The Brave New World 109 Chickens And Turkeys

"Did you get it?" Carlton Brock asked Lea Panatella. They walking to together to Brock's suite in the United Nations building, an object of much envy from leaders of national territories that weren't as important as the United States.

"Yes, I got it," said Panatella.

Brock felt a great wave of affection for Lea Panatella.

"Lea, you're the best," he said. "No one can - f.u.c.k it. I don't want to think about all those losers. I can't remember when was the last time I had roast chicken. A whole roast chicken!"

"Half of it is mine," warned Panatella.

"Of course, of course. Did you - did they -"

"Yes, they made a big bowl of potato salad. And I've also brought some pickles and of course pepper and salt."

"Lea! You're as good to me as my wife. Better than my wife, dammit."

This was true. Brock had recently taken a few days off, and spent them at home in Virginia. As governor of the entire US territory, he rated a plane ride. On his way down to Virginia, he wished he'd taken the train. The airplane was an ancient Beechcraft Bonanza. It was a single-engine plane, and Brock mistrusted single-engine planes. If something went wrong with the engine, that was it. In a twin or any other multi-engined job, the airplane could continue to fly on its remaining engine or engines.

The Beechcraft's engine was as ancient as the aircraft. It lost its beat and spluttered several times during the journey: Brock was briefly convinced he was listening to its death rattles. After they'd landed on the deserted, lifeless international airport in Was.h.i.+ngton, DC, Brock directed his steps straight to the airport manager's office. After five minutes of shouting they promised to do their best to secure a twin-engine plane for his trip back to New York.

While Brock was haranguing the airport manager, his wife was waiting for him in the empty arrival lobby, busy composing a harangue of her own. Carlton Brock's wife was a socialite. She'd been born with a swizzle stick in her mouth, along with the silver spoon. Her favorite way of spending the time was to sip a very dry, ice-cold martini at a party, making catty comments about everyone except her audience.

There was a distinct shortage of parties to attend following the catastrophe, and Carlton Brock's wife was close to bursting with frustration. Brock's stay with her had not been a happy one. He'd finally gotten laid, true, but at times he wondered whether it had been worth it. He was truly relieved to escape back to New York, back into the loony bin located in the United Nations building.

"Lea, you just can't imagine how stupid most of those guys are," he said as he opened the door to his suite. Back in the old days, it would be opened for him by his security detail. But all the bodyguards belonging to the a.s.sembled national leaders were busy providing security for the whole building. The police and the soldiers had been withdrawn: they were very badly needed elsewhere.

Brock and Panatella didn't talk much for the next ten minutes. In the s.p.a.ce of those ten minutes, they managed to consume a whole chicken plus nearly two pounds of potato salad. They washed it all down with a bottle of white wine. Brock had had the foresight to secure himself a very large supply of alcohol right after the disaster struck. He instinctively knew that alcohol would be very hot commodity in the days that followed, and time proved him right.

His foresight had benefited him in more ways than one. Several world leaders pledged their undying allegiance after Brock had presented them with a couple of nice bottles. An ashen-faced, trembling Ruslan Grot pledged an eternal alliance between Russia and the United States, and Brock liked to think the trembling was caused by genuine emotion.

"I am ready to sign the agreement tomorrow," Grot had declared. "Just bring me the paper and the pen, and I will sign."

Two bottles of vodka had achieved, in two minutes, what the best diplomacy had failed to achieve in twenty years of trying.

"Have you decided who you're going to appoint governor of Illinois?" asked Panatella.

"No. The other Illinois guy, Chuck Warner, is a total a.s.shole. I'm not going to call him senator. He doesn't deserve to be called senator."

"I wonder how he managed to get elected," said Panatella.

Brock sighed.

"Lea, Lea, Lea," he said. "You're too sweet for your own good, do you know that? People vote for the politician they identify with, and most people are a.s.sholes. That's how Warner got elected. f.u.c.k! We've got to move. We've got to do that f.u.c.king lunch with all those f.u.c.king losers."

"Carlton, you're being very cruel," said Panatella, wiping her mouth and rising from the table.

"I'm not being cruel. It's a realistic a.s.sessment. They get the biggest break in their f.u.c.king lives handed to them on a plate, and what do they do? They freeze with terror and moan and b.i.t.c.h. Did you see anyone cheering or clapping, Lea? I didn't. Have you forgotten what was going on yesterday, when those guys began arriving? Carlton, I don't know what to do. Carlton, please help me. Carlton this, Carlton that. There are exceptions, of course. Kirk Lander is one. I'm really impressed by that guy. He just fixed half a dozen major problems with a single sentence. Did you hear what he said?"

"Yes. He wants to control the number of issued licenses. I thought you were fundamentally opposed towards any regulations like that. You were saying the New World must be open to everyone."

"It will be, it will be. Some people will just have to wait a little."

"How are you going to manage to eat your lunch?" asked Panatella, as they rounded the final corner on their way to the conference room."

"I'm getting a slice of melon. Same as breakfast."

"Won't it excite comment?"

"f.u.c.k that," said Carlton Brock.

A small group of senators were standing near the entrance to the conference room: it looked to Brock that they were having a little conference of their own. It displeased him, because the group was composed of people he disliked. He had no doubt they were criticizing him behind his back. Bunch of f.u.c.king a.s.sholes! He stopped by them, put on his best smile, and said:

"Guys, why are you standing here like that? Why aren't you at the table? Why all the sad faces? You're afraid the food's going to be horrible?"

An uneasy silence told him his question had hit the spot. Brock sighed deeply with fake sympathy.

"I know, I know," he said. "These are difficult times. But every difficulty is an opportunity disguised as a problem! I, for instance, have adopted the diet my doctor has been badgering me about for years and years. A slice of melon or some other fruit for breakfast, another for lunch, and a modest dinner. Never felt better. Come on guys, chins up! Let's go and eat."

Brock entered the room and saw that the seats next to his, previously occupied by Katz and Molito, were empty. He immediately walked up to Kirk Lander and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Kirk," he said. "Why don't you move, and sit next to me? I'm sure I could use your help."

"Why, thank you," said Kirk, rising from his seat and looking rather helplessly at at his plate: the two seats near the top of the table hadn't been set.

"Don't worry about that. One of the waiters will bring everything over. Lea?" But Panatella had already gone off to issue appropriate instructions to the waiters. Brock felt a fresh wave of affection for Panatella. What a woman! She just read his mind, read it so well that she even knew when he wanted it to be read, and when he did not - obviously, there were times when it was inappropriate.

Brock became conscious of the fact that Ron Small, sitting next to the now-empty chair, was looking at him with a sad hostility that signaled hurt feelings. He recalled that Small was a dangerous man. Small men, in stature as well as name, were very often dangerous men. They just had to keep proving how important they were to everybody. Those that couldn't hope to be liked or loved settled for being hated. It wasn't a bad deal in terms of getting attention: hate usually got precedence over love.

Carlton Brock believed in the adage that it was good to keep friends close, and enemies even closer. He said:

"Ron, why don't you move and sit next to me, too? You're one smart guy."

"Thank you very much," Small simpered. He was clearly touched. Brock went so far as to actually put his hand on Small's shoulder when ushering him to his seat.

"Look at that," Kirk said almost as soon as the three of them were seated. There was wonder in his voice.

The waiters had carried in an enormous roast turkey. It actually took two of them to hoist the platter up so that everyone could admire it. Shouts of approval accompanied by clapping broke out.

"My G.o.d," said Small. Brock looked at him sharply. He knew that Small was an atheist. Small had revealed that about himself when he got drunk at a party in the White House. The fact that he'd gotten invited had falsely led him into a.s.suming he had been finally accepted in the social sense, and he got very full of himself.

"It's all bulls.h.i.+t," Small had said. "The clerics have it that G.o.d created Man in his own image. The opposite is true: Man has created G.o.d in his image. That's why G.o.d is so attention-seeking and jealous and cruel. On your knees when you talk to me, sc.u.m! Beat the ground with your head so I can f.u.c.k you in the a.s.s! That's humanity to a T."

Someone had tried to break the frosty silence that followed by observing that the word 'humanity' started with an h, and that sometimes it could be confused with another derogatory term which also began with an h. Much hilarity ensued when it became clear that the speaker couldn't spell 'wh.o.r.e' correctly, or possibly pretended he didn't know in order to lighten the atmosphere.

Brock could see something similar was needed now. The waiters had just informed the a.s.sembled governors that the turkey was to be split up among everyone. There were forty eight hungry mouths salivating over that turkey, and those mouths were immediately twisted with disappointment. There were numerous glances cast in Brock's direction - Carlton, please help me! But the thin slice of melon sitting in front of Carlton Brock made voicing a plea impossible.

Brock stood up and said:

"Ladies and gentlemen. Tomorrow, before you leave, I shall have half a dozen extra MREs delivered to your rooms. That's a solemn promise. And I'll make sure each set includes beef with black beans. Enjoy a taste of this magnificent bird for now, but remember! I still want to hear your ideas. Kirk here has proposed a brilliant solution, but I want to hear from all of you."

It worked: they stopped thinking how hungry they all were for that turkey, and began worrying about what they would say later instead. Brock sat down, and turned to Small and said:

"How about you? Do you agree with Kirk? Strict license controls?"

"I agree wholeheartedly," said Small. "Oh look! They're bringing in baked potatoes!"

Brock frowned. He wondered why he hadn't gotten a roast potato with his chicken. Then he remembered he had specifically asked for potato salad.

He felt Kirk gaze at him enquiringly, so he said:

"So many things to remember about. Sometimes I think I'll go crazy."

Kirk nodded with deep understanding.

"So do I," he said. "So do I."

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