“He did, eh?”
“Yes. He promised that a crack brigade of armed paratroops would be flying in this very evening, actually. You might want to take that matter under advisement.”
“Man, that’s Two Feathers all over,” Burningboy sighed. “I’m not sayin’ that old Geronimo actually lied to you or anything, but he’s kind of famous for that gambit. We Moderators go back pretty far in Colorado, and back when Two Feathers was Governor, he was always sayin’ he’d roust out the National Guard and restore so-called law and order… Sometimes he actually did it, enough to keep you off balance. But just ’cause Two Feathers is wearin’ his war paint, that don’t guarantee any war.”
“So you’re alleging that the President won’t send troops?”
“No. I’m just sayin’ that we don’t plan to leave until these so-called troops show up. In fact, we probably won’t leave, even after they show up. I’m not sure you grasp this situation, you being from Massa-chusetts and all. But we Moderators have had some dealings with the Governor of Colorado. In fact, he owes us some favors.”
“That’s an interesting allegation, Corporal.”
“We nomads tend to stick around in times and places where nobody else can survive. That makes us pretty useful sometimes. Espe-cially given that Wyoming was on fire recently, and all that.”
“I see.” Oscar paused. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, sir, I hate to badger a man when he’s feeling poorly. But frankly, you’re the only man I can tell these things to. You seem to be pretty much all there is around here. I mean, we just got a very firm lecture from your so-called Director. The woman just don’t listen. She has no idea how people live! We were explainin’ to her that we hold all the cards now, and she’s totally at our mercy and so on, but she’s just not buyin’ any of it. She just waits for my lips to stop movin’, and then she launches into this nutty rant about intellectual freedom and the advancement of knowledge and Christ only knows what else … She’s really weird. She’s just a weird-actin’, weird-looking, weird, witchy woman. Then we tried talkin’ to your so-called chief of police… What is it with that guy?”
“What do you mean, Corporal?”
Burningboy became uneasy, but he was determined to see the matter through. “It’s not that I have anything against Anglos! I mean, sure there are good, decent, law-abiding Anglo people. But — you know — look at the statistics! Anglos have white-collar crime rates right off the scale. And talk about violent-man, white people are the most violent ethnic group in America. All those cross burnings, and militia bombings, and gun-nut guys… the poor bastards just can’t get a grip.”
Oscar considered this. It always offended him. to hear his fellow Americans discussing the vagaries of “white people.” There was sim-ply no such thing as “white people.” That stereotype was an artificial construct, like the ridiculous term “Hispanic.” In all the rest of the world, a Peruvian was a Peruvian and a Brazilian was a Brazilian — it was only in America that people somehow became this multilingual, multinational entity called a “Hispanic.” Oscar himself passed for a “Hispanic” most of the time, though his own ethnic background was best described as “Not of Human Origin.”
“You need to get to know my friend Kevin,” he said. “Kevin’s a diamond in the rough.”
“Okay. Sure. I like a man who sticks up for his friends,” Burn-ingboy said. “But that’s the real reason we’re here now, Oscar. You’re the only man in this place who can talk sense to us. You’re the only one who even knows what’s going on.”
10
Oscar now worked for the President of the United States. His new position was enormously helpful in dealing with two thousand naive scientists inside a dome in East Texas. As a practical matter, however, it merely added a new layer of complexity to Oscar’s life.
Oscar swiftly discovered that he was not, in fact, the National Security Council’s official Science Adviser. A routine security check by the White House krewe had swiftly revealed Oscar’s personal background problem. This was a serious hitch, as the President did not currently employ anyone who was a product of outlaw South Amer-ican genetic engineering. Given the circumstances, hiring one seemed a bad precedent.
So, although Oscar had obediently resigned his Sen-ate committee post, he failed to achieve an official post with the National Security Council. He was merely an “informal adviser.” He had no official ranking in the gov-ernment, and did not even receive a paycheck.
Despite the President’s assertion, no “crack U.S. Army personnel” arrived in Buna. It seemed that a Presi-dential order had been issued, but the Army deployment had been indefinitely delayed due to staffing and budget problems. These “staffing and budget problems” were certainly likely enough — they were chronic in the military but the deeper problems were, of course, political. The U.S. Army as an insti-tution was very mulish about being ordered into potential combat against American civilians. The U.S. Army hadn’t been involved in the gruesome and covert helicopter shoot-out on the banks of the Sabine River. The Army wasn’t anxious to take the political heat for trigger-happy spooks from the NSC.
As a sop to propriety, Oscar was told that an NSC lieutenant colonel would soon arrive, with a crack team of very low-profile Marine aviators. But then the lieutenant colonel was also delayed, due to unexpected foreign-policy developments.
An American-owned fast-food multinational had accidentally poisoned a number of Dutch citizens with poorly sterilized hamburger meat. In retaliation, angry Dutch zealots had attacked and torched several restaurants. Given strained Dutch-American relations, this was a serious scandal and close to a casus belli. The President, faced with his first foreign-policy crisis, was blustering and demanding repara-tions and formal apologies. Under these circumstances, military disor-der within the U.S. was not an issue that the Administration cared to emphasize.
These were all disappointments. However, Oscar bore up. He was peeved to be denied a legitimate office, but he wasn’t surprised. He certainly wasn’t under the illusion that the Presidency worked any better than any other aspect of contemporary American government. Besides, there were distinct advantages to his questionable status. De-spite the humiliations, Oscar was now far more powerful than he had ever been before. Oscar had become a spook. Spookhood was doable.
Oscar swiftly made himself a factor with the new powers lurking in the basement below the Oval Office. He studied their dossiers, memorized their names and the office flowcharts, and asserted himself in the organization by humbly demanding favors. They were small, easily granted favors, but they were carefully arranged so that a failure to grant them was sure to provoke a turf war in the White House staff. Consequently, Oscar got his way.
He resolved one nagging problem by obliterating the local police force. He had the Collaboratory’s captive police flown out of Texas in an unmarked cargo helicopter. They were transferred to a federal law enforcement training facility in West Virginia. The Collaboratory’s cops were not fired, much less were they tried for malfeasance and bribe-taking; but the budget of their tiny agency was zeroed-out, and the personnel simply vanished forever into the mazes of federal reas-signment.
This left the Collaboratory with no working budget for a police force. But that was doable. Because at the moment, there were no budgets of any kind at the Collaboratory. Everyone was working for no pay. They were living off barter, back gardens, surplus office equipment, and various forms of left-handed pin money.