The MBAs were now evaluating world commodity markets, highlighting key items with laser pointers.
The Major contemplated his present line of work—and what led him here. It was over twenty years ago that he’d taken his first life. God did not, in fact, strike him down. Instead, a problem disappeared.
He still remembered the musty smell of the La Paz hotel room. The bray of a two-stroke engine whining past outside while he stood with a bloody knife in his hand. The young trade unionist on the floor, her wide eyes staring at him as she clutched her throat, gurgling. Nothing stopped. The universe didn’t care. He might as well have been slicing bread.
And that began his awakening—his realization that the Western world was a bedtime story of comforting humanistic bullshit. Slavery existed everywhere—even in the United States. We were all slaves in one way or another. Slavery was just control, and control kept things running in an orderly fashion. It was what made progress possible.
But now the problem he’d been waiting on suddenly appeared on screen. A bar graph labeled “Decline in U.S. Agricultural Subsidy Applications.” He turned away from the window and tuned in to the Pakistani MBA’s presentation.
“. . . in certain counties, we’re looking at a ninety percent drop—unprecedented in the history of modern American agriculture. Farmers in these counties have basically decided en masse to stop growing subsidized crops—even though there is no distribution system available for anything else. Something is causing this, and causing it all at once on a local basis in defiance of market conditions.”
The Major saw it. Nothing else had the scope to do this—and with such suddenness. It had to be the Daemon.
He spoke from the back of the room. “Why would farmers willingly turn down subsidies? With prices rising, why would they not grow corn or soybeans?
“Excuse me, you are . . . ?” The Pakistani was taken aback by this sudden question from a junior staffer in the back of the room.
The Major’s agronomist stepped in. “Yes, that’s a good question. Why isn’t the free market correcting this imbalance?”
The Pakistani turned back to the front row. “Uh, we haven’t been able to determine the cause. These numbers are for the coming year.”
The Major spoke up again. “And you have on-the-ground confirmation. This isn’t just a reporting glitch?”
“No, it’s not a glitch. Agribusiness and biotech firms have a comprehensive network of private investigators, researchers, and surveyors throughout the Midwestern United States to enforce their seed patents. They’ve documented population movements, unexplained capital inflows, and infrastructure investments in alternative energy technologies, high-tech equipment, heirloom seed stock, and—”
“I assume this isn’t confined to the United States.”
The two MBAs looked at each other with some dismay. The Pakistani nodded. “We were, in fact, going to cover that later in our presentation.” He started clicking through interminable bullet points and diagrams. “We also project reductions in export crops such as cotton in Asia and Russia. Security services in various countries are reporting labor unrest in both the agricultural and industrial sectors. The number of container ships being placed into warm and cold layup from lack of cargo is rising.”
It’s tearing apart the global supply chain.
Staring at the screen, The Major could visualize it like a full-scale nuclear attack. But one that the average person wouldn’t notice—until it was beyond the tipping point.
The British chap took over. “We project that if corn and soybean harvests drop another seven percent, raw material costs for almost all processed food products will skyrocket. Low-wage factory workers around the world could suffer food shortages, with attendant increase in social unrest. Factory production and transportation might be disrupted, with serious follow-on effects for the world economy.”
The Major had to hand it to Sobol. The dead bastard was clever. They’d been too focused on the digital threat to see it coming. By physically changing the economy of rural America, the Daemon could render their investment reallocation moot. They could no longer simply wait for a digital countermeasure to the Daemon. Sobol was forcing their hand, and The Major did not like the enemy dictating the tempo of battle. They needed to act. But quietly. Without anything that could be traced back to Daemon-infected companies.
The Major stood and looked out the window again, at the gleaming towers lining Sheikh Zayed Road. “Change is our enemy, gentlemen. Change means disruption. Disruption means crisis. And crisis means conflict.”
That was, after all, why the powers-that-be had called on The Major. Conflict was his specialty.
Part Two
March
Gold: $1.589USD/oz
Unliaded Gasoline: $5.34USD/gallon
Unemployment: 23.3%
USD/Darknet Credit: 28.7
Chapter 9: // Seed Police
Darknet Top-rated Posts +293,794↑
Biotech companies spread patented genetic sequences via the natural ecosystem—much like a computer virus. Then they use the legal system to claim ownership of any organism their patented genetic sequences invade. They are raiding communal seed banks, obtaining patents for naturally occurring apples, sugar beets, corn, and a host of other plants and animals. They have immorally seized control of the food system and stand poised to claim ownership of life itself unless we take action.
Echelon_99****/ 1,173 22nd-level Geneticist
Hank Fossen endured the bone-rattling vibration of his 1981 International Harvestor as he turned at the edge of the field. Could he limp the tractor through another full season without a major overhaul? It had over ten thousand running hours on it. Over the past several years legal fees had forced him to forgo maintenance. He’d looked into a used New Holland, but even with the spot-price of corn reaching record highs, rising expenses made it too risky to seriously consider a replacement.
He glanced back over his shoulder. The anhydrous ammonia applicator and the tank trailing behind were still in good order. He kept running the numbers in his head, wondering if he could time the corn market correctly. He actually had a chance at a decent profit this year if the planets aligned just right.
And then he saw them.
Fossen hurriedly switched off the applicator and brought the tractor to a stop in the middle of his field.
There, by the county road, were two black SUVs parked on the shoulder. Three men with clipboards were walking and kneeling in his field.
“Goddamnit!” He killed the engine and grabbed an axe handle he kept in the cab for knocking mud off tires. In a few moments he’d jumped to the ground and was jogging the couple hundred yards toward the men across bare, loamy soil.
“Get the hell off my land!” he shouted.
The men didn’t budge. One of them took out a video camera and started filming him as he approached. Another was already on his cell phone.
So much for scaring them off. At forty-seven, Fossen didn’t have the running stamina he’d had even five years ago. He’d put on a belly for the first time in his life with all the stress of recent years. By the time he reached the three men, he was breathing hard. The intruders were beefy types in expensive-looking GORE-TEX jackets. Their GMC SUVs were brand-new—most likely rentals out of Des Moines.
Fossen pointed the axe handle at the nearest of them. “You have no right to be here. I want you off my land. Now!”
The nearest one was taking close-up photos of the soil with a powerful-looking lens. “We’re investigators with Bosch and Miller, Mr. Fossen, here to confirm a potential patent infringement violation on behalf of Halperin Organix. We have a legal right to be here.”
“Bullshit! The judge ordered a stay on physical searches pending reasonable suspicion of infringement.”
The guy didn’t even look up. “Well, Halperin got a state judge to reinterpret the meaning of ‘reasonable.’ ”
He pulled out his own cell phone. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
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“Donald Petersen is in court at the county seat right now. You won’t be able to reach him.”
The other two men chuckled.
Fossen lowered his phone and felt the anger rising. “You have no right to be here. I don’t believe you about that state ruling.”
One of the other men walked up to him aiming a digital video camera, laughing. “You willing to bet the farm, Hank?” He was a burly high-testosterone type. Most likely an ex-cop from St. Louis, where Halperin’s private detective firms were based. They always got pushy assholes for this.
“We got an anonymous tip that you’re using Mitroven 393, Hank.”
“Planting isn’t for another six or seven weeks. I’m just laying down fertilizer.”
One of them was now taking soil samples. “Well, genetic material from last year is hard to get rid of.”
“You pricks are planting Mitroven, aren’t you?”
“Are you accusing us of dishonesty, Hank?” The man with the video camera laughed.
“Why would we need to do that when there’s an experimental field a couple miles upwind?”
The third guy, who’d been talking on the cell phone, came up. “Don’t do this to yourself, Mr. Fossen. You know Halperin will spend whatever it takes to make an example out of you. Just stop growing heirloom seed and settle. Otherwise, they’ll take your farm away.”
The man with the camera laughed again. “That is, unless you’ve got another dad waiting in the wings to kill himself for the insurance mo—”
Before he even realized it, Fossen had taken a swing at the man with the axe handle, sending the video camera flying in two pieces and damned near cracking the goon in the side of the head.
“Whoa!”
The two other men immediately closed ranks with their colleague, dropping their gear. The cell phone man was apparently the one in charge. “That was stupid, Hank! You want to wind up in jail? How do you think this will look to a judge—you attacking investigators trying to establish theft of intellectual property? Why would you behave this way if you have nothing to hide?”
Fossen wielded the axe handle in one hand, although they weren’t advancing on him. “Go ahead. Show the video! No jury would convict me. You’re on my land illegally.”
The ex-cameraman was still dabbing at the side of his head, looking for blood. “Let’s face it, Hank, your old man bought you some time, but you’re one fuck-up away from making his sacrifice pointless. And I hear stupidity is genetic.”
“Time is on their side, Mr. Fossen. Accept their offer, or the lawsuits will never end.”
Just then the county sheriff’s patrol car pulled up behind the SUVs at the road.
Everyone straightened up as the sheriff got out. He was about Fossen’s age, with a trim, military look about him. He pointedly left his shotgun in the car. He put on his Stetson and walked calmly out to the field to join the assembly.
He gestured to the axe handle in Fossen’s hand. “A bit early in the season for baseball, isn’t it?” The sheriff looked to the others. “Everyone all right?”
Fossen kept his eye on the private detectives. “Who called you out, Dave?”
“You wanna do me a favor and put that axe handle down?” He looked to the three strangers, one of whom was retrieving the pieces of his wrecked camera. “As much as these fellas probably deserve a beating, you and I both know you can’t afford it.”
“They’re on my land illegally.”
“No. No, they’re not, Hank. They got the state court involved. Brigitte just told me on the radio. They’ll call out the state police if necessary to enforce it.”
The three men chuckled and started gathering up their equipment.
Fossen took a deep breath to calm himself. “I don’t know how this is legal. How is this legal?”
The sheriff came closer and gently lifted the axe handle out of Fossen’s hands. He spoke quietly so the others couldn’t hear. “Hank, listen to me. Just get back on your tractor and finish spraying. They want you to lose your cool. Hank Senior wouldn’t have wasted his time with these idiots.”
“My father did everything right. And they still almost bankrupted us. Hell they would have if . . .” Fossen stared with hatred at the men. “He never stole anything in his life. My father was cleaning seeds for people in this county for decades. And his father before him. You need to know that, Dave.”
“I know it, Hank.”
“Why doesn’t anyone else fight back? Why do they let them do this?”
“Because they’re afraid. People are hurting. They’re one lawsuit away from losing everything.”
“Halperin drove my father to do it. He only did it so we could keep the farm.”
The sheriff nodded grimly. “Everyone knows that. No one was more respected than Hank Senior.”
One of the men called out. “I hope your son is smarter than you, Hank. Or some jihadi’s gonna blow him to smithereens.”
The sheriff turned to them. “Hey, I’m a veteran. You want to make sick jokes about soldiers? What if I slapped you with a disorderly conduct charge? Who do you think your employer will believe? You or me? And you think any of your bosses might be veterans?”
They just glared.
“That’s what I thought, now pack up your shit and come back later. I’m all of out of patience with you three.”
They gave him the evil eye and dragged their feet as they went. The lead one called out before he got in the car. “Uncooperative local officials find themselves outspent in elections, Sheriff.”
The sheriff stood alongside Fossen as they watched the men get in their SUVs and drive off. He handed Fossen back his axe handle. “Damn good thing you didn’t have a head on that, or you might have been in serious trouble.”
“Thanks for talking me down.”
“I’ve been wanting to come out and talk to you and Lynn anyway.”
“What about?”
“Do you and Jenna talk much, Hank?”
Fossen narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean? What’s she been up to?”
“Look, I don’t mean to pry into your business, but I’ve been seeing her hanging out with some strange characters here in Greeley.”
Fossen sighed. “Damnit. It’s like I don’t even know her since she came back. She’s just been moping around the house for months since she graduated. There aren’t any jobs—here or anywhere else.”
“Look, I know things are terrible right now, but it’s even stranger than that.” He thumbed in the direction of his patrol car. “Remember when Sheriff Pearson patrolled this county? He had a pistol and half the time he didn’t even wear it. Well, I carry a shotgun, an M16, and two pistols in the car. Crystal meth changed everything. Our department’s been in eight shootouts in four years.”
“Jesus, you’re not telling me that Jenna is involved with drug gangs?”
“Jenna? No, that’s not where I’m going with that.”
“Thank god.”
“My point is that suddenly—like in a single month—the meth gangs are all gone, Hank.”
Fossen frowned. “That’s good. Isn’t that good?”
“Yeah—in a be-careful-what-you-wish-for sort of way. I mean, that doesn’t happen. Think about it. The ruthless, prison-controlled meth gangs in the state are almost completely gone. And nonprofit treatment facilities are popping up.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, Dave—but I wish you’d tell me already.”
“There are things going on in this county that . . .” He tried to find words, then looked up. “Well, things that don’t make any sense.”
“Less sense than outsiders having more rights to my land than me?”
“In a word: yes. There’s some sort of strange force at work. Strange equipment is showing up—and people are tearing up their fields. Strangers—mostly young people—are moving back into the county and establishing businesses. But businesses that don’t seem to accept money. They have lots of high-tech, expensive gear—bu
t I’ll be damned if I can tell what it is they do.”
“And they’re not gangs?”
The sheriff shook his head. “No. And they have legal counsel, too. We started investigating them, and the DA made us back off. I don’t know whether they’re a cult or—”
“What does this have to do with Jenna?”
“She’s one of them, Hank. That’s where she spends most of her time. I just thought you knew.”
Fossen gazed down at the fertile but unplanted soil. He nodded to himself. “Tell me where.”
Chapter 10: // Corn Rebellion
Henry Fossen waited in the dark in his F-150 pickup truck on the outskirts of Greeley. He was parked beneath the awning of an abandoned gas station across from a fenced yard shop. According to the sheriff, the yard had become a hive of activity in recent months.
Fossen watched the road for the arrival of Jenna’s subcompact car. One she’d saved up to buy with her own money before college. In the meantime, he listened to AM talk radio.
The news was all bad. Inflation was on the rise, with the dollar falling against overseas currencies. This had sent gas prices soaring. Unemployment—already dismal—was getting worse. Tent cities had begun to spring up outside Des Moines. The financial crisis was supposed to be easing up, but instead it was only getting worse. And yet the stock market was still moving upward. It didn’t seem to make sense.
Across the road Fossen saw silhouettes of people moving beneath flood lamps among tarp-covered pallets in the fenced-in perimeter of the yard shop. He occasionally saw forklifts moving pallets. A semitruck carrying shipping containers arrived at one point, and a lift truck pulled the containers off swiftly—sending the semi on its way.
But there was no printed sign to indicate it was a business. The sheriff said investigation of this site had been halted by the interference of a high-priced Des Moines law firm.