The Brave New World 30 The Worst Plan for the New World

"Is this a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?" asked Lea Panatella, grinning coquettishly. She took a step forward, which brought the tips of her Zeppelins into contact with Carlton Brock's chest.

Carlton grinned too, but took a small step back. Lea was a hell of a chick. That was why he'd made her Chief of Staff. But the President of the United States did not fuck around. No sir!

Carlton Brock was married to the daughter of the chairman of his party. She was pretty and wealthy and had been very determined to become the First Lady. She had badgered her pa until he threw his support behind her husband in the primaries. These concluded with Carlton Brock being elected his party's candidate for President.

Marrying the party chairman's daughter had been a very smart move. There was no way Brock would allow anything to upset the relationship he had with his wife and thus with her father, the party chairman.

He looked at Lea and said:

"It's a gun. I'm going to spend the afternoon out. Gotta show the people the boss is here, and in charge. No TV, Lea. We've been heavily fucked by no TV. And they still can't sort out the power thing. Small generators and battery-operated stuff work fine, but that's about it. So I gotta hit the streets and walk around a little and smile a lot. You know how it goes."

"Walk around? Mister President! If battery-powered appliances and generators work, so should car engines. Can't you ride around in a vehicle?"

"The cars, all the vehicles are still fucked, Lea. Don't ask me why. I don't know."

"It's because they are loaded with electronics. But remember that Studebaker that's on display at the car dealer's a few blocks from here? You commented on it last time we passed it. I think a car like that might work."

"It might, Lea! You're right! You're a genius, that's who you are. I should make you Minister of Industry or something. Get going on that Studebaker thing. I, uh - what am I supposed to do next?"

"I'm not sure," said Lea. "You told me the plan has changed. That the economics meeting ended early, and that the schedule for the rest of the day might be reshuffled. Has it been reshuffled, mister President?"

"Nah, it hasn't. Everything goes on as planned. It's just that the meeting on world economy wrapped up real fast."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Good, I guess. Everyone agreed we're introducing a new, universal, world currency based on gold and silver and stuff. And that there is going to be a global minimum guaranteed income program. And no income tax, but a big, big increase in taxes worldwide. Everything's going to be taxed at least 100%, Lea. Energy in all shapes and forms - 500%. That includes all appliances, all machines that use fuel or electric power. The base charge for electric power is going to be raised, too. Ten times, Lea! One... thousand... percent. You know what this means? No more holidays on Bali for this boy here, or for you, or for anyone else. Except for the guys that live there, of course."

"A thousand percent! I'd better remember about switching off the lights when I leave a room."

"Yeah. Well, gotta get money somewhere to fund this guaranteed income business. Things are going to get pretty interesting moneywise, Lea. My tip: any money you have, you better invest it all in gold jewelry, and do it quick."

Thank you, mister President. You look after me so well. You look after all of us so well. We all really appreciate it."

Clayton Brock smirked and adjusted the blond lock that kept falling over his right eye. He said:

"Right. So what am I supposed to do next?"

"A conference on the administrative and economic system in the New World. Guido Worst."

"What?"

"He's another of those geniuses with solutions."

"Hey, don't knock geniuses, Lea. This Troll guy came up with some pretty good stuff. Know who has the biggest gold reserves in the world? We do. And gold will rule the new currency. Nice, eh? That Patel woman also made a big contribution. It was her idea to tax energy so heavily."

"You liked it?"

"Sure I liked it. I like to take a walk in the woods sometimes. You know what's been happening to jungles, forests, stuff like that. We gotta cut consumption of energy."

"Of course."

"Okay. Now run along and get going on that Studebaker. I'm off to see the Worst. Ha, ha."

"Ha, ha."

As Carlton Brock made his way to the conference room, he felt vaguely guilty, as if he'd lied to Lea. But he hadn't lied to Lea! All this green stuff was important. It was a complete coincidence that his evil, scheming deputy came from an established oil family. The vice-president personally stood to lose a couple of hundred million dollars as the whole fossil fuel industry shrank to a fraction of what it had been before. The new energy tax would see to that.

Carlton Brock entered the conference room just as Guido Worst rose from a seat at the back, and began to shakily make his way to the lectern.

Guido Worst was completely terrified. He had just finished talking to Kasper Weinberger, head of the International Monetary Fund. Weinberger was in a state of total panic. His proposals had all been rejected at the economic meeting that had just ended. He had no idea of what to do next. The whole financial system had just been turned upside down. There would be one hell of an economic crisis, and he would be one of the people held responsible.

Weinberger had said he was seriously contemplating suicide. His gout had been giving him hell anyway. He was old and he was tired. Enough was enough.

Guido Worst wasn't old - he was in his middle forties - and he didn't feel tired, even though he'd hardly slept the night before. He'd spent most of it preparing his plan, the grand plan for the New World. In the process, he consumed nearly half a gram of pure pseudoephedrine, the legal, cheap speed sold as decongestant.

As he made his way to the lectern, his mouth and throat were parched. Grinding his teeth, he ascended the small stage and walked up to the lectern. He emptied the glass of water that had been prepared, and refilled it from the jug.

The people assembled before him had all been to the economic conference. They knew the score. They had approved a worldwide economic revolution. Guido Worst had no idea of what to say. The plan he'd come up with during his night-time vigil was in tatters. It made no sense with the new economic setup.

There was only one thing he could do: become a revolutionary himself. Emulate Troll and Patel. At the very least, he would shock his audience. He was going to enjoy that. He would make up his new plan as he went along, guided by common sense. He said:

"The colonization of the New World will require substantial funding. As we all know by now, funding anything is going to be a problem for a while."

An appreciative titter ran through his audience. Even Ruslan Grot allowed himself a small smile. Encouraged by that, Worst continued:

"We must make the colonization effort self-financing from the very outset. We know it has the potential to become very profitable. So, point one: setting up and maintaining administration in the New World must require very little or no funding to start with. It would be best if it was profitable. Every administrative center must also be a producer and supplier of New World goods and resources."

He broke off to gauge the reaction of his audience. They were all listening closely! Listening to him, Guido Worst! Maybe I really am a genius after all, Worst thought. Maybe all I need to do is just go with the flow. He smiled, and said:

"Point two. We must introduce a licensing system for colonizers. Every individual wishing to replicate in the New World must first obtain a license to colonize. This will include an implant kit, a hiber bed, and a documentation scroll. Licenses will be obtained at existing local government offices which will now all have a Colonial section. I propose that they cost the equivalent of a year's worth of the guaranteed minimum income that is about to be introduced. In addition, a licensed colonizer would lose the right to receive guaranteed minimum income payouts.

"Let's face it: a settlement in the New World will be like a money machine for its owners. They will be easily able to support themselves, and eventually become rich by trading New World goods and resources back on Earth. According to the documentation, transporting these to Earth is very easy. Which leads me to ask mister Carlton Brock: Mister President, have your people managed to transport anything from the New World?"

Carlton Brock flushed. He had been very reticent about the teams of soldiers and policemen and craftsmen that had been exploring the New World for almost a full week - over two months' worth of New World time. He knew he was envied by the heads of state that were cut off from their own countries.

They were also angry because the staff they'd sent to the New World had been chased off by Carlton Brock's men. He'd had to relent and allow each country to send a single representative. They were a fucking pain, over there. They had to be fed and clothed and housed and they poked their noses into everything Brock's men did.

Luckily, they hadn't discovered yet the launching pads built some distance from the settlement Brock's men had established. The pads had been built a couple of kilometers away from the settlement to ensure transported goods would arrive in a chosen spot back on Earth. A temporary receiving port had been hastily established in Central Park. The Park, which had a glowing cube of its own, had been cordoned off by soldiers and policemen. No one unauthorized was permitted to enter.

Carlton Brock said:

"Unfortunately, my guys haven't yet managed to find a good source of tiger rock. You know, the stuff necessary to build launch platforms. And they've been very busy building a settlement. It's not easy to do in the middle of the winter with nothing but stone and wooden tools. And on top of everything else, they have to take care of nearly two hundred other guys and girls who wander around and generally are a big pain."

He turned and glared at the people around him. Fucking freeloaders! Same old story yet again: people equated Uncle Sam with Santa Claus. So as much as he disliked lying, he didn't feel at all guilty when he said:

"We haven't received anything yet. The first launch pad, a tiny thing, that we managed to assemble was in the wrong spot. Everything went into the ocean or the river or whatever. We are relocating it and continuing to look for a good source of tiger rock. Unfortunately, that's all I can tell you at present."

Carlton Brock was lying. The big army tent erected in Central Park was half-full of stuff that had been sent from the New World, mostly minerals. The minerals included several big gold nuggets. That was yet another reason why he had supported Troll's proposal for a new world currency.

But he sure as hell wasn't going to tell them about that.

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