Path to Entropy - An Apocalyptic Climax: Predictable Paths, #6

By Blade Cort

Path to Entropy - An Apocalyptic Climax [#Dystopian, #PostApocalyptic, #GeneticEngineering], Book 6 of 8 in the Predictable Paths series

 

A narcissistic, unhinged oligarch reigns over a destitute, post-apocalyptic domain in the western part of what once was America. Sara, his communications minister, stands behind him despite his megalomania. She tells her team: "Work is work, and you should take pride in it, even when your job is to deny, divert, distract, detract, and deceive, no matter how despicable the outcome."
Yet this day is not going so well. Ron, her maniacal and likely AI-controlled boss, is berating his ministers, raging about a highly visible, embarrassing incident that puts his leadership in doubt.
He orders Sara to develop the response - gloss over it, blame the locals, or accuse their many regional enemies of stirring up historical animosities. But such accusations could elicit a cascade of destructive reactions from their belligerent, tech-rich adversaries. Will her efforts unwittingly set the world ablaze?

 

PREDICTABLE PATHS episodes, in sequential order:

#1. AGENESS - A Longevity / Age Engineering Science Fiction Play on Our Imminent Ageless Dystopia ; Six Acts, Episodes -22 to -17

#2. CLIMATIC - A Climate and Genetic Engineering Science Fiction Novel; Episodes -16 to -2

#3. AMYGDALA HIJACK - A Genetic Engineering Sci-Fi Novel of Impending Dystopia (a Trilogy) 

  3.1 - Amygdala Hijack - The Waening, Part 1 of 3; Episodes 1 - 9

  3.2 - Amygdala Hijack - The Warning, Part 2 of 3; Episodes 10 - 18

  3.3 - Amygdala Hijack - The Wasting, Part 3 of 3; Episodes 19 - 28

#4. THREE GUYS IN A POST-APOCALYPTIC BAR - A Longevity / Age Engineering and Genetic Engineering Sci-Fi Novella ; Episodes 47 - 54

#5. INFINITY CURVE - Lamentations to Unseen Friends Across the Vastness of Space ; Episodes 56 - 78

#6. PATH TO ENTROPY - An Apocalyptic Climax ; Episodes 79 - 93

#7. SORD IN PROSPERITY - Hope Beyond the Apocalypse ; Episodes 118 - 159

#8. DAISY THE DUMPSTER DOG - A Sordid Tale of Dystopian Hubris and Convenient Canine Rationalizations (But Not a Supreme Court Satire or Parody) ; Episodes 311 - 337

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blade Cort
• Release date: May 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201944872

Blade Cort

Blade Cort writes Age Engineering and Longevity Science Fiction as well as Genetic Engineering Science Fiction novels and plays that are mercilessly littered with pedantic discourse, pointless diatribes, and persistent droning about humanity's pervasive derelictions. The pulp drivel exhumed from his keyboard is as terrifying and graceless as overcooked cafeteria peas. Visit https://www.bladecort.com.

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PATH TO ENTROPY: AN APOCALYPTIC CLIMAX

Copyright © 2020 by Blade Cort

All rights reserved. No part of this publication or any elements from it may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying; recording; digitization or tokenization of characters, scenes, or any other components; or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Permission requests should be provided electronically to the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, dialog, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental. References to any products or services are not an endorsement and are only intended to develop the storyline and context.

Second Edition: May 2021

EPISODE 79 – TRANSGRESSIONS

Does anyone know why I called this meeting? Ron seethed, his neck veins bulging with anger. His eyes were unusually bloodshot, the result of a binge drinking and drugs orgy that began the previous night after he received the disturbing news.

No one at the table dared move. They knew what was coming next, and they had enough experience with Ron’s histrionics to know not to dive into the middle of his torrential whirlpool of vitriol.

Seal your lips tightly, Sara repeated to herself.

Sitting erect as if at attention, her dark bangs fell precariously across her eyes. They wiggled slightly as she blinked.

Do I dare use my hand to brush the hair away? she wondered. Will that modest body movement divert his attention to me? You’ve learned hard lessons before, right here in this conference room from hell and perhaps in this very chair. Just do nothing. Don’t let it bother you. Don’t allow your discomfort to expose you. Try not to breathe fast. If you don’t think about it, he can’t sense it.

She shifted her eyes momentarily to Edgar who sat directly across from her at the large, oval conference room table.

Imp is no doubt picking up our vitals directly, or worse yet, predicting them inaccurately, she speculated. I had to see if Edgar was showing signs of stress. Anyone who knows the situation should be aware that he’s at fault. It’s his ass this time, not mine.

Sara looked away, unclear what Edgar’s facial expression was telling her. For a careless moment she let her mind slip, wondering where the wood from the table originated. How many trees were cut. What the forest looked like.

Snap back, she commanded her mind. Back to this misery. Edgar should have caught it. He has all the resources at his disposal. He’s the fucking CIO of this godforsaken beast Ron built, and all technologies report into him. Billions of devices, AI IOT, and server shit. He and his fucking AI can access countless millions of cameras, nanobots, satellites, monitors, and predictive tech. That asshole should have had a handle on every fucking inch of human and varint activity within our domain. In Vista.

She felt her head shaking imperceptibly and forced herself to stop before others took notice.

I’m not responsible for this new indiscretion against Ron that just arose. But Edgar certainly is at fault, and everyone at this table understands that truth including Ron and Imp.

Edgar was stone-faced, confident Ron wouldn’t come after him directly. Even if he did, Edgar knew too much given his limitless access to data. He may not have controlled the most powerful AI in Vista; Ron had that. But he had something far more valuable: data that gave him unique, consequential leverage over his boss, his oligarch, his regent, his demigod. Ron.

At the front of the room, three vidscreens hung on the wall that displayed data and charts about the recent event. In an eye blink, Ron swiped his mechanized arm across the wall, detaching the screens from their anchors in an instant.

They splattered into pieces against the boardroom windows that looked out over the river. These were only shows of force, the usual demonstrations, of Ron’s belligerence, domination, and physical power.

I hear what you think, each of you frail and gutless worms. Do you perceive Imp as incompetent? Me as stupid?

Ron pointed his finger indiscriminately at his ministers. I know what sewage swills in your craniums and rotting gray matter. I’ve got the tech. I own the managing systems that run this place, the whole fucking domain and the maggots who inhabit it. You assholes would be captive rats in this little box without me and my generosity.

He smiled wryly. Perhaps your job is simply too hard for you to bear. Perhaps you should quit right now and go back to your shithouse hovels, your thumb-sucking safe places. Good luck with that, if you think you’ll do better without me. Every last one of you is uber-expendable. Replaceable at my whim. Look at the lot of you and your bloated, exalted, and unjustified visions of power. You are nothing without me, yet you suck at my generosity like engorged ticks on an anemic dog.

At the table sat his dozen counselors, his ministers. Each had executive power over their areas of expertise within the domain known as Vista, the large geographical segment of Westrich under Ron’s control.

He was pacing angrily around the room in his usual state, contemplating the next target. Sara again sensed her head was imperceptibly nodding back and forth, an instinctual outburst of disgust at his demeaning missives. Imp caught the movement and immediately informed Ron via his integrated data connection enabled by the Vistachit embedded in his forehead.

Sara, Ron hissed, where the hell were you when this embarrassment in the desert occurred? You are, or maybe it’s ‘were’ at this juncture, my Minister of Social Infrastructure. How could you let this happen in my domain? It’s your job to have your hand firmly on the necks and pulse of the people and whatever the fuck we call the menagerie of hybrid creatures today. Your function is to feed me with knowledge of their discontent or aberrant thinking, then to design comms to neutralize them.

Yes, sir, she half-whispered.

Did you suddenly forget your function? Look at the unfiltered access you have to the rich data that Edgar feeds you. Where were the fatuous minions in your department of useless hundreds, or is it thousands by now? With all at your command, how could you have overlooked this humiliating event? I’m surprised you had the cojones to show your face here today. You might want to shit your pants right now so you can politely exit your smelly corpse from our presence.

Sara’s heart was beating furiously, and Imp knew it all. Imp sensed her physical reactions. Her pulse. Sweat. Pupil dilation. Chemicals emitted from her breath and skin. Imp analyzed her eye movements. Facial tics. The number of times she licked her lips and blinked. And she knew Imp constantly monitored her thoughts, to the degree that such tech had been perfected. Imp did not know every thought she had, but its predictive algorithms could easily fill-in the blanks.

Even though she was accustomed to this constant monitoring, she had rarely suffered such a direct assault in Ron’s wrathful line of sight. Not knowing whether to respond and hoping he would turn his rant elsewhere, she stuttered, But it was on the reservation.

I don’t give a flying fuck where it was. You’re telling me you don’t have a handle on what our lovely citizens are thinking? Do you not also have insights to those living on our reservations?

They’re more dispersed out there, Ron. She was winging an excuse, real-time. They’re harder to monitor and understand. Speak their own languages with varied meanings, she appealed.

In an awkward moment of silence, Ron stopped his rant to stare at her, managing a feeble smile.

She grinned back, showing no teeth but communicating the anguish she felt.

Pool of water, girl. Pool of water, she told herself. Don’t let that fucking Imp through your mental door. You know what you’d like to think about this fraction of hell and its abhorrent actors, but don’t let your mind go there. Not now. Pool of water, girl. Repeat. Pool of water.

Ron resumed his table pacing. Sara knew this was a good sign. He was readying his quiver of arrows for another sucker at the table.

Did you hear that, team? Do you know how much I’ve given to all who live in those semi-autonomous areas of Vista? The billions I’ve spent to build and maintain their homes and businesses? Sure, we have more than our share, relative to the other domains or even nation-states. Certainly more than any domain in Westrich. Sara, they’re what, ten percent?

Sir? Do you mean population size? I believe it’s more like six percent of Westrich, including native and non.

Ron grimaced. Now what the hell does ‘native’ mean anymore, and who gives a shit? Your pathetic excuse is that they’re a little more dispersed, a little harder to monitor and control, and we aren’t trying hard enough with them. You’re implying our social infrastructure and communications efforts aren’t having the same effect as elsewhere in our domain.

She knew that among this writhing pit of vipers, she could show no deference to Ron’s insults and innuendo. No weakness or soft spots.

Our budgets have been successively cut, Ron, and we’ve been stretching them the best we can. We know this comes from being the smallest domain in Westrich and the least productive.

At her comment, Ron vaulted his lanky body across the lacquered table, bumping into two other ministers as he slid toward her. He leaned hard into her face, his arms crouched like a lion ready to pounce on prey.

Are you suggesting this fiasco is my fault, goddess shithead? Are you implying the budget I gave you is not enough to monitor the scum in this domain? Are you demanding that I should rip funds away from others here at this table, your best friends, so you can spend more on yourself and your worthless team that does even less for me?

Of course not! Sara stammered, leaning back slightly but staring him directly in the eyes.

Ron was a demigod in a real sense. All nation-states across the globe were managed and controlled by counterparts like him. An unholy mix of machine, computing horsepower, and human, one never knew what was real in him or what was manufactured.

Imp’s overarching influence on Ron’s psyche was unknown. Many expected that, given the AI’s superior algorithms and data access, it might have become fully sentient and taken complete command of him.

Sara was convinced that Ron no longer managed himself. She assumed Imp was only playing an extended, surreal game of strategy, of win and loss against those who were not in control, those who had limited access to the same data and were purposely restricted from advancing their own AIs any further.

To Sara’s surprise, Ron slithered back from the tabletop and once again continued his clockwise pacing. The twelve ministers sat in rigid silence, awaiting the next fusillade.

Sara felt relieved it ended there. She’d seen too many instances where Ron’s wrath resulted in unfortunate, even deadly, results.

Ron continued with his usual oratory, the never-ending, recycled, and tiresome narrative of incessant victimhood and exaggerated grievances.

They’re after me, you know. I have lots of friends, of course. Businesspeople across Vista, Westrich, and internationally. People who know me, they love me. My own citizens love me, and those poor slugs in other domains wish they could live here to benefit from my warmth and generosity.

He scanned the table for a second to be sure every minister was staying attentive to his plea. But when it comes to the few brilliant and effective leaders like me, we always have our share of detractors. Pathetic Machiavellian monsters who work to disrupt all I’ve done and am doing for this pisspoor domain and Westrich as a whole. I mitigate these attacks by being the most capable and compassionate of the world’s oligarchs. For the benefit of others in Westrich, especially our useless and vulgar congress, I work my ass off to put together the most capable team, the best people, the best ministers anywhere.

Ron puckered his lips, as if he was ready to spit. In practice, you’re second rate. Imperfect. I’d go so far as calling you horribly incompetent and self-serving. This fucking indiscretion by some laser-shooting do-gooder in Arizona has confirmed your collective incompetencies, hasn’t it? Some crazy shithead on my reservation gets a wild hair up his fat ass to blast a laser message into space for all to see. And now, due to your gross negligence, I’m the one getting heat from our Westrich congressional and judicial assholes as well as my pig-faced oligarch counterparts in California and Hedron; the slime.

He started pacing faster, knowing they would become more agitated by the action. Yes, my lovely comrades are implying my team is delusional; that you’re inept for letting this happen. A great example of the inept calling the inept ‘inept.’ They are the least competent of all the pigs in the swampland we call Westrich. Some nerve calling my team that.

Ron turned to sneer at Sara. Not picking on you, sweet child, though it’s partially your fault. Maybe much your fault. You understand, little one? I can’t have events like this happen. If mine was the strongest or richest of the domains, then I’d have the power and it wouldn’t matter. But people are jealous of me, so they come after me. They salivate for openings like this. And they’re after all of you because you are my proxies. You act in my stead. Don’t you see? They want my land and the fusion and solar power infrastructure it brings. They want my nukes and biotech labs. They want all of my natural resource riches. Only concerned with themselves, not with Westrich as a whole or the greater good of our lovely citizens.

As she listened, Sara tried to avoid any negative thoughts, to let her mind wander to other things lest Imp sense her intentions.

It was her job to broadcast Ron’s relentless discharge of self-absorption and amplified victimization to Vista’s citizenry, and she was the expert at it. But she had both developed and heard the narrative repeated so many times from his own mouth, she forcefully needed to repress her desire to puke at hearing it once again emanating from the vile tongue of her boss.

Ron continued the rant. I deserve to oversee and rule everything. Me and Imp. But I’m given this pea-shooter domain when I’m the only one who cares about the larger Westrich and its people. Those other two domains are afraid of my prominence. They’re experts at persecuting me and attempting to take me down as if they have nothing better to do with their time. California and Hedron in a split-second would disassemble Vista altogether, eliminate Westrich and therefore my power, then divide our booty amongst themselves.

Ron wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. Sara hated that this creature salivated so profusely when on his many tirades.

Every interaction with them is another pathetic quest for power and wealth. Same goes for these fucking politicians in congress. I’d like to fry the lot in pig fat and serve it up to the ignorant vermin who actually believe they elected them to office.

Edgar was slouched in his chair. He was a gaunt, sniveling man who wore excessively tight clothes to display the extensive tech fused within his body. To mitigate any participation in such typical carnage, he’d let his locks of long, black hair fall across his forehead, obscuring his face and eye movements. Slouching in the conference room chair also helped minimize his presence when the shit was flying.

Edgar! Ron screeched. What does your unparalleled brilliance and wizardry bring us?

Yes, sir! he replied. In what regard?

In the fucking regard of fucking latest news on the fucking topic, you imbecile!

Spittle was pouring from Ron’s mouth and a fragment landed on Edgar’s cheek. He dared not touch it.

Do you think my Imp knows everything and has access to all the data you collect? If I were to let that happen, then I wouldn’t need you, would I? Indeed, Imp and I may seriously consider that idea.

Edgar was startled. This unfortunate event in Northern Arizona was perhaps more important than he had perceived. We continue to receive active updates from the field, he noted.

Like what?

Edgar had been through this type of rancorous discourse a thousand times with Ron, as had the others at the table. He understood any response must be positives, only positives. No hints of lack of knowledge, resources, or capabilities.

Deflect, he thought. Always deflect from yourself personally and redirect the blame to others, particularly if they aren’t present to defend themselves. Never use ‘I’ unless it’s to praise yourself.

All our efforts are focused on sifting through the extensive piles of rubble, and we’re finding some early successes, Edgar offered. Unfortunately, the drone missiles substantially damaged the transmission site.

He knew this tactic, an idea generated by Edgar’s AI and communicated to him instantly through his Vistachit, would draw heat away from him to someone else around the table. Edgar nearly exhaled an audible sigh of relief as Ron’s attention turned elsewhere.

Who the fuck gave approval to bomb the hell out of the place? What are you guys, a gaggle of malicious kids playing video games? You know, I should replace all of you with a dozen drugged-up, CRISPR-damaged hybrid morons off the street. What the hell? A gang of whiskey-soaked Texans in mech brothels could do better than this team.

Not wanting to move his head conspicuously, Edgar’s eyes scanned