The Greigh Area

The Wake-up Bell, the VoxPop Network,

Two mornings after the signing of the HERO Act

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.

On the Bus with Jean & the Kids from the Freedom School

“Professor Jean?”

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.”

The Congress,  Friday afternoon

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.

Five firing pins landed on empty chambers.

Settler’s notes

Rep NA:   The fog and confusion of a war zone is the perfect opportunity.  Didn’t General Sherman say death was mercy for traitors?  There’s no end of government haters out there.  Their bumper stickers alone are enough to convict them!

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 29^th 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.”

One Observatory Circle,  District of Columbia,

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.

Checkpoint at Bobb’s Woods,  Bayne County

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.

Sen PS:   Geese should be encouraged to lay golden eggs, not punished for it.

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?

Speaker:   Go on, Governor.

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!

Rep DK:   Nui Tobacco revenue never hurt, yeah?

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.

Sen NA:   It sounds positively medieval.

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.

Sen PS:   Or an abomination unto Judeo-Christian ethics.

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.”

Settler’s notes

Dr DP:   The Wealth Tax Registry will certainly help inform the program, Ma’am, so kudos on that.   The continuing correspondence between BMI and end of life maintenance clearly flag our most preventable options.  Cost go up sharply at —

VP:   We can see that, Doctor.  But what about fairness and gender equity?

Col MM:   Gender equity, Ma’am?  I’m not sure I…  Transgender maintenance is as troublesome as diabetic control or drug dependency.  Those are all easy candidates for cost control.  Thank goodness the military finally put an end to that sort of coddling nonsense – shooting up regularly, whether insulin or estrogen, is contrary to mission readiness.  Um… [witness reviews notes] I understood that this committee would be entertaining authorizing my BMI extraction team…?

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.

Au 08                  WheinGhust™ Brewing Company,  Auldtown

“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.”

Studio 4, television station QKRD,  Reginapolis,  Friday afternoon

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.

Sacred Heart Academy of Kalihi,  Honolulu County,

three months after the HERO Act

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.

Buy it now, right here,

Or, take your time and reflect…

No More Income Tax! 

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 29^th 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.

Herewith, your Table of Contents: