by R. E. Rowe
Chien continues. “Local officials have requested military help citing national security concerns.”
“Where is Dennis?” I can’t believe he hasn’t even tried to contact me. “He was to address the unrest. These people are completely out of control and he is nowhere to be found.”
“Believe me, I wish I knew. Let me try again to find him.” Chien makes a call on the radio.
A moment later, we both hear the response when a voice crackles over the radio. “Sorry sir. Dennis and Franz are both missing.”
“Franz is missing too?” I ask. “Is this General’s doing?”
Chien’s attention focuses on the control panel in front of him. His face tightens. “We need to go,” Chien says. “Now.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “Set down a mile from here at the park. It’ll be empty this time of night. Let me out there. Refuel the jet, and then return for me in thirty minutes.”
“No. I can’t do that—”
I raise my voice and instantly feel my heart pushing blood through my veins. “You will do as I say.” It takes everything I have to maintain my patience. I realize Chien is only trying to keep me safe. I touch his arm and soften my voice. “Please, Chien. This is important.”
Chien lets out a loud sigh, maneuvering the jet and accelerating to the park. “Very well.”
I quickly unbuckle and go into the jet’s main cabin to change clothes. Jeans, a sweater, and a light coat will allow me to blend in with the crowd. I tie my hair in a ponytail, push it through the back of a ball cap with NY printed on it, and then pull down the broad brim over my eyebrows.
When I return to the cockpit, Chien has both hands on the controls landing the jet. “I don’t feel good about this,” he says under his breath.
“Yes, you’ve told me already.” I lean in and kiss him on his soft lips, running my fingertips through his hair. “Thank you, Chien, for always taking care of me. However, I need to do this on my own. Give me a few minutes before sending the evacuate command to other community centers under siege.”
The jog from the park to the crowd doesn’t take long. More shouting people have gathered and the mood changes from bad to worse. Shouts, screams, and people waving baseball bats and broken bottles. A police helicopter whistles overhead, shining a spotlight on the crowd. Three media helicopters circle in the distance.
I blend into the crowd and casually approach a middle-aged man with short cut hair in slacks and a loosened tie, waving a broken bottle. “Open the gates,” he says, then repeats the chant: “Families have rights. Workers have rights. No rights, we fight.”
I touch his arm. “Sir?”
He stops and stares at me with deep lines spouting across his forehead like cracked glass. “What, young lady? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Yes, sir. I do, but why are you so angry?”
“Excuse me?” he asks, contorting his face.
“From the way you’re dressed I assume QCC Corp pays you well. Do you work in management?”
An angry gaze replaces the man’s stunned expression. “What did you ask me?”
“What’s wrong, sir?” I ask, politely.
He huffs. “Sure QCC pays decent. But they don't value us none. My supervisor doesn’t care about me. I’m just a number in this place. Everyone knows QCC Corp is controlling us to increase corporate profits. They could pay more. I don’t buy the crap from that little girl, Carmi Cee. She’s just a talking head for her greedy corporate board.”
“But you have everything you need here. Isn’t that everyone’s dream?”
“We all have personal dreams, young lady. Don’t you have dreams? Receiving a handout if I work here isn’t a dream. What happened to the American dream? You won't find it here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Building something from nothing—rags to riches. That’s what I want. Carmi Cee was given everything when her parents died. She’s never worked a day in her life. She created work camps for her corporation and now we’re all stuck.” He points around the crowd. “There’s no other place out there that will pay as good for these people. We’re totally screwed. We can’t afford to leave.”
“But, sir, doesn’t QCC Corp provide everything? Medical, dental, school, and so on? They take care of families—”
“Are you nuts?” he asks. “You’re actually buying that little CEO girl’s crap. You know as well as I do she's full of shit. It’s not right, probably against the constitution. We have rights. Only profits motivate corporations. QCC Corp tells the employees they’re creating a community where people can work and have everything they need. But can my cousin’s family or my friends come in and visit me?” he shouts as loud as he can and turns away. “No way. They need documents, visas. That's just not American, if you ask me.”
Some of the crowd hears what the man says and chants, “No way. No way. No...”
The man frowns and narrows his eyes. “Hey, you look familiar. Who are you anyway?”
“Just visiting. Good luck, sir.” I pat him on the back and walk away.
The man joins the group and their chant gets louder. “No way. No way. No...”
The crowd is nearly out of control, but my clones remain standing at attention, being spit on and pelted by debris. These people have no idea that the silica bodies of my clones are a hundred times stronger than biological humans are. They stand as solid as cement pillars. Not moving an inch when the crowd tries to push them.
With one focused thought, I could easily command my clones from here to push the crowd back, breaking bones, and forcing the crowd to disperse. But that would only reinforce the argument that biological humans are irrational and unstable no matter the rules. Is there some way to put these people at ease?
Sending troublemakers back beyond the ether is one solution, but some left behind might seek revenge and perpetuate anger, paranoia, and confusion. Revenge is worse than anger. It can last generations.
A boy catches my eyes. He’s a couple years older than I am. He stands close to a clone with his cell phone in front of the clone's darkened facemask, obviously recording video to post on the Internet.
“Go on!” he shouts. “Hit me. You know you want too. Zap me with your Taser. Strike me with your baton. You coward.”
I turn away when the boy spits on the clone's steel mesh mask. This is much worse than I ever thought was possible.
My clone doesn’t react. Not even a blink.
The boy yells louder.
I’ve seen enough. My dream of biological humans living in peace with no suffering has faded. I walk a safe distance away from the crowd.
Across a grassy area, I see a young girl of about ten sitting at a picnic table, coloring a picture. Her mother is with a group of women who have congregated a short distance from the table.
I casually walk over and sit down next to the girl.
I’m so confused. I thought my plan was perfect this lifetime. What have I done wrong?
The girl's mother looks back at me with probing eyes. She smiles once she decides I’m not a threat, and then continues talking with the group while keeping a watchful eye on the little girl.
“Need some help?” I glance at her picture when she looks up.
“Sure,” she says, and hands me a crayon.
I gesture toward the crowd a good distance away then use the crayon to outline a cartoon elephant. “All of that over there doesn’t bother you?”
“No. Not really,” she replies, over pronouncing each word. “They’re just being emotional.”
“Oh?” I say, continuing to outline the picture. “What do you know about emotional?”
The girl stays focused on her drawing, filling in the picture with color inside the lines. “My mom says it happens sometimes. People act crazy when lots of changes happen in their life.”
The girl sounds like an older person in a young body. Obviously, she's an experienced soul.
I let out a loud sigh. “I just thought the people here would
be happy, that’s all. They have anything they need.” I exchange my crayon for a different color. “I don’t want people to be sad.”
The girl looks at me, and smiles. “You’re nice.” She returns to coloring the picture. “Everyone gets sad sometimes. Mommy says it helps people appreciate being happy.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really? How so?”
“It’s like eating ice cream sundaes with extra hot fudge and whip.”
I look up from the drawing and our eyes meet.
She continues. “Mom says if I ate a sundae every meal, I’d get sick of sundaes. But if I don’t eat a sundae for a long time, it tastes way better when I get to have one.”
“Is that what you think?”
She nods and continues working on her picture. “That’s what my mom tells me, but it makes sense. I love sundaes.”
My thoughts drift as I add color to the page.
Does suffering make the life experience balanced? Does suffering make the soul stronger? Is the struggle out of suffering part of the life experience? Is it needed for a soul to grow? Life's ultimate motivator?
For the first time in a hundred lifetimes, I see something new about General’s rules. Free will. Cause and effect. Suffering. Everything is so intertwined together. How can I unravel it all?
I might accept some suffering if it was a soul’s personal choice, but I will never accept the suffering of innocent souls caused by the free will of others. Never.
How can I adjust my new rules to allow this distinction? There must be a way.
After a silent moment, the little girl continues. “Not everyone is mad.”
I look up at her. “What do you mean?”
She keeps coloring. “All you see over there are trouble makers. There are way more people like my mom and her friends. They help people. Mom says the news just shows the troublemakers and it makes everything worse. There are many good people. Sometimes Mom and I give out hugs to calm people down.”
“Does it help?”
“I think so. People smile. Sometimes they cry.”
These people are experiencing life. Making choices for better or worse. Being heard. They’re engaged and living in the moment without any baggage of past life memories.
Could General’s rules force there to be balance between suffering and joy?
Could General’s system be perfect after all?
I must tweak my new rules before we go live. Do some testing to tune them just right. I’ll allow suffering as long as personal choice drives it. Self-inflicted pain. But suffering of innocent souls caused by another soul’s actions must remain the ultimate offense. Giving people the ability to remember past life experiences will make this new rule clear. Modified free will—allowed unless it hurts others. We will celebrate the kind souls and forever evict the angry souls when they break the rules. No more chances to get it right with another lifetime when other souls have suffered. I know now what rule adjustments I must make.
I stand up and brush myself off. “Thank you for letting me color with you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, but doesn't look up. “Do you need a hug?”
I chuckle. “Thank you, but I'll be okay. You keep on coloring.”
I walk back to the rioting crowd. From the profanities and bottle throwing, I can tell the situation is ready to explode any second. Near my blockade of clones, people wave their fists in the air. Someone strikes a match, lighting a cloth on fire that’s sticking out of a bottle. Empty bottles and rocks crash down near my clones.
I can’t hold the crowd back. They’re determined to break through the line of clones. I focus on the clones and feel warmth under the ancient gold bracelet.
I send out the commands. Fall back. Return to basecamp.
In an instant, the clones turn at once and jog away from the community’s four-story command center building, allowing the crowd full access to the building.
General has won the battle on this day, but the war is not lost.
It hurts to watch the crowd throwing rocks and bottles, breaking windows, destroying the front doors, pushing each other to be the first to get inside the building. I fall to my knees, my face in open palms. I was so sure these community centers would be the way to provide for the needs of all the people. I thought they’d be grateful.
However, I was wrong. Flames from the command center’s windows reflect off my tears. In the distance, the front gates open and the National Guard moves inside the complex.
The entire QCC community has become one giant riot. Uncertainty and loss freeze me like a blizzard.
A hand suddenly grips my bicep and causes me to flinch. “It’s time to go,” Chien says. “I’ve located Dennis and Franz.”
chapter twenty-six
I scan the screen of my handheld device. “Why do we have to take a boat again? I can tell from the satellite images, it has an airstrip.”
Bree continues driving. “The island is small. If we land on their airstrip, they’ll see us. A boat won’t raise suspicions.”
I frown. “But I get seasick.”
Bree rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” She parks near a large dock studded with green and blue fishing boats.
We sit motionless, observing people about two hundred feet away as they climb on and off the fancy boats.
“How do you know which one to borrow?”
“Practice.” Bree’s eyes lock like a harpoon onto a large, shiny white yacht. “Over there. That one will work.”
The yacht is huge with a polished jet ski secured above the top deck. It reminds me of a miniature cruise ship, equipped with satellite dishes, multiple decks, and rows of windows running alongside its shiny white hull.
“Are you serious?”
Bree nods. “Yep.”
“What about a crew?”
“We’ll manage. It looks fast and probably has fresh supplies.” Bree searches around like a hawk hunting for dinner. “Has the location of the dot changed at all?”
I peer at the display. “Nope, it hasn’t moved.”
A group of ten couples dressed in evening dresses and sport jackets, holding glasses of wine and champagne, walk towards the yacht, laughing and carrying on.
“Get ready.” Bree points. “You take the five couples in the back. I’ll take the first five.”
“Five?” Ten people? “It works for that many people at once?”
Bree keeps focused on the group. “Yeah. Just believe you can and you will.”
“Okay, then. I guess we’re going to mess up their celebration.” I watch my five couples and concentrate. Turn around and go back. The people stop laughing. Their faces go blank. Each one turns around as if they’re marching and walks away from the yacht.
It worked. I rub the gold bracelet on my arm as if it’s some kind of genie. “They’re on their way back.”
Moments later, the people Bree focuses on turn around and join the group I sent back. One man stops, puts a ring full of keys on the wooden dock in front of the yacht, and then runs to catch up with the others.
“Let’s go.” Bree casually gets out of the car. I follow her through the parking lot, then onto the wooden dock. We continue on the dock to the place where the man had left the keys.
Bree picks up the keys and steps onto the yacht. “I’ll get us moving. Take the ropes off.”
She disappears inside the yacht.
I free the last thick rope just as Bree starts up the engines and puts the yacht into drive, pulling away from the dock. Suddenly, I notice a security guard running towards us yelling something I don't understand.
“Sta se! Ye ne peso!”
I close my eyes and direct my thoughts at the guard. It’s okay. No problem here. Go back to your office. It’s break time.
The security guard instantly freezes, his face going blank. “Nihe at-nor ka selee.” He turns around and shuffles away.
“Nice.” I chuckle, tapping my gold bracelet. “This could come in handy.”
&nbs
p; “Reizo, in here!” Bree yells from the deck above.
“On my way!”
I run inside, across the tiger print carpeting and stop to stare at the polished wood walls and leather couches. Wow. To the right is a bar and refrigerator, and to the left is a narrow stairway leading to the upper deck. I go left. When I reach the top, Bree is sitting in a white captain’s chair in front of a control panel, maneuvering the yacht out of the harbor.
She glances back. “Show me the coordinates on that device again.”
I retrieve it from my backpack and hand it to her.
“Good. The dot hasn’t moved.” Bree adjusts the throttle and pushes a few buttons while staring out to the horizon. “We'll arrive at the island in about thirty minutes. You might as well go find something to eat.”
I rub my eyes and sit down on a leather chair behind her. “No, thanks. Not hungry.”
I’m in no mood to talk, and Bree obviously isn’t either. Before long, a small land mass appears a short ways off in the distance. The island isn’t lush or tropical looking like I’d hoped it would be. It’s arid, rocky with overgrown bushes and a narrow band of sand around the perimeter. Beyond the shoreline, a large group of gray buildings rises above the terrain.
“So much for palm trees and rum drinks,” I mumble.
Bree peers at the fixed dot on the device, tapping the display and scanning through a series of maps. “We need to approach from the north end of the island; the compound is on the south end.”
“You mean we have to hike across the entire island?”
“No.” Bree points up. “Remember the jet ski on the winch above us?”
I remember it. “I didn’t think—”
Bree raises her voice. “Look, Reizo. I need you to start thinking,” she says, sharply. “This is serious. Those guys will have guns, and who knows what else. They can easily kill us if we’re not prepared.”
I look away. “Jeez, sorry.”
She sighs. “I’m sorry for snapping. I’m just worried. This doesn’t feel right. Who knows what we’re walking into here.”
“I thought you did this sort of stuff all the time.”
