Grand Theft Planetary & Other Stories

Despite the absence of apocalyptic thoughts, sleep escaped Frances. In his bare unfurnished quarters, he stared at the concrete ceiling and thought about the sheer responsibility on his shoulders, the expectation, and what failure could mean. Even success meant accepting some small measure of failure, and Frances found that hard to swallow. When that failure resulted in the death of living things... Frances turned on his hard thin bed, his eyes settling on his new gold Rolex timepiece. Two months ago, he may have been excited about owning such things, but now, with the cold hard truth of his situation firmly in his conscious thoughts, he couldn’t settle. Dragging his weary and lean body to the tiny kitchen area, he made a cup of Kopi Luwak, concentrating on the taste and trying to ignore his racing thoughts. It didn’t work. His clock alarm blared at him, informing him that another day in control had started, another day without sleep.

Later, Frances slammed his fist on the keyboard in frustration, and watched the mortality rates start to soar. The virus had somehow skipped across the quarantine areas, re-igniting the outbreak once again. A vaccine was still lacking, despite serious resources being allocated to the research of one. Frances had called R&D as soon as the first case of this new pandemic had been confirmed, but their answer had chilled his blood; uncurable, they had whispered, but promised to devote more men and time as soon as possible.

Booting up his universal messaging program, he hurriedly sent out directions to the various operatives on the ground; no transportation of the herd anywhere unless dictated by himself. That would slow down the rate of infection for the moment, but it was a delaying tactic at best. The word “cull” appeared unbidden in his mind and he shook it away; that was not an option. Not yet.

His cellphone buzzed; It was Paulie. “Frances, has that infection started again?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Huh. My financial plans aren’t looking as good as they were last week. I think the word is meltdown.” Despite delivering such news, Paulie sounded breezy and unconcerned.

“Sorry.”

“What for? Not your fault. It just means I have some extra work to do this week.” There was a pause. “Again, if you’re having problems, I can help you out.”

“Thanks, but I should have it under control,” replied Frances, his pride preventing him from accepting Paulie’s offer. “RAND should be coming up with a cure soon,” he lied.

“Right, sure. Fancy going out for a spin at dinner? My new Ferrari got delivered earlier.”

“Why not?” Frances tried to emulate Paulie’s breezy demeanour in the light of impending doom, but failed.

Three days later, Frances was sat on the edge of his bed reading the latest news reports. With such failure on his part now made public, Frances felt complete shame and hopelessness, and had given the poor chaps at RAND a piece of his mind. He’d apologise later, but for now, was running out of options.

There was a knock on his door. “Frances boy, are you in there?”

Frances allowed the huge frame of Paulie into the cramped room, his huge belly barely covered by his suit jacket. They shook hands. “Are you OK?” asked Frances.

“I’m fine. More to the point, are you OK?” Paulie peered at the unshaved, dishevelled Frances. “You look like crap.”

Frances sighed and sat down. He needed help, and the last remnants of his pride vaporised. “It’s this virus. I can’t contain it, I can’t stop it. RAND can’t develop a cure for it. Quarantine won’t stop it.”

“Sounds nasty.”

Frances scowled at Paulie’s lack of concern. “That’s it? A throwaway comment?”

“What did you want from me - hysterics? Look son,” Frances’s bed squealed out as Paulie sat next to him, “if you can’t prevent it, kill it. Have you started culling the infected?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You can, and must. Without the herd, we’re screwed. Everything revolves around there being a flock to work with.”

“I know, I know.” Frances stood and paced, his stomach a mass of acid and knots. “What if it does go apocalyptic?”

“Dunno,” Paulie admitted. “All I know is that this infection has now gone public, and the shareholders want a meeting with us. That’s what I came to tell you.”

Frances’s blood ran cold and his skin prickled. “Paulie, I can’t see them! I’ll go insane!”

“I remember the first time I saw them.” He looked at his feet. “I cried afterwards. I don’t mind telling you that.” There was silence, then Paulie stood. “Tomorrow at 9am, Ops area. Meet me at 8, and we’ll go through a few things that may help. Just remember, they’re not here to harm us.” He turned to leave, then added, “Not yet.”

Frances could do nothing but stare at the Shareholder. There was only one – Paulie had said that the Shareholders liked to travel in a trio – but even one was enough. The large board room seemed incredibly claustrophobic with the Shareholder in the room. Even the pair of armed guards shifted uncomfortably in the presence of this blank-faced outsider. Frances felt his legs shaking - and the meeting had only just started.

“My clients would like to know what the problem is,” said the Shareholder’s representative, a pale-faced man known to the company as The Link. He was the Shareholder’s spokesperson, but no-one knew anything else about him. He looked perpetually frightened, and with good reason, Frances thought. “Even without reading the latest public reports, we knew something was wrong.” The Link glanced at both Paulie and Frances. “The last batch of product was tainted with the virus, affecting all who consumed it.”

Silently, the Shareholder turned to face Frances, his huge dark eyes and pale oval face causing Frances’s very soul to recoil in terror. The silence lasted forever, and Frances was about to cry out when Paulie broke the spell. “Well, Mr Frances Flanigan here has briefed me – and all of us – on the virus and its progress. We are hoping on an antidote from our RAND department imminently, which should eradicate the infection and return the livestock to near-normal levels. We apologise for any issues this temporary setback has caused.”

“How long before the virus is destroyed?” asked The Link.

Paulie looked at Frances, who panicked and yelped, “A month?!”

The Link paused, staring above their heads, then focused back on the quivering Frances. “Unacceptable. This virus threatens the long-standing agreement between the Shareholders and,” he drifted off again, “this company. The Shareholders demand swift action, or they will take action themselves. You don’t want that.”

Paulie stiffened. “Any interference by the Shareholders will invalidate our 60 year-old agreement, and will be met with significant opposition.”

“It is irrelevant what you do if the Shareholders decide to intervene. You know that.” Without any other words, The Link and the Shareholder stood and left through the security door behind them. The two guards visibly relaxed as the door clicked shut, as did they all.

Paulie patted Frances on the leg, then wiped the dampness on the chair. “I thought you were going to lose it back then. Well done though – you kept it together.”

“Did I?” Frances held out his trembling hands. “I pissed myself!”

“Just take the compliment, son. Let’s go get a drink.”

The sun. It sounded so friendly and homely. However, it was just a star local to earth, a big nuclear explosion like so many nuclear explosions going on in the universe right now. It was currently shooting amber beams into the wisps of blue cloud above them. Paulie handed the depleted bottle of rum to Frances; he drunkenly traced the words on the label with a finger. Máximo Extra Añejo.

“This is nice stuff,” Frances mumbled. Paulie laughed, making the park bench wobble.

“I should think so. Apparently, very expensive.”

“Doesn’t that freak you out? We can get whatever we want? This is,” Frances swung the bottle around dangerously, “way out of my league!”

“No.” Paulie took the bottle and gulped from it. “Money’s nothing, after all. Just a way to keep control.”

“Yeah, and we don’t own a single penny between us!”

“Yeah. I guess.” Paulie picked at his fingers. “We are broke, yet control everything, and can have anything. Ain’t that a bitch?”

“What am I going to do, Paulie? The Shareholders are going to take over, aren’t they? This virus is going to kill everything, then the Shareholders will take over everything that’s left.”

“You need to start culling the flock.”

“I can’t just kill.” Frances wavered, dizzy with drink.

Paulie sighed, finished the bottle and threw it into the road. It smashed loudly. “Look at it this way. If you do diddly-squat, everything dies and you fail. If you start culling, some of the herd survives and you succeed. We rebuild, everything goes back to normal”

“It’s not as simple as that,” said Frances.

“It is!” exploded Paulie. “It is exactly that simple! Stop thinking about it!”

“You’re wrong,” replied Frances quietly. “Even if I do cull a percentage, say 30%, what’s going to happen to the rest?”

“They live happy lives, ignorant of the threat we’re trying to save them from.”

“Except for the ones who are picked as food for these monsters.”

“As a whole, we’re saving them.”

“Individually,” countered Frances, “we’re selling them out. And ourselves.”

“You don’t know these bastards,” said Paulie. “We took control of the world to save it from them. If it wasn’t for nukes, we wouldn’t even have the choice.”

“Must have…been terrible,” slurred Frances.

“It was. It is. And it’ll never stop. So it’s best that everyone worries about paying bills and dieting and politics in the world that we control, so that they are ignorant about the reality of life.”

“What, that there are aliens?”

“No,” replied Paulie and lit up a cigarette, “That everyone is simply food. Food for a superior race.”

The next morning, Frances sat with his head in his hands, his monitor displaying a confirmation request. In his mind, he could see the alien grey staring at him with those black eyes, mute and terrifying. It looked through him, like a man watching a burger. I will consume you, the eyes said. Your sole purpose is to feed me. Frances was expected to cull millions of humans, just to provide the shareholders, those awful aliens, with a fresh healthy source of food. It wasn’t right.

“You need to do it Frances,” said Paulie from behind him. “Remember – they’re just food.”

“Go away Paul,” he replied without looking up, “They are still people.”

“They’re dead one way or another.” Paulie put a steaming mug of Kopi Luwak in front of Frances’s bowed head. “They either die from the killer virus, die from being culled, die when the aliens take over the earth, or die when the aliens eat them. Does it really matter why they die, or who kills them? They’re dead.” He patted Frances on the back softly. “Save them, Frances. Save them all by killing some.”

“If it doesn’t matter whether they die, then why do we bother controlling them?” Frances was stalling; he knew he had to do this. He needed more time to talk this through in his head, comes to terms with it, make peace with it.

“Simple – it’s a matter of continuity. Under the aliens rule, everyone would be in cages, waiting for the axe to fall. At least in this scenario, we create the illusion of freedom when in fact all this,” he motioned to an upside-down world map, projected on the far wall, “is nothing more than a massive free-range farm. At least in our farm, people have the option of living happily. Do it.”

Frances sighed, looked at Paulie’s sympathetic face, and then pressed the button.