by Ed Miracle
“This morning I ordered the Secret Service and the FBI to arrest Philip Machen, plus three others—Ms. Karen Lavery, who is now in custody, Mr. Orin G. Machen, and Mr. Tanner A. Newe. We are coordinating our search for these suspects with state and local agencies and with corresponding foreign services throughout the world. We will bring Philip Machen and all counterfeiters to justice. We will arrest and prosecute anyone who possesses or attempts to pass counterfeit currency or fake financial instruments, and we will confiscate any equipment suspected of producing counterfeit. To this end, President Washburn has ordered an emergency cabinet meeting tomorrow morning to coordinate our response.”
A flurry of shouts pursued him as he departed. The scene lingered before cutting to a newsreader’s calm visage. “That was Nicholas T. Brayley, Attorney General of the United States, live from—”
General switched it off. “So now what are they going to do?”
Marcy massaged her wrist. “Lock ‘em up.”
“Okay, and then what? Lock up the Maker machines? Half the country runs on Powerpods, you know. A lot of the old generator plants are shut down, torn up. We can’t go back to coal or gas very soon, even if we wanted to. And why should we? Powerpods don’t become counterfeiting machines until you put on those cones.”
“Such a fuss,” Charlene said, finishing with Daddy.
Everett wasn’t listening. Marcy’s temple had a pulse at the hairline. She caught him staring and pushed back from the table.
“Thank you, Aunt Charlene. Thank you, Uncle General. It’s been a long day.”
Everett stood as well, offered his thanks, and took his leave. He made it downstairs and retrieved his riding gear in time to intercept Marcy at the back door.
“She might give you a jailhouse interview,” he suggested.
“I suppose.” Marcy shoved the door open. “Good night, Mr. Aboud.”
“You said something about a cheese sandwich, but I’ll settle for a beer.”
“When they card you in the bars, kiddo, do they make you leave?”
“Not anymore.”
“All right. One beer.”
They circled to the front and crossed Grand Avenue’s four lanes. The door to Maurice’s Club, behind his motorcycle, stood open like a cave. Inside, they settled on stools, and Marcy paid with a card. Even the dim light favored her face.
“So what do you want from me, Everett?”
He shrugged and tried to provoke a smile. “I’d rather annoy you than not see you again.”
“Get used to it, kid. I’m not in the market. Not for you or anyone else.”
“Man-eating career-woman of the world.”
“Look Mr. Barely-a-Beer-Drinker, you’re cute, but you don’t need me, and I sure as hell don’t need you. So if we see each other again, it’s going to be as friendly co-workers, and that’s all. Because if you make a pass at me, I’ll bust you in the mouth.”
“Exactly what I was going to say.”
“Ha!” She teetered. “You did well, Aboud, and I paid you scale. You did me a favor, so I’m buying, and I thank you. Our books are clean.”
“What you did this afternoon,” he said, “jumping into that lady’s train wreck just to tell the world about it, that was amazing. Maybe we didn’t make a difference, but you were great.”
“Look, Everett. You can’t admire me into hooking up with you. You’re young and sharp. You’ll do fine.” She slipped from her stool and headed for the door. “You just need to get out there and fly.”
He cringed, then followed her to the door.
“I’m a pilot,” he called.
She waved without looking back.
Bobby was snoring into the sofa cushions when Everett got home, but before he showered, he needed to check his emails. Montana Skies, where he interviewed last fall, had finally replied. “It is our pleasure to offer you a six-month probationary position as Second Officer on our Billings-to-Minneapolis circuit, beginning May 1.”
Everett wiped the screen of his Cambiar and read it again. The hours would be long and the pay minimal, but this was the most beautiful text he had ever received. At last, all of his hard work and all of Bobby’s sacrifices would be . . . hammered.
He laid his head on the cold tiles and pounded the counter. The Feds didn’t have to arrest him, just put his fancy Arab name on the no-fly list, in case he was in cahoots with Philip Machen and might try to leave the country. Tell us about your counterfeiting machine, Mr. Aboud, your secret meeting with Mr. Machen’s business partner. That’s all it would take. He was certain they would do this—probably already had. He stuffed his phone and sought the shadows.
He should accept Montana Skies offer, fight the system once more, and save his career. It might work, eventually. What do I tell Bobby if I don’t try? That his faith and commitments to me are misplaced?
He left the kitchen for the garage. Under a buzzing work light, he clamped a pine board in the old vise and took up a carpenter’s plane. His first stroke jammed, so he adjusted the blade and rammed it again, this time slicing a clean, bright edge. Now the tool did not bind, and long curls fell as he stroked. Reducing a six-inch board to a one-inch stick absorbed him for three minutes. Switching arms, he set another board. He planed this one to half-size when the door smacked open.
“The hell are you doing?” Bobby looked like a butcher shop accident, all creases and folds under bloodshot eyes.
“Making tinder.” He kicked the shavings.
“We don’t have a fireplace.”
Everett nodded. When the second board was too thin to continue, and his breathing came deep and steady, only the pine scent and the muscle burn remained. Bobby had gone, and Everett’s mind was clear. Now he could clean up and get some sleep.
SEVEN
Tracy, California. Tuesday, April 21
Day Four
Next morning, the news on Everett’s way to work was the financial markets crashing. Depressed as they were, the indices fell thirty percent more before trading was halted. As commodity prices plummeted, trading stopped. There were no buyers. Except for government bonds, trading ceased everywhere, halted by the rules of each exchange, rules meant to prevent exactly what was happening. When the regulated exchanges closed, traders moved to the internet where markets continued to evaporate, worldwide, heedless of regulations.
General Johnson did not greet him when he entered the store. For the first time since Everett had known him, his father’s friend had nothing to say. General was perched on his stool, intent on his screen, watching the vast, intangible wealth of traders and money mongers devolve to the present value of a knock-knock joke.
Outside, a kid on a decrepit bicycle rode up and hopped off. When he rapped on the glass door, Everett checked the time and let him in. The boy rushed to a shelf where he yanked a box of sneakers, size nine, and placed them on the counter.
“Loan me these shoes, Mister General.”
General looked up.
“This isn’t a public library. We don’t lend things here.”
“Loan me these shoes, Mister General. They be coming back perfect, I swear. Never be worn. You keep my phone if I don’t bring them back. All I need is twenty minutes.” He slapped a battered cell phone on the counter. “Here.”
General Johnson stood up to his full height.
“What do you say, Mister General? You can keep my bike too. But then I need thirty minutes.”
Everett stationed himself at the door. Gang kids could run a till-tap and be out of the store before anyone noticed.
“These be the best, Mister General.” The boy patted the box. “I never had no shoes like these. I just need one pair to copy. Then I promise two pairs coming back. Three pairs. All perfect, just like these. That’s a fine deal, Mister General—three pairs for twenty minutes loan.”
General raked the box aside, and the boy retreated.
“I got more guarantees. I be back.”
“Hold on.” General came around the counter. “
You don’t look old enough for a driving license. Do you have any ID? A school card, with your picture?”
The boy fished in his pockets.
“What are you doing out of class, anyway,” General said, “on a Tuesday morning?”
The boy offered a plastic card.
General took it in one hand and keyed the boy’s phone with the other. “Hello, Officer Nichols, please.”
The kid’s eyes widened. He glanced at Everett.
“Officer Nichols? This is General Johnson at Shoes-for-You on Grand Avenue. I have a young man name of Michael Mayes over here. Might be a gangster. Says he goes to Westlake Middle School. His student number is 61231. Do you know anything about him? Yes, I’ll wait.” He covered the phone. “Are you a thief, Michael Mayes? Are you a gangster?”
“No, sir.”
General listened to his phone. “He’s a thief?”
“That’s a lie, Mister General.” The kid jumped. “I never took nothing from nobody. That’s a lie.”
“Thank you, Officer Nichols.” General put the kid’s phone in his pocket, along with his ID card. “He says you’re not a thief, so you have nineteen minutes to get back here with four pairs of sneakers.”
The kid grabbed the box and bolted, leaving his bicycle slumped against the window.
“That was probably a mistake,” Everett said.
General nodded.
“It’s a law of nature,” he said. “Tuesdays go sideways. This one’s headed off a cliff.”
Everett motioned to General’s screen, still whispering on the counter.
“You watching your retirement go south?”
General shook his head. “The store is our retirement. We never put anything in the markets. Figured Social Security for a supplement, and never thought that would pay much either. But now . . . who knows?”
He left Everett at the counter and went upstairs. When a retired lady came in and lingered among the walking shoes, Everett helped her. A few minutes later the door chimed again. A uniformed policeman strode in with a bulging trash bag in one hand and the bicycle kid in his other.
“You folks missing some shoes?” He dumped the sack on the counter but kept his grip on the boy.
General came downstairs while Everett peeled the sack. Four yellow shoe boxes emerged, all size nine.
“Last night it was drunks and rowdies,” said the cop. “This morning the gangs are doing smash-and-grabs.” He surveyed the store. “Three places over on Telegraph, two more downtown. If you can’t stop them at the door, your merchandise is gone.”
“Thank you, officer, but this boy is not a thief.” General opened and shut each box as he arranged them in a stack. “This young man was running an errand for me.”
“You sure?” The cop tightened his hold of the kid’s jacket.
General nodded. “Which direction was he headed when you stopped him? Toward the store, or away?”
“Okay, Mr. Johnson, if you say so.” He released the boy and turned to leave. “Protecting them doesn’t help, you know.”
“These shoes are not stolen, Officer. Mr. Mayes here was helping me make up my mind about something, that’s all.”
“Okay, sir.” The cop paused at the door. “You might want to escort your customers or move your stock behind a counter. That’s what the liquor stores are doing.”
General nodded. “Thank you, officer.”
“By the way, did you hear?” The cop angled his chin at their No Cash sign. “President Washburn suspended habeas corpus for counterfeiters. That ought to stop them.”
General waited.
The policeman touched the bill of his hat. “Later, sir.”
As the door closed, the boy grinned with pride and wonder at his new patron.
“Thank you, Mr. General. We did a fine deal, didn’t we?”
General gave him a Cheshire cat grin and spoke through gritted teeth.
“Get your butt back to school, Michael Mayes. And do your deals when your homework is finished, not before.” He returned the kid’s phone and ID card.
The boy ran for his bike in sparkling new sneakers. The retired lady followed him out. When they were gone, General whispered, “Were you watching her?”
Everett nodded. “I don’t think she took anything.” He collected the boxes from the counter, put one on the shelf and the rest in the storeroom. General was on the phone when he returned.
“What’s up, sweetheart?”
Everett stopped.
“Now? I suppose we could. Any word on your equipment? Okay, okay. I’ll hurry. Thanks for the heads-up.” He broke the connection.
“Marcy’s all excited. Philip Machen is giving another webcast. She wants us to check it out.”
Everett scanned the room. “No customers.”
Charlene joined them at the counter as General projected a news site from his Cambiar.
“What irony,” said a man in a gray suit, “that Powerpods so recently touted as an economic silver bullet, a bootstrap to lift the nation out of its protracted recession, have suddenly become instruments of financial destruction. And if today’s market declines are not reversed, there may be further repercussions.”
“Looks like the recession finally hit Wall Street,” Charlene said.
The man in the suit cleared his throat. “The following does not represent the views of WebNews or any of its business partners. The opinions expressed are solely those of the speaker, Mr. Philip Machen.”
EIGHT
General turned up the volume.
“Hello. I’m Philip Machen.” He wore a white, long-sleeved shirt that framed his college boy face.
“Last weekend I announced the advent of three-dimensional copy machines I called Makers. Today, people everywhere are converting their Powerpods into Makers, creating new lives and new futures.”
The camera drew closer.
“Makers are my gift to all who will share them. I am convinced that Makers should belong to ordinary people, such as you and your family. I believe only you know how best to use your Makers, only you know how best to provide for your well-being, and only you know how best to conduct your affairs. I hope Makers will enrich your lives and promote your fulfillment as humane, generous, responsible citizens.”
Everett caught a whiff of agenda.
“From the beginning, I kept Makers secret, until millions of Powerpods were spread around the world. I did this to make it harder for agents of repression to deny you your economic liberty. I alone decided to present Makers this way. Before last weekend, no one at Powerpods Company had any knowledge of them. Please do not blame the honest women and men at Powerpods Company for what I have done.”
Machen looked down, then up.
“Makers are tools, of course, and they will soon become the dominant means of production. Because we are so busy with our daily routines and small pleasures, we seldom notice that the means by which we produce our material necessities are fundamental to our ways of life. Makers are about to change our means and our cultures.”
Everett glanced to General, tried to read his expression.
“No longer must we struggle to produce enough for everyone. No longer must we endure natural scarcities, nor those deliberately imposed by others. No longer must ordinary people bind themselves to meaningless drudgery solely because they lack the means to produce for themselves the goods their families require. Now, anyone can enjoy the abundance and the independence previously available only to the wealthy. Prosperity and liberty are at hand for all who will produce and trade and share.
“The danger will come, as it always does, from those who would use force and deceit against peaceful, honest people. Great change is upon us. Our lives are disrupted, and we feel uncertain. Power-holders and power-seekers will feel threatened by these changes, and you can expect them to try to destroy your Makers, or to take them from you by force.”
Everett nodded but hoped otherwise.
“I believe there is no property worth a single human
life. I believe no righteousness can make attacking or threatening any nonviolent human being a moral thing to do. Protect yourselves and your families. Protect your Makers. Help others to do likewise. Beware the agents of sanctimonious force, and do not be drawn into their destructive games of us-versus-them. When the principal means of production is free, we must insist that everyone share that freedom. Wherever you are, whoever you are, there is no longer any them. There is only us, the free and responsible people of the world.”
Everett shook his head. Good luck with that.
“I expect Makers will create a new and universal human right— to own and to use a personal means of production. And I strongly believe that in the coming days, everyone will need to acquire their own Maker.
“Makers are free. Makers are safe. They are yours to do with as you please. I ask only that you consider well and act responsibly. What does this mean? What should you do?”
Everett shifted his weight, flexed his toes.
“First, talk to your friends and neighbors. Form a neighborhood support group, a Maker enclave. Make sure you and your loved ones are safe, and that you have food and other necessities. Trade with friends and share what you have. Especially, share your Makers. It will cost you nothing but the effort to do it. When everyone has a Maker, sharing will no longer mean sacrifice. Where scarcity once divided us, sharing will connect us. People with Makers can help each other in a thousand ways.
“Second, help those who need help. It’s always the right thing to do.
“Third, obey the laws against theft and fraud and violence. Many laws, based on the obsolete ethics of scarcity, no longer make sense. In time, we will change them. But remember, when you are truly free, you don’t need to cheat anyone or steal anything. When you are truly free, you create and cooperate and trade.”
Everett stuffed his restless fingers into his pockets.
“Finally, stay calm, stay home if you can, and think about what you truly want to do. Being free from your old economic shackles should soon feel normal and proper—because it is. Enjoy yourself. Hold a copy party. Invite your friends to exchange things they need or want, and pretend you just inherited a fortune. Because now you are empowered to be as free and as prosperous as any person on Earth. You have your own personal means of production. You have a Maker.
