The Human Division #4:

A Voice in the Wilderness

John Scalzi

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The Human Division as a whole is dedicated to:

Yanni Kuznia and Brian Decker, two of my favorite people;

and

John Harris, for his wonderful cover art for this and other Old Man’s War books.

Additionally, this particular Episode is dedicated to:

Paul Sabourin and Greg “Storm” DiCostanzo

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Begin Reading

Also by John Scalzi

About the Author

Copyright

Episode Four: A Voice in the Wilderness

Albert Birnbaum, the “Voice in the Wilderness” and once the fourth most popular audio talk show host in the United States, told his car to ring his producer. “Are the numbers in?” he asked when she answered, not bothering to introduce himself, because, well. Aside from the caller ID, she would know who he was the second he opened his mouth.

“The numbers are in,” Louisa Smart said, to Birnbaum. He imagined her at her desk, headset on, mostly because he almost never saw her in any other context.

“How are they?” Birnbaum asked. “Are they good? Are they better than last month? Tell me they are better than last month.”

“Are you sitting down?” Smart asked.

“I’m driving, Louisa,” Birnbaum said. “Of course I’m sitting down.”

“You’re not supposed to be driving yourself,” Smart reminded him. “You’ve had your manual driving license pulled. If you get pulled over and they check your car’s trip monitor and see you have the autodrive off, you’re going to get it.”

“You’re my producer, Louisa,” Birnbaum said. “Not my mom. Now quit stalling and give me the numbers.”

Smart sighed. “You’re down twelve percent from last month,” she said.

“What? Bullshit, Louisa,” Birnbaum said.

“Al, why the hell would I lie to you?” Smart asked. “You think I like listening to you panic?”

“That’s gotta be bullshit,” Birnbaum continued, ignoring Smart’s comment. “There’s no possible way we can lose one listener in eight in a single goddamn month.”

“I don’t make up the numbers, Al,” Smart said. “I just tell you what they are.”

Birnbaum said nothing for a few seconds. Then he started hitting his dashboard, making him swerve on the road. “Shit!” he said. “Shit shit fuck shit shit shittity shit!”

“Sometimes it’s amazing to me that you talk for a living,” Smart said.

“I’m off the clock,” Birnbaum said. “I’m allowed to be inarticulate on my own time.”

“These numbers mean that you’re down by a third for the year,” Smart said. “You’re going to miss your ad guarantees. Again. That means we’re going to have to do another set of make-goods. Again.”

“I know how it works, Louisa,” Birnbaum said.

“It means we’re going to finish the quarter in the red,” Smart said. “That’s two quarters out of the last three we’re down. You know what that means.”

“It doesn’t mean anything other than we make sure we’re in the black next quarter,” Birnbaum said.

“Wrong again,” Strong said. “It means that Walter puts you on his watch list. And when Walter puts you on the watch list, you’re one step away from cancellation. Then that ‘Voice in the Wilderness’ bit of yours won’t just be a clever affectation. You really will be out in the cold.”

“Walter’s not going to cancel me,” Birnbaum said. “I’m his favorite talk show host.”

“You remember Bob Arrohead? The guy you replaced? He was Walter’s favorite, too,” Smart said. “And then he had three bad quarters in a row and he was out on his ass. Walter didn’t build a multibillion media empire by being sentimental about his favorites. He’d cancel his grandmother if she had three red quarters in a row.”

“I could make it alone if I had to,” Birnbaum said. “Run a lean, mean operation on my own. It’s totally possible.”

“That’s what Bob Arrohead does now,” Smart said. “You should ask him how that’s working out for him. If you can find him. If you can find anyone who knows how to find him.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t have you,” Birnbaum said. He was not above base flattery.

And Smart was not above throwing it back in his face. “And if you get canceled and leave SilverDelta, neither will you,” she said. “My contract is with the company, not with you, Al. But thank you so much for the attempted head pat. Where are you, anyway?”

“I’m heading to Ben’s soccer match,” Birnbaum said.

“Your kid’s soccer match doesn’t start until four thirty, Al,” Smart said. “You need to lie better to someone who has your calendar up on her screen. You’re going off to meet the groupie you met at the Broadcasters Association meeting, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Birnbaum said.

Smart sighed, and then Birnbaum heard her count to five, quietly. “You know what? You’re right. I’m not your mother,” she said. “You want to bang some groupie, again, fine with me. Just bear in mind that Walter is not going to be as free with the hush money when you’re two quarters in the red as he was when you were his top earner. And remember that you have no prenup, and Judith, unlike your second wife, is not stupid, but you might be, which is how she maneuvered you into not having a prenup. I hope the validation of your middle-aged ego and three minutes of exercise is worth it.”

“I treasure these calls, Louisa,” Birnbaum said. “Especially your subtle digs at my sexual technique.”

“Spend less time banging groupies and more time on your show, Al,” Smart said. “You’re not fading because your politics have suddenly gotten unpopular. You’re fading because you’re getting lazy and bored. You get lazy and bored in this business, and guess what? You’re out of the business. And then the groupies dry up.”

“Thanks for that image,” Birnbaum said.

“I’m not kidding, Al,” Smart said. “You got a quarter to turn it around. You know it and so do I. You better get to work.” She disconnected.

They caught up to him as he was heading out of the lobby of the hotel. “Mr. Birnbaum,” the young man said to him.

Birnbaum held up his hand and tried to keep walking. “Can’t sign autographs now,” he said. “I’m going to be late for my kid’s soccer match.”

“I’m not here for an autograph,” the young man said to him. “I’m here with a business proposition.”

“You can direct those to my manager,” Birnbaum said, yelling back to the young man as he blew past. “That’s what I pay Chad to do: field business propositions.”

“Down twelve percent this month, Mr. Birnbaum?” the young man called out to him as he headed into the revolving door.

Birnbaum took the entire circuit of the revolving door and came back to the young man. “Excuse me?” he said.

“I said, ‘Down twelve percent?’” the young man said.

“How do you know about my numbers?” Birnbaum said. “That’s proprietary information.”

“A talk show host who spends as much time as you do linking to leaked documents and video shouldn’t need to ask a question like that,” the young man said. “How I know your numbers isn’t really the important thing here, Mr. Birnbaum. The important thing here is how I can help you get those numbers up.”

“I’m sorry, I have no idea who you are,” Birnbaum said. “As a corollary to that, I have no idea why I should care about or listen to you.”

“My name is Michael Washington,” the young man said. “On my own, I am no one you should particularly care about. The people who I represent, you might want to listen to.”

“And who are they?” Birnbaum said.

“A group who knows the advantage of a mutually beneficial relationship,” Washington said.

Birnbaum smiled. “That’s it? Are you serious? A shadowy, mysterious group? Look, Michael, I may get traction on conspiracy theories from time to time—they’re fun and the listeners love ’em. It doesn’t mean I think they actually exist.”

“They’re neither shadowy nor mysterious,” Washington said. “They simply prefer to remain anonymous at this point.”

“How nice for them,” Birnbaum said. “When they’re serious about whatever thing it is they want, and they have names, they can talk to Chad. Otherwise you’re wasting my time and theirs.”

Washington offered Birnbaum his card. “I understand entirely, Mr. Birnbaum, and apologize for taking up your time. However, once you have your meeting with Walter tomorrow, if you change your mind, here’s how you can reach me.”

Birnbaum didn’t take the card. “I don’t have a meeting scheduled with Walter tomorrow,” he said.

“Just because you don’t have it scheduled doesn’t mean you’re not going to have it,” Washington said. He waggled the card slightly.

Birnbaum left without taking it and without looking back at Washington.

He was late for Ben’s soccer match. Ben’s team lost.

Birnbaum wrapped up his morning show and was texting his new toy about the possibility of another hotel get-together when he looked up from his PDA and saw Walter Kring, all six feet ten inches of him, standing right in front of him.

“Walter,” Birnbaum said, trying not to lose composure at the sight of his boss.

Kring nodded toward Birnbaum’s PDA. “Sending a message to Judith?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” Birnbaum said.

“Good,” Kring said. “She’s a great lady, Al. Smartest thing you ever did was marry her. You’d be an idiot to mess with that. You can tell her I said so.”

“I’ll do that,” Birnbaum said. “What brings you down here to the salt mines today, Walter?” SilverDelta’s recording studios were on the first two floors of the company’s Washington, D.C., building; Walter’s offices took up the whole of the fourteenth floor and had a lift to the roof for his helicopter, which he used daily to commute from Annapolis. The CEO of SilverDelta rarely dropped below the tenth floor on any given day.

“I’m firing someone,” Kring said.

“Pardon?” Birnbaum’s mouth puckered up as if he’d sucked on a block of alum.

“Alice Valenta,” Kring said. “We just got the numbers in for the quarter. She’s been down too long and she’s not coming back up. Time to move on. And you know how I feel about these things, Al. Firing people isn’t something you farm out. You should be able to shoot your own dog, you should be able to fire your own people. It’s respectful.”

“I agree entirely,” Birnbaum said.

“I know you do,” Kring said. “It’s Leadership 101.”

Birnbaum swallowed and nodded, suddenly having nothing to say.

“I’m just glad you haven’t made me come down here on your behalf, Al,” Kring said, leaning over him in a way that he probably couldn’t help, being two meters tall, but which made Birnbaum impressively aware just how much he was the beta dog in this particular situation. It took actual force of will not to avert his eyes. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” Kring said.

“Of course not, Walter,” Birnbaum said. He actually turned on his performance voice to say it, because if he used his normal voice, it would have cracked.

Kring straightened up and clasped Birnbaum on the shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear. We should do lunch sometime. It’s been far too long.”

“I’d like that,” Birnbaum lied.

“Fine,” Kring said. “I’ll have Jason set it up. Sometime next week, probably.”

“Great,” Birnbaum said.

“Now, you’ll have to excuse me, Al,” Kring said. “Not every meeting I’m having today is going to be as nice as the one we’ve having.” Birnbaum nodded his assent and Kring wandered off without another word, down the hall to Studio Eight, soon to be Alice Valenta’s former work space.

Birnbaum waited until Kring was out of sight and simultaneously exhaled and shuddered. He reached into his pants pocket, ostensibly to retrieve his vehicle fob but in reality to check if he had spotted himself.

Birnbaum’s PDA vibrated, alerting him to an incoming text. It read, When do you want to meet? Birnbaum started writing back that under further consideration, another hotel meet-up wouldn’t work this week, when he realized the text hadn’t come from his new toy. He backtracked the text.

Who is this? he wrote, and sent.

It’s Michael Washington, was the reply.

How do you know this PDA? Birnbaum sent. It was his private PDA; he was under the impression that the only people who knew the number were Judith, Ben, Louisa Smart and the new toy.

The same way I knew which hotel you were at with that woman who is not your wife, said the response. You should focus less on that and more on how to save your job, Mr. Birnbaum. Do you want to meet?

He did.

They met at Bonner’s, which was the sort of wood-paneled bar that people making entertainment shows used when politicians had meetings with shadowy figures.

“Before we do or say anything else, I need to know how you know so much about me,” Birnbaum said as Washington sat in his booth, not even bothering with the pleasantries. “You know both my personal and professional business in a way no one else in the world knows or should know.”

“Louisa Smart knows,” Washington said, mildly.

“So you’re getting the information from her?” Birnbaum said. “You’re paying my producer to spy on me? Is that it?”

“No, Mr. Birnbaum,” Washington said. “After ten years you should know your producer better than that.”

“Then how are you doing it? Are you with the government? Our government? Someone else’s?” Birnbaum unconsciously slipped into his paranoid rhetoric mode, which brought him much fame in earlier years. “How extensive is the surveillance web on me? Are you monitoring people other than me? How high up does this go? Because I swear to you, I will follow up on this, as far up as it goes. At the risk to my own life and freedom.”

“Do you really believe there is a government conspiracy against you, Mr. Birmbaum?” Washington said.

“You tell me,” Birnbaum said.

Washington held out his PDA. “Your PDA,” he said.

“What about my PDA?” Birnbaum said.

“Give it to me for a moment, please,” Washington said.

“You bugged my PDA?” Birnbaum exclaimed. “You’re tapped into the network at the root!”

“Your PDA, please,” Washington said, still extending his hand. Birnbaum gave it to him, with some trepidation. Washington took it, made a few wiping motions, pressed the screen and then handed it back to Birnbaum. He looked at it, confused.

“You’re showing me the Voice in the Wilderness ’gram,” he said.

“Yes,” Washington said. “The free ’gram you give out so people can listen to your show and then send text or voice comments, along with location tags so you know where the comments are from, geographically, when you read or play them on air. Which means your ’gram has the ability to send and receive audio and also track your movements. And because you had it built cheaply by flat-rate coders who make their money banging out ’grams like yours fast and sloppy, it’s incredibly easy to hack into.”

“Wait,” Birnbaum said. “You used my own ’gram against me?”

“Yes,” Washington said. “You get what you pay for with coders, Mr. Birnbaum.”

“What about Walter?” Birnbaum said. “You said I would have a meeting with him and I did. How did you know that?”

“The monthly numbers were in,” Washington said. “The quarter was ending. There were show hosts who have been lagging. Kring is famous for firing people face-to-face. So I made a guess. Work the odds, Mr. Birnbaum, on the chance you might see Walter Kring today. And since I put the suggestion into your head that you’d have a meeting, any encounter you might have would qualify. After that, it just took monitoring your PDA to catch you after the ‘meeting’ took place.”

Birnbaum put his PDA away, a certain look on his face.

Washington caught it. “You’re disappointed, aren’t you,” he said. “That I’m not from the government. That there’s not a global conspiracy following you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Birnbaum said. “I already told you that I don’t personally go in for that stuff.” His expression was unchanged.

“I do apologize,” Washington said. “I’m sorry I’m not more nefarious or well connected into the murky corners of national and global politics.”

“Then who are you?” Birnbaum said.

“As I’ve told you before, I represent a group who wants to offer you a solution to your current set of problems,” Washington said.

Birnbaum almost asked, Who are your clients, really? but was distracted by what Washington said. “And what exactly is my problem?”

“Namely, that you’re shedding listeners at an accelerating rate on your way to becoming a has-been in the national political conversation,” Washington said.

Birnbaum thought about arguing that assertion but realized that would not actually get him any answers, so he let it go. “And how do your friends propose to fix that?” he asked instead.

“By suggesting a topic for you to consider,” Washington said.

“Is this a bribe?” Birnbaum asked. “A payment for espousing a certain view? Because I don’t do that.” He had in fact done it, once or twice or ten or more times, in deals that were in point of fact often negotiated at Bonner’s. Birnbaum squared it with his morals by figuring they were usually things he was likely to say anyway, so what he was doing was merely illegal, not unethical. However, one always led with being nonbribable. It gave those attempting to bribe a sense of accomplishment.

“There is no money to be exchanged,” Washington said.

Birnbaum made that face again. Washington laughed. “Mr. Birnbaum, you have more than enough money. For now, at least. What my clients are offering is something much more valuable: the ability to not only climb back up to the position of fame and personal power that you held not too long ago, but to exceed it. You were the number four audio talker in the land once, although not for very long. My clients are offering you a chance to go to number one and stay there, for as long as you want to be there.”

“And how are they going to manage that?” Birnbaum wanted to know.

“Mr. Birnbaum, I assume, given your profession, you know who William Randolph Hearst was,” Washington said.

“He was a newspaper publisher,” Birnbaum said. That was the extent of his knowledge; Birnbaum’s knowledge of American history was solid regarding the founding and the last fifty years, and everything else was a bit of a blank.

“Yes,” Washington said. “A newspaper publisher. In the late 1800s the United States and Spain were warming up for a war over Cuba, and Hearst sent an illustrator to Cuba to make pictures of the event. When the illustrator got there, he sent a telegram to Hearst saying that as far as he could see, there was no war coming and that he was going home. Hearst sent back that he should stay and said, ‘You furnish the pictures, and I will furnish the war.’ And he did.”

Birnbaum looked at Washington blankly.

“Mr. Birnbaum, my clients need someone to furnish the pictures, as it were,” Washington said. “Someone to start a discussion. Once the discussion starts, my clients can take care of the rest. But it has to start and it has to start somewhere other than with my clients.”

“I furnish the pictures and they will furnish the war,” Birnbaum said. “What’s the war, here?”

“Not a real war,” Washington said. “And indeed, what you’d be saying could prevent a real war.”

Birnbaum thought about this. “No money, though,” he said.

Washington smiled. “No,” he said. “Just audience, fame and power. Money often follows those, however.”

“And you can guarantee the first three,” Birnbaum said.

“Furnish the pictures, Mr. Birnbaum,” Washington said, “and the war comes. Pretty damn quickly, too, I would add.”

Birnbaum’s opportunity to furnish the pictures came the very next day.

“Can we talk about world government?” Jason from Canoga Park was saying to Birnbaum. Jason from Canoga Park was one of Birnbaum’s most reliable listeners in that sooner or later everything came back to world government, the fear of world government and how whatever topic was the subject of discussion would eventually lead to world government. You could set your world government clock by Jason from Canoga Park.

“I love talking about world government, Jason, you know that,” Birnbaum said, more or less on automatic. “How is it coming this time?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Jason said. “Right now the big discussion is whether or not we should resume diplomatic relations with the Colonial Union. Note the ‘we’ there, Al. It’s not ‘we’ as in ‘we the United States,’ is it? No, it’s not. It’s ‘we’ as in ‘we the people of Earth.’ Which just means ‘we the world government of Earth, which is being constituted in secret, right under your nose.’ Every day we talk about relations with the Colonial Union, every day we discuss whether to send diplomats to the Colonial Union, is a day the tentacles of the world government constrict further on the throat of individual freedom, Al.”

“It’s a compelling point, Jason,” Birnbaum said, using the phrase that in his mind meant You are completely full of shit, but arguing with you would be pointless, so I am going to change the subject on you, “and you bring up a topic which has been on my mind a lot recently, which is the Colonial Union. Have you been following the official narrative on the CU, Jason?”

“As it relates to world government?” Jason asked.

“Sure,” Birnbaum said, “and every other topic, too. The official narrative, the one the government is fronting and all the other governments fell in line behind, is that for—what? two hundred years?—the Colonial Union has been holding back the people of Earth. It’s been keeping us from leaving the planet except under its own terms, using us to farm soldiers and colonists, and keeping us down by not sharing its technology and understanding of our place in the universe. And you know what, Jason? Despite everything this particular administration in Washington has been wrong about over the last six years, and there’s been a lot, that’s fair. Those are fair points to make.

“But they’re also the wrong points to make. They are the myopic points to make. They are—should we say it? dare we say it? let’s go ahead and say it—they are the politically advantageous points for this administration to make. Look at the facts. What’s the U.S. economic growth been for the last three or four years? Come on, people, it’s been in the Dumpster. You know this. I know this. Everyone knows this. And why has it been in the Dumpster? Because of the economic policies of this administration, hundreds of millions of decent Americans, the ones that wake up every morning and go to work and do what they’re supposed to do, do what we ask them to do—people like you and me, Jason—well…we’re hurting, aren’t we? We are. Every day of the year.

“Now we come to the point where our beloved leader, the resident in the White House, can no longer hide under the canard of a so-called global economic downturn, and has to face the music with the American people about his policies. And then, like a miracle from the skies, here comes John Perry and that Conclave fleet, telling us that the Colonial Union, not the president, not the administration’s policies, not the so-called global recession, is the root of our woes. How convenient for our beloved leader, don’t you think, Jason?”

By this time, Louisa Smart was tapping on the glass from the control room. Birnbaum looked over. What the hell? Smart mouthed silently. Birnbaum held up his hands placatingly, to say, Don’t worry, I’ve got this.

“I’m not sure what this has to do with the world government,” Jason said doubtfully.

“Well, it’s got everything to do with the world government, doesn’t it, Jason?” Birnbaum said. “For the last several months we’re not talking about anything but the Colonial Union, and what we should do concerning the Colonial Union, and what we should do about the Colonial Union, and whether it can be trusted. Every day we talk about the Colonial Union is a day that we don’t talk about our own needs, our own problems, and the faults of our own government—and the current administration. I say it’s time to change the discussion. I say it’s time to change the official narrative. I say it’s time to get to the truth, rather than the spin.

“And here’s the truth. I’m going to give it to you now. And it’s not going to be popular because it’s going to run maybe a little counter to what the official narrative is, and we know how protective the administration and its little enablers in the media are about the official narrative, don’t we? But here’s the truth, and just, you know, try it on for size and see how you like the fit.

“The Colonial Union? It’s the best thing that ever happened to the planet Earth. Hands down, no contest, no silver or bronze. Yes, it kept the Earth in its own protective bubble. But have you seen the reports? In our local neighborhood of space, there are, what? Six hundred intelligent alien species, almost all of whom have attacked humans in some way, including John Perry’s hallowed Conclave, which would have wiped out a whole planetary colony if the Colonial Union hadn’t stopped them? If you think they would wipe out a colony, what makes you think any of them would spare the Earth if they thought we were important?

“And you say, Well, fine, the Colonial Union kept us safe, but it also kept space from us Earthlings unless we became soldiers or colonists. But think about what that means—it means every person who went into space from Earth filled a role designed to protect humanity out there in the stars, or to build humanity’s place in the stars. You know that I take no backseat to anyone in my praise and honor of those who serve this nation in uniform. Why should I do any less for those who serve in a uniform that protects all of humankind, including those of us here on Earth? Our people—Earthlings, ladies and gentlemen—are the ones the Colonial Union turns to when it comes time to keep us all alive. The official narrative calls it slavery. I call it duty. When I turn seventy-five, do I want to sit here on Earth in a rocking chair, napping my days away until I kick off? Hell, no! Paint me green and put me in space! This administration isn’t protecting me from the Colonial Union by keeping me or anyone else from joining the Colonial Defense Forces. It’s threatening the survival of all of us by starving the one organization designed to keep all of us safe!

“And I know there are still some of you out there clinging to the official narrative, saying to me, Well, it kept us down technologically and socially, didn’t it? I ask you, did it? Did it really? Or did it make it so that we, out of all humans anywhere, are the ones totally technologically self-sufficient? We don’t have the advantage of seeing how other alien races do things. If we want something, we have to build it ourselves. We have a knowledge base no other species can hope to match because they spend all their time poaching technology from everyone else! And far from controlling us, the Colonial Union left us here on Earth alone to pursue our own political and national destinies. Jason, do you think that if the Colonial Union hadn’t had our backs all this time, that we could have avoided a world government? That people wouldn’t have been screaming for a world government in the face of almost certain alien race subjugation?”

“Uh—,” Jason began.

“You know they would have,” Birnbaum continued. “And maybe some people want the same government here that they have in Beijing and New Delhi and Cairo and Paris, but I don’t. Are we so naïve as to believe the world government that we have would be like the one right here in America? Hell, this administration has been busy enough trying to trade in our rights to make us more like everyone else!

“So I say, throw out the official narrative, people. Get with the truth. The truth is, the Colonial Union hasn’t been keeping us down. It’s been keeping us free. The longer we delude ourselves into thinking otherwise, the closer we are to doom as a species. And maybe I don’t have all the answers—I’m just a guy talking on a show, after all—but I do know that at the end of the day, humanity needs to fight to stay alive in the universe. I want to stand with the fighters. Where do you stand, people? That’s the question I want to talk about when we come back from the commercial break. Jason from Canoga Park, thanks for calling in.”

“I have one more point—”

Birnbaum closed the circuit and shut Jason down, then threw to Louisa Smart for the commercials.

“Okay, seriously, what the hell was that?” Smart said, over the headset. “Since when do you have a bug in your ass about the Colonial Union?”

“You said you wanted me to spend more time thinking about how to turn the show around,” Birnbaum said.

“You think championing the group that’s been pissing on Earth for two hundred years is a winning strategy for that?” Smart said. “I question your judgment, more than I usually do.”

“Trust me, Louisa,” Birnbaum said. “This is going to work.”

“You don’t actually believe what you just spouted, do you?” Smart said.

“If it gets the numbers up, I believe every goddamned word of it,” Birnbaum said. “And for the sake of your job, Louisa, so should you.”

“I have a job whether you’re here or not,” Smart reminded him. “So I think I’ll keep my own opinion out of the ‘sale’ rack, if it’s all the same to you.” She looked down at her monitor and made a face.

“What is it?” Birnbaum asked.

“It looks like you pinked somebody,” Smart said. “I’ve got a caller here from Foggy Bottom. It’s not every day we have someone from the State Department calling in, that’s for sure.”

“Are we sure it’s from the State Department?” Birnbaum asked.

“I’m checking the name right now,” Smart said. “Yup. It’s a deputy undersecretary for space affairs. Small fry in the grand scheme of things.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Birnbaum said. “Get him on when we come back. I’m going to light him up.”

“Her,” Smart said.

“Whatever,” Birnbaum said, and girded himself for battle.

Having furnished the pictures, Birnbaum fully expected Washington’s clients to furnish a war. What he wasn’t expecting was a blitzkrieg.

Birnbaum’s show numbers for the day were actually about 1 percent below average; fewer than a million people heard his rant live, streamed to the listening implement of their choice. Within ten minutes of the rant, however, the archived version of the rant started picking up listeners. Relatively slowly at first, the archived version’s numbers began to climb as more political sites linked in. Within two hours, the archived version reached another million people. Within three, it was two million. Within four, four million. The show archive’s hits grew at a roughly geometric rate for several hours afterward. Overnight there were seven million downloads of the Voice in the Wilderness PDA ’gram. By the next day’s show—a show devoted entirely to the subject of the Colonial Union, as were the next several shows—the live audience was 5.2 million. By the end of the week, it was twenty million live streams per show.

Like a crack in an overburdened dam, Birnbaum’s pro–Colonial Union rant created a rapid collapse in a polite silence from various political quarters, followed by a swamping flood of agreement with Birnbaum’s vituperation for the current administration position of holding the Colonial Union at arm’s length. Birnbaum had occupied a sweet spot in the media discourse—not so influential that he was unable to promote a potentially unpopular (and possibly crazy) theory, but not so obscure that he could be dismissed outright as a kook. Too many Washington insiders, politicians and journalists knew him too well for that.

The administration, wholly unprepared for the tsunami of opposing views on this particular topic, flubbed its immediate response to Birnbaum and his followers, beginning with the unfortunately clueless deputy undersecretary for space affairs who had called in to Birnbaum’s show, who was so thoroughly dismantled by Birnbaum that three days later she tendered her resignation and headed to her home state of Montana, where she would eventually become a high school history teacher.

At least she was well out of it. The government’s response was so poorly done that for several days its hapless handling of the event threatened to eclipse the discussion of the Colonial Union itself.

Threatened but did not eclipse, in part because Birnbaum, who knew a good break when he saw one, simply wouldn’t let it. From his newly elevated vantage point, Birnbaum dispensed opinion, gathered useful tidbits of information from insiders who two weeks before wouldn’t have given him the time of day and set the daily agenda for discussion on the topic of the Colonial Union.

Others attempted to seize the issue from him, of course. Rival talk show hosts, stunned by his sudden ascendancy, claimed the Colonial Union topic for their own but could not match his head start; even the (formerly) more influential show hosts looked like also-rans on the subject. Eventually, all but the most oblivious of them ceded supremacy on the topic to him and focused on other subjects. Politicians would try to change the subject; Birnbaum would either get them on the show to serve his purposes or harangue them when they wouldn’t step foot into his studio.

Either way the subject was his, and he milked it for all it was worth, carefully tweaking his message for statesmanlike effect. No, of course the Colonial Union should not be excused for keeping us in the dark, he would say, but we have to understand the context in which that decision was made. No, we should never be subjugated to the Colonial Union or be just another colony in their union, he’d say other times, but there were distinct advantages in an alliance of equal partners. Of course we should consider the Conclave’s positions and see what advantages talking to it holds for us, he’d say still other times, but should we also forget we are human? To whom, at the end of the day, do we truly owe our allegiance, if not our own species?

Every now and again, Louisa Smart would ask him if he truly believed the things he was saying to his new, widely expanded audience. Birnbaum would refer her to his original answer to the question. Eventually Smart stopped asking.

The new monthlies came in. Live audience of the show was up 2,500 percent. Archived show up a similar number. Forty million downloads of the PDA ’gram. Birnbaum called his agent and told her to renegotiate his latest contract with SilverDelta. She did, despite the fact it had been negotiated less than two years earlier. Walter Kring might have been a six-foot-ten-inch alpha male right through to his bones, but he was strangely terrified of Monica Blaustein, persistent Jewish grandmother from New York, five feet tall in her flats. He could also read a ratings sheet and knew a gold mine when he saw it.

Birnbaum’s life became the show and sleeping. His thing on the side, miffed at the inattention, dropped him. His relationship with Judith, his third wife, the smart one, the one who had maneuvered him out of the prenup, became commensurately better in nearly all respects. His son Ben’s soccer team actually won a soccer game. Birnbaum didn’t feel he could really take credit for that last one.

“This isn’t going to last,” Smart pointed out to him two months into the ride.

“What is it with you?” Birnbaum asked her. “You’re a downer.”

“It’s called being a realist, Al,” she said. “I’m delighted that everything’s coming up roses for you at the moment. But you’re a single-issue show right now. And no matter what, the fact is this issue is going to get solved one way or another in the not all that distant future. And then where will you be? You will be last month’s fad. I know you have a shiny new contract and all, but Kring will still cut your ass if you have three bad quarters in a row. And now, for better or worse, you have much, much further to fall.”

“I like that you think I don’t know that,” Birnbaum said. “Fortunately for the both of us, I am taking steps to deal with that.”

“Do tell,” Smart said.

“The Rally,” Birnbaum said, making sure the capital “R” was evident in his voice.

“Ah, the rally,” Smart said, omitting the capital. “This is the rally on the Mall in support of the Colonial Union, which you have planned for two weeks from now.”

“Yes, that one,” Birnbaum said.

“You’ll note that the subject of the rally is the Colonial Union,” Smart said. “Which is to say, that single issue that you’re not branching out from.”

“It’s not what the Rally is about,” Birnbaum said. “It’s who is going to be there with me. I’ve got both the Senate majority leader and House minority leader up there on the stage with me. I’ve been cultivating my relationships with them for the last six weeks, Louisa. They’ve been feeding me all sorts of information, because we have midterms coming up. They want the House back and I’m going to be the one to get it for them. So after the Rally, we begin the shift away from the Colonial Union and back to matters closer to home. We’ll ride the Colonial Union thing as long as we can, of course. But this way, when that horse rides into the sunset I’m still in a position to influence the political course of the nation.”

“As long as you don’t mind being a political party’s cabana boy,” Smart said.

“I prefer ‘unofficial agenda setter’ myself,” Birnbaum said. “And if I deliver this election, then I think I’ll be able to call myself something else. It’s all upside.”

“Is this the part where I stand at your side as you roll into Rome in triumph, whispering ‘Remember thou art mortal’ into your ear?” Smart asked.

“I don’t entirely get the reference,” Birnbaum said. His world history knowledge was marginally worse than his United States history knowledge.

Smart rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she said. “Remember it anyway, Al. It might come in handy one day.”

Birnbaum made a note to remember it but forgot because he was busy with his show, the Rally and everything that would follow after it. It came back to him briefly on the day of the Rally, when, after stirring fifteen-minute speeches from the House minority leader and the Senate majority leader, Birnbaum ascended the podium and stood at the lectern on the stage of the Rally, looking out at a sea of seventy thousand faces (fewer than the one hundred thousand faces they had been hoping for, but more than enough, and anyway they’d round up because it was all estimates in any event). The faces, mostly male, mostly middle-aged, looked up at him with admiration and fervor and the knowledge that they were part of something bigger, something that he, Albert Birnbaum, had started.

Remember thou art mortal, Birnbaum heard Louisa Smart say in his head. He smiled at it; Louisa wasn’t at the Rally because of a wedding. He’d rib her about it later. Birnbaum brought up his notes on the lectern monitor and opened his mouth to speak and then was deeply confused when he was facedown on the podium, gasping like a fish and feeling sticky from the blood spurting out of what remained of his shoulder. His ears registered a crack, as if distant thunder were finally catching up with lightning, then he heard screams and the sound of seventy thousand panicked people trying to run, and then blacked out.

Birnbaum looked up and saw Michael Washington looking down at him.

“How did you get in here?” Birnbaum asked, after he had taken a couple of minutes to remember who he was (Albert Birnbaum), where he was (Washington Sacred Heart Catholic Hospital), what time it was (2:47 a.m.) and why he was there (he’d been shot).

Washington pointed with a gloved hand to the badge on his chest, and Birnbaum realized Washington was in a police uniform. “That’s not real,” Birnbaum protested.

“Actually it is,” Washington said. “I usually work plain clothes, but this was useful for the moment.”

“I thought you were some sort of facilitator,” Birnbaum said. “You have clients.”

“I am and I do,” Washington said. “Some cops tend bar on the side. This is what I do.”

“You’re joking,” Birnbaum said.

“That’s entirely possible,” Washington said.

“Why are you here now?” Birnbaum asked.

“Because we had unfinished business,” Washington said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Birnbaum said. “You asked me to pimp a pro–Colonial Union story. I did that.”

“And you did a fine job with it,” Washington said. “Although at the end things were beginning to flag. You had fewer people at your rally than you had anticipated.”

“We had a hundred thousand,” Birnbaum said, weakly.

“No,” Washington said. “But I appreciate you making the effort there.”

Birnbaum’s mind began to wander, but he focused on Washington again. “So what unfinished business do we have?” he asked.

“You dying,” Washington said. “You were supposed to have been assassinated at the rally, but our marksman didn’t make the shot. He blamed it on a gust of wind between him and the target. So it fell to me.”

Birnbaum was confused. “Why do you want me dead? I did what you asked.”

“And again, you did a fine job,” Washington said. “But now the discussion needs to be brought to another level. Making you a martyr to the cause will do that. Nothing like a public assassination to embed the topic into the national consciousness.”

“I don’t understand,” Birnbaum said, increasingly confused.

“I know,” Washington said. “But you never understood, Mr. Birnbaum. You didn’t want to understand all that much, I think. You never even really cared who I worked for. All you were interested in was what I was dangling in front of you. You never took your eyes off that.”

“Who do you work for?” Birnbaum croaked.

“I work for the Colonial Union, of course,” Washington said. “They needed some way to change the conversation. Or, alternately, I work for Russians and the Brazilians, who are upset that the United States is taking the lead in the international discussions about the Colonial Union and wanted to disrupt its momentum. No, I work for the political party not in the White House, who was looking to change the election calculus. Actually, all of those were lies: I work for a cabal who wants to form a world government.”

Birnbaum bulged his eyes at him, disbelieving.

“The time to have demanded an answer was before you took the job, Mr. Birnbaum,” Washington said. “Now you’ll never know.” He held up a syringe. “You woke up because I injected you with this. It’s shutting down your nervous system as we speak. It’s intentionally obvious. We want it to be clear you were assassinated. There are enough clues planted in various places for a merry chase. You’ll be even more famous now. And with that fame will come influence. Not that you will be able to use it, of course. But others will, and that will be enough. Fame, power and an audience, Mr. Birnbaum. It’s what you were promised. It’s what you were given.”

Birnbaum said nothing to this; he’d died midmonologue. Washington smiled, planted the syringe in Birnbaum’s bed and walked out of the room.

“They have the assassin on video,” Jason from Canoga Park said, to Louisa Smart, who had taken over the show, temporarily, for the memorial broadcast. “They have him on video injecting him and talking to him before he died. That was when it happened. When he revealed the plot of the world government.”

“We can’t know that,” Smart said, and for the millionth time wondered how Birnbaum managed to talk to his listeners without wanting to crawl down the stream to strangle them. “The video is low resolution and has no audio. We’ll never know what they had to say to each other.”

“What else could it be?” Jason said. “Who else could have managed it?”

“It’s a compelling point, Jason,” Smart said, preparing to switch over to the next caller and whatever their cockamamie theory would be.

“I’m going to miss Al,” Jason said, before she could unplug him. “He called himself the Voice in the Wilderness. But if he was, we were all in the wilderness with him. Who will be that voice now? Who will call to us? And what will they say?”

Smart had no good answer to that. She just went to the next caller instead.

Also by John Scalzi

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The Last Colony

Zoe’s Tale

Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded

Fuzzy Nation

Redshirts

Edited by John Scalzi

Metatropolis

About the Author

JOHN SCALZI is the author of several SF novels including the bestselling Old Man’s War and its sequels, and the New York Times bestsellers Fuzzy Nation and Redshirts. He is a winner of science fiction’s John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and he won the Hugo Award for Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded, a collection of essays from his wildly popular blog Whatever (whatever.scalzi.com). He lives in Ohio with his wife and daughter.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

HUMAN DIVISION #4: A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS

Copyright © 2013 by John Scalzi

All rights reserved.

Cover art by John Harris

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

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New York, NY10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

e-ISBN: 978-1-4668-3054-7

The Human Division

John Scalzi’s stirring new novel in the universe of his bestselling Old Man’s War

New e-episodes will appear every Tuesday from January 15 to April 9, 2013, on all your favorite e-book sites. Don’t miss a single one:

January 15: The Human Division #1: The B-Team

January 22: The Human Division #2: Walk the Plank

January 29: The Human Division #3: We Only Need the Heads

February 5: The Human Division #4: A Voice in the Wilderness

February 12: The Human Division #5: Tales from the Clarke

February 19: The Human Division #6: The Back Channel

February 26: The Human Division #7: The Dog King

March 5: The Human Division #8: The Sound of Rebellion

March 12: The Human Division #9: The Observers

March 19: The Human Division #10: This Must Be the Place

March 26: The Human Division #11: A Problem of Proportion

April 2: The Human Division #12: The Gentle Art of Cracking Heads

April 9: The Human Division #13: Earth Below, Sky Above

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Contents

Begin Reading

Also by John Scalzi

About the Author

Copyright