That asshole who wrote the book about him once said that Nixon was followed around by some “genius of deflation,” an unseen force that put him in proximity to big, brave things but ensured he always looked vaguely ridiculous. Nixon never gave that observation much credit, but today, staring out at the gray drizzle in the Rose Garden, he can admit he feels haunted. He sighs. Fuck it. His house has a bowling alley in the basement.
April, 1973
The secret meeting with a fraction of the presidium is held on the Black Sea coast. Eugenia is there, along with one of the new “Remote Messengers,” an autonomous fragment of the creature’s ever-growing substance, about twenty feet tall and remotely connected to its mental network. The entity pretends to smoke a cigarette clutched in a thin tentacle, a performance it has developed to put humans more at ease. The Soviet premier speaks:
“You must understand, Ms. Aldrich-Haines—and comrade Messenger, of course—that while we congratulate you on your rapid acquisition of a less belligerent means of global influence, you have done so by operating within an aggressively capitalist framework that we cannot legitimize with our public acquiescence.”
‘Between capitalist and communist society there lies the period of the revolutionary transformation of the one into the other,’ as Marx himself wrote. Am I not sufficiently revolutionary for your tastes, comrades?
“Yes, but there’s a second half to that particular argument, comrade Messenger,” says the premier.
I represent an unprecedented focus for the popular human consciousness, an economic nexus that incorporates the bourgeoisie but has not been constructed to its preferences and most importantly, does not answer to it. Surely that is a promising basis for ongoing cooperation, comrades.
“Hmmm,” says the premier, smoking his cigarette nigh-down to his fingertips. “Hmmm. Maybe you’re onto something. It’s good to see you exploring a more sound political and social ideology, comrade Messenger. Certainly we can look at…cooperating.”
The meeting breaks up, about as cheerfully as such things ever do. Before the Remote whisks Eugenia away in its usual mysterious fashion, one of the Soviet ministers runs over for a huddle.
“I was wondering,” says State Security, “if I might be able to put you in touch with my people in Switzerland and make a few moves. Take my points out of British Aerospace, for example. And Uniroyal. And shift them over to, uh.” He gestures at the Remote. “You know.”
“Leave it with me, chairman.” She takes his notes and folds them up. “I’m always happy to help with a bit of revolutionary transformation.”
May, 1973—December, 1977
Messenger is absolutely rolling in it.
Eugenia’s personal staff balloons to the size of an army regiment. Messenger takes possession of office buildings in a dozen major cities. Its people have quasi-immunity from all earthly laws but they pay their rent, their bills, and their parking tickets. Purchasing more banks is an inevitability. Messenger begins offering loans large and small, undercutting existing credit markets, leveraging its holdings to secure more of everything. It buys controlling shares in Lockheed Martin, McDonnell Douglas, Dassault, and three dozen other global defense contractors. It pumps the brakes on their operations, giving raises to its personnel while cutting their duties, subsuming them as footnotes into its vast bubble of profitability. Golf games on six continents improve drastically. Messenger buys effective control of non-communist uranium production and makes subtle inroads on the rest of it. Men who would have torn out their chest hair rather than surrender their nuclear weapons are suddenly content to accept healthy paychecks to simply not build the things.
In 1976, Messenger buys the Olympics. It endows think tanks at nine major universities. The next year it starts buying its way into petroleum.
January, 1978
The secret meeting with the Archbishop of New York is held in one of the nicely furnished oubliettes the Archdiocese maintains for miscellaneous chicanery somewhere under St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan. The Remote Messenger arrives by truck.
“His Holiness has asked me to emphasize that he regrets the recent outbursts of hysteria, which he believes have no basis in scripture and need not in any way reflect the official position of the church,” says the cardinal. “My opinion was not requested. So far as his Holiness is concerned, we must be reconciled to living in this world of God’s great mysteries, and must understand the inevitability of gray areas. Isn’t that just special.”
Your Eminence, I appreciate this gracious consideration.
“Stow it. I’m an errand boy.” The cardinal takes a report from the Opus Dei man to his left. “We have word that you are now handling significant investments on behalf of the Southern Baptist Convention.”
That much I can confirm.
“And we also understand that you, or perhaps your agents, have guaranteed them an annual rate of return not below eleven percent.”
Yes.
“Eleven. For that circus down in Nashville, eleven. Now what might you offer in exchange for a larger investment, from a more, ah, mature and international portfolio of holdings?”
I could very easily see myself offering twelve point five. Even thirteen.
“Thirteen,” says the cardinal, sucking his teeth. “Thirteen. Now, that’s an agreeable number, but it does have a certain unfortunate superstitious connotation. Can we go thirteen point five?”
Thirteen point five, then. If I concur that your investment is a significant enough percentage of your overall holdings.
“Well, rejoice. His Holiness will be so pleased. As his preeminent banking clerk in this zip code I might even get a taste. Who the hell knows?”
‘He heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them.’
“Look, you alien cash machine, if you’re going to quote the good book at me, don’t give me King James. Memorize the version with all the chapters. We’ll be in touch about our hedge funds.”
August, 1980
Messenger’s final form, at least for the present era of planetary development, is stationary. Its main body crouches like a vast gleaming temple near Likiep Atoll. It has distributed so much of its brain function, become such a creature of networked awareness, that no single attack could possibly destroy it. Even a lone Remote could eventually grow itself into something of this size, with no loss of memory or ability. Remotes are at work across the Marshall Islands, scouring contaminated sands, concentrating the radioactive elements within themselves and exuding clean water and soil. This is all part of the reparations the entity has agreed to, reparations for all the vessels it sunk, reparations for all the cities it smashed, reparations for all the families bereaved.
It can well afford this; it now represents 41 percent of the economic activity of the human species. It is paying back the young thinkers in their cherished hallucinations, but they are paying it more, many times more. It is the bank that can never break, the vault that can never be cracked, the insurance that never refuses. All human currencies are now stuck to it like glue. It does not entirely understand why it had not sought a public relations professional before Eugenia entered its calculations, but perhaps it does not matter. Its task is not to save individuals, or even cities, but the future of all sapient life on this planet. Whatever games it must play toward that end are immaterial, and the only thing that worries it is the question of how long it must persist. Humans do not take hints; they prefer paychecks. How long will Messenger need to hand them out? A hundred local years? A thousand?