Fractions_ The First Half of the Fall Revolution - Ken MacLeod [263]
The table was spread with laminated maps, on which lines had been drawn and wiped and redrawn in fluorescent inks from the marker-pens that lay scattered among coffee-cups and overflowing cut-glass ashtrays the size of dinner-plates. Rising smoke curled up through the cones of light to be sucked away by powerful air-conditioning that gave the atmosphere a stale chill.
The man who’d spoken stood and motioned me towards a vacant seat at the nearest corner of the table. A freshly filled cup of coffee steamed in front of it.
‘Good evening, Mr Wilde,’ he said. ‘I must apologise for the rather brusque manner in which you’ve been brought here.’ He gave a self-deprecating smile, a slight shrug as if to disavow responsibility. He was old, older than I – though he’d had better treatment – and his wavy yellow-grey hair, shoulder-length, made him look like a judge or one of those eighteenth-century dignitaries in the portraits. ‘I trust you have not been otherwise ill-treated?’
I stood where I was and said, ‘I call kidnapping ill-treatment, sir. I demand an explanation, and an immediate contact with my family and my lawyer.’
Another man spoke up, leaning forward on his elbows into the light. ‘None of that applies. This country’s under martial law, and anyway, you’re not under arrest.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll go now.’
I turned away and made for the door.
‘Stop!’ The first man’s voice sounded more like an urgent warning than a command. ‘A moment, please.’
This was more like it. I turned back.
‘Of course you’re free to leave,’ the man continued, ‘but if you do, only we can guarantee your safety. All we ask is that you hear us out.’
I doubted this, but decided it would be foolhardy to try anything else. Besides, I needed that coffee.
They were a committee of what was already being called the Restoration Government. Members of Parliament, civil servants…they didn’t give their names, and I never subsequently tried to find out. They told me they were trying to restore order and a civilian administration.
‘The Republic is dead, Mr Wilde. Our only choices are a prolonged and futile resistance, with a prolonged and painful occupation – or an an attempt at a workable settlement.’
‘I don’t see the US keeping up a prolonged occupation,’ I said. ‘Given their notorious sensitivity to body-bags.’
‘How many US troops have you seen?’ snapped the second man. ‘They’re all in bunkers operating telepresence rigs. Believe me, America’s Third World clients have troops and to spare for the UN. Internal security is what they’re raised for and paid for. They’ll laugh off the pathetic efforts of our home-grown Guevaras. Make no mistake – the United States – the United Nations – means it this time. No nation will ever again be allowed to start a war. Nuclear disarmament will be enforced.’
Saliva droplets from his speech were spotting the maps. I was half-expecting his right arm to twitch up. I must have recoiled slightly. The long-haired man raised a hand, soft cop to the hard cop.
‘We know as well as you do that a power such as the US must become cannot possibly administer the world. Police it, at a very high level, yes. But as some powers move up from the nation, others devolve to the local community. We have the opportunity to encourage autonomy and diversity. Let us take it, and spare our country years of agony.’
‘“Us”?’ I looked around. ‘I have nothing in common with you. What do you want from me?’
‘The possibility of a deal, Mr Wilde. A settlement. We’re pulling in all the regional and factional and community leaders we can reach. You happen to