Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(52)

He reached for his glass, gulped the drink like medicine. His cheeks were red.

“I’m gonna ask again, now, Mr. Copeland. Speaking as an—as an Englishman: What is our country’s greatest sin? In all of history?”

Behind his father’s back, Eddie-boy mouthed at me.

“Slavery . . . ?” I read.

“Exactly.” Ballington’s fist jabbed at the air. “When they abolished that, they ruined us. And that’s a fact.”

I thought I hadn’t understood.

“One stupid, stupid move. They wiped out everything that made this nation great, everything that would have gone on making us great, into eternity. They set us back a thousand years, all at a stroke.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

“And why not?”

He looked at me from hooded eyes.

“Oh, listen to yourself! You perfect little puppet! I will tell you now,” he said. “There is not one CEO or one executive, not one HR man, not one politician, left or right—not one fucking manager in this whole country, doesn’t long for the return of slavery. But here’s the trick: he doesn’t call it that. Because slavery has been so thoroughly defamed throughout our history it cannot even be considered. It cannot be spoken of, except in the narrative of the oppressors. He doesn’t even say it to himself. Oh no. He’ll talk about the unions, the fickleness of staff. He’ll moan about the call-offs, and the paid vacations, and the rules on sick leave.” He clapped his hands and gave a bitter little laugh. “He’ll moan about the economics, and the politics. He’ll relocate to Mexico. But what he really wants—make no mistake—is slavery. And nothing else.”

“That’s—”

“Oh, do not misquote me. Do not misquote me. This is not a matter of race. Race is irrelevant. And I will say now: the abduction and enslavement of the African peoples was a crime for which this country has been paying ever since. It brought us into disrepute. It turned our greatest asset into a thing of shame and degradation, so much that it could not even be named. They called it the ‘peculiar institution.’ We turned our backs on our inheritance. As a country, we demeaned ourselves. We lost our heritage.

“Now, let me tell you, Copeland—as a nation, we are big. We are vigorous. We have resources. The result of that—it skews the time line on these things. So it’s taken a good while for the shit to hit the fan, but hit it has, most well and truly.”

He took the bottle and refilled his glass.

“The banks collapse. Economy—well, crisis to crisis. Doesn’t even matter who’s in charge, who’s President, who’s in Congress. But people are beginning to look about themselves. They say: do we need this? Should we put up with this? What’s the alternative?

“And there are whispers. There are ripples of opinion. You move in the circles I move in, you hear them. This Congressman, this CEO . . . They know. They talk behind closed doors. And what was once unthinkable, unsayable—it shines now with a bright, bright light upon our future.”

Off to the side, where Edward couldn’t see, his son mimed in a silent unison, giving a comical salute, sharing a joke I didn’t find the least bit funny.

“Oh,” said Ballington, “there’ll be no compulsion. Nothing like that. Just ordinary economic forces, that’s all we need. Natural as gravity. Can’t feed your family? That’s fine. Can’t pay your rent? Exclusive contract, any major corporation—five, ten, twenty years, option on renewal. Family stays together. Everybody wins.”

“Pretty uneven kind of win,” I said.

He smiled; a smug, excited little smile.

“You’re like the rest of them. Their four year plans, their economic la-di-da . . . You don’t even begin to see how simple it all really is, do you?”

I wanted to turn round, walk out. Instead, I said, “So tell me.”

“We have gods, Mr. Copeland. We have gods, and we have slaves. The basic building blocks of all human society, stretching back through history, to the days the pyramids were built. What more could we require?

“Slavery is right. Slavery is good. Every year, we celebrate it. You didn’t know that, did you, Englishman? Christopher Columbus Day. Once a year. The man who brought it to America. Right at the start. He knew, see—he knew what was required.

“I have a vision, Copeland. I have a vision for this country. You know what I see?

“I see a land of happy workers, happy slaves. I see power bestowed on us by gods. I see productivity—” he swung back his arm “—right out the ballpark. I see business booming. I see this, and I see so much more. You want a prophecy? Look in your wallet. In God we trust. That’s the new world, the new new world. In gods we trust. That’s my world, Copeland. Mine.”

And then he sighed.

“But first—there are some steps to be taken.”

“Steps,” I said.

“There has been a betrayal. And betrayal must be dealt with”

He was staring straight at me, and the dreamy, visionary tone was gone. His voice was low and hard.

“I want that man. That Johnny Appleseed. I’ve chased that bastard half across the country, trying to get what I was promised. I want him back here, and I want the goods delivered. Now, you understand?” His eyes were knives. His fingers clutched the chair arms. “That,” he said, “is your job.”