THE KISSIMMEE CONFERENCE
The Bradbury Hotel and Museum of Kissimmee, Florida, site of the infamous Dr. Midas Goldstein's Kissimmee Conference
On July 4, 1912, the 136th anniversary of American independence, Dr. Midas Israel Goldstein called for a meeting of Union leadership at Kissimmee, Florida's Bradbury Hotel, far removed from the frontlines of the war. But even in Florida, where the closest fighting was in Hispaniola - Carolinian forces had just begun their blockade and bombardment of the Europan island - there was still death. The flu was busy at work infecting the populace. It was a beautiful day, with not a cloud in the sky. But there was no one out on the promenade, strolling underneath parasols, no beautiful ladies passing the afternoon with their gentlemen lovers. No children playing or singing. It was silent. Death hung over everything.
Goldstein puffed his pipe thoughtfully as he stared out the window of the Bradbury Hotel's atrium. The sun was shining in, lighting up the inside of the lavish central hall of the hotel. Goldstein was standing up on the second floor walkway, leaning on the banister and lost in deep thought. He took a long drag off the pipe. It was made from moose antler, hand carved by a jeweler in Barnumsburg, Oregon. The tobacco was Morton's Finest, straight from the Inferior labor farms in Cuba. The Russian-born "Man of Zion," as the Yankees liked to call their Jewish population, was wearing a white seersucker suit with blue stripes, with a bright red necktie, which made him look sort of like an awkward Jewish plantation owner. He was thirty years old, but his prematurely bald head and weak chin made him look forty instead. His glasses rested on the end of his beak-like nose. He was glad he was not in Russia anymore. Most of his family had been killed by Czar Viktor. He looked so completely Jewish that if he was in Moscow right now he'd be lynched in a heartbeat. The Russian government was telling its citizens that it was Jews who had started the war and it was "International Jewry" who had released the "New Plague" upon the earth. Goldstein shook his head at the thought. He wanted to
cure the Beckie Flu, not create it. Nothing could stop a Jew from getting sick from it anymore than an Orthodox steppe barbarian.
Midas watched as, on the floor below at the front door, smiling porters greeted Union leadership with stiff-arm salutes and slight bows. There was Friedrich "Fred" Merkwürdigliebe, a Nordic-born scientist who had emigrated to the Union at the end of the last century. He wore a plain brown suit with an olive tie, always a simple man. He seemed jovial and in good spirits, telling a joke to the black porter who took his bag and derby hat. Next to him, already receiving a glass of whiskey from a servant, was Henry Willow, the Burrland-born Under-Chief of Military Police and eleventh in line for the Presidency. He was wearing a simple blue uniform with a mandarin collar, embroidered in gold trim. His thin, skeletal face was well-matched with his plastered back gray hair, parted down the middle and reeking of bacon grease. Willow was the right hand to RUMP Supreme Chief Thomas Custer, the President and Atheling's brother. Now through the door came the Quartermaster General himself, Woodrow Wilson. The gaunt Virginian was almost as rail-like as Willow, but he always had a smile on his face, grinning behind his spectacles. Wilson had a fondness for swallowtailed jackets and a top hat, and sure enough Midas was right when he guessed what he'd be wearing. Wilson spotted Goldstein from the landing of the stairs and doffed his stovepipe and saluted.
"Ah! My dear Doctor Goldstein, if it isn't my favorite Israelite, by George! Salutations and all hail!" the friendly Wilson said as he ascended the red-carpeted staircase.
Midas reached out a hand after saluting and shook it firmly. "Quartermaster General, it is good to see you indeed. Tell me, how is your family doing?"
Wilson frowned a slight bit and said, "Well, you know how this damn flu is. I sent them off to Martha's Vineyard for the duration. Private cabin there, you know. Fresh air. God's country!" Wilson then lifted a cigarette on a stick to his mouth and motioned for a light.
The Jewish doctor quickly pulled a gold-plated lighter from his pocket and lit the Morton. He and Wilson stood there and chatted a bit as the other officials arrived. There were several civilian medical experts, but most were members of the government and Manifest Destiny Party. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matilda Richardson, the Supreme Chief of Public Works. She was wearing a simple tan dress and her graying hair made her look something like a school marm, Midas thought. She was actually one of the most hardline members of the MDP leadership and had been with Custer since his March on Philadelphia so many years before. Rudy Long, the Supreme Justiciar of Law and Order, arrived as well, one of the highest ranking officials present. He was a burly man with a thick black beard and he always wore a plain black suit and tie. He entered without fanfare and waved off servants, preferring to carry his own belongings. Eric Newman, the Supreme Justiciar of Inferior Law, was the polar opposite of this, immediately using the servants to carry his things and demanding a refreshment.
"It's hot out there, boys! Almost as hot as a corpse oven in a ghetto!" Newman laughed as he arrived. Two black porters awkwardly joined in on the laughter as they took his green jacket and bag. Newman spotted Wilson and Goldstein up on the landing and raised a finger to them, bellowing with some levity, "You fellas better have something important to say! I'm a busy man, what with all the Infees rioting and blowing themselves up in the quarantine zones!"
Goldstein hated that man. He was so obnoxious, so personally repugnant, that it didn't matter if they agreed on most things. But Midas knew he had to play nice with him to get his way. He knew Newman would likely eat what he was about to say at the conference out of his hand, but Newman was so personal and vile in his personal relationships that he wanted to be sure to play nice with him. "Of course, Comrade Newman!" he yelled back, plastering on a grin. "We wouldn't waste your valuable time unless we had a real hum-dinger for you! Make your way to the dining room and help yourself to the fresh roasted turkey and gravy!"
Newman licked his lips cartoonishly, smacking them while he rubbed his belly and loosened his gray tie. "Mmmmm boy! Sounds like an important government affair to me!" he said cheerfully as he strolled directly to the dining hall where the conference was to take place.
Midas frowned as the real "party" showed up. A long black Colonel Ford pulled up outside and a squad of men in navy blue uniforms stepped out, their pinched-crown hats bearing the Bird of Prey, the ORRA logo. It was ORRA Supreme Chief George Dewey himself, third in line to the Presidency, only following the Vice President. His massive mustache was perfectly groomed and his faded haircut sat high on his unblinking face. The mustache seemed to almost go ear-to-ear, making him almost look like a caricature. But the cold eyes behind the mustache balanced out the look, going well with his plain black uniform and bicorne hat. Everyone immediately stopped what they were doing and came to attention, raising their right hands high in the air and shouting their hails to the heavens.
Dewey's tall black jackboots echoed on the white marble floor as he saluted back, clicking his heels. He then waved for everyone to go back to normal as he and his armed squad of officers made their way to the dining hall. They were soon followed by several of the biggest economic clans, such as the New Jersey-born Samuel Bush, CEO of the Bank of the Union.
Midas sighed. "
I guess it's time to get this show on the road," he thought to himself as he and Wilson began to walk down the stairs. Wilson was blustering on about Joe Steele's campaign in California while Midas was lost in thought. "
This is it. This is possibly the most important day of my life. Let's do this."
After about ten minutes, all the various officials were gathered around the long mahogany table. Aside from the food, the table sported massive golden eagles serving as candelabras, their wings seemingly afire from the flickering glow of the candles. The room was huge, some 1200 square feet, with dark red paisley wallpaper, white wainscotting,dark red short carpet, and a vaulted ceiling. An enormous portrait of Wyatt Masterson, the almost mythical lawman of the old West Florida Republic, hung on the wall opposite the window wall, showcasing him with his famous coonskin cap on, perched on a rock with a long rifle. Fresh scalps hung on his belt. Probably Frenchmen or Spaniards. A huge marble fireplace sat unlit at the end of the room, directly behind where Midas would be sitting. A portrait of a young President Custer, still sporting the long golden locks of the 1880s, held the place of honor above the mantle. It had been painted by request of the Bradbury family when the Atheling had stayed at the hotel years before. Below that was a frame with a flintlock pistol inside it, with an inscription below it saying the rusty, splintery gun belonged to George Washington and was used during the Battle of Boggy Swamp, where he had met his unfortunate demise so many years before, during the Franco-American War. The Bradbury Hotel had been open for decades, pretty much since the end of the Seminole conflicts, and it also served as the local museum, which explained the relics on every wall. Midas wondered if one day his own portrait would hang on those walls. He was ready to find out.
At that, the meeting began. Midas assumed his place at the head of the table at the host's chair and rang a small bell to interrupt all the nattering and eating going on. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, even though Richardson was the only lady present, "I have brought you here today for a singular purpose. This single purpose, I believe, may save our glorious Union! All hail!" All the people seated at the massive table raised their arms once more, saluting. Midas continued, saying, "I have brought you here today to discuss the final solution to the Inferior problem. A problem which, putting it lightly, is one of the most severe threats to our national security and our Manifest Destiny."
"Agreed!" said Newman, his mouth stuffed with turkey as he pounded his fist on the table.
"Uh, yes," Midas continued. "As I was saying, the Inferior is a grave risk to the continued security of the Betters of Society, God's Chosen. Now, in the last century, the devil's creations were needed to help rebuild society. The indignities rendered to us by the shatter of the Old Republic and the War of 1812 made Charles Goodyear's so-called New Slavery a necessity. There was no way we could have gotten out of the hole we were in if not for the heroic work ethic of the late Colonel Goodyear, all hail his patriotic-spirit and may he rest in peace till the New Jerusalem comes. For almost a hundred years, we worked the Inferior. We took the lowliest Irish, Italian, and mongoloid barbarian and enlightened his life with the belief that work would set them free to the Void in death. It was truly missionary work. We saved them. We did them a favor by taking them out of their pitiful sinful existence and imposing morality upon them. We set aside whole neighborhoods for them to live in peace, well-patrolled by our RUMP and ORRA officers! We curtailed their sinful ways and paid them for the sweat of their lowbrows. But it is as if all these years, after all we have done to serve them and better them, have flown straight out the window. As you all know, all over the Union, Infees have been taking up weapons against their Yahweh-given Betters and trying to spread their caustic diseases to the Betters by force. By taking up arms against the Union, they have slapped the face of God! Even Lucifer would not be so bold."
Hands slapped the table in a show of agreement with his disgust. Midas might have been a Jew, but he knew what these Christians wanted to hear.
"The only good Infee is a dead Infee!" roared Henry Willow, raising his beer glass to the sky. About a dozen others at the table voiced their agreement, cheering and clinking their glasses.
Midas chuckled slightly. "Yes, well, that is what I have brought you here to discuss."
The room went silent.
"I also want to discuss the actual gravest threat to our security, even graver than the rebellious Infees. The Quebec, or 'Beckie', Flu."
The room stayed silent. On everyone's faces came a look of sudden anxiety. Just remembering the epidemic made them think twice now about touching their glasses together or shaking hands. A servant in a nearby room let out a muffled cough and almost everyone squirmed in their seats just a little bit. Only Dewey sat motionless. He had seen his friend Horatio Hendrick pass of the flu not long ago. He just sat there, showing no emotion whatsoever.
Midas clapped his hands together to end the silence and then rubbed them together as he spoke. "I happen to have a dear, dear friend from England. His name is Joseph Kenneth Finch, one of the most celebrated doctors of Europe. He has come to our shores to carry on his research in the relative peace and stability we offer compared to the ever-shifting tides of the war in Europe. He's a genius, and his staff is excellent. They are some of the greatest medical professionals who have ever lived. But I digress. Ladies and gentlemen, the reason I mention him is because he is here, in attendance, and he will explain his purpose here. Please welcome Dr. Joseph Finch! Come in my dear friend!"
From out of a dimly lit hallway came a white-haired man with a long face and a mustache not yet quite as white as the rest of his hair. He was of average size and wore a gray three-piece tweed suit. Heavy bags under his eyes gave away the fact that he obviously worked harder than he should. He entered to some applause from the people at the table and took a seat by Midas at the head of the table.
The Englishman poured himself a glass of wine and took a calm sip before speaking. "Hello, my Anglo-Saxon kin. I am, as I'm sure you're now aware thanks to my good chum Dr. Goldstein, Dr. Joseph Finch, recipient of the London Medical Society's highest honors and a graduate of both London University of Medicine and the Stockholm Medical College. To put it simply, my associates and I believe we have isolated the bacteria that is causing the so-called Beckie Flu. We believe with adequate funding from your proletarian fascist government that we could have a usable vaccine ready by sometime early next year. If we have enough support, we could make this horrific flu a thing of the past and something no Better would have to worry about.
Dewey finally spoke from his seat at the other end of the table. "You sure this would work, doctor? Our brightest minds have had no luck figuring out a cure."
The Banking Clan's Sam Bush piped up now, too. "Indeed! The Banks have loaned out millions to scientists in a quest to further research the Beckie Flu, but that mission was not accomplished."
The weathered Finch smiled ever so slightly and answered, "Yes, we are sure. The field of medicine is constantly evolving. What is impossible one day may be possible the next."
"Have you tested a cure on anyone?" asked Quartermaster General Wilson, raising a skeptical eyebrow behind his glasses.
"Well," Finch began slightly reluctantly, "Not quite, dear chap. Pigs, or tasty porcine friends, are sadly able to carry the disease. When we tested the cure on them, 80% fully recovered. The problem with getting to try it on humans is no one is exactly standing in line, rolling up their sleeves, and telling me, 'Give me the flu, gov'ner.' We need clinical trials on humans immediately to finalize the vaccines."
Goldstein raised his hand to interrupt. "And I have located just such an ideal place for said clinical trials to take place. In Chersonesus, just south of Crawford City, there is an ORRA facility known as Camp 222. Right now, that is where some of the most hardened and vicious criminals and Inferiors in the country are held, as well as many prisoners of war. Within the month, if we gain approval today from patriotic-comrade Supreme Chief Dewey, we could have Finch, his crew, and myself hard at work, developing a cure for the Betters of Society by forcing the Inferior trash to once again serve their Betters with their very blood."
Dewey waved his hand dismissively, as if it didn't even phase him in its diabolical nature. "Do you think I care about what happens to those dogs in 222? The only reason I haven't ordered them thrown into ovens trucks is because it isn't worth my time to sign their death warrants. Doctors, if you can give us a cure, you can run 222 to your hearts' content."
Finch flashed a toothy smile. "Ahoy-hoy! That's what I like to hear! Thank you, sir!"
Midas slapped his approval on the table. "Thank you, Supreme Chief Dewey! We shan't disappoint you!"
Newman raised his hand, however, asking, "This cure would be grand, but I thought you said this was about solving our Inferior problem?"
"Ah!" Midas exclaimed, wagging his finger. "Excellent question, Supreme Justiciar! You see, this cure would be a cure for only the Betters of Society. We would let the infected ghettos cannibalize themselves and spread their lowbrow fluids until most of them die off."
Again there was a silence for a moment before Matilda Richardson asked, "What if it dies out? I'm no medical expert, but I know that in past inoculation efforts it has resulted in the weakening of the strain and its eventual extinction. If it dies out, we have some corpse piles to burn, but we still have revolting Inferiors, and now they wouldn't have a disease to keep their numbers in check. They could even rebound. Also, if the Betters of Society are easily attaining this inoculation, then couldn't that possibly further escalate matters into a full-blown civil war, as the Inferiors would literally be fighting for their lives?"
Fred Merkwürdigliebe spoke up finally, in his squeaky Westphalian accent. "
Ja! Perhaps, theoretically now, we could implement a program of sterilization? If we sterilize the vast majority - and don't vaccinate them as well - then the survival of the fittest would run its natural course,
ja, sending them to extinction. Just as the Great Flood drove the leviathans to extinction,
ja. Given a few decades, an Inferior could be just as endangered as, say, a Custer Lizard."
A hearty laugh rose up from the Union officials, toasting their beers to Merkwürdigliebe.
Goldstein rose from his chair, ready to unveil his master plan. "No. No, ladies and gentlemen, I must turn down those ideas, good as they may be. I do indeed have an effective strategy to implement a final solution for the Inferior Question. We will vaccinate them all."
A shocked rush of chatter struck the table, with several officials booing the idea, not realizing what Midas had up his sleeve.
The Man of Zion raised his hand to stop the commotion. "Gentlemen, please! Listen carefully! My plan is not fully revealed. We will not wait for the Inferior to die out while we inoculate, it will take far too long. We will not sterilize every Inferior because men don't stand in line to have their balls snipped and women don't like similar procedures either. You might as well shoot them, because that is farcical. No. In the coming new era, the new century, the Inferior has been outdated. Ask the clans. It is now far more efficient to have a loyal and happy Better do a job well and with skill than have 10 Inferiors do it with barely any training at all and just itching to kill us all. No, we will not wait. We will vaccinate them. And within these vaccines, made specially for them but bearing absolutely no difference visually from the vaccines for Betters, we will lace in a chemical cocktail that will guarantee they develop several, let's say, abnormalities. We'll cure them of Beckie Flu by giving them the cure for life as well."
Whatever was silence in the room before was now deafening. You could practically hear the beating hearts and the short-breaths of everyone seated at the table.
Dewey finally spoke. "Doctor Goldstein. You are proposing we give lethal injections to all Inferiors?"
"In a way," answered Goldstein matter-of-factually. "It would not kill immediately. Rather, it would give us time to distribute the vaccine on a wide scale so that we can give them the shots before they realize Uncle Reilly is lying on the kitchen floor."
Eric Newman even looked horrified. "You... you'd just... kill them all?" For a split second, his typical brash and bravado was replaced with stuttering and horror.
"Not all of them," said Goldstein. "We will always need expendable manual labor for large projects. But the day of the Inferior in the factory is gone. We have arrived at a new era. A spectacular new chance for humanity. When we win this war, the world will be sitting upon a giant ash heap. Only the Fascist Co-Prosperity Sphere and the Central Powers shall have the cure. Our Inferior problem will vanish. And we will stand as masters of our Manifest Destiny, unopposed and with our dear land stretching from sea to shining sea. Yes, gentlemen, the dreams of our fathers will be realized. A marvelous future where we will live in peace and harmony, secure in our loyalty to the state and President. A future where Americans might grow up and grow old without ever even seeing an Inferior in their entire lives. We might have been joking around earlier about a dead Inferior being a good Inferior, but this is a serious offer. Dr. Finch and I offer a final solution. Will you all be the generation to make America great, or will you sit by as Beutelists and anarchists and godless egoists run rampant, terrorizing God's Chosen Betters? As you all took your pastor's hand at one time or another to be baptized, I ask you to take mine now, as I offer a national baptism in blood. We purify and sanctify our lands, and make ready for the New Jerusalem. The Children of the Void have no place in this New Jerusalem. What say you all?"
Silence.
Slap. Dewey slapped his hand against the table, voicing approval.
Another
slap. Now it was Richardson.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap. Slap.
Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.
Before long, the entire dining hall was full of men smacking their hands on that mahogany table as the Union government began the first steps toward building the New Jerusalem and Dr. Goldstein was about to acquire the nickname of "The Black Jew of Camp 222."
