by J.P Jackson
*
He flipped the hood of the parka over his head as a wicked rain lashed across his face. The streets were crammed and his senses assaulted by neon lights and foreign languages. Everyone had something to sell, from corn dogs to crispy fried bugs; new kinds of drugs and old kinds of sex.
"No solicitation," he uttered, passing cards to any hand that would accept one.
Taylor often found himself stepping on his own discarded cards. He didn't care. Of all the thousands he handed out on mornings, afternoons and evenings like this, he would eventually pass a card into the right person’s hand, and that stranger might just put an end to his limbo.
"No solicitation."
An advertisement played over the facade of an entire building. It was President Cox with her legs stretching over 70 stories. The President was promoting her favourite designer's shoes, followed by her push for re-election.
Despite its immoral and menacing reputation, the interior of the city was highly policed. When there weren’t boots on the ground there were drones in the sky. Above street level, the "Sky Eyes" watched over them all. There were no hiding places in the outskirts either. Everyone who wanted to be part of this "free society" had to subscribe. Human beings were chipped, tracked and accounted for. A single green light, emanating from an implant in the thumb, would express a healthy bank balance while a red light revealed the opposite. The implant was the measure of one's ability to buy and sell, earnings and expenditures. It was living or dying in New York City.
Taylor's thumb blinked red. That didn't mean he had nothing, just that he had almost nothing.
Penelope's last transaction was at a gas station heading out of town. The authorities, and Taylor's own investigation, found nothing incriminating. There was clear surveillance of Penelope driving to the pump, filling the tank, paying and leaving. A simple transaction, observed and reported.
Three hours drive south of the station, Penelope's implant lost connection to the grid. Even if she was dead or if the chip had been cut from her thumb, her implant should have sent a distress signal. No implant was ever found, no distress signal logged. Penelope Taylor had by all accounts vanished off the face of the Earth.
Taylor handed out the last of his cards and approached the soaring glass triplets that composed Patriot Towers. The Patriot Towers were the world's tallest and most luxurious skyscrapers. Built in the heart of Manhattan and linked by several glass sky bridges, the three diamond-faceted towers were named after Presidents Washington, Adams and Jefferson. At 180-stories, Washington was the tallest followed by Adams at 165-stories and then Jefferson at a still respectable 150-stories tall.
Tourists came from all over the world to view the buildings' kaleidoscope effect, which shimmered beautifully day or night.
A crowd of two dozen had gathered at the base of the towers. Activists, sparse and disorganized, held up hand painted signs that epitomized the feelings shared by the majority.
'END THE ELITES! HYPOCRITE TOWERS! WHERE'S OUR ROBIN HOOD?'
Taylor headed towards Washington Tower, minding his own business as authorities clad in black riot gear and armed with assault rifles arrived to disperse the crowd.
An armoured police truck screeched to a halt in front of the towers. Two officers emerged and mounted a large sonic devastator on top of the vehicle, a weapon designed to scatter undesirables with directed soundwaves. When the devastator was turned on the peaceful protesters, they promptly lowered their signs, covered their ears in pain and fled from the area.
"Go back to your homes!" A voice boomed from the truck's megaphone. "This is a Freedom From Speech zone! Dissonance will not be tolerated!"
The protest was over as quickly as it had begun, and as Taylor reached the glass doors of Washington Tower, a masked cop stepped in front of him.
"Details, citizen!"
Taylor raised his hands and stooped to a reflective panel at the door – a biometric face recognition system. He heard a click and the doors unlocked. The cop lowered his rifle and even held the door open.
"My apologies, sir. Have a wonderful evening."
Taylor took a passing glance at the insignia on the officer's arm - a bald eagle with the globe between its talons. Fidelis ad Mortem: Faithful until Death.
"Faithful to whom?" Taylor asked, not expecting an answer. He didn't get one.
The interior lobby glistened with marble and was dominated by a pyramid shaped water feature. The only route to the elevators was through the hallway and scanner. The mechanics of the scanner could not be seen, yet as Taylor past quotes from George Washington embossed on the wall, he knew the scanner would be silently running security checks. Taylor reached the sealed golden elevator, lit up a smoke and waited for the scanner to clear him.
"Come on!" he groaned, his voice echoing down the hallway. "I'm clean for Gods-sake!"
A short ping sounded above the elevator doors, but before they opened, a computerized voice stated: "Please dispose of your cigarettes in the waste receptacle provided. Carcinogenic items are for residents only."
Taylor threw up his arms and exclaimed. "Pain in the arse!"
He broke the smoke in half and tossed the pack into a waste bin beside the elevator. The bin incinerated the cigarettes and Taylor leaned in for a whiff of the fumes.
The golden doors parted and he stepped inside the elevator. Trooping in with him at the last moment were several well fed members of the upper echelons. The doors closed and Taylor pressed his back into the corner, counting the passing floors and seconds, and growing acutely aware of his dishevelled clothes and stinky pits.
"Can I help you son?" asked a heavy set man near the door. "You look lost. Sure you belong here?"
Taylor ran a hand through his greasy hair. “What do you think?”
It was Jeff Watson, Mayor of New York. Watson was tall - close to 7 feet, with a walrus-like moustache and a pronounced gut pressing against his shirt buttons. He placed a long cigarette between his lips and his young assistant blazed up the end. The elevator did not protest.
"Got a smoke?” Taylor asked the Mayor.
Watson shook his head and grinned through puffs. “What do you think?”
Taylor smiled inwardly as he pressed his back into the wall. "I actually voted for you, back when I thought votes meant something.”
The Mayor smirked as he dropped his smoke and stubbed it under foot.
"What swayed me most was your policy on recycling," Taylor added, bending to pick up the butt. The surrounding faces contorted when Taylor blew dirt off the nub, put it to his lips and fired up the end.
His mother had taught him better than that, but then Taylor never could take a telling.
