The Oracle Year(32)
“Heh,” he said. “Look at that.”
Will followed his gaze, and read:
REVEREND HOSIAH BRANSON ANNOUNCES PUBLIC CHALLENGE TO ORACLE PREDICTION: “NO ONE TELLS ME HOW TO EAT MY DINNER!”
Will thought that over, then shrugged. Branson could say whatever he wanted. The prediction would still come true. They all came true.
“What do you think about all that?” Will asked, gesturing at the ticker.
“What do I think, sir?” the vendor said. “I think it’s just more BS. Everything BS. This Oracle, so powerful, he can see the future, and he just gives us predictions about lottery tickets or chocolate milk? Why never anything useful? Why never anything that helps?”
He pointed at Will with his tongs.
“Everyone I know—everyone; me, too—writes the Oracle with questions about important things. Things that, if I knew, would maybe change my life. Everyone does this. But how many get answers? I ask you. How many people you know get an answer from this Oracle?”
“None,” Will said.
“None!” the vendor said, snapping his tongs together with a loud metallic clack.
He turned angrily back to his grill and pulled the spiced chicken together onto a spatula, which he dumped onto a waiting pita. He added a little tahini sauce, some lettuce, tomatoes, and onion, then wrapped it up in a sheaf of wax paper and aluminum foil.
“Everyone thought maybe this time something would be true, that it would matter, that things could change. But you know . . .”
He pointed at the news ticker with Will’s pita. The scroll now read:
NIGER CAPITAL CITY NIAMEY BESIEGED BY SOJO GABA FORCES.
“. . . just because the Oracle says things that are true, it does not mean that they matter. The world is as ugly as ever. I just don’t understand why he bothers at all. What is the point?”
Will stood there for a moment, staring at the man holding out the foil-wrapped sandwich toward him.
“Hello?” the vendor said, one eyebrow raised. “Hello?”
Will reached for his wallet. He looked, extracted a bill, and handed it to the man, taking his pita sandwich at the same time. The vendor looked down, frowning.
“Hey, you crazy. I can’t break this. Give me something smaller,” he said and held the hundred-dollar bill back out toward Will.
Will turned and walked away, heading back the way he’d come, back toward the Internet café. He took a bite of the sandwich, ignoring the sound of the vendor calling after him.
That’s good, he thought. That’s really good.
Chapter 12
“You feel like this is the right way to go?” the president asked.
“I do, Daniel,” replied Hosiah Branson, relishing, as always, calling the man by his first name. It just never got old.
“Read me the bit about Niger again,” Branson said.
A pause, and then the president’s voice over the phone, low and rich—say what you would about Daniel Green’s talent for governance, but he was a hell of a public speaker.
“Our commitment to freedom cannot stop at our shores. The human rights abuses perpetrated by Sojo Gaba and its leader, Idriss Yusuf, must end. He is taking the children of Niger and turning them into his army—forcing them to murder their countrymen in an effort to take control. Niger is one of the poorest lands on the planet. It has suffered under oppressive regimes for generations, and its people have been unable to develop on pace with other nations in the region, despite their abundant natural resources and vibrant culture. Even more, the lack of a stable government has made it difficult for them to police their own state, allowing for the growth of aggressive terrorist organizations such as Sojo Gaba. Niger may seem far away, but events there can absolutely affect the safety and security of the American people. Evil seeds may flower from its hidden training—”
“Root,” Branson said.
“What was that?” Green said.
“Seeds take root. They don’t flower. It’s a better metaphor, in any case. Roots burrow in—they need to be rooted out. Flowers . . . who’s afraid of a flower?”
“Mm,” the president said.
A beat, which Branson presumed was due to the president correcting his speech.
“All right,” Green said, after a moment. “I think that’s got it. Not that it will help all that much. That bastard Yusuf’s telling people he’s the Oracle, and people down there believe him. He’s already got an army together, and half his soldiers are just kids. Even if we do send troops to Niger, the idea of big, bad U.S. soldiers gunning down nine-year-olds is . . . well, shit. I might as well hand the election to Wilson.”
“Daniel, come on,” Branson said, his tone forceful. “You know this is a long game. Election day is still quite a ways off.”
“I realize that, Hosiah,” the president replied. “And I can see about a hundred ways things can get worse. Not so many ways they can get better. We’ve got troops on the ground in Afghanistan and Syria, and now we’re seriously talking about going into a third country. The Dow’s fallen over a hundred points every day this month, and most of the other economic indicators aren’t much better. China can’t get its house in order, and we’re tied so closely to them that anything bad that hits their markets ripples out and nails ours within a day.