Along the road at community Neuronet portals thousands queued, sipping tea from earthen cups. Rev warriors, in their off-cut kurtas emblazoned with a scatter of Net and ecoverted Com branding, patrolled the streets alert for infractions of any of many oddball Hub protocols. Their eyes tracked Calvin30 as he tacked his way past. Should they conclude he was a clone Calvin30 was sure that he would not last. A dirty mob would rip him to bits.
Balloon cradled rockets loomed overhead as they lifted from the jump-port up ahead and, as Calvin30 neared the fount of their departure, his spirits grew light. He swung into a swagger.
His performance, impeccable in every way, had put all the principals into play. Within an hour he would be aloft, powering through the clouds. From that time, it would be an even ride home to safe haven, and from then he would reel the Revs in. Bhatterjee, enraged, trailing Kaliyuga in her wake, inhaling the bouquet of blood, would follow his baits. August’s fiery ascension to his fate was thus delivered to Calvin30 on a plate.
Immersed in his mind, Calvin30 finagled the angles and meditated on the minutiae of the coming months. How he would release which leaks that would lead Bhatterjee to a specific sequence of decisions, down to which ship she would hijack to press her attack. It was a deal already sealed.
To Calvin30’s left he spied a line of beggars, loathsome creatures, far beneath even clones in the pecking pyramid. He noted even they had aligned themselves into a Net of some kind. Some Org coordinator was helping to change Ecos into local tokens, so the good pilgrims could convert pennies into heaven by depositing them into pleading hands. Then the beggars would duly recycle their baggies of lucre back to the Org guy, a turbaned Sikh, who would deposit the amount into their electronic accounts. Calvin30 wondered what his cut was.
Gods the weather was hot. He drained the last dregs of his dram as he regarded the beggars. A tug on his pants drew his attention down. One of those insects was pestering him for something. The crone pointed to his empty bottle and, with a frown, he dropped it to her. Catching it with a deft hand, the thing stashed it in her bag and stared back up. Her prize acquired, why did she and her smell not go away?
Hell, today of all days he could afford beneficence. Calvin30 rummaged his pockets for a few cents and tossed them to the pavement. His mouth curled as the woman pounced. Then his expression fell as she fingered her treasure suspiciously.
“Shit. My mistake. My mistake. I’ve something else for you. Here take this instead. Stop.”
It was too late. Sniffing back at him the witch fronted up to the Org guy. The man took the coins off her and examined them officiously. Soon Calvin30 was ringed by angry faces. His ad hoc entourage wound its way down the avenue in the wrong direction. Translated through his neurovisor Calvin30 followed snippets of the conversation.
“What was it?” “A ComCoin.” "He tried to bribe her, but she turned him right down." "He was most contemptuous." “Some kind of Com spy?” “What an idiot.”
They paraded him, yanking his kurta, and dragging him when his feet tripped. Dark hands snatched his horn, snapping the strap and cutting off his neurovisor from its secured antennae link. Some kids kicked it along the street before taking off with it. His third eye went blind and severed from his powers; like Oedipus he fell into despair.
Calvin30 was gripped by panic, his mind spinning out of ideas as his body went limp. Murderous arms muscled him into a courtyard of sorts, barricaded round with poorly plastered brick. There he was passed roughly to the front of the pack. Having arrived, the louder shouts became less shrill and the crowd began to mill. Calvin30 dusted his kurta, willed his flustered heart to still, and brushed a waterfall of sweat from his eyes.
A Rev man, assembled in the closest resemblance to a uniform Calvin30 had seen in Chennai, scowled at the approaching inconvenience. The Org guy approached, suddenly shy, and offered the shiny chits to the officer who bit one on the corner and put them in his pocket. The Officer wiped his neck, cleared his throat and spat. Squinting at Calvin30, his interest slow to show, he tilted his head to tell them to follow.
Passing twin algal fountains flowing down the building’s thermal mass walls, they entered a blessed cool gust which greeted them into a stairwell. They descended into a wide earthen room lined with sunlit water tubes, which imbued the setting with a soft, clear light. Cushions, mats and the odd metal chair littered the tiled floor, facing a stage solely inhabited by an old styled desk.
The mob frog-marched Calvin30 into a creaking chair placed on the first step of three ascending the dais. The Officer, assuming more decorum once relieved of the heat, strode to a curtain stage right and muttered to someone unseen. He glanced around, and then returned to stand by the desk.
Calvin30, lulled by the Officer’s apparent boredom, began to calm down. This didn’t look like a lynching. He scanned the members of the assembly and determined them, despite initial feigned ferocity, to be attending mainly out of curiosity. If Bhatterjee had wanted him deceased, she would have done the deed less publicly.
“Sri Indira Didi, senior Sabarmati clan Satyacharya for Thiruvanmiyur Hub presiding,” the Officer announced perfunctorily in English.
After a time, a middle-aged woman wearing a faded sari of raw silk and topped by close-cropped hair entered and settled behind the desk while the cobbled cabal in the room assumed their seats in the dust. The Justice, Calvin30 presumed, sat quietly, her eyes scrolling his case through her neuroview. Then she spoke, addressing her remarks to his audience more than to him.
“We have a serious offence brought before us today. The use of Com currency in the Free Hubs is strictly forbidden. Why is this so? Because Law cannot be imposed beyond the understanding of the community, I will remind us and our guest. “
Calvin30 straightened and prepared to defend.
“Money. Why all this turmoil about such an everyday device? It may seem a bit trumped up. You see, money has a chequered past.”
The Justice held up an Eco as Exhibit A.
“This is proper money. Why? Because it indicates effort that someone has undertaken to benefit our Mother, the Earth, which is shared by everyone of us. Not only humans, but the animals and plants that share this fragile world with us. Among many things it is an indicator of how we have reduced hazardous gases that have heated our planet. The formulas upon which this is derived are validated by many scientific Syns, and the value is agreed by the Elders and economists at GEO. This is proper money because it represents a benefit we all share. It tells our stories as well, not the stories of the elites, as it is issued by each Hub independently on the same basis. It is better than gold, for to extract that metal actually causes great damage to the planet and exhausts precious resources for the only purpose of digging something up and reburying it in a vault.”
Then, with sudden emphasis, the Justice thrust Calvin30’s Comscript coins forth.
“This. This is not proper money. Why? In the past this was the main form of money that existed. It does not start in a proper way with a value of benefit to everyone. It is not connected to the Earth but is instead devised as an instrument of enslavement. This money begins its life as a credit, as a debt to the issuer. To repay the debt more must be offered back than was given. For a loan this is the normal state of affairs, but the issuing of money is not the creation of value. One side invents a fiction for which another returns the sweat of their brow and the whole of their life. This had us all labouring under the yoke of many Empires, most recently the Coms. For this we would sacrifice even our precious life-giving planet.”
“So, you see, rejecting this, rejecting THIS. Rejecting this is the way we have defended our freedom and protected our planet. And so, using this currency, in our Hubs, at the sacred ground where the Ecolution first took root is the greatest sacrilege.”
Her diatribe was discursive, and Calvin30 recognised the vibe as on the radical side, outside the Peace by a long reach. The politically compromised line was that a happy currency ecology provided the most stab
ility, but here that was clearly disbelieved.
She leaned over her bureau, studying him studying her.
“Who are you?” Her grey eyes belied a candid curiosity healthily dosed with suspicion.
Calvin30 responded with all the counterfeit verifiable facts composing his alias. That he was but a mere wayfaring musician pursuing his muse in the motherland of the Upanishads.
“Your Honor, surely it is me, as much a victim of this situation as she, for someone perhaps has tipped that villainous cash into my hat during my act?”
The Justice seemed unimpressed by his duplicity but did not press the point. Instead she finished her glass and proffered her carafe.
“Surely, you must be thirsty.” The Officer poured a cup and approached with it.
“Much obliged for your generosity, Your Honor.”
While Calvin30 drank the water, Her Honor thanked him for his frank testimony.
“The accused has admitted his crime.”
What?
“There is nothing in your rendition that discounts the charge against you, mainly the use of ComCoin in a Free Hub zone. There may be extenuating circumstances, but the facts of the matter are not contested.”
“Surely, you know, this whole show is proscribed under the terms of the Peace?” Calvin30 appealed.
“The Peace is interpretable. This is a Community Court following local Standards, but you are welcome, of course, to lodge a waiver in the Gov Court of Tamil Nadu State.”
Her smile ambushed him.
A month or more chasing papers through the Indian civil service would seriously derail his schedule but should only be another artistic arrow in his quiver for his footloose minstrel alter ego. He dared not go there. His case could become public, Comsec could blunder in, and August might get wind of that borrowed authorisation.
“Your Honor, in my rambles I have always complied with the customs of my hosts, and so I will abide with any fine you decide.”
The Justice assessed his assent while working the rosary of seeds around her neck. Her brow raised when she reached the end of a round.
“You realise Sir, that you cannot change your path once upon it, for that would make a mockery of Community Standards and the sovereignty rights of all Hubs.”
This was, of course, untrue to the extent that he was not entirely trapped by the untruths of his own telling. With a word he could always consign himself to a public bureaucratic purgatory during which his ruse would be inevitably uncovered.
And this, somehow, she knew, the shrewd witch. Ah well, all the world are players and Calvin30 conceded he’d been played.
“I agree.”
“Very good. That being so, to whom then do you belong?”
To whom did he belong? He couldn’t say Mirtopik Com. “Ah. Your Honor, to no one, I own my own soul. I query the question.”
“Mr. Calvinson. That is your name from your documents? Michael?”
“Ah. Yes. It is.”
“Your Hub. This mneme doesn’t say. Surely you know Community Justice is a matter of recompense between Hubs, not individuals. We must establish the negotiating parties to determine remuneration. You can then be dealt with by own Hub according to your own customs.”
Of course, he had been a nitwit not to invent a Hub membership for himself.
“I would prefer not to involve them. Can’t we keep this between ourselves?”
Justice Indira frowned down at him. “That is not our way. Without your Hub to take responsibility for your actions there is no jurisdiction for this court. If you will not reveal your Hub I am afraid these proceedings are over, and we will forward your waiver.”
“Wait. Your Honor. There must be some other way.”
Rubbing her chin, the Justice examined him, her suspicions coalescing into an opinion.
“Yes. There is ‘some other way’.” She blinked.
“Are there any Hubs attending who wish to take on this visitor’s debt?”
The silence was ear splitting.
“Well Mr. Calvinson. It would appear that you are headed to the Courts and I can get back to my main case for the day, negotiating groundwater rights with Besant Nagar following increases in seawater intrusion there. Unless this would interest you Mr. Calvinson, if that is your name?”
“Sri Didi, we will assume the debt.”
It was the Org Guy, holding his hand high above his revolting litter of human refuse, the beggars who had caused this mess. Despite his filthy flock, Calvin30 could have kissed him. Justice Indira regarded the turbaned guy with surprise.
"Mr. JV Singh. How can I possibly hold you accountable when you are the plaintiff party?"
"Sri Didi, I humbly beg your pardon. I believe that in this case it is the Community Standards themselves that are in breach and that no harm has been done to our members. Therefore, I take the opportunity to assume the debt for this man's case."
"But surely you can see the disdain for those of your jati. It is written plainly on his face."
Calvin30 swiftly subdued his features, shifting to look upon the Sikh’s creatures with a demeanor of chastened humility. The beggar broad who had incriminated him expectorated while the others grinned.
The Sikh bowed. "Didi, we are simple and humble men and women, patiently accepting the injustices of our society with the grace of God. We have no grudge to bear for this man's ignorance. Besides, our atonement may be instructive to him."
"Your Honor. I am overjoyed to accept this generous sponsorship." Calvin30 interrupted, revealing his relief.
The Justice and the Sikh exchanged a glance that gave Calvin30 the sense he had just made a very dense decision.
“Very well. The fine is 1 lakh Ecos to be paid in monthly instalments by ChowpatiNet as to be negotiated. Mr. Calvinson, I release you from the jurisdiction of this Court into the care of your sponsor until such time as the two of you achieve reconciliation.”
“But, your Honor?”
“Mr. Calvinson, your situation is no longer a matter for our consideration. I wish you all the very best. Good day.”
Thus, with the Justice’s blessing he was compressed by a crowd of grotesques who led him away from the proceedings amid cheers and jeers. Sweating and fretting, Calvin30 was pressed through a maze of tracks, down a ghat onto a littoral that filled the streets between beached high rises, skirting the tide, until they reached a derelict depot.
Once inside Calvin30 was instructed to strip to his undershirt and exchange his smart kurta and pants for a somewhat more aromatic attire. Enthroned on a limestone block his captors coronated him with a broken pot, declaring him an honorary prince of God.
Over the cackles of the masses, the Sikh educated him on a monarch's ‘duties of State’. Apparently as a recipient of the largess of ChowpatiNet, he was now obliged to recompense his fellow recyclers for the substantial fee they needed to settle with themselves for his release.
“This is no issue, only return my instrument that was stolen from me and I will sing you your supper.”
The Sikh smirked at this. “Please, my good friend, do not take our refusal of your generosity personally as it is evident you are unaware of the insult you give to our members by it.”
“What insult do you insinuate? I have only ever treated your troop with the utmost respect.”
“Should this be the case, and because of your avowed intent to abide by the ‘customs of host’ as you stated, you should not object to travelling some short distance in our shoes, so to speak, as a proof of this respect?”
“Is this necessary?”
“If you do not wish to play the game Mr. Calvinson, a waiver for the State Courts is already prepared.”
It seemed that by accepting their charity he must assume their profession. If he aspired to escape he was coerced to beg his way.
"Time to go to work," The turbaned freak declared cheerily.
The days afterwards were a nightmare. Calvin30 was not good at eliciting donations as he sat on the roadside glow
ering, his clay pot crown hanging lopsided down off of his head. Any piece of plastic, metal, even paper was whisked away before he could get within ten meters of it. It was a hopeless exercise. The sum required for his freedom was ridiculously large in comparison with the paltry price offered for discarded junk. The first days he spent mulching all manner of horrible offal out of the drainage ditches and into community gardens in return for the bowls of rice and vegetables given to all raggers gathering outside the local temple.
The only alternative, waiting for an Indian Gov court docket to come open, was equally untenable. Either way he would be stuck here too long. The unravelling of a god awaited him, and he was not even on the map. There was no appealing to General Bhatterjee for his release, even if his fellow recyclers would believe him. She would likely just have him disposed of.
Calvin30 tried his hand at street theater, a difficult undertaking without his beloved SlySynth. He danced and sang and pantomimed, but all he received for his troubles were odd looks and more derision. The Sikh took great delight in informing him of the ‘expenses’ on his account that were mounting daily. Calvin30, terrified of being discovered as a clone, tried not to object overly much as his thoughts went into overdrive plotting possible escapes. At night he slept on the ledge of a traffic island to prevent his earnings being rifled while he slept, his exhaustion tuning out the constant bangs and bells and beeps.
And then there was that old witch - the very sibyl that had gotten him into all this trouble.
"My daughter,” she pointed to a fellow destitute, young but worn beyond her years, three snotty brats in tow. "You. She." The witch latched her hands.
Calvin30 responded with some sarcastic comment that the witch considered a "Yes".
From then on, his adopted brood conga-lined behind him as he stalked down the street trying to shrug them off. He learned to accept the arrangement because the little woman seemed only happy to turn over part of her earnings to her new man. Her sole endearing feature was that she was seemingly mute. The Sikh was surprised when Calvin30 made his first deposit.
Ten Directions Page 27
