The Twelve

“De-escalate. We’re getting hammered out there.”

“Well, that’s the thing. There’s a lot of talk in the flatland, and it’s not going our way. Maybe we should try ratcheting things down a bit. See where that leaves us.”

“Have you lost your mind? Have all of you lost your minds?”

“You said yourself that things aren’t really working out the way we’d like.”

“I didn’t say that, you did.”

“Be that as it may, a few of us were talking—”

“That’s the worst-kept secret in this room.”

“Right. So, okay. What we came up with was the idea that maybe we should go in the opposite direction. More of a hearts-and-minds approach. If you follow.”

Guilder took a calming breath. “So what you’re suggesting, and excuse the paraphrase, is that we should look like pussies.”

“Director Guilder, if I may.” This was Suresh. “The pattern of a successful insurgency—”

“They’re killing people. They’re killing flatlanders. What about this isn’t clear? These people are butchers.”

“No one is saying different,” Suresh continued with a bland look. “And for a while that worked in our favor. But the roundups haven’t produced any usable intelligence. We still don’t know where Sergio is or how he moves. No one’s come forward. And in the meantime, the reprisals have been an effective recruitment tool for the insurgency.”

“Do you know how you sound? I’ll tell you how you sound. You sound rehearsed.”

Suresh ignored the barb. “Let me show you something.”

From a folder on the table he withdrew a sheet of paper, which he slid toward Guilder. One of their own propaganda bulletins, but on the other side was scrawled a different message.

Flatlanders, Rise Up!

The Last Days of the Redeyes Are at Hand!

Join Your Brethren in the Insurgency!

Every Act of Disobedience Strikes a Blow Against the Regime!

And so on, in that vein. Guilder lifted his head to find everyone staring at him, as if he were a bomb that might go off.

“So? What does this prove?”

“HR personnel have found fifty-six of these so far,” Suresh replied. “I’ll give you an example of the problem this is causing. This morning at roll call, an entire lodge refused to sing the anthem.”

“And were they beaten?”

“There were over three hundred of them. And we can only hold half that number in detention. We simply don’t have the room.”

“So cut their rations in half.”

“The flatlanders are on a subsistence diet already. We reduce it any further and they won’t be able to work.”

It was maddening. Every point Guilder made was instantly parried. He was looking down the barrel of nothing less than an organized insurrection among the senior staff.

“Get out, all of you.”

“I think,” Suresh pressed with infuriating composure, “that we should come to some consensus on a strategy.”

A hot rush of blood shot to Guilder’s face. The veins were pounding in his head; he was practically apoplectic. He picked up the paper and waved it in the air.

“Hearts and minds. Do you hear what you’re saying? Did you read this?”

“Director Guilder—”

“I have nothing more to say to you. Go.”

Papers were gathered, briefcases closed, anxious glances exchanged around the table. Everybody rose and started moving toward the exit. Guilder put his head in his hands. Jesus Christ, this was all he needed. Something had to be done, and it had to be done immediately.

“Wilkes, wait a second.”

The man turned, eyebrows raised.

“You stay.”

The others departed. His chief of staff lingered by the door.

“Sit.”

Wilkes returned to his chair.

“You mind telling me what the hell that was about? I’ve always trusted you, Fred. Relied on you to keep things running. Don’t bullshit me now.”

“They’re just worried.”

“Worried is one thing. I won’t tolerate division in the ranks. Not when we’re so close. They could get here any day now.”

“Everybody understands that. They just don’t want… well, for things to get out of control. They caught me by surprise, too.”

Save your excuses, thought Guilder. “What do you think? Have they gotten out of control?”

“Do you really want to ask me that?” When Guilder said nothing, Wilkes shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

Guilder rose, removed his glasses from his jacket pocket, and pulled the drapes aside. This dismal place. This middle of goddamned nowhere. He found himself suddenly nostalgic for the past, the old world of cars and restaurants and stores and dry cleaners and tax returns and traffic jams and waiting in line at the movies. He hadn’t felt this depressed in a long time.

“People are going to have to have more babies.”

“Sir?”

He spoke with his back to the man. “Babies, Fred.” He shook his head at the irony. “Funny, I’ve never really known much about them. Never really felt the urge. You had a couple, didn’t you?”

It was an unwritten rule not to ask about their former lives. Guilder could feel Wilkes’s hesitation in his answer. “The missus and I had three. Two boys and a girl. Seven grandkids, too.”

“Do you think about them?”

Guilder turned from the window. Wilkes had put on his glasses, too. Was it the light or something else?

“Not anymore.” One corner of Wilkes’s mouth gave a little twitch. “Are you testing me, Horace?”

“Maybe I am, a little.”

“Don’t.”

The word had more force behind it than Guilder had ever heard from the man. He couldn’t decide if this was reassuring or not.

“We’re going to have to get everybody on the same page, you know. Can I count on you?”

“Why do you even have to ask that?”

“Humor me, Fred.”

A hitch of time; then Wilkes nodded.

The right answer, but Wilkes’s hesitancy nagged. Why was Guilder asking? It wasn’t just the juvenile tenor of the meeting that bothered him; he’d dealt with that before. Somebody was always stepping on somebody else’s toes. Ouch! That hurt! No fair! I’m telling! Something deeper and more troubling was brewing. It was more than a failure of resolve; it had the feeling of an insurrection in the making. All his instincts told him so, as if he were perched over a widening crevasse, one foot on this side, one on the other.

He closed the drapes and returned to the table. “What’s the situation with the feedlot?”

The muscles in Wilkes’s face visibly relaxed; they were back on familiar ground. “The blast tore the place up pretty good. It will take at least three more days to repair the gates and lighting.”

Too long, thought Guilder. They’d have to do it in the open. Maybe it was better that way; he could kill two birds with one stone. A bit of theater, to get the troops in line. He pushed his notepad across the table to his chief