Duc Montaine fell asleep in the tree. When he woke up, he was the tree. His family thought he was dead, so they tried to kill him, but by then it was too late. But that’s not how this story begins. It begins long before Duc was even born. After the collapse of the United States and the suicide of the British Commonwealths, the North American Union was forged between the anvil of Chinese Foreclosure and the hammer of their Orbital Ballistic Program. Three generations later President Christopher Fu Hsing launched the American Seed Foundation.
After centuries in interstellar darkness, Nannie Fleet Three entered its destination cluster and began casting about for planets to seed. Fleet Three still maintained tenuous radio contact with sister fleets, sent off in disparate directions from Mother Earth toward other likely star clusters. The different fleets couldn’t help each other; they were light years too distant, but the planners at American Seed opined that additional information would always be useful to the descendants, at least, of their precious cargo. Many Nannies were lost to interstellar accidents – rogue meteoroid strikes, bursts of radiant energy from variable stars, mechanical failure. Their frozen cargo died, never quickening.
After decades of investigation, Nannie Three B began her approach to her chosen world. Its name, Missouri, had been preselected for her by the master programmers of the Foundation, so as not to duplicate the names of other possible habitable worlds in her cluster. The naming of other things, and indeed, of her children, was to be determined by a random number generator. Bearing in mind that there is no such thing as a “random number generator,” Nannie’s program was to be seeded by observed celestial phenomena, the time of selection, ambient temperature and atmospheric pressure, wind velocity, and other factors programmed for appropriate “randomness.” It worked well enough.
Because the master programmers of the ASF wished to preserve and disseminate American culture, the naming of locations and the first children was to be influenced by certain American novelists, whose significance were given various weights depending on the biases of the programmers themselves, and their relevance to the selected world name. As a consequence of the Missouri bias, the first generation of children included Beccie Thatjer, Nigger Djim, Ree Dollie, Hamilton Felics, Talja al Ghul, Huc Finn, and Uaioming Gnott.
Still cradling her babies in their high-temperature superconducting polymer cells, Nannie floated down on a pillar of fire.
The slumbering sedge patiently awaited the stir that might signal the delivery of breakfast, and, if she were lucky, an especially delicious feral flyer. Somehow, this morning, the sun seemed fuller, deeper, more vibrant, and sweet — until it was too much, as if lightning had struck the ground. As the fire touched her fronds, ionic pulses raced along her dendritic tendrils and she withered in anguish, sucking moisture back into her root ball before it could be lost to the heat. As the invader settled into its throne of flame, her upper vegetation reduced to ash and vapor, she retreated to the safety of her sub-apical cortex, but the mud was too tight, and the pain seared into her core as the wet hissed out of her pores and she died as Nannie touched down.
As Nannie settled to earth, plumes of steam rose about her, expunging the alien sky, obscuring the newly won sun, and shrouding the scorched ground.
No more free samples, but even so, again with the address:
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
or, if you’re a Kindler of means…
These comments are sponsored byThe Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead). The Confederate Mint serves a voluntary union of sovereigns who value hard money. For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face valueOne 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
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.”
Each HERO removed his service revolver, assured himself and the witnesses that only one chamber was loaded, spun the cylinder, and placed the muzzle against the head of his assigned Congress Member. When the President could see that every officer awaited his signal, he addressed the seven.
“Gentlemen and Lady, your country and your President salute you and thank you for your service and your sacrifice. Under the authority of the HERO Act and Departments of the Treasury and Homeland Security, I declare the first decennial Homeland Economic Recovery Operation to be under way, and that, pursuant to the conditions of the Act, your corpus and assets are forfeit contingent upon the needs and discretion of the government. I trust that each of you has used the past week productively, for meditation or prayer, and I hope you know that the prayers of a grateful nation are with you and your families, come what may. May God have mercy on our souls.”
He nodded to the seven officers who all squeezed their triggers.
Col MM: It was secessionists, I think. But I’m afraid the General is no longer here to advise us, and the Algorithm, as planned, would take no notice of politics.
Sen PS: That is grotesque. Political murder is simply unacceptable! The American people will never stand for such an offense! It’s bad enough when troops come home in bags and boxes, fighting for oil and the Federal Reserve –
Speaker: Don’t be a child, Senator. The American people will stand for this. They will embrace it. They have stood against so much for so long that —
VP:This is our Pearl Harbor! Our Nine Eleven! Our Moon Landing! This is where Our Democracy leads us, and it’s our Duty to follow!
Sen PS: I doubt the people will be as compliant as you imagine.
VP: The people WILL get on board. Let’s not pretend we have no stomach for it. Ruby Ridge and Waco led the way. The people call for swift justice for tyrants abroad and for malcontents at home! It’s time we re-united our House Divided!
Team Sheridan, Trailer Four on the Interstate, Going on go time
“It’s hot in here!” Reed Potts took off his helmet again and wiped his face.
“Quitcher bitchin’ hero, this shit ain’t nothing. At least it ain’t the sand box.” Hakim Whiteman slapped the man on his shoulder. “Get a swig of water and get your cover back on. Just about go time.”
Potts grinned. “Yeah. Gonna be game. Rather take out hippie pukes in Portland than these hillbillies, but what the fuck, right?”
“Hold on!” Sergeant Menchaca shouted, and the men braced themselves as the tractors slid and the trailers twisted. As he reached for the grab bar Reed’s water bottle and helmet slipped from his hands. The bottle bounced about spewing water across the trousers of half the men. Potts’ helmet was caught on the bounce and thrown back at him, along with plenty of stink-eye from his comrades in wet pants.
When the trailer stopped the men lined up along the length of the trailer, facing the wide doors. They adjusted their rigs and settled their helmets and tapped their mics and disabled their safeties. Menchaca reviewed their file. “Watch yourselves, watch your buddies, watch your six, watch their metrics, and WATCH YOUR CAPS! Queen City will be watching ours. One squad gets Reconstructed tonight and it’s NOT gonna be from Team Sheridan! Let’s dance, ladies!”
The trucks came to a stop just short of the Toth Pass Exit. The trailers shifted sideways so that they formed a wall spanning all four lanes of the Interstate, just encroaching onto the shoulder on the right, and into the utility lane on the far left. As traffic backed up the sounds of screeching tires, horns honking, and collisions grew fainter and more distant. Curious motorists up front began to exit their cars to check out the mysterious wall. As the curious approached, the trailers opened. Side doors swung out and down, forming ramps to the pavement. Standing behind the ramps were ranks of armed men facing the stalled traffic.
Loudspeakers crackled as the men descended to the street. “Pursuant to the provisions of the Homeland Economic Recovery Optimization and Tax Base Enrichment Act, this zone has been declared…”
Fuming in the left lane, Keith Jones drummed his fingers on the wheel. “At most, ten or maybe five per cent inside the zones will be affected by revenue recovery or tax base enrichment, but one hundred per cent of America will benefit from the promise of reconstruction, revitalization, and rebirth.” That’s what he had told his would-be constituents when he was running for the State Senate on the HERO Amendment platform, and he believed it at the time. He believed it would be good for his state and his home district, and he believed it would be good for America. His home district hadn’t agreed and they’d elected his opponent.
But while his district may not have been quite so enamored of his willingness to “put it on the line for 29” the party hierarchy was still grateful. He didn’t get the job he’d wanted in the state capital, but his new Congressman did offer him one in Washington. Things work out for the best, except…. Now in the zone he had to consider his own metrics. Congressional staffers were well paid and could often look forward to generous pensions. He had some additional assets as well. Of course, he’d never claimed any disabilities, either, and he was still pretty healthy for his age, but… Well… for his age.
Because his legislator, after defeating him in the election, voted against ratification of the 29th Amendment (which was ratified anyway), the Algorithm was programmed to ignore his home district until after the next census. His neighbors and family were safe, even if the rest of his state went to hell. But he wasn’t in his home district. He should be. Usually the Congress left town by the Thursday before a holiday weekend, but there was some supposed big buzz going on and the Congressman had insisted on his Friday morning staff meeting.
These thoughts flew through Keith’s mind as he heard the honking and screeching abate and observed that intermittent blue lights had started to speckle the crowd of cars. Recovery Officers must have been salted into traffic prior to the operation. Leaning out his window, Keith could see up the utility lane past the rigs jack-knifed in his way. Blue lights had also sprouted along the overpass, but beyond that it looked like clear sailing.
“Just a hundred yards, then it’s over Toth Pass and home for dinner…” He eased his car into the empty lane, checked it again, and then he gunned it.
As the recorded message played itself out, Sergeant Menchaca caught the motion and keyed his vest. “Got a runner coming up on your left, Lieutenant.”
Still seated in his cab, Browne answered. “Got him, Sarge. Stand by.” He tapped his console and told his truck to find the runner’s position and speed and…
As Jones’ car entered the gap a shaped charge was dropped onto the hood and exploded, sending shrapnel into the engine compartment and back through the windshield. Carried by the car’s momentum and funneled between the cab’s heavy metal siding and the concrete divider, bits of Jones and his car scattered forward in a smoking trail, effectively blocking the lane with wreckage.
Safe in the armored cab, Browne keyed the all-squad switch. “Once the smoke clears, see if you can’t get a bounty off that car. VIN number likely. First Cap on Team Sheridan counts against your own LT. Rock on, men! Take care… and take careful aim.”
Richard switched off and instantly his own command channel lit up and Lieutenant Baxter said, “Compliments from Team Longstreet! You need any help with your perimeter there, Dickie?” Browne looked up at the overpass and spotted Lt Baxter grinning and waving.
“You can just keep to your side of the road, Mattie. Browne out!”
As a team was dispatched to clear the lane between the lead cab and the traffic separator, other teams were organized to begin working the crowd. “Whiteman! Take your crew and start east on that ridge, space out and cover it until you link up with Team McClellan.”
“Got it, Chief!” Hakim and Potts and the rest of their squad hiked across the shoulder and up the slope and disappeared into the brush.
Menchaca thumbed his vest and his voice was routed to the loudspeakers. He gestured with his rifle as he spoke. “Please remain in or on your vehicles until further notice. Anyone crossing this line without an escort,” he indicated the tape that the men were stringing between the trailers and civilians, “will be shot. Anybody assaulting or interfering with or disobeying any Revenue Recovery Officers will be dealt with harshly, up to and including reconstruction.” As he spoke, he walked down the ramp and paced in front of the gathered crowd. He gestured finally to Jones’ wreck. “Let’s not have any more of this and most everybody here can be home in bed tonight.”
The QuikkStopp™ by the Interstate,
Donenfeld Exit, Reginapolis, Friday afternoon, ca 4pm
Jon and Chuck were enjoying a rare lull in the late afternoon rush. Pastry Pat’s™ and Chik’n’n’Biskits™, the other franchises occupying the west end of Comoro’s QuikkStopp™, were both packed with hungry travelers. The sales floor was empty for the moment, though many customers were still at the pumps.
“You think I could step out, Birdman? Touch up the lot?” Jon stepped back from his till and reached for the broom.
Chuck Partridge shook his head. “Stay put. Lot’ll keep. Soon as you walk out a bus will pull in. Happens all the time. You wanna be useful crack open another carton o’ Reds. Hit your vape where you stand if you’re jonesing, I don’t care.”
Jon Brady puffed his pen and reached for a fresh carton to unload.
“Welcome to Pastry Pat’s! What are you drinking?” The blare of the intercom came through the side door, followed by the more subdued voice of the drive-through customer.
Chuck walked over to it. “Looks like this floor is dry by the cooler now. I’m gonna shut this. Um…” As he stood there he pondered. “I’m gonna duck in and rack some beer. Rap on the glass if you get a line.”
“I can’t believe they’re asking at a drive-in what people are drinking.”
“They’re selling coffee, Jon.”
“I know. But still…”
“I know. It does sound stupid. Every time I hear it I think, ‘Welcome to Plastered Putz, what were you thinkin’?’”
“Maybe they’re thinking America runs on pastry?”
“Maybe. America sure don’t run on thinkin’!”
“HOWIE DOONE, PARTNER?” Just as Chuck was about to enter the walk-in a regular customer shouted his customary greeting.
Chuck turned from the cooler door to engage the man and saw two more walk in after him. “So much for packin’ the racks.” He headed back to his till. “Still not deaf, still not sure who ‘we’ are, and still not getting those checks, ‘partner.’”
“Still an asshole, though, aintcha?”
“I’m always gonna be an asshole, Jake. As long as you keep making me choose for us, I’m always gonna choose to not be the toilet paper. How can I help?”
“Gimme a roll of dip.”
Chuck grabbed a five-pack of Jake’s preferred snuff, rang up the purchase, and quoted the price. Jake produced his card. “Digital currency then, go ahead, deliver your number up Unto the Beast and give the computers a moment to gossip about your account.”
After Jake had declined his receipt the next customer stepped forward. “Yeah, I just need a pack of Mar Bow Reds in a box.”
“Rightio!” Chuck smiled at the man and read back the order as he reached. “One box Marlboro, in a red pack.”
But before the transaction could continue…
“Goddam it!”
“Shit!”
“What the fuck?”
Almost to a man, the entirety of the queues in the adjoining eateries had been face down in their devices, and all began poking at them with consternation.
“My register just died.” Jon tapped his reset key and looked at the ceiling speakers. “So did the music.”
Chuck’s unit winked out also, and he heard the cashiers at Plastered Putz and Childr’n’n’Bitches pleading their plight to their customers. He looked up at the speakers. “Small loss, that noise. I was sick of that loop anyway.” He squinted forward through the sun’s glare. At first, he saw about a half dozen frustrated customers coming in from the pumps, no doubt to voice their concerns. Then he saw the swarm of cruisers. Quickly the officers were out of their cars and herding the motorists into the shop.
“What is it Chuck? What’s going on?”
“I’m dead is what it is. Those are the new HERO Cops. The Court must have confirmed that god damned HERO Act. I’m dead, Jon. I am just fucking dead.”
“Ladies and gentlemen please remain calm.” A Recovery Officer addressed the crowd. “Go ahead and finish your meals if you have them. Or get them from the counter if they’re still on order. And don’t anybody worry anything about paying for it.” He glanced at his pad. “All of Comoro’s property at this location has been impounded by the government. You may as well eat it before we throw it out.”
He paused and waited for the nervous laughter to die out, then continued. “Now we’re all under a great deal of pressure here, but we’re going to see to it that the nation’s needs are met and that as many of us as possible can sleep in our own beds tonight. I dare say that’s probably most of us, but things could get a little dicey along the way so please do cooperate as best you can. HERO officers have extraordinary Constitutional Authority, and your lives are literally in our hands. When an officer calls your name report to him immediately and you will be interviewed and most likely sent home. Any resistance will be dealt with harshly and immediately. Remember, we’re all putting it on the line for this operation, even we Recovery Officers. If our quotas are not met, or if our Caps – uh, our casualty rates — are too high, our own penalties will be just as severe.”
He hadn’t recognized him at first, against the brilliance of the afternoon sun, but as the man spoke Chuck realized that he knew this particular HERO. He had been a guard at DuQuois Correctional and a regular customer up until a few months back. When the officer finished his remarks, he turned back to the convenience store attendants with competing expressions of sadness and delight on his face. “Birdman,” he said, “I didn’t think you worked this shift.”
“Dom.” Partridge nodded. “I’d like to say it’s nice to see you again but under the circumstances… Last time I saw you you were still babysitting naughty children at Duke’s.” He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t usually work afternoons, but Crystal Beth bailed on us and Comoro tempted me with more dough.”
“Went and got myself recruited by the Feds. Don’t sweat it, Chuck.” Dominic Campigno poked at his pad for a bit, whistled softly, then looked up and smiled. “You were right to be worried, Birdman. You may not have a lot of assets to impound, but as close as you are to retirement…”
“Yeah. I was kind of looking forward to having tax victims support me for a change, but then the government changed the law again.” He chuckled sourly. “Feet, say ‘good-bye’ to rug. Face, say ‘hello’ to concrete floor.”
Jon Brady had remained where the Officers had instructed him to stand as Campigno had addressed the crowd at large. He had stayed put even as his customers were escorted away to await their interviews. Now he stepped back from his till and sat back on his stool. He looked at the floor and shook his head. “That sucks, man. That just sucks.”
“Not just for me, Jon. Seems like the whole Redge has just lost the lottery.”
“Not the whole Redge, Chuck.” Campigno raised his pad. “High metrics mostly. Rich retirees, tent cities, rest homes, public housing. The body politic has been bleeding crazy for years and it’s time to cauterize it. But I’ve got you, Birdman. Don’t you worry. You may be in the red zone but every officer has a DR budget and I just spent one of mine.”
“DR?” Jon looked up. “What’s DR?”
Dominic smiled at him. “Discretionary Reprieve. The Birdman and I go back a little. We’re supposed to be dispassionate and methodical in a war zone, but sometimes things get a little hectic. Anyway, enough about old friends. About you, Mr Brady…” He consulted his pad. “Your metrics — young man, reasonably healthy, net taxpayer — put you well in the green zone.”
“How did you…”
“Computer told me your name before I walked in. Told me a bunch of stuff, too. You drove your Accord here from Maison this afternoon, accelerated through a yellow light at Donenfeld and Gaines at one fifty-four, and clocked in at one fifty-eight, two minutes before the start of your shift.”
“Oh… kay.”
“So go ahead and get your things. You’re finished for the day. You’ll want to check with what’s left of ComoroCorp about your next shift. Or even if you still have a job. This facility is under new management. Front!”
“Yeah Sarge?”
“Escort Mr Brady to his car, the gray Accord.”
“On it!” As the officer walked him to his car Jon wondered if he’d ever see Chuck Partridge again. The man had never really acted old, but Jon guessed that he was after all, what with all his recent talk about being supported by “tax victims” soon. Seemed like a rotten deal. Man works all his life, and just as he’s about to cash in they jerk the rug out. Jon always voted for liberals because they always had the right message, but it never seemed to work out. The HERO Act was supposed to fix all that.
As they crossed the lot Jon’s escort whistled. “Lordy looky at all them pretty privileged parking passes!” He waved his baton at the blue placards dangling behind the row of windshields. “We got easy bounty up front!”
When they reached Jon’s car there arose a loud buzz from the east. They looked up to see a swarm of drones scream past the Comoro Station and over the Interstate towards the center of town.
“Have a great day, sir,” said Jon’s escort. “You be safe now, all right?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Jon was still watching the receding fleet of drones.
The officer laughed. “Looks like the Video Rangers are on the hunt. Gonna be a hot night in Auldtown tonight I reckon!”
Queen City Operations (“The Arcade”)
“Ground crew reports all green flags have been cleared from the region, sir.”
“Thank you, Miss McCoy.” Tatum stepped to the center of the Arcade, surrounded by his Video Rangers and addressed them. “Heads up, crew! Targets are coming up on your screens. Don’t cross any thin blue lines, but… otherwise…” He smiled at Dylan, and he and Forest and the Guthrie brothers all picked up his cadence and recited with him, “…it’s time… to take… the doughnuts!” The boys laughed and returned to their screens, pumping their fists in the air.
As reports came in from the ground crews, the stats were sent to their respective zone operators. The Video Rangers noted the patterns, and they noted the blue perimeters marking their limitations, and they commenced their campaigns.
All but Special Agent Nintendo. Wil Stuckey’s hands lay on his keyboard and he stared at the screen. He was unable to move. “Stinky sticky Stuckey, putrid pale and pukey!” was all he could hear as he imagined the dots were himself and his drones were his unrelenting childhood tormentors.
The team had drilled for weeks and Wil had excelled, making the final elite seven out of a couple of dozen eager applicants. Mr Tatum and Colonel Michaels and the rest of the staff were nice enough to him, but he hadn’t really bonded with any of the other Rangers.
X-box was distant from them all, though most of the other boys seemed to think that they were just what she needed. Yarrow had divided her time between coding and ’blogging (when she wasn’t piloting or drilling.) Gameboy and Pong seemed to get along. Both were angry headbanger goth types who tried to outdo each other in their contempt for their native south. Atari was on a one-man mission to eradicate nicotine addiction and would barely tolerate any deviation from his crusade. And the Super Barrio Mothers, while fellow Jerseyites like Wil, were more wrapped up in their own sibling competition. Like many self-absorbed twins, they figured they had all the friends they needed.
As usual, no one had any time for the fat kid. Just show him to the buffet line, wind him up, plop him before a console, and surround him with mountains of Na-Cheezmos™ and lagoons of Ultimate Fierce Ice Deux™, and he’ll perform like a trained seal.
A fat, happy, contented, docile, friendless trained seal.
He knew the score. They all knew the score coming in. There wasn’t a day went by during training that the HERO Act wasn’t discussed and what “tax base enrichment” and “liability mitigation” really meant. It meant real people died. It meant that sick people suffered less and the tired rested more and the hard working and productive led better lives of greater abundance.
And China kept its hands off Hawaii, and Russia kept its hands off Alaska.
They were told that America was in trouble, and that she was running out of options. Her creditors abroad were demanding unrealistic concessions. Desperate times called for desperate measures and harsh realities had to be faced. They told them over and over, and Wil wanted to believe it. He wanted to belong to the cadre. He wanted to fit in the way he’d never fit in before. Growing up in the AC in the shadow of glitter and glitz, he was the homely fat kid. He was just one out of thousands of Jersey brat stereotypes, but at least Wil was good at video games.
To hell with that! He was GREAT at video games!
At last he had made it. He was on the inside, and tasked with forging the new future, unfettered by the restrictions of his past life or old traditions. The Video Rangers would be on the cutting edge of this brave new world. The new world order would beget a great society that would leave no child behind, and a kinder and gentler city on a hill would shine with a thousand points of light. It was all supposed to be double plus good. He tried to believe it. But those dots were people. Those dots were people, and those people were all fat, and they were all Wil Stuckey, and they were all running and trying to hide from the taunting crowd. “Stinky Stuckey, fat and pukey! He’ll get beat for playing hooky!”
“Everything okay there, son?” Lilac and lavender filled Wil’s nose. He turned and faced Colonel Michael’s cleavage. He looked up and she smiled at him. It’s go time, Mr Stuckey. What’s the hold-up?”
“I…” He looked up at her and licked his lips. “I don’t know. I just…”
She sighed and shook her head sadly.
“You did so well during testing. And all your psychometrics are – ”
“I know!” he cried. He began to gasp as he spoke. “I just… I… I… can’t! I… I… I… I don’t know, it’s just…” He pushed his keyboard away and looked up again, his eyes leaking. The rest of the Rangers were all head down in their consoles, collecting bounty and clearing liabilities.
“You need to get it together, boy! Now!” Michaels stood up straight. “Uncle has spent considerable time and money on your selection and training. You are a member of an elite team and you do not want to mess this up!”
Wil sat still, silently weeping.
She leaned in close again.
“Get to work now, Mr Stuckey, or let’s go clean out your locker.”
He backed his chair away and stood. “Fine. Let’s go.”
As Colonel Michaels and Stuckey left the Arcade, she touched a stud on her collar and said, “Broach cam, please. Cadre ‘Seven Wonders’ screen override, authorization Michaels four twenty eighty-nine.”
“Hey!”
“What the — ?”
“I almost had ’im!”
The chorus of complaints erupted from the room behind them as Michaels grabbed Wil by the shoulders and spun him around to face her. Inside the Arcade, operators’ screens were filled with Nintendo’s puffy face as Col Michaels’ hands wrapped around his throat. He gaped wordlessly as she squeezed.
The guard at the door took a hesitant step toward the pair, but the voice in his ear advised him to stand down.
Meighan spoke calmly into her throat mic as she strangled the boy. “Mr Stuckey has just surrendered his exemption and has been identified by the Algorithm as a Red Flag. By electing to step off the team he has improved everybody else’s scores and chances. If anyone else would like to join him, I’m not tired yet.” As Wil passed out and went limp, she readjusted her grip onto his head, gave it a quick jerk, and dropped him to the floor. “Cancel screen override,” she said, and, “Hygiene to third floor, please.”
The Vice President flipped her sunglasses onto the table in the foyer. Her husband heard her enter and turned off the video. He’d been lingering over news and coffee when she came in. He stretched and yawned as he rose. “You’re home early.”
She kissed him on the cheek and flopped into a chair. “My gag order doesn’t officially expire until the end of the operation. Sometime this weekend, but I don’t want you leaving the residence until then anyway.”
He sat back down. “So it’s on?”
She nodded. “Reginapolis, mostly. Cunningham and Sabot are both dead.”
He grinned sadly and patted her on the knee. “Well, they asked for it, I guess.”
“Don’t start.” She shook her head and pulled away. “Maybe you’re right. We all asked for it. Most of us. Easy for me. The Act omits the VP from the Lottery.”
“An oversight? Or design, to protect Succession?”
“We can protect Succession by scattering the Cabinet across the country. I don’t know. Good luck maybe. Look, I really need you to stay away from the press this weekend. I know you and the First Partner were going to open that community theatre conference in – “
“Thank God for the HERO Act!” He got up and walked to the bar, emptied the coffee pot, and topped up his cup with a shot of bourbon. “I was actually dreading it, Chica. Artsy stuff is HIS thing, not mine. This was supposed to be payback for him sitting through the Rangers’ humiliation with me.” He chuckled as he sat down, slurping his coffee. “You know, I was just fine with the whole ‘Second Gentleman’ thing, but… I don’t think I’ll ever cozy up to ‘Second Partner.’”
Auldtown, Friday afternoon
“My pleasure sir! And thank YOU for your service!” Julie nodded to the man and walked away with his coffee and cruller. That odious green hat and jacket that he’d taken off that old vet was still paying off, long after the cash had gone.
Julie Rosselot never told anyone he was a vet. He knew better than to try that “stolen valor” schtick. He’d witnessed enough righteous thumpings handed out by real GIs. Those camo-printed posers who’d come into Auldtown looking for action often got more than they’d bargained for. The closest that Julie had ever come to military service was sleeping in the doorway of the recruiter’s office. He’d watched the old vets on his route, though. They didn’t usually make an issue of their service. You sometimes wouldn’t even suspect they were vets, except for those who wore those hats with the patches or the ribbons on them.
So, Julie’d keep his mouth shut, or just nod politely when strangers wanted to thank him for his service, or to pay for his lunch. When they would ask him about it, all he’d say was that he didn’t like talking about it. Or maybe he would say something cryptic and wise, like, “If you were there, you’d know. If you weren’t, you can’t.” They usually nodded soberly after that, thank him anyway, and sometimes stuff a few bucks into his hand. He liked the cash, though he could do without the thanks. But Julie kept to his script, like a taciturn warrior, he thought, who did it for his country and not for acclaim.
Stepping out of the shadow of lower Tiara Tower and into the scattered spectra refracting from her crown, Julie tugged the brim of his hat down to the bridge of his nose. He wandered over to the buskers on the street to see if he could catch some fresh tunes, and maybe a few more handouts from some of the tourists. Julie became increasingly aware of the high pitched whine descending from above.
Looking up, he saw the sky crowded with buzzing drones hovering over the crowd. As more and more people noticed and pointed, a loud claxon began echoing through Auldtown. A fleet of black vans pulled up around the square and teams of cops began to line the street.
As the strange flock settled toward the crowd, many were aiming their phones at them, attempting to capture video. Then the drones started firing darts into their necks. As people started to drop, Julie tossed his coffee and began to run. When he reached the perimeter, he was stopped by a baton striking him in the chest. As he reeled back from the blow, he heard a louder buzz, felt a sharp sting on his neck, and fell over dead.
Ed was glad to get out of the back of the cruiser. It wasn’t very nice bouncing up that dirt road with his hands cuffed behind his back. It was much nicer to straighten out and stretch his legs.
He was especially proud that the new cop had called Gil “Deputy Warthog.” Ed had tagged that on him the first time he’d hauled Ed in for D’n’D. Sheriff Ike just about bust a gut and the name stuck. Deputy Huerta never warmed up to it, but Ed and Sheriff Ike never paid that no mind. Sheriff was a right enough dude, and chow at county lockup was always on the fair side of tolerable. Deputy Smitty was just jerking his chain about the fried baloney anyways.
Besides, it’d be nice to spend a few nights away from the old dog and pups.
As he was walked away from the road the polite corporal held his pad up to Ed’s jaw and it beeped in his ear. “Looks like we’ve got some metal. Silver maybe.”
They reached the awning that had been set up alongside the highway and they were joined by two more officers. Davies released him and said, “Stand here, sir.” Ed stood next to a slanted table and was flanked by guards as Davies addressed him. “Edmond Floyd, on behalf of the President and People of the United States…”
Settler’s notes
Sen PS: Colonel, your BMI targets are big for Americans, who are big by global standards. We’re going to need about twice the real estate, just for landfill —
Sen FR: The bill provides for summary impoundment.
Sec Trez: The more land we take out of production, the more we cut our throats.
VP: These are just really extreme cases. Human dignity demands —
Rep DK: Little late for talk about dignity. That ship wen sail way back. Real question, the horror of proposal aside, is public safety. Big number Colonel Michaels present is enough for choke normal procedure.
Rep NA: These cowardly counterpunches of negativity are tantamount to treason! Colonel, I hope you realize that the minority view —
Col MM: It’s quite all right. I respect the Congresswoman’s point of view. In fact, I share her concerns. My plan includes several options — contingent on population, infrastructure, wind, landfill capacity, wetlands abs–
Sec Trez: Thank you, we can get into that on our own time. Mr Speaker, if I may?
Sec Trez: Thank you sir. I’ve invited Mr Luc Michel Brande, the CEO of StellaNova™ Industries, as many of you know, the makers of Scarboro Gold™ and Llama Llights™. The President has asked him to look at some of our nation’s homeless encampments and he has some experiences to share with us.
Mr LMB: Thank you Ladies, Gentlemen. Nothing treasonous about facts. Disposal estimates of Colonel’s are based on best case scenarios and U.N. averages, about as conservative and optimistic as can find. But they mean nothing. Americans come bigger than most. By Goodness and Gadfrey, I’m a fine example. [Witness laughs.] By Damn, a fair dinkum thing I pay own bills!
Mr LMB: No, my dear Congressmiss, it did not. And it never did! Politics as usual is what it is. But, Chaos and Calamity, kids, nothing normal to be dealt with here! The President just sent me and my legion of super assistants on a tour of America’s weeping infections. Have you been to the inner city? Trash and filth are the least of it. We just got back from some of the worst cases and… well, it’s a bloody mess ladies and gentlemen, a bloody mess. Trash everywhere, as I said, plus needles, vermin, on two legs or four, and rats. Rats! With fleas! And, for the first time in centuries – CENTURIES – we face the threat of bubonic plague.
Mr LMB: That’s the reality of the benighted past, my boy. We may like to imagine an idyllic pastoral paradise, but the reality was, and is, a medieval nightmare. “Nasty, brutish, and short,” I think, as the man said.
Sen PS: Hobbes may have been a little generous. This proposed abomination is not completely without merit. It could be considered helpful, from a strictly actuarial point of view, to wash down America’s worst tent cities with napalm. Feces and needles keep piling up, breeding forgotten historical horrors. As much as I abhor the notion, it would help to stanch the hemorrhaging of the budget.
Sen FR: So what’s WRONG with fire? It’s clean and thorough. We don’t just clean out these tent cities. We sterilize them, all the way to the ground. Not only trimming the bloated welfare rolls, but completely eradicating any threat of pandemic. Cost effective, too. Plus-sized Americans on the pyre will sustain their own immolation as the fat kindles.
Rep DK: But why waste biomass? With Saudis tightening noose, and fracking ground begin for play out, extra calorie could fuel one big portion o’conomy.
Sen FR: Fill our gas tanks with our neighbors? What’s next? Eating babies?
Mr LMB:[Witness laughs] By Damn! Classic ideas still the best! Jonny Swift beat us there by centuries! I recall Madam Vice President took just such a question at local meet’n’greet. Ideas don’t have to be new to be good.
Rep DK: But, Senator, shou’n’t we learn for love smell of napalm in morning? Smells like tax cut!
Tent City, Katz Square, Auldtown, Friday 4pm
Julie was late with coffee and donuts. Again.
Probably got busy hitting up the holiday crowd downtown. Didn’t matter. Joey dug his works out of his kit. Fuck Julie and his fix, Joey was gonna start the evening with a shine. They got all weekend to score. Right now, it’s time to live it up, courtesy o’ ol’ Mama Spike. After he filled the barrel from the bowl, Joey snuffed his lamp. Too many junkies burned themselves up in their cribs, but Joey was careful. All the fires were always out, and the doors were always locked (or in this case, the tent flap zipped), before Joey shot up. He knew that in order to float without cares, he needed no cares.
As he depressed the plunger into the syringe, he could hear the alarms and the shouting, and vaguely considered yelling at his stupid neighbors two tents over to give it a rest already. Drunken fools liked to get themselves all liquored up and wail on each other. They should try to be quiet about it, thought Joey.
But it kept getting louder.
When he released the strap around his upper arm, a spot of flame blossomed on the tent wall before him. It quickly spread out and consumed the barrier, exposing the space-suited alien invader standing outside. The nozzle of his flamethrower was leaking smoke. He lifted it again as the opiate charge rushed up Joey’s arm.
Internal Affairs, Bangor PD, Two days after the HERO Act
The snow blew in with Rashid from the back entrance to IAD. Detective Stewart looked up from his desk and sneered.
“Good afternoon, Fabio!” In fact, it was a quarter to ten in the morning. “Some big guns waiting in the Captain’s office! You best hustle!”
Rashid hung up his muffler and overcoat. “Just took my parents to the airport. Captain’s known that for a week. He’s got no call – ”
“His visitor didn’t know anything about it, and she don’t seem like the patient type.”
Rashid poured himself a cup of coffee before stepping into the Captain’s open door. Captain Shelhorn glanced up from his call and continued talking. His guest was seated across the office, apparently engaged in her laptop. “No no, that’s quite all right, Sergeant. In fact, why don’t I come up there now and we can talk to him together?” The captain paused and smiled at Rashid and waved his hand to his guest, who stood and stepped forward. “Okay, great! Half a heartbeat. I’m right there!” He snapped his phone shut and pocketed it. “Morning Rash. Colonel Michaels, Rashid Fabok. All right, great! You can take it from here. Show her where I keep the drugs, Rash, if she asks.”
Rashid watched the captain depart, then faced the visitor. She extended her hand. “Colonel… Michaels? Sorry to keep you waiting. I was – ”
“Not another word, Detective. That’s on us. Your captain explained the whole thing. Family. We all get it.” She sat and opened her laptop. Rashid saw his own face on the screen. He caught her eye and she smiled. “The drugs…?”
“He’s joking. We let him think he’s funny.”
“You’ve been a cop for eight years, and internal affairs for three.”
“I remember.” He walked around the captain’s desk and sat. He laced his fingers around his hot cup and began to blow across the steaming surface.
“Ice that cup and you can skip all the huffing and puffing, Detective.”
“My hands are already iced, Colonel. This works best for me. You’ve been waiting for a while. How would you like to skip the small talk?”
“It wasn’t so bad. Your captain took me to the most charming café this morning and we had the loveliest breakfast. I’m sorry you missed it.”
“Me too.” He smiled. “I spent my morning in traffic in a car with a busted heater. I’m in no mood to talk about ice.” He squeezed his cup and slurped the hot brew.
“Cars are a horror show sometimes,” she agreed. “And I’m not one for small talk, myself. I didn’t actually ask, but I did sort of invite you to talk about your job.”
Rashid put his cup down and stood again. He turned to the window behind him and blew into his hands, then turned back. “Who are you, Colonel? You look familiar to me, but I can’t place you. I guess I’ve seen you around – local LEO conference or such – one of the big wheels sitting up on the dais maybe. You’re polished and charming like a high-level bureaucrat, but you smell like a cop.”
“Does MP count?”
“You mean military? Of course! Doesn’t matter the uni.” He walked around the desk and sat on the corner. “A cop’s a cop.”
She closed her laptop again and faced him. “I was an MP in the Army for three years. The last year of that I spent investigating MPs.”
“A snitch.” Rashid smiled at her.
“A squealer. A rat. Cindy Brady.” She smiled back.
“Cindy…?”
“A little before your time, maybe. A little before mine; I had to have it explained to me. For generations, she was the apotheosis of informants, the archetype of tattletales.” He stared at her. “Never mind. You know the type even if you don’t know the exemplar. And you’ve heard it all from your brothers in blue.”
“Can be a shaky brotherhood at times.”
“You’d think we’d be the most respected cops of all.”
“You’d think. But most of my former friends from the Academy have cut me loose.” He picked up his coffee and began to drink it. He stopped and looked over the rim at her. “I do know you. I thought I knew you earlier, but I thought you were some local county or state cop. That’s not it. You’re that lawyer on TV. That Army lawyer.”
She smiled at him again. “Assistant JAG Prosecutor in the Kodai trials. I was still a major then. Working with Colonel Tsurumotu was a great honor and a great education.”
“But you lost anyway, on all counts. Many said it was fixed from the start.”
“Who knows?” She shrugged. “Everybody got their day in court and we cleared the air. Viva due process and all that. That’s what we’re all about. That’s the Constitution we all promised to support, right?”
He nodded.
“What’s your job, Detective? Isn’t it to make sure that bad people don’t carry badges? You are on the front line fighting to make sure that EVERYBODY is served by the law, and no one is above it. It’s our way of ensuring the greatest good. What’s the cost? Sometimes some tender tax feeder gets his dick in a knot because we’re asking embarrassing questions. Boo fucking hoo! We hold cops to higher standards because we give them guns. What decent citizen or honest cop has a problem with that? And yet we’re spat on and scorned and avoided like STDs. You know why so many cops hate us and lazy screenwriters make us such frequent villains? We treat cops the way cops treat everybody else. Nobody likes that shit. Nobody wants to be treated that way themselves and movie fans sure don’t like seeing their heroes being jerked around by the assholes in IAS or handcuffed by that pesky bill of rights.
“But that shit’s important! If nobody stood on that barricade and kept our record clean, then the bleeding hearts would scream all the louder.”
She snickered and stood. “Look at you!” She laughed. “You can’t figure me out so you’re trying to play good cop and bad cop and buddy cop all at once. You’re right. It’s been a much longer morning than I’d planned so I’ll cut to the chase. How would you like a substantial raise so you can get that beater Hyundai of yours fixed, get your daughter into that expensive private school you and Carlene have been looking at, and come back to this job at the end of your special assignment to a guaranteed raise and promotion?”
“CrossCurrents™,” the VoxPop™ Network,
Two months before ratification of the HERO Amendment
As the director counted down on his hand the studio went dark but for the soft red glow under the cameras. A pool of brilliance sprung up around Miss Bell.
“Welcome to the Confluence, where opposing notions are mixed and measured. I’m Campbell Bell…”
“And I’m Ethan Cross. And This. Is. CrossCurrents!” Cross showed his teeth to the camera and turned. “With us tonight is Senator Tristan Amassi, arch nemesis of the HERO Amendment. Senator, your opposition to this measure seems to be on the ropes. Ratification is just rolling through state legislatures.”
“‘Sin in haste, repent at leisure.’ Much like Prohibition and the Income Tax.
They say there’s nothing so powerful as a bad idea whose time has come.”
“Everybody likes a tax cut, Senator.”
“Everybody deserves a tax cut, Ethan. And I’ve spent a lot of time in and out of government fighting for lower taxes. But this measure, while actuarily and mathematically accurate, is still a monstrosity. Ethics are not algebraic, and not helping is not the same as injuring.”
“But Senator, isn’t that just sour grapes? Not ‘interfering’ is also the same as not helping, isn’t it?” Campbell looked down at her monitor and bit her lip. “I mean, conservatives and libertarians talk about cutting back, but the needs of the people and the responsibilities of the government grow every day. We can’t just kick the can down the road again, can we?”
“No, no! Of course not, Campbell. We have to face the facts that government has gotten too large, and the people too dependent on hand outs. A century or more of infantilization, perpetrated by public schools and the welfare state, has produced a dependency class that – ”
“But Senator! We can’t just walk away from our problems.”
Amassi grimaced. “Sometimes walking away is the best solution. America has become over-extended overseas and over-committed at home. Harsh measures are required. Deep austerity at least. But this grotesquery, this enormity, is a stain on the Republic and will hasten its end.”
Campbell tutted. “Be practical, Senator, Our Democracy has endured so much. What would you have us do about the thousands of homeless in our inner cities? Hungry rural school children? Reproductive freedom? A grown-up nation has to attend to grown-up problems. Would you have the homeless and the hungry just starve in the streets? Yes, there have always been costs to tax collection. Isn’t it better if we can minimize it and make it run smoother and easier for the majority? Isn’t that really what democracy is all about? Everybody helping each other, and everybody sacrificing for the greater good?”
“Except not everybody sacrifices, do we? This algorithm that’s written is like a tornado. There’s no telling where it will touch down, how much damage it will do, whose lives it will devastate.”
Ethan leaned back and spread his hands. “That’s it exactly, Senator. Like a tornado! Seemingly chaotic, but, like weather, the Algorithm does follow trends and patterns and the alert and the adept can take steps to avoid them.”
“But that element of chance is what makes it fair,” added Campbell. “Majority rule and Fairness are what America is supposed to stand for.”
The Shanahan residence, Reginapolis
Wednesday evening before Memorial Day weekend
Before Tatum could trot around and open her door, Colonel Michaels was exiting the car. “We can skip the gallantry for now. Let’s get to work.”
He blushed and followed her up the walk. “You sure we don’t need a detail, Colonel? Things never seem to go as smoothly as – ”
“Long as you don’t get in my way, Tate, we’ll be fine.” She brandished her pad. “Got all the data we need on these motor mouths.” She stopped and looked up at the house. “This should be real nice. Two birds with one stone, Tate. Two birds with one stone. I get so sick of staying in hotels. Nothing against your suite in Tiara Tower, but this…” She gestured to the house again. “This is homey! Let’s move in.”
Inside. “…talked to Alice in booking and there’s NOTHING going on this weekend… I know THAT. I mean, nothing BIG. Little concerts and picnics and stuff, but… No! The ‘Legs are on the road, and there’s no big names coming to – to… Mom? Mom? What the… It’s the strangest thing.” Paulette put down her phone and frowned. When Cliff came back in from the kitchen she stood up. “Where’s your phone?”
“Do what?”
“Your phone, Cliff. Where is it? Mine just went dead. I was telling Mom about your time off and – ”
“What? What are you talking to her for? I told you we’re not supposed to talk about that. I’m just supposed to lay low and – ”
The doorbell rang, followed by knocking.
When Cliff opened the door he met a couple dressed neatly in business attire. The man was holding open his identification so that Cliff could see the silver badge and the black lettering, “H.E.R.O.”
“Yes?”
“Mr Shanahan?” asked the woman.
“What’s it about?”
“My name is Colonel Michaels. This is Mr Tatum. We’re here from the Department of Homeland Security. May we have a few minutes, please?”
“Yeah! Yeah!” Cliff smiled and opened the door wider and stepped back. “Queen City’s always worked closely with the LEO community. City cops or county mounties or the feds, we’re here to help. What’s up?”
Tatum folded his wallet again and returned it to his jacket pocket as Michaels unbuttoned her blazer and Shanahan shut the door. Leading them out of the foyer and into the living area, Cliff continued. “Have a seat. Make yourselves at home. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Thank you. This is homey. But nothing to drink, not right now. Clifford Shanahan?” asked Colonel Michaels. “Employee of Queen City Security? Paulette Shanahan? Daughter of Sofia Goddard?”
“Uh… Yes…” they both answered.
Michaels tapped her pad and it began to play back Paulette’s recently aborted conversation with her mother. As the recording ended with Paulette’s confused queries, Michaels went on. “You have both been found to be in violation of the preliminary security protocols of the Homeland Economic Recovery Optimization Act and have been declared spoils of war.”
“Do what!?” Cliff stepped forward but before his foot hit the floor again Michaels had drawn her sidearm and placed two neat holes in the foreheads of each of the Shanahans. Tatum stood still, his face blanched and sweat beading his own brow.
Michaels lifted her pad and spoke into it. “What’s your situation, Rashid?”
The pad crackled back at her. “Mrs Goddard and four cats, all being processed now, Colonel. Anything else?”
“No. We’ve got it. Go ahead and call hygiene. If you were as careful as you should have been, your house should be ready for you within the hour.”
“Roger that, Colonel… but, uh… You sure you don’t want to switch digs, Megs? This place stinks of cat, and it looks like doily purgatory, ya ask me.”
Meighan laughed. “Suck it up, buttercup! We get what we get!”
The Congress, One week before Memorial Day Weekend
Two Homeland Economic Recovery Officers escorted the President to the well of the House in silence. “Madam President, Mr Speaker, Senators, Representatives, Secretaries, Ladies, and Gentlemen. I’ve spoken at length with the Chief Justice. He concludes that the Amendment and Legislation are highly technical and intricate, but the intent remains clear. Until the conclusion of the next Census, only those members of the government instrumental in the passage of the Act, and only those States ratifying the Amendment and only those Congressional Districts represented by members who approved the bill, will be subject to the immediate provisions of the Act.” He smiled. “That includes your President, of course, who signed it into law. It includes everyone who ‘put it on the line for 29’.” He turned to the Vice President. “Madam President, pursuant to Title 14, Section K, Paragraph 4e of the Homeland Economic Recovery Optimization and Tax Base Enrichment Act, I surrender myself to the authority of the Algorithm.” He handed over the gavel. As he sat his security detail handcuffed him to his chair.
As the Vice President tapped the rostrum, a large display screen lit up between the decorative fasces at the front of the House. It showed a map of the United States with fractal patterns swirling over it. “The dissenting Members are excused. I remind ALL members that they are, under penalty of Reconstruction, sworn to silence until after the President’s address,” she smiled sadly at her President and he nodded in return, “whoever it might be who delivers that address.”
Immunized from the cull by her Constitutional impotence, the Vice President was now presiding over the possible execution of her President.
She continued. “The Algorithm has nominated these four zones for Reconstruction.” Each flashed on the screen as she named them, and the fractal patterns swirled and shifted, climbing up valleys and following rivers, mimicking natural disasters and military attacks, and then receded again into tight spirals.
As the pixilated storms settled around four major cities, and the finalist locations were at last revealed to the Congress, audible sighs hissed around the chamber. “Not my District” went through the minds of most. “Not my District” and then almost immediately it was followed by, “Oh! Them! Oh my.”
“Each large city has its own landed gentry and extensive homelessness issues and are all contiguous to blighted rural areas with endemic issues of addiction and dependency. As primary urban centers, they are all rich in both assets and liabilities and offer great opportunities for both Recovery and Enrichment.”
As electronic voting commenced, members watched anxiously as the patterns shifted and burst and waned. The Algorithm raveled the last few data from the Congress with its other criteria of flood history, famine recovery, chronic unemployment, and the host of other socio-economic factors used to assess the fecundity of tax cows.
When the voting stopped the pixilated motion of the screen stopped and what remained was a sprawling Midwestern Gerrymander scuttling along the river and into three States and three Congressional Districts. Only four of the Senators representing those three states had voted for the measure, but of course all three Representatives had to have. These seven members representing the Reconstruction Zone were escorted forward.
The President returned to the dais and the Veep resumed her seat. HERO officers were stationed behind each of the confined members. “The Officers will take the Selected Members into custody for the next week, and the other Members are reminded again of the gag order. This Assembly will reconvene one week from this afternoon. God Bless you all, and God Bless these United States.”
Speaker: Of course, Colonel! We in public service have talked about cutting fat out of the budget. We never dreamed we could cut it out of the tax base too.
Col MM:[witness laughs] It does seem apt, sir. Morbid obesity is a drain on society. It is often incurable, but not always. Extraordinary motives can evoke extraordinary resourcefulness, and it would be a crime to miss this chance to maximize human potential. The team I propose to assemble will afford optimal tax base AND gene pool enrichment through time tested methods: competition, motivation, self-preservation, and natural selection.
“Thank you for calling WheinGhust — inclusive, progressive, accepting – where the only thing we overlook is… the river! How may I direct your call?” Receptionist Heather (nee Howard) O’Hanlon transferred the call. Dressed in gray sweats with a flowered scarf, Heather used to dislike casual Fridays, scorning them as unprofessional. However, as the hormone therapy’s side-effects included severe bloating and water retention, finding a proper fit was becoming increasingly challenging. Heather finally surrendered to the reality of a constantly changing body shape. Though the testicles had long ago been taken, and the scrotal tissue partially reformed, the penis remained, as did Heather’s rich baritone. Nevertheless, Heather identified as a woman, and WheinGhust (“an Inclusively Progressive Alery”) took both pains and pride to honor such heroic declarations. Heather had been featured in WheinGhust’s most recent newsletter, heralding the fact that they embraced “alternative lifestyles.” Hormone therapy wasn’t cheap, but fortunately the Democrat Congress had seen fit to include gender reassignment therapy under the Fedicare Act. (Proponents refused to call it “TrumpCare” even though he signed the bill. While he was also the first President to come into office supporting gay marriage and other trendy leftie causes, he got little credit from partisans who opposed him.)
Heather stabbed the next blinking light on the telephone. “Thank you for calling Whein — Yes, certainly. Send them up.”
Before Heather returned the handset to its cradle the inner door to the reception area opened and three uniformed men entered. Heather looked up as the leading officer approached. “May I help you?”
“Yes sir,” said Stanley Hammer. “This area has been designated an emergency recovery zone under the authority of the HERO Act, and your cooperation is required. Please notify the boss that we’re here to impound WheinGhust’s material assets and to process the staff.
“It’s ‘Ma’am’,” said Heather, quietly.
“Excuse me?”
“You called me ‘sir’,” said Heather. “It’s ‘Ma’am’! I identify as a woman. When are you religious freaks going to get with the program? Gender is just a social – ”
“Heather O’Hanlon?” Stanley glanced at his pad.
“Born Howard Joseph O’Hanlon?”
Heather stood up to a full six feet and two inches and nodded. “That’s right. And that’s history. It’s ‘Heather’ now, and it’s ‘MA’AM’!” to emphasize both commitment and intent, Heather kicked the side of the reception desk and pencils rattled in their caddy. “It’s ‘MA’AM’ you jack-booted fascists! If you can’t accept that maybe you’re living in the wrong century!” Heather stepped out from behind the desk and began to approach the men, “It’s ‘MA’AM’!” and stomped again to punctuate the proposition.
“Fuck this,” said Glenn Kadish. “Algorithm shows this dude in solid red.”
“Not ‘DUDE’!” Heather shouted and advanced. “It’s – ”
BLAM! Kadish shot Heather in the center of the chest and the body hit the floor, vibrating the men’s feet when it struck.
“Sorry Sarge,” said Kadish, “but I’ve had just about enough of that shit!”
“It’s alright, Glenn. Red is red. Trannies are as expensive as diabetics.”
“Except diabetics don’t make as big a fucking deal about it as trannies do,” said Officer Speidel, as he rapped on the inner door behind Heather’s desk.
“Yes?” Sweating and shaking, WheinGhust’s Braumeister opened his door.
“It’s all right, sir,” said Stanley, as the man stepped out. “We’re going to need you to assemble your staff in the main lobby.” He waved his pad as he spoke. “Tell them that it’s mandatory AND that we’ll be taking attendance.”
“Of course! Of course!” Halvorson stepped around Heather’s body and exited the reception area to follow his orders. The men followed.
“Uh, Sarge,” said Kadish, “metrics seem to be mostly orange and red on the staff. Do we…?”
“Red is easy, Glenn. And orange? Almost as easy. WheinGhust makes big hoorah over how leading edge and bleeding heart they are, and how accepting they are of all types. They end up with way more than their share of retards and deviants and the ‘handy capable’ that way. We’ll send home the greens, then probably waste most of the rest of these helpless snowflakes, but, uh… Uncle Sugar doesn’t want we should squander accomplished brew-masters, so we cull carefully. We should have hygiene here in about half an hour. They can use this place for processing the rest of the night. Speaking of which…” He keyed his vest. “Team Burnside, Squad Campigno, this is Squad Hammer.”
“Campigno here,” answered his vest. “Go ahead, Stan.”
“This end of Donenfeld is secure, Camp. You at the top of the trunk yet?”
“Just rolling into the QuikkStopp now. Looks nominal so far. How’s your end?”
“Gonna thin the herd, then dump their batch. Then we can tap the main leg for take up. This place feeds directly into the primaries, so we can take all you send.”
“Dang, Stan! Seems a shame to waste all that fresh beer!”
“Can’t be helped, Camp. Uncle needs those vats. Besides, it’s mostly all green!”
On the Radio, On the I, Friday afternoon, Memorial Day weekend
“ – to Basket of Troubles! And now, the most ideologically coherent Oedipal Romantic you know – ”
“Helloooo! And thank you, oh Hot One! And welcome America! I am – ”
“Not interested in your anarchist nonsense.”
Keith punched the button on his car radio again.
“It’s four o’clock, and you’re listening to Q! K! R! D! Serving all of the Tri-Counties, plus Outer Greater Reginastan! My name is Tom Bryant, sitting in for the ever-vacationing Tom Bryant, and I will be your host for this beautiful Friday afternoon! We’ve already got a few calls lined up on our board, but there’s always room for more, so give us a ring ding ding! But first, before I let you unload, let’s check out Memorial Day traffic with Lin Knauer in our QKRD Eye-on-the-I Chopper. Lin?”
“Tom, it’s a beautiful day out over the I and it looks like as many folks are leaving the Redge for Gramma’s house or the beach as are coming in for the weekend or on their way through to the Lakes.”
“Summer is here, Lin, and so is the traffic. How does it look, my friend?”
“Summer’s official start-up weekend is getting just a spectacular kick off, Tom! The weather is mild and clear, and the forecast is fair.”
“How ’bout those roads, Lin?”
“Smooth going from Hass to the Donenfeld exit, then a little backed up into Shuster. Getting messy coming up on the airport so watch those merges and don’t be in any kind of hurry. Starting to back up approaching Toth and… Heads up!”
“What is it, Lin?”
“Sea of red lights now westbound toward Toth and looks like a major obstruction there at the exit. Bunch of semis look like they all just jack-knifed in unison, rolled over or turned sideways or – WHOA!”
The radio went dead for a few seconds until Bryant continued. “Sorry folks. Sounds like we just lost Lin’s connection. We’ll get — ”
“Tom?”
“Yes Lin! How’s it going up there?”
“You should see this, Tom! Couple of big black helicopters just buzzed us! They’re escorting us now back to Zertel Field. Pilot just got a buzz from the FAA. We’re in a no-fly zone now and we’re grounded until fur – ”
“Squeeeeee!” Again Lin cut out, but this time he was replaced by a strange new voice. “Attention! This station has been impounded by the Homeland Economic Recovery Office. This is a national emergency and the cities of Reginapolis, DuQuois, Kupperton, and the surrounding areas are under martial law. Please stay tuned to this station for messages of vital importance and follow all instructions from the HERO officers on the ground.
“America salutes you, and thanks you for your cooperation, your service, and your sacrifice.
“We repeat. This is a national emergency and the cities of – ”
“Click.” Keith Jones turned off his car radio and stared at the stationary line of brake lights in front of him. Coming back against the traffic along the inside service lane was a line of cruisers, their top lights flashing red and blue.
The Candidates Exhort the Crowd,
On the Stump for Re-Election and the HERO Amendment
“On the line for 29!
“A better way for the USA!”
The crowd roared and repeated itself several times as Ned took a long drink. He was just about halfway through his time, and he felt like he had his flock ready to charge. As the response began to play out, he leaned onto his rostrum and smiled at them. He gently shook his head. “Now friends, our critics will tell you that this Amendment is cruel and inhuman and a step away from our Constitutional protections, but as always, they’ve got it exactly backwards. There is nothing so kind, nothing so human, nothing so humane, as finding ways to do the most good for the least cost. Some would say we should just… at last, SHRUG… our duties to serve the people – ”
The crowd drowned him out with its loud jeers and laughter and catcalls aimed at Senator Amassi who was seated behind him on the platform. While he waited for his time to speak, he didn’t stir, but he did smile at Adkins’ wordplay.
The crowd quieted itself and Adkins resumed. “Some say we should shrug our responsibilities to our allies, and abandon the homeless and the helpless and the hopeless. But is that the American Way? Or do United We Stand?”
“USA! USA! USA!”
He held up his hands and waited for the chant to abate. As they settled down again he leaned forward. “Friends, it’s all great fun to make sport of our honorable adversaries,” he turned and smiled to Amassi, who nodded in return, “and we should all have a little fun now and then or life’s just not worth the effort.
“But there’s a time for fun and a time for serious business, and governance is serious business. It’s about protecting the borders and our assets and insuring the economy and maintaining our infrastructure and meeting our obligations to our allies. And when it’s time for the government to recover its revenue from its investments in the infrastructure and in national defense and the health and welfare of us all, well… there’s a cost to that too.
“How do we balance these costs? Well…” He smiled. “Again, some say that tax cuts for the rich will enable the invisible hands of the market to work their magic.” The Senator bristled but said nothing. “But here in the real world, we know that sometimes we have to be willing to make the difficult choices and the hard decisions that life demands.”
He clenched his jaw and scowled. “There’s a War on, ladies and gentlemen! A War for our Soul and for our Survival against a Dangerous Deficit and a Cabal of Creditors who threaten to extinguish Our Way of Life and Our Children’s Hopes and Dreams for a Better Future for America. And if we don’t take serious measures you can be certain that in the Kremlin, and in the Forbidden City, and in the Houses of Saul and Saud, they will!”
He glanced at the timepiece on the rostrum. “Let me back up a little. When we talk about choices, we have to talk about the ways that our choices relate to each other. It’s complicated on paper and even more complicated in real life. The Algorithm is written to evaluate thousands of factors affecting human welfare. It aims to minimize the impact of revenue recovery, while still addressing the needs of the people.
“But what do these factors mean to each other? In economics, the easiest way to measure things is in money. We all want it. We all recognize it. We’re all willing to work for it. And we’re all willing to give some of it up when we want other stuff more. We understand it as a way of making unlike things relatable. How many hours of washing dishes is a new motorcycle? Not many cycle dealers want you to wash their dishes. Many of them want eggs, or new shoes for their kids, or pretty baubles for their sweeties. But they’ll all take cash, thank you very much!
“One of the ways that people confuse themselves about economics is they forget that it is about so much more than just money. Money is just the medium, the means by which we convince each other to help us to accomplish great things. Now, people often say, ‘it’s only money, you can always get some more.’ And that’s generally true, but it’s not ‘ONLY money.’ Money is just the means to fairly and accurately exchange our resources — our property and our talents and our efforts and our IRREPLACEABLE TIME. Time is all we ever get, really, to experience and create and savor life. When we are robbed, we are robbed of life. Sure… small fractions, but they’re real and they add up. Now, I’m not about to get all Old Testament on ya’ll and propose the gallows or the guillotine for purse snatchers and second story men, but, well… There is a limit. Know whum sane?
“Why do we punish killing more than most other crimes? Homicide is total. It means the loss of an entire lifetime of experience and wonder and joy. If we punish homicide to answer the loss of an entire lifetime, we must ask, ‘What is an entire lifetime?’ Just like we use dollars to compare donuts to dynamite, let’s get metrical with time, too. And let’s be generous. Let’s say a lifetime is one million hours. That’s a nice round number and it works out to about 114 years. That’s not common, mind, but it’s not unprecedented either. And medicos continue to refine their craft.
“Ever suffer a cyber attack? Virus infect your tablet or telephone? How much time did you spend recovering — or recreating — files? Were you alone in your experience, or was this one of those notorious wide-scale infestations? These deliberate acts of sabotage could easily end up squandering several millions of man-hours, constituting numerous virtual whole lifetimes, even if the deed doesn’t result in any crashed aircraft or botched surgeries. These destructive and dangerous programs are launched intentionally for purposes of enrichment, amusement, and self-aggrandizement. I’d say hangin’s too quick fer ’em if I weren’t so tender-hearted. But it is for just such tricks that we want Ol’ Sparky at the ready. Due process first, please.
“How many hours did you spend working on your tax returns last year? Brewing up a pot of coffee, gathering your receipts, hunkering down at the kitchen table going through the microscopic print of endless files and tables and sub-paragraphs? How ‘bout the year before that? And the year before that? Yeah… you and millions of other Americans. How many billions of man-hours are lost every decade? How many total equivalent human lives are snuffed out to satisfy the needs of civilization? If Ted Bundy or Charlie Manson killed that many people outright, we’d bake ’em! Due process first, please.
“Well, just as I’m ready to dispatch some felonious trickster who’d squander multiple human lives, I can count the costs of recovery methods and, because I value human life above all, I can point to a better way where fewer suffer and more gain. That’s why we’re putting it on the line for Amendment 29, ’cause we’re all in this together, and we need your every vote for every one of the good men and women on this slate! If we can stand up here and say to the doubters and the haters and the greedy and the warped and the heartless that we will face The Algorithm, come what may, come what may for the USA, we trust in our nation to find a better way, then you can join us and stand with us for the USA! We can put it on the line for 29 and a brighter, freer, cleaner, better future for America!”
The crowd erupted again and went back into its chant. Ned smiled and waved at them while they huzzahed and hooted, and when they began to settle, he took his seat as Tristan Amassi took his place at the podium.
“I’m not accustomed to speaking out AGAINST tax cut proposals, but…” Amassi looked down and shook his head. He slowly raised it. “Where to begin?” He turned and addressed Adkins. “Due process, Congressman? Really? After decades of supporting civil asset forfeiture, you’re still claiming allegiance to due process?”
Adkins rose, indignant. “That was about drugs, Senator! You know that as well as anybody! We were fighting drugs!”
“‘Fighting drugs’ was a popular excuse, Congressman. Asset forfeiture was only about power and plunder. It has always only been about power and plunder.”
The music faded, a man crossed downstage from the kitchen set, and the hidden announcer leaned into his microphone. “Direct from Rockabilly Barndance, Ladies and Gentlemen, Hicks and Hickettes, Okies and Ocarinas, put your hands together for our master of ceremonies, Mister George! B! May!”
“Thank you so much! Thank you so much!” George held his hands up as if to deflect the obedient applause. After the sign winked out and the ovation trailed away and a baby spot illuminated May, he stepped into his microphone and spoke softly. “Are ya’ll ready for some cookin’… and some cookin’?”
The studio guitarist executed a sweet lick and the studio drummer hit a rim shot and the studio audience roared its approval. “Thank you so much! You are so very kind!” The applause sign and the red light on the center stage camera both turned on. The band started the familiar theme music and May spoke directly to the camera. “Get ready folks! From the heart of The Redge to the heart of America, it’s the best darn downhome live-action home cookin’ show in the whole USA! It is time… to…” He pointed to the crowd.
“ROCK! THE! RANGE!”
The rehearsed audience shouted out the show title and then applauded their own performance while George beamed. “Now give it up,” he continued, “for Mister Jose Luis (‘Bud’) Gibson, and Miss Brenda Gayle!” The sign went back on and the audience clapped as the hosts entered from separate wings, meeting in the center of the stage.
“Thank you!” Gibson and Gayle both smiled and waved at the audience as the applause faded. “Welcome! Welcome to Rock the Range, where all dishes are prepared with three skillets and the truth. We got a great show for ya today. Later we’ll have Scrapple Valley out singing their latest country chart topper!”
“Can’t wait for that, Bud! And with summer and fresh tomatoes breathing down our necks, don’t you think it’s about time you shared your Abuela’s secret salsa recipe with the folks!”
“You’re right about that, Brenda Gayle! In addition, we’ll have our special guest, Chef Laurent from Chez Diane, join us to whip up huckleberry flapjacks, chorizo, and Spanish omelets! But first,” Bud’s voice dropped, and he stepped out from behind the prep table and leaned against the front. “I’d like to take a moment…”
“Oh Lordy…” Brenda rolled her eyes and the audience laughed.
“No, seriously Bren. There’s been a lot of talk lately about the HERO Act and all the hard choices that our hired help in Washington’s been havin’ to make and it seems like some folks can’t do nothin’ but criticize.”
“Well that’s our American privilege though, ain’t it, Bud?”
“It sure is, Bren. It sure is! And there’s a time to analyze and a time to criticize and a time to compromise and a time to temporize. But the way it works in Our Country is when Our Congress has acted on it and Our President has signed off on it then it’s time for loyal Americans to get behind it. We had our chance to talk, and now it’s time to put up or shut up. We gotta make this thing work! Either we roll up our sleeves and be Americans United or we might just as well give it up and give Alaska back to the Russians and give the Chinese the keys to Fort Knox and start gittin’ our oil from those Mad Mullahs in Eye Ran.”
The applause sign lit up to cue the audience. As the ovation faded, Brenda said, “Strong words, Bud.” The band began to play softly.
Gibson smiled at the camera. “Sorry folks. Just had ta get that offa my chest is all. We’ll be back after this.”
The loyal home audience sat patiently through recorded advertisements, but Bud and Brenda did not return.
At a little past four pm HERO agents impounded QKRD armed with their own programming and began to process the staff and studio audience. By night’s end about sixteen percent would make it out alive. Neither Gibson nor Gayle would be among that number. Gibson was doubly damned by his massive estate and his poor health, and while Miss Gayle was “only slightly” overweight and just barely into the orange zone, the field agent in charge was no fan of country music and eager to make quota besides. And careless.
The long walk across campus to English Comp (which she hated) from Bio (which she occasionally enjoyed, especially when there was any dissecting to be done) usually gave Yarrow enough time to blast out a few posts. Strolling along the breezeway heading up to the English building with her face down in her device, Yarrow didn’t notice the cluster at the bottom of the stairs until she was almost upon them.
“You go ’roun’ haole!” said Leilani Stark. The oversized Hawaiian-Tongan girl had planted herself on the bottom step and was flanked by her equally great Maori and Hawaiian cohorts. Together the three of them completely blocked the way up.
“Get out of my way, please,” said Yarrow, “I need to get to class.”
“You got time you run for it,” said Leilani. She pointed to the other stairway at the far end of the building. The other girls snickered.
“I don’t want to run. Class is just at the top of these steps. Now get out of my way you fat fucks and let me pass!”
As one, the three of them rose and advanced on the smaller girl. “Who fat? Maybe you like run now, yeah haole bitch?”
As the pack stepped toward her, Yarrow made a feint to the left and then dashed right to flank the outer guard but was snagged by the arm as she tried to pass. “Let go of me!” She squawked as the powerful appendage hauled her in and wrapped itself around her. She struggled and flailed as she was lifted from the ground.
“Dis one li’l fish,” said the girl. “Maybe I throw ’em back!”
“Three against one? Does this school give out ribbons for valor now?” An unfamiliar woman’s voice came down to them from the top of the stairs. When the girls all looked up they saw two haoles, a man and a woman. They were matched in black business attire and sun-glasses. “You might want to put Miss Diamond down now, ladies, unless you’d like us to report this incident to Sister Travis.”
As the pair descended the stairs the trio slowly backed away. Yarrow’s captor dropped her and she almost stumbled when she hit the pavement but recovered and glowered at her nemeses as they retreated.
By the time the pair reached the ground Yarrow’s antagonists had gone. “Yarrow Diamond?” asked the man. “‘X-box’?”
“So you read my blog,” snorted Yarrow. “So what?”
“So we like it,” said the woman. “We like what you have to say about life. And people. And mainly what you’d like to do to ‘fat fucks’ who get in your way.”
Yarrow blushed. “Doink…” She thumped her forehead with the flat of her hand. “That’s just da kine, you know? Trash talk. Gamer bullshit alla time. Like pro wrestling, you know? Or politics. Doesn’t always mean anything. We don’t really want to hurt anybody.”
The man in black touched his pad and began to read. “‘Sharks gotta eat too,’ says X-box, responding to Governor Lim’s ‘Project Pono’ proposal.” He looked up, removed his sunglasses, and smiled at her. “Clearly, Miss Diamond, you are more than just an accomplished gamer, and a Registered Master of both ColdMaze and the NoSurvivors series. You also have a great heart, and are fully capable of balancing the needs of innocent sharks and fat fucks.”
Yarrow scowled at them both. “You know my name. You know my game stats. You’ve read my blog, so you know my screen name – ”
The woman handed Yarrow a slip of paper. When she took it she saw that it was an “excused absence” form signed by Sister Garth.
Yarrow read it and rolled her eyes. “Doink. And you know my class schedule. Whattya want from me?”
“Bret Winter.” The man extended his hand. Yarrow took it, squeezed it slightly, and dropped it. He gestured to his companion. “This is Colonel Michaels. We’re putting together a team for the Federal government and we’d like your help. You’d be excused from school,” he gestured to the slip in her hand, “as you can see. In fact, if you chose to work with us, you’d get full Civics and Social Studies credit for all of the rest of high school.”
Colonel Michaels removed her sunglasses as well and smiled at the girl. “Let us take you to lunch. We can talk it over over grinds. We’ll get you home to Catlin Park, and we’ll want to talk to your parents, of course.”
Yarrow still refused to smile at these people. “We need money first!”
Colonel Michaels laughed. “Of course you’d be paid! Whattya say, Miss Diamond? Or do you prefer ‘X-box’?”
“X-box is fine. Yarrow is better.”
“Excellent, Yarrow. How do you feel about Mexican?”
“You read my blog.”
“So you love it! So let’s go! We have Tres Hermanos reservations at Ala Moana in fifteen minutes. Bret?”
“Directions on my pad.” He tapped the screen. “And being sent to our car now.”
Queen City Parking and Security, Monday before Memorial Day
Clifford Shanahan got to work as early as he usually did.
He hated to rush, and he hated to waste time. With the vagaries of traffic, he knew he had to take his chances. If he could only rely on all the other pinheads on the road paying attention, and on hitting the lights just right, he’d show up to work every day with zero seconds to spare. But just because his morning commute could be fifteen minutes from door to door it was almost certain that some dunce on the way would be too lost in his cell phone to pay attention to the lights. So he made it a point to try to get to work five or ten minutes early. It wasn’t so bad. It gave him a chance to knock back one last cup of coffee and to not look at or talk to anybody until he had to.
At one minute before the hour, Cliff rinsed out his cup and lay his thumb onto the blinking glass plate by the door. After the affirmative beep he walked in, took a seat, and awaited the day’s orders. When the minute hand stood straight up, Queen City’s dispatcher waddled up to the rostrum and leaned his bulk onto it. “Good news today! Big contract comin’ in, with some special problems, of course.”
The assembly groaned. Reginapolis was a regular stop for many a concert tour, as well as hosting three of its own pro sports franchises, so the employees of Queen City were accustomed to “prima donna” service. Cliff remembered losing out when the big deal hip hop sensation insisted on only black escorts, and again when the big deal chanteuse insisted on women drivers, because “they’re safer.” Cliff wasn’t always locked out. He was key agent on a couple of assignments. Sometimes he just had to be careful not to make eye-contact with one pop star and to be sure to always be smiling when another walked into the room. Every client was different, and every client was right. As long as they paid up front.
“This new client, for the next week or so,” continued the dispatcher, “isn’t going to be requiring any special candy or beverages, so suck those tears back into your faces. I toldja, this is good news. The client’s looked at our labor and declared that we are over-staffed. They’ve decided to deal with it two ways. Some of you are going to get the week off, with pay. This doesn’t come out of your vacation time or sick leave or nothin’! This is free money, folks. Take it and like it.”
Time off, with pay, sounded good. There had to be a catch.
“There’s a catch. I’m going to read a list of names. These will be the lucky bastards, or,” he nodded to the women present, “the lovely ladies, who get the free week. When I read your name go ahead and clock out and I don’t want to see you until next Monday. On time! So don’t go nuts.”
The crowd leaned forward and waited for their names to be called.
“However…”
“Oh fuck me.” Muttering drifted up from the back, and the group laughed.
“Now Del, don’t be so sure. Names I don’t call remain on schedule, just like you all expected when you showed up today.” He paused again and looked around the room. “Don’t worry. No one should be getting fucked over this deal. Those who aren’t sent home to get their money for nothin’ and their chicks for free are going to be paid time and a half for the duration. Like I said, everybody wins if nobody fucks it up. There will be no appeal from these special assignments this week. You either take the deal and the money, or you give notice and never come back. So how ’bout we all take ‘Yes’ for an answer?”
The dispatcher began reading names and employees began rising and departing. When Cliff’s name was called, he whooped and split, barely pausing at the door long enough to clock out.
DuQuois Correctional, Queen County, Friday afternoon, ca 3pm
“Buon giorno, Dominico! Where ya been, paisano?” Axel Hayes leaned his broom against the wall and extended his hand to the returning CO. “Ain’t seen you around here in a coon’s age, Dom. What up?”
Dominic gripped the trustee’s hand. “Got a date with the warden, Ax. Could concern you, you might want to stay close.”
Axel surveyed Dominic’s snappy new uniform and whistled. “That what all the smart storm troopers are wearin’ this season?”
Halfway down the hall, and leaning against the wall, Corrections Officer Bullock, grunted. “Get back to it, Hayes. Good seein’ ya again, Camp. Warden’s expecting ya, walk on in.”
“Bull.” Dominic Campigno nodded to the man and opened the door.
Lou Simpson rose from the desk and met Dominic in the middle of the office. They half-embraced, their hands gripping elbows. “You look good, Dom! Elite Federal service suits you fine!”
He grinned. “Raise comes in handy, too, now that Felina’s pregnant again.”
“Dom! That’s great! That’s just great!” Lou slapped him on the shoulder, then pulled him in closer, fully committing to the hug, which Dominic heartily returned. “Have a seat, Dom. Catch me up.” They broke their embrace and Lou returned to behind the desk.
“This is the Reconstruction Order for this facility and the surrounding area.” Officer Campigno fetched out a federal warrant and handed it to Lou, who sat and studied it while Dom stood and waited.
Simpson looked up and said, “So we’re in the shit then, are we?”
Dom shook his head. “You’re gonna be fine, Lou. I promise you that. And most of your staff, too, except the names on that list.”
Lou squinted back at the papers. Nervous fingers reached up and pinched the flesh between the eyebrows while pursed lips twitched back and forth. Finally, “I’ve had two of these four before this desk too many times…”
“The Algorithm makes sense, Lou. Troublemakers are expensive. It may seem cruel, but… You know… Freedom ain’t free.”
“No! No!” Lou looked up and grimaced. “That’s not it. I get it. What’s gotta be done has gotta be done. These jokers have been a thorn in my administration since they’ve come on board, and your damned union has had me in handcuffs! Christ forgive me, Dom, but this part is gonna be a pleasure! But these other two, this new guy I don’t know so well, but Harold has been the model CO for as long as –”
“Can’t be helped, Lou.” Dom studied his pad. “Mr Keenan may be a decent sort, but he’s been pulling his Army pension all his time here and now he’s two years from Social Security. And Mr Garson, I’m afraid, is a little overweight, and suffers from diabetes and hypertension. They’re totally red-flagged, Lou, nothin’ you can do.”
“Still stinks, though.” The two remained silent for a bit. Lou continued reading as neatly trimmed fingernails dragged along the jaw line. “End of the line for our guests I suppose.”
Dominic nodded. “Mainly two exits, all according to the Algorithm’s protocols. Full clemency for those few on the list. Reconstruction for most of the rest. You’re gonna want extra labor so we’ll conscript a crew. Expect maybe five to eight per cent of them can work their way through to new housing in a Federal Max. Details, protocols, warrants… It’s all in your hands right there.”
Lou scanned the inmate lists, then sighed heavily, stood up, and stabbed at the form with an index finger. “Thank God!” Dom leaned forward, followed Lou’s finger, and read Axel’s name. Lou walked to the open door and shouted down the hall. “Axel, get in here now! Bull, go to complete lockdown! Secure the blocks and assemble the staff! Now mister!”
“On it, Chief!” Bullock trotted over to the public address station.
Axel dragged his broom into the office. “What up, Chief?”
Lou’s eyes glistened with gathering tears as she pulled the little trustee into her embrace. “We’re going home, Ax. The President is letting us out today. Thank God with us.” She and Dominic both knelt.
They looked up at Ax, who struggled to digest the news. The Warden had always been a decent sort, but cryin’ over an early release? “An early release? Boy shit howdy! A Presidential pardon? You betcha!” He looked down at them. The Warden and Dom were both ready to thank Jesus for his freedom. “Why the hell not?” He knelt beside them and they took his hands and they prayed.
Team Scott, Sachs Exit, DuQuois
When the pilots hit the brakes and the gimbals deployed, the rigs and the trailers lined up three abreast. They were sitting just short of Sachs Exit. Wreckage from the recent collision straddled the shoulder and the exit.
As the team commander in the left rig coordinated with his squad leaders in the trailers, the cab officers from the center rig exited and approached the wrecks. “Queen City, we’ve got incidentals just outside our perimeter.”
“Copy that, Scott. We’ve got you on traffic cam. The Algorithm has just annexed the site, so those’ll be System Caps. Clean it up and send it in.”
The men moved to the vehicles just as the meat wagons started filing down the exit ramp, loud country and western music blaring from the lead van. When they reached the first, upended and its top flattened, they read the plate number onto their pads and waved for the disposal team to start collecting victims. “These two are already dead. Let’s check that Buick.”
Bill Kippert could see it playing in his head over and over. He was making great time, maybe not be late after all, coming up fast and then those stupid trucks start lining up. He moves up through the pack until he is finally on the tail of the Sentra not picking it up fast enough and finally getting past that truck until just about to DuQuois and finally he’s clear and Bill is flooring it and then back in front of the big rig just before it moves left and — That Sentra is still dragging its ass! And BAM! And everything is moving! And everything is loud! And everything is still and everything is quiet and everything hurts and the scene plays over and over.
Then there’s a cop sticking his face in the window and then he’s pointing a gun at him and then everything stops.
from the journal of Dale Settler, The Day After the Signing of the HERO Act
If this gets out I’m dead. I was the Secretary’s stenographer at the meetings, and I assured him that I’d destroyed my notes, but he has no clue the number of ways that information can be hidden. He always made a big fuss over my “cartoon drawings.” A successful bureaucrat may be a genius in his own right, but can remain an utter idiot by most other measures. Intelligence is complex. And not evenly distributed.
It’s too silly, really. Interlac™, the 30th Century lingua franca of the “United Planets™,” isn’t actually a language. It isn’t even a very good code. It’s just English, couched in your basic symbol substitution cipher. But even if an educated fanboy were to translate it, he’d still get gibberish. I used a total of four levels of distortion. Another cipher, and the other two even simpler, but taken altogether, they would test even such minds as the alleged Algorithm. Still, it’s quite simple to unwind, IF you’ve got the keys, AND you use them in the right order.
My fanboy persona makes for a convenient cover. I always have my sketchpad, and often comicbooks to lend out for idling in the corridors. As a consequence, the Secretary and I were regular favorites of Congressional Pages.
I recall one Page, I forget his name. He became quite enamored of Negan™ and used him frequently as a metaphor for Uncle Sam. He asked me once whether I thought that Robert Kirkman might have been channeling Ron Paul when he created The Saviors™ to “rescue” the Walking Dead™ in 2010.
It hadn’t occurred to me, but I thanked him for the interesting question. Later I downloaded a copy of the good doctor’s “End the Fed” from 2009 and found this on page 117. “[Those who]… seek power over others believe for humanitarian reasons that the strong and wise have an obligation to subject the weak and ignorant to… control… [T]hey are the saviors of mankind, and… believe that brute force must be used to impose their ‘goodwill.’” (emphasis added)
It’s a pity I can’t remember his name. I’d leave that Page my bound set. I ought to; I’m surely dead, even if the Secretary does believe I destroyed my notes. Although… Considering the rest of our cabal, I’m probably the least of his worries. It may be only mutually assured destruction that saves any of us.
The following reconstructions are from the meetings of the year before the ratification of the 29th Amendment, also known as the Homeland Economic Recovery Optimization and Tax Base Enrichment Amendment. It modified the 5th, 14th, and 16th Amendments to streamline Due Process and to codify Eminent Domain. This is a fair representationof what went down, but because of the exigencies of subterfuge I cannot guarantee that it is either verbatim or precisely in order. In attendance were the Congressional Joint Select Committee, the Secretaries of the Treasury, Homeland Security, and Health and Human Services, and the Speaker of the House, and the Vice President, and their noted guests.
Sec Hom Sec: She’s right. Mostly. Labor’s cheap anymore. Homeland’s been getting a buttload of returning GIs for the last decade or so.
Sen FR: Shouldn’t we be hearing from Defense or the DVA on this? Returning veterans are more up their alley, no?
VP:I believe DOD is golfing with POTUS as we speak and uh…
Sec Hom Sec: Veterans’ Affairs is being kept out of the loop. There are some… sensitive issues. Anyway, a lot of our returning vets not going into local law enforcement are coming into Homeland.
Sec HHS: Contacts inside DVA tell me a lot of them are damaged goods.
Sec Hom Sec: Many of them do have problems. We’ve flagged them as best we can. It’s not always obvious what’s a problem and what’s an asset. Mostly we’ve been burying them in make work crap farms like the TSA.
Rep NA: We’re drifting off course. Cheap labor is one thing, but compliance requires an army of skilled accountants to examine millions of returns.
Sen PS: It’s as easy as kicking in doors and busting heads.
Speaker: I hope, Senator, that my service was more than jus’ “kickin’ in doors and bus’in’ heads.
Rep DK: We all hope, Mistah Speakah, when sign. But truth come wikiwiki aftah. Senatah wen nail it. “Kickin’ door ’n’ bustin’ head” was daily bread in country.
Bobb’s Woods, the Back Roads of Bayne County Friday afternoon, Memorial Day Weekend
Ed Floyd stepped out of his vehicle as they approached his car, pulled himself up straight, and pounded his fist against his chest. “Wakanda forever!” Cheap liquor befouled Kandi’s nose and she wrinkled her brow. She stepped in and grabbed his shoulder and his wrist and spun him face first into the side of his car.
Gil spat on the dirt road and pinched another tiny fragment of wintergreen snuff from its tin. “I told you, Ed, she doesn’t like that, and you go and piss her off on top of everything else.”
Kandi finished cuffing Floyd, then turned him around so he faced them. She patted him down and he grinned. Then she peered into the driver’s side window. “Where are your keys?”
Floyd snickered. “Hah! I tossed ’em out the window as I coast to a stop.” He nodded toward the opened passenger side window.
“As you coast… Isn’t this an automatic?”
“Hah! I modified it! ’Sa stick! You like to feel it?”
“Gil!” Kandi grabbed Floyd’s grimy T-shirt, pulled, pivoted, and thrust him at Deputy Sheriff Huerta. “Take Otis back to Mayberry and don’t be so sweet about it. I’ll run the shoulder a little and see if I can turn up his keys.”
Huerta grabbed Floyd’s arm and marched him back to their cruiser. “You alright out here, Kand? It’s past four. We’d have clocked out already if Stale Burnfart Junior here hadn’t led us on his merry chase. Sheriff doesn’t like OT, you know.”
“Yeah.” Deputy Sheriff Smitherman removed her cap and scratched her scalp, her nails gliding through her thin mat of tight curls. “He doesn’t. I’ll give it an hour, that’s a fair gamble. He doesn’t like Uke’s holiday towing rates, either.”
Gil keyed the mic on his shoulder. He keyed it again. “Nothing. We’re radio dead down here.”
“Down here, sure.” She pointed up and into the woods. “Top of that ridge is the county line, and I’m up there in ten minutes, if that. Then I’m looking down across the Interstate at the airport. This side of Kupper County is thick with cell towers. I’ve got this, deputy. If I can’t catch Highway Patrol, Uber will find me!”
Huerta spat. “You sure, Kand? That’s some pretty dense…”
“Nothing to it! There’s a deer trail right there. See? Don’t worry. I grew up in these woods. Every summer at Gran’s from the fourth grade through high school. Just take Goober into booking and have a great weekend. And Mr Floyd, Judge and I’ll see you on Tuesday. You sure picked the right weekend to get locked up. We’re serving fried baloney all four nights!”
Portland International Airport, two months after the HERO Act
“Feet in the footprints, sir! Feet in the footprints and arms straight out!” The traveler glanced at the pattern on the floor and adjusted his stance. Reed snapped latex gloves onto his hands and knelt before his subject. “I’m gonna run the backs of my hands up the insides of your thighs sir. Let me know it you feel any pinching or pressure or – ”
“Potts!”
“Excuse me sir.” Reed rose and turned to the sound.
The shift supervisor sneered. “Big guy wants you upstairs, you and Whiteman both, right away! And he even seems pleased about it this time. You screw-ups actually get yourselves fired? From a government job?” He turned to the traveler whom Potts had detained. “Thank you, sir, you can go ahead and catch your flight now. Sorry about the delay.” He turned back to Potts. “Where’s your shadow? If you’re – nevermind – Yo! Jaleel! Boss wants you upstairs, pronto!”
When Hakim Whiteman and Reed Potts entered the director’s office, he smiled at them and stood. “Have a seat, gentlemen.” Two strangers were already seated. “Mr Winter and Mr Fabok here are recruiters from our new Recovery Office.” He lingered at the exit.
“Thank you, Director. That’ll do.” The director blushed, nodded, and left, as the visiters introduced themselves.
“We’ve read your files, men,” said Mr Fabok. “We like very much what we see. We still do have a few questions, though. You’re both combat vets, multiple tours, is that right?”
They nodded.
“And you were both part of Lieutenant Fesenden’s party at Kodai, is that right?”
Both men bristled. Hakim said nothing, but pursed his lips all the tighter. Reed said, “We were never convicted, sir. The court martial – ”
“Oh, I know.” Fabok took the folder from Winter and waved it at them. “It’s all here. Like I said, we read it. We studied it. We could probably act it out by now. You all pacified the village, and team USA eventually secures the province. But at a price. Such a price. Harsh words, nasty accusations, sad ending. LT never lives to wear his medal and witnesses never show up to testify. Case dismissed.”
Fabok handed the folder back to Winter, who said, “Let’s move on.” He opened the folder and flipped through it as he talked. “You’ve both had a lot of the same issues with following orders, fighting with your mates, and counseling for unnecessary use of force.” He looked up. “Do the rules of engagement mean anything to you?”
“You mean wait to get shot?” Hakim snorted. “IED blew the leg off LT. And killed a couple other of our guys.”
“With considerable collateral damage to the locals, too.”
Fabok grimaced. “Tough break, that.”
“Mofos ambushed us,” said Hakim. “We did what we had to.”
Winter lay his folder down and smiled at them.
“How’d you men like to be heroes again?”
Settler’s notes
Sen FR: Hiroshima, Dresden, My Lai, Kodai, Sand Creek, Wounded Knee. All terrible things, but all things that people came back from.
Rep DK: Yeah, troop come back. Shell shock. Alienate. Disaffec’ and disorient. Civilian casualty should have ’em so good.
VP: Civilian casualties? Well yes! It’s very sad! Every life is precious. But we are SAVING and serving so many more. Besides, it’s not always about who’s technically accurate. Basically, read economics! Economics teaches us to look at the marginal effects and marginal costs, and when the proportions of grief to loss are the lowest, you know, like in a terrorist bombing or a natural disaster movie, the marginal human cost is the lowest and [ceteris parabus?] the accumulation costs have the most efficiency. [The VP’s Latin pronunciation is as challenging as her reasoning. I am obliged to infer meaning.]
Sen PS: I… uh… I guess you have kind of a point when it comes to marginal utility and concentrated destruction. If the government MUST get its loot —
Speaker: The government MUST serve the people and protect the state, and it needs resources to meet its obligations. I don’t care for that term, “loot”, sir. In order to carry out our responsibilities we MUST recover our return on our infrastructure and legal framework. A stable social order demands that —
Sen PS: So, given that the government WILL “recover its return,” you posit that we fix the body count, then focus on killing the most local of survivors to reduce overall trauma. It’s only sad when strangers die. It can be almost crippling when it’s your friends or family. The grief alone can put one’s productivity off for days!
VP: I don’t think we need to fix the body count. We want to reduce that. To do the most good for the most people with the least suffering we have to be willing to make the difficult decisions and hard choices that desperate times demand.
Sen FR: Look… Look at Germany. Look at Japan. Look at our own South. After devastating war was waged against them, they recovered. Sure, at times things got hungry, and reconstruction ran into complications, but people bounce back.
Rep NA: War was not waged “against” the South, Senator. Father Abraham waged Civil War for the sake of the North AND the South, that Our Democracy be preserved. You are right to make Reconstruction your model. It was through Reconstruction that our Union was remade and recommitted.
Queen City Parking and Security (HERO Field Office), Reginapolis, Memorial Day Weekend, Friday, 15:58:15 hours Eastern Daylight Time
“…okay Sheridan, pick ’em up about five klicks if you can, you should be coming up on Toth Pass in seventy.”
“Copy that, Queen City. Doin’ the best we can, but we got a convention of the Drag Ass Alliance upfront. You want we should shake out the fifty cal?”
“Do what you can, Sheridan! Pope, ease back a bit, you’re coming up on Barry in sixty.” Karen McCoy flipped her screen to show a close-up of team Sheridan approaching the Toth Pass exit from the east. “Okay Burnside, pull out, you’re on in forty.”
“Whoa howdy, Queen City! We got a fresh wreck tumbling up front at Sachs outta DuQuois, it’s already getting messy – ”
“I see it, Scott, go ahead and lock up there, may as well plant our flags where we land. If you’ve already got trauma go ahead and soak it up.”
“We’re not going to make it.” David Ironwood was riding shotgun in the lead cab of the four rigs constituting Team Sheridan. They were running abreast across the entirety of the Interstate as they approached Toth Pass, the county line, and the perimeter of the zone.
“We’ll make it.” The driver, Richard Browne, increased the pressure on the accelerator and touched the team channel key on his vest. “Eyes left, mother truckers. Pace me. If these clovers don’t get a little giddyup out of a gentle ass kissin’ then we’ll step on ’em!” Dick released the team band and said, “I’m fucked if I’m buying any beer for Kenney’s Kommandos tonight. We’ll seal our side.”
The semis surged forward, closing the gaps in front of them until some were but inches from their obstructions. Finally, sensible terror took charge of the fortunate innocents, and they surged forward.
As Officer McCoy flipped through her screens and talked her mobile teams into position, District Supervisor Leslie Tatum leaned in the doorway. He watched the digital display over McCoy as it approached sixteen hundred hours. The bud in his ear squealed and the Secretary of Homeland Security spoke to him. “Is everything in place Mr Tatum, Mr Kenney?”
“Yes sir,” answered Tatum. He waved for Karen’s attention and when he caught her eye, he held up his index finger. He could hear Barron Kenney answering from the field office across the river.
“Very good, gentlemen. Then in four… three…” The Secretary counted and Tatum gave McCoy the thumbs up and the clock display on the monitor gave way to the Presidential seal which gave way to Himself.
Throughout the designated Reconstruction Zone, snaking along the center of the tri-counties area, straddling rivers and ridges and roads, and covering most of Inner Reginastan, brakes groaned, tires squealed, bodies pitched forward, drinks were spilled, heads were bumped, fates were cursed, gods were entreated, and frazzled nerves were stretched taut.
Just before reaching the exit at Toth Pass, without warning, the trucks of Team Sheridan hit their brakes. Programmed gimbals in the trailer chassis deployed so that, as the semis slowed, the trailers turned uniformly counterclockwise, forming a barricade across the roadway.
Checkpoint at Bobb’s Woods, Bayne County
Coming off the dirt track and out of Bobb’s Woods, Guillermo eased his cruiser to a stop at the new checkpoint.
“What the fuck, over?” Floyd fidgeted in the back seat.
“Take it easy, Ed.” The barricade hadn’t been there when they had first chased Floyd into the woods. Across the road he could see a half dozen or so large trucks. Beyond them a backhoe swung its bucket between the ground and the top of the lead truck. The truck swayed and settled as the load was dropped into its bed.
Gil rolled down his window as a strange officer approached his car. The uniform he wore resembled the steady supply of illustrated memoranda that the Sheriff’s office received from their friends in Washington City. Even though the recruiting campaign had been all over the media for months, this was still the first “HERO” he’d seen in person. “What’s the story…” He studied the brass on the man’s collar. “…Sergeant Major?”
“Heh. Corporal Davies, sir. You Deputy Warthog? Where’s your partner?”
“Deputy Sheriff Huerta, that’s right. Sheriff tell you to call me that?”
Davies grinned. “Heh-eh… yeah. You’re out of your jurisdiction, Deputy. As of about an hour ago.” He stiffened and recited. “Pursuant to the provisions of the Homeland Economic Recovery Optimization and Tax Base Enrichment Act, this area has been declared to be an Emergency Revenue Recovery and Liability Abatement Zone. On behalf of the President and People of the United States, and of the Secretaries of the Treasury and Homeland Security, we thank you for your cooperation.” He relaxed and continued. “Sheriff says half this county is radio dead half the time, and the other half all the time. I guess you didn’t get word.”
Gil said nothing.
“So what about your partner, then?”
Gil continued to sit, letting it sink in. “So, the lottery…”
“Yeah. The Algorithm. Picked your neighborhood. Sorry, bro. Anyway, we’ve got wide discretion inside the zone, but we’re all about Team LEO. ‘swhy we put the word out just before go time. So… your partner…”
“Uh…” Gil pointed to the back seat and his passenger. “She’s looking for Mario Andretti’s keys. He thought it would be hilarious to toss them during the chase.”
“Heckuva walk back if they don’t turn up.”
“Naah. Uh… she’s just over the ridge from KIA. Ten minutes from cell contact and half an hour for a pick up along the Interstate.”
The man frowned. “Ten minutes from the heart of our hot zone, is more like it. You’d better spin this thing around and go get her, Deputy. That situation is going to get plenty tense before this day is done.”
Gil nodded. “Sure. Thanks. What about…?”
“Yeah.” Davies looked into the back seat. “What’s your name, sir?”
“He’s Edmond Floyd,” said Gil, “but don’t ask him. Depending on his mood he could be Daniel Boone or Thomas Edison or Napoleon Dynamite.”
“Linoleum Blown-Apart!” interjected Floyd. “Hah!”
“Heh-eh. Yeah.” Davies muttered and tapped his pad. “We’ll take him from here, Deputy.” He turned his head and hollered. “Front!”
Another officer trotted up. “Corporal?”
Gil got out of his cruiser and let Floyd out of the back seat. As Corporal Davies and his man took him, Gil reached for his keys, but Davies stopped him. “Just like this is fine, Deputy. You best get back to your partner before she steps into something nasty. We’ll have your cuffs waiting for you when you get back.”
Papp’s Pachinko Palace, Middlebury Mall, three months after the HERO Act
“Videot gamesters don’t know from the classics. Pinball, Skeeball, Bally? They couldn’t even tell ya what our name means.”
“That’s you, Papp, ain’t it?”
“Pachinko, Pinhead! It’s a mechanical game, takes finesse and steel balls! It’s not all just point and shoot and splat go brains! Elegance and style, my lad, elegance and style. Still, truth to tell… it’s the franchised games what saved my ass. X-box you can get in your living room, but for DeathGrip3K™ or CyborgBlaster™ with quadraphonic subwoofers you gotta see Papp. Half of ’em’re the gentrification crowd, the rest are dexed up or oped out or what not, but they all line up for quarters and brass bucks!”
“Whoa! Check out Special Agent Ray-bans!” Rashid Fabok stepped into the darkened interior, removed his sunglasses, and smiled at the men behind the counter.
“Shut up, Jamie! Can I help you, sir?”
“Lowell Papp?”
“The same.”
“I’m looking for one of your regular players.” Rashid lifted his pad so the men could see the image. It was an adolescent male with a long blond lock running across half his face and the other half of his head closely shorn. The lad was shown glowering at the camera. “Andrew Seeger, presently playing Surv – ”
“Over there.” Papp pointed across the lobby. “Show him Jamie.” Jamie led him to Seeger.
Drew was finally getting the hang of NoSurvivorsIV™.
As his avatar advanced through the hapless crowd, larger and heavier weapons dropped into his arms from his cache in nether space. He fired off several rounds into the school bus in front of him, then tossed the bazookas as he strolled through the wreckage. He continued moving forward, firing projectiles, energy blasts, and fireballs into the crowd, relishing the blossoming gouts of gore, and the hissing crackle of burning flesh. Keeping his eyes on both his power supply and his body count, he lobbed explosives into the denser sections of the crowd and watched the string of digits floating in the sky scroll past his previous best. When he reached the center of the city, he planted his nukes, set the timers, and activated his jet belt.
He rocketed away from the mushroom cloud and a floating chorus of topless hula dancers serenaded his glory and bedecked him with leis. As the music swelled and the girls moved in closer everything went black and Drew’s headset went dead.
“Hey!” He ripped off his rig and confronted Fabok. “What’s the deal, you trip over the cable? You just cost me a free game! This is a six quarter machine!”
Fabok held out a deuce.
“You can play again later, if you want. Keep the change for your trouble.”
Drew looked at him, then at the two-dollar note, then he took the note. “What’s the big deal, anyway?”
“Andrew Seeger? Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“Let me buy you lunch. You can get back to playtime later. Your country has a bright future for you, if you want it.”
The Investigators’ Offices, District of Columbia, Six weeks before passage of the HERO Act
“Yes Peter, what is it?”
Peter stepped in from the hallway and closed the door. “You need to see these, Jim. They were sent over by her people.” He dropped a large envelope onto Jim’s desk and settled into the guest seat.
Jim went through the contents. They were mostly photographs of his friends and family, in their commonest haunts – schools, parks, coming out of bars – each framed neatly in a circle with crosshairs centered on their respective foreheads. The final page was a list of Congress members, annotated with potentially embarrassing investigation proposals. The men sat for a bit, then Jim spoke, “So we lean on these Reps, then? Look into these matters? Anything else?”
“From them? No. No, that speaks for itself. But, uh… Clearly, they know how to deal with embarrassing problems like Exner and Epstein. Just watch your step, Jimmy, that’s all. They got you covered six ways from Sunday.”
Da Kine Kailua™, Middlebury Mall, three months after the HERO Act
“Wasn’t your score on Survivor flagged us,” Fabok mumbled around his pulled pork sandwich while Seeger sucked the syrup out of his shave ice.
“It’s ‘No Survivors.’” The boy sneered at him. “Not ‘Survivor.’” It was always embarrassing when oldsters tried to relate. Drew continued to stare at Rashid, then realized, “I thought Muslims didn’t eat pork.”
Fabok took another bite. “They don’t. Or Jews for that matter. S’what? My family’s been Christian for generations. Used to live in Iraq. Then Dumb’n’Dubya toppled Saddam. When ISIS moved in, we had to split,” he drew his hand across his throat, “or we’d BE split.”
“That’s harsh, man. You’re a different spin than I expected. I thought all you Feds were all gung ho for the war machine and shit.”
“We don’t bring out politics to work, usually, so we look like a united front. We’re anything but that, but we are professionals.”
“Yeah. Okay.” The boy went back to his icy drink for a bit and thought. Then he scoffed. “It’s ‘No Survivors Four’ in fact.”
“What?”
“You called it ‘Survivor.’ It’s ‘NoSurvivorsIV.’ The first three were a snap.”
“I’m sure they were.” Rashid smiled at the lad. “the Survivor – the NoSurvivors series gives us plenty on demeanor and basic suitability. Corrections and ICEUS have been mining that one for years. No, not for our needs. We want more than just tactical. We need deftness and subtlety as well. Frankly, kid, you left NoSurvivors behind long ago. It’s the puzzles and challenges on ColdMaze, that’s where we like to see you shine! You’re able to take out legions of players and leave the materiel intact. That’s the kind of focus we’re looking for!”
“Yeah, NoSurvivors is alright, but ColdMaze… ColdMaze is Sue. Preem. But at two and a half bucks a play…”
“It’s a much steeper curve. I know. But for those who can face it…”
“It’s a rush!”
Settler’s notes
Speaker: The god damned deficit has been at war with us for decades and it’s about time we took it seriously! In just a few short years the interest alone will eclipse the rest of the budget, and our creditors will be calling the shots!
VP: We can always pay our debts. The Federal Reserve and modern –
Sen PS: Paper only goes so far, Ma’am. Sooner or later someone’s going to want the wheat or the whiskey or the brass buttons backing it all up.
Speaker: Our dollar is and has always been backed up by the full faith and credit of the United States Government and we’ve never defaulted –
Sen PS: Sir, we are defaulting every day. Our dollar is only backed up by political integrity and you can see how far that goes just in this room.
Rep NA: What kind of stupid handcuffs is that? America needs an elastic currency to deal with the money manipulators in Zurich and Beijing.
Speaker: Whatever the fuck. If they think we’re cleaning out Fort Knox they can suck ass! Fuck China! Fuck Russia! Fuck Promenadya, and fuck gold! Our buck has always been backed by bullets. You want payment? You’ll get payment!
Speaker: The government must be paid what it is due.
Sen PS: Its “due” might be problematic. We seem to have passed the point of diminishing returns. Maybe government really should be smaller. The reports leave little doubt; our tax policy has been killing people since it was instituted.
VP: Is it really the amount of pain, or the way it’s handed out? People should be made to see that it’s fair. Our President says to look after the shape of our democracy. You know, from each to each. Let me ask this. Is it worse to kill twenty people or twelve? For government to serve us, some people die. Whether it’s suicide, or alcoholism, or domestic violence, or a thousand other ways that hate and fear gets the better of them, people die. I wish I could save every one of them, but I can’t. But if we take away the infrastructure, industrial policy, defense, a sound central bank — then there’s no economy and no government!
Sec Trez: Now multiply all that by ten years. A population of four hundred millions is going to express an awful lot of statistical stress behavior. How many small-town bakers or plumbers went under over the last decade? How many desperate businessmen ate their guns because they couldn’t see any other way out?
Sen PS: How many took out their whole families first?
Rep DK: Shoots! Aftah ten year quite one body count, yeah?
VP: Next to those bodies stand millions of the bereaved. Widows, orphans, friends, neighbors, and other loved ones left to pick up the pieces. Have a heart, gentlemen! If we could somehow reduce all that pain, recuse, you know, all that grief. Concentrate it somehow. Streamline the process. Once you know that you can’t have the pure good then we have to choose the lesser evil, right?
Later that year, prior to the Amendment’s passage out of the Congress, “Senator PS” and the rest of his immediate family were killed when a gas explosion destroyed their Connecticut home. Because they left no heirs, their estate was declared federal salvage. That same week, “Representative DK” was presumed killed along with the rest of SoCal Flight 1913 when it disappeared over the ocean
No ten forties, no receipts. No more late-night ulcer parties. No more sudden bankruptcies, no more random audits.
No more heavy-handed Treasury Agents rummaging through your assets! Hold On! Not. So. Fast.
The government is NOT going to do without.
With the passage of the 29th Amendment, streamlining such quaint notions as “due process” and “eminent domain,” the government has found a way to minimize the overall trauma of tax collection and STILL maintain the level of public service to which we had all become accustomed.
Someone’s gotta pay, and for the sake of the whole…
Suppose The Algorithm picks your town?
The following is an original composition and is the work and property of Greigh Area Associates.
Author’s Introduction: This book is not terribly unique insofar as it is a phoenix. Much of it grows from the ashes of a previous project that American voters so mercilessly and indifferently sabotaged. (And why shouldn’t they be indifferent? They’ve never heard of me.) The thing is, the Deep State™ had already sketched out much of the plot for “Premium Control Team” for me. Jebya™ (“Please Clap.”) was supposed to spend eight years appointing compliant leftist tools like John Roberts to the Supreme Court. Then Lady MacBubba™ (“We came. We saw. He died. Ha ha ha!”) was to reprise his performance for another eight. By then America might actually have become the living hell of which dystopians can only dream. (Not that a century of infantilizing commie progressivism hadn’t already given us an unhealthy head start!)
Donald Trump derailed that vision when he destroyed them both. As an artist, naturally, I am bitter and disappointed, but as an American and a human being, I am grateful. But still, even as a frustrated yet hopeful confabulist, I am not completely demoralized. As of this edition (Autumn 2020) El Donaldo™ seems invigorated and refreshed by his bout with Wuhan Flu™ but appears to have been eclipsed by Obama’s-man-Biden™ at the polls. However, the Electoral College has yet to weigh in on the issue. If he is indeed displaced by Kamella deVille™ , it makes little difference. Trump has already demonstrated that he is as much a cooperative big-spending Demoblican puppet as was Ronald MacReagan™.
Yet despair ye not, O Casters of Auguries and Seers of Doom. Though things still look pretty grim for the future of America, the following narrative may not be the only way through.
Yr Obt Svt, Gene Greigh Lebanon, Cincinnatistan Federal Dominion of Virginia
This is a work of fiction, and all persons, places, institutions, jurisdictions and Constitutional Amendments described herein are strictly imaginary.Any apparent similarity to actual entities is plausibly deniable.
