Islands in the Net (30 page)

The soldiers finished with a flourish, then snapped to attention, saluting. The crowd rose to sing the national anthem: a ringing ditty called “Count On Me, Singapore.” Thousands of smiling, neatly dressed Chinese and Malays and Tamils—all singing in English.

The crowd resumed their bleacher seats with that loud, peculiar rustle emitted by tons of moving human flesh. They smelled of sassafras and suntan oil and snow cones. Suvendra lifted her binoculars, scanning the bulletproof glass of the celebrity box. “Now comes the big speech,” she told Laura. “He may start with the space launch, but shall end with the Grenada crisis, as usual. You could be taking the measure of this fellow.”

“Right.” Laura clicked on her little tape deck.

They turned and stared expectantly at the video screen.

The prime minister rose, carelessly tucking his shades into his suit pocket. He gripped the edge of the podium with both hands, leaning forward, chin tilted, shoulders tense.

A tight, attentive silence seized the crowd. The woman next to Laura, a Chinese matron in stretch pants and straw hat, clamped her knees together nervously and jammed her hands in her lap. The guy eating sunflower seeds set his bag between his feet.

Closeup. The prime minister's head and shoulders loomed thirty feet high on the video board. A silkily amplified voice, smooth and intimate, rang from the elaborate P.A. system.

“My dear fellow citizens,” Kim said.

Suvendra whispered hastily. “This shall be major, eh, definitely!” Sunflower Seeds hissed for silence.

“In the days of our grandparents,” Kim intoned, “Americans visited the moon. At this moment, an antique space station from the Socialist Bloc still circles our Earth.

“Yet until today, the greatest adventure of humanity has languished. The power brokers outside our borders are no longer interested in new frontiers. The globalists have stifled these ideals. Their clumsy, ancient space rockets still mimic the nuclear missiles with which they once threatened the planet.

“But ladies and gentlemen—fellow citizens—today I can stand before you and tell you that the world did not reckon with the vision of Singapore!”

(Frantic applause. The prime minister waited, smiling. He lifted a hand. Silence.)

“The orbital flight of Captain Yong-Joo is the greatest space achievement of our era. His feat proves to all that our republic now owns the most advanced launch technology on Earth. Technology that is clean, swift, and efficient—based on modern breakthroughs in superconductivity and tunable lasers. Innovations that other nations seem unable to achieve—or even to imagine.”

(Wry smile from Kim. Fierce cries of glee from the sixty thousand.)

“Today, men and women around the world turn their eyes to Singapore. They are bewildered by the magnitude of our achievement—a cold fact that puts the lie to years of globalist slander. They wonder how our city of four million souls has triumphed where continental nations have failed.

“But our success is not a secret. It was inherent in our very destiny as a nation. Our island is lovely—but cannot feed us. For two centuries, we of the Lion City have earned every mouthful of rice by our own wits.”

(A stern frown on the enormous video-board face. Excited ripples through the crowd.)

“This struggle gave us strength. Harsh necessity forced Singapore to shoulder the burden of excellence. Since Merdeka, we have matched the achievements of the developed world—and surpassed them. There has never been room here for sloth or corruption. Yet while we forged ahead, those vices have eaten into the very core of global culture.”

(A gleam of teeth—almost a sneer.)

“Today the American giant slumbers—its Government reduced to a televised parody. Today, the Socialist Bloc pursues its hollow dreams of consumer avarice. Even the once-mighty Japanese have grown cautious and soft.

“Today, under the malignant spell of the Vienna Convention, the world slides steadily toward gray mediocrity.

“But the flight of Captain Yong-Joo marks a turning point. Today our historic struggle enters a new phase—for stakes higher than any we have faced before.

“Empires have always sought to dominate this island. We fought Japanese oppressors through three merciless years of occupation. We sent the British imperialists packing, back to their European decay. Chinese communism, and Malaysian treachery, sought to subvert us, without success.

“And today, at this very moment, the globalist media net seethes with propaganda, targeted against our island.”

(Laura shivered in the balmy tropic air.)

“Tariffs are raised—export quotas imposed on our products—conspiracies launched against our pioneering industries by foreign multinationals. Why? What have we done to deserve such treatment?

“The answer is simple. We have beaten them on their own ground. We have succeeded where the globalists have failed!”

(His hand cut the air with a sudden flash of cuff link.)

“Travel through any other developed nation in the world today! You will find laziness, decay, and cynicism. Everywhere, an abdication of the pioneering spirit. Streets littered with trash, factories eaten by rust. Men and women abandoned to useless lives on the dole queue. Artists and intellectuals, without goals or purpose, playing empty games of listless alienation. And everywhere the numbing web of one-world propaganda.

“The regime of Gray Culture stops at nothing to defend, and extend, its status quo. Gray Culture cannot fairly match the unleashed vigor of Singapore's free competition. So they pretend to despise our genius, our daring. We live in a world of Luddites, who give billions to preserve ugly jungle wilderness—but nothing for the highest aspirations of humanity.

“Lulled by the empty promise of security, the world outside our borders is falling asleep.

“It is an ugly prospect. Yet there is hope. For Singapore today is alive and awake as no society has ever been before.

“My fellow citizens—Singapore will no longer accept an imposed and minor role in the world's periphery. Our Lion City is no one's backyard, no one's puppet state! This is an Information Era, and our lack of territory—mere topsoil—no longer restrains us. In a world slipping into medieval slumber, our Singapore is the potential center of a renaissance!”

(The woman in stretch pants clutched her husband's hand.)

“I have risen before you today to tell you that a battle is coming—a struggle for the soul of civilization. Our Singapore will lead that battle! And we will win it!”

(Frenzied applause. Throughout the stadium, men and women—Party cadres perhaps?—leapt to their feet. Catching the cue, the entire crowd rose in surges. Laura and Suvendra stood, not wanting to be conspicuous. Shouts died down, and the stadium rang with cadenced applause.)

(“He's nasty,” Laura muttered. Suvendra nodded, pretending to clap.)

“Dear ladies and gentlemen,” the prime minister murmured. (The crowd settled back like angry surf.)

“We have never been a people of complacency. We Singaporeans have never abandoned our wise tradition of universal military service. Today we profit by that long sacrifice of time and effort. Our small but highly advanced armed forces now rank with the finest in the modern world. Our adversaries have threatened and blustered for years, but they dare not trifle with Fortress Singapore. They know very well that our Rapid Deployment Forces can carry swift, surgical retribution to any corner of the globe!

“So the battle we face will be subtle, without clear boundaries. It will challenge our will, our independence, our traditions—our very survival as a people.

“The first skirmish is already upon us. I refer to the recent terrorist atrocity against the Caribbean island of Grenada.

“The Grenadian government—I use the term loosely …”

(A tension-relieving burst of laughter.)

“Grenada has publicly alleged that certain elements in Singapore bear responsibility for this attack. I have called on Parliament to conduct a thorough and public investigation of the affair. At present, dear ladies and gentlemen, I cannot comment on this matter fully. I will not prejudice the investigation, nor will I endanger our vital intelligence sources. However—I can tell you that Grenada's enemies may have used Singapore's commercial conduits as a blind.

“If this is true, I pledge to you today that the parties responsible will pay a heavy price.”

(Look of grim sincerity. Laura checked the faces of the crowd. They sat on the edges of their seats, looking serious and glowing and ennobled.)

“Dear ladies and gentlemen, we of this island bear no ill will toward the suffering people of Grenada. Through diplomatic channels, we have already reached out to them, offering them medical and technical assistance in their time of crisis.

“These acts of goodwill have been rejected. Stunned by the cruel attack, their government is in shambles, and their rhetoric is scarcely rational. Until the crisis settles, we must stand firm against acts of provocation. We must have patience. Let us remember that the Grenadians have never been a disciplined people. We must hope that when their panic fades they will come to their senses.”

(Kim released his white-knuckled grip on the podium and brushed the smooth lock of hair from his eyes. He paused a moment, working his fingers as if they itched.)

“In the meantime, however, they continue to utter belligerent threats. Grenadia has failed to recognize our basic commonality of interest.”

(Laura blinked. “Grenadia?”)

“An attack on Grenadia's sovereignty is a potential threat to our own. We must recognize the possibility—the probability—of a covert divide-and-conquer strategy at work. Happening … today …”

(Kim glanced away from the camera. There were sudden beads of sweat on his powdered forehead—on the giant screen, they looked as big as soccer balls. Long seconds passed. Little knots of anxious murmuring rose among the crowd.)

“Today—tomorrow—I will be declaring a state of emergency—granting the executive … power. Necessary to protect our citizenry from possible subversion … from attack. By either the Gray globalists, or the blacks. The Gremadies. The … Negro niggers!”

(Kim lurched from the podium, half reeling. He glanced to his left again, dizzily, searching for support. Someone off-camera murmured drowned words, anxiously. Kim muttered aloud.)

“What did I say?”

He tugged at his pocket kerchief, and his shades clattered to the floor. He mopped his forehead, his neck. Then a sudden convulsion seized him. He stumbled forward, slapping his podium. His face congested and he screamed into the microphones.

“Dogs fucked Vienna! Ladies and gentlemen, I … I'm afraid I'm sorry that the pariah dump-dogs fucked the Ayatollah! Lick my ass! You should—shit on the Space Captain fucking laser launch—”

Horrified screams. A roar and rustle as the crowd of thousands rose in bewilderment.

Kim slumped and fell behind the podium.

Suddenly he vaulted up again, like a puppet. He opened his mouth.

Suddenly, hellishly, he vomited blood and fire. A torrent of livid flame gushed from his mouth and eyes. In seconds his giant video face was blackening with impossible heat. A deafening agonized scream shook the stadium. A sound like damned souls and sheet metal torn apart.

His hair flared like a candle, his skin crisped. He clawed at his burning eyes. The air became a hurricane of obscene metallic noise.

Suddenly, people from the lower stands were scrambling onto the soccer field. Vaulting, stumbling, clambering over the rails, over each other. Sweeping the white helmets of police away, like buoys in a tidal wave.

The noise went on and on.

There was a hard tug at Laura's knee. It was Suvendra. She was crouching low beneath the bleacher, hunkered on knees and elbows. She shouted something impossible to hear. Then gestured—get down!

Laura hesitated, looked up, and suddenly the crowd was all over her.

It poured down the slope like a juggernaut. Elbows, knees, shoulders, murderous stampeding feet. A sudden slamming body block, and Laura tumbled backward, downhill, over the bleacher. She slammed down into something that buckled spongily—a human body.

Concrete rose and smacked her face. She was down and trampled—a crushing blow across her back that drove the air from her lungs. Winded, blinded. Dying!

Raw seconds of black panic. Then she found herself scrambling. Squirming, like Suvendra, under a denting, rocking bleacher. People pouring over her now. An endless, mad threshing engine of pistoning legs. A sandaled foot mashed her fingers and she snatched her hand back.

A little boy spun past her headlong. His shoulder smashed against the hard edge of a bleacher, and he was down. Shadows and rising heat and the stink of fear and noise, bodies falling, scrambling—

Laura clenched her teeth and lunged out into a beating. She grabbed the boy's waist and hauled him back with her. She wrapped her arms around him, huddled him under her.

He buried his face against her shoulder, clutching her so hard it hurt. Concrete trembled under her, the stadium quaking to the avalanche of human meat.

Suddenly the hellish racket from the speakers vanished. Laura's ears rang. With shocking suddenness, she could hear the boy sobbing. Wails of shock and pain bloomed in the sudden silence.

The soccer field was awash with the mob. The bleachers around her were littered with abandoned trash: shoes, hats, splattered dripping drinks. Down at the railing, the dazed and wounded staggered like drunks. Some knelt, sobbing. Others lay sprawled and broken.

Laura sat up slowly onto the bleacher, holding the boy on her lap. He hid his face against her shoulder.

Streaks of television static hissed soundlessly on the giant display board. She breathed hard, trembling. As long as it had lasted, there had been no time, just a maddened, deafening eternity. Madness had streaked through the crowd like a tornado. Now it was gone.