Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

TORONTO FILM FESTIVAL: THE PRESENT

     Ronald Labane lay on the wide hotel bed, fully dressed and so tired he was dizzy. But every bit of him, except for his too-tired face, smiled. He was a success! A raging, by-God success and no denying it. Ziedman and Roth had shown their film and it was the hit of the film festival. He’d been invited to every bash in town, shaken the hands and held the attention of some incredibly monied people, and hopefully gotten his message out to the millions. Time would tell.
     Ziedman said his agent had received nibbles from several distributors and their film had been mentioned on all of the entertainment news shows. They’d even shown him sandwiched between Ziedman and Roth, and he’d looked pretty good.
     Ronald lay still and basked in the glow while the room felt like it was spinning very slooowly.
     These people he’d been meeting were smart, creative, and shallow. At least shallow by his standards. It looked to him like he could become their flavor of the month if he wanted to—a sort of green guru to the stars. He almost smiled, but his face was much too tired. He’d never smiled this much in his life.
     If things go the way I think they might, it’ll be worth the pain, he thought. Tomorrow morning he had an appointment with an agent, someone with pull, who’d expressed an interest in representing his book. He could see it all now, his entire future unscrolling like a movie. Oh, God! I can hardly wait.
     An end to pesticides and herbicides, the outlawing of chicken and pig factories and the indescribable pollution their owners got away with causing. An end to genetic engineering of crops and food animals. The enforced use of alternate energy sources, clean sources. A simpler, healthier life for everyone. More self-reliance, less automation, and a far less consumption-mad society.
     He allowed his mind to wander, imagining every home with its own vegetable garden, people canning their own food, making their own clothes. Everyone busy, involved in their communities, concentrating on the important things in life while their televisions stood idle.
     Except for certain hours on certain days of the week, he thought. We’ll have educational programs on recycling and composting and the problems of the third world.
     Ron shook his head at the wonder of his vision. It would take time, it would take patience, and sadly, it would take blood. There was no way around that. If people didn’t literally fight for a cause they never accomplished anything.
     It will have to be a worldwide phenomenon, he thought. Coordinated to break out on the same day. Perhaps he could start with some sort of computer virus, or several of them, working in waves, breaking down communications. Stop the bureaucrats cold and you’ve made a good start.
     But first, get the message out there, get the ideas into the popular mind, convince them that this was the right, the good, the only alternative to their own personal poverty and death. That was the ticket, make it personal. Then, when things began to get violent, they’d find themselves half agreeing with his guerrillas, even against their will. Because by then he would have made it a part of their belief system.
     A good beginning, Ron thought, closing his eyes and drifting down into sleep. A very good beginning.

Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

ON THE ROAD TO STARBURST: THE PRESENT

     “We’re leaving the eco-fair in Baltimore to attend a New Age event in Virginia,” Peter Ziedman said into the camera his buddy Tony had trained on him. “We’re traveling in Labane’s specially equipped van. Labane describes it as more of a heartland kind of vehicle because it’s partially solar-powered. Which, of course, works better in the sunny center of the nation.”
     “The United States,” Ronald said from the driver’s seat. “Say the center of the U.S. or the Canadians will be offended.” His remark was greeted by puzzled silence. “In case you want to submit this to the Toronto Film Festival.”
     “Yeah!” Tony said.
     “Good thinkin’,” Peter agreed.
     Ron rolled his eyes, which at least briefly blocked the endless tackiness of the strip mall and Wal-Mart outside. These guys were hopeless. But they were paying all the expenses and he was beginning to get some forward momentum. People were actually coming to hear him speak at an event. And Peter’s message machine was getting more and more invitations for speaking engagements.
     Ron had begun charging a speaking fee and the fees were increasing. But there was no point telling the boys that. He had them convinced that he was a genius at bargaining or exchanging labor for the posters and flyers they were helping him put up and pass out.
     Eventually he would dump the kids by telling them: “I have a message to spread and you two have careers to jump-start. You stay here and work on the film.” It was what they wanted to do anyway, so there would hardly be howls of protest when he suggested it.
     Actually he’d seen some of their finished footage and he was both pleased and impressed. Peter and Tony might be dumb and easily manipulated, but they definitely had talent. It was a shame that their persistent naïveté would cost them any chance they had of making it.
     “Funny, isn’t it,” Ron said, “that most of these eco-fairs we’re going to are held in cities?”
     “There’s a lot of pollution in cities,” Peter said.
     “There’s a lot in rural areas, too,” Labane told him. “For instance, there are farmers who use so much pesticide and weed killer that they won’t eat what they grow. They’ve got separate gardens for their own families, but your kids are chowing down on stuff they wouldn’t touch. And then there’s those factory farms for pork and chicken.”
     Tony shifted so that he could film Ron as he talked. It had been a little difficult to talk them into traveling in the van with him. But he’d convinced them that it would lend a certain cachet to their documentary. Which was true: there was nothing the Hollywood types liked more than tales of hardship endured for art’s sake.
     “Do you know there are actual lakes of pig feces?” Labane asked. “It must be a nightmare living within a few miles of someplace like that. But worse than the smell is the fact that the runoff gets into streams and the bacteria get into the water supply. And as you know,” he tossed over his shoulder, “diseases pass quite easily between pigs and humans.”
     He’d leave it at that. Let people make of that what they would. Half the battle was getting people to just listen. So sometimes you just gave them these really vivid suggestions and let them process it through the back of their minds. Eventually there would be enough frightening little tidbits back there to get ’em really pissed off.
     Ron had some ideas for some really nasty tricks that could be played on the politicians who had allowed those places to be built and who refused to make the owners clean up their mess. Inside he smiled. Oh, yes, the day will come.

Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

OHIO, ON THE ROAD TO EARTH-FAIR: PRESENT DAY
     “People keep imagining,” Ron Labane said to the two filmmakers, “that someday everyone in the world will enjoy the lifestyle North Americans take for granted.” He looked off into the distance. “I can’t remember who said it, but it’s been estimated that it would take eight more planets to achieve that goal.”
     “That seems excessive,” Peter Ziedman said.
     “Our lifestyle is excessive,” Ron countered. “We could all live much more simply and probably be happier for it. Only an economy like this one could support our constant fads, constant upgrading of cars and stereos and computers. We don’t even wear things out anymore; there’s no time for that. They’re outmoded as soon as you buy them. So we bury them.”
     Ron shook his head gently. “It can’t go on indefinitely. Common sense says it can’t go on forever.”
     “So what do we do?” Ziedman asked. He was pleased. He’d expected a wild man from what the cochairman had said, but he’d gotten a well-spoken, well-informed man with a message. This could work out. With the right handling and maybe a little cash infusion from his father.
     “Well, that’s going to involve some hard choices,” Labane answered. “Industry isn’t just going to start gearing down voluntarily. They’ll use the same excuse they’ve used for over a hundred years.” He waved his hands and raised his eyes to heaven. “We have to answer to our stockholders! We must show a profit, it’s our duty! Ha! Their duty is to get as fat as they can before they dole out the crumbs to their sacred stockholders.”
     “So… laws?” Ziedman said.
     Labane shook his head. “I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure that the Constitution has a few things to say about restraint of trade. Unfortunately that doesn’t take into consideration the world around us. Actually, the change has to come from us. Buy less, streamline your life. Learn to live by that old Yankee saying: buy it new, wear it out, make it do, do without. The alternative is to imagine your great-great-grandchildren wading through discarded motherboards and acid raid up to their ankles.”
     Ziedman glanced at Tony, who adjusted the camera and nodded. “This is great stuff,” he said to Labane. “Where did you get this?”
     “I wrote a book,” Ron said. “I’ve got to rework it, though; there’s far too much material to get it published as is. I must have read hundreds of books on the subject.” He nodded. “Hundreds, at least. None of my work is really original; it’s a synthesis.” He slapped his knees. “But ya need those. Every now and again someone has to get it all together and present the salient points. And that’s what I want to do. So that people can decide just what it is that they ought to do to save the world.”
     “Cut!” Ziedman said. “I’d like to get some shots of you doing things like walking along a river or the seashore or through a meadow someplace. If that’s all right with you? We’d do a voice-over of you, maybe reading from your book. How would that be?”
     “I hate to sound mercenary,” Labane said, “but am I getting paid to be in this opus of yours? ‘Cause I’m living in my van right now.”
     Peter held up a hand. “Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. We’re doing this on a shoestring ourselves. So until and unless the film is sold for distribution, all we can offer is room and board.”
     “And parking!”
     Ziedman screwed up his face. “Okay!” He held out his hand. “You drive a hard bargain.”
     “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Ron said.
     He went along with the two young men to their hotel room—free shower at last!—so that they could discuss the film and terms. They talked like kids from money. They had that insouciant near arrogance of youngsters who’d never had to go without. The hotel was one of those where everything that wasn’t cream-colored was pastel, and where the room service came with chased-silver napkin rings.
     It was pretty certain that these two wouldn’t go out of their way to save the world. So what? Ron thought. There’s nothing wrong with a mutually agreeable arrangement.
     If he got lucky it could be like being the lead singer in a rock group. If this movie hit, he’d be the one the public remembered. Not the two kids singing backup. Ron smiled. Oh yes, he’d milk these kids for all they were worth, and if he did it right, by the time he was finished they’d still believe he was a starry-eyed idealist.
     The thing was to get the message out to those with the ears to hear it. A simple message, really: stop the madness of overproduction, whatever it takes.
     Mentally he sneered at the spoiled boys beside him. He was certain they saw themselves as rebels because they wanted to make documentaries instead of getting real jobs in their daddies’ companies.

Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling

ECOLOGY EXPO, NEW YORK: PRESENT DAY
     “This is boring,” Peter Ziedman said. He frowned and shifted the heavy camera on his shoulder.
     “No kidding,” his soundman and college bud Tony Roth agreed. “It’s nothing like what I expected.”
     They glared at the neatly set-up booths and the casually well-dressed people around them. Even the loopier outfits had cost real money, you could see that. They’d been expecting a lot more over-the-rainbow stuff from the New York Ecology Fair.
     Ziedman had been pinning his hopes on it, in fact. He’d graduated from Chapman University only two months ago, with honors, and already his dad was asking, “So what did I spend my money for?”
     Like you could get a full-fledged movie together over the weekend. Well, okay, some people had done that, but not lately, and probably not while sober.
     So Peter had decided to do a documentary on an inspired madman. They’d find their guy at a place like this and then follow him around while he tried to convert the world. It would be hilarious.
     But what he’d found instead was a slew of start-up businesses looking for venture capitalists. And while he knew there was a story worth telling in that, at the moment he needed something fast, easy, and moderately entertaining from the first shot. The story of water-purification devices just wasn’t going to do that.
     “Where are the nuts?” he shouted.
     A young woman beside a solar-energy display turned to look at him. “The Rain Forest Products booth is giving away Brazil nuts in aisle four.” She pointed vaguely in that direction.
     Ziedman looked at her; she was attractive in a washed-out, WASPy kind of way. He walked over to her and said, “I’m making a documentary and I was hoping for some more colorful characters to spice up the narrative.” He shrugged and then shifted the camera. “It can’t be all facts and figures.”
     She nodded, looking vaguely disapproving. That was when he noticed that her badge said she was the fair’s cochair.
     “So what exactly are you looking for?” she asked.
     Peter thought that he was probably very lucky that she wasn’t asking him to leave, as he hadn’t received permission from the fair to film here. She looked capable of kicking him out. He decided to be honest.
     “I’m looking for someone with a message,” he said. “Someone who can’t get anyone to listen but who thinks he, or she, can save the world. You know anybody like that?”
     She laughed, and it changed her whole face. She really was attractive. “Oohhh yes,” she said. “I know tons of people like that. But they tend to avoid places like this. To them we’re all sellouts.” She looked around and seemed to spot someone. Pointing to a tired-looking man on a folding chair near the door, she said, “Try him. That’s Ron Labane. He used to be a pretty good guy, associated with a small, fairly successful organic farm in Washington state.” She shook her head. “Now… it’s kinda sad really. He’s got a book he’s trying to get published. He’s kind of into a lone-wolf thing right now.”
     Ziedman looked at the man. He was wearing tan chinos and a sport jacket over a sweater vest and an open-collared blue shirt. Though he was clean-shaven and his hair was neat, there was something a little shop-worn about him. His whole body spoke of discouragement and exhaustion.
     Peter turned on the camera and zoomed in on him. As if by instinct, like the lone wolf the woman had named him, Labane turned to look directly into the lens. He raised one brow and with a lopsided smile raised his hand and gestured Peter over.
     “Thanks,” Ziedman said to the woman. He and Tony hustled over.