The Lawrence Dilemma 4: The Fountainhead Shrugged

The car slowed down and stopped before the crossroad. It looked out of place here, too shiny and sleek and perfectly black, too new for this decrepit city. Bulletproof glass and an armoured chassis sat next to the open-air market filled with run-down old men and women trying to sell their wares alongside the filth and decay of the warm raw sewage trickling into the gutters. The heat was stifling, above 30 degrees, and the air was sticky and humid. Stalls sold foul concoctions: butchered cats, dogs and rats; stews of brains and pond filth bubbling beneath a layer of scum in filthy cast-iron pots over old camping stoves; tiny piles of fruit and vegetables, grown in the suburbs and dragged for miles on wheelbarrows to be sold for what? A tiny amount of money to add a few more days onto their existence? One half-crazed woman presided over a collection of batteries, as if anyone would have a use for them even if they could afford them. Someone was trying to sell an old tablet, the black mirror an unaffordable paperweight in this wasteland of cracked grey concrete.
The traffic at the intersection was snarled as ever, rickshaws, scooters, tuk-tuks and bicycles engaged in a free-for-all alongside crumpled, ancient cars held together with spare parts and duct tape and rumbling unmoving buses, crammed to the brim with people baking to death in the heat. The sleek black car, however, couldn’t enter. The driver tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel and stared through his sunglasses ahead at the obstruction, ignoring the starving children in rags outside his window trying to get his attention, desperate for some money or food from the rare traveller rich enough to travel in a car like this. Ahead an ox had been pulling a cart filled with old fridges and freezers - scrap metal - and had collapsed under the weight, blocking the lanes behind it. Its owner desperately lashed at it with a wooden stick, but the ox couldn’t raise itself on its spindly legs, collapsing again. Two policemen in black uniforms ran forward. They could have forced the children to help or redirected traffic. Instead they pulled out truncheons and began beating the owner in the street, more blood pooling into the potholes.
“What is it, Jhonathan?” the passenger asked.
“I’m sorry, sir. There’s a disruption ahead…”
“It doesn’t matter. We have time.”
The inside of the car was cool and air-conditioned, the air filtered before it entered. The seats were black leather, the windows were tinted and the floor was covered in lush carpet. The passenger was completely separated from the outside world. He sipped a bottle of mineral water as he read a newspaper. He was the chief executive officer of the Mecklenburg Corporation - the most powerful business organisation on the planet.
Mecklenburg had come a long way since the kidnap of Katie Mecklenburg all those years ago. After the founders sold their company to Alexander Anglais it had risen from a South-Western energy and telecommunications company to a global giant. It had diversified and expanded and now had so many strings to its bow it was a market leader in practically every field imaginable. It developed new weapons technology for governments across the globe and created viruses capable of wiping out half the planet in its gigantic labs. It controlled 45% of the world’s food supply and had bought huge tracts of government infrastructure as depressions soared across the planet. No newspaper or television station dared to criticise Mecklenburg, because it owned most of them and could cut any others off from electricity, water and the Internet. The fact was if you wanted to live with any degree of comfort you needed Mecklenburg - but they didn’t need you.
The chief executive officer was called Umar Kahn and had been working for the firm since graduating from university, first in London and now across the world. He was a young man despite his position with the work ethic and ambition to climb up the chain of command until now, at only thirty-two, he was one of the most powerful men alive. The many hours spent in front of a computer screen in pursuit of profit and power had left him with a sweaty, artificial sheen to his face. He wasn’t married and the thought of being close to another human slightly repulsed him. He disliked women particularly, with their soft flabby flesh, their emotions, their weakness and their constant demands.
He was excited.
The conference had simply been titled Endgame in the invitation letter - of course, it was more a demand in reality. Across the city, hundreds more important people in hundreds more expensive limousines were heading to the same destination as him. To hear the chairman of Mecklenburg. Kahn was different. He’d been on the Minecraft server, he’d been told the details of the speech. And afterwards, he was to have a one-to-one meeting with the chairman, a man he had never met before.
They had managed to move the ox out of the road and the car finally moved forward, jumping slightly as it rolled over the body of the ox’s former owner, another forgotten body. Kahn glanced out of the window and saw another open-air market on a concrete flyover - more stalls, children bent double carrying plastic water tanks from place to place, crippling them for life. Women in low-cut shirts, shorts, sandals and cheap jewelry rested against the concrete pillars with nothing to sell but themselves.
The car turned a corner and suddenly the river was ahead of them, the water as tangled up with old boats as the roads were with cars. It was hotter out here, past the shadow of the skyscrapers and the sun beat down on the concrete and the off-grey of the layer of scum and sewage covering the river. At last they arrived. The building stood with its famous curved front and the flagpoles in front, although the flags themselves had been removed some time ago.
The United Nations. New York.
A guard with a machine gun saluted them as the barrier was raised and the car entered the building.
'''
The General Assembly had almost 1800 seats. Nearly all of them were taken. There were Westerners and Africans in suits, Arabs in headdresses, Indians in saris, Chinese and Japanese people in silk. They showed which countries they had come from… which countries they had pillaged... and made clear the global power of Mecklenburg. Six continents were represented. Over a hundred countries. Kahn had a seat in the front row, a sign of his import. The closer to the front you were, the more powerful you were seen as being. Kahn smiled to himself as he took his place.
The stage had a podium which once showed the world bracketed by olive branches - a symbol of peace. They had been removed, however, and in their place there was a different symbol: the wew face. Behind the podium the wall had been covered with a monumental oil portrait to Mecklenburg’s spiritual leader: Ayn Rand.
Kahn took his place beside a middle-aged man he had met before - Tompkin Lawrense. The man was also British and had been dubbed by the media as the “Butcher of Bahrain” - both for his ruthless exploitation of their oil reserves and for the massacres of US-friendly villages he had undertaken in his role as a terrorist leader. Now he was welcome in his old enemies heartland and was the only other attendee told on Minecraft of what was to come. Behind them two women sat together whispering, their perfume overpowering. The smell made Kahn feel nauseous. Ushers stood at the end of each row, showing the last arrivals to their seats. They were all on time, of course. To arrive a second past the noon start time would have meant sacking...or worse.
At noon exactly the chairman walked onto the stage. The lights dimmed as the attendees rose, lauding this man who had built such a huge empire. Alexander Anglais was a steadfast man in his mid-to-late fifties and carried himself purposefully to the podium. The applause became deafening as he stood before them before he raised a hand for silence.
“My friends,” he began. He had an accent that could have been American or British. Nobody knew where he had been born or where he lived. “First, let me welcome you to New York and the headquarters of Mecklenburg. I thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to be here with me today, but as my inner circle it is only right that you recieve your due rewards.”
He spoke without a microphone but his voice somehow carried across the entire hall. Although half of the room couldn’t speak English they understood his every word. They refused to ask themselves how - the answer, or lack thereof, frightened them too much. It was of no matter anyway. The last word - reward, recompensa, 奖励 - had an electric effect upon them and they burst into applause. This was what they had been waiting for all their professional lives. The Senators, billionaires, bankers and king-makers all lapped it up. The women behind Kahn clapped ferociously, their jewelry jangling as they clapped like over-excited children. Kahn and Lawrense didn’t move at all as they waited with bated breath for what was to come.
“I want to have a discussion with you about wewladstbh, “ Anglais continued after the room had calmed down. “Who is he? What does he want? Well, I’m afraid that there is no easy answer to those questions...suffice it to say that he has existed for thousands of years and many have called him ‘evil’. But what is evil? He’s been very good to us. We have more food than we can eat while billions starve, we drink champagne while innocent men, women and children are butchered in wars across the globe. We make billions of dollars and get richer and richer every year. So again, what is evil? I think it’s just a point of view.”
“It has always been important to wewlads to remain invisible. He has used people like us for centuries to influence the world. He helped the barbarians storm the Western Roman Empire and told the Venetians to direct the Fourth Crusade against Constantinople. But there have been people...those who have bested him. The mid fourteenth century, 1872, 1969 and 2010. The Bulluks were there, time and time again. But they failed to stop him when he seized control using a video game. But they will try again. Wewlads has no more need to hide, no more need for mortal backing in this world he has built. Indeed, wewlads is building a new civilisation, a new start for all of us, in Antarctica. The pathetic forces of the Bulluks will try to stop him again.”
'''
The audience were fidgeting now, getting restless in their seats. What did this have to do with them? Anglais took a sip of water and continued, his voice rising in strength.
“Wewlads has given you all great wealth and power. And now it’s time for you to repay him. The resistance will be pulled toward his great Fortress in the South...Fort Rand. And you will help destroy them, in one fell swoop. You might be wondering how. After all, you’re businessmen, politicians, celebrities… well, in return for all he has given you, wewlads wants a show of loyalty. You are all going to join his army and be on the front line of the last battle.”
There was a murmuring in the room. Surely he wasn’t serious? He must be joking. Only Kahn and Lawrense smiled at the front of the room. There was no jape.
“There are enough of you here to form seventeen centuries. Most of you will die, either in training or in transport or in battle. Unavoidable. The rest will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have repaid your debt to wewlads, even at some cost to yourselves.” He spread his hands and drew them in. “The busses outside will take you to the training camp. You’ll be given armour and equipment. Some of you may be adjusted to become better killers…”
“Wait a minute!”
A man in the third row had gotten to his feet, raising his hand in protest. This had never happened before - nobody interrupted the chairman. But the man was Sir James O’Brain, owner of a huge global network of engineering companies.
“What are you on about?” he demanded, “You’re...what...inviting me to join some army?”
“No. The decision has already been made. It’s not an invitation.”
“You’re crazy!” O’Brain looked around at the audience, trying to bring them onto his side. “There’s millions...billions of people out there who’ll do anything for you if you give them a dollar.”
“We’re not interested in them. We want you.”
“Well, you can forget it. I’m not crazy.”
“Is that your final word on the matter, Sir James?” Anglais, strangely, seemed almost surprised by the protest.
“Yes it bloody well is!”
Anglais gave no signal but a moment later there was a gunshot and O’Brain twisted around, spraying blood on the audience as he fell to the floor. There was a silence for a brief moment. Then the screaming started. The two women behind Kahn and Lawrense started screaming and Lawrense twisted around, drawing a pistol from his suit. He shot them both in the head as the audience began moving in terror.
The audience became a writhing mass of people fighting over one another to get out. But the doors flew open and security guards brandishing truncheons emerged, beating the non-compliant guests into submission. Another gunshot rang out above the crowd and a man far behind them collapsed into his seat. Lawrense jumped up and joined the guards, beating and shooting the rich men and women. Anglais watched, unmoved, from the stage. “Have some discipline!” he shouted into the mass. “You’re in the army now and the +5% doesn’t come cheap.”
It took almost an hour to clear the room. The guests had become scared, at once wanting to escape and terrified at what was waiting for them outdoors. The guards slowly beat them down and marched them outside, into a number of what were once yellow school busses, now with the seats removed and the windows barred. The guests were crammed in, barely able to breathe in the crush. Some tried to bribe the guards with watches and money. The guards took the precious items then threw them into the busses anyway.
At last it was over.
Kahn was still sat in his seat, unmoving during the panic. Lawrense had left to supervise the guards. There were about fifty bodies in the hall - some shot by Lawrense or the sniper and some crushed beneath their fellow guests. Some had had heart attacks in terror and sat unmoving in their seats. Anglais had never left the stage. He was leaning forward, over the podium. “Let’s go to my office” he said, “I could go for a drink.”
Category:The Lawrence Dilemma
Category:Series