41 The Solar Storm (1/2)
By the end of January, 2035 global communication had been reestablished. However, radio and mobile phones still refused to work. And much to Carlton Brock's chagrin, there was still no TV.
”I don't know what the fuck is wrong with those people,” he confessed to Lea Panatella. ”I get it that anything broadcast over the air won't work. I get it that most vehicles won't work because of that stupid requirement for unremovable vehicle data transmitters that was introduced a few years back. What I don't get is why TV won't work. We got cable TV, right? Same fucking cables as those used for phone lines. The landline phones work. So, why no TV? And how the fuck did anything as stupid as this vehicle data transmitter law ever get through the Congress?”
”You supported, it sir,” Lea reminded him.
”I was a senator, dammit. Once those assholes in the Congress voted it through, I had to toe the line. I had to vote for a lot of crazy stuff when I was a senator. Otherwise I'd have had the whole goddamn party reaming my ass. But why -”
”Everyone thought it was a great crime prevention measure,” Lea said.
”Everyone thought! They thought! Fuck. I wish some people, most people in fact, didn't try to think. They're too stupid to think. When they start to think, there's always trouble.”
”It worked,” Lea said. ”There was a big drop in the crime rate.”
Carlton Brock snorted. Then he said:
”But why no cable TV? If Penny doesn't get on top of that right away, I swear I'm gonna fire his ass.”
”TV stations use a lot of electric power,” Lea said patiently. ”So do TV sets. We still have a problem with electric power supply.”
”Why? What I want to know is, why? And why can't anyone tell me why?”
”Well, I've got something that might help. Here.”
”What's this? More paperwork? Can't you handle it, Lea?”
”I did. But you should read it, anyway. It's a report that explains why we had that big storm in the first place, and why a lot of stuff still doesn't work.”
”You read it?”
”I read it.”
”Give the gist to me.”
”There was a huge solar storm. It screwed up the Earth's electromagnetic field, which was already being adversely affected by the profusion of fields generated by by the power stations, power lines, even small electric appliances like toasters or mobile phones. It says in here that Earth's electromagnetic field is very finely balanced, and we had trillions of small electromagnetic fields being generated within Earth's field by all that electricity we were producing and using. The net result was, Earth's electromagnetic field was already teetering on the edge. The solar storm basically gave it a push that sent everything crashing down.”
”So it wasn't the cubes? I heard many people say it was the fault of those cubes.”
”No, sir. The cubes came from another dimension, and arrived after the storm.”
”But they had to get here first, right?” Brock said craftily. ”Their passage through the atmosphere, or something like that, could cause an electromagnetic storm, could it not?”
”According to the experts, interdimensional travel doesn't work like that. It's instantaneous.”
”Whatever.” Brock sighed heavily, and took the folder offered by Lea. He said:
”Anything else?”
”Unfortunately, yes. The delegates want to know when they'll be able to return home, now that the planes are flying.”
”The planes are NOT flying. Fuck! A guy getting his little Piper off the ground and flying a couple of circles over the goddamn airstrip doesn't mean the planes are working. Not the big passenger ones. Who told them about that Piper guy? I hope it wasn't you, Lea.”
”Of course not. I think there was a leak from the communications center.”
”Well, tell them to spring another leak. A leak that says we tried and failed to get anything bigger than a tiny single-engine job off the ground. Tell them to imply it's all the extra electronics in the bigger planes, or something.”
”Would you address the delegates, sir? The secretary general thinks it would be a wise move.”
”Why me? I'm just the governor, I mean the commissioner for the United States. Tell them to talk to Penny. Give them his phone number. Penny's the guy to talk to about getting this whole plane situation fixed.”
”As you say, sir.”
”Right.”
Carlton Brock walked back to his suite, discreetly preceded and followed by weary bodyguards in rumpled suits. He was fucking sick of being stuck in this building, and constantly being badgered by all kinds of people! He wanted to be alone. He wanted to fuck his wife. He wanted to be anywhere but where he was right now.
His bad mood wasn't improved when he was intercepted along the way by Kasper Weinberger, former head of the International Monetary Fund.
Weinberger had been appointed acting Minister of Finance in the new world government, and he wasn't wearing it well. He was a minister of finance without access to any money. The whole international financial system had died. The thousands of thousands of electronic connections that were its blood vessels, its umbilical cords, had been brutally severed by the storm. All over the world taxes and tariffs and duties and other monetary dues weren't paid or collected.
No one knew what money was worth any more. And the new money, the metal coin currency, so far existed only as a few handfuls of low denomination coinage, minted experimentally here and there by medieval methods. The Russians and the Chinese said they were starting large-scale production, but could the Russians and the Chinese be trusted?
”Who are you?” snapped Carlton Brock, when the sad, elderly man with a gray face barred the way to Brock's suite.
”Kasper Weinberger. I'm the Minister of Finances.”
”Finances? I think I've heard you name before. I thought you were some kind of a military guy.”
”You had a secretary of defense with a similar name half a century ago.”
”Did we? Are you a relation?”
”No, I'm afraid not. It's just a coincidence. Mister President - ”
”I'm not a president any more. You want to talk to Penny, Mark Penny. He's the guy. You got his phone number?”
”I'm sorry, that was a slip of my tongue. I most definitely want to talk to you. Sir, I need money. I mean we need money.”
”You can say that again! Finally someone who talks sense. Come along, I'll treat you to a drink.”
Once they were safely ensconced in Brock's suite and the bodyguards were out of sight, Brock got out a half-full bottle of bourbon and fixed a couple of stiff drinks with ice from the portable gas-powered refrigerator.