters – operating a fountain was expensive even for the very wealthy.

The garden was far from looking its best, too: March wasn’t the best month for viewing gardens in the northern hemisphere. Kirk walked up to Adam, noting that his son did not turn his head to see who was approaching. It bode badly. Kirk said:

“Adam, I’ve just finished talking to Carlton Brock.”

“Yes?” asked Adam, still looking at the dead fountain.

“We’ll be making some big changes.”

“Yes?”

“Carlton agreed that it’s time to fire Placek’s ass.”

“That’s nice.”

Adam sounded like a cancer patient who had just been told by a doctor that he could maybe live another three months instead of just one. Kirk said:

“Adam, what’s wrong?”

“I just feel sad and lonely, Dad. I don’t know why.”

“I do,” Kirk said. “It’s lonely at the top.”