Chapter 2 – Making the Grade
When I finally got back to the pod, as I affectionately called my small apartment, I began the tedious task of grading the final papers. Granted, some of it was pretty amusing; most of the kids used instant thought transcription and they rarely checked for incongruous entries; like the soft porn fantasies that run through a teenaged boy’s brain or the script from an unexpected insta-com conversation. The whole idea creeped me out; having the grid linked straight to my brain, but If you wanted to see inside the mind of today’s youth, you just had to read a term paper. Sometimes it was a place I didn’t want to venture.
Of course, the feds swore that thought transcription was perfectly safe. They never tracked or recorded what was going on in our heads, even when the app was running, or so they professed. Part of me believed it; the grid couldn’t even support internet functions, for Christ’s sake. If it wasn’t on a zip drive the knowledge was pretty well lost. With most of the servers destroyed or offline, even Reggie, who hacked just from a warped sense of nostalgia, couldn’t access most of the net, but he refused to hook directly in to the government mainframe, too.
I left Jake’s paper until last, perhaps a strategic mistake, as I had a hard time concentrating on the other projects, but I was trying to give the regular kids a chance. If Jake’s paper was awesome then all the others would suffer, even though I didn’t grade on a curve. I checked the clock, ten pm. I loaded up Jake’s paper. While my tablet processed the information, I shoved my glasses up on my head and rubbed my eyes. Had I been eight years or so older, I’d have perfect vision, but the grid had really started deteriorating a few years before my eyes. No laser surgery for me, but what did I care? Glasses or not, the future beckoned and I could almost taste my new life, and was I ready for the change.
The file sputtered open, taking much longer than usual, and I cursed the failing grid and code-corrupted technology as the text slowly scrolled open, word by word, finally filling the screen. I took a moment to re-read the title. The word farmer took me back to a time that was foreign to me; when we knew how to grow our own food, when we were surprisingly and comfortingly self-sufficient. Jake’s report echoed my own thoughts. Somehow, we’d become so superior, so content to let others do the hard work. We didn’t need to toil in the ground when we could pay some poor schlep from a third-world country to sling shit over seeds and muck out barn stalls. The government, my government, was more than happy to pass the buck and let the emerging countries provide such tawdry services to us. Eventually, the Chinese government refused access to our quality control agents and cut off the other first world governments, but we had to eat, didn’t we? Farmers and food producers from around the world were romanced and bullied into making the move to lucrative management positions in the Golden Empire. The wily bastards; they had the food market wrapped up before anyone even realized it was lost. Anyone who knew anything about food production disappeared behind the communist curtain, never to be heard from again. Soon, no one outside of Asia could grow so much as a dandelion. We relied on the East for our food, our houseplants - when there was enough power to support such a trivial item-pet food and all things carbon based, sometimes even designing our kids. They were making our paper, flooring and anything flora. Our forests and farms were paved over to make room for progress. Our lust for technology raged and our standards for dining plummeted. Fast food reigned; sure it was “organic” and “low calorie” and, lest I forget, “fat free”. The temperature kept rising, lawns shrivelled, trees were obliterated and people came to the cities in droves, looking for work, food and all the things that made life pleasurable; aka easier. We spiralled out of control and soon couldn’t produce enough energy, green or not, to support our tech addictions and electronic comforts. The government started hording electricity, resorting to revolving brownouts and eventually blackouts, as well as appropriation tactics. The rest, as has been said to the point of redundancy, is history. What really caught my attention were Jake’s references to some emails dug up from the old internet. If they were real, somewhere out there was a group of people, living off the grid, growing their own food and who were completely self-sustained. More interestingly, at least to me, they were generating enough energy to run servers and feed the internet.
”Do you want to come along?” he added in a note at the end of his paper. I could almost feel his expectation. His request sort of took me aback and I felt my throat thicken a little. I’m not sure what it was about him. Maybe he reminded me of myself or maybe it was just the underdog factor, but I liked the kid. There was something in his eagerness and perseverance, the lightness he showed despite the crappy hand he’d been dealt. I realized that I actually wanted to go with him on his crazy quest, just because his hope was contagious. It didn’t matter that it seemed impossible or that the challenges were almost limitless; I wanted to gamble on his belief, in hopes that it might renew my own. But I couldn’t just run off to the Burn Zone. I had responsibilities for Christ’s sake. Didn’t I? Sure, I had the summer off and okay, my lease was up and the landlord wasn’t renewing; something about liquidating his assets, I hadn’t cared enough to pay attention. I repressed a smile. Even my buddies had abandoned me, pulling stints of summer school duty.
In summary, I had no home, no job to go to and time to burn. I also had a fairly healthy appreciation for living, which was a decided “con” on the whether-to-go-or-not list. Everyone knew that the Burn Zone was a wasteland; just endless tracts of vacant nothingness that we’d created with our pursuit of leisure and our marked lack of interest in the environment. Despite the warning signs, all we had done was improve our sunscreen technology and adjusted to warmer temperatures. As the rivers dried up and the vegetation withered, we finally developed the biospheres that protected and recycled our water sources. Without them we wouldn’t have lasted long. But there I was, mulling over leaving the relative safety of the city and venturing into the desert. I had more respect for myself than that. Jake would have to go it alone; assuming that he could even get out of the dome. I had a new life to start.
A shrill alert from my insta-com broke me out of my musings. I pressed my palm, opening the line; “Hello?”
“Dax? Dax…they’re…”
“Jake? “ I waited a few seconds for him to respond, but could only hear muffled noises on the other end of the line. “Jake, are you there?” Another moment passed as I clutched hopelessly at my wrist, the skin mounted speaker pressed against my ear.
“Yeah, I’m here, they’re after me…can you meet me at 4gig’s?”
“Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m on foot, heading for the tunnels. I think I can lose them there.” The kid sounded winded and definitely scared.
“Can you make it to the bunker? Don’t go to his house,” I cautioned. I told myself that not much could happen as long as he still had his government tracker but his panic was contagious.
“That’s where I’m headed … see you there.” The communicator went dead. Who the hell was after him? It didn’t make any sense. I mean, what could a kid of eighteen know about anything? All these questions ran through my mind as I grabbed a jacket, all the cash I had and a little black market protection. Guns were a rarity, and illegal for the most part, but my Ruger had been passed down through the men in my family and it was my only prize possession, the one thing that my ex-wife didn’t get her hands on. The weight of the weapon in the waist band of my pants gave me some comfort as I headed out into the night, on what seemed like a fool’s mission.
There was no point catching a transport if I meant to keep under the radar. They all had CCTV, powered by some sort of liquid metal batteries; technology the government horded and deemed classified. I set out on foot slinking through the darkened streets, listening for the telltale sounds of drug addicts who were slowly shaking off their stupor and creeping out of fetid dens once the sun had set. I picked up my pace, driven by an inexplicable urgency. I’d only run a few blocks and was
already sweating and gasping for breath. I’d gotten soft. It was easy to do; everything came so easily and with food designed to give you the optimum amount of calories and nutrients for a sedentary life, there was no point in exercising. Everyone looked fairly fit, or at least slim. Of course, there were still some people suffering from glandular problems, but they were few and far between. Genetic testing had developed to a point where only optimal gene pairings were pursued. The thought brought on bad memories of my marriage and the anger helped me push through the stitch in my side and carried me over the smooth streets edging me ever closer to Reggie’s hide away. I stopped about four blocks away. I wiped at the sweat coursing down my face and tried to regulate my breathing. It galled me to know that I’d fallen into a conspiracy theory so easily. Here I was running towards some unknown threat, racing to meet an SK who was probably having a good laugh at my expense. No matter how crazy it sounded, I couldn’t get over the feeling that this was real and that my comfortable, if pathetic, existence was changing; very likely for the worse.
The hum of a transport in the distance had me scuttling in to the shadows of an alley. I could hear breathing, but the rapid intake of air was the familiar sound of someone high on Big O or “O” as it was more commonly know. It was the latest designer drug. You probably get the gist…it mimics an extended mind-blowing orgasm, who could argue with it? I don’t have the time or cash to try it, but it’s a favourite topic in the staff room. When it was good…well it was good, but when it was bad…at least you went with a smile on your face. O claimed more lives every year than any other cause, man made or natural and left thousands of kids parentless. I stayed away. At least I didn’t have to worry about any threat from who ever was hiding in the middle of the alley. They’d be out of commission for a least a couple of hours. I couldn’t hear the transport anymore so I stepped back out on to the street, keeping to the shadows, as best I could. Reggie’s office, if you could call it that, was tucked down the next alley, three blocks to the right. Usually the entrance was obscured by recycling bins, but even at a distance I could see light dimly shining through the partly opened door. I pulled the gun out of my waist band, glad that I hadn’t lost it while I ran. I took off the safety and tried to hold it like I’d seen in the cop shows. I reminded myself that I actually knew how to fire the thing, and could hit a target, given the right circumstances. I made my way down the alley with caution and eased through the doorway, sneaking down towards the flickering light in Reggie’s inner sanctum. Half way down the hall, my foot slid on some debris. As I tried to regain my balance, the sound of whatever had tripped me skittered noisily down the narrow passage. I froze, willing my heart still, as I waited for some sort of outcry. None came and I eventually continued down the hall, sliding my feet along the floor to avoid tripping again.
My heart beat like a trip hammer as I peaked out of the hall in to the chaos of the room. Paper and computer parts were strewn everywhere, and not in the jolly haphazard way I was used to seeing. The source of the booby trap in the hall became evident in the shattered jar that once held Reggie’s treasured marble and alley collection. They almost meant more to him than his computer parts. His desk was flipped over and I realized that the flickering light came from a fire burning in one corner, contained by an overturned metal filing cabinet. A quick scan of the room told me the intruders were gone and I tucked the gun back in to the waist band of my pants. Whatever luck I had been coasting on hadn’t extended to 4Gig; I could see a shoe sticking out from behind the desk and recognized the scarred leatherette of Reggie’s brogues. Tipping the desk upright, I could see that he was breathing, but his body seemed to be lying at an unnatural angle.
“Reggie?” I said gently, resting my hand on his chest. He opened his eyes a crack and his lips moved, but no sound came out. My fear kicked in to overdrive. He was in bad shape; blood seeped out behind his head and his eyes had the unfocussed look of a new born baby. “Reg, are you okay? Come on, man, talk to me.” I shook him gently but stopped when his head bobbled around like a rag doll.
“Dax,” he croaked and I had to lean in closer to catch what he was saying “The kid…” Slowly his hand rose, his finger pointing to the wall.
“Jake? Do you mean Jake, Reg?” He blinked, which I took as a yes, and he tried to point to the wall again. “He got away?” Another blink. “Who was it? Do you know?” He tried to shake his head, the effort obviously painful.
“Gov…” he whispered.
“The government did this?” I asked incredulously. He shrugged.
“Triad?” The effort set him to coughing and I could see pink foam spilling over his lips followed by a gush of dark red. I might be a history teacher but I’d seen enough medical shows to recognize arterial blood.
“The Chinese? It could have been either?” I knew his pet conspiracies and wasn’t sure whether to believe him, who knew what the blow to his head had done.
He gripped my arm, hard. I was surprised at his strength, “Jake…paper…” he gurgled, and knocked his hand against my arm and he raised his other hand for a third time, pointing toward the wall.
“Jake went out the folly. I get it. Do you know where he went?” Before he could answer the last vestiges of light left his eyes and his hand dropped to the floor, hitting hard. Something clattered across the linoleum, stopping close to the filing cabinet. I crawled over and found a memory stick coated in Reg’s blood. I tucked it in to my pocket and turned back to my friend, head puzzling over his final words. I couldn’t make any sense of what he was saying, but I knew the memory stick was important. I looked down at Reg; his empty eyes stared back at me.
I couldn’t stand the blank expression on his face and closed his eyelids to shut out the vacant death stare. Digging around in the mess, I found a blanket and covered his body, bent my head and said a prayer to a God that I could, at best, only hope in. I needed something to read the memory stick. It had to be important if he’d held on to it. I looked back at the wall that Reg has so insistently pointed to. He’d shown it to me years ago, after he’d known me for around a decade or so. It was stupidly simple. He’d painted a canvas sheet to match the cement wall; the fabric almost perfectly replicating the texture of the concrete, behind the façade was a cramped passage that led to an adjacent basement. You’d be outside and safe on a whole different city block in less than five minutes. My flight instinct, the real kind, was screaming at me, but I was shaken by Reggie’s death and couldn’t form a plan of action. The light in the bunker seemed to dim and I looked back at the fire, wondering if I should try to put it out, but I could see the flames guttering; soon I’d be in darkness as the block suffered through a rolling blackout. I grabbed a light stick and snapped the seal blending the chemicals together, my mind slowly turning over my options. I had to find out if Jake was okay. I should never have encouraged him and now Reg was dead and the kid was God only knows where. The dim glow of the light stick brightened as the chemical reaction kicked in and I knew what I had to do. I had to find Jake and the only clue I had was the memory stick and maybe something in the folly, if Jake had left anything behind. I briefly considered going to the cops, but nixed the idea immediately. They were all hard wired into the grid and didn’t have a lot of experience outside of logging overdose cases and chasing drug dealers. Reggie had a stash of black market batteries, which I threw into his back pack, along with a PDA. Maybe I could read the memory stick on that if I could find an adapter, but if not, I’d have to go home to get my tablet. I searched for an adaptor but only came across a couple portable solar panels, which I threw in to the backpack, as well. As I looked around for anything else of use I heard a muttered oath from the hall and heard the glass marbles clattering across the floor. I only had a second to throw myself behind the folly and secure the tarp, loot in hand. I debated hanging around to try and figure out who was looking for Reg, but fear got the better of me and I crawled as quietly as possible down the narrow passage, light stick guarded carefully, lest it give me aw
ay.
I paused once I was able to stand and took a breath, safely ensconced in the basement of the adjacent building. It only took a few moments to lower a similar canvas over the exit hole and replace the few boxes, put in front for extra camouflage. I could hear noises coming from Reg’s office, but they were muted. I took stock of my surroundings, carefully checking the corners to see if I could find any trace of Jake. There was nothing to indicate that he’d passed through, but the basement was clean, so there was no chance of tread marks in dust or shattered cob webs. At the exit, I took a few deep breaths, before slowing inching the door open, hoping that no one was lurking in the alley. At the end of the lane, I could see the street lights flickering, as the black out passed and power was restored. I heard the hum of the fluorescent basement lights as they came to life. Not wanting to be seen, I stepped into the unlit alley and quietly closed the door behind me. As the latch caught, I cursed myself for not being smart enough to rig the door. I didn’t know if I’d need to get back in to Reggie’s and the back entry would be the safest way. I jiggled the handle, but it was locked and as I stepped back I tripped over something in the middle of the alley. Landing with a grunt, I reached out to find the cause. My hand wrapped around what felt like a shoe, but I had to retrieve my light stick before I could identify it. It was a Converse runner, a very familiar Converse runner and I felt my stomach pitch down to my toes. Had someone grabbed Jake? Why else would his shoe be here? I should have listened to him and to Reg, but I hadn’t. Even knowing how screwed up the whole system was I couldn’t bring myself to believe the whole conspiracy thing. I rose slowly, crushing the shoe in my hand, hoping that some sort of ESP would kick in, but I couldn’t feel anything but sinking dread. I looked both ways down the darkened alley, hoping for I don’t know what. There was no Jake, of that I was certain. I started to put Jake’s shoe in the backpack I’d filched from Reg’s as I turned towards home. I had to find out what was on that memory stick.
Last Farmer: Last Farmer Series - Book 1 Page 2
