by IMAN K. F.
The
Martian
Scarecrow
By Iman K.F.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by IMAN K.F.
All rights reserved. No part of this book can be duplicated in any form without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in book reviews. For more information email all inquiries to:
[email protected]
For all the dreamers in pursuit of their goals.
Description
DESPERATELY SEARCHING FOR A BETTER LIFE…
Despite amazing technological advancements, life in the 2050’s hasn’t become any easier. Rustin struggles to find his calling amidst poverty, geo-political tensions and a world where one must compete for even the most basic jobs against both fellow humans and A.I. machines. All he knows for sure is that there’s a better life out there, and he’s willing to leave home to find it. Only, this means trusting a cryptic group of smugglers, and raising more money than he’s ever owned—by any means necessary. Arrest and fear of deportation aren’t his only concerns. A guilty conscience feels like an even greater threat.
Oddly enough, Rustin’s journey eventually lands him a bizarre job on Mars, the possible future home to all humankind. He never would’ve imagined he’d end up in such a peculiar role—a Scarecrow—on another planet, the very same job he’d always thought of as useless growing up on his parents’ farm. All he has to do is survive the job for two years. Not an easy task, considering his troubled past, and all the challenges a foreign planet decides to throw his way. But if Rustin can finish his term, his employer, Xsociety, has promised to fund his Brain-Link, the enhancement which will take him one step closer to the life he’s always envisioned.
Who would’ve thought that here, on a foreign planet, doing a job usually taken by a pole and a bundle of straw, Rustin would find himself, and something even more valuable: a purpose.
The Martian Scarecrow is a compelling coming-of-age sci-fi book, full of emotion, strife, and—most important of all—heart.
…HE FINDS SOMETHING FAR MORE UNUSUAL, AND WITH IT A PURPOSE.
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
In December 2017 I was having a lovely time with my brilliant wife, Maryam, on our vacation in Southeast Asia. Although the weather was perfectly hot for a beach destination, I couldn’t enjoy it fully since I had to cover myself, to avoid further damage to my sunburnt skin, from the earlier days when I had spent hours under the sun listening to audiobooks. We were having breakfast at a popular coffee shop just steps away from the beautiful sandy beach. I had my eyes on Maryam’s food. I usually look forward to having some of her leftovers, as she barely ever finishes her food. That day, during our meal, I was patiently waiting for the perfect moment—not to have her leftovers, but to actually share something far more important with her. I looked at her and said, “Babe, as you know I have been struggling lately with a lack of self-satisfaction, and I want to make a difference. I want 2018 to be a turning point. I’ve finally decided to start my Scarecrow story.”
For the ones who don’t know, I had written a one-page short story with the title “Scarecrow” about twenty years ago, when I had just started high school. I always wanted to expand this story and write a book about it one day. It seemed after all these years, finally, the time had come.
Maryam immediately encouraged me after hearing this news. She is the light of my life, and has put up with me throughout the years, allowing me to explore the things I like. I am so fortunate to have her support. I can’t thank her enough for everything she has done.
Writing this book was the start of my journey towards finding my sense of creativity again. It took me about six months to write the book part-time, while I was conducting my Engineering job full-time. I wrote whenever and wherever possible. I worked on it during late nights, early mornings, at home or at coffee shops, during my train commute and air travel. I was determined, and I owed it to myself to make this happen.
I want to dedicate this book to all the dreamers that are in pursuit of their goals. The most valuable takeaway for me from this experience is that: we need to do something about our dreams, and not just think about them endlessly. Regardless of the actual outcome of the efforts, gaining that sense of self-satisfaction is priceless.
This book was twenty years in the making, and it wouldn’t have been possible without the influence of some other key people. I want to specially thank Mr. Elon Musk from the bottom of my heart. His visionary ideas really made it possible for me to put the pieces of my story together. Also, his tremendous amount of effort towards his goals and the betterment of our society has been very inspiring. In addition I’d like to express my sincere gratitude to Mr. Mark Manson for his amazing book “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.” I will never forget his “do something” principle; it encouraged me during the time I needed it most. I also have to also mention Mr. Grant Cardone. His advice of setting goals very high, and also pursuing them with massive amounts of action, played an important role in helping m complete this book, and go beyond to pursue my other goals. Last but not least, I would like to thank Mr. Nicholas Browning for his exceptional edits and all-around help.
To all the readers: don’t give up. We owe it to ourselves. Do something. I hope we all get to find our turning points.
If you enjoy this book, please spread the word. Your online reviews will also be a big help. Thank you very much for taking the time to join Rustin and me on this journey.
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Description
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
CHAPTER 1
“Rustin!”
Someone calling me by my actual name? I thought I’d told pretty much everyone to call me Rusty. I find it more suiting as my skin is pretty rusty looking these days. Sometimes I feel like my parents somehow knew what was going to happen to me—that’s why they gave me a name that sounds like ‘rusting’. Still, I actually like my name, and was so eager for everyone to say it correctly. I would tell them, “It’s pronounced ‘Russ-teen,’” which in my mother tongue means genuine. But is anything about me truly genuine?
There it is again, “Rustin can you hear me?”
I open my eyes, disoriented. How long had I been asleep? I used to be such a light sleeper, but ever since they prescribed all that medication it had become so much harder to wake up. I squint in the bright light flooding through the windows behind me, and wait for my brain to start functioning properly.
She calls my name again: “Rustin, are you awake? You have a visitor.” She’s leaning over me, smiling softly. I take in blue eyes and black hair framing a pale face, from what I see under her full face mask.
I don’t recognize her initially. Looking at her digital badge reminds me—Amy, who I met briefly yesterday. She mentioned she had just arrived here.
“Who?” I ask in a raspy voice.
“Lucas, the journalist you were going to see today. The guy interested in your story, remember?” she asks. She has one of those patient voices, someone who’s spent a lot of time dealing with the heavily medicated.
Her voice is muffled behind her protective mask, and it takes me a moment to piece together her words. Perhaps the built-in microphone in
her mask is not working properly. Or maybe my hearing is just getting worse.
I shake my head, clearing the last fogs of sleep. “Right. Okay, let him in please.”
“Also, a reminder: we have arranged for the specialist later this evening. If you change your mind about the arrangement you need to let us know,” Amy says as she leaves the room, the door sliding closed behind her.
I sit up in bed, rubbing at my eyes with my bumpy fingers, and run a hand through my hair, waiting. My room is needlessly spacious, with white-washed walls and no furniture besides a chair at the foot of the bed for my visitors. At least the large windows allow for a good view outside.
I can’t believe it, but the digital clock on the wall says it’s almost 3:30PM. I must’ve passed out for a few hours after my early lunch. I don’t even remember the drones cleaning up and taking my plates away.
A few minutes later, a guy almost as tall as the door frame enters my room.
“You must be Lucas,” I say.
He takes a seat on the chair beside my bed. Just like everyone else, he’s wearing the white protective coverall with the transparent head mask. I guess him probably in his late twenties or early thirties. His hair is short and thick, with a layer of scruff covering his boney face.
“Yes, I’m Lucas. Amy informed me yesterday that you agreed to this meeting. I'm hoping that you’re still willing to share your story,” he says.
“Absolutely, but remind me which company you work for again?” I place a pillow behind my back to get more comfortable—this is probably going to take a few hours.
Lucas pulls a tiny recorder from his coverall pocket. “I work for the Verge journal, and I gotta say, I think a lot of people will want to hear your story.”
“Well let’s get to it then. I have lots to talk about. Where should I start?”
“The beginning’s usually a good place to start,” he says, smiling. “Mind giving me some background about your past?”
“Sure.” I take a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare for the journey we’re about to take, and then jump in. “I was born in division six of MEU in 2032. Do you know where MEU was?”
“Remind me,” Lucas said, watching me with bleary dark brown eyes.
“Back in 2028, Middle Eastern countries decided to unite in order to put a stop to the never-ending chaos in their war-torn homes, and hoped to consolidate political power—that’s where they got the name: MEU—Middle East Union. The Union didn’t last long, though. Too many conflicting ideals, religious differences, and even though they managed to unite for a bit, the conflict re-emerging was inevitable. When I was about eight, the union fell apart and every division turned to smaller divisions and eventually became separate countries again. Somehow we ended up with more countries than prior to the Union, and hence, more chaos. Division six became New Persia, inspired from the Persian Empire, even if it shared none of the qualities aside from the name. New Persia was an extremely poor country. My parents owned a small farm.”
I faintly smile as a memory comes to me, a smile tinged with sadness. “When I was a kid I used to run around chasing the crows, making sure they didn’t eat our crops—we had a scarecrow too, but it was pretty useless. I used to daydream a lot on that farm, lie amongst the crops, stare at the sky and dream of flying like a bird. Fly wherever I wanted—go on a quest to find a better place.”
“What sort of quest?” Lucas asks.
“Growing up in poverty and chaos wasn’t easy. It felt so hopeless, the future even bleaker than the present. I wanted more in life. At times I got carried away with my daydreams, almost lived in my fantasy worlds—a nice break from reality.” My voice trails off, musing. “I think being able to dream is one of the greatest gifts to humanity. Daydreams are like a private session with ourselves, a place to exercise our creativity, have a virtual taste of our deepest desires and reveal our innermost hopes.” I chuckle, shake my head. “Sorry, I’ve digressed a bit, but I guess you got the point.”
He nods, fiddles with his recorder.
I’m thirsty from talking, but with my fingers like this it's hard for me to hold a bottle. Thankfully they’d placed a water container with a long straw within my reach. I stretch out my neck, close my lips around the straw and take a sip before continuing.
“When I entered my teens, like most teenagers, I wasn’t the most obedient son. My parents hoped that one day I would take over the farm. I helped with the work from time to time, but truthfully didn’t have much interest in it. I wasn’t planning to stick around for long; there just wasn’t a future for me in New Persia. Even if I was good enough to get into local colleges, there was no guarantee that I could get a decent job. Countless well-educated people in New Persia were either unemployed or simply continuing their parents’ profession; they just didn’t have any other choice. I’d heard about better opportunities in western countries, but since the internet and social media were so heavily filtered at that time, most of the info I had was only based on word of mouth. The government was concerned that freedom would lead to more awareness, which would then turn the citizens against them. So in turn, that fear led them to enforce more and more limitations on our rights. However, as history has shown, these methods only work for so long, and eventually citizens will rise against deceiving regimes.”
I pause, scratch at my bottom lip with a knobby finger. “But you know, not all movements result in the betterment of society, and in fact, many have failed. The movements that don’t have a clear purpose, common goals and strong leadership tend to fail, or result in even more chaos than before.”
Lucas looks like he wants to say something, so I stop for a moment.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I really need to go to bathroom. Is that okay?” he asks.
I nod my head and he leaves the room in a hurry.
I turn to look through the window, marveling at the stunning red ground. At the same time, I really miss the beautiful, lively green grass fields, and in winter, peaceful white snow as far as the eye can see. I close my eyes and daydream about my parents’ farm. Sometimes, if I concentrate hard enough I can still smell the crops, feel them through my fingers as I run, hear my parents working away while urged on by the singing birds. I go over the memories again and again, trying to remember all the small details. The sliding door opens, snapping me out of my dreams as Lucas returns.
He takes his seat and turns on his recorder again. “Shall we continue?”
“Sure, but why are you using a recorder? Don’t you have Brain-Link?” I ask.
“Yeah, but I like to have a backup. Your story is too important to risk it. Plus, you can never quite replace the feeling of old school technology,” he responds while affectionately flicking the tiny metallic recorder.
I can’t help but smile, the first time in a while. It’s been a long time since I got any true attention. It feels nice inside, but hurts my cheeks as it stretches the bumps on my skin.
“Which model do you have?” I ask, a subtle smile still on my face, despite the pain.
“I have Brain-Link EM03. Got the upgrade last year,” Lucas says.
“Nice, I wish I could afford it. In fact it was one of the motivators for me to take this job. It’s so fascinating to see human brain biological intelligence merge with digital intelligence. How long ago did you have it implanted? Is it overwhelming?” I find the questions just pouring out, unable to quell them in my eagerness.
“Let’s see... well, it was about seven years ago when the government introduced their loan program to make Brain-Link more affordable for U.S. citizens. Prior to that, the upfront cost was so high that only the most affluent people could really afford the smart chip. Once the government realized that Brain-Link was the most practical solution to keep humans from losing even more jobs to artificial intelligence, they had to find a way to make it more easily accessible for the average citizen. I had mine put in about five years ago, started out with less complex chips, and went through tr
aining programs on how to utilize them. It was pretty difficult at first, but after about a year I got the hang of it. The more you practice, the more you can benefit. After another year I upgraded my chip with a model EM02, and last year I finally got the EM03. It's crazy how much knowledge and memory I have access to, but you know, nowadays even three-year-old toddlers can install the less complex chips. Can you believe it?” He pauses for a moment, shakes his head in disbelief, then goes on. “But I guess they have to start early if they want to survive, considering how hard it is to get worthy jobs without Brain-Link.”
He chuckles, leans back and puts his hands behind his head. Even such a normal posture looks strange through all that protective gear. “You know, when you think about it, it’s interesting how we’ve changed from being scared of the chips to paying considerable amounts of money to have them. Humans’ desire to survive pushes us to explore extreme avenues, but far too often the advancements are reactive rather than proactive. My parents told me that talks on such chips started back in 2017. Can you imagine, how far ahead we would have been if we were focused more seriously on this technology then? I hope one day, we all become more proactive. Less reactive.”
What would my life have been like if I had a chance to go through this technological enhancement? My mind creates a lovely picture of the future, where I have a fulfilling job and am living peacefully with the love of my life and our beautiful kids. The dream brings unwanted tears to my eyes. It’s too late now.
Lucas must’ve noticed my wet eyes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have gone on about Brain-link so much. I know you never had a chance to try it, but I didn’t know it meant so much to you. It was rude of me.”
Embarrassed, I look away to avoid eye contact, and clear my throat. Taking a deep breath, I use the sleeve on my elbows to dry my eyes. Then I look straight ahead again, still not looking at Lucas. “No, it wasn’t your fault. Shall we continue?”
