Team:Purdue/Synergene/TechnomoralScenario
Briefing
“Excuse me, Mr. President, are you ready for the morning briefing?”
Nathan Pyle had served as President Allen’s personal assistant for the last 6 years and had enjoyed almost every second of it. There had been hard times of late, but the President was kind and they had even developed a bit of a friendship, as much as could be had between assistant and the most powerful man in the world that is.
“Huh? Oh, yes Pyle, brief away.” The President nursed his morning Brandy, a habit he hadn’t started until year two of his presidency. Like most presidents, he had greyed considerably since his first year and he found that a stiff drink every morning helped him cope with what was almost assuredly bad news.
“Well, sir, you have a meeting with your cabinet today regarding the Phospho-crisis, a moniker I’m not terribly fond of, sir.”
“The moniker fits though, doesn’t it, Pyle? We are in crisis mode.”
“Uh,” Pyle thought to argue, but it was pointless. “Fair enough, sir. Yes, so the events of yesterday evening are troubling on that front. Phosphorus mines in Morocco are circling the drain, sir. The reserves are drying up and it’s destabilizing the region.”
“About time.” The President scoffed and poured himself another glass of brandy.
“Quite. Additionally, it seems a presently unidentified terrorist cell attacked and stole four separate phosphorus transports around the country. This is the first coordinated attack of its kind, but we expect more will follow given its success.”
“That won’t be a cheap problem to fix. I assume the appropriate agencies are dealing with it?”
“Presumably, sir. You have a meeting with Steve Nelson, Director of the FBI, and General Gree on increased security at 3.”
“Make sure there’s some brandy in the room, would ya?”
“Of course, sir. Though, if I may, you might want to lay off until then.” The President grunted.
“What’s next?”
“Well, your phosphorus bill is being blocked by a number of congressmen. Big Farm is not taking this bill lying down, and—”
“So we go around them.”
“Sir?”
“An executive order, Pyle. I haven’t made one yet, and this seems as good a time as any.” Pyle paused. This was the strongest he had seen The President since his first year.
“Very well, sir. I’ll cancel your meetings, and we can draft your address.”
Farmer
He sat in the light of the morning sun, just rising above the horizon, with a stack of letters and his typical morning breakfast. The eggs were bland, the bacon overcooked, and the letters looming. Jack Balner had been farming for 33 years. A while back, Jack tried to escape the farm, but when he finally arrived at college, his father passed away. In order to take care of his family, Jack had gone back home to carry on his dad’s business and pay the bills. Bills that kept on piling, and piling, and piling.
He leafed through them, tossing each one onto his half-finished breakfast, only briefly skimming them to confirm the amount they were requesting. He was almost through the pile when he reached a letter he was dreading. There was a large red IMPORTANT stamped haphazardly over the official crest of the American Farmer's Association. Jack had been dreading this letter for a while. He opened it, slowly, and sighed. Scanning over the obnoxiously sincere preface, he arrived at the proverbial nail in his coffin.
“On Tuesday, Congress will vote on the Clean Farms Act, dictating new regulations on phosphorus and other nutrients in farm fields and tile drainage systems. This bill includes the construction of a new branch within the EPA specifically for phosphorus regulation…”
It went on-and-on about all of the possible ramifications, and ended with a half-hearted rally to fight the bill, a request for more money. Balner sighed and dumped his breakfast and bills into the trash where he’d left his dreams years before. He brought himself to his feet, slowly, perhaps still feeling the effects of his late-night bourbon.
Balner made his rounds quickly, as his father always had. He fed the chickens, pigs, cows, horses; checked the water levels, tractor engines, plows, combines; took samples of his tile drains, soil, ditches, corn, soybeans; recorded data on nitrates, pH, phosphors; sighed.
He stared at his notebook in which he recorded everything, more specifically at the red column with a large P at the top. He had been collecting phosphorus samples for about a year, ever since his best friend, hell his only friend, had convinced him it was actually a problem. His levels were way over “suggested,” and by the time regulations rolled around Jack Balner was positive “suggested” would be higher than what regulations permitted. He began to record the day’s water results when his phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey Jack…” It was Dan, Jack’s favorite person in the world. He did not sound as happy as normal.
“Something wrong, buddy?”
“Just go inside and turn on the news, you’ll see.”
Jack obliged. Stuffing his notebook into his jacket as best he could, he trekked back to the house and turned to channel 8 just in time for the 5 o’clock broadcast. Jack’s face paled as he watched.
“Tonight we bring you a tale of terror as we report on 4 separate attacks involving phosphorus that occurred on US soil today. Additionally, one of the main phosphorus mines in Morocco that supplies exclusively to the US has been attacked and it is unclear if mining will continue. As big-farm loyalists in the senate continue to filibuster on the phosphorus regulation bill, the President has threatened an executive order requiring any phosphorus heavy industry to employ new phosphorus recapture machines. More on this story after the break.”
Jack closed his phone, and opened a new bottle of bourbon.
Sailor
I’ve always hated this part. The waiting, when every sound is a siren. Each and every motion from the brushes and leaves and twigs: a sign of a threat. The ocean was way better, even at night. Waves don’t grind the nerves like twigs or sand or wind. They splashed high up against the boat, but further out the ripples flattened and you could see the stars for miles. Danny came up next to me, bringing the smog of his cigarette with him.
“You know he doesn't like that,” I said gesturing to his lit cigarette.
“He doesn't like day dreaming either,” He shot back.
Touche. Around the harbor, our Captain was known as a hard-ass. I was told he once threw a man through a window for littering and broke a bottle over a sailor's head for spouting calumny behind his captain back.
“GET YOUR ASSES BACK TO WORK! WE’RE ALMOST THERE,” came over the loudspeaker.
We worked our way to the center of the boat where several cranes were being unpacked. It was simple work, large hoses had to be attached and wires threaded. It was a simple, but tedious task. In just a few moments of setup, one could see the cranes’ boom-arms reach towards the horizon, and hoses dangling over the water. Finally, we took our positions at each console and waited.
This job was much easier than my previous ones. After I came back from mandatory service, I found myself drawn back to the coast. Found work packing fish, then as a dock hand, then on an actual boat. That’s where the ocean started to grow on me. The knock of the waves against the hull was cathartic, predictable, simple.
Jobs started to dry up quick, though. Something about algae pushing the fish further out into the sea, nutrients, and oxygen and junk I didn't care for. Each week we got less and less fish in our nets. At the bars after work my friends’ seats emptied on and on, and soon their houses were empty too. I kept my job for a while but soon the boat couldn’t make enough for fuel to get us out of the bay. I found myself on the barstool more and more. ‘Till Danny found me.
He had just moved to town, new job and everything. He said there was still a boat running, I’d never seen it but I felt I could trust him.
He stood next to me at the crane controls, smoking the last of his cigarette as the engines died, and we slowed down over the recovery zone for the night.
I’d tried to keep track of where we went, but it was too dark and my phone didn't work this far out; however, from my best guess, we went about a hundred miles up and down the coast, at the most. Stopping far out from the mouth of larger rivers from what I could tell.
The water was calmer now; a mirror showing the moon and stars. I was rapt as I waited for them. The soft glow from below the surface, hazy and ethereal at first, but as they floated closer to the surface, the shape became more defined. About the size of a basketball, some fused together. I never really questioned what they were made of, but someone was paying for us to collect them, and cared enough to make them easy to find in the dark.
Collection took several hours, it was steady, but mindless work piloting the arm over each orb, then bringing the hose down to the surface of the water, and then turning on the suction in order to bring the orbs back to the ship and deposit them in the hold. Soon, we had picked the area clean. I’ve never seen us miss one, but it must happen occasionally. I guess that's why the Captain paid us so much, just to be thorough.
We never brought the cargo back to shore. As Danny and I headed down to the bunks the Captain turned us toward the open ocean and started to speed up. We settled down for the rest of the trip. We wouldn't be needed until we needed to unload. In a couple hours we would pull up next to a large ship (if I had to guess, it almost looked like a tanker-ship) in international waters. Without even stopping, the larger boat lowered a tube down to the deck of our ship, where Danny and I hooked-it-up. They emptied us out. We disconnected the hose and were on our way. I’ve never seen a light or noise on that ship.
“You think anyone is in there?” I once asked Danny.
“I hear automation’s taking a lot of jobs nowadays, so maybe just a ghost crew. But why do you even care, whoever it is, they pay.”
Foreman
Working for a company with the biggest holding of a commodity can be amazing. There is so much money coursing through everything you touch. New beds, new clothes, better food, better perks, and longer vacations. Not to mention the amazing feeling of a fully staffed security crew. It was that security that allowed us to grow the way we did. Building a mine to “rival all others” in land that was contested, on good days, and in a state of perpetual war, on every other. You could almost say our business was conflict, but I think that’s a little too poetic. They brought me on years ago. Ex-military with experience in “conflict resolution” and personnel management. What they needed was a glorified warden, and you can bet I fit the bill.
The a couple years ago the company decided to expand into “contested” territory. The older, safer mines seemed to be drying up. They’d bring up less and less of that yellow rock each month. So soon after some mid-management drone did the math and figured out there was a problem. As our production slowed, the prices kept climbing. Things got bad quick.
They laid-off thousands. Cut wages and forced families out of company housing. They started paying children 10 cents for every pound of phosphate pebbles they could scavenge from the mine site. It was like that for years, poverty, violence, and exploitation built up. Until word came from the countryside of some yellow rock. And that's how I found myself here. Stuck between two countries, digging in contested territory, for one of the more valuable resources on earth.
The day to day operations here are pretty normal. You dig out a new rock face, plant the charges, destroy the rock, move it to processing, and repeat. At processing you add water and some chems to separate the “gold” from the sand and dirt. Then you dry the phosphate, packaged it in trucks, and ship it to the coast where it can get sent to the wealthier nations of the world. Rocks flow out, and cash flows into my pocket. But. But. but…. The world is full of problems and especially many for me it seems.
Not many people know this but even this mine is drying up. None of the workers, and obviously no one above me. Just me, the geologist, and now you. The world has drained the globes reserves of phosphorous and this new mine was supposed to sate us. But it was like having a water bottle in the desert, useful and reassuring but not a long term solution.
I’ve been keeping this quiet, laying off workers a few a time. Usually for some semi-decent reason. Helps slow production, prevents people from freaking out. They still do though, but not because of the mine, or their job security. They freak out because someone keeps hitting out supply convoys. Usually with IEDs, sometimes with actual guns or rockets. Once they take out the lead truck, which is where my guys sit with most of the guns. They steal the trucks and usually don't leave many survivors. They started hitting our trucks about a year back. At first they could only get one or two trucks before my guys would scare them off. Now they are far better armed, probably bought using the money they stole from my rock.
I tried to use my contacts to figure out who it was, as far as I can tell it's some radical group, spun off protesters against the occupation. I never got far. As soon as they had the rock they sped to the border and that’s as far as I can track them. Even their sales are invisible to me. Guess that’s a sign things are getting pretty serious, when it makes monetary sense to sell rocks on the black market. I need to get out of this game.
