Future Days Anthology, page 18
part #1 of The Days Series
Danielle offers a cheery, “Good morning,” and I wander over and seat myself at the round two-seater table. She’s put toast and jam on the table, and as we eat breakfast and sip coffee from mugs that also have a familiarity to them, we fill each other in on what’s happened in the couple of months since we split up. Finally, the discussion starts to run itself down as we run out of things to say. Danielle rises from her seat and starts to clear the table.
“What are you going to do now?” she asks.
I shrug. “I can’t do that job any more. Not after –”
“Have you thought about joining the Movement?” she says.
“Where?”
“We’re relocating.” She bites her lip, then continues. “It’s supposed to be low-profile, so don’t tell anyone.”
I nod.
“We have some members with…resources. One of them has a large fenced estate up near Collingwood. It used to be a private school, so it’s got accommodations and amenities for a number of people, and we can fix it up for more.”
“A place to do some plotting?” I keep my tone light.
“Yeah, you can call it that. It could be a slow process, making change, but we have to try.”
“How?” I can’t help affecting a despairing tone.
“Changing opinions, one person at a time. Helping people realize the unsustainability of how we’re living.” She pauses and takes a breath. “Preparing candidates and platforms, to strive for political change.” Danielle walks to the window and looks out. “That’s one scenario. There’s another, more solemn, one. A lot of the future modeling that’s being done, even on the new Super Comp at U of T, suggests that we’re due for a major pandemic. People just aren’t meant to live in such close quarters, the way we do through most of the world these days. It would have a massive impact on the population.”
“So, chances are my former job would become redundant someday?”
“In all probability.” She turns back to face me. “But if the pandemic happens – and it’s not like we’re making it happen, or hoping it will happen, we just think it will –”
I lean forward.
“Someone needs to think about what’s next. Once things are under control again, we need to change things so we don’t end up in the same place again.” Her expression brightens. “And if the pandemic doesn’t happen, we still have a place to live and work and plan from. A beautiful setting, from what I’ve heard. The big population push hasn’t gone that far north yet.”
It’s my turn to move to the window and look out over the city, the steady lines of hover cars making snail’s-pace progress down the streets. I shiver, suddenly aware of my vulnerability.
Perhaps the time has come to shed the emotional armor I wrapped around myself after my mother died. Time to care about something beyond my small circle of acquaintances, and to allow myself to hope on a grander scale.
I look at the stars, and think of Gravinski and her mom. In a few days, the New Nova will streak across the sky, offering new opportunities under new skies.
But I realize now that Mother Earth is neither a bad nor a hopeless place to be--and she deserves a second chance, too. If I can help, that’s good enough for me.
###
About Lisa Timpf
LISA TIMPF IS A RETIRED HR and communications professional who lives in Simcoe, Ontario. Her science fiction stories have appeared in New Myths, Third Flatiron, The Martian Wave, and the Dogs of War and Mother's Revenge anthologies. When not writing, Lisa enjoys organic gardening, bicycling, and bird-watching.
Connect with Lisa here: www.castrumpress.com/lisa-timpf.
The Trickle-Down Effect
Mark Lynch
“Trickle-down economics – the theory that economic benefits provided to upper income level earners will help society as a whole.”
“Everybody knows that the dice are loaded,
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed,
Everybody knows the war is over,
Everybody knows the good guys lost,
Everybody knows the fight was fixed,
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich,
That's how it goes,
Everybody knows.”
LEONARD COHEN
CRACK! Denton smashed his baseball bat against the body of his helpless victim, scowling as the pathetic man let out a pained cry.
“Please boss!” Max pleaded desperately, “Please, no more!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Denton spat back, before hitting his victim again. CRACK! The man screamed.
Denton was sure he’d broken at least one of Max’s ribs. Perhaps this was enough. The attacker didn’t particularly enjoy this shit. Beating a man on the ground, pounding him while he lay in a pool of his own blood, puke and piss – this wasn’t Denton’s thing – but often brutal violence was the only option in the Pit. His victim whimpered, curling up in a protective ball while he fearfully awaited the next blow.
“Okay scumbag!” Denton snarled through clenched teeth, “I didn’t want to do this, but you left me no choice. Now, what you got on you?”
“Nothing boss!” the bloodied man cried, “I swear man, I’m clean!”
“Bullshit!” Denton exclaimed, “Empty your damn pockets!”
His victim failed to comply, and so Denton hit him again, taking the opportunity to pin Max down while he riffled through the pockets of his victim’s filthy jeans.
“God damn junkie!” Denton shouted.
He examined the pathetic spoils he’d acquired – a mere six vials of cocaine and about twenty bucks in assorted Syndicate notes.
“Hey man, what is this bullshit?” Denton cried angrily, “You owe me 200 bucks asshole…or did you forget?”
Max whimpered, “I swear to god boss, I’ll pay back every cent…”
“I know you will.” Denton replied menacingly, “I’ll be back next week, and you better have something for me! Don’t make me come find you!”
He made to walk away from his hapless victim, but then suddenly turned back, swinging his bat and hitting the man hard, making him squeal.
“And if you ever steal from me again asshole…I’ll fucking skin you alive!”
Satisfied that his point was made, Denton turned his back on the thieving junkie and causally strolled up the darkened alleyway with his bat in hand, walking towards the bright neon lights of the city street.
Max would pay him back eventually, assuming he lived that long. Denton knew the risks of employing drug addicts to sell his stash, a certain amount of ‘spillage’ was inevitable, but sometimes a man in his line of work had to set an example. Some of his associates would have gone much further than a beating, but Denton didn’t gain any pleasure from messing up junkies…and besides, a man couldn’t pay his debt if he was crippled or dead, and Denton desperately needed money right now.
He continued to ponder his financial difficulties, noticing too late that his path was blocked by an interloper. He looked upwards, setting his eyes upon the armed patrol drone, hovering about ten feet above the sidewalk and blocking the entry of the alleyway. The small unmanned aircraft was partially automated, but the controls were taken over by a ‘flesh and bones’ operator based in a control room as soon as a threat was identified. Legally speaking, the corporations preferred having a human being to push the kill button.
The aerial drone produced a soft buzzing noise from its spinning rotors while shining a bright torch directly in Denton’s face, temporarily blinding him. This was a deliberate intimidation tactic, since the drone’s camera had night vision, and so the security officer operating the craft could already see him clearly. Denton also knew that the drone’s mini-gun would be trained upon him, ready to open fire at the push of a button.
He didn’t resist, but instead dropped the bat, raised his hands above his head and looked upwards towards the camera. The drone hovered for about thirty seconds, observing its subject and transmitting images and data back to its operator. Denton knew the drill. The drone’s scanners would register him as a ‘de-chipped’ citizen and would instead use facial recognition software to confirm his identity. Denton had had his neural implant surgically removed years ago – technically this was an offence, but there were thousands of de-chippers living in the Pit, and the security drones rarely paid them any attention – not unless there was a district-wide sweep, and the Syndicate always received advanced warning of such operations.
There was the matter of the serious assault Denton had just committed, his victim still bleeding in the darkened alleyway just yards behind him. Again, he knew this wasn’t an issue. The robotic drones and their human remote operators served the all-powerful corporations and so operated solely to protect corporate interests – the savage beating of a junkie in the Pit wasn’t a crime which concerned the ‘One-Percenters’. And so, Denton stood his ground, waiting patiently for the drone to complete its scan.
A half minute later and it was all over. The robotic craft slowly rose up into the night air, flying down the street in search of new targets. Denton didn’t bother to retrieve his discarded baseball bat or check on his victim, instead he calmly strolled out onto the sidewalk. Here in ‘The Pit’ they had an expression – ‘Shit runs downhill, money goes up.’ And, right now, Denton could see the evidence of this trickle-down theory all around him.
This district was the worst in the mega city Denton called home, and the poverty, deprivation and grime were everywhere. A trio of rough-looking prostitutes tried to accost him on the street corner – buxom, blonde-haired whores in ill-fitting cocktail dresses and high heels, the tread marks on their arms all too evident.
“Hey, big boy!” one of them exclaimed, “Do you want a good time? We’ll give you a discount…”
Denton ignored the woman, knowing all too well that an encounter with any of these hookers would either result in a S.T.I. or the loss of his drugs and money. He marched on, keeping his head up. One of the hookers yelled abuse after him, spitting on the sidewalk by his feet.
Denton weaved through the crowded street, avoiding assorted bums and junkies, pimps, thieves and prostitutes. Automated, electric cabs operated by the corporations sped up and down the road, while manual driven, gas-guzzling mopeds and motorcycles darted between them like angry hornets.
Denton witnessed a gang of semi-feral street children attempting to break into a vending machine set outside a store front. Denton couldn’t help but feel sorry for them; their parents likely drug addicts, their corporate-sponsored education a joke, consisting only of pre-recorded broadcasts from a holo-screen. These were ragged and hungry kids, kicking and shaking the machine frantically. All they wanted was something to eat, but their basic needs were to be frustrated.
Denton watched on as an armed drone hovered over the street, zoning in on the feral gang. The unmanned aerial vehicle was of the same model which had buzzed Denton in the alleyway only moments before. The vending machine was corporate property and thus the drone was bound to intervene.
The UAV emitted a booming warning in a mechanized voice – ‘YOU ARE DAMAGING PRIVATE PROPERTY. CEASE AND DESIST IMMEDIATELY. EXTREME FORCE IS AUTHORISED.’
The kids didn’t need to be told twice. They scattered in all directions, running for their lives as they took shelter in alleyways and store fronts. Its job completed, the drone sped off in search of other troublemakers. Denton scoffed in disgust at what he had just witnessed. This was the way things worked down here in the Pit – the corporations only used their remotely controlled security forces to defend their own property and interests, and not to protect the people or enforce law and order. Only the Syndicate prevented the Pit from falling into complete anarchy.
But still, this town was very dangerous after nightfall, even for a man with Denton’s tough reputation – there was always someone wanting to con, rob or fuck you over on these mean streets, so a man had to keep his wits about him.
Next, he passed a virtual reality arcade, its bright and intruding neon lights near blinding him. This was the type of seedy establishment where a man or woman could live out any perverse fantasy they could imagine in every little detail. Those few who could afford it may also opt for ‘full immersion VR’ as a means of escaping the filthy and oppressive streets of the Pit and entering a fantasy world of their choosing. But those with limited credits had to settle for cheap thrills and quick highs.
The proprietor of this arcade must have been having a slow night, because he was standing out on the pavement touting for business, accosting Denton as he walked by.
“Sir, sir! Slow down, sir! What’s your hurry, my friend?” asked the overweight, middle-aged man, “You want a good time, sir? Then look no further. We’ve got the best virtual experiences for the best prices in town. What’s your poison, my friend? A Roman-style orgy? BDSM dungeon? Or maybe something less conventional…You want to murder your worst enemy, rape your favorite movie star? We’ve got it all, sir. No judgement, no consequences…”
“No chip.” Denton replied firmly, while pointing to his skull.
“My apologies, sir,” replied the arcade owner, with disappointment evident in his voice, “I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
Denton’s lack of neural implant meant he could no longer indulge in VR immersions, but such false realities had never been his thing in any case. Instead, he relished the opportunity to leave the chaotic street behind - to escape the ruckus, danger and, most of all, the foul stench of human desperation. Denton made his way to a spit and sawdust bar set down a back alley – ‘Underworld’ was the name above the door, and Denton was something of a regular. Underworld wasn’t exactly a classy establishment, but to him it was a proverbial oasis set in the middle of a barren desert.
He shoved through the swing doors and made his way to the bar, greeting the establishment’s owner – a grizzled, scar-faced and tough-as-nails military veteran by the name of Butch. The bartender was the type who’d just as likely pull his shotgun on a patron than serve him a drink, but luckily Butch regarded Denton as an old friend.
“Evening, Mr. Denton,” said Butch, in what passed for his amicable voice, “What will it be, my friend? I’ve got a new batch of pills just in…Uppers, downers…whatever you need…”
“Not tonight, buddy,” answered Denton, as he sat upon his usual bar stool, “I’m off that shit. Just give me a double whiskey, on the rocks.”
Butch nodded his head and proceeded to pour the drink, sliding the glass across the counter and into Denton’s waiting hand. Denton took a large sip of hard liquor, savoring the rough and strong taste as it went down his throat. Butch probably sensed that his customer wanted to be left alone and so did not engage him in conversation. Denton took the opportunity to survey the scene inside of the bar-room.
Underworld was a rough joint frequented by tough individuals. Fist fights were almost a nightly occurrence, while stabbings and even shootings were not unknown. But tonight, the place was quiet, with only a handful of heavy drinking regulars at the bar and a couple of dope-fiends passed out in the corner. A scantily clad young woman called Tiffany was offering lap dances to the bar flies, but having little success. A slow night for Butch and his staff then.
Like most of the establishments in this district, Underworld sold both alcohol and narcotics – both legal and illegal drugs. Butch accepted electronic credits straight from the neural implants of his addicted customers, transferred directly into his online account – but, like all businesses in the Pit, Underworld also accepted the crude paper notes printed by the Syndicate. This was how it worked around here – there was a dual economy, one legitimate and the second illegitimate.
Officially, the one-percenters controlled everything. The super-rich sat pretty and comfortable in their luxury penthouses and fortified green zones, making obscene profits from their largely automated economy. Professionals and those lucky enough to still have skilled jobs lived on the levels below their corporate masters, and, at the very bottom of the social hierarchy, were the destitute underclass and unemployables of the Pit. These were the children and grandchildren of the workers who’d lost their jobs during the Final Industrial Revolution – the mass automation of all industries by the mega corporations.
Denton didn’t know the figures but, without doubt, most of the population of this poverty-stricken district were officially unemployed and dependent on the meager universal credit paid out by the corporate-controlled government. The sheer desperation of their situation resulted in many citizens turning to booze and drugs – anything to dull the pain and escape the daily misery of life in the Pit.
The only people with any money or power in this district were the Syndicate – the vast criminal organization which controlled drugs, prostitution, loan sharking, gambling, hits for hire and just about everything else you could imagine in this shit-hole town. The mob ran the streets, imposing their own version of rough justice on those who crossed the line. The Syndicate was so powerful that they controlled their own bank and printed their own currency, operating a shadow economy with the tacit approval of the corporations.
After all, it benefitted both sides to maintain the status quo. The one-percenters didn’t give a shit about the Pit – their only presence down here was their army of UAVs, the killer drones hovering above the streets, spying on the people and attacking those who dared to challenge corporate interests. But, for the most part, the corporate elite were content to allow the Syndicate to run the Pit, to deal drugs and take out hits – better for the poor to kill themselves rather than join forces to rise against the one-percenters.
Denton shook his head in disgust as he took another drink. He knew the score but cared little for politics, nor did he pay much attention to the television blaring above the bar, showing a corporate controlled news channel. The TV news was reporting some corporate-run war in a far-off land, with heavily armed mercenaries and automated attack drones fighting poorly armed local insurgents on the thin pretense of spreading ‘democracy and free market economics’. In reality of course, they were seeking to secure the foreign region’s ever dwindling natural resources. Instead of watching, his attention was drawn to the near naked lap-dancer; a slim, brown-skinned girl called Tiffany. She worked in the bar where Denton was a regular customer, so the two were no strangers.
