The Brave New World 41 The Solar Storm

"I don't know what the f.u.c.k is wrong with those people," he confessed to Lea Panatella. "I get it that anything broadcast over the air won't work. I get it that most vehicles won't work because of that stupid requirement for unremovable vehicle data transmitters that was introduced a few years back. What I don't get is why TV won't work. We got cable TV, right? Same f.u.c.king cables as those used for phone lines. The landline phones work. So, why no TV? And how the f.u.c.k did anything as stupid as this vehicle data transmitter law ever get through the Congress?"

"You supported, it sir," Lea reminded him.

"I was a senator, dammit. Once those a.s.sholes in the Congress voted it through, I had to toe the line. I had to vote for a lot of crazy stuff when I was a senator. Otherwise I'd have had the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n party reaming my a.s.s. But why -"

"Everyone thought it was a great crime prevention measure," Lea said.

"Everyone thought! They thought! f.u.c.k. I wish some people, most people in fact, didn't try to think. They're too stupid to think. When they start to think, there's always trouble."

"It worked," Lea said. "There was a big drop in the crime rate."

Carlton Brock snorted. Then he said:

"But why no cable TV? If Penny doesn't get on top of that right away, I swear I'm gonna fire his a.s.s."

"TV stations use a lot of electric power," Lea said patiently. "So do TV sets. We still have a problem with electric power supply."

"Why? What I want to know is, why? And why can't anyone tell me why?"

"Well, I've got something that might help. Here."

"What's this? More paperwork? Can't you handle it, Lea?"

"I did. But you should read it, anyway. It's a report that explains why we had that big storm in the first place, and why a lot of stuff still doesn't work."

"You read it?"

"I read it."

"Give the gist to me."

"There was a huge solar storm. It screwed up the Earth's electromagnetic field, which was already being adversely affected by the profusion of fields generated by by the power stations, power lines, even small electric appliances like toasters or mobile phones. It says in here that Earth's electromagnetic field is very finely balanced, and we had trillions of small electromagnetic fields being generated within Earth's field by all that electricity we were producing and using. The net result was, Earth's electromagnetic field was already teetering on the edge. The solar storm basically gave it a push that sent everything crashing down."

"So it wasn't the cubes? I heard many people say it was the fault of those cubes."

"No, sir. The cubes came from another dimension, and arrived after the storm."

"But they had to get here first, right?" Brock said craftily. "Their pa.s.sage through the atmosphere, or something like that, could cause an electromagnetic storm, could it not?"

"According to the experts, interdimensional travel doesn't work like that. It's instantaneous."

"Whatever." Brock sighed heavily, and took the folder offered by Lea. He said:

"Anything else?"

"Unfortunately, yes. The delegates want to know when they'll be able to return home, now that the planes are flying."

"The planes are NOT flying. f.u.c.k! A guy getting his little Piper off the ground and flying a couple of circles over the G.o.dd.a.m.n airstrip doesn't mean the planes are working. Not the big pa.s.senger ones. Who told them about that Piper guy? I hope it wasn't you, Lea."

"Of course not. I think there was a leak from the communications center."

"Well, tell them to spring another leak. A leak that says we tried and failed to get anything bigger than a tiny single-engine job off the ground. Tell them to imply it's all the extra electronics in the bigger planes, or something."

"Would you address the delegates, sir? The secretary general thinks it would be a wise move."

"Why me? I'm just the governor, I mean the commissioner for the United States. Tell them to talk to Penny. Give them his phone number. Penny's the guy to talk to about getting this whole plane situation fixed."

"As you say, sir."

"Right."

Carlton Brock walked back to his suite, discreetly preceded and followed by weary bodyguards in rumpled suits. He was f.u.c.king sick of being stuck in this building, and constantly being badgered by all kinds of people! He wanted to be alone. He wanted to f.u.c.k his wife. He wanted to be anywhere but where he was right now.

His bad mood wasn't improved when he was intercepted along the way by Kasper Weinberger, former head of the International Monetary Fund.

Weinberger had been appointed acting Minister of Finance in the new world government, and he wasn't wearing it well. He was a minister of finance without access to any money. The whole international financial system had died. The thousands of thousands of electronic connections that were its blood vessels, its umbilical cords, had been brutally severed by the storm. All over the world taxes and tariffs and duties and other monetary dues weren't paid or collected.

No one knew what money was worth any more. And the new money, the metal coin currency, so far existed only as a few handfuls of low denomination coinage, minted experimentally here and there by medieval methods. The Russians and the Chinese said they were starting large-scale production, but could the Russians and the Chinese be trusted?

"Who are you?" snapped Carlton Brock, when the sad, elderly man with a gray face barred the way to Brock's suite.

"Kasper Weinberger. I'm the Minister of Finances."

"Finances? I think I've heard you name before. I thought you were some kind of a military guy."

"You had a secretary of defense with a similar name half a century ago."

"Did we? Are you a relation?"

"No, I'm afraid not. It's just a coincidence. Mister President - "

"I'm not a president any more. You want to talk to Penny, Mark Penny. He's the guy. You got his phone number?"

"I'm sorry, that was a slip of my tongue. I most definitely want to talk to you. Sir, I need money. I mean we need money."

"You can say that again! Finally someone who talks sense. Come along, I'll treat you to a drink."

Once they were safely ensconced in Brock's suite and the bodyguards were out of sight, Brock got out a half-full bottle of bourbon and fixed a couple of stiff drinks with ice from the portable gas-powered refrigerator.

"Fire away," he said, seating himself comfortably in an armchair. "If you're saying we need money, I guess you found a way to get some. Correct?"

"No," said Weinberger mournfully. "I haven't. That's why I needed to talk to you. You're the Commissioner for the United States, and we're presently in the United States. Could you instruct your president to start minting the new currency? As soon as possible, please."

"Sure, why not. He'll enjoy hearing that. But tell me, aren't we supposed to switch to the new currency some time down the line? On the last day of the current year?"

"We should make the switch sooner if at all possible. And anyway, we need to build up a big reserve of coinage first."

"Hang on. Let me get something straight. You want the U.S. to mint your money or American money?"

"There is no American or even 'your' money any more, sir. It's all OUR money."

"Penny won't like that," Brock said and smiled a little smile and sipped his drink. G.o.dd.a.m.n, that was good! You just couldn't beat Four Roses.

"Okay," he said finally. "But what about the others? Are they getting on the act, too? It's high time all those guys got their s.h.i.t together. Maybe you should talk to each of them in turn."

"Yes, I've been doing that already, sir. The Russians and the Chinese have promised total cooperation. But we need to have money here, right here."

"I get it," said Brock. "But can't we arrange some kind of transfer over the phone?"

"We cannot. We have to physically have the money here. In our hands."

"Okay," said Brock. "Tell you what - I'll see what I can do. And -"

He was interrupted by the rather loud and insistent knocking on the door.

"Come in!" he shouted.

One of his bodyguards entered, accompanied by one of Brock's numerous female a.s.sistants.

"I have an important meeting here," Brock said testily. "What is it?"

"It's highly confidential, sir."

"Ah."

Brock got up slowly and looked down at the seated, dazed Weinberger. Weinberger's daze stemmed from the fact that he was exhausted, and had just had his first strong alcoholic drink in quite a while. His head was swimming, and he found it hard to focus. He heard Brock's voice as if it was coming from behind a thick curtain. Brock was saying:

"I'll let you know about the money tomorrow. Hey, you look as if you could use some rest. We'll talk later, okay?"

Weinberger didn't budge. His head lolled and he dropped his gla.s.s, spilling bourbon and melted ice on the carpet.

"s.h.i.t," said Carlton Brock. He looked at the bodyguard that had come in with the a.s.sistant and said:

"Get that guy out of here. Take him to his room."

Then he strode quickly to the door leading to his bedroom, opened it, and motioned for the a.s.sistant to enter. He waited until she shut the door, then asked:

"What is it? You look concerned."

"We have Jerry Hard for you on the phone, sir," said the a.s.sistant. "If you could pick up the receiver next to your bed - "

"No way! Jerry? So they made it over there! Okay, thank you."

When the a.s.sistant had left, Brock picked up the receiver and said:

"Carlton Brock."

He listened in total silence for almost a full minute, without interrupting once. This was highly unusual for Carlton Brock. Eventually he said:

"I need to know about this Galway place Where the f.u.c.k is that?"

He did some more listening, with a brooding pout. Then he suddenly brightened, and said:

"Hold it, Jerry. Hold it right there. You're saying the ship's in poor shape. Fine. Dump all those guys on the sh.o.r.e. That's right. They're in Europe, right? Promise kept. I don't f.u.c.king care how they make their way to London or France or wherever. It's their business. Tell them to talk to the mayor of that dump. Worst case scenario, they can go to the local post office and book a long distance call. I want that ship back as soon as possible, got it? And I want you to be on it."

He did some more listening. After a while, he said:

"Okay. Call me tomorrow around the same time. You'll tell me how everything went down. 'Bye."

He put down the receiver feeling very pleased with himself.

Carlton Brock believed that the best foreign policy was to keep everyone off balance and uncertain. He had just managed to put a stick into the spokes of the European diplomatic machine. The messengers sent from New York would be stuck in some Irish backwater for a while.

True, the heads of state that had sent them could now talk on the telephone to their people back home. But Brock was quite sure a lot of confidential instructions had been sent aboard the Great Western, instructions that would have been overheard by other people if spoken on the phone. Same thing applied to all email messages. They would all be copied, deciphered if necessary, and carefully scrutinized. Chief Brody had promised him that.

And now another pleasure awaited him: he was about to kick Penny's a.s.s, and force him to start minting the new currency right away. Life was good, and he was going to make it better still by pouring himself another drink before he talked to Penny.

Weinberger was gone from the day room. He'd left behind a small pool of vomit on the rug beside the armchair he had sat in. A very tired-looking maid was busy cleaning it up as Brock walked up to his little fridge.

He put some ice in his gla.s.s and filled it to the brim and wished, once again, that he could f.u.c.k his wife.

"I'll f.u.c.k Penny instead," he said to himself, too softly to be heard by the maid. Then he took a big swig from his gla.s.s and went back into his bedroom, shutting the door.

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