The Pakistani turned back to the front row. “Uh, we haven’t been able to determine the cause. These numbers are for the coming year.”
The Major spoke up again. “And you have on-the-ground confirmation. This isn’t just a reporting glitch?”
“No, it’s not a glitch. Agribusiness and biotech firms have a comprehensive network of private investigators, researchers, and surveyors throughout the Midwestern United States to enforce their seed patents. They’ve documented population movements, unexplained capital inflows, and infrastructure investments in alternative energy technologies, high-tech equipment, heirloom seed stock, and—”
“I assume this isn’t confined to the United States.”
The two MBAs looked at each other with some dismay. The Pakistani nodded. “We were, in fact, going to cover that later in our presentation.” He started clicking through interminable bullet points and diagrams. “We also project reductions in export crops such as cotton in Asia and Russia. Security services in various countries are reporting labor unrest in both the agricultural and industrial sectors. The number of container ships being placed into warm and cold layup from lack of cargo is rising.”
It’s tearing apart the global supply chain.
Staring at the screen, The Major could visualize it like a full-scale nuclear attack. But one that the average person wouldn’t notice—until it was beyond the tipping point.
The British chap took over. “We project that if corn and soybean harvests drop another seven percent, raw material costs for almost all processed food products will skyrocket. Low-wage factory workers around the world could suffer food shortages, with attendant increase in social unrest. Factory production and transportation might be disrupted, with serious follow-on effects for the world economy.”
The Major had to hand it to Sobol. The dead bastard was clever. They’d been too focused on the digital threat to see it coming. By physically changing the economy of rural America, the Daemon could render their investment reallocation moot. They could no longer simply wait for a digital countermeasure to the Daemon. Sobol was forcing their hand, and The Major did not like the enemy dictating the tempo of battle. They needed to act. But quietly. Without anything that could be traced back to Daemon-infected companies.
The Major stood and looked out the window again, at the gleaming towers lining Sheikh Zayed Road. “Change is our enemy, gentlemen. Change means disruption. Disruption means crisis. And crisis means conflict.”
That was, after all, why the powers-that-be had called on The Major. Conflict was his specialty.
Part Two
March
Gold:$1.589USD/ozUnliaded Gasoline:$5.34USD/gallonUnemployment:23.3%USD/Darknet Credit:28.7
Chapter 9: // Seed Police
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Biotech companies spread patented genetic sequences via the natural ecosystem—much like a computer virus. Then they use the legal system to claim ownership of any organism their patented genetic sequences invade. They are raiding communal seed banks, obtaining patents for naturally occurring apples, sugar beets, corn, and a host of other plants and animals. They have immorally seized control of the food system and stand poised to claim ownership of life itself unless we take action.
Hank Fossen endured the bone-rattling vibration of his 1981 International Harvestor as he turned at the edge of the field. Could he limp the tractor through another full season without a major overhaul? It had over ten thousand running hours on it. Over the past several years legal fees had forced him to forgo maintenance. He’d looked into a used New Holland, but even with the spot-price of corn reaching record highs, rising expenses made it too risky to seriously consider a replacement.
He glanced back over his shoulder. The anhydrous ammonia applicator and the tank trailing behind were still in good order. He kept running the numbers in his head, wondering if he could time the corn market correctly. He actually had a chance at a decent profit this year if the planets aligned just right.
And then he saw them.
Fossen hurriedly switched off the applicator and brought the tractor to a stop in the middle of his field.
There, by the county road, were two black SUVs parked on the shoulder. Three men with clipboards were walking and kneeling in his field.
“Goddamnit!” He killed the engine and grabbed an axe handle he kept in the cab for knocking mud off tires. In a few moments he’d jumped to the ground and was jogging the couple hundred yards toward the men across bare, loamy soil.
“Get the hell off my land!” he shouted.
The men didn’t budge. One of them took out a video camera and started filming him as he approached. Another was already on his cell phone.
So much for scaring them off. At forty-seven, Fossen didn’t have the running stamina he’d had even five years ago. He’d put on a belly for the first time in his life with all the stress of recent years. By the time he reached the three men, he was breathing hard. The intruders were beefy types in expensive-looking GORE-TEX jackets. Their GMC SUVs were brand-new—most likely rentals out of Des Moines.
Fossen pointed the axe handle at the nearest of them. “You have no right to be here. I want you off my land. Now!”
The nearest one was taking close-up photos of the soil with a powerful-looking lens. “We’re investigators with Bosch and Miller, Mr. Fossen, here to confirm a potential patent infringement violation on behalf of Halperin Organix. We have a legal right to be here.”
“Bullshit! The judge ordered a stay on physical searches pending reasonable suspicion of infringement.”
The guy didn’t even look up. “Well, Halperin got a state judge to reinterpret the meaning of ‘reasonable.’ ”
He pulled out his own cell phone. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
“Donald Petersen is in court at the county seat right now. You won’t be able to reach him.”
The other two men chuckled.
Fossen lowered his phone and felt the anger rising. “You have no right to be here. I don’t believe you about that state ruling.”
One of the other men walked up to him aiming a digital video camera, laughing. “You willing to bet the farm, Hank?” He was a burly high-testosterone type. Most likely an ex-cop from St. Louis, where Halperin’s private detective firms were based. They always got pushy assholes for this.
“We got an anonymous tip that you’re using Mitroven 393, Hank.”
“Planting isn’t for another six or seven weeks. I’m just laying down fertilizer.”
One of them was now taking soil samples. “Well, genetic material from last year is hard to get rid of.”
“You pricks are planting Mitroven, aren’t you?”
“Are you accusing us of dishonesty, Hank?” The man with the video camera laughed.
“Why would we need to do that when there’s an experimental field a couple miles upwind?”
The third guy, who’d been talking on the cell phone, came up. “Don’t do this to yourself, Mr. Fossen. You know Halperin will spend whatever it takes to make an example out of you. Just stop growing heirloom seed and settle. Otherwise, they’ll take your farm away.”
The man with the camera laughed again. “That is, unless you’ve got another dad waiting in the wings to kill himself for the insurance mo—”