The Pieces of My Self

69 - Flight of the Bumblebee

ARTOIS MANGALOTTE

The Presidential Palace, 22 June 2174, Wednesday, 15 minutes to midnight

Artois Mangalotte stood in his darkened lounge wearing casual workout clothes, surveying the post-storm panorama of earth, sea, and sky.

The shields around the arcology had retracted after wind gusts dropped below 25 knots. To the east, he could see wraiths of clouds skating across a black sky studded with a few bright stars. To the west, a half-moon exposed a hungry sea bent on devouring parts of Scat Town and Covington Beach, where power no longer flowed. The marina, or what was left of it, moored the flotsam of derelict boats and docks.

He felt the boundaries were shifting between earth and water, hope and despair, life and death. The impermanence troubled him. But he knew he would always be safe, here in the impregnable arcology, beyond the reach of anyone.

Still, the people who lived outside—in Covington, Scat Town, the bayous, and elsewhere on the Gulf Coast—were his people. He needed their loyalty and adoration, but the storm had upset the balance.

His mind focused on the potential for a quake in the body politic. He had to prevent it. The right speech to the populace would be key.

He walked briskly in the yellow light of the interior courtyard, moved past the Profiler's holographic head, and stepped across the entry hall, stopping to open a door into a studio.

The sound-deadened room measured ten by ten, its walls dotted with fly-sized video cameras and microphone pickups—enough to create high-fidelity holographic cinematography.

He grabbed a sheaf of notes from the podium in the center of the room and scribbled changes in green ink. After five minutes, he smiled, put the pages in order, and donned earphones.

It will be a masterpiece of social engineering, he thought. It will tamp down once and for all the treasonous protests. I'll be the supreme leader for another decade.

He sipped a glass of water, cleared his throat, looked directly ahead, and hit the record button, gesturing decisively with each phrase like a symphony conductor, hoping this would be the last rehearsal.

"The storm has bloodied, but not beaten us. I'm in agony over the loss of life and property. Even with the wind still howling, we are cataloging the needs of the population and will help everyone as quickly as possible. I promise we will overcome these hardships, learn from them, and come out stronger.

"But I am angry, my friends.

"As many of you already know or suspected, it was the rebels who disrupted the power grid, leaving people helpless. It was the disloyalists who sabotaged the PADIs, so they were unable to mitigate the storm's force by pumping cool water to the surface.

"And those messages telling you to stay in your homes and the storm will miss you? That was fake. It was treasonous.

"There are three truths you must understand."

He waited a beat, looking directly ahead.

"The first is that these disloyal terrorists will stop at nothing. They brutally murdered two of the motherland's most faithful servants. One year ago, they killed Henri Knightly, an indispensable genius responsible for leading the country out of financial disaster. Today, even with the storm raging, they assassinated William Nkumbra, a relentless crimefighter who was on the verge of bringing these criminals to justice."

Another pregnant pause.

"The second truth is that these treasonous acts which have brought death and destruction to Loumissala must be avenged. It is the only way to keep our country safe. I've asked our police and armed forces to arrest anyone with terrorist ties, but I fear our front-line heroes are outnumbered.