Tuesday Night–White House
Zsoldos helps the two old men to the door of the Oval Office. The Secret Service detail takes charge once the office door is open. "The president and the colonel would like to spend time in the spa. Please assist them."
The spa is in the basement of the West Wing next to the swimming pool. The colonel had it remodeled into a modern treatment center during a previous administration. President Anderson and the colonel walk into the luxurious treatment room and sit in comfortable reclining chairs. Male attendants dressed in medical garb work to prepare customized individual treatments.
President Anderson will receive a new course of Alzheimer's therapy. The treatment involves flooding the brain with a mix of chemicals designed to dissolve amyloid and tau protein buildups, revitalizing damaged nerve cells.
Before beginning this course of treatment, the president went through a procedure to install small plug valves in his skull, hidden beneath his hair. An attendant connects tubes to the valves.
Cruikshank notes the bizarre sight; the leader of the free world sitting with colored tubes coming out of his skull. The attendant starts the cerebral flush and fluids gush through the tubes with a pumping, sucking sound saturating the president's brain with healing fluid.
Colonel Cruikshank is an enthusiastic devotee of a unique treatment to cure his ails. His procedure involves using blood, plasma, and stem cells from young subjects. A young person's blood replaces the blood of an older person through a process called Parabiosis, resulting in mental and physical rejuvenation of the older subject. He considers it his fountain of youth.
Scientists tested the Parabiosis process on mice. The scientists found when an older mouse shared the circulatory system of a younger mouse, the stem cells and blood factors from the younger mouse rejuvenated the older mouse, effectively making the older subject young again. They've since developed new techniques for extraction and processing of young blood factors, making the complicated parabiosis transfusion process unnecessary, but the colonel trusts the traditional method. He prefers a human touch.
A door opens on the far side of the spa and a small boy, wearing only sky-blue pajama bottoms and white slippers, walks anxiously into the room. He catches a fright at the sight of the old men and freezes in place. A husky male attendant lifts the boy, carries him across the room, and straps him in a small reclining chair next to the colonel.
The boy looks to be nine or ten years of age. He is rosy-cheeked with blond hair. The boy is thin but tall for his age. The colonel looks the boy over approvingly. Two attendants extend the boy's arms and strap them to padded boards. They swab his arms with alcohol, then pierce him with needles. The boy whimpers. The male attendant connects tubes to each needle. The man attaches one tube to an IV bag of saline and the other tube fills with the boys' blood. A tear rolls down the boy's cheek.
Blood pulses from the boy into a small machine. This machine pulls blood from the boy and pumps it into the old man. One attendant swabs the old man's leg on the inside of his upper thigh and inserts a tube. Another attendant does the same to the boy. They connect these tubes to a similar pump system, but this device pulls blood from the old man and stores it in a reservoir. The reservoir ensures none of the old man's blood gets recycled through the boy during the process. The final step of the procedure is to pump the old blood into the boy.
Tears stream down the boy's face. The attendant leans down and whispers into his ear. "You are helping Colonel Cruikshank. He is a great man and you're a brave boy. You are helping the colonel and the glory of Arcadia."
The attendant pushes a lozenge between the boy's lips. It's cherry flavored. He smiles. The lozenge contains a relaxant to calm the boy during the procedure. They don't inject the drug. If injected, the drug would enter the bloodstream too quickly and travel to the old man. The attendant starts the pump. It makes a soft whirring sound. Blood surges into the old man's arm. Cruikshank feels the young warm blood flow into his veins. His body surges with energy, forcing his eyes shut. A thin smile forms on his face as his head falls back in the spa chair. The attendant starts the second pump to evacuate old tired blood from the colonel.
The attendants check on the president. Pumps send a mixture of drugs through the tubes running to his head in timed sequences. The mix works to unclog the autophagy system, the body's natural brain-cleaning system, improving learning and memory. The treatment is proceeding without complications.
Besides the chemical mix, a slight electric charge runs through the scalp plugs. This electric charge assists the restoration of synaptic response, rebuilding neural connections. They call this process a sub-neural flush, but those who perform the procedure have a tough time resisting a less professional term: brain wash.
A side effect of the sub-neural flush is that the patient becomes susceptible to suggestion.
With the spa treatments underway, the attendants leave the men alone in the room. Both men relax in the reclining chairs, enjoying their treatments. The colonel turns to the president and asks, "Are you all right, Jon?"
The president nods his head. "Much better. I hate losing control. I'm the damned President of the United States. I can't be off my game."
"Everyone has a profound respect for you, sir. Don't worry, we're all getting old."
"But you're not the leader of the free world. I can't let that happen, not in public."
"Mr. President, no matter what happens over the next few weeks, you will go down in the history books as a great president. You accepted the reins of power with honor and grace when President Harmon could no longer serve. You handled the end of US involvement in the Four Wars as a true leader and I know you will manage the coming disaster in the manner of a true and noble commander."
"Thank you, Colonel. You're a true friend. I have valued your wisdom and advice through many difficult times. I pray mankind will survive the terrible storm that is coming."
Colonel Cruikshank sinks into the recliner reveling in the sensation of hot, young blood pumping through his body, re-energizing every fiber of his being. His brain buzzes; new neurons fire, reconnecting pathways in his brain, sending his mind racing. His ideas effuse and flow, forcing him to express his thoughts.
"Humankind will survive the asteroid storm, Jon, just as mankind survived periods of destruction many times over many millennia. Man is an inbred race of domesticated mongrels who murdered, robbed, and fucked their way to the top of the food chain. Mankind has persevered through wars, famine, disease, even the Ice Age. Only God knows what man survived before that, but we did. What does not survive devastation is human knowledge. Ask yourself and consider: What does a man know? I will tell you. Man knows what other men tell him. Myths, beliefs, religion, culture, Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the nature of God are all absorbed by one's psyche from birth to death. It's all a grand phantasm created to provide social stability and a sense of purpose in an aimless world. Mankind loses knowledge, then struggles to regain what he's lost. Each new epoch develops unique cultures with new languages, myths, and religions. The problem is not the destruction. The problem is man. Stupid, hapless humans. We are our own undoing. If the world is not destroyed by an outside force, leave it man to destroy what he has built and learned for the sake of riches, war, selfish beliefs, or control of his fellow man. Man has lost knowledge and wisdom over and over again. How many centuries of thought and strife passed until the concept that all men are created equal with certain unalienable rights was written on parchment? Three centuries later and this acknowledged ideal is not yet achieved. Arcadia is the answer. The few and fortunate will survive the storms to repopulate the surface with human knowledge preserved, allowing mankind to step forward. We have mastered myth and religion. We will tell new stories written to embed pure values and beliefs. The Arcadian way will develop a new phantasm for the human psyche, resulting in a perfect society. The pinnacle of humanity is within our grasp." Cruikshank is enthralled, sweat beading on his forehead.
In his excitement, he almost forgets his purpose. Cruikshank needs the president to sign ARC before it's too late. The president's breathing has slowed. His eyes flutter; he is groggy, an effect of the sedative and sub-neural wash. This is the time he will be most susceptible to suggestion.
"Mr. President, Jon. My friend, you are a great president and leader. You will lead us into the future by signing the ARC amendment. The Arcadian Council and your leadership will bring humanity through this crisis."
As the colonel speaks, his harsh, raspy voice becomes smoother and softer. "You will be honored as a true hero, making this monumental decision will move humankind forward. Cities will be destroyed, civilization and government as we know it be erased, yet we will preserve human knowledge." While the colonel is voicing his excitement about ARC, young stem cells and blood factors are showing their effectiveness. The once dead, gray pupils of an old man transform into the sharp blue irises of youth.
"ARC will make Arcadia the legitimate government allowing those living in the underground cities to grow and prosper during the storm and reemerge to the surface as a stronger society. You cannot allow humanity to decay into chaos and disorder."
The president rests in his reclining chair. His eyes are glassy, and he groans in response to Cruikshank's fiery speech. Cruikshank looks at the president hoping for confirmation. He wants assurance the president will sign the amendment.
The wrinkled face of the old colonel fills out; his skin smooths and softens as the color of youth returns. He feels growing strength. "You will sign ARC. You will sign the amendment." The colonel repeats the phrase over and over, as if chanting a mantra, hoping to ingrain the words in the president's sub-conscious. "You must sign the amendment. You will sign ARC. You will be honored as a hero. We will be the legitimate government leading humanity forward. You must sign ARC."
The attendants enter the room to check the progress of the president's therapy. The tubes connected to his scalp jump and vibrate with fluids pumping in an out as the therapy timer counts to zero.
A spa attendant rushes to the boy. His face is ashen white, and his eyes have rolled back into his head. "He isn't tolerating the blood loss. We need to hurry, or we'll lose this one." The attendant lowers the head of the boy's chair and raises his feet before turning the IV to full flow. Then he reaches to the pump and stops the flow from the boy to the colonel. The reservoir of the colonel's old blood flows into the boy. The once vibrant youth flush with color now has sunken cheeks and sallow skin. This boy will not bleed to death, but the blood flowing to him is nearly death itself.
"The procedure isn't finished. What's wrong with him?"
"Some boys can't tolerate this much blood loss. The saline drip helps but can't work miracles. You don't want to lose another one, do you?"
"If it's over, get these needles out of me!" shouts the Colonel.
The neural wash timer chimes. An attendant unplugs the tubes from the president's scalp, dabbing the plugs with disinfectant, then smooths the president's hair to cover them. He then gives the president a glass of water as the recliner's motor whines, raising the chief executive to a sitting position.
The colonel stands and taps his cane twice on the tile floor. "Now that's a neat trick." He smiles and stretches, looking youthful and spry.
The attendant helps the weak boy, lifting him out of the chair and steadying him to stand, then holds the boy as he shuffles out of the spa.
The president looks at the rejuvenated colonel and remarks, "That therapy seems very effective for you. However, the poor boy appears quite spent."
The colonel watches the weak boy exit the room. "He'll snap back in no time. He's on a special diet designed for rapid recovery."
The men exit the spa in a much improved physical and mental condition than when they entered. A Secret Service detail flanks them as they walk back to the Oval Office.
"I would like to give your therapy a try; it seems to do wonders for you. But if I suddenly looked ten or fifteen years younger, the news media would go frantic asking questions about my health," the president remarks.
When they reach the Oval Office, the colonel excuses himself. "Mr. President, it's late. I'm sure you'll want to retire. We all have full schedules tomorrow. I'll let you get some rest."
"Not so fast, Cruikshank. I'm not letting you get away yet. Come in. I have a few questions for you."
The president stands behind his desk in the Oval Office. He puts both hands on the polished wood surface, leaning over the desk in a menacing stance staring into the crisp blue eyes of the colonel. With a strong voice, he says, "Cruikshank, I know you have been working behind my back and I don't like it one bit."
The comment catches the colonel off guard. Was the president conscious during the treatment? Had he heard what he'd said?
"Mr. President, I'm not sure what you mean."
"What I mean is, you've kept me out of the loop on some situations, and I don't like it. I know I've had some awkward moments, but you must appraise me of every issue, so I can make the proper decisions. I will not be undermined by my chief of staff, General Mahon, or you. I need you to understand that if you are to continue as my National Security Advisor."
The colonel feigns ignorance. "Mr. President, what situation do you mean?"
"You have not been forthcoming on the Chilean incident. I racked my brain during therapy. None of you consulted me about implementing Bliss or creating the cover story of an earthquake for the press. I learned this for the first time today. I am sure of it."
The neural therapy re-initialized the president's memory and personality, which includes his temper and fiery tongue.
"I apologize, Mr. President. You made the decision, it's just, at the time of that crisis you were… how can I put this delicately? You could not remember what you decided." Cruikshank takes the chance the president is still fuzzy on the entire episode.
"Well, if that situation occurs again, I want any decisions delayed until I've had a spa treatment, then we can continue when I am…" The president pauses. "Until I am—"
The colonel interrupts. "Until you are on your best game. Understood, sir. It won't happen again."
"Right then. What was it?" the president asks.
"What was what, sir?"
"If not an earthquake. What was it? What caused the tsunami?"
The colonel gives a direct and solemn response. "An asteroid, sir. It was a large asteroid. Not an earthquake. You can imagine the panic if the truth got out."
The president is angry. He rises and paces behind his desk. "You see. I must be informed of every situation or briefed later if…" The president drags out his words as he looks into the colonel's blue eyes.
The president continues pacing. "First Chile, now Perth. The threat of this asteroid storm is imminent. I don't think we have time to waste. We must act now, allowing those living in the underground cities to grow and prosper during the asteroid storm. When it's over, we will live on the surface as a stronger society. We cannot allow our people to exist in chaos and disorder. I must sign ARC."
The colonel smiles.
The president touches a button on his desk console, alerting his chief of staff. Even though the hour is late, Russell Thompson responds instantly. "Yes, Mr. President? How can I assist you?"
"Russell, come here and bring the ARC document with you."
Russell grabs the document from his desk and rushes to the Oval Office. He moves briskly across the room to the president's desk, arranging the amendment for the president's signature. President Anderson gives the pages a quick once-over, then signs the ARC amendment. With a swift stroke of the pen, the President of the United States dissolves a republic that lasted nearly two hundred seventy years.
Once the president signs the amendment, the colonel assumes a relaxed posture, pulling his damaged leg up over his good leg. "Very good, Mr. President. You will be honored as a true hero for making this monumental decision to move humankind forward." Jon Anderson mouths the last few words as the colonel says them. The words sound so familiar.
The colonel feels a buzz in his ear and touches his ear dot to answer. "Yes, what is it? Oh, yes, that. I almost forgot. I will be there shortly," the colonel speaks cryptically. He rises and bows, slightly, to the president.
"Sir, I am honored to have been present for the signing of this important document; However, I must excuse myself. I have other duties to attend. Good night, sir."
The colonel stands erect and taps his cane energetically on the floor before striding valiantly out of the Oval Office.