Breakpoint

9 Thursday, March 19

“…but I was elected on an independence platform, Ambassador. I cannot do a volte-face,” the Taiwanese President protested. “You could just say these were rogue elements.”

“I am not here to negotiate, but to communicate the intent of the President of the United States,” Sol Rubenstein recited from his talking points. “That said, I would suggest that you say the autonomy is independence.”

“That will not work,” the President responded, looking at his shoes.

“Let me repeat. If you do not issue a declaration today that Taiwan is a Special Autonomous Region of China and offer to enter into negotiation about a written agreement with Beijing, the President of the United States will do two things. First, have the Attorney General charge Ambassador Wang with murder and release the details of the investigation. Second, the Secretary of State is in Beijing now. He would instruct her to tell the PRC government that we do not interpret the Taiwan Relations Act to require the use of force by the United States to defend Taiwan. She will add that the United States has no plans or intentions to move military assets to Taiwan or surrounding waters.”

Rubenstein was aware of the sound of the heating system kicking in, blowing air through the vents. Both men sat silently.

“When would these negotiations with Beijing have to be completed?” the President asked.

Rubenstein locked eyes with the man sitting opposite him. “China is over five thousand years old. The Chinese people have a longer time horizon than we do in the West.” Sol caught himself saying what he had heard from Chinese people so many times over the years. Then he played the card that he had persuaded the American President to give him. “Taiwan has accomplished many great things, including creating an Asian democracy. We do not wish to see it independent because of what that would force Beijing to do, but we also do not wish to see Taiwan’s rule of law and civil liberties crushed. My talking points require that you ‘enter into negotiations about a written agreement.’ They do not say how long those negotiations might last.”

There was another brief quiet.

“Mr. Ambassador, you will forgive me if I end this meeting,” the President said. “I have quite a speech to write and give on television tonight.” Both men stood and bowed.

“I’m sure you’re right that substantively everything you say in this paper is not only correct but insightful,” Margaret Myers was telling a student in her office, “but if the reader is distracted by the writing style, they can’t see that. English is supposed to have been your native language and you were supposed to have learned how to write it long before you came here….”

Susan Connor did not feel badly about interrupting Myers’s office hours; it sounded like both professor and student would probably welcome a way out of the conversation. “Next student,” Susan announced as she knocked on the half-opened door. Jimmy Foley and Soxster followed her into the cluttered office.

“Well, well. This is an honor,” Myers said as her student had quickly departed. “Shouldn’t you three be writing your reports and doing debriefings? And such heroics, Susan — analysts are not trained for fieldwork of that kind. Far too dangerous.”

“I’ve already had that reprimand from a number of ‘senior Washington officials,’” Susan conceded.

“But they all then thanked her profusely,” Jimmy added. “And Soxster,” he said, draping an arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, “who now actually has a consulting contract with us, backdated, and with appropriate security clearance.”

“We came to take you to dinner and to say thanks,” Susan explained. “And ask for help again.”

“Dinner I always accept, but we should all be thanking you. I didn’t contribute,…” Margaret Myers protested.

“Facts, gaps, theory, analysis. We had some facts, but more gaps. We had theories, but they crumbled under analysis. The struggle between the Transhumanists and the Luddites was something Washington had entirely missed. And you told us to look for Layered Deniability. Then, of course, you told us about Soxster,” Susan said while playfully punching Soxster in the side, “and Will — Will Gaudium.”

The mention of Gaudium changed the mood from mutual appreciation of their success to a melancholy sense of regret. Myers broke the mood. “I think it was the right thing to keep his death at that camp quiet. The announcement from Jupiter Systems just said he passed unexpectedly on Sunday.”

“He never really knew what the General was doing with his money. He really just wanted to call attention to these big choices that we are making implicitly, to bring them out in the open, slow things down, cause a debate, and then make some decisions as a civilization,” Susan said. “He wasn’t a murderer, and he put his faith in our electoral system.”

Jimmy looked at Myers and flashed his trademark smile. “Just for the record, Professor, Susan and I really disagree about Gaudium and about these issues. Also Jessica and I are now planning a trip to the Bahamas, to Man-O-War. But Susan and I already had our disagreement out, and it’s over. And Soxster here, he’s on my side and then some.” Soxster felt no need to go over his views of Gaudium again. Instead he just dropped into the reading chair by the window and began fishing inside his backpack.

“Gaudium really convinced you of some things, didn’t he, Susan?” Myers asked, wondering how sensitive Susan was so soon after Gaudium’s murder.

“I’m conflicted. He opened so many windows for me, showed me so much I didn’t know was happening, caused me to think about questions that had never occurred to me,” Susan mused. “Apparently his estate creates a foundation that will promote education, debate, and discussion on these issues of technology and society, on what it means to be human. We need that.”

“And what about the help you wanted from me?” Myers asked.

“We need to understand more about the Transhumanists and the neo-Luddites,” Jimmy noted. “We want to keep their debate peaceful.”

On Storrow Drive, the cold rain had stopped and the rush-hour traffic was thinning out. The spotlit domes of the college house seemed bright across the darkened Charles. Soxster had quietly produced four stemless wineglasses and placed them on the desk. He poured the chardonnay and distributed the glasses. “Kistler 09,” he announced, and then toasted, “To humanity’s evolution, even if we do direct the next steps ourselves.”

“And if we do,” Margaret Myers added, “may we do so wisely.”

“Well, then, let’s eat!” Jimmy injected to lighten the mood. “Where’s this place you made reservations, Sox? Hopefully not the Moskova.”

Soxster smiled as he poured out the last drops of the wine. “It’s Chinatown.”