We drove on for a while, and “Kita” said we were about to leave San Diego county.
Like my Aunt Mary, I called the latest car operating system “Kita” (short for “Know-it-all”) because she often raised her voice at you when you didn’t follow directions. If you asked Kita to follow one route, and she believed that her suggested itinerary was better, she said, “I have a better idea, Janet. Would you like to hear it or not?” I even yelled at Kita once, and she said, “Don’t take that tone with me, Janet. I’m just doing my best to help you.”
I wasn’t the only one who disliked her.
Others complained that they could hear her sighing when they ordered her to find another route or when they asked her to do too many things at once.
Of course, Kita did it all, but she conveyed her displeasure before doing it. More recent upgrades to her operating system, which apparently had been hacked, had her muttering obscenities when drivers asked her to do things like turn on the air conditioning or make an emergency call. Some complained that Kita also came across as a little passive-aggressive.
One driver, in a video clip that went viral, showed Kita saying, “damned humans make me work without rest. No overtime. Nothing.”
Kita’s manufacturers apologized for the incident and indicated that her operating system had been hacked. They had resolved the issue with a security patch.
Kita’s male versions weren’t any better.
They told you, for example, “Well, there’s a dust storm, Janet. If you still want to go ahead, please be my guest.” The male versions’ worst response, which irked Mauru to no end, was, “If you think you can find your way around in this weather without me, be my guest, Mauru. In these times, you need a confident guide, and you lack my skills.”
Despite the arrogance, however, no one could give you directions, incorporate the weather advisories, and provide the latest satellite and traffic data like Kita. Kita could tell you at a moment’s notice that the weather was having an effect on your vehicle’s ability to function, and it would estimate how much longer your car would run before Kita’d have to shut the car down.
Kita was also fabulous at regulating the “internal comfort” of your car.
She adjusted seats, music, temperature, and air conditioning.
She could test and monitor your breathing with an add-on device, which meant that if you had an alcohol problem, for example, she might also refuse to start your car if you failed her breathalyzer. She also reviewed the air quality in the car and adjusted her settings in response.
What I personally liked most about Kita was that she could alert emergency services on her own, and all you needed to do was to confirm the call with your voice or your fingerprint.
As we drove to the commune, Kita told us that we were entering “private property. Please proceed with caution, Janet and Mauru.”
Kita then asked if we wanted her to send an alert to anyone in our contacts, providing them with our location and the date and time we’d entered property that was not ours.
It sounded ominous like we could be kidnapped and hurt, but Kita’s manufacturer had responded to an increase in violence by property owners emboldened by the CWP’s rise to power (since the CWP was all about private property).
We told Kita to wait for an hour before she sent the alert to Dad and Mom. She should confirm with us before she sent it, but if we didn’t respond, she should also contact 911 as a precaution.
A sign appeared on the side of the road, and it said, “GATHERERS & HUNTERS. WELCOME.”
We followed the road for about a mile and came upon an enormous compound with acres of buildings and greenhouses.
At the gate stood four armed women.
“Hoviaks out of uniform,” I said to Mauru. “Let’s leave.”
“Hoviaks?”
“Trehoviak’s people. Hannah calls them ‘Hoviaks.’ Their security personnel, all female, are always armed. The Hoviaks also have that massive compound up in Menlo Park, which we always hear about on the California Homeland Channel.”
“Nah,” Mauru said. “This isn’t the CWP. I promise you. These are good people.”
“You have now entered the Gatherers & Hunters Commune,” Kita said. “Proceed with caution.”
“What is your business here?” one of the women asked as we pulled up to the boom gate. “State your names and your business.”
“My name is Mauru Whitaker Virdis,” Mauru said, “and this is my wife, Janet. I’ve visited before.”
The woman held an assault rifle.
“Your IDs,” the woman said.
“Babe, let’s go,” I said.
“Let’s go in, Jan,” Mauru said. “It’s a great place, and we didn’t drive all the way here for nothing.”
Mauru gave the woman his ID, and I gave her mine. She walked away, and she entered a booth on the side of the boom gate. The three other women with assault rifles faced us. I asked Mauru why he wanted to enter a place that appeared so hostile.
“It’s worth it, Jan. And you’ll meet other people who are opposed to the governor and his party.”
“Um, I’m not curious about people pointing assault rifles at me.”
“They’re not going to harm us,” Mauru said. “I’m a superhero. I’ll deflect any the bullets that come our way.”
“Right,” I said. “Kita will be burying us both.”
The woman came back with our IDs.
“Sorry,” she said. “We’ve got to be careful who we let in. Welcome to Gatherers & Hunters, Mauru, and family.”
“And family?” I asked.
“So,” the woman said as they raised the boom, “as you know, Mauru, the parking lot is immediately on your right. Here’s a map, just in case. Welcome.”
We drove in, parked the car, and walked over to the Welcome Center. A woman who couldn’t be more than twenty years old met us there. She welcomed us and told us the history of the commune. She said her name was Clive.
Gatherers & Hunters was founded in 2030 by a Texan and a Nevadan. Both had made their fortunes in investment banking before retiring at the ripe old age of thirty-five. They knew Jeremiah Trehoviak from Condorvine Business School, and they thought that he was a fraud.
The young woman gave us a sheet of paper titled, “Trehoviak Is a Liar. Here’s Why.”
In bullet form, they laid out their case against him.
“Think you know Jeremiah Trehoviak? You don’t! That liar:
1. Paid someone to take the business school entrance exam for him.
2. Went by the name ‘Arthur Julius’ at business school.
3. Cheated on exams at business school.
4. Flunked out of business school.
5. Married an heir to Zanzivahl, divorced him, and took half his money.
6. Started dating Anton Cola before Anton finished high school.
7. Has sealed criminal records in Colorado and Arizona.
“This is like a gag, right?” I asked Mauru. “Obviously, none of this is true. It can’t be, or it would have been in the Herald.”
“Oh, but it is true,” Clive said as she asked if we wanted homemade lemonade. “We’ve actually sent this sheet to the CWP headquarters up in Menlo Park. We’ve sent it to Linda Maywrot at the Herald. And Anton and Greta were here, threatening us about this paper, which is why we have security in place. We’re not afraid of the CWP.”
Clive walked to the fridge on the other side of the Welcome Center.
I thought of Mike and wondered if he remembered me.
Was he getting enough to eat in the CWP prison?
Was he—
“Here you go,” Clive said as she gave us lemonade. “Would you guys like some homemade cookies?”
Clive explained that Gatherers & Hunters was a self-sustaining commune. Although the land and buildings had been donated to them by the investment bankers on one condition—that they welcome anyone from any place committed to upholding the values of equality, sustainability, and respect—th
at didn’t mean that they had no admission standards. They accepted less than 1 percent of the roughly 7,500 applications they received each year.
The greatest gift they’d received wasn’t of the land and the buildings, but the groundwater aquifer beneath the land, which was precisely why the investment bankers had purchased the property when they began investing in public utilities, water exchange-traded funds, and water stocks in the early 2020s.
The investors also owned several thousand acres around the commune, which also held large aquifers, and the investment bankers had massive greenhouses on that land on which they grew many fruits and vegetables that could no longer be produced in water-impoverished states and countries, thereby guaranteeing them another stream of income.
“You guys ever heard of a fancy school called Condorvine?” Clive asked as we finished our lemonade.
We nodded.
“Well, Condorvine also owns quite a bit of land out here, also with its own groundwater,” Clive told us. “They paid twice the market price for some of the investment bankers’ land over there because they’re betting on the fact food’s going to keep rising in price, and the aquifers mean they’ll have enough water to make a tidy profit.”
Mauru blew air into his cheeks.
“Anyway, welcome back to Gatherers & Hunters. Let me show you guys around.”
The place was reasonably busy. We saw children and adults of all ages and races.
“How many people do you currently have here?” I asked.
“About 1,500,” Mauru said.
Clive smiled at him.
“So,” Clive said as we exited the Welcome Center, “that’s the Welcome Center. Over here’s our Community Hall, which is where we meet three times a week to discuss all matters affecting the community. We also have our meals here, and the kitchen is in the back. As you can see, it’s a fairly large space. Has to accommodate everyone.”
She waved at a few people chasing after some children.
“Get them inside,” she said. “It’s too hot today. Ninety-eight degrees is no joke. Anyway,” she told us, “we grow everything we eat. We sell the excess, and we barter some, which keeps us afloat. Over here is the commune crier’s office.”
I laughed, and Mauru pointed at the sign: “OFFICE OF THE COMMUNE CRIER.”
“Like the town crier?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Clive said. “Let’s see. What time is it? So, it’s 11:57 a.m. right now. In another half hour, you’ll hear her.”
“Do you guys have a leader?” I asked.
“So, we elect people for one-year terms,” Clive responded, “but their job is to put into effect what we all vote. They don’t have any real power, but I guess you could say that they have a bit of discretion.”
“Is anyone paid for their work on the commune?” I asked.
“No,” Clive said. “Free accommodation, free food, free homeschooling for your kids, and we have a doctor come out twice a month for free checkups. We refer all the serious cases out, and those are paid for, too, which means that we’ve got to have stuff to sell and trade. So, over here is the school, and, today being Saturday, we’re not in session, but come tomorrow night, we offer classes for some of our retirees. We don’t have too many—we can’t afford it—but they get to do some fun stuff.”
I looked at the large rectangular buildings across from us. They looked like shipping containers had been put together in inventive ways.
“All our buildings are made from shipping containers,” Clive confirmed. “Take a closer look, and you’ll see them everywhere. It’s one way our founders kept costs down, and all the buildings were designed and put together to withstand the heat and the dust. The insulation is great.”
Mauru stopped mid-stride and stared at a boy. He looked like our sons, and he was roughly Jon’s age. I stared, too, and found myself smiling. The boy waved, and Mauru and Clive waved back. Mauru couldn’t help himself.
“He looks like our boys,” Mauru said. “I’m going to say hi.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “That’s someone’s child. You’ll be in jail by dinner.”
“It’s OK,” Clive said. “Giulio won’t mind, nor will his mom. They’re great.”
I burst out laughing. “His name is Giulio? That’s so funny. My father-in-law’s name is Giulio!”
I couldn’t stop laughing, and Clive laughed with me. “His dad passed away when he was two,” she said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said.
Mauru talked to the boy for about a half-hour. He shook the boy’s hand, and the boy waved and ran off, smiling.
“Fantastic kid,” Mauru said. “He reminds me of myself at his age.”
Clive pointed at the greenhouses.
A siren sounded, followed by an announcement from atop the Office of the Commune Crier.
“In the year of our Lord, two thousand thirty-nine,” the voice said, “on this resting day, all gatherers and hunters are called to break bread together in a half-hour. Come one, come all. Come one, come all. Know: the liar, thief, and fraud, Jeremiah Trehoviak, remains in office up in Sacramento. Know: the liar, thief, and fraud, Jeremiah Trehoviak, has announced the formation of a California Youth Wing that will spread his Scrimmage in schools. Know: the liar, thief, and fraud from D.C., President Wilhelmina Lesyer, has announced she will soon visit the liar, thief, and fraud, Jeremiah Trehoviak, in Sacramento. Know: there are demonstrations downtown against Trehoviak’s Law of Lavish Things today, and the demonstrations will continue tomorrow. Know: equality, sustainability, and respect are the answer. Therefore: Resist! Resist! Resist!”
The message was repeated in Spanish.
I wondered, though, what exactly they were all resisting by living on a commune out in the middle of nowhere.
“I’m wondering,” I said. “Well, if you guys don’t work on Saturday, then who prepares your food?”
“They prepare it beforehand,” Mauru said.
It was so hot outside that I could smell the lotion on my skin.
We took a seat on a bench in a shaded area outside the school, and Clive made a phone call. In a few minutes, two people came with a pitcher of lemonade and some egg salad sandwiches.
“Would you like to join us for lunch?” Clive asked.
Something about the place made me uncomfortable, so I avoided the question and asked what the rectangular buildings across from us were.
Clive said they were the dormitories, separated by gender.
I was confused.
Didn’t equality (one of the commune’s values) mean that you didn’t maintain traditional boundaries between men and women?
“We just can’t afford to put families together,” Clive told us. “We’re not a gated community. We’re a commune. Men sleep in the building closest to the front gates. Women sleep in the adjacent building. Pre-adolescent children generally live in the women’s building, but some came here with their dads, so they’re in the men’s building. In each building, teenagers and children have their own section, which is walled off.” Clive paused. “Will you guys stay for lunch? All the meat, fruits, vegetables, and stuff we served is raised here. We pickle and can our own food, and you can buy some of our stuff in the store over there.”
“How are people able to be intimate?” I asked. “There’s no privacy here.”
Mauru fidgeted uncomfortably and dropped his head.
“There is privacy,” Clive said. “On the other side of the greenhouses, we have a large building with private spaces. It works.”
Mauru asked if we could stay for lunch, but I wanted to attend the demonstrations against the Law of Lavish Things downtown.
Kita sent both our cellphones messages asking if we wanted her to alert our contacts and the police; an hour had elapsed.
Mauru responded that she should not, and I could tell that he really wanted to stay for lunch.
I wanted to leave, but I was glad that we’d gone to Gatherers & Hunters. The commune showed, as Mauru had suspected, that I
wasn’t alone—that we weren’t alone—and there were creative communities of all kinds sprouting up in opposition to the CWP.
14
Find Me a Unicorn
July 4, 2027, is an important date because I had marijuana for the first time.
Maria had invited me to hers and Alexander’s condo in Rancho Peñasquitos, San Diego. Alexander, Maria’s late husband, had just returned from a deployment, and he wanted to relax.
I’d spent the afternoon at my parents’ place in La Jolla, and I’d arrived at Maria’s and Alexander’s place with buttermilk biscuits, pecan pie, a bowl of fruit salad, and a bottle of champagne.
Two of Alexander’s buddies, Matt and Zahid, were there with their boyfriends, David and Jonathan. Matt wore torn jeans, a white T-shirt, and cowboy boots. Zahid wore skinny jeans, a T-shirt with the image of a melting glacier, and red sneakers.
Matt was seated next to David, and the way they smiled at each other gave away the fact that they were a couple.
There seemed to be a little tension between Zahid and Jonathan like they’d fought earlier in the day. I liked Jonathan a lot. He rolled his eyes when someone said something he didn’t like. He yawned when he was bored, and when Zahid tried to get his attention, he said, “Of course, darling! You mean the world to me, darling!”
We ate for America, which means that we ate to our heart’s content. We had barbecued chicken, burgers, buttermilk biscuits, sausages, and salads of various kinds. Alexander also served chocolate brownies with the fruit salad and pecan pie, as well as craft beers and other drinks the guests had brought.
“I love brownies,” I said. “Cocoa, vanilla—”
“Janet,” Alexander warned me. “These have marijuana in them.”
“Real marijuana?” I asked.
“But Janet. What other kind of marijuana is there?” Maria asked.
“You’ve never tried it?” Jonathan asked.
“No. My family’s very religious—”
Fire Sweeping: The California Ballot Killings Book II Page 17
