Auckland

July 3, 2040, 10:55 AM

Yank-spotting had become a national pastime for Kiwis. On any given day on the waterfront in Auckland you could point to a stranger and have one-in-four odds. But the locals knew the tells, and that made a game of it. Some of the targets made it easy, of course. They were improbably fat, or wearing khaki shorts, or congregating at one of the many expat sports bars during the NBA Finals. Others, particularly the richer ones, were more discrete, but there were usually clues for the expert: a certain cut of suit, a certain style of jewelry, or a certain gait that suggested a mixture of arrogance and apprehension.

They had had been coming for a long time, looking for vacation homes or ecolodges or to retire to Hobbiton. There were some, though–and these were the real heavy hitters–who had more ominous business. They bought up vast tracts of rural land through their proxies, and started building walled residential compounds, usually at the end of long private roads just out of sight from the highways. The more substantial properties were rumored to have helipads, airstrips, bunkers, and water filtration systems. They all had armed guards. In the old days, if you got one of those usually-circumspect men in a talkative mood, they would tell you that their employers were the sort of people who kept their Gulfstreams gassed up at the closest airport in the States, just in case, as they always put it, the Shit hit the Fan.

Then it did. The Shutdown happened, and within a few weeks New Zealand was crawling with tens of thousands of refugees, overwhelming the smarter brasseries and the luxury auto dealerships. Things had quieted down in the States since then, but the outflow had not stopped. Behind the tycoons came the lawyers and publicists and consultants, and buzzing around them were more transient small-time entrepreneurs, journalists, and attractive women with thin resumes in the entertainment industry. The Kiwis had taken the whole thing with a certain amount of resignation. Real estate prices were skyrocketing, but unemployment was down, and Wellington had just abut eliminated the deficit by issuing investor visas. The newcomers had even taken to wearing All Blacks apparel, which boded well for integration.

Lately, however, the more attentive Yank-spotters noticed a change of mood in their specimens. They were still out in the streets, the parks, and the restaurants, but less often and in smaller groups than usual. They were quiet, to an un-American degree, or else raucously drunk, like they had something to get off their minds. Nothing quite like it had been seen in five years.

Ben, for one, though he had enough on his mind, tried to keep a pleasant expression as he stepped off the train and made his way toward his 11 o’clock appointment. He was in an outlying neighborhood, with modest row houses full of the sort of people who were always called “immigrants” and never “expats.” It was not a place one would likely find other Americans, which suited his purposes. His contact was already at the little falafel house when he got there.

“Faruq!”

“Good to see you again, Mr. Plumb.” A firm handshake, and an accent with vowels stranded halfway between Auckland and the Persian Gulf. They sat down. “Can I get you something? I read online they make a very good murtabak.”

“I’ll just get a coffee. I’ve got to get back to the office in just a bit.”

“Of course. I hope I’m not overstepping if I say this a rather unusual pick for a business lunch. Or coffee, for that matter.”

“Well, my boss wanted some discretion. The Americans in this town, they all know each other, and, you know, they gossip.”

“I think I understand. You haven’t been down here long, no?”

“That’s right. I got this job two months back, right after I got my MBA. Starting to settle in, though.”

“Glad to hear it. What can I do for you then?”

“Well, our firm just got hooked up with some very important clients who are looking for a turnkey operation for the whole Kiwi package: immigration and legal, financial transfers, tax, the works. And real estate, of course. We want to bring the clients to you guys on that end of things. Primary residences and investment properties, both. We’re talking high seven figures in total market value on this, maybe eight.”

“You certainly have my attention. I’m sure we could negotiate a bulk discount.” Both men had instinctively started to lean toward each other over the grease-spattered table.

“Don’t say that yet. There’s a catch. These clients aren’t quite able to enter into formal negotiations yet. What they’re looking for is a sort of informal understanding that you will keep the properties in your inventory until they’re able to follow through. Sort of like earnest money, but, uh, not through the usual channels.” Faruq scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“That doesn’t sound like how we operate. Doesn’t sounds like something our friends in the New Zealand government will much care for either.”

“Well, without going into to it too much, I can say the New Zealand government isn’t what the clients are worried about. But no titles are changing hands here, not yet anyway, and you folks would be very well compensated for the arrangement.” He showed the Arab a figure on his phone’s calculator app.

“That is very, how do you say it, earnest money. My God, what is going on in America right now?”

“People need to hedge their bets sometimes.”

“I am not a gambling man, myself. So I think I need a better idea of what this is all about. Who are these people you are bringing me?”

“I don’t even know myself, Faruq, and I couldn’t tell you if I did. But, look, I can tell you this: you know about the social credit system that rolled out last year?”

“Yes, it was a very good investment opportunity. I wish I had gotten in on the ground floor with the people your government contracted with for that.” A waiter came by with coffee, and for a moment or two Ben resorted to talking about the unseasonably warm winter. Then he resumed.”Well, the important thing for our clients is, it’s not as transparent a system as they say it is. A few months after the pilot program started, some people started to notice their ratings getting downgraded, for reasons that didn’t quite add up. Not drastically, you understand. A little here and a little there, but it starts to add up after a while. The whole thing is still in the early stages, but the lower ratings already make it tougher to get credit, government contracts, all sorts of stuff. Hell, Delta won’t give you an international ticket below a certain cutoff.”

“And what, your clients can’t fly to New Zealand now?”

“No, I don’t think you follow me. See, this will make me sound like a conspiracy theorist, but the thing everybody has figured out is that if you’re not on good terms with the right people, your ratings tend to get squeezed. Or if you’re even close with those people. Family or business associates. It might as well be China, Faruq. They say it’s not, but that’s what people are telling me in private.”

“So people get downgraded for criticizing Zammit?”

“What? No, nobody cares about the president. I mean the people that are really running things, if you follow me.”

“You mean the Jews?” Faruq asked in a whisper. Ben snorted and nearly spat out his coffee.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I kid. Mostly. Though that Brickner guy…”

“To be clear, I mean the people who’ve been running this whole ‘revitalization’ for the last four years. So yeah, Brickner, and the rest of that West Coast bunch. Ever since the Shutdown, those FRA fuckers have gotten so much latitude, they barely answer to Zammit or anybody else. Anyway, the thing is, we’re pretty sure that making investments and contacts down here is a good way to get flagged. They don’t like New Zealand, there’s too many Americans here who don’t like them. That’s why our clients are so concerned about privacy.”

“Why are you in Auckland, then? Could be bad for you, too.”

“I guess I’m hedging my bets, too. Plenty of money to be made for now, and things could change back home. Some of these people I’m talking to think there might be some kind of a shakeup soon. Anyway, I like it here.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this?” Faruq asked, looking exasperated. “I read all the papers.”

“I don’t think most of the media will touch it. You can read about it on some of the expat blogs, the kind that don’t get white-listed back home. Social media too. It’s hard to separate the good info from the nonsense, though. I think it probably all gets flagged as fake news. That’ll ding your EOC rating too, you know.”

“I remember,” Faruq said, “when American politics was shoved in our faces all the time. You couldn’t get away from it on TV, Twitter, whatever. Everything was so loud, so out in the open. These days, I have to hear about what’s really going in the States from people whispering to me in corners. It’s like being back home. No, not even there, it’s like being in Turkey! How did you all become Turks?”

“So you’re saying you’ll think about it?”

“I do like that about you people, you always know how to bring things back to the point. Yes, I’ll make some calls.”

“Great. No rush, it’s still yesterday in New York.” Ben rose and they shook hands again.

“Enjoy your holiday,” Faruq said as they parted. “Going to the parade tomrrow?”

“Ehh, maybe. Might be too many Americans there.”

He walked out of the restaurant and immediately ducked as a miniature delivery drone went buzzing over his head and down the street. He grinned, quite sure that nothing could stop him today.

He was a tad late back to the office, and stepped quickly past his boss’ door, hoping to pass unseen.

“Ben, come in, will you?” Mr. Erskine’s Texas drawl caught him before he got far.

“Sorry I’m running behind again,” Been replied as he stepped into the room. He was looking toward the floor, and it happened that his eyes were immediately drawn to a duffel bag tucked alongside Erskine’s desk. It was bulging with $100 bills.

“Don’t worry about it, boy. Now tell me how the meeting went?” Pudgy fingers wrapped on the desk impatiently, and Ben wrenched his gaze upwards.

“They’re gonna bite, I think. Faruq is gonna take it back to his people, but he seemed onboard.”

“Good, knew I could count on you.” The older man slid out out his high-backed chair with a grunt and walked over to the bag. “I guess you noticed we haven’t quite gone cashless around here. Help us out and take this home with you.” He shoved a fistful of bills into the front pocket of Ben’s sport coat, then another.

“Sir, that’s…” Ben stuttered, counting. “That’s nearly four grand.”

“Fourth of July bonus. Take tomorrow off. Go on now, I got calls to make.” Erksine waved him out of the room, and he went back to his cubicle feeling something between elation and uneasiness.

He went on a pub crawl that night with two of the other analysts to celebrate the day’s successes, threw some of his bonus around, and woke up at the airport Holiday Inn with a honey-haired Qantas flight attendant on layover. His phone buzzed.

Happy 4th where you are. Hope you’re good, bud. – Li-li.

“Got another big deal to make?” the stewardess asked, and rolled over. For once, she was not something he regretted in the light of day.

“No, just a text from an old friend saying hey.” Ben stretched and yawned. “I was supposed to have today off. Thought I’d take you to the parade, if you want.” It turned out she was due back to Melbourne anyway. He got a peck on the cheek for his gallantry. He turned on the flastscreen on the opposite wall.

Live news from the US via satellite was first up. He groaned. He got to hear enough about politics at work. But…Ginny (was that it?) perked up and looked interested, so he didn’t change the channel. The president was about to give an address from the Oval Office.

“Weird timing,” he muttered. It was 5 PM on the East Coast, if he did the math right, still the night before Independence Day. His parents in Maine were probably coming home from work and taking their evening beers in front of the TV so they could heckle President Zammit.

“Who’s that?” Ginny asked, and he started from the half-slumber he had drifted back into. The president was speaking now, and standing behind his desk, looming over his left shoulder, was a slender raven-haired figure with a cool expression.

“Oh, that’s the Veep. Gotta be awkward with her standing there.” Wendy Liu was a Republican, and Zammit had taken her on the ticket as a gesture of unity after the Shutdown. But this year she had repaid the favor by running against him, and had just clinched the GOP nomination the week before. She was up in the polls, and, more importantly to Ben, in the betting markets.

Zammit was rattling off the accomplishments of the last four years. Economic recovery from the Shutdown. Fighting desertification in the Great Plains. Safe, secure, and universal 7G access. High-speed rail. Immigration reform. The ongoing drawdown in Yemen. An impressive list as far as it went, but the even the president seemed a bit bored by it. Ben felt a faint uneasiness that he hadn’t checked his email yet, but Ginny was laying against his chest now; his phone lay just out of reach. He sighed in resignation.

“…in the wake of an unprecedented national crisis, these have necessarily been bipartisan achievements.” The chyron running along the bottom of the screen meanwhile declared that a truck attack had killed two people an TSA checkpoint in Wisconsin. He shook his head slightly, and looked Ginny over. She held up well in daylight, he thought, and from what he could remember she was easy to talk to. Maybe if they had met under better circumstances…

“…and so, in consultation with party and congressional leadership, and after much prayerful consideration, I have decided to suspend my campaign for the presidency.” Ben blinked. It took him a moment to process what he had just heard come out of the President’s mouth.

“What?” he exclaimed. “Holy…I don’t believe it.” Even though had never particularly cared about politics, but he felt as if his stomach had turned a somersault.

“So who will run against the Republican lady, then?” she asked.

“That’s the thing, I don’t know,” he replied, the pitch of his voice rising. “I mean, he’s the nominee, so…I think he just took a knee. I don’t believe it.” He got up and started getting dressed in a rush.

“Yes, you said that.” Her eyes narrowed as he buttoned his shirt.

“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered. “The thing is,” he said, shoving his belt into his back pocket, “I think this is going to be huge for us. Any kind of political craziness is going to mean more Americans looking to park their money here, or their asses, or both. I’d better see what’s going on at the office.” As if on cue, his phone began lighting up, and did not stop buzzing with notifications for several minutes straight. He was gone as soon as his shoes were on, but he left a business card on the nightstand.

By the time he got to the city center, almost the entire staff of Erskine, Schacter, and Associates was already there, and the office had become a giant call center. The calls came in without a halt for hours on end, and bathroom breaks were strictly verboten unless someone else could cover the line. They came from New York and Honolulu and everywhere in between. Finance people, energy people, military contractors, dentists, corporate accountants. There were some clients who got special video consultations in the conference room, and Ben heard rumors they were celebrities. Anybody with enough money and rattled nerves to make them look into a long holiday in the Antipodes was on the line. They wanted the usual assistance: fast-track visas, real estate, investments, banking, job searches, private security. But they wanted it on a scale he had never seen. Something very new and strange was happening, and whatever it was, it was good for business.

The wall-mounted screens hovering above the desks kept the brokers informed of the latest updates, when they had time to look up, at any rate. By lunch it was confirmed that there would be no other Democratic candidate for president. The DNC mumbled something about respecting the President’s decision and that ballot access deadlines were rapidly passing in any case. The deluge of calls only picked up after that. Ben didn’t get up from his desk until after 5.

In the men’s room, a clutch of the other junior hires were catching their breath.

“Shit is crazy,” one was saying. “I gotta get my girl over here. God knows we’re making bank. Anyway, now that the fix is in I don’t think I want her back home right now.”

Ben paused in front of mirror and splashed his face with water. He had barely taken any time to think about where all of this was going, other than the exceptional commissions he had earned. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t particularly want to. He blew his nose, straightened his tie, and walked back out into the arena.

What had been a madhouse, however, had suddenly gone quiet. The constant chatter and ringing was almost dead. He grabbed a passing coworker’s arm.

“What’s going on?”

“Calls stopped coming. We’re trying to figure out why. Maybe a network issue.” Ben went back to his desk. Minutes passed. He could hear the hum of the computers and a vacuum clearer somewhere upstairs. The near-silence went on for what felt like an eternity. He tried to check his email, when he noticed the service was down. A hell of a day for a network outage, he thought. Just then, Mr. Erskine walked out into the main office space, his face noticeably red.

“Listen up, I got something to say to you all,” he said, and sighed heavily. “I made some calls, and this ain’t no problem on our end.” He was angry, and his drawl seemed to lengthen as a result. “As of ten minutes ago, every major comms provider in the States has suspended service to and from New Zealand. Voice, teleconference, email, all of it. They’re also telling me our payment processing is inactive. What they’re saying is,” he said, almost growling, “there has been some kind of high-level data security alert. You make of that what you will. We do not know when this will end. What we are doing right now is sending the non-executive staff home while we figure out how to work around this. That’s it.” He stomped back to his office, leaving the rest of the firm standing in shock.

The employees filed out over the next few minutes into the darkening streets. As he walked out the front door, Ben heard one of the interns wondering aloud whether the Shutdown was happening all over again.

“No, the security thing is bullshit,” Ben cut in. “They’re doing this to mess with us, freeze us out. That’s why the bossman was so pissed. The fix is in.”

He paused and sniffed. There was smoke in the air. Of course. Fireworks. The Independence Day Parade was just a few blocks away, and he could hear the low roar of Auckland’s expat community and its well-wishers. Feeling curious, he walked toward Albert Park, where had heard there was usually a beer tent.

He had not gotten far before he started to notice a crowd of people headed the other way–not running, exactly, but moving quickly and with purpose. Then came sirens. He rounded a corner and saw the smoke had not come from fireworks. Someone had set a car on fire outside the US consulate, right off the main parade route. Right across the street was an FRA liaison office. A small crowd of men were throwing garbage cans and café furniture against the floor-length windows. One shattered, and the men flooded into the office. Some moments later, flames started to flicker somewhere inside. Ben backed away and made his way to the main parade route.

He found people milling around in different directions, floats abandoned in the middle of the avenue, and more smashed windows. A giant inflatable George Washington was lolling around on the pavement, punctured and leaking air. Some Kiwi police officers galloped by on horseback, and yelled at the crowd to clear the street, though without much conviction. Ben, however, took the hint and left.

The bus home was full of star-spangled revelers who smelled of a mix of alcohol and smoke. Some looked scared, others sullen. Ben was grateful to get to his stop. He walked in his building, raced up the two flights of stairs to his apartment, and locked himself in his room. He didn’t much feel like discussing the days’ events with his roommates. He took a deep breath as he drew the blinds from his window. The usual downtown lights were overshadowed by the blinking of police cars and fire engines.

The sirens did not stop until after midnight. He had long since fallen into a fitful sleep, still in his rumpled jacket and tie. He dreamt that the delivery drone he had seen outside the falafel house that morning was hovering outside his window. When he awoke in the morning, he was not sure it had been a dream.