They Weave Nightmares

They Weave Nightmares

The door to the President's chamber slid opened and Isaac Wells entered
the office of the most powerful man in the nation. But on this day in
July 2275 it wasn't the President he had been summoned to meet.
"Ah, Wells. I'm so glad you could join us."
The man sitting in the President's chair was not the President. He was
out of the country at a meeting of the leaders of the WPB . No, the man
in the chair was not the President. He was considered by many to be
much more powerful than that; he was the Minister for Interior
Security, Howard Ashman-Cole.

And he was not alone.

Around the table sat other powerful men - Field Marshal Grant,
Commander of Land Forces, Admiral Hall, Commander of the Navy, Air
Commodore Blunt, Commander of the Air Force and Space Commandant
Ritchie, Commander of Space Forces. There was another man present but
Wells couldn't identify him. He was certainly as powerful as, if not
more so, than the professional soldiers he sat beside on account of the
fact that he sat at Ashman-Cole's right hand. A role, Wells thought
cynically, normally reserved for the President himself.

"Do you know why you're here?" asked Ashman-Cole lighting a cigar and
blowing a large mouthful of blue smoke in the direction of Wells.
"No Minister."
Ashman-Cole stood up from his chair and walked to the window and gazed
out. Without turning around he gestured for Wells to join him. The
younger man obliged and the two of them stood looking out at the city
below them. Here on the twenty-second floor of Government House you
could easily forget that you were under a dome. An electric blue
evening sky stretched across the horizon caressing, as it did, the
millions of flickering lights that lay beneath it. The sky, of course,
was artificial; designed to give the illusion of normal life for the
city's millions of inhabitants. Millions who could be forgiven the
mistake they made when they assumed that everything outside the dome
was okay. It wasn't. What lay outside the dome was a wasteland. A
wasteland that had been created by the two major events in living
memory -one, a brutal war and two, an all-consuming capitalist system
that had eaten up everything. In fact, it was these two events that had
largely led to the colonisation of space. Already there were cities in
space, home to thousands of people; staging posts on the long sub-light
spaceflight to a new life on Mars where already colonies of
terraformers were transforming the Red Planet into a new Eden. A second
chance for humanity.
"Look below Mr Wells and tell me what you see."
Isaac Wells was an intelligent man, a graduate of both Oxford and MIT
but he was unable to answer the question. He knew what he was looking
at - the city of New London - but he didn't think that was the answer
the Minister for Internal Security was looking for.
"I'm sorry Minister," he finally admitted. "I'm not sure what you
mean."
"Come now," teased Ashman-Cole gently. "Surely you can tell me what you
see?"
"Alright," said Wells. "I see the lights of the city. Above us the
sky."
"Artificial," interrupted the Minister.
"Of course," agreed Wells.
"What else?" asked the Minister. "What can you see beyond the
Dome?"
"Nothing. After all, there is nothing beyond the dome but a
wasteland."
There was a silence and Wells used this pause to turn and look at his
inquisitor. The Minister for Internal Security was smiling.
"You've been to the wasteland?" Wells asked. He had yet to meet anyone
who had actually visited the wasteland. All the years he had moved
between the cities of this nation he had done so in the sealed shuttles
that moved people between the domed population and manufacturing
centres. He himself had never seen the wasteland although many
contemporary artists had drawn and painted it. In all of those images
the light was orange - the afterglow of nuclear conflagration, and
somewhere in the picture would be the detritus of their former society
- a burnt-out vehicle perhaps, or a blasted tree stump.
"Oh yes," said Ashman-Cole. "Many times. In fact I am about to go there
again and I would like you to accompany me. Would you like to go Mr
Wells? Would you like to see the chaos our fathers brought down upon
us? Would you like to see the results of our ancestors actions?"
Wells nodded. "Yes, Minister. I would."
"Splendid. I'll arrange everything," said Ashman-Cole as he returned to
his seat.
"Is there anything else Minister?" asked Wells.
"No Mr Wells. You can go now."

* * *

It was three-thirty a.m. when Isaac Wells was awakened by the sound of
an incoming call on his Videophone. Drowsily he roused himself from his
bed and walked to the desk where his computer sat. He switched on the
screen, adjusted the headset and with a thought answered the call. In a
second he found himself staring into the face of Howard
Ashman-Cole.
"Ah, Mr Wells," he said. "Sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour but
I'm about to embark on a little trip and I thought you might like to
join me."
"Of course, Minister."
"Splendid. A vehicle will pick you up in thirty minutes. Is that
alright?"
"Fine," answered Wells. "I'll be ready."
Without any further dialogue the connection was broken. Wells sat down
and removed the headset. In less than an hour he would be somewhere
that most people had never seen. In fact, somewhere most people were
forbidden to go. His rapid elevation within the Ministry of Internal
Security had its benefits, he thought. Yet, he still wondered why he
had been picked. Although he was a relatively high ranking official
there were others above him with a far higher security clearance and
they hadn't been asked along, or had they?

He had barely finished getting dressed when there was a call for him
from the lobby of his apartment building. It was the doorman.
"Mr Wells, there's a vehicle arrived for you."
"Thanks Frank. Tell them I'll be down right away."
Moments after entering the elevator he was on the ground floor. As the
elevator doors slid open he saw two black uniformed SecPol officers
waiting. He had lived his entire life with the presence of these people
and he had never quite got used to their sinister appearance. He knew
of their brutality of course, everyone did. He even knew that much of
what went on inside their headquarters on the banks of the Thames was
illegal and unconstitutional, but he also knew, as everyone else in the
country did, that they were what stood between them and the anarchy
that awaited if the Utopians were ever to get their way.
"Mr Isaac Wells?" one of them asked.
"Yes," replied Wells.
"If you would like to come with us sir."
Wells glanced at the doorman. He looked worried.
"Don't worry Frank," he said. "This is official business."
When they stepped outside the building Wells saw that an official
government vehicle and not a SecPol car was waiting for him. The door
slid open and he climbed inside. Waiting for him in the back seat was
Howard Ashman-Cole. He was reclining in the leather seats with a cup of
coffee in his hand. Before him on a small tray were some slices of
toast, some scrambled eggs and bacon and Danish pastries. He gestured
with his free hand.
"Help yourself Mr Wells. You might as well have something to eat. I'm
sure that leaving at this time in the morning you haven't had time to
prepare anything."
"Thank you, Minister. Don't mind if I do," he said helping himself to a
cup of coffee and some eggs.
Ashman-Cole nodded his head slightly in the direction of the driver and
the vehicle moved off. At first there was only the slightest feeling of
movement as they climbed up into the air. After a few minutes they felt
nothing, nor would they until they landed at their destination.
"We'll be there in an hour," said Ashman-Cole. "So please take your
time over breakfast."

* * *

An hour later they descended through what Wells imagined to be an
orange cloud of poison vapour. He had to imagine it since the windows
of the vehicle were blacked out. In the front, next to the driver, sat
protective suits. He wondered when Ashman-Cole would ask him to get
into his. As he looked at the white suit with its helmet he found
himself worrying for the first time about the little jaunt he was
making. True, he was going somewhere he had always wanted to go, but he
wouldn't be able to talk about it afterwards. And besides, it was still
dangerous. There was, after all, still the risk of poisoning from
either radiation or the residue from chemical weapons.
"We're here, sir," said the driver turning around.
"Splendid," said Ashman-Cole reaching for the button that would open
the doors. He must have seen the look of horror on Wells' face because
he stopped himself.
"What's the matter dear boy?" he asked.
"Aren't we going to put on the suits?"
The Minister for Internal Security laughed. "Of course not," he said.
"Those are just for the newscasts."
He pushed the button and Wells waited for the poisonous cloud to engulf
them.

Instead all he could feel was the warmth of the sun.

* * *

"So there is no wasteland?"
They were standing in the landscaped gardens of an English country
house that dated back to the 18th century.
"Was there ever?" Wells asked.
"Of course there was dear boy," said Ashman-Cole. "Of sorts. Not like
the one portrayed in the newscasts by the media. A much smaller one.
There are still parts of the country uninhabitable you know. Anthrax -
that sort of thing. Johnny Foreigner played dirty in those days, but
no; there's nothing like the nuclear wasteland that the masses imagine
there to be."
"And how long has this illusion; this deception, been going on
for?"
Ashman-Cole blew out a mouthful of cigar smoke. "Oh years. Since before
even I was born. It was my father who let me in on the secret. I was
twenty-one and like you had never suspected a thing. I had always
believed you see."
"Believed what?" asked Wells.
"That everything the government told me was the truth."
"And is it?"
"My dear boy," said Ashman-Cole smiling. "After seeing all this can you
ever believe anything ever again?"
The answer was, of course, no. But there was still one question Wells
wanted to ask the Minister.

Why was he being told all this?

* * *

On his third evening in the 'Wasteland' they were joined by the
military officers that had been present at Government House and also by
a number of other leading public figures - politicians, senior civil
servants and the heads of the nation'' most powerful companies. After a
sumptuous meal they adjourned to the ballroom for brandy and cigars.
Wells was midway through a conversation with the head of the Northern
Nuclear Power Company when the tapping of a crystal glass drew their
attention. One by one the many conversations taking place in the room
faded away until eventually there was silence and all heads had turned
to face the speaker.
"Gentlemen," began Ashman-Cole. "Thank you for joining us here this
evening. Most of you will know exactly why you this meeting has been
called. The President will shortly return from the WPB meeting in
Washington and we must have an answer to the problem. To say that this
is the gravest danger that has faced The Project since its inception is
an understatement. Its whole future depends on the outcome of this
meeting so I cannot emphasise enough the importance of your work
tonight. So, without any further delay I charge you to go to the
conference rooms and work on the problem. Thank you and good
luck."
Almost immediately the guests began to disperse. All of them, except it
seemed Wells, knew exactly what they were doing and where they were
going. Wells remained rooted to the spot, cigar in one hand, a glass of
brandy in the other. He was beginning to worry about what his role
might be when Ashman-Cole approached him.
"I suppose you are wondering what you're role in all of this is?"
"Yes, Minister, I am."
"Don't worry dear boy. All will be revealed."
The Minister took his arm at the elbow and led him away to a corner of
the room.
"All of these people," said Ashman-Cole waving an arm towards the
people who were coming and going from the ballroom. "Are the guardians
of The Project. Many are the direct descendants of those who founded
it. Others, like yourself are inductees; individuals with bright and
enquiring minds. Our nation's finest. They are important for they are
the ones who will solve the problem that faces us now. You, however,
are more important."
"I don't understand Minister."
"You, my dear boy, are the man who will keep the dream alive."
"I still don't understand," said Wells, now confused more than
ever.
"Come," said the Minister opening the French doors and stepping out
into the warm night air. "I've got a little bedtime story for
you."

* * *

"Imagine if you will a country whose power spans the entire globe;
where in reality, not metaphorically, the sun never sets. That was what
we had in this country. It was called the British Empire and its
possessions could be found in every continent on the planet. It was the
undisputed king of the seas. It had wealth, power and an economic
engine powered by an industrial revolution. It conquered countries not
to merely possess the land and resources contained within them as the
Romans had done but to create markets for its goods. For over 200 years
it ruled the globe.
"Then in the space of 50 years it simply disappeared. Two World Wars
and the rise of national self-determination led to a quick
dismemberment of what had once been the most powerful empire the world
had ever seen. It found itself replaced with a Commonwealth, not quite
the same but it still tied the independent nations to the mother
country and was a moderately successful trade bloc.
"No, the trouble began with the break-up of the mother country itself.
By the end of the twentieth century the Scots, the Welsh and even the
Irish were beginning to demand self-determination. First came
devolution, then in Scotland independence. That signalled the end of
Britain and with it died the dream of a second empire."
"But surely, Minister, a second empire had never been a realistic
proposition?"
"Perhaps not in the same form as the first, but remember my dear boy.
At the end of the twentieth century many of our former colonies were so
indebted to us that closer, tighter ties to the mother country could
have been possible, if situations had been manipulated in the correct
manner."
"Which situations exactly?" asked Wells.
"Drought, famine, pestilence, revolution. Take your pick. We could have
exploited any of them to achieve our goals. Instead we allowed the
Americans to seize the initiative. They built their empire much as we
had - on trade, only this time they didn't feel the need to invade and
conquer. They got their companies - corporations - to do it for
them."
"But there isn't an American Empire, is there?"
"Isn't there?" asked Ashman-Cole raising his eyebrows. "And what do you
suppose the World Prosperity Bloc is?"
Wells remained silent. Like many people in the country he knew the
reality of the WPB and who ran it.
"That still doesn't explain the need to create a charade; a 'wasteland'
that doesn't exist."
"I haven't finished my story yet," said Ashman-Cole lighting another
cigar. "About 75 years ago we were plunged into war again. This time it
began as a trade war. The developing nations, many of them our nations
demanded what they felt as their rightful share of the pie that had
been baked by the WPB; as if the eradication of HIV in Africa and the
replanting of the Sahara hadn't been enough. Anyway, the WPB were
unwilling to meet all their demands so these countries resorted to
dirty tricks - bombs in shopping centres, chemical weapons in the water
supply - that sort of thing. Well, one thing led to another and before
you know it there were nuclear bombs and chemical weapons going off
right, left and centre.
"A group of powerful people at the heart of our government met in
secret and decided that the liberal experiment had gone far enough.
After all, much of the trouble had been caused by politicians and
pressure groups within our own country that demanded more for these
people. These liberals talked about redistributing wealth as if it was
theirs to give away and the right to vote and make free choices as if
it was everybody's right. The fact is these people had been the cause
of all the problems. They had destabilised a society that had operated
well for generations. They had overseen the decline of the Church, the
destruction of the family unit and the break up of the moral fibre that
had held us together for so long.
"A decision was taken by twelve men - their children and grandchildren
are in this house tonight - that would change our society forever. They
created what became known as The Project. They used the excuse of the
war to build walls around our nation; to build domes over our cities
and to place the masses where they wanted them to be - in population
and manufacturing centres where they could be controlled. The working
classes would continue to be educated but only to a level they deemed
fit and their rights of procreation would be taken from them. They only
wanted fit and healthy workers after all.
"The problem was controlling all of this. The masses could be
controlled but only if there was the co-operation of others. That was
where your people and my people came in. The middle classes in this
country had traditionally been aspirational, yet at the same time they
more than any other social class had succumbed to the disease of
liberalism. What the founders of The Project decided to do was give
them a choice. They could have say, albeit a limited one or they could
have no say in what went on. In the end they agreed and became not the
middle class but the Managing Class. It would be their job to
administer and run The Project. My people - the old aristocracy - were
renamed the Ruling Class, and they would create The Project and design
the society that would exist after its implementation, and for the last
75 years I feel that they have done a good job."
"You spoke earlier about a crisis facing The Project. What did you
mean?"
"We hadn't factored in the Scots. I'm sorry, Utopians. Lately they have
been active in our population centres. How they have got into the
country I don't know. There is some talk of an underground railway - a
network that smuggles people out of the country into Utopia - but we
didn't know until now that it was working in reverse; bringing people
in. They are spreading the word around the cities that everything is a
lie; that life isn't really like this. That there is an alternative.
Mostly the Working Class thinks they're cranks, but there is always the
danger. And that's where you come in my dear boy. I want you to take
control of a special task force that we're setting up to counteract the
threat from Utopia. It's dangerous work but from what I've been told
you're the best man for the job. You'll be rewarded, of course. Well
rewarded."
"In what way?" asked Wells.
"Well you've been let in on the secret for a start. You will be allowed
access to the 'wasteland' whenever you like. The only thing you won't
have is increased social status. Once Managing Class, I'm afraid,
always Managing Class. There's nothing I can do about that. It was one
of the rules of The Project."
"That's alright, Minister. I quite like being Managing Class."

* * *

It was almost midnight on the following day when Isaac Wells opened the
door to his apartment and entered. He was still trying to come to terms
with everything he had seen, heard and been told over the last few
days. The Minister had been deluding himself of course when he had
described The Project as 'weaving a dream'; what he and his forefathers
had created was a nightmare existence for all but the privileged. They
had recreated all of the worst aspects of the country's Victorian class
system, only this time there would nothing to save working class - no
socialism, no communism and no liberalism; they had all been
discredited. Still, the visits to the 'wasteland' would indeed be a
nice perk. To be able to go there whenever he wanted to would be good.
The food had been good, no great, and the people he had met; well many
of them had just been names and faces on telecasts until then. So much
power and wealth in one place. It was hard to imagine what would happen
to the project if anything were to happen to all of those
people&;#8230;.
That was where he came in. As the new Head of Section 7 he would have
access to all of the information he would need to carry out his
patriotic duty.
He was pouring himself a glass of gin when a small red light concealed
in the corner of a three-dimensional picture on his wall flashed twice.
Walking over to the picture he reached inside and withdrew a small
hand-held communication device. The line was secure. He pressed the
button and listened to the voice on the other end.
"Agent 47 this is Heaven. We are awaiting your report."
"Heaven, this is Agent 47. I'm sorry I've not been in touch only I've
been away for the last few days and you're going to believe what I have
to tell you..."