Progtopia: Book 1 of The Progtopia Trilogy (17 page)

Thirty

The Year: 2173

Thomas had spent the entire day at the Ministry trying to deflect any conversation about Thatcher’s interview. He desperately missed Thatcher and wanted to visit her, but he knew any contact with her would not be looked upon kindly by the State. His secretary informed him to report to Jonathan’s office immediately. He braced himself for his meeting with Thatcher’s brother.

Briskly walking down the hall and waiting for the elevator, he wondered why Jonathan had summoned him so urgently. Was Thatcher okay? Did something happen to her? The door to the elevator opened revealing several people chatting about Thatcher. Bursting at the seams to ask him about the interview, they took the not so subtle hint from Thomas that he was in no mood to talk. The climb to Jonathan’s floor was now silent and tense.

Exiting the elevator, Thomas almost sprinted down the long corridor to Jonathan’s office. Rounding the corner, he was met by Jonathan’s secretary who escorted him into the office.

Standing with his back to the door as he looked out the window, Jonathan turned around when his secretary escorted Thomas into the expansive office. Pointing to a chair in front of his desk, Thomas heeded his direction and took a seat.

“Thomas, thanks for coming on such short notice. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Jonathan sauntered over to the wet bar as he signaled for his secretary to leave the room. Thomas, watching Jonathan pour himself top-shelf vodka then make himself comfortable at his desk, was taken aback by Jonathan’s cold, emotionless eyes.

“You say you’re fine, but is that really true? I mean, after all, we all know you were going to propose to my sister, and now, she’s about to go on trial.”

Thomas, uneasy, shifted in his chair. His discomfort was not unnoticed by Jonathan.

“Maybe
fine
wouldn’t be the best adjective to describe my life in the last forty-eight hours,” he chuckled nervously. “I love Thatcher, and I find it hard to believe that she has done the things she has been accused of, but I cannot imagine you arresting her without some type of proof.”

“Well,” Jonathan said as he leaned back in his chair, “you don’t get this far in the world through naïveté. I guess what I wonder is what will win out in the end with you—your heart or your head? The public wants to know how you are going to handle this. On one hand, everyone loves a great Giving Class romance, even though we all know that such things are foolish and without merit. In the short term, if you visit my sister and stick by her, you will be perceived as chivalrous and supportive. You will get great press, interviews, and, for the moment, you will be considered heroic—that is, until she’s found guilty, and you are considered a coconspirator.”

“Coconspirator? What on earth are you talking about?”

Jonathan pressed a button on his desk, and a virtual projection of both Thomas and Thatcher came alive in front of them. Thomas stared at the two virtual figures, outraged at the invasion of his intimate time with Thatcher. “What the heck! Have you been recording me? Am I some type of criminal?”

Jonathan looked at him with a smirk. “In the course of our investigation of Thatcher, you too were investigated by default. Now, let’s see how this scene plays out.” Jonathan pushed play and stared at Thomas.

“So Thomas, how is my brother treating you over at justice?”

“Not too bad. He pretty much has me collecting data. Pretty boring. But excitement will begin with tomorrow’s announcement.”

“
The Trials
?”

“Yep, let
The Trials
begin.”

“You really like them? I personally can’t stand them.”

“I don’t know, for me it’s entertaining to see people sit on the stand, with your father pounding the guilty fools with questions they don’t know how to answer.”

“I guess since I live with it all year round, it’s not as interesting to me. Sometimes, I feel bad for the people on trial.”

“What? Are you serious? They’re the idiots who broke the law.”

“The law as it’s defined now. Half the crimes that people are put to death for were perfectly legal two hundred years ago. I think most of
The Trials
are a circus.”

“Wow, Thatch, you probably shouldn’t say things like that in public.”

“I know. I don’t consider myself in public. I consider you my boyfriend, and someone I can trust.”

“Honey, you can trust me. I just want to make sure you don’t slip and say something stupid that can end the wrong way.”

Thomas was speechless, trying to process that his private moments had been recorded by the State. But before he could utter a response, the door to the office opened, and the Judge stormed in. Glancing at the virtual images in a paused state, he said, “Oh, I guess you’ve shown him already.”

“Yes, father, but I haven’t given him the proposal as of yet.”

“Proposal? What are you two talking about?”

The Judge, as always, took charge of the situation. “We have a problem, Thomas. I’m sure you watched the interview last night, and Thatcher, as usual, is causing trouble. Her offer to represent all those on trial has completely upended the usual format of the proceedings. You see, without any representation, I, as the Judge, can interrogate the accused. Once they have representation, I can no longer do that. In fact, when one has representation, a prosecutor needs to be assigned. Our experts and our evidence can now be cross-examined, and knowing Thatcher, she will try to cast reasonable doubt into the minds of the citizens watching
The Trials
. I’m not worried about them voting for the freedom of those on trial because we can control the votes. I’m more concerned about the possibility of social unrest. We already know there has been an increase in suicides among the Recipient Class, and if Thatcher starts putting ideas in people’s heads about freedom, we could have a real situation on our hands. You have been privy to some of her thoughts, and you know she can be a loose cannon. She needs to be stopped, and if you are the prosecutor, that will set a tone for the public.”

“Prosecutor! You want me to put the woman whom I love on trial? Possibly be responsible for her death?”

The Judge and Jonathan both stared at Thomas, glanced toward the virtual reality hologram, and then back at Thomas. The Judge, sending shivers down Thomas’s spine, said, “You don’t really have a choice, do you? You see, if you don’t accept the position as prosecutor, you too will be placed on trial, and your family’s corporations will be investigated thoroughly by my son. That investigation will show whatever charges we can manage to bring against them. That is a guarantee, and those industries will no longer be in your family.”

Stunned, Thomas felt he didn’t have a choice. His silence, signifying agreement to be prosecutor, prompted the Judge to continue.

“Great, I’m glad you now see it our way. You will need to meet with Jonathan and get up to speed. I suggest you both start by watching this evening’s broadcast with Cassandra Williams.”

“How can that help the prosecution?” Thomas asked.

“Your once fiancé-to-be is meeting with the others so she can help prepare their defense.”

“She isn’t doing this behind closed doors?”

“No, they don’t have the right to privacy, and frankly, we need to see her every move. She’s dangerous.”

Thirty-one

The Year: 2033

It was a little past 2 a.m., and the four world leaders were sitting in a study wondering why the President of the United States had urgently summoned them. While waiting for his arrival, the dignitaries were approached by a young woman dressed in a maid’s uniform, requesting their drink order. While Camille had attended the G8 with the President as a youth outreach ambassador, he had also decided, at the insistence of his secretary, Abigail, to make use of her waitressing skills at this impromptu meeting. Making the leaders feel at ease while gathering their drink preferences, she excused herself to the adjacent room which had a fully stocked bar.

Equipped to make any beverage on the planet, the bar was a major step up from Jerry’s Diner, but the only thing she needed wasn’t there. Jim Beam. Scanning hundreds of liquor bottles, her tension grew when she didn’t see it until she started to panic. The listening device was stored in the cap of the famous American whiskey, and without that device, their entire operation was blown. Trying to calm herself from the dread building from within, she was startled by the President’s Chief of Staff.

“Did I scare you, Jenna?”

“Uh, yes, I wasn’t expecting anyone.” Turning toward him, she noticed he was holding a glass of whiskey.
He must have the bottle
, Camille thought to herself,
but where is it?
She had to think of how to get it back, and she had to do it fast. “Mr. Chief of Staff,” she said, “I must confess, I was looking for the Jim Beam to enjoy a little later, and it seems you have found it.”

“Aren’t you a recovering drug addict?”

“Yes, but not a recovering alcoholic,” she said, laughing.

“Well, honey, maybe after the meeting, we can go back to my room and finish it off together.” Camille, repulsed by the thought, had to play along. After all, he did think she was a seventeen-year-old former prostitute. Little did he know she had never even kissed a boy before!

“Mr. Chief of Staff, let me think about it,” she teased, “but for now, I have some world leaders to serve.” Letting out a sigh of relief when he left, she had to figure out how to get information from the meeting without the listening device. Camille, as Jenna Lane, had successfully infiltrated through the deepest layers of security clearances to be the one chosen for the middle of the night gathering. With all that planning, she wasn’t about to leave empty handed. She could not fail.

Stepping into the study with her tray filled with coffee, tea, and alcohol, Camille doled out the beverages to the guests. Camille observed them probing each other, trying to figure out why they were there. She concluded they were just as much in the dark as she.

Their chatter died down at the sight of the approaching President and his Chief of Staff. Firmly, the President thanked Jenna for her assistance and asked she leave. Camille, clinging to the hope she could save the mission, pressed him to allow her to stay. “Mr. President, are you sure you don’t want me to hang around in case your guests want something else?”

“Jenna, you’ve done a fine job. We will no longer need your services tonight,” he said adamantly.

Her entire purpose of being on the trip was to get the listening device into the room, and she fell short. Despite her best efforts, their entire mission just went up in smoke. Dejected, she wandered from the room. As she passed the Chief of Staff, it hit her—she could try one more thing.
It’s worth a try,
she thought. She turned back to him and getting close, she whispered, “Can I wait in your room?”

Not expecting her to actually take him up on his offer, he said, “Mr. President, I’m going to walk Jenna out.” Placing his arm around her, directing her toward Secret Service, he instructed the agent to show her back to his room.

Camille, not having a way to communicate with Benson or Franklin about the sudden shift in events, strolled along with her escort. The mission, in unfamiliar territory, had taken an unexpected turn, and Camille was going to improvise, even if it killed her. A pang of guilt hit her, thinking of her promise to Peter to run from danger—to keep safe. She pushed the feeling away, ignoring the team’s decision to abort their undercover work if something happened to the listening device. She refused to give up. She had come too far to abandon ship now. The President’s policies had killed her parents and Barbara. She wasn’t going to let them do any more damage if she could help it.

Finally alone in the Chief of Staff’s room, she started to ransack his room, searching for any clue for the midnight meeting. She found the bottle cap, took the listening device and placed it in her pocket.

Her eye caught a small book, which looked like a diary, but she wasn’t sure. Opening it up, the journal was filled with pages and pages of handwritten cursive notes, which luckily Camille knew how to read, thanks to her mom, not school.

The diary contained a treasure trove of intelligence including the minutes of meetings with various officials and private ones with the President. The name, Project Renaissance, came up over and over again, but not knowing how much time she had before he returned, she skimmed through the pages trying to gather what Renaissance was. It was clear the Chief of Staff was coordinating everything related to the Project. Quickly scrutinizing page after page, the truth behind Renaissance emerged. Stunned, she gasped, dropping the diary.

Across the street, Franklin and Benson saw lights turn on in the rooms, but with blinds cloaking their view, they were left to only suspect the meeting was underway. Without direct visualization, their disappointment grew when it became more and more obvious the listening device wasn’t planted. They watched, helpless, surmising the President was revealing the plan at this very moment.

Back in the study, the world leaders were anxious for the President to cut the small talk and get to his motives for dragging them from bed in the middle of the night. Their impatience was growing. Taking the hint, the President shifted gears and got to the matter at hand. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I brought you here.” They all leaned in, waiting for his revelation. “As you know, we have all been working together to collapse the economies of the Western World with the ultimate goal of forming a One World Government, a utopia. Everyone in this room knows we are close to that reality.”

All the leaders agreed the time was nearing when they would be able to take charge as a unified group.

“Soon, we will no longer have to pretend we care about nationalism and borders. I’m here to tell you tonight just how close we are to our dream.” Pausing for dramatic effect, letting this sink in, he continued, “Our shared vision of a one world order can be here within weeks.” Astonishment, surprise, and incredulity crossed their faces. Not quite believing him, the Italian Prime Minister asked how.

“Before I reveal that, I need to know you are all in—that you all want to be a part of running the One World Government. It’s a dramatic plan, but leave now if you don’t want to move forward.”

The President extended his hand toward the door, giving each leader time to reflect and leave. No one moved.

“Okay then, since we are all on the same page, this is how things are going to work. You need to create a list of all your allies, including any family members and friends. No one on this list will be harmed, but if they aren’t on the list, they’re fair game.”

The German Chancellor spoke up, somewhat troubled. “What are you planning on doing? This plan sounds very, shall I say, aggressive.”

“I’ve been struggling all day as to whether or not to fill you in on the details. No information can be leaked, and if it is, the plan will fail. I think it best you work on the lists. You will know exactly what the scheme is on the day it starts. Once this undertaking is unleashed, you will receive something by special courier. The blueprint of what to do next will be clearly spelled out for you. What I can assure you is this—if you stick with me, you will be part of the first governing body of the One World Government—the utopia we have been striving for decades to reach.”

The world leaders pushed him for more, trying their best to extract any information from the President, but it was futile. Realizing the President was steadfast in his decision to withhold the plan, they relented and shifted gears to details about the list. The Chief of Staff handed them a secure email address for the list to be sent. The frustrated leaders grabbed the envelopes from him and left, irritated that their sleep was interrupted, something big was going to happen, and they were in the dark.

The Chief of Staff was excited to get back to his room only to find his bottle of Jim Beam gone and his room empty. He looked over at his desk and saw his diary had never been disturbed.