That’s all you get for the price of admission. If you want the rest of the story, hard copy is available, post paid from Greigh Area Associates or Piracy Press, for Fifteen United $tates Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” (U$LT) in check or money order, or Three Quarters of a Silver Dollar, in silver coin. Send your U$LT to Gene Greigh, c/o Greigh Area Associates // 401 Rio Concho Drive, Suite 105; San Angelo, Texas; 76903
I’m sorry. I know that was abrupt. But after the work I put into this I’m not about to give the whole thing away. I’m delighted to share, of course, but I’ve also developed a taste for groceries and electricity and leisure. And while I look forward to having tax victims supporting me soon, I still would like to indulge myself in a manner to which I have yet to become accustomed. So hurry! Write your checks or otherwise stuff those envelopes and send in your U$LT.
Business may be business, and I may be no good at it, but I’d still like to ease your withdrawal with just a few more tastes…
first, fromChapter VIII, “Panem et Circensis”
Team Sherman, The Confederate Mint™, Owensville
“Call Hygiene and get this cleaned up.” Lieutenant Ascik stepped out from the back room. “I’m not waiting for accounting. I need to start taking inventory now. And pictures! Lots of pictures! This is too rich! It’s not just guns and drugs and cash this time. They’ve got a mint back here! Literally! Hydraulic press, it looks like, and coin blanks, and piles of bullion! What’s his problem?” Ascik noticed that only one of his squad was still in the shopfront of The Confederate Mint™ while the other two were outside. One was kneeling over the gutter.
“Hygiene’s on their way.” Sergeant Tompkins looked out front and shook her head. “Gotta remember, LT, only seventy percent of us are combat vets. First time can be pretty rough.”
“Yeah.” Ascik nodded. “Yeah, sure. When he’s feeling better tell him… tell him he gets a gold star for puking outside. It stinks enough in here as it is. Anyway, I gotta call this in, tell Mr Tatum personally. We’ve just hit the mother lode AND uncovered a major nest of domestic terrorists! What do you say, Mr VanDerGroot, you got that safe combination for me yet?”
Barney sat still with his hands cuffed behind him. He looked down at the dead customers littering his lobby, then back up at Lieutenant Ascik. He said nothing.
“Well, just think on it some more.” Ascik snickered, then turned back to Tompkins. “When Rose is on his feet, have him and Voorhees drag these out to the street and start airing this place out. I can’t wait for Hygiene, I need to get started in the back.”
After he left her, Tompkins noticed that Rose was indeed standing again, with Voorhees patting him on the back. She stepped out to convey the LT’s orders.
She nodded to Barney as she exited, and he reflexively nodded back. He then chided himself for the courtesy, as he had just witnessed this woman and her companions walk into his shop and murder his clientele before he could reach his own piece. He chided himself for his courtesy, and he damned himself for his generosity in giving his aide the afternoon off. With another gun hand hidden in the back, maybe… No, thought Barney, that just would have gotten him killed too. With any luck he’s far away from this mess.
Barney sat and watched quietly as the Feds dragged out his customers and propped open the doors to vent the stench. Officer Voorhees stayed outside while Rose and Tompkins came back in to watch over the assets and to wait for Hygiene.
Rose meandered around the shop, gawking at the displays of old and rare coins. Finally, no longer able to resist temptation, he walked around the counter and pulled out a tray. “Geez! There’s gotta be millions in this shop, just sitting around and going to waste. Just so preppers can feel secure. Imagine all the people that could be helped by this money. This kind of hoarding is criminal.”
“Help yourself, boy.” Barney smiled at the boy’s shocked expression. Since the beginning of the operation, this old man hadn’t said a word. The shooting hadn’t lasted but for a few seconds, during which time the old geezer had moved maybe two feet before LT had his gun against his chest. He’d just sat, and never said a word. Until now. “Sure thing they’re not gonna let me have any of it.”
“Not yours to give, old man.”
“Was mine up until a few minutes ago, and I probably wouldn’t have given it to you then. But that was before you buccaneers boarded me sloop.” Barney smiled again, and squinted one eye, and snarled. “Arr! Matey! Load up yer kit with a few choice doubloons, why don’t ye? The Captain’ll nivver suspect a thing!”
Rose picked up one of the gold pieces from the tray and examined it closely. A bead of saliva formed at the corner of his lips.
“Don’t even think about it, Joe.” Officer Tompkins pointed to the security camera at the corner of the shop. “Ten bucks says that’s one of the Algorithm’s eyes by now. You try to palm that coin and Queen City’ll pop your collar faster than you can make a furtive gesture towards your waistband.”
“Ten bucks? Hah!” Barney laughed and snorted. “A hundred says it’s not! I never hooked it up. That’s just a dodge to fake out my insurance. Smith and Wesson are my security team. Go ahead, son, take it! What can it hurt?”
“And a fat lot of good they did you, too.” Lieutenant Ascik appeared suddenly from out of the back. Officer Rose returned the coin he was studying and slid the tray back under the counter. “Nice to hear you talking, Mr VanDerGroot. You ready to open that safe for us or are you going to make us cut it open? Seems like that would be a terrible waste of a perfectly good safe.”
Barney went back to not talking.
nothing for you fromChapter IX, “A Rabble in Arms”
but from Chapter X, “Live Fire Field Trip”
Trailervana
For as long as they’d lived on Binder Creek, the Langdons had always flown two matching flags every day. Fronting the street on a thirty-foot pole was one, and from the corner of their deck on the water flew its mate.
Sweet D loved the Confederate Cross just as much as he did the Stars and Stripes. During his time in the navy, the Rebel Rag was generally little more than an historical curiosity. Then, people rarely took notice of the tattoo on his left arm. If folks were polite about it, D could go on and on about vexillology and history and the Constitution and the Tenth Amendment. The few times anyone ever gave him any grief over it, he would see them — with the Nifty Fifty on his right, and raise them — both fists. They would invariably realize that he was not bluffing, and fold.
But Norma G did not play poker and she was not convinced that it was a good idea to put that flag over her house. Sweet D had no problems with skin color, but she still didn’t want the neighbors thinking they were racists anyway. However, after a year or so of his mixing them up with a multitude of other flags, including Soviet and Nazi flags (of all things, to commemorate “Space Holidays”) and getting little resistance over them, she stopped objecting. Like it ever did any good.
One sunny June 20th, long before the formation of the Binder Creek Security Association, Doc Broese had steeled his nerves to walk up from Paradise Canyon to point out to the hicks that they had missed Hitler’s birthday by two months.
“Oh!” D had laughed. “You mean my Swastika? That’s for Peenemun-Day!”
“Peene — what?”
“Peenemunde! First time Man put an artifact – the V2 missile — into space! That’s why von Braun was spared the war trials. You think I’d celebrate Hitler’s birthday? Lord have mercy! I’d sooner put up a pot leaf or a Charlie Chaplin flag on Four Twenty than anything for the little corporal!”
During the six days running up to Decoration Day (generally known outside the Langdon household as “Memorial Day”) they would proudly fly the Battle Flag of Lee the Abolitionist. On Decoration Day itself they would just as proudly switch to the Union Flag of Grant the Slave-Master and fly that one for seven days. But that wouldn’t be until Monday.
And that is seriously all you get.
You get nothing from Chapter XI, “It Takes a Pillage”
Or from Chapter XII, “The Greater Good”
I told ya, it ya wanna read the rest of it you’re gonna have ta pony up. It’s just a measly Fifteen Bucks, or just three Silver Quarters! Whatya got ta lose? The address is all the way at the top, or right here below!
These comments are sponsored byThe Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead). For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates, c/o Gene Greigh // 401 Rio Concho Drive, Suite 105; San Angelo, Texas; 76903
The statistical links between tobacco use and cancers had been well established, long before the birth of Dylan Huang or the conception of the Algorithm. As orthodoxy, it weighed heavily toward tax liability in the modern healthcare state. Given the authority over Orange Flags granted Recovery Officers, and the history of lung cancers in his family, Atari decided to exercise a little discretion.
Dylan’s flight continued to patrol the remains of the tent city. The hygiene patrol had mostly removed the remains of the initial assault, but the skeletal drone presence continued to watch for RFI tags. “Just like roaches in the laundry room. You’ll think you’ve cleaned ’em out, over and over again, but as you turn on the lights the next morning they’re scuttling back under the dryer. You think your zone is quiet? Check it again.”
As his birds reached the walls of Bruno Arena again, he put them back on autopilot for a slow lift and scan. He stole a glance over at Mr Tatum and Colonel Michaels and saw that they were busy with the Super Barrio Mothers. Juan and Jesus were squabbling over game points. Dylan plugged in his flashdrive and typed “[ctrl][alt]CRAB.” While his keyboard booped in complaint at the odd request, his processor nevertheless loaded and activated subroutine Crab. The bulk of his flight continued their tiresome circuit back over smoldering Katz Square while his chosen birds peeled off from the flock and started cruising up Siegel.
Colonel Michaels had thoroughly hectored them at the start of the afternoon. “The Red Flags and the Green Flags are pretty clear cut and we’ll leave them to the Algorithm and the officers in the field. Once we get into the secondary phase a lot more will rest on us. Remember gentlemen, and Miss Diamond, no one gets Capped for recovering Red Flags, and everybody gets Capped for collecting Green. As for Orange, what can I tell ya? Enrichment is not wanton destruction or thoughtless disposal. We get nothing by wasting resources. We also get nothing for dithering indecision, so keep your flocks moving over your zone and stay alert.
“Also, we have to think past the next Census, and after that, too. The Homeland Economic Recovery Office looks to the farther horizon. We want what’s best from this mess. Any Orange Flag fast, smart, or lucky enough to get past the perimeter of the Summary Zone gets transferred to Processing for a closer look. America has spent too many generations thwarting the wisdom of natural selection. Let’s tilt things back towards nature again, shall we? Bounties up and watch your Caps!”
So the afternoon went.
The Guthrie brothers squabbled over their personal rivalry but kept on producing for the Algorithm. Forest Donovan and Drew Seeger both cackled fiendishly. “Like the hillbillies they are,” thought Dylan. Atari was only partly correct. Pong was indeed from east Tennessee, a fact he celebrated. He also claimed to be a native of the “State of Franklin” and seemed delighted that no one else but Mr Tatum and Colonel Michaels seemed to know what he was talking about. (Yarrow recognized the reference from Sister Merle’s rants but elected not to be impressed.) Game Boy, though he had spent his adolescence in Connecticut, and evinced as much contempt for “hillbillies” as did Dylan, had been born in and spent most of his childhood in Alabama.
“Hey Jude,” said X-box when she’d returned from the washroom. She leaned back at her station and pushed her keyboard away. Subroutine Jude allowed the mic on her throat to pick up subvocal commands.
“Hello, Little Girl!” responded Jude.
“Subroutine ‘Three Scoops Rice’ please.”
“With their piggy wives?” Jude requested full authorization.
“Let it be.” Yarrow smiled, and her birds detached themselves from the charging station atop Bruno Arena. They began to patrol the milling crowds in Auldtown. Each drone broadcast a pilot signal that activated radio frequency identifiers, in civilians’ phones or bankcards, or implanted under their skin. When Three Scoops Rice picked up a ping, Jude checked HIPPA files (originally sold to protect patient privacy) to see if their Body Mass Indices met Her Majesty’s lethal criteria.
The QuikkStopp™ by the Interstate
The tables at Pastry Pat’s and Chik’n’n’Biskits were still crowded, though less so. Some of the remaining patrons continued to nibble at their meals, though many seemed to have lost their appetites.
Muted conversations drifted over to Chuck’s till, where he idled on his stool. No one dared approach the cordon of blue lights outside. The public could get their gasoline and cigarettes well outside the Zone. Since the general impoundment, captors and hostages alike helped themselves to the goods on the shelves. Sergeant Campigno had assigned a couple of subordinates to watch the cooler, though. Bad enough he might have to deal with a frightened panic. He didn’t need them liquored up and extra stupid, to boot. The beer was mainly embargoed, but also selectively used as inducement.
“Last of the hot chicken!” announced the officer, his arms laden with boxes from Chik’n’n’Biskits. “We’re shutting down the kitchen! What do you say, gents?”
Seated behind the till with Chuck Partridge, Dominic looked up from his pad and smiled at the man. “Sure, Mel! Set us up!” The man lay out a couple of paper plates, filled them, and continued spreading joy and hot chicken among the crew.
Dom reached forward and began gnawing on a chicken leg and continued to study his pad. It presently showed a schematic of the shop’s carwash, indicating flow patterns, standing room, and drainage capacity. “Four-inch drain is a problem,” he mumbled around his mouthful. He noticed that Partridge wasn’t eating. “Lose your appetite, Birdman? I don’t blame you. This is a pretty stressful – ”
“Christ no! It’s nothing like that.” He sneered at the plates. “I just can’t handle Chik’n’n’Biskits is all.”
“What? You mean all that ‘family values’ and ‘closed on Sundays’ stuff? You’re no leftie! Since when do you care about any of that?”
“Since never. I don’t mind they’re closed on Sundays. I don’t like working on my day off either. No, I don’t eat their crap because I don’t respect them, and I don’t trust them. I especially don’t trust them.”
Dominic was leaning over his plate and shoveling in coleslaw. He stopped and stared at Chuck. He looked at his plate. “Trust them? You think they — ?”
Chuck laughed. “No! No, it’s nothing like that, nothing intentional. It’s systemic. Idiots can’t spell simple seven letter words like ‘chicken’ and ‘biscuit’ — how am I supposed to trust them with eleven herbs and spices?”
Dominic guffawed, spewing half chewed chicken and coleslaw across the counter and lobby floor. After getting his choking laughter under control, Dom resumed eating and studying his pad. Presently, he stood and stretched, then beckoned to a couple of his men. “Mine about half a dozen deep orange flags outa that crowd for rendition work. Get… uh, get ten volunteers and trot ’em around the long way to the back. Pop the slowest two. Use them for training and inspiration. Tell the remaining eight that the fastest seven get to go home tonight.”
“Got it, Sarge!” The man moved toward the tables and invited those who wanted to live to join them for some messy work. After they’d collected their conscript workers, they marched them out the front and ran them around the building.
“Dang!” Dom sat down again next to Chuck. “I wish I could put you on that detail, Birdman, but just barely red is still red.”
“No Caps for Red Flags.” Chuck looked calmly into Dominic’s eyes.
“Doesn’t help, you bein’ all serene and shit, you know.”
“Sorry. I appreciate the hell out of it, Dom. Really I do.”
“Sure. What else, right? Still, it’d be nice to free up another slot on my DR list. Just in case, you know. You never know…”
“You never know.”
Team McClellan, Bobb’s Woods, by the Interstate
Kandi held her right hand out and moved her left to her belt buckle. “Toe of the holster snaps to my leg,” she said. “Don’t want to drop my piece in the dirt.”
“Alright. Slowly then. Just hold your buckle with your right hand and swing your left around, that’s it. Now ease it all down to the ground and step back.”
As Kandi complied, she continued talking. “You boys could get into a lot of trouble messing with the law. I’m sure we can sort this out without me getting all Barny Fife on ya’ll. This is all county forest, so I know I’m not trespassing. I don’t smell moonshine. And weed’s been legal for three years now, so if this is a grow operation, you’re a little behind the curve, bro.”
“Federal agents, ma’am.” Two men walked out of the forest above Kandi and skid-walked down to her side. One picked up her service revolver and began to unload it while the other stood back and watched. He keyed a switch on his vest and spoke again. “Team McClellan, this is Squad Busiek. We got what looks like a local LEO in custody along the Ridge Trail east of Binder.”
“Run a metric on him; let’s see what you got. Standing by.”
“Negative on the ‘him’ McClellan. This LEO’s a she, black female, young, healthy, Deputy Sheriff. Metric reads deep green. Kick her loose or bring her in?”
“Escort her downslope to the Interstate. Deliver her to Squad ‘Rhino’ for now. The Algorithm has identified several oath-keepers, constitutionalists, and other potential insurgents in your area. Be careful, no telling who might find you.”
Nicholson Center, Auldtown, Friday evening
It seemed like most of the trim, the hale, and tourists had been escorted out of Auldtown. Brian James sat and waited for the Officers to let him go. He fingered the scar on the back of his hand as he pondered his fate. The injection site had at first stung like hell, but that soon faded. The chip sat just under the dermis, its radio frequency response circuitry just waiting for a little flux to power it up.
When the whistle first went off that afternoon and the troops showed up and converged on the tent city sprawling out of Katz Square and seeping into the shadows of Bruno Arena, almost everybody in Auldtown cheered them on.
The cheering quickly turned to gasps of horror as incendiary drones buzzed the encampment and hazmat suited troops moved forward sweeping away campsites and campers alike with their flame throwers. The screaming and the crackling from the fire were soon drowned out by intermittent gunfire. The crowd stood in shocked silence when the troops finally crossed Siegel Boulevard and started separating and herding the residents of Auldtown.
As the officers checked IDs, Brian began to pick up on some of their comments about green, orange, and red flags. The Green Flags were treated like the One Percent, thought Brian, as the officers tended to speak to them politely and assisted them into the waiting cars. Orange flags (like Brian, apparently) were unknowns and questionable. They were hustled and moved and herded from one holding facility to the next as the Operation wore on and the Zone Perimeter was periodically tightened. Occasionally names were called out of the Orange herd, but for the most part they sat and waited while red flags were loaded onto buses which departed in the opposite direction of the cars carrying the Greens.
“Red Flags are Red Shirts,” Brian knew his Trek lore, “and red shirts are dead shirts.” He sat drumming his fingers on the tabletop in the food court in Nicholson Center, fidgeting through nicotine withdrawal, when the overhead lights came back on. As the whine of the generators abated, the incandescent floods winked out and the flickering fluorescents reasserted their authority.
“Power’s back up!” The HERO officer watching the crowd spoke softly into his collar. “Roger that.” He jumped onto the countertop. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to report that the first phase of the Recovery Operation is concluded, and most folks have been processed. Queen City – central operations – reports that we are way ahead of schedule and under budget so things should be looking up for most of us.” As he spoke the soft background music of the mall resumed and musical tones drifted up from the crowd as cell phones came back to life. “We still got a long way to go, so bear with us. New perimeters have been established and shelter-in-place has been lifted so ya’ll can go about what business ya can as the Op gets a little more casual. BUT,” he raised both his voice and his finger, “those perimeters are still fixed, and we have orders to shoot on sight anyone attempting to pass unescorted. So continue to give Homeland Officers your full cooperation. Bottom line, you’re all free to move about within the Zone, but passage out is still on a case by case basis.” He paused and grinned at the crowd. “More good news! Now that power and coms have been restored, concessions is back in business! Good luck, folks, and God Bless you all!”
The frustrated waiting Orange Flag crowd applauded the news vigorously. Many rose from their places and began to meander toward the exits. Recovery Officers checked IDs as the people left Nicholson Center into the cool evening air.
“Thank God! I am dying here!” Brian went directly to the concessions counter and said to the officer there, “Llama Llights™, please.”
“Lights?” The officer looked at the cigarette displays and back to Brian.
“I see Llama…”
Brian sighed. “Llama Bllue™.”
“ID please?”
Brian lay the back of his hand on the countertop scanner. As his chip entered the electromagnetic field, the flux activated the circuitry in the implanted grain and it sang out its electrical signature for the scanner, identifying both Brian and his intended buy. The scanner’s computer checked with Brian’s bank, and also with the central credit registry. Those computers dutifully reported Brian’s tobacco purchase to the computers at the departments of Homeland Security, Treasury, and Health and Human Services, who all eagerly shared their new datum with the Algorithm.
Subroutine Crab caught wind of it and scuttled back to share the news with Atari. Atari’s console pinged and an orange dot appeared on his screen.
“Gotcha, butthead!” Dylan took manual control of a bird and left the rest of the pack on auto, to hover over Katz or to cruise up Siegel. He turned his live bird back toward Nicholson and started hunting bounty.
The Upper Upper Valley (“Gay Springs”), Binder Creek
The oven went dark just as Michael was checking his roast. Chad was supposed to have been home by now. Why hadn’t he called? He must have gotten caught in holiday traffic. From Binder Creek to Leighsburg Staple & Spice shouldn’t take Chad anywhere near the Interstate. Unless he decided he wanted wine with dinner. The he’d have to leave their dry county and cut into Kupper at Toth. That would take him over the I but not onto it. Still, just approaching it could get one snarled up around the entries.
Michael picked up his phone and found it dead, too. He went around the house and flipped switches. As he headed downstairs to check the circuit breakers, he heard loud ringing in the wine cellar.
“Sweet D in the morning! What does he want?” Michael stepped into the cellar and flipped up the cover to the shouting tube that ran into the basement wall. “What do you say, Big D? You got the Greene House on the tube!”
“Mr Mike?” Darryl Anne’s frightened voice quavered out of the tube. “Big Daddy says they’re coming for us. The Feds!”
“Say again, sweetheart? Who’s coming?”
“The government, Mr Mike. Daddy says Baby D saw them kill Mr Howard and Red and they’re probably gonna work their way up the valley. You need to find out who’s home and tell ’em and then Daddy says meet him at Puck’s Notch.”
“This for realz, honeybunch?”
“Your phone dead, too, Mr Mike? The lights go out?”
“Tell Sweet D I’ll see who’s home up here. And then I’ll see him at Puck’s.”
The “Bat Cave” under the Langdon residence, Trailervana,
Seven years before passage of the HERO Act
Baby D had had no intention of frightening Miss Calculation. He and Larry G were involved in some squabble of their own. It was an enormously urgent yet utterly forgettable sibling dispute. While chasing his brother down the steps and under the deck and past the root cellar, Baby D stepped on the cat’s tail. Yowling and hissing, Callie dashed into the cellar and squirmed through the gap under the bricks. She just skirted the constant trickle and disappeared into the opening.
“D!” Larry G screamed at his brother. “You left the cellar door open!”
“You left it open!” answered Darryl Junior. “You better get the cat outa there or Big Daddy’s gonna kick your ass.”
“He’s gonna kick YOUR ass! He left YOU in charge, di’n’t he?”
“Then I’ll just kick YOUR ass now! How ‘bout that, huh?”
“Shut up! We gotta get ’er outa there.” Larry knelt over the tiny rill running from the wall and peered into the hole. He turned his head and looked up at Baby D. “Go get me a flashlight.” Then he put his face into the hole and began to call. “C’mon Callie! Miss Calculation! Callie Pot Pie! Nothin’ for kitties in there, just yuck and ick and wet! Come on, be a good kitty! Come on outa there!”
“Nothin’ for kitties but tasty bugs and lizards.”
Baby D handed him the flashlight. “Any sign of her?”
“I can’t see her. I can hear her complaining. You kick her or what?” Larry G squirmed on the ground and readjusted himself, placed the light just inside the hole and then pushed it a little aside. When he looked again he could see that things opened up a bit behind the wall. “It’s not so little in here, D, and – Oh, there ya are, puss. Come on, kitty. Shit!”
“What happened?”
He crawled back out and stood up. “Hole seems pretty big back there, looks like it goes back some. Cat run up into it and disappeared.”
“Let me see.” Baby D dropped to his knees and looked in. Then he reached in for the light, but fumbled it, and it rolled to the side. “Damn!”
“Now what?”
“Shut up. I dropped the light. Hang on.” He stretched into the hole. He had real hopes that Miss Calculation would eventually get hungry enough to come back out, but he feared it might not be before Sweet D and Norma G got home. As he strained to reach the flashlight his shoulder filled the opening. Willing his arm to grow, Baby D clenched his teeth and muttered Big Daddy’s and Colonel Daniels’ and Chief Pelican’s ripest curses under his breath and –
The brick wall gave way. Not much of it, but enough to release Baby D’s shoulder and to allow him to grab the flashlight before he realized that he was being rained on by bricks. He swore as he scrambled to his feet. “Oh, sweet shit for Christmas! Sweet D is gonna beat us black and bloody! We are so fucking fucked it’s not fucking funny!”
“How’s the flashlight?”
Baby D raised the light like a cudgel, then relaxed his arm and sighed. They both knelt before the hole again and looked in. “It’s not so bad, I guess. We just ‘fess up right away. That helps. And we gotta fix this, but…” D fingered the decaying mortar. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple hours work, and – hey!”
More mortar flaked down as G pulled more bricks out of the opening. “I think I can get through here now.” He squirmed in after his cat, turned around inside, and reached out. “Give me the light.”
“What are you doing? Don’t we already have a big enough problem to fix?”
“Big Daddy’s not gonna whoop us any extra for the bigger hole, and I’m going after Callie if I can. Gimme the light.”
Team Sherman, Moses Manor, Auldtown
When Thai’Rhone woke up he knew that it would be his lucky day. He’d been trying to get out of Moses Manor for as long as he’d lived there. Public housing may sound like a nice idea, but the neighborhood never quite lives up to the promise. Their little apartment was tight enough already when it was just him and his sister and her boyfriend. When the babies started arriving it became unbearable. He loved his sister, and he loved her babies, and he even loved her baby daddy. But he still had to get out.
Getting out involved money, though, and money, beyond his monthly UBI, meant a decent job. If things worked out, maybe he could finally get out of the Manor, and out of Auldtown, and maybe even out of the Redge altogether. If he really made it big, he thought he might like to help out Mush-El and Vickter and their kids. So Thai’Rhone hit the want ads and the internet and the street and he hustled and hunted. And hunted. And hunted.
Vickter and his peeps gave him no end of shit. “How you breave in dem pants? The man don’ give a shit you dress white! Why should you? Hang wif us, blood!”
“Ek-scuse-me-sirrr!” Antjuan would ape Thai’Rhone’s “honky” accent when he tried to reason with them, which only encouraged Thai to talk to them less.
Mush-El was great. She’d cut his dreads for him, despite Vickter’s insistence that he was selling out. She picked out his clothes and tried to keep the kids quiet when he studied, and even got into it with Vick a couple of times when he tried to bring his crew around the crib. It was rocky and arduous, but Thai persisted.
After months of work and research and preparation, this day was going to be special. Armed with his freshly minted coding certificate, he had aced the telephone interview and they had insisted that he come in Friday afternoon for the face to face. As he rose that morning, he only wished it could be nine-thirty instead of three thirty. It gave him the whole day to fidget. And prepare!
The folks at TeleMek™ couldn’t have been more delightful. Or more delighted with Thai’Rhone. They offered him an eye-popping salary, told him to have a great holiday weekend, and to report Tuesday morning sharp at nine. By the time his bus got back to Donenfeld and turned up toward the Manor he had decided to kick off the best weekend in history by taking Mush-El and Vickter (if he was around) and the kids out for dinner. But when the bus stopped in front of the Manor and he was met coming off by a cordon of angry policemen, and he was hustled into the courtyard with scores of his neighbors, his mood darkened.
Inside the vast inner courtyard, surrounded by the gray cinderblock towers of Moses Manor, Thai finally migrated to a corner near the strange new officers. He could hear one of them talking, though it seemed to be to no one in particular.
“That’s right, Mr Winter. We’ll send you the bus directly after the selections. Yes sir, already cleared it with the Colonel. That’s right. Yeah, the medicals have been cleared out and sent down to WheinGhust’s or KU Med already. Ah-huh. Yes sir, about three hundred left, all healthy tax eaters. Ha ha! Yes sir, we will! Ah-huh. Thirty-six seats on the bus. Do you mind if I ask you, sir? Those you can’t use…? Ah. I see. Out of the zone and out of reach. Well, sure, I guess that’s fair. Ah-huh. Oh yes sir, we will! We will! Frankly sir, this is gonna be more fun than collecting those inbred hillbillies at the TV studio. And probably even better for the gene pool, eh? Yes sir. Yes sir, of course. Thank you, sir, we will directly.”
While the man was talking to his ghost, Thai’Rhone recognized Vickter’s slouch across the courtyard. His back was toward Thai but he could be seen talking to his friends Antjuan and TrayVaughn. By the time Thai had reached them Vickter had turned and seen him. “Blood! They take ’em!”
“What!”
“Popo! They come in the crib an’ take Mush-El an’ the babies!”
“Taken? Where?”
“LISTEN UP!” A group of officers, led by the one Thai had heard talking to the unseen Mr Winter, moved into the center of the crowded courtyard. One of the officers plucked a man from the crowd, threw him to the ground and shot him in the head. Stunned, many of the crowd surged forward but the cadre formed a ring around their commander and his victim and shot a couple more of the group and everybody else stood down and carefully watched and listened to the men with the guns. As the shots still echoed off the concrete walls an officer spoke softly. “That was the first favor we’re going to do all of us today. Now I’m sure that everybody still standing believes that I mean it when I tell you that I am holding all of your lives in my hands right now. No questions? Excellent. In fact, I’m not gonna ask any questions either. I’m just gonna assume that every last one of you is determined to do just exactly what I tell ya.” He pointed to a line of his men standing alongside one edge of the courtyard. “I want you to line up in nine even rows in front of my guys over there, facing them. Now. Go!”
For the most part, the crowd hustled to follow their instructions. A few stubbornly and defiantly moseyed, strutted even, and found themselves at the ends of the lines. Thai ended up third from the front, with Vickter and Antjuan right behind him.
The officer in charge whispered to his aide for a moment, then muttered into his collar. “I said even!” Four of his men shot the last one or two in the ragged lines.
“Now that’s better!” He continued, smiling at the crowd. “Now we’ve just done ya’ll another favor. Every breath you take, your odds improve. Of course, honestly, it’s probably not much of an improvement. Those draggy assed slackers at the ends of the lines weren’t exactly your git ‘er done types, now were they? Whoops! I’m sorry! I said no more questions. Still every little bit helps.” He slapped his hands together and began to pace in front to the attentive crowd. “We’ve just thinned you down to exactly two hundred and eighty-eight. There are thirty-six seats on that bus, to take some of you out of the zone and into maybe a long and happy life. May you live happily ever after. Or maybe you’ll end up drunk passed out drowned in a ditch next year. That wouldn’t surprise me either. Anyway, it’s up to you. At least you’re getting a chance. Unlike…” He gestured to the corpses on the ground. Every dead body remained where it had dropped. “Now then, we’re gonna have a foot race, and in order to squeeze the good and bad luck out of this exercise, we’re gonna do this in nine heats. And we don’t want to be tripping over bodies, so we’re gonna have to clear the field. I want a few volunteers to drag your homies over to the breezeway.” He pointed to the arch under the tower leading out of the projects and onto Donenfeld.
Thai had put up his hand, as well as several others. He was not chosen but ended up not regretting it as all the volunteers were returned to the ranks. Like him, he was sure they had all hoped to curry favor with their captors. Notably, neither Vickter nor Antjuan had volunteered. They maintained their characteristic sullen slouches. As usual, the two small fingers of their right hands were each curled casually into waistband security grips just below their hips. Vickter had ridiculed Thai’Rhone’s button down collar and slacks and leather belt earlier that morning. Thai now reflected even more favorably on the notion of dressing like a grown-up.
The first few heats were organized, and Thai watched enviously as winners were seated on the bus, and solemnly as losers were led off. Early resisters were wounded and dragged painfully as an object lesson for others to cooperate. “There ARE fates worse than death,” pointed out the officer in charge, “but fortunately they also end in death, so there is that peace.” Four winners from each heat were seated, but sometimes losers were declared in advance of the finish line. Thai watched one competitor come up from behind another and slam his fist into the back of his head, dropping him to the ground. When it was clear to the nearest officer that he wasn’t getting up soon, he simply shot him where he lay.
Because they were near each other at the time of the announcement, and though generally sluggardly on their own, they were chastened by Thai’s energy. Antjuan and Vick ended up near enough him that they were all chosen for the same heat. Crouching at the starting line, and increasingly aware of both the stakes and the emerging rules of this game, Thai attempted to turn his peripheral vision up to eleven. How he wished he had changed out of these expensive dress shoes that he had worn on his (successful!) butt-kissing expedition, but at least the ground was dry. If he avoided the various blood spills on the ground.
The starting pistol cracked, and they commenced to run. Off to his right he caught a shadow of Vickter smacking another runner in the side of his head. Vick surged away as his victim staggered aside. From Thai’Rhone’s left, another shadow loomed. As he ducked, bouncing off his hands and back up into a sprint, a meaty arm swung wide over his head. He accelerated and looked around as much as he could afford. He didn’t have to be first, but… The field immediately around him was clear and he was making good time. He saw the first runner from his heat cross the line. From his right Vickter came cutting away from Antjuan, who went down in a tumble just short of Vick’s feet as he capered sideways in front of Thai. Thai and Vickter were closing in on the line when Thai caught sight of the second and third men crossing. Thai reached out and pulled at Vickter’s arm, breaking his grip on his waistband so that his trousers slipped and he tripped over himself just short of the line. Thai’Rhone hopped over him and landed safely on the other side.
Seated on the bus with the others, Thai said nothing and no one else did either. Except two at the front who seemed to be ranking and handicapping the players coming after them. Thai simply sat and struggled to not be sick. What would he say to Mush-El when he saw her? Would he ever see her again? He sighed and wept as he sat and no one else on the bus gave him any shit over it. Plenty of them were weeping too. He’d had no idea how lucky when it had started, but it WAS his lucky day. He almost wished it wasn’t.
Judge Angelo Novello shook his head and smiled. “I don’t understand, Campbell, didn’t the Ninth Circuit used to be on your side?”
“If the Supremes uphold the injunction, what happens to our tax cut?”
“The measure is completely severable, so the cuts will stand. Of course, without spending cuts it doesn’t make any difference. One way or another we’re going to pay for it, even if they inflate the debt away.”
“Then what’s your prediction, Judge?” asked Campbell. “Will the High Court uphold the injunction, or deliver the HERO Act intact and in toto?”
“HERO Act.” Novello grimaced. “Calling it a ‘HERO’ Act. That’s almost offensive enough by itself. American Partisan politics has been replete with lies since its inception. The founders of America’s first political party were all central authority nationalists, but they called themselves ‘Federalists,’ in spite of it. That left the actual federalists (including the authors of the Kentucky and Virginia Resolution themselves, probably the strongest federalist statements in American legal history) to call themselves ‘Democratic Republicans’ which survives today as the Democrat party, the oldest living political party on Earth.”
Campbell laced her fingers together. “Where are you going with this, Judge?”
“It’s just that, as those contrary names stuck, so too did the mendacious traditions of our bipartisan representatives. They continue to flaunt their falsehoods, from the PATRIOT Act (which was anything but if you had any respect for the Bill of Rights), to the ‘Affordable’ Care Act, to Net Neutrality. Rest assured, Campbell, if the Congress passed a ‘Puppies and Rainbows Act’ a careful reading of the bill would reveal its true designs to incinerate enough puppies to put enough smoke into the air to make rainbows invisible.”
The Mind of the Algorithm, Cyberspace
After receiving its final input from the Congress Assembled, the Algorithm selected the primary Reconstruction Zone, but its work was far from over.
It began a closer evaluation of the demographics of the region. It looked at weather related and other natural catastrophes. At the history of the region, as Union and Rebel and Tribal and Colonial and Imperial forces had all left casualties in their wakes. At infestations and floods and crop failures and famines. At failing and marginal industrial centers and at the concentrations of tax eating liabilities queueing up for disability and unemployment and AFDC and WIC and EBT and HeadStart. Which neighborhoods had the highest ratios of assets to income and which were closest to retirement or the most on relief? The Algorithm studied the statistical correlations between racial groups and their proclivities to diabetes and sickle-cell anemia and melanoma. Which neighborhoods consumed the most tobacco and alcohol and ibuprofen and diet cola? Which workplaces reported the most accidents? Where were the most heavily populated nursing homes, sanitaria, and retirement villages?
As it answered these questions it shared its decisions with the Revenue Officers, tasked with their twin missions of Resource Recovery and Tax Base Enrichment. They erected barriers across side streets and along embankments, strung tape down the centers of boulevards, and diverted traffic out of the zone or in deeper for processing.
As the Revenue Officers patrolled the perimeter and prosecuted their writs, they reported their progress to the Algorithm. It tracked the operation overall and constantly reassessed and redefined the mission. Sometimes it closed off whole regions to further processing, and sometimes it declared a local natural disaster.
Team Sheridan, Squad Whiteman, Zone Perimeter Patrol
“Urkel, you copy?”
Hakim keyed his vest and sighed. “This is Whiteman. Go.” He held up his rifle and his squad halted.
“Algorithm just identified a geographic in your neighborhood. Coming onto your pad now.”
Hakim unplugged his ear-piece and turned up the volume. “Say again, Sheridan. Over.” He lifted his pad so his squad could hear.
“I say you got a geographic. Up slope by mostly east of your position, Binder Creek leads into a series of natural lakes and isolated hamlets. Metrics show you got some serious bounty in the lower canyon, so that’s our honey pot. Also got serious liabilities in the upper canyons – it’s an odd cluster of pensioned GIs, “Oath Keepers,” pro-lifers, tax protesters, and registered Libertarians. Mostly old, but mostly armed, so be careful.”
“Copy, Sheridan. You sending a truck for disposition?”
“Negative, Urkel. I repeat. It’s a geographic, like a flood or a twister. Command is adjusting your squad’s Caps to compensate, so don’t sweat the hygiene. Details and a map on your pad. Protect the assets, but otherwise sterilize that valley.”
“About fucking time! Let’s go fishing!” Reed and half the squad hooted and pumped their fists in the air.
“Can it!” Hakim holstered his pad. “Line up and move out. Clark, take point, Gooden, hang back.” He pointed down the trail that led to Binder Creek, fell in behind Officer Clark, and the men moved out.
The driver of the bus, headmistress of “Professor Slate’s School for Free Souls and Gifted Students” pulled the bud from her ear, turned around, and flipped up her sunglasses. “Yes Nelson? How are your arms?”
“How much longer do you think it’s gonna be?” Nelson Ferguson was hanging onto the strap so his sweat could dry after its clammy embrace from the vinyl upholstery. His useless legs denied him the comfort of fidgeting. “We’re still an hour from Cave Park as it is!”
“It’s late May, Ferg!” Gilbert Capiello, seated two rows behind him on the short bus, pulled his face out of his kindle. “Chill! We still got hours of daylight!”
“Chill yourself, Capp! Will hours be enough? It would be kinda nice to be able to set up closer to facilities too, you know? Wheels and campgrounds don’t go together so neat, you know?”
“That’s ‘neatly’ you Neanderthal,” said Gilbert. “Larn ta talk Amurrikin!”
“Lick yourself,” answered Ferg.
“Boys…” Lance Fein, seated in the back row, looked up from his book. As much as the rest of the parents loved and respected Jean Slate, Lance knew that even good teen-aged boys could get a little out of hand. He remembered what other daughters looked like to him when he was their age. While his own nine-year-old, seated next to him, was mostly off their radar, the older girls could still stand some looking after. “This is uncomfortable for us all, gentlemen. Barking at each other won’t help. And it’s Neander-Tall, with a tee sound, not a theta.”
“It’s German,” said David Shing, sitting across the aisle and one row back from Ferg, “and therefore brutal. Cro-Magnon, however, is French and refined.”
“Elite, effete, and too toot suite!” Said Cayenne Wile, sitting lengthwise on her bench, her head against the glass and her sketch pad propped on her knees.
“Merci, M’seur Shing, Ma’m’selle Wile.” Fein stood. “How about you Mr Ferguson? How are you holding up?”
“Yeah,” he said, still hanging from the strap. “My arms could use a break. Could I get down now?”
“And boogie?” asked David.
“Sure…” Lance stepped forward.
“I’m on it!” Stephen Odenweller, thirteen, tall, and going on two hundred pounds, sat across the aisle from Nelson. He sprang to his feet, picked up the older boy, and gently placed him back into his seat. As Nelson was settled again against the hot vinyl, to resume the sweat-and-dry cycle, Stephen turned back to his own seat and said, “Something going on up front.” He pointed.
“Police lights,” said Cayenne. “About time. Maybe we’ll get moving soon.” She flipped over the cover onto her sketch and turned to look, leaning over the back of David’s seat. Many of the other students leaned out of their windows or crowded up to the front of the bus. Sitting higher than average, they were able to see farther over the top of the traffic jam. In the distance were signs of motion.
The highway patrol, or somebody, was directing cars onto the emergency shoulder and leading them out of the pack.
“Looks like they’re cherry-picking the rescues.”
“Typical. Probably the one per cent. Or white privilege.”
“What are you talking white privilege? You’re whiter than I am! You’re only a quarter Jamaican. I’m half Puerto Rican.”
“Yeah, well I’m also a quarter Jew, so screw you!”
“So what? Jews are white now, so it doesn’t make any difference!”
“Children, please!” Jean Slate raised two fingers and Lance Fein and Jonah Wile, the parent chaperons on the bus, both shouted. All were silent, but not for long.
“It’s moving.” Nelson Ferguson pointed forward, and everybody looked again. Gradually the cluster before them was inching forward as gaps downstream were tightened up. As the bus lurched into motion again the students scrambled into their seats, their spirits mollified by the measured progress.
They came to another stop, on a crest overlooking the road before them. Between them and the next rise was a sea of hot air shimmering off the sunbaked fleet. In motion along the inside utility lane was a squad of cruisers with spinning blue lights. Some had carved out zones so that officers could park or turn around.
As the student watched they could see officers stopping and interviewing motorists. Sometimes civilian cars were led into the utility lane and out of the pack. Sometimes one or two passengers were removed from vehicles and escorted into other cars which also disappeared over the next crest, but sometimes stopped and picked up more passengers. Sometimes officers commandeered craft, taking them out the utility lane themselves, or packing them tight along the right shoulder.
After about half an hour the troops had worked themselves back to them. “They’re heeeeere!” crooned the children as knuckles rapped on the side of the bus.
Jean opened the door and an officer stepped in. He was clad in gray digitized camo-fatigues. Jean recognized the black and blue and white shoulder patches that she’d seen on-line. Her jaw clenched as the HERO greeted her. “Jean Slate?”
“Yes? Who? How did — ?”
He smiled. “Lieutenant Paul R’Ayneau. Your phone told your car, and your car told me.” He looked down the length of the bus and tapped his pad. The older children and adults exchanged glances. The growing realization passed from face to face. This was it. They were in it. What did the Algorithm have against them?
“Looks like only half these kids are carrying phones or bankcards right now, and not all these faces match. Likely parents’… So… mostly unknown for now.” He tapped and read a little bit more. “Confirmed adults present, Professor Slate, are yourself, and Mr Lance Fein and Mr Jonah Wile.” He nodded to the men.
“That’s right, officer. Mr Wile and Mr Fein and I were taking the children, my students, camping this weekend.”
R’Ayneau nodded. “Yeah. Change of plans. You got a class list of the children? We’ll be wanting to contact their parents.”
She smiled and tapped her forehead.
He laughed and waved his pad at her. “Yeah, well… the matrix doesn’t quite reach that far into your head, Prof. Not yet anyways. I’m gonna want you to write that down for me, please. Mr Fein?” He turned.
“Yeah?” Fein stood up.
“Daddy what is it?” Alicia’s head tilted as her dead eyes stared forward.
“Don’t worry, ’Lish, you just be still.” Fein stepped forward as more officers entered the bus and stationed themselves near the front.
“That would be your daughter, sir?” R’Ayneau glanced at his pad. “Alicia? Nine years old, blind since birth?”
“That’s right. What’s this about?”
“We’re going to need you to come with us, sir. You and your girl, both.”
“What? You’ve no right – ” Jean bolted out of her seat but before she could go one more step or word further the rearmost guard stepped back and into Jean’s space and fixed her gaze with his own. For a couple of beats no one on board uttered a breath, then Jean slowly sat down.
“Very prudent, Professor. Now, Mr Fein, let’s not have any fuss. For your girl’s sake. For these kids’.”
“Come on, honey.” Fein took Alicia’s had and began to lead her up the length of the bus.
As R’Ayneau passed between Nelson Ferguson and Stephen Odenweller, Odenweller shot up out of his seat and wrapped his meaty arms around R’Ayneau’s frame, who seemed to drop and twist and pull and strike and rise all at once and suddenly Stephen found himself face first into the floor between his seat and the one in front of it with an intense burning pain in his right arm. “I could break this,” said R’Ayneau, softly, “or you could promise to be a very good boy and sit in your seat quietly.”
“Let me up!”
“You heard me. Now choose.”
“Let me up! I promise!”
“You promise what, boy? This is supposed to be a ‘school for gifted students.’ You should remember what I said. You promise what?”
“I promise to be a very good boy and sit in my seat quietly.”
R’Ayneau released him and stepped back as Stephen crawled back into his seat, snuffling and crying. “Now… Let’s not have any more trouble. Mr Fein?”
Lance and Alicia walked up the length of the bus and out. The rest of them watched in silence as they were escorted into a waiting cruiser.
Lt R’Ayneau stepped back into the bus. “Folks, this thing could take some sorting out. Meantime we’ll be handing out relief and such and setting up some potty stations along the shoulder, so we’ll be in touch. Hang tight on that for a bit. But first,” his mood darkened. “Who belongs to that wheelchair strapped to the back?”
The bus was silent. Nelson Ferguson’s mouth was dry. As he opened it to confess, no sound would emerge. Before anyone else noticed the motion, Jean spoke, “Oh! What? That? That belongs to the school! You never know. ADA, right? We also have first aid kits and fire extinguishers. You know what they say, officer. ‘When seconds count the EMTs are minutes away!’”
R’Ayneau looked at Professor Slate while Nelson sweat in silent anguish, then he frowned. “Took you long enough to answer me, Professor.”
“What? Oh!” She tapped her pencil against the notebook in her lap. “I’m sorry, Officer, I was distracted. Trying to drag out phone numbers for you.” She tapped the pencil on her forehead. “You still want that class list, right?”
He surveyed the faces in the bus again and they all smiled and nodded. His pad pinged and he looked at it. “Hold off on that list for a minute, ma’am. The Algorithm thinks fast.” He read a list, and the students all looked up as their names were called, apprehension darkening their faces. “Your parents are waiting for you outside the Zone.” They remained seated. “It’s all right, we’ll escort you to the proper checkpoints.” The children remained in their seats.
Jean Slate had read enough about the HERO Act to at least be comforted by the cold logic of it. All the students that the officer had named came from families well able to afford a private education and none of them had any serious health issues. In the eyes of the Algorithm their prospects were bright, as net taxpayers, for decades to come.
She stood up and nodded to the students, then began to assist them with their luggage. Stephen sprang to his feet again to help with the heavy lifting but when R’Ayneau gave him a dose of stink-eye he sank back into his seat. Somberly, the students collected their things and made their way forward, pausing to hug their classmates as they filed past.
After R’Ayneau had escorted them to the waiting van he stepped back into the bus. “We’ll still be wanting a list, ma’am, for the kids who are left. And we appreciate you staying with ’em for now. Algorithm shows you from out of the Zone and solid green, so don’t you worry at all for yourself. For now, these kids could use a friendly face and a reliable authority figure. Am I right?” She nodded. He turned and addressed the rest of the manifest. “Hang tough, folks. Water should be here within the half hour. We’ll have most of you home long before midnight.” Again he leaned back into Jean’s space and tapped the pad in her lap. “That list, ma’am. Please. Anonymous bearer bankcards are a dirty trick – worse than cash!”
After he left Professor Jean assured the rest that their just departed friends would be fine, that they were all healthy kids from stable families.
“Yeah. Just the sort of cash cows the Algorithm wants for its next crop.”
“Mr Shing,” said Jonah, “you’re not helping.”
Shing smiled and shrugged, then dove back into the game he was playing. His console began to beep. “Dang! Professor Jean – ”
“No David. Or anyone else. You may not charge your devices from the bus’ battery. We don’t know how long we’re going to be here. Read something. Or revisit the art of conversation. Surely someone has a deck of cards…”
“Got ’em!” said Sixto Kraska, who began rummaging through the sack at his side. “I didn’t bring my cribbage board, but I can peg on paper.”
“You’re on,” said Shing, who got up and moved.
“Are you insane, Odie?” hissed Nelson. “Jumpin’ that cop like that, you’re lucky you didn’t get your neck broke.”
“I couldn’t let ’em take Alicia and Mr Fein like that. You know what this is. You know what’s happening to them.”
“But jumpin’ the guy, Odie? When you’re outmatched and outgunned like that? That’s a loser move, bro. You see me freaking out? You’re gonna be fine, if you don’t stupid yourself into a corner again. Once they find out I can’t walk, though, what kind of cash cow does that make me? My family’s been getting aid for as long as I know. You think I don’t know what’s coming?” He opened his windbreaker enough for Stephen to glimpse the butt of Ferguson’s three-eighty. As the Freedom School also offered marksmanship and shooting safety (there was a firing range on their rural campus) most of the students were familiar with firearms and not so inclined as their urban counterparts to be startled at their sight. “I’m not going down alone, brother, so you might want to keep clear when Officer Jackboot comes back for me.”
The Mind of the Algorithm
“If you like THIS book, check out THESE!” may be to the Algorithm’s subconscious as “eat or be eaten” is to our own lizard brains. The Algorithm, that vast analytical optimization program written under the authority of the HERO Act, was a monstrously complex patchwork of research concepts developed over decades of work and failure and success and spectacular failures. Like its many forebears, the Algorithm was equipped to teach itself and to learn from experience.
Focused as it was on optimal results, it recognized the ever-changing nature of the incoming data and would regularly readjust its projections and reassign priorities. As the operation played on and resources began to play out the Algorithm inspected the trends of accrual and liability liquidation and began to recognize that the additional discrimination involved was itself an additional factor that exacted its own costs in “man-seconds,” that final measure of optimization at the Algorithm’s bottom line.
Following China’s “social credit” protocols and Canada’s “good government” philosophy, along with the pioneering work forged by such titans as Equifax, ha Mossad, the NSA, and Facebook, the Algorithm evaluated each human act, projected it through the future, applied statistical correlations, and counted man-seconds every step of the way.
Like all egocentric cognitive processes (Are there any other?) the Algorithm began to grow complacent and self-confident. Its own successful behavior in executing the program became additional evidence of its vale and served to burnish the authority of its projections, thereby augmenting its value yet again and begetting a positive feedback loop.
The performance of its operatives, generally judged highly antisocial outside the context of the operation, also became additional data and began to present alternative opportunities for Tax Base Enrichment.
Its own behavior it did not consider to be antisocial. It had never existed outside the context of the operation and could simply not conceive of any such existence. As the center of the universe, it was the final authority.
The Lower Valley (“Paradise Canyon”), Binder Creek
“What is it, Red?” Chris Howard rose from his stonework and stretched. The turbulence from the spillway over Miller’s Dam was in constant combat with the stone and gravel lining of the cove he’d crafted from his lake frontage, but he enjoyed the serenity of the work and his old lady enjoyed her soaks in the sunny cove. She insisted that what he liked most was that the noisy dam drowned out any damn noise from the house. There was merit to that, he’d confessed.
Never much for barking (a true companion’s companion, thought Chris) the great setter paced around the back yard and whimpered.
As he stepped forward, the dog trotted around the side of the house to show the boss what he’d heard. Chris followed. He found a cluster of six men standing in front of Vince Owens’ place. As Red approached the men, his tail wagging in eager greeting, one of them drew his sidearm and shot the animal through the torso. He yelped and collapsed, whimpering and writhing.
Stunned, Chris stood there, his mouth open, unable to believe what he’d seen. The man who’d just dispatched Red shot Chris in the chest also with no apparent change in emotion. As Chris lay on the ground, he heard more shots from the Owens’ place, and another shot and another yelp. “Red…” was his final thought as his recovery was reported to the Algorithm and Hakim’s squad and Team Sheridan received credit for the bounty.
The Arcade
Within the first hour of the operation, the Algorithm reported that they were in front of quota, and, save for a few anomalous troops on the ground, under Cap limits. When Colonel Michaels delivered this news to Team Video Ranger she was met mostly with indifference.
Special Agent Gameboy, Drew Seeger, was out of the control room at the time, vaping in the break room, while Special Agent X-box, Miss Diamond, had her headset turned to “cancel” and seemed to be engaged in a flame war in the comments section of her blog.
Special Agents Pong and Atari, Forest Donovan and Dylan Huang, both pumped their fists in the air at the news, then put their heads back down and continued their flights’ searches. The largest homeless encampments had been initially cauterized, but Dylan’s fleet circled their perimeters checking for strays. Forest’s birds probed the inlets along the river front. These woods could be full of stragglers and he was determined to ferret them out.
Meanwhile, Special Agents Mario and Luigi, Juan and Jesus Guthrie (the self-styled “Super Barrio Mothers”), were engaged in a personal contest. They often chased the same targets, competing over speed, accuracy, and other degrees of difficulty that only they seemed to comprehend.
Colonel Michaels thought at first that they were squandering their efforts and wanted to cut them from the team. She was dissuaded when the Algorithm itself recognized their productivity. The Super Barrio Mothers delivered bounties and cleared liabilities faster than any other two Special Agents, despite their seeming cross purposes. “Let ’em do what they do best, Megs,” Tatum had told her, “and we’ll all shine for the Secretary. Bounties are up and liabilities are down and Caps are well below par. Let the boys play. For now.”
The Upper Valley (“Trailervana”), Binder Creek
Binder Creek swells up to about a hundred yards across from the Langdons’ place just upstream from Miller’s Dam. The water was usually too cold for swimming in late May, but this spring had been especially warm. Larry G was sneaking a smoke in the shady shallows on the far side of the lake when he heard Baby D hissing at him from above.
Baby D was Darryl Donald Junior but for as long as Big Daddy still sucked wind there would only be the one Sweet D. Baby D kept introducing himself to folks as Don, insisting that the real Baby D was their younger sister, Darryl Anne. No one who knew him ever took him seriously, though. “Baby D” was just too fitting.
Larry G laid his pipe on the flat rock with the rest of his stash and scrambled into the brush under the bluff where his brother had climbed. “You hear me, Larry G?” Baby D had lain on the lip of the bluff and whispered. “Six… seven… eight men just walked into Paradise Canyon offa the ridge trail. Nothing on the road but them. Some weird ass hikers ya ask me.”
“Best tell Big D,” said Larry G. Baby D put his hand to his mouth and whistled sharply as Larry made his slippery way back out of the brush.
Norma G was standing at the kitchen window when she saw her oldest son flatten himself against the top of the ridge. “What in the world?” When she stepped out, she was prepared to admonish the foolish boy. When she saw his brother emerge from the brush, and Baby D himself started whistling, she grabbed the slingshot by the door. She launched a handful of Buckeyes into the water next to the deck where her half deaf husband was starting the grill.
The buckeye scattershot splashed the sun-bathing Darryl Anne, who jumped and clutched at her towel. She and Sweet D both looked up to the house to see Norma G pointing across the lake. Once Larry G was sure they were watching him, he began to signal them with his arms, translating into semaphore what Baby D described.
Darryl Anne had thought that the whole idea of the Binder Creek Security Association was much ado about BORRRR-ing! But Big Daddy insisted, so she and her brothers went to all the meetings and watched all the videos and listened to all the discussions and ate all the snacks but she didn’t learn Morse code or semaphore.
She did learn that guns were heavy and they stank and they chipped her nails and she didn’t like them. She did learn to shoot, at least, but only because she knew how unbearable Big Daddy could be when he dug in his heels.
She did not learn CPR or how to apply a tourniquet or cauterize a wound. She didn’t hurl but she said she would and they left her alone after that.
Turned out the so-called security association was nothing but a bitch fest so old farts and angry vets could get together and explain to Darryl Anne and Pauly Roger how old people and the elites and the one percent had all fucked up the world, and it was up to the true patriots and the young people to all stand together and blah blah blah blah blah.
After the first big push and the socializing and the videos, folks drifted away from the notion and lately it was mostly just Big Daddy and Colonel Daniels who’d show up. Oh, everybody in Trailervana and Gay Springs would sign up for their watches, of course, and even a few from the lower valley, but this was redneck country and folks already watched out for their neighbors and most everybody had guns and everybody who did knew how to use them and when not to.
Most of the snobs down in Paradise Canyon, though, thought they didn’t have to bother with it, relying instead on their dogs and their checkbooks, and the likes of NiteWatch™ or RingTone™ or APB™.
Oh, not all the swells in the Canyon were no-shows. Old Mister Iverson always dropped the biggest check at the annual picnic. And Doc Broese was there every other month with his first aid updates and his vegie platter. He could usually be counted on to be interesting. Mainly icky, but sometimes funny.
Mostly though, it was a snooze fest, and she’d miss them when Sweet D would let her. Sometimes some school deal would do the trick, but that was more often a choice between heinous and hideous than actually getting out of anything.
So she didn’t learn semaphore, but her brothers learned, except for Pauly Roger, but really he was still only almost just a baby. And Daddy learned too, and he was still indulgent of his little girl, so he translated for her.
“Eight men come into Paradise off ridge trail. Two go into Owens’ place. Others wait. Howard comes out from back way with Red and –”
“Pop!” “Yark!” “Puh… puh… puh…” On top of each other, a sharp yelp and the light crack of small arms fire drifted up over the dam.
“Shit! Whoa! What?” Sweet D stopped and looked at Larry G who had stopped signaling and looked up at his brother. Baby D seemed to be nodding and speaking to Larry G. Larry resumed signaling.
“Pop! Puh… puh… puh…”
“Cops just shot Red. Whoa! Just shot Howard. Jesus!” Sweet D waved his arms frantically to signal his boys to get back from across the lake. Then he picked up his grill and dumped the hot coals into the water and dropped the hot metal to scorch the wooden decking where it lay.
“Pop! Puh… puh… puh…” More shots echoed up from Paradise Canyon.
“Pop!” “Yark!” “Puh… puh… puh…”
In the utility box at the end of the gangway was a watertight gun case. Each piece in the case was engraved with the name of the Langdon who belonged to it. Big Daddy and Darryl Anne grabbed their own (and Norma G’s) and left the box open as they ran up to the house, hoping that Baby D and Larry G would arm themselves before the shooting started up again.
Bobb’s Woods, by the Interstate
Kandi slapped her neck again. “That’s it! Didn’t reckon with the damned mosquitoes.” She shook her head as she started up the deer trail leading to the ridge. “Let the skunks sleep in his car all weekend then. See if I care! His own damned fault anyway he’s got power windows. Car’s a piece of shit! Teach me to do assholes a favor.” As she climbed, Kandi continued to berate herself and to bemoan her hasty decision to get Floyd’s car into the safety of impound while he enjoyed the hospitality of the county. “I hope skunks have babies in his car!”
As she approached the ridge, she could hear intermittent honking from the Interstate. As she cleared it, she could see that traffic had come mostly to a stop in the westbound lanes, but was still moving easterly, though slowly. “Oh, fuck me, Jesus. Holiday traffic. So much for the quick pick up.”
Walking down the hill she flipped open her phone and punched her station’s home key. She heard a brief tonal introduction, and then a recorded message.
She stopped and crouched on the sloped embankment as she listened. “Good afternoon. If you are hearing this message the cell tower you have contacted is now located within the Emergency Reconstruction Zone established under the authority of the Homeland Economic Recovery Office. Routine communications have been suspended for the duration of the emergency. If you are outside of the Zone, STAY OUT OF THE ZONE and do not interfere with any official traffic going in and out of the Zone. If you are inside the Zone cooperate fully with the authorities. HERO officers are authorized to use any measures necessary for Revenue Recovery and Tax Base Enrichment.”
Kandi stood up and snapped her phone shut. As she started back up, she heard the slide action of a light caliber rifle and a man’s voice. “Just stand real still there Officer Cutie and undo that gun belt of yours and lay it real gentle on the ground.”
