Distraction - Bruce Sterling [20]
“Oh yes,” Oscar said at once. “Sure. They know you can afford to do it. Of course a giant protest march is credible. A pro-military protest, that sounds great. But I do have a word of advice, if you’d like to hear it.”
“Naturally.”
“The hunger strike is very dangerous. Dramatic moral gestures are very strong meat. They really bring out the sharks.”
“I realize that, and I’m not afraid of it.”
“Let me put it this way, Senator. You and your wife had better really starve.”
“That’s all right,” Bambakias said. “That’s doable. We’ve been hungry for years.”
Like most elements of modern American government, the Buna National Collaboratory was run by a committee. The source of local authority was a ten-person board, chaired by the Collaboratory’s Director, Dr. Arno Felzian. The members of the board were the heads of the Collaboratory’s nine administrative divisions.
Sunshine laws required the board’s weekly meetings to take place publicly. The modern legal meaning of “public” meant camera coverage on a net-accessible address. The older tradition of a public meeting still held true in Buna, though. Collaboratory workers often showed up in person for board meetings, especially if they expected to see some personal ox gored.
Oscar had chosen to physically attend all of the Collaboratory board meetings. He had no plans to formally announce himself, or to take any part in the committee’s business. He was attending strictly in order to be seen. To make sure that his ominous presence fully registered, he brought with him his net administrator, Bob Argow, and his oppo researcher, Audrey Avizienis.
The board’s public studio was on the second floor of the Collaboratory’s media center, across an open-air flywalk from the central administration building. The studio had been designed for public meetings back in 2030, with slanted racks of seats, decent acoustics, and nicely placed camera coverage.
But the Collaboratory’s local government had had a checkered history. The net-center had been looted and partially burned during the lab’s violent internal brawls of 2031. The damaged studio had naturally been somewhat neglected during the ensuing federal witch-hunts and the economic warfare scandals. It had crawled some distance back toward respectable order and repair in 2037, when the Collaboratory had shored up its perennially crisis-stricken finances. Repair contractors had papered over the burn marks and spruced the place up somewhat. The place was a miniature jungle of attractive potted plants.
The board’s stage was fully functional, with sound baffles, overhead lighting, standard federal-issue table and chairs. The automatic cameras were in order. The board members were gamely plowing through the week’s agenda. The issue currently at hand was replacing the ailing plumbing system in one of the Collaboratory cafeterias. The head of the Contracts & Procurements Division had the floor. He was mournfully reading a list of repair charges from a spreadsheet.
“I can’t believe it’s this bad,” Argow muttered.
Oscar deftly adjusted the screen of his laptop. “Bob, there’s something I need to show you.”
“This is just so impossibly awful.” Argow was ignoring him. “Before I came here, I never really understood the damage we’ve done. The human race, I mean. The terrible harm we’ve done to our planet. Once you really think about it, it’s absolutely horrifying. Do you realize how many species have been killed off in the past fifty years? It’s just a total, epic catastrophe.”
Audrey leaned in over Oscar’s shoulder. “You promised you’d stop drinking, Bob.”
“I’m sober as a judge, you little shrew! While you’ve been sitting in the dorm with your nose in your screen, I’ve been touring the gardens here. With the giraffes. And the golden marmosets. All wiped out in a holocaust! We’ve poisoned the ocean, we’ve burned down and plowed the jungles, and we even screwed up the weather. All for the sake of modern life, right? Eight billion psychotic media-freaks!”
“Well,” sniffed Audrey, “you’re a fine one to talk on that