Arch/Eternal - Chapter Ten

Good morning, Senator

This is Arch/Eternal, a sprawling novel-in-progress in the genre of philosophical sci-fi. Think Dune meets Harry Potter, and maybe channeling a little bit of Dan Simmons.

If you’d like to start from the beginning, here’s the Prologue.

And if you’d like to follow along with the world-building behind the story, take a look at the companion series shamelessly titled A Terran’s Guide to the Galaxy.

Finally, if you’d prefer to follow along on the app, you can do that here:

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Good morning, Senator

Going back home was hard. 

I had to think a lot about what it meant to “restore my reputation.” I’d already come clean, and apologized. I’d already eaten enough crow to last a nice long lifetime. What else was I supposed to do? Beg for readmission into Franklin Prep? No thank you, and I was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

Before I left Cambridge, I brought up the subject with Adam once, perhaps a bit flippantly. 

“I don’t know what you’re imagining. No matter what, I’m gonna be the girl who wrecked the whole town.”

“Your mistake was to attack, rather than persuade,” Adam said. “Attacking people puts them in a defensive position, and then you’ve already lost the terms you were hoping for. You need to learn how to persuade your enemies to become your allies, at least to the point of getting what you want.”

“Too late for that now,” I said. “But thanks a lot. Maybe next time.”

“People have shorter memories than you think.”

“Not that short.”

“You’d be surprised. You already gave those people the thing they wanted most when they were facing legal action and social death — salvation and someone to blame. But people are never satisfied after they get what they want, they just move on to wanting something else. So what do those people want now, and how can you give it to them?”

Chewing on that question helped me realize that the one thing I hadn’t actually done yet was to go apologize in person to the board members I’d framed. I could imagine how that would go: hideously awkward conversations with justifiably suspicious people.

But since my goal was my reputation, it made things easier. I slipped into the role of Penitent Young Person, and every single one of them softened right up. And while this wasn’t my intention, a lot of them even backed off, just a little, from the dress code stuff. It helped that I didn’t go to that school anymore. I had no skin in the game. Figurative or literal. 

Would you believe some of those board members even became friends? Well, amicable acquaintances, at least. Instead of a dangerous threat to their careers, I was now a delightfully ambitious young woman. I started getting invited to things that teenagers rarely get invited to. I learned how to schmooz with all kinds of old people.

Meanwhile, I did my best to rebuild bridges with old friends and acquaintences. It didn’t take long, though, before I started to realize that there was a wide value differential between one friend and the next. Some of them were headed for greatness, and some of them were headed nowhere. I became increasingly judicious about where to focus my attention.

Online social platforms were an interesting problem. It wasn’t hard to see how I might be able to leverage my own conventional attractiveness in a world of Insta-feeds. But that kind of influence only had the appearance of power. Any following I could attract by grooming a personal brand based on my so-called hotness would only ever be good for shallow advertising dollars. The kind of influence that interested me — and that would interest Adam (though I rarely admitted that to myself) — was of an altogether different sort. I needed substance, not celebrity.

I also liked personal, face-to-face interactions, because it was hard for people to say no to me. That analog advantage was not easily transferable into digital spaces. 

But before you can get into a room with someone, they want to know what you want. After all, everyone wants something.

My answer: Just to talk. To see if I could maybe be helpful in any way.

Not that anyone believes that at the outset, but if you keep showing up, keep following through, eventually they come around. Then, and only then, I’d find an opening to saying something like, “You know, I’ve always really admired [insert person] for [insert thing]. It would be really amazing to meet them…” 

Voila.

Which is how, six months before my 18th birthday, I got a sit-down meeting with Senator Leitgartner, who had been stonewalling Adam for months. I learned this from Rita, who was much more responsive than Adam to my constant pestering. Not that she would answer all of my questions directly, but if I asked the right ones in the right way, I could get some crumbs. 

So, during one of my frequent pilgrimages to Cambridge, I stopped by her office overlooking Harvard Yard to ask, “Who does Adam really want to meet, but hasn’t been able to yet?”

Rita gave me Leitgartner’s name without needing an explanation. She knew the game I was playing, and the name was an open challenge. Getting Leitgartner might get me…well, in. I wanted in. I didn’t really know what that meant, but I wanted it more than anything.

By exploiting my own personal network, and calling in a couple of favors, I managed to get 15 minutes on the senator’s calendar.

It really wasn’t that hard — politicians love doing informational interviews with bright, attractive high school students. And an obliging set of parents helped me get myself to DC. I had been transparent about my political aspirations, so a meeting with the head of the Senate Ways and Means Committee was something they supported with obvious enthusiasm. 

On the day of the interview, I wore my most professional-looking skirt and a button-up white blouse that made me look (I thought) like a Whitehouse aide, and showed up a clean 30 minutes early. 

When the senator’s secretary sent me in, and before I had even finished extending my hand, he said, “I know why you’re here Miss Quinn.” 

I’m sure there was a microhesitation on my part, but I pushed through to the handshake. He was old and slight, but his handshake was iron.

I met his eyes through his thick lensed glasses and said, “I’d love to hear your theory, Senator.”

He lowered himself back into his seat, then rested his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers. He moved with slow and deliberate precision.

“You’re Adam’s sister. He’s been banging on my door for months. And now here you are. Sit down.”

This was one of the scenarios I had planned for.

As I lowered myself into one of the chairs on the other side of his desk, I grinned and sucked air through my teeth, raising my eyebrows high. You got me. 

“You’re half right,” I said. “The truth is, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

“He doesn’t,” the Senator said flatly. 

“Well, maybe he does, but I didn’t tell him. My parents think I’m here to pick your brain about the art of political compromise in federal budget allocation. Which was a good cover story because I’ve already been accepted into Harvard’s poly-sci program.” This wasn’t technically true — I hadn’t even applied — but I knew it was an option if I wanted it.

He nodded, apparently unimpressed, and waited for me to cut through the proverbial bullshit.

“But I am here because of Adam. I want in on his project, but he doesn’t think I’m ready. I wanted to meet with you, because…”

I tightened my lips and shrugged.

“If you can give him me, he’ll take you,” he said, dipping his head. I sensed approval. 

Time for a curve ball.

“No, I don’t think that’ll do it,” I said. “He could just say thanks and then that’s it. I need to be the one who converts you to the cause.”

“Oh is that right?” 

“And then I need to convince you that it’s both of us, or neither of us.”

I knew I was riding a very thin line between his incredulity and his curiosity. But instead of launching into some kind of pitch, I stopped talking, and waited. 

In the brief silence, the senator leaned back. “You want to hitch your wagon to mine, and then steer us both where you want to go,” he said.

I shook my head. “You’ll do the steering, Senator.”

He chuckled. “That’s not what it sounds like. But I admire your audacity. You better pitch me while I’m listening, or I’ll wish you luck in Boston and get back to the work I’ve committed to, which,” he put up a finger, “is already far beyond my attention and resources to adequately execute. But I’m old enough to know the therapeutic value of a good diversion. So I’ll give you ten more minutes to say what you really came here to say.”

I nodded.

“Does the term network state mean anything to you?”

“Assume it doesn’t.”

“OK. Imagine a geographically decentralized community that was global, democratic, and highly aligned. Sort of like if the United States was founded again, fresh, but in a way that made it possible for anyone in the world to be a citizen, provided they played by the rules. In fact, imagine that their citizenship was inextricably tied to those rules — in other words, any effort to abuse the community would result in a defacto excommunication, and repatriating would require proof of contrition in the form of tangible restitution.”

“That’s a lot of big words,” he said, bating me. 

I didn’t take it. “Within just the last ten or fifteen years, the technology that would enable this kind of post-national, global democracy has matured to a point very few people understand, let alone appreciate. My brother is one of those people.”

“What I’m hearing is an invitation to some kind of techno, new world order. Forgive me, Miss Quinn, but there is nothing new about utopian visions of the future. And pretty much without exception, all they do is deliver worse versions of the very things they’re trying to get rid of. Hopefully that’s something you learn in Harvard’s political science program.”

“I understand that, sir, and I ask you to please believe that if I expected anything other than deep skepticism from you, I wouldn’t have bothered to come. And you and I both know that ten minutes was never going to be enough time to convince you. So, from my perspective, all I can do is spend the time you’ve given me to buy more of it.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

“Why do you think Adam Quinn has been trying to reach you?”

He sighed. “Only one reason anyone wants to talk to me these days. Money.”

“But you don’t have any real money. The dollar is losing at least ten percent of its value every year. With all due respect, all the Senate Ways and Means Committee does is move debt around.”

“That sounds like a headline from a libertarian blog someone forwarded me.”

I deadlocked his eyes. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

He squirmed. Just a little, but I caught it. “You can call it debt or you can call it money — it still buys a hell of a lot of things.”

“Like what? Infrastructure?”

“Did you come here to recite contrarian political memes?”

“No. I came here to tell you what Adam probably wouldn’t have told you until the third meeting. The assets already committed to the organization he is building are currently valued at over one trillion US dollars.”

That made him blink. “What kind of assets are we talking about?”

“That’s one of the things you’ll find out if you give me more time.”

His eyes narrowed.

“OK,” he started, then tightened his lips and leaned forward. “OK. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I believe your brother hasn’t been spamming my inbox to get his fingers into Ways and Means. Then what does he want with me?”

I stayed silent for a few seconds, letting the question hang in the air. Then, finally, I broke eye contact and took stock of the room.

“Why are you here?” I asked him.

“This is my office.”

“You know what I mean. Why government? Why the Senate? Why Ways and Means?”

He took a deep breath, then stared at his hands folded on his desk. It might have only been a moment, but it felt full and heavy, inching by before he shook his head and said, “You want me to tell you what my speechwriter spun into a slogan twenty five years ago on the campaign trail. I used to tell people that cynicism is easy, and optimism is hard. If you really want to make things better, you have to work for it, and I was ready to go to work. It was such a good speech I almost forgot I meant it.”

He looked up at me again.

“You’re going to tell me that my high ideals are what Adam wants out of me. But I’m afraid I’ve been a little too hardened by experience to believe you. Everybody’s got an angle. So I’ll give you what you want. Another hour to prove me wrong.”

With that, the meeting was over. As I left his office, I knew I had him if I could just stick the landing. For that, I needed to talk to Rita.

The senator’s secretary reached out shortly after I left and told me to come back on Monday. It was Friday. That gave me two days.

To my everlasting gratitude, Rita agreed to meet with me on Saturday, but only if it could be in person. Not surprising. It was a four hour bus ride to Boston. 

“You’ve got quite a vibe going,” she said as I injected myself into one of the leather chairs along a wall of books. She took her characteristic pose, perched on the corner of her desk, as though she was merely an ornament on it, rather than its owner. 

“I need your help,” I said. I told her about my meeting with Senator Leitgartner, and that I was pretty sure I needed a lot more information than I had about what she and Adam were up to in order to secure him as an effective bargaining chip. 

“You’re right,” she said. “You’ll lose him if you don’t give him something real.”

“So what do I give him?”

For the next three hours, Rita helped me work it out. It was going to have to be mostly educational. He wouldn’t agree to anything he didn’t completely understand. I had to explain how and why blockchains could enable a renaissance of decentralized democratic systems. And I had to help him understand why Adam’s people were so well-positioned to catalyze a trans-national network state. I had to sell him on a world peace that would ultimately supersede primary American power structures. 

In an hour.

But if I could do that, not only would I have enough of his interest to get him talking to Adam, I would have proven my own value as a messenger, educator, and advocate. 

I knew I could do it. Fiercely, desperately, I knew I could do it.

And I did it. 

I won’t torture you with the minutes of my second meeting with Bob Leitgartner, but here’s the email he sent to Adam directly afterward (I was copied):

Mr. Quinn,

I had the privilege of meeting with your precocious sister this afternoon. If you’re anything like her, I look forward to sitting down with the both of you soon.

My office will be in touch to arrange the details. 

RL

…

YOU ARE HESITATING.

I just realized how much it still hurts. All that stuff about Bob. Not just him, but all the people I got to know over the next year. They were… We were friends. They were my friends. 

PERHAPS YOU SHOULD WRITE ABOUT THAT NIGHT.

I don’t want to. I don’t know how to start.

YOU COULD START WITH JACKSON.

You’re right. I could.

I met Jackson River on the worst night of my life. 

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