“You saw what happened,” said Noam.  “The Palin administration reversed course, snuggled up to the Sunni oligarchs again, and resumed a hard line with Iran.  In early 2014, we bombed selected targets there; they retaliated by launching several Fajr-3 MIRV missiles at Israel.  One of the warheads hit their ‘secret’ nuclear weapons reactor at Dimona.  Israel launched against targets all over the region.  Millions perished and most of the oil fields were contaminated.”

David sighed.  “Where was the rest of the world, at that point?”

“The Chinese took the initiative.  They went to the U.N. first but our Security Council veto put an end to that.  They quietly pulled the others together—Russia and the European Union, primarily—and agreed it was time to take the dynamite and matches away from the toddler.  The economy remaining weak, the combined threats of drastic currency manipulation and foreclosure on trade and investment debt were overpowering.  Essentially, Beijing played the landlord card—call it a ‘leveraged buy-out.’”

“And the administration reacted—how?”

Noam laughed.  “They were happy to escape with their hides.  In exchange for eventual sanctuary offshore, they agreed to a ‘show’ re-election in 2016 and full cooperation in the conversion and management schedule, between and after.”

“And no one found out?”

“As I said, the media merchants were full partners.”

“What about—the people?”

Simon raised his arms.  “Who was left to tell them that anybody paid attention to?  Print news was already on life support, so they all merged into the electronic polyglot or went bankrupt.  Fact-based journalism died and the transition from ‘infotainment’ to total entertainment was complete.  There wasn’t a dime’s bit of difference among broadcast news; culture; sporting events; and those video games you used to write.  Elections were nothing more than wall-to-wall ‘reality’ shows, brought to you by billions spent on multimedia advertising, crowding out any sort of political discourse in between.”

David thrust his fingers into his curly hair.  “I—I just can’t accept that freedom would die so—quietly.”

“To be free is to be able to choose, but what are the choices and who defines them?” Antoinette said.  She jabbed an index finger into her palm, for emphasis.  “If you’re constantly urged to reinforce your own assumptions, rather than challenge them by acquiring new information, and to act on impulse, are you really making free choices?”

Simon frowned.  “The 21st Century American’s grasp of good citizenship was to acquire goods and debt to enrich others.  ‘Consumer Confidence.’  And—in addition to their possessions obsessions—the last two generations of ‘free’ Americans had stronger allegiances to pop stars and corporate sports franchises than any concept of self-governance.  They were too distracted to tell they were being lied to, while they still could.”

“Precisely,” Noam said.  “Right to the end, the neo-cons deflected any skeptic or question by solemnly invoking their sacred principle: ‘The Will of Our Founding Fathers.’  Anyone who disagreed was less of a patriot than they were.”

“You mean—“ Antoinette’s face was hard—“Washington the Slaveholder; Franklin the Whoremaster; Hamilton the Elitist; and Jefferson, the Sire of Bastards?”

“Granted,” Noam said, “but they were revolutionaries.  Tom Paine was an anti-religion Diest—“

“For which he paid, handsomely, in alienation and disgrace,” she replied.

“True; and Jefferson went to his grave an agnostic and with deep moral reservations about slavery.  My point is, what would have shocked and offended the founders was the absence of revolution, when needed.”

Antoinette winked.  “Maybe I should take me some White slaves now, to get the ball rolling again."

David was feeling better, moving among them.  The elders had let him go, to wander.  Just seeing him seemed to bring comfort to the elders, and the timid, furtive innocence of the young ones pleased him.  They connected to him in varying ways, either tactile or at varying levels of speech.  He saw that understanding them would take time.

Noam rejoined him at the end of the great room.  “Fitting in, I hope?”

David nodded, tentatively.

“And ready for some additional details, I presume?

“Okay.”

“We are three classes: ‘Opt-outs;’ ‘Rehabs;’ and juveniles.”

“Ah, ‘Rehab.’  Not a proper name, then.”  David surveyed the room, found his first chaperone, and gave him a thumbs-up.  Rehab cocked his head, puzzled.

“No.  We Opt-outs—“ he indicated himself, Simon, Antoinette, and another dozen or so eldest—“were given the discreet choice to migrate, or stay.”

“Migrate?  Where?”