All Things Wise and Wonderful
Chapter XII
CLOWN: You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind.
Two Years Earlier
É 3 ANŠE ŠE.NUMUN ina URU.LUGAL-da-ri-ši…ina ŠÀ-bi 3 GÍN KÙ.BABBAR TA pa-an ᵐSU-DINGIR il-qe kas-pu ga-mur ta-din…
Three hectares of land for thirty-three grams of silver, 671 BC. Katzbube entered the price per hectare into his Google Doc spreadsheet, sighed, and closed the laptop. An officious voice, crackling through an ancient loudspeaker, resounded through the research room. The Museum will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please put all research materials back in their cases and prepare to depart. He donned the provided pair of white gloves and gingerly put the ancient clay tablet back in its case.
“Thank you again,” he said to the attendant. “I’ll see you as usual on Monday, I believe.”
“The British Museum will always be here.”
Not quite an hour later the Underground reached Clapham South and Katzbube, linen button-up dripping profusely, alighted from the canned misery of the Tube car to the broiling ooze of the station. A billboard on the platform wall, its reincarnation back to a slurry of fibers already begun, read: Grid Stability Relies On You–Think Before You Tweet. UK data centers use five thousand liters of water a day processing Tweets.
He stopped, as was his wont on Fridays, at the first newsstand on the pavement outside the station for the new edition.
Hoary Men and Rigged Measures
What The Quintuple Lock Means for Britain
The Fight Over Self-Driving Golf Carts
Slorbia vs. Moody’s
How to Vibecode a Currency Crisis
Our Best Summer Doomscrolling
“One copy of this, please,” he said, grabbing the newspaper from its holder. The man in the newsstand took listless notice and gestured to the terminal. Katzbube tapped his phone, took the newspaper, and wandered back to his flat for the coldest shower available.
“You’re nearly naked, Winthrop.”
“It’s too hot for the balcony. A seventy-five–a twenty-five-degree shower and an electric fan is what I’ve got and it’s what I’m going to use.”
“Well,” sighed Peter, “I suppose I brought this on myself. But you’ve still got the–”
“It’s in the closet. But I’d prefer not to get evicted, it was virtually impossible to find anything habitable.”
“But you’re not getting rid of it?”
“I prefer reading Akkadian to selling illegal appliances.”
“Reasonable,” said Peter, reaching into the fridge for a can of beer and sandwich ingredients. “I’ll be spending the weekend at Gemma’s anyways.”
“Sounds subpar vis-à-vis privacy.”
“Her roommate’s somewhere in the Baltics for a bachelorette party. Slightly cooler over there, I gather. And much cheaper than Amsterdam.”
A crisp ping sounded from Peter’s phone. He took a sip of beer, then nearly choked on it in a great grin–then, before Winthrop’s staring eyes, guzzled the whole thing down in triumph.
“We’ve–my god, we’re getting acquired. We’re getting acquired.”
“The AI lab.”
“Yes. By Baobab. 250 million dollars. I’m employee number three so that’s–” he paused to calculate– “I can’t remember how the dilution works but I should have somewhere around six or seven percent of the company so–”
“So–nine, ten million dollars.”
“Somewhere around there. Eleven or twelve million pounds.”
“By–by Bubble? By what?”
“Baobab. Baobab. Conicular’s PE fund. One of the biggest and best in the Valley. Exit. EXIT.”
He grabbed Winthrop by the wet towel on his shoulders and shook him back and forth until the secondhand SKLÖBB began to make noises of imminent obsolescence..
“C-congratulations. Congratulations! So you’re leaving–”
“Oh, they won’t sign the final paperwork and wire the money for a couple of months yet. But–”
The SKLÖBB expired with a great crack, screws flying about the apartment and its unfortunate owner falling nearly onto his tailbone with a high-pitched yelp.
“I’m–can I borrow your linen. One of your shirts.”
“They’ll be too small.”
“Don’t care. I’m taking Gemma out for a good dinner and need something that won’t boil me alive. I’ll get you a new one if it breaks.”
“I–”
“A hundred quid’s rental fee. Two hundred.”
“I–ow–oh, just take the damn thing, Peter, it’s yours, it’s just a shirt and a jacket. Congratulations.”
After a fifteen-minute wait Katzbube took his seat at the smallest table on the pavement in front of Vino! Vino!, reserved earlier that morning as every Friday morning, and ordered the usual charcuterie board. Prosecco in hand he flipped to the leader.
Hoary Men and Rigged Measures
Britain has pegged the state pension to electricity prices. Disaster awaits
After Britain’s last general election this newspaper stated that two tasks awaited incoming prime minister Neil Starfish (leader, January 24th, 202X). We predicated that the first (cobbling together a governing coalition that kept Reform out of power) might well secure his legacy more than the second (passing significant legislation).
Sir Starfish, now a backbencher, may rejoice halfway: the unruly team of Labour, the Green Party, the Lib Dems, Plaid Cymru, the SNP and a gaggle of minor parties has, so far, stuck together through two changes of prime minister and considerable economic and geopolitical stress. And it would be unfair to claim that British life has remained unchanged under the government: it is no longer legal to sell non-decaffeinated coffee to under-eighteens, for example, and a stretch of motorway between Manchester and Sheffield is slated to begin repavement within a decade. So far, however, the House of Commons has accomplished more internal change than external.
Start with 10 Downing Street itself. Shortly after the coffee restrictions were passed, a rebellion from northern Labour MPs sank a proposed referendum on whether or not to hold a referendum to begin rejoining the EU. Starfish was forced out shortly afterward. Internal scuffles within Labour led to Stakhanov “Khan” Jones becoming Britain’s first Plaid Cymru MP, its first to speak Welsh natively since David Lloyd George, and its first to insist on the use of Welsh at press conferences. Despite the language barrier (your correspondent relied heavily on the Daily Mail’s interpreter), his two-month premiership was respectably accomplished: financially beleaguered local councils can now receive a rebate from the NHS for half of all spending on electric vehicles for the Motability programme.
“Your charcuterie board, sir,” the waiter interrupted, bearing a small hickory platter festooned with small-batch Italian sausages, slices of toast and a rapidly wilting wedge of Brie. “Enjoying your magazine?”
“It’s a newspaper,” said Katzbube. “They’re very clear on–...yes, very much so. Thank you.”
“Another glass of Prosecco?” asked the waiter, undaunted.
“I…oh, sure. And a glass of water, please. With ice if possible.”
“Of course. No ice, I’m afraid; energy-saving measure.”
Now it is Nebula Scundermorton-Childers’ turn. Britain’s Greens have long been lampooned as a club for downwardly mobile university graduates with a taste for kale and polyamory; Scundermorton-Childers’ first press conference assured pensioners that her party will fight for them, too. Now, after months of indecision, she has delivered: the promised Quintuple Lock became law as this edition went to press. Britain’s state pension will now rise by no less than the lowest of 2.5%, average wage growth, inflation, the NHS budget and electricity prices.
The sun had barely set below the horizon when Winthrop Katzbube plugged an air conditioner into the voltage converter on the wall. A hundred miles to the northwest, a venerable electric transformer on a power line erupted in a shower of sparks. Further away still, on a submarine deep beneath the churning waters of the southern Indian Ocean, thirteen hundred miles from Kerguelen and a thousand from Durban, Radio Four abruptly fell silent.
“I’d like to remind everybody,” said Prime Minister Starfish, “that–”
“LOUDER, PLEASE!” shouted a voice from the back of the madding crowd.
“I’d like to–I’m trying my best, we don’t have a microphone. I’d like to remind everybody that the House of Commons chose prime ministers for centuries without electronic voting systems, and–”
“Sir Starfish, can you comment on allegations that members of the Islam Party, which is in government–”
“I’ve read nothing to that effect from MI5. This was a very sophisticated operation by a state actor. Probably the Russians. But an investigation is underway. I got an assurance from the ISLM MPs–”
“No, the Islam Party, not the ISLM Party.”
“There is no evidence,” said Starfish, clearing his throat again, “that jihadists were behind the attack. And it should go without saying that the Islam Party and the Islamic State in Lancashire and the Midlands are both very small but valued members of the government.”
“Sir Starfish, this is your second premiership since the election. Do you think you are the most-qualified member of Parliament to–”
“CAN YOU PLEASE TELL US WHEN WE’RE GOING TO HAVE ELECTRICITY BACK,” another journalist interrupted at top volume. “WE CAN’T RUN THE PRINTING PRESSES OR THE COPYEDITING LLMS, IT’S VERY IMPORTANT.”
Starfish fell silent and motioned, impotently, for the press to do the same.
“I have here,” he said, pulling out a wrinkled yellow legal pad adorned with hundreds of pages of handwriting, “a report from Whitehall on the crisis. Grid failures are very rare and can be reversed when they go down. The–”
A chorus of voices erupted, for the first time, in unison.
“HOW LONG?”
Starfish adjusted his glasses.
“Hopefully very soon,” he said. “We need Natural England to sign off on reopening the key generating station, and then–”
“Natural England?” asked the nearest reporter. “What do they–”
“I believe further details are classified. I’m sorry I can’t say more. We’re doing everything we can without compromising key intelligence assets. But–”
“Is there any reason the generating station of last resort can’t be turned back on? Has it been sabotaged?”
“Well–no, we haven’t found any signs of sabotage, but–”
“But there may have been sabotage you haven’t found yet?”
“I–no, of course not–MI5 are the best in the trade. The Chormley Power Station has not been sabotaged at all. We would know if it had been.”
“But it can’t be turned on?”
Starfish paused for an eternity.
“Not yet.”
“Oh, a good two to three months, Prime Minister,” came the voice over the shortwave radio. “They’re really a quite spectacular little species. More parental investment than any other invertebrate that’s ever been found outside the arthropods.”
Starfish stared at the fuzzy blob of wriggling red pixels on the screen.
“And–and the Scarlet-Crested–”
“Ruby-Crested, Prime Minister. The Scarlet-Crested Nematode-of-Paradise is native to Sri Lanka.”
“But it’s definitely endangered?”
“No thorough population survey has ever been done,” the crackling voice replied with pointed undertones. “It might be worth funding one. But for now we can’t say for sure that it isn’t endangered. It’s best to be on the safe side.”
“And it’s–it’s been decades since I’ve taken biology–this is an important species?”
“Well, they’re all important. We’re not quite sure what it eats, or what preys on it. But it’s the only nematode-of-paradise native to Europe.”
“But it lives in generating stations.”
“This isn’t its ideal habitat, but until the young are fully-grown we’ll just have to leave them be. The layer of protective mucus around the larvae is very sensitive. You really can’t move them without disturbing it.”
“I see.”
“And the mother will wriggle very aggressively when provoked. There’s a reason I’m wearing gloves.”
“You can’t repeat this,” said the Prime Minister, “but the people at MI6 told me the Russians experimented with the venom of some of the African species for nerve agents.”
“Oh, yes. That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
A man in sunglasses tapped Starfish on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Professor. I’ve got to go.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister. Good luck.”
The crackling cut and Starfish turned to the man in sunglasses.
“Did you ever ask your predecessor,” said the man, “what she wrote in the letters of last resort?”
“No,” said Starfish. “Those get destroyed once the PM leaves office, don’t they?”
“That’s why I’m asking. Washington just radioed. There’s a Vanguard class in the South Atlantic that’s surrounded by a pod of whales. The Geiger counter readings aren’t clear but it might be missing its warhead.”
“Missing its…”
“Did you know, Prime Minister,” said the man, “that there exist photos of the head of Natural England in Moscow?”
“I…I didn’t know that.”
The man pulled out a binder and flipped to the page behind a tab.
“I…I see,” said Starfish.
“I’m surprised this is news to you.”
“Why does the hand holding the leash have seven fingers?”
“Yes, quite a strange photograph,” said the man. “I’ll admit we don’t know very much about this lady. You wouldn’t happen to know more about her?”
Starfish decided.
“Yes, go ahead and turn the generating station back on.”
“An excellent choice, sir.”