Still, it was bad enough in his own backyard. In San Francisco, mobs of largely oppressed peoples had looted several food centers. Their irrational ingratitude angered him; the People’s Republic had given them so much after liberating them from the tyranny of the United States and now they could not even take on this small sacrifice in the name of the greater good. The dozens of deaths his forces inflicted quelling that unrest were a just, measured response to these hate crimes.
He picked up the phone and called the West Coast Media Justice Ombudsperson, who was on his speed dial.
“Delores, hello, this is Director Rios-Parkinson,” he said.
The Ombudsperson replied cautiously, as she always did when addressing him. “Yes, Director. How may I assist you?”
“Yes, I am going to need you to emphasize in your messaging tonight and tomorrow that this criminal looting and counter-progressive rioting is not going to be tolerated by the internal security forces. You may direct your outlets to explain how deadly force is authorized to preserve order.”
“But Director,” the Ombudsperson replied. “Our messaging guidance was to not mention any unrest or violent counter-progressive acts at all.” This was true; the Ombudsman had been told that the subject of unrest was to be ignored, and she had duly informed all of the licensed media and journalism outlets she oversaw of this mandatory guidance in her daily messaging memorandum. The memo had instead directed that stories focus on the groundswell of enthusiasm for the new ration cuts, with emphasis on patriotic citizens who were eager to sacrifice even more to ensure the coming triumph of progressivism.
And the outlets had responded obediently. Channel 5, formerly KTLA and now called “The Voice of the Voiceless,” had run a lengthy interview segment on the work of a UCLA nutrition professor regarding how an ultra-low calorie diet actually improves health and longevity. But because the professor was a Jewish male, a female student named Nasser was chosen to appear on camera to do the actual interview, which she conducted from behind her burka.
“I did not say that you should mention the unrest, only that you will explain the consequences of any unrest,” Rios-Parkinson replied impatiently.
“Of course, Director. I understand.”
Rios-Parkinson hung up and drummed his fingers on his desk.
Thanks to a phone call he did not expect, Rios-Parkinson had an appointment at 6 o’clock, but not in his office. It was across the street and down Figueroa, only a few minutes by foot, but he took his SUV anyway. It was worth the carbon cost not to break a sweat in the sun.
The vehicle turned off to the right into the ramp underground leading to what had been a massive parking lot before the climate laws ended most citizen automobile use. Fewer cars on the road made his life, and the lives of the others still authorized private vehicles, much more convenient. But what Rios-Parkinson really appreciated about the climate laws was how much control over the masses they provided the elite. Global warming, he mused, was the best thing that ever happened to progressivism.
His office had called ahead and he was received underground by staff members who shepherded him and his security goons Arthur and Sam to an elevator. Arthur hit the single button – this was an express elevator that went only to the top and the bottom subfloor. It actually worked; important people needed to go to the top floor and so what was necessary to make the elevator function was done.
The doors opened to sunlight – the lounge was light and airy, with soft music provided by a gentlemen at the piano off to the side of the foyer. The bartender stood awaiting requests before a remarkably well-stocked bar. A dozen security officers stood waiting for their principals; his own guards joined them, for the lounge was not for the likes of them. Rios-Parkinson ignored the goons and the music, his eyes flitting from one well-dressed, well-fed guest to another, searching.
He knew most of the faces, and their expressions upon seeing him ranged from fear to quiet disgust. He filed those away; he would address them later. Right now, he was searching for one man.
There, in the prime southwest corner, of course, set off by a buffer of four to five tables from the other, lesser diners, sat his guest. The maître d’ approached, nervous but solicitous. Rios-Parkinson ignored him, making his way past the other diners and over to the man in the perfect blue pinstripe suit with the deep red silk tie.
Odd, but he had a black leather bag of impeccable quality by his feet. Normally, one of his security guards would be holding it in the foyer.
The man saw him, smiled warmly and stood, extending his right hand. Was this a provocation? Shaking hands was publicly discouraged as emblematic of unequal power relations, but among themselves the elite still performed the old ritual. No, Rios-Parkinson assessed, it was not a calculated insult, but a message that something was serious, that there was no time for the usual kabuki dances that they performed in public.
“Senator Harrington,” Rios-Parkinson said, shaking the extended tanned hand.
“Director,” replied the senator, sitting down as Rios-Parkinson took his own seat. “I am so glad you could meet me on such short notice.”
“Well, it is always a pleasure, Senator,” Rios-Parkinson lied. He knew Senator Richard Harrington of California quite well; in fact, before coming he had reviewed the special file his team had assembled on the senator. It was just like the ones he kept on all the major political figures on the West Coast, except only thinner. Not much in there of use; routine phone and electronic surveillance had not uncovered anything that might provide leverage either. Harrington certainly had an active sexual life for a sixty year old, but nothing useful there. The senator made sure to include as many men as women in his rotation so there could be no irritating claims of cisnormativity that some enemy might use to derail him.
Still, Harrington was deeply connected, and since senators were now directly appointed they had to be extremely politically savvy. Each Senate seat was like a little principality unto him or her or xes self. Harrington had negotiated his own precarious position after the Split remarkably well, for rich males of English descent – his mother had tracked his family back to the Mayflower, but he had suppressed that tidbit effectively – the People’s Republic hardly seemed fertile ground to cultivate a political career. But he had managed to do it. A little sexual flexibility here, a little use of compromising information against opponents there, and he had improbably remained in the highest circles of power.
Rios-Parkinson resolved not to underestimate him.
“I am glad you suggested we meet. I am sure it is something important.”
“Oh,” the senator replied. “It most certainly is.”
The senator reached down to his bag and pulled out a small, oval electronic device with Chinese characters and several buttons and lights. He placed it on the table and pushed the green button, which illuminated a small green light and made the object whir quietly on the table.
“Director, I assume you won’t mind if I scramble any microphones that someone might have emplaced here. I’d like to be able to talk with you…frankly.”
“Of course,” said the Director, hiding his irritation. Of course there were microphones. They were his microphones, at least two at every table. Often people would forget themselves and the next morning the Director would be delivered the most interesting transcripts, which he filed away for future use.
“I picked up this little item in China,” the senator said. “Obviously illegal here. You aren’t going to arrest me for having it, now are you?”