The Autarky

She looks at him and suppresses her natural revulsion. It’s an ability that, prior to working here, was hitherto unknown. Over the last four months however, it’s become well-practised. Honed even.

Dream job? More like a waking nightmare.

Because of him.

‘The Autarky?’ she asks, her tone level.

‘That’s correct,’ he says, his eyes not leaving his phone. They rarely do.

‘Could you be more specif-‘

He holds up an index finger. A second later he’s typing frantically.

Seizing the opportunity, Alana searches the web.

Autarky: the characteristic of self-sufficiency, usually applied to societies.

She gets two seconds to consider that.

‘Our security profile,’ he says. ‘Needs reapplication.’

‘Sure, I’ll get Geoff right on-’

‘No-’ He interjects. His focus drifts.  

‘I… need someone… else for this.’

‘Someone else?’

‘A specialist… Someone… I can…’

His phone vibrates. He snaps back to the screen.

Trust?

She wonders what has led to this sudden lack of confidence in Geoff. She’s not heard of any security breaches. No botched operations.

Knowing this prick, could be anything.

Could be nothing.

Genius overthinks. It overanalyses. Predicts behaviours, notices patterns others miss. Combine that heightened perception with a ruthless, selfish focus and you can change the world. Or at least a part of it.

That was the dream Alana signed up for. To be inspired. Touch the hem of genius.

What she since discovered was that when left isolated and unregulated, genius can become a stream without a sluice. A sinkhole of self-delusion. Of paranoia.

‘I need a proprietary set of assets,’ he says.

‘Understood. Any primary attributes?’

He likes the question. Lowers his phone. Adjusts his stance.

‘Cutting edge military. Totally independent.’

‘Contractor?’

‘Best available.’

Then to himself. ‘That is if they haven’t got to them first.’

She asks, ‘And the specific function of the contract?’

A self-indulgent pause.   

‘The Autarky.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ she says. ‘Could you elaborate?’

Incredulous at her ignorance, he snaps back.

‘The Rand Exigency?’

Alana looks no wiser.

‘I’m sorry.’

He looks annoyed. But never looks at her.

‘Are you really that new?’

Third this year.

She tries not to look weak. He barks at the screen behind his desk.

‘Constantine; retrieve Autarky Site One renders.’

The screen comes alive. A 3D blueprint, apparently the structure of a giant underground complex, spins before them. He waves a hand.

‘The Autarky.’

Alana studies the model, attempts to take in its scale.

‘A… bunker?’

At the sound of the word, he actually looks at her. His expression that of a guilty child.  

‘No! Not a bunker! An Autarky.’

Submissive, Alana looks back at the model.

‘A subterranean ecosystem?’ she says. ‘The conceptual detail is off the chart.’

‘Conceptual?’ He smirks, his composure returns. ‘It’s as real as you or I.’

Alana’s mouth hangs open.

‘This? Exists?’

He nods. ‘And I very much need to secure it.’

‘Secure? Why?’

‘Because if history teaches us anything it’s that two people in confinement will not behave rationally, let alone two hundred. They need structure. Order.’

‘Two hundred?’ Her composure’s gone; she’s becoming angry.  

‘Why?’ she asks, though she already knows the answer.

‘Because for many years – some would say the last three hundred, I would say longer – the world’s been locked on a very definite course, a course which will inevitably lead to a critical event. Might be economic, environmental, viral… whatever, but it’s coming.’

‘What are you-?’

‘I’m saying society will collapse. And soon. Knowing this, I, and many others like me, have decided to act.’

He studies Alana. Watches her take it in. Their reactions mean everything to him. Most are afraid when they hear the news. Her lips purse.

That’s it.

Final straw.

‘Let me get this straight,’ she says, turning squarely to face him.

‘Late-stage capitalism – the system that you and your kind have turbocharged – is coming to an ugly end. However, rather than fix the mess you’ve profited from, you’re choosing instead to bury your heads literally in the sand.’

This was unexpected. He twitches.

‘That’s one opinion-’

‘There were other books written before The Fountainhead, y’know. Darwin wrote a little ditty called The Origin of the Species, in which he described a concept called ‘the survival of the fittest’.’

‘Yes, as Rand outlined herself-’

‘Fuck Rand! She’s a peacetime philosopher.’

‘What?’

‘Tell me, genius; when society breaks down and you’re locked in your underground tin can with a bunch of juiced-up gorillas, where will you – a two-pint puddle of piss – sit on that food chain?’

He gulped.