The Prophecies Trilogy (Omnibus Edition): A Dystopian Adventure

by Linda Hawley

  “Lulu might be running a faster mile than I am,” Paul joked breathlessly.

  “No, she’s only at level two on the NordicTrack. It just seems faster because she’s small,” I joked.

  Paul laughed.

  We often worked out next to one another at lunch, although we never had spoken of doing so. He’d watched Lulu and I run together since I’d been at AlterHydro.

  “Whenever I come in, and you’re putting Lulu on the treadmill without a leash, I always watch people’s expressions. At first,” he said, “they look shocked. Then, when she doesn’t fall off, they’re really impressed,” he commented with a smile, still breathless.

  “She’s a very cool dog,” I confirmed.

  “Yes, she is. Just like her mommy,” he flirted.

  I laughed.

  After forty minutes, both Lulu and I were tired. Paul had given up before then, admitting defeat.

  After my Carrie-free private shower, I headed outside with Lulu for a short walk. We then went back to my office to eat the organic salad that I had brought from home. I gave Lulu a fresh bowl of water and her lunch.

  Since my job was a serious one, full of technical specifications and deadlines in addition to the stress of working for Bennett, I spent time every afternoon considering what my next vacation would be. It was my way of taking a mental break for a few minutes each afternoon.

  As I dug into my salad, I thought about China. How could a country that had lagged behind the pre-industrial revolution for so long have taken over the entire American manufacturing world? I wanted to go there and experience the energy of a country that could achieve that.

  Chapter 3

  BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON

  The Year 2015

  Leaving the 1910, I crossed the parking lot to my sleek BYD H12 convertible. It was black with a slim silver swish around each fender. I was having a love affair with this all-electric car.

  My respect for the genius CEO Wang Chuanfu influenced my decision to buy a BYD model. Chuanfu believed that a near-perfect electric car was possible, and he had been working to that end, pursuing new battery technology. He not only developed the longest-lasting and most powerful car battery, but he then developed a system to neutralize the battery without destroying it, in case it began overheating. Chuanfu was the first automotive executive to inspire me.

  After my research and subsequent test drive of several BYD models, I was sold on the sleek four-door convertible the moment I sat in the plush, red leather seats. They reminded me of the 1960 MGA 1600 Mk I roadster that Elvis Presley drove in the movie Blue Hawaii. I saw the movie on television when I was twelve, and the seats were forevermore imprinted in my memory. With gas prices in the eight-dollar range now and up to twice as much outside the USA, going electric was a viable alternative to the severe prices.

  As I let thoughts of work slip from my mind, I felt a small thrill as I pushed the button that would let the top down and give me a clear view of the day’s precipitation-free sky. It didn’t really matter that it wasn’t exactly convertible weather; when I drove the BYD with the top down, the stresses of work and life in general faded away, and I felt free and relaxed.

  It was finally spring; the rain had let up its punishing course from the extended winter. When I had moved from the Washington, D.C., metropolitan area to Bellingham to take the job with AlterHydro, I was captivated by all the evergreen trees and the close proximity to the Puget Sound. I had grown up in Bellingham, and it felt good to return.

  After moving back in the late summer of 2012, I expected more rain, but it was August, and I guessed it had to take a break sometime. It wasn’t until October that the skies themselves opened up and poured down precipitation, and it didn’t stop for a solid seven months. It didn’t always pour soaking rain in Bellingham; sometimes it just drizzled all…day…long. I’d arrived in Bellingham with my umbrella in hand, but three weeks into the rainy season, I trashed my umbrella and instead picked up a hooded North Face soft-shell jacket with its SecondSkin lining for warmth. I called it my Bellslicker, my Bellingham version of a New England rain slicker. I either wore it or kept it by my side all the time.

  On the way home from work, I felt like making a pasta salad, so I stopped at the Organic Cooperative to pick up the ingredients and check out through my friend Summer's line. She and I had hit it off immediately when we first met, and we shared some lively conversations. Today it was about Pelamis and the upcoming council meeting.

  She was a petite woman, about 5'2", with dyed black hair and bright-pink highlights. Her beautifully sculpted face had blazing green eyes, pale skin, and a substantial Grecian nose. She was a waif of a woman, but she was naturally quite busty. Summer was passionate about alternative energy.

  “How're you doin’, Ann?”

  “I’m great. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Did you see the latest news in Scotland with their new Sea Snake?” Summer asked with passion.

  The Sea Snake was an alternative energy device that translated the waves of the sea into electricity. Developed by the Scottish company Pelamis, Sea Snake technology took off in 2011. Summer always talked about the Sea Snake; it was her go-to topic of conversation. She told me all about the current Sea Snake trials.

  “The Scotts need a break, after all. They’re paying almost twice as much for gas as we are,” I replied.

  “I agree. It looks like AlterHydro and Pelamis could have a marriage in your future,” Summer baited.

  “No way would Bennett ever go for that,” I whispered.

  Summer laughed. She had grown up with Bennett in Bellingham and knew of his pride.

  “Are you going to the next city council meeting?” she asked.

  “I’ll be there with bells on. I know that a portion of the gasoline tax is supposed to be spent on the city’s social programs, but the truth is that the tax is just plugging the budget gap. We get taxed, which causes us stress, and then we need the social programs to help us with the stress. How bizarre is that?” I said, with a sardonic smile.

  “You really should bring that up in the response portion of the council meeting,” Summer prodded.

  “The last time I made a comment in the council meeting, everyone turned and looked at me in unison, like they were clones. All those eyes,” I mock shuddered.

  Summer giggled with eyes wide and sparkling.

  “I don't want that kind of attention, and I certainly didn’t like the feeling. I think that someone with real courage needs to bring it up—like you.”

  “Me? No way. But I understand how you feel,” she responded.

  “We both complain, but then we don’t want to stand up to the council.”

  “I know. We should be ashamed of ourselves.” She winked.

  “Whenever people start talking about shame, that’s when I exit stage left,” I commented, bagging my groceries in my cloth bag.

  “Bye, hon,” Summer offered with a wave of her hand.

  Driving up to my house, I admired how the tulips, which lined my driveway, had come into bloom. After three years, the bulbs had finally matured into big Pacific Northwest-sized tulips.

  Who would’ve ever known that Washington would be one of the best places in America to grow tulips?

  I loved that tulips were full of vibrancy and classic shape, and for a few short weeks, they were full of living perfection. After planting nearly a hundred of them when I first moved to Bellingham, I hoped that an explosion of color each spring would ease my culture shock from my coast-to-coast move.

  As I left my BYD in the driveway, I looked up at my house and was grateful that this home, with its Craftsman style, had nurtured me in this new place. I loved that it was built with classic architecture, along with the new generation of SmartWired home computer technology. I felt that my home was my friend, an ally and a protector.

  As Lulu and I left the car and walked up the steps, the front door unlocked and opened automatically, using face recognition technology installed near the front d
oor. Lulu ran in the door to drink water from her pet fountain, then to play with her toys.

  She loves our home as much as I do, I thought.

  As I moved through the door and into the open foyer, the front door automatically closed behind me. The lights turned on as I entered each zone. In the kitchen, I unloaded everything from the Co-Op onto the counter.

  “Hello, Sinéad. New age mix,” I said, addressing my SmartWired home computer.

  I decided to call the home's computer Sinéad, in honor of Sinéad O’Connor. I was nineteen years old when the Irish musician’s biggest CD, I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got, was released, and after attending her concert, I was hooked by the power and passion of the petite artist. Of course, Sinéad’s independent personality also appealed to me. Whenever I felt powerless, I would play O’Connor’s music to rejuvenate my spirit and remind me that I had purpose.

  Naming my SmartWired home Sinéad, in the spirit of rebellion and independence, seemed right to me. SmartWired technology did have an ugly reality: it allowed the U.S. government to track its citizens. In 2015, being tracked by anyone in the government never turned out well for the individual. So the day that I closed on my house, and before moving in a week later, I had some help from an alternative repairman from the underground.

  Chapter 4

  SHANGHAI, CHINA

  The Year 2012

  I landed at Shanghai Pudong International Airport at one thirty-five p.m. on Tuesday for my meeting with the turbine manufacturer.

  “Twenty-three hours in a coach seat. What could be more awful?” I muttered.

  Only three hours into the flight, while I was attempting to sleep, a seemingly feeble old woman from a few rows ahead sauntered toward me and snatched the airline's mini-pillow from beneath my head.

  Before I could protest the loss, the old woman leaned into my face and slurred the raspy whisky words, “I need this more than you do.”

  Repulsed by her pungent elder spittle, I sarcastically whispered, “Now isn’t this terrific,” and wiped my moist face as the drunken magician returned to her seat.

  I was fuming and considered alerting a flight attendant, but then I remembered that an air marshal was likely on board and would probably enjoy restraining me. I could see him saying, “Go ahead, make my day.” These days it was a very bad idea to make a big deal of anything while a mile high. So I sucked it up, swallowed my anger, and found it impossible to sleep during the next twenty hours of the transatlantic flight. Back and forth I slid and slouched my tall frame in the seat, trying to find a sleeping position that accommodated the fact that the passenger in front of me had his seat fully reclined in my lap.

  When my forward companion began to snore so loudly that he nearly drowned out the sound of the jet engine, I admitted defeat, escaping into Dan Brown's latest thriller. After a few chapters, I realized that his plot was more intense than my flight.

  Leaving the plane behind, I made it through customs along with my luggage without any serious problems, which was a surprising relief. I always expected to be held up at length when entering a foreign country and loathed the concentration and necessary seriousness of being interviewed for entry. Clearing through the other side of customs, I entered a crush of people from every nationality, and a collage of smells fermenting in the compact space pounced. With a nose as capable as a coonhound’s, I suffered in the human holding tank while anxiously looking for the sign that would bear my name. Thank goodness I could see over the throng of bodies.

  “There he is,” I blurted out loudly to no one when recognizing the sign meant for me.

  As I pushed through the crowd, I waved at him.

  Making eye contact with me, the man holding the sign quickly nodded. Meeting me, he took my two bags and guided me to the side of the crowd. I was in awe at his skilled maneuvering.

  “Good afternoon. Miss Torgeson, I presume?”

  “Yes,” I exhaled.

  “I am Chow Lai,” he said, presenting me with his business card while bowing slightly.

  He spoke perfect English. He must have gone to school in America.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Lai. Thank you for meeting me,” I replied with my practiced bow, feeling rescued by my young Chinese crowd-warrior.

  He was taller than I expected, and bulkier too. Chow had kind eyes and black hair, and he stood eye to eye with me.

  “I hope that your journey was pleasant, Miss Torgeson.”

  “Let’s just say I'm happy to be here,” I replied with a forced smile, unable to lie about my distressing flight, fatigue, and wrinkled clothes.

  “It is never an easy journey from America,” he replied directly. “If you are ready, would you like to go to the car, Miss Torgeson?”

  “Yes, please. I can follow you, Mr. Lai.”

  When we reached the car in the airport’s loading zone, the man who had been sitting in the driver’s seat exited upon seeing Chow and obediently waited on the curb as a companion to my luggage. Chow held the car door for me, closed it when I was settled, and then carefully loaded my luggage into the trunk. He then handed the man some money, and the nameless placeholder walked away.

  I’ve gotta thank Edwin for helping me find this guide, I reminded myself.

  Chow took his position in the driver’s seat. “Miss Torgeson, we will be driving for approximately one hour to arrive at your hotel. Please tell me if there is anything I can do to make your ride more comfortable.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lai.”

  I asked Chow to explain the sights of Shanghai’s futuristic concrete jungle. As I relaxed in the back seat, brushing through my hair, I passively took in this new, foreign world. First we drove through a section of the city that was modern China, where skyscrapers and other buildings resembled the Western world in so many ways. Then we entered the Bund area, which ran along the bank of the Huangpu River, north of the old walled city of Shanghai. Along the golden mile of the Bund were historic buildings built in the Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque, Neoclassical, and Art Deco architectural styles.

  Before I knew it, we’d arrived at the Bund Garden Hotel with a gentle stop at 200 Hankou Road. I took a deep breath as I looked out my open window. It looked as though we’d turned the clock back a century. Before me, I beheld well-manicured, beautiful gardens with sweet, spicy smells surrounding the front of the vintage hotel.

  I chose this Shanghai hotel because I liked its history and symbolism.

  It was built eighty-five years before, during China's communist-free Republican Era, when Shanghai was the largest cosmopolitan city in the world. It was 1930, the birth of Swing, and the sounds of Duke Ellington penetrated the Shanghai air. Yang Li was one of the progressive Chinese elite that helped modernize Shanghai into the Paris of the East. He built the Bund Hotel in honor of Song Yue, the woman he loved when he was a young man. Tragically, Yang Li was not allowed to marry Song Yue, who was a common peasant. In defiance of his elders, Yang Li saw her in secret, courting her for nine months before they were discovered.

  Song Yue was found one morning, naked on the bank of the Huangpu River, having been decapitated while still alive, and in place of her head lay one perfect, long-stemmed red rose. It was a brutal symbolic message to Yang Li from her killer: to defy one's elders and stray outside your class had deadly consequences. The murderer was never identified. When Yang Li was able, he built the hotel as a memorial to his lost love. He designed the hotel with only nine guest rooms, in honor of the nine months of courtship with Song Yue. Staying at the Bund Hotel was my tribute to the purity of love.

  As Chow opened the car door to release me, I glided through the magnificent neo-Gothic entry, beckoned by its history. Slowly I made my way through the lobby, gazing in awe at the majestic arched window recesses and the magnificent sculpted wooden staircase in the center of the foyer.

  It’s peaceful. I can rest here.

  I watched Chow communicate with the front-desk clerk, speaking in a Wu Chinese dialect.

  He’s handsome, I th
ought, observing Chow.

  He crossed the lobby and then led me up the grand staircase. I slowly climbed the stairs, thinking about the story of the Bund Hotel while unconsciously caressing the curved banister with my long fingers. Reaching the elevator floor, I was reluctant to let go of the smooth masterpiece. We reached my floor and departed the elevator, and then Chow stopped and faced me, gesturing to the door of my room.

  “Miss Torgeson, these Chinese characters are translated into English as ‘Love 9.’ All the room numbers in the Bund Hotel are preceded by the word ‘love.’”

  As I silently absorbed the symbolic meaning, I noticed something in Chow's dark eyes as they met mine, unexpectedly revealing a tender reverence for the hotel’s sad history.

  He unlocked my room and motioned for me to enter first. I moved under the archway entrance, excited to discover Love 9. The space was elongated with a ten-foot ceiling and was bathed in a soothing green color palette.

  Of course—green—the color of the heart chakra. Love…green…heart…Yang Li thought of every symbolic tribute to love.

  My eyes rose effortlessly to the echo archway leading to a balcony with a door flanked on both sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a full wall of glass. I walked over and stepped through the arched door and onto the balcony, which was enough space for two chairs. Just beneath me was a splendid garden with mature plants surrounding a fountain in the middle. The intricate garden had obviously been planted long ago and looked as though it was meticulously maintained. I lingered, admiring it, then realized that my room was quiet.

  Quickly turning, I saw Chow and the bellman patiently waiting for me.

  “I'm sorry. I was admiring the garden,” I blurted out, embarrassed.

  Chow smiled sincerely in reply, “Of course, Miss Torgeson. Would you like your luggage unpacked?”

  “Oh, no thank you, Mr. Lai. I can do that.”