Ramez Naam - Apex

Bo Jintao unfolded his hands in the space in front of him, spreading them palms up.

“And that is the problem,” Bo Jintao said. “Word has spread. Unrest is spreading…”

“Why have these protests been allowed to persist?” The voice was sharp, strident, overly loud. It cut into a pause so short in his words that it could very nearly be taken for cutting him off. Bo Jintao flicked his eyes over.

It was Wang Wei, of course. One of the other two conservative members of the Standing Committee, before they’d purged the radical technophiles and added three more of their own. Wang Wei was nominally an ally. But the man was older than Bo Jintao. He was in his seventies, to Bo’s sixties. Wang Wei had been more senior in the Party, the head of the CCDI – the Central Committee for Discipline Inspection. He was, in effect, the Grand Inquisitor of the Party. He was the more logical choice to become Premier, if one of them would.

But Bo had shot past him. Had taken leadership of their faction, and the nation.

Bo Jintao looked the older man in the eye. “I made the decision in the early stages of these protests to ignore them. I believed they would lose steam.”

He scanned his gaze around the room, meeting the eyes of the other Standing Committee members. “I was wrong.”

A man admits his mistakes , his father had taught him. Always . And then he fixes them.

The men around him lowered their eyes. Except Wang Wei, who stared back without flinching, and Bao Zhuang, who raised one eyebrow, and nodded thoughtfully.

“Now it’s time to end these protests,” Bo Jintao went on. “Before they grow larger. Deputy Minister Ho has prepared our police forces to strike, with firm strength, but minimum injuries. The plan is on your slates before you. Please take a moment to review.” He paused, letting the assembled leaders look at what Ho had prepared. As he saw men nod, raise their heads, and meet his gaze, he nodded himself.

“Because of the… historical issues,” Bo Jintao said, “your agreement to this is required…”

Hands began to rise before he even finished. Wang Wei’s was first, high and rigid. The man stared hard at Bo Jintao, as if his posture and gaze could demonstrate that he would have been harder on these protesters. Bo ignored it, kept looking around the table. Five hands up. Everyone around the table. Except his own hand, of course. And nominal President Bao Zhuang’s.

Bo Jintao slowly lifted his own hand, looking expectantly at Bao Zhuang.

Bao Zhuang folded his fingers together in front of himself and looked back calmly at Bo Jintao. “Historical issues,” he said aloud.

Bo Jintao looked around the room. People were frowning.

So be it.

“The vote is unanimous,” Bo Jintao said aloud.

“If you act in a manner that shows disrespect,” Bo Jintao explained patiently in Bao Zhuang’s magnificent presidential office, later, when they were alone. “You will force me to respond.”

Bao Zhuang leaned back in the chair behind the imposing, ornately carved desk, the picture of composure. Behind him, Chinese flags framed a three meter wide photo of the Great Wall.

“This has nothing to do with you, Bo Jintao,” he said.

Bo Jintao cocked his head from his own seat, the visitor’s seat. “Don’t play that game with me.”

Bao Zhuang opened his hands wide. “No games. You got your way. There was no doubt of that.”

“Then why bother with your theatrics?”

Bao Zhuang turned, and looked out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the water and paths of Zhongnanhai. Their offices stared at the same park at the heart of the eleventh century palace – the same ancient stone bridges and carefully spaced statues, the same waterfowl gliding to-and-fro – but Bao Zhuang’s had the better view. Despite his power being stripped away, the formalities were being observed. He remained President. He remained General Secretary of the Party.

“I’m an old man, Bo Jintao,” he said. He looked back. Their eyes met. “And powerless at this point, as you’ve ensured. How will history look back at me? That seems more important now than it did even a week ago.”

Bo Jintao frowned. “So you vote for chaos?”

Bao Zhuang laughed softly, looking down at the massive desk before him. One hand came down, lifted up a photo frame, the one Bo Jintao knew was filled with a feed of his great-grandchildren.

“China’s changing,” Bao Zhuang said, his eyes fixed on the frame and the photos in it. “The Billion Flowers moment was ahead of its time, but much of it is inevitable.” He put the photos down, looked back up at Bo Jintao. “The people want new things: transparency. Freedom.”

“Freedom?” Bo shook his head. “Bao, you know as well as I do. Abstractions don’t matter. Real freedom is a bigger house in a better neighborhood. Real freedom is enough money to travel; to eat what you want, when you want; to buy the clothes you want. Freedom is a better school for your child, the best hospital when you’re sick. And more entertainment than you can watch or hear or play in a lifetime. That’s what people actually want.”

Bao Zhuang smiled softly at him. “So why didn’t you crush the protests right away?”

Bo Jintao closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. “People need an outlet at times. Dissipating frustration can be safer than meeting it head on.”

“They want more than just an outlet, Bo,” Bao Zhuang said. “More than venting. When your material needs are met, you start to want something more. That’s where our people are. They’ve gotten the bigger house, the full belly, the buying power. They crave what they don’t have. They want a say in how their lives are run. They want a say in how the country is run.”

Bo Jintao smiled. “We’ve given them a say. They have village committees now, they choose their own precinct councils…”

“Useless, pointless bodies. Placebos. Worse than that – insults to their intelligence. Mock democracy.”

“And why should they have more?” Bo Jintao asked, his hands rising in frustration. “A ‘billion flowers’, really? Has that worked so well for India, or is it more like a billion weeds? A country still crippled by corruption? That hasn’t conquered poverty almost halfway through the twenty-first century? Has it worked so well for the Americans? Where ‘voting’ means two sides in near-permanent paralysis? Or for Europe, still trying to decide if it’s one country or thirty, or thirty countries each splitting in half, and all the while sliding decade after decade into irrelevance?”

Bao Zhuang chuckled at that.

Bo shook his head. “We’re the richest nation on Earth, Bao. That’s proof enough. Our way works. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

He stood to leave, this conversation was pointless.

Bao Zhuang’s words caught him at the door.

“Bo Jintao,” the old man said in his rich baritone. “People don’t demand a say in how they’re governed because they want to be rich. They demand it when they already are rich and crave something more. And they demand it mostly to keep power out of the hands of people like you and me.”

72

Audacity

Sunday 2041.01.06

Breece closed the door of their meeting place after the Nigerian.

“You weren’t followed?”

His friend shook his head.

They’d taken up separate hidey holes and each kept a low profile. Kate was still out there. Her plans were unknown. She may not know their new identities, but she knew their faces, knew their operational patterns, knew how they thought. Safest to not have all their eggs in one basket.

It still hurt.