The End of the World

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Commander-In-Chief Jonathan B. Mapother wasn’t the worst President in the history of the United States of America. In fact, many of the countries within the Western Coalition of Freedom Fighters had prospered well under his guidance. His colleagues thought very highly of him. His popularity rating wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible, either. Compared to past Presidents, Mapother held office with an acute dignity unbecoming of an American President.

 

What makes this so unusual is that if you were to trace President Mapother’s lineage, you’d find his ancestors include the likes of Tom Cruise and George W. Bush. Naturally, most people found themselves perplexed by his genealogy, as you’d think someone with a DNA mix of Cruise and Bush would be an inept whackjob.

 

But somehow the nonsensical ravings of an egomaniac and the blind stupidity of a moron cancelled each other out to create a slightly-likable, well-intentioned buffoon. And that sentiment was good enough for the majority.

 

That was last month. This month had been an absolute bloodbath. It had started when President Mapother had announced the United Government Protocol. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the blogosphere exploded within minutes of the broadcast. People began denouncing the plan, citing recent inflammations of a new virus infecting the DAMOCLESnet—claims that a unification of Earth’s governments along with those beyond Sol space would severely cripple inherent humanoid freedoms. Some even claimed the merging of the DAMOCLES-run deep space internet with that of the stellar networks would incite a SkyNet event. Pundits weren’t amused. Religious leaders, once feuding against each other, joined together in fear of being forced to worship some insane dragon god.

 

Outcry turned to protest. Protests turned to riots. In an effort to quell the revolting masses, police and military units were compelled to use excessive force. In some cases, law enforcement didn’t even bother using peaceful means—opting instead for removing the insurgents with lethal means.

 

Mapother’s popularity dropped like a pot of petunias out of the sky. Martial law went into effect. Immediately, the popularity ratings didn’t matter anymore.

 

This was for everyone. For the good of the country. For the good of the world. Mapother was convinced he was doing the right thing. The old man—the representative from Gamezoha—had said so. It was an opportunity for Earth to become more important than it had ever been. The man had said that the Gamezohan Empire had seen something within the humanoids of Earth—a promise of greatness they hadn’t seen at first. To earn the acceptance—nay, the respect, of the Gamezohans, was an honor unlike any other.

 

It was with that understanding, granted by Grand Councilor Moebius of Gamezoha, that President Mapother, a leader in the WCFF, moderately liked by all (or at least, all who mattered), signed the treaty that would bring about the beginning of an era for all Earthlings. That the world’s leaders had agreed to the Councilor’s offer so quickly was evidence enough that this was something that was meant to be.

 

Now, nearly a month later, panic had ensnared the planet. The indigenous peoples of Earth feared for their safety. They feared the mighty Gamezohans. They feared the rogue computer virus that seemed to be infecting their computers—its intent unknown. Worst of all, they feared each other, worried that brother would attack brother in defense of the belief that the United Government Protocol was nothing but a ruse to hold Earth and its inhabitants prisoner under the laws of Gamezoha. There would be no more freedom. There would be no more peace. The virus would turn the DAMOCLESnet against everyone, spying on you and your family in your own home. Then the Gamezohans would overrun the planet and all would perish at their Gun Kata or their scaly claws.

 

Understatement: people are stupid.

 

And so President Mapother was wide awake this morning, pouring over the notes of his speech as he prepared to go live worldwide, simulcast on live television and the DAMOCLESnet, imploring the people of the world to see reason, to explain the United Government Protocol wasn’t something to be feared, but rather step towards world peace—a concept Earthlings had been striving towards for centuries. In 1987 AD, a dustman in Stoke-on-Trent once found world peace, but mistook it for a banana peel and tossed it in his truck before he had a chance to realize what it was. It was never seen again.

 

Mapother stood waiting just outside the Brady Briefing Room (the Press Corps had taken to calling it the Griefing Room because of all the bad news that came out of it). Inside, reporters and cameras were preparing for his entrance. Mapother finished re-reading the speech and, out of force-of-habit, began reading it a third time. Experience told him the last thing he needed to do was wind up with a slip of the tongue and say something he wasn’t meant to. The art of spin only worked when you stuck to the script.

 

Halfway through the second paragraph, General Belvins entered the small prep room, “Mr. President, sir: news from NASA.”

 

Mapother sighed, “Yes, General?”

 

“Sir, a cloaked Wendauerian flagship is stationary within Earth space.”

 

Mapother blinked, a pain suddenly knotting itself in his stomach, “You said cloaked, how do they know it’s there?”

 

“DAMOCLESnet reported the ship’s presence, sir. Further scans confirmed the data—“

 

“—damnit—“

 

“—attempts to contact the ship have been unsuccessful; communications have been sent via DAMOCLESnet to the Kingdom of Wendauer, but a response will take some time. We don’t think they’re an immediate threat, sir.”

 

“And why’s that?”

 

The General looked grim, “Because we’d already be dead, sir.”

 

Mapother sighed, sitting down heavily in a chair.

 

“What do you suggest, General?”

 

Blevins sighed, “I suggest you continue with your speech as planned, sir, and we’ll keep you updated on the situation. To delay the conference would cause suspicion. It’s likely that this incident will be of little threat as the Wendauerians and Gamezohans are currently on friendly terms. If anything, we can use this event to illustrate the important benefits of DAMOCLESnet and the UGP.”

 

Mapother sat quietly for a second before nodding, “Well advised, General. Let me know immediately if anything changes for the better—keep the Vice President advised to the situation if things worsen—we don’t need to generate further panic from an already jumpy planet. Get in touch with our allies—convey the situation and the importance of discretion.”

 

“Mr. President,” a young woman stuck her head in the door, “We’re live in five.”

 

“Thank you, get to work, General.”

 

“Sit,” the General nodded as he exited the room through an opposite door.

 

President Mapother entered the Griefing Room to the sound of whirring cameras, hovering tri-vids and low mumbling of reporters. He sat his papers on the podium, more for show than anything—the teleprompters would convey all he had to say. He had done this dozens of times. This time would be no different, he told himself.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen of Earth, we find ourselves at the cusp of a great event.”

 

And with those words, DAMOCLES eradicated all life on the planet Earth.

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