2047: Hell In A Handbasket

by D. Frank Green

  "Yeah, keep her out of the laser control room or you're in trouble," said Sarah.

  George just shook his head in mock horror at his daughter's suggestion but both understood the reality of their weapons systems. Whoever controlled them, controlled society. It was a sharp sword over all their heads and one that could be used on a whim.

  "But what's next? Is the family still going north?" asked Sarah.

  "There's nothing left for us here. You take our command and control systems and establish the company up there. Your mother and I will follow in the second wave. We can run North America from there and I suspect many of the major corporations will follow once we lead."

  "I've also been considering our next step but I'm not sure it's feasible," said George.

  "Share?" asked Sarah.

  George spent five minutes outlining his thinking.

  Sarah listened carefully absorbing the thoughts and pushing her father to clarify and expand his thoughts. "I don't think you're taking it far enough," she said. "Off the top of my head, here's another option."

  George listened carefully for a few minutes, nodding as she spoke. He met her eyes. Nodded. "We have to think about this more before we act. I want to consider what you've said and we'll thrash it over on Thursday again."

  "OK, next Thursday. Not sure about how the details will work out but I'm willing to run with it, we sure as hell need something," she said. "I'll think of implementation issues. You got us this far but I think we can go further. It's just about how far we want to go." She paused. Smiled. "Now. How about a second sandwich. Momma will never know."

  George groaned but passed his plate.

  08/11/2047 12:00

  The lights in the White House press room were blinding. Technicians connected a forest of microphones and instant upload systems. The background chatter of reporters giving live updates to their audiences filled the room with a noisy energy. While they waited, the reporters traded stories to give themselves new content to feed the publicity maw and hold viewers. The more salacious a rumor, the better for ratings so embellishment was stock in trade.

  Just before the six o'clock news deadline, Press Secretary Rich Hutchins introduced President Gwinnett to a full room for what the press had been told was an important policy announcement about the invasion and the U.S. response.

  Gwinnett didn't read from his prepared statement, instead he faced the cameras looked directly into the lens. Using brief sentences, he summarized what had happened over the past few days, what QuellCorp had done, what he had done with the satellite systems, and the reaction of the rest of the world to the sudden dominance of the United States to worldwide power and control.

  Gwinnett didn't wave his hands, he locked them onto the podium.

  "To ensure this successful integration, I've decided the single best thing I could do for the American people is to exercise more of the powers Congress has given me under the two-year martial law legislation."

  The room went silent. The constant murmuring to vid broadcasts stopped and everyone in the room, including Atkinson, Hagin and all senior staff standing in the wings paid full attention. Nobody knew Gwinnett would veer from his script with this announcement.

  "I am ordering the end of this session of Congress. It will resume when the situation here is more stable. I intend to put this country back on track and everybody knows the house is dysfunctional and hasn't worked for years. We need strong leadership to move forward and the House isn't providing this.

  I will govern using my martial law powers. I expect state houses to deal with local matters and implement national directives.

  I will also convene a group to redesign our government and make it into a modern institution.

  But for now, I will exercise the powers the American people gave me to get this country back and working again. And, I'm asking for your patience as we take these drastic but necessary steps. Are there questions?"

  Gwinnett understood he was taking a risk asking for questions but thought if he didn't answer them, there'd be blood on the streets by nightfall. And his lasers would be kept very busy.

  "Mr. President, do you understand, Sir, this makes you the first American dictator?"

  Confronting this head-on Gwinnett replied, "Thanks for that question and allow me to respond as clearly as I can to reassure all y'all I mean this in the best way possible. Answer this for me. When my first 30-day martial law period was up, did I voluntarily give that up to Congress as the bill stated? The record shows I did. Did I promise to solve the water, food and fuel problems? The events of today show there's a solution in front of us for the taking. Did I promise to end the constant warfare and get our troops home safely? They're on their way as quickly as we can fly them home to their families. Did I activate a worldwide laser system that will protect this great country? I did. I suggest to you this wasn't too shabby for thirty days work."

  In spite of themselves the reporters chuckled and this too went out to the nation. Instant polls showed Gwinnett's popularity skyrocketing. The support for him to continue as President under martial law was overwhelming and would brook no opposition.

  "Does this make me a dictator? Well, officially I'm President operating under martial law and I have another 23 months left in my term. Congress gave me this power and I'm doing what the people want done. I'm not expecting everyone to agree with me or approve of this but..."

  "Gun! Gun!"

  Gwinnett stopped as he saw the reporters' attention swivel to his left and the screaming Secret Service agent. Gwinnett saw Jamal Simpson pointing to the crowd while screaming and running towards him. Every agent pulled his gun and turned towards the reporters.

  Stunned, Gwinnett didn't moved when Simpson reached him.

  He felt the larger, stronger agent's arm pick him off the ground and he expected to be carried off the stage. Instead his feet were kicked in a classic karate move turning him parallel with the stage. Simpson dropped him and Gwinnett landed hard on the platform, his arms and legs uncoordinated and askew. Gwinnett recognized the attack, had done it himself countless times in arm-to-arm combat practice but with the yelling and confusion in the room, he didn't know what was happening. He struggled to make sense of it as his training took over and he began to roll away to clear himself and then stand back up to deal with whatever problem was in the room.

  He heard Simpson yell "Libertas" but nothing else as Simpson put two shots right behind his ear.

  12/11/2047 09:25

  "President Campbell, General Stillwater here, I'm sorry to intrude on your inaugural morning with this call, Sir. But you need to know this. QuellCorp has locked us out of our AILSA laser defense systems. It seems..."

  Yes, Sir, I am certain it's QuellCorp and yes, we're securely locked out. Our tech staff can't access the command codes, and the security software has been changed so none of our passwords work. And yes, Sir, we have all our teams on this and will get it fixed as soon as possible.

  No, Sir, QuellCorp is not responding to phone calls. Before you ask, we used a backup system to send a drone to their new northern base and the drone was destroyed. The backup software was then deleted. We received a warning no flyovers were allowed and any attempts to reclaim command by stealth or by force would result in retaliation. QuellCorp controls all of our computers, Sir.

  And Sir, Sarah Gwinnett phoned me personally and said she, her mother and all QuellCorp staff are currently moving north into the Canadian territory they've occupied. They are leaving the United States and allowing us to run our own country. But they are retaining control of the lasers and will welcome trade negotiations for water, grain and energy. She said to tell you she'll be available when you are ready to negotiate."

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  12/11/2047 09:25

  Neither heard Sarah's command from just north of the former border.

  "Laser command, prepare for phase two."

  This was the phase Sarah and her father had agonized over
for the past two weeks. In Sarah's opinion, it was necessary for an effective future. George disagreed. He said it was a step too far, and would brand her forever in the history books.

  "Until history is rewritten," she had replied getting in the last word only a few days ago. But that seemed like a lifetime, she thought. She blinked, then wiped her eyes and forced her attention back to her comm link.

  "Execute."

  And with this command, Sarah set herself on an irrevocable course.

  Lasers flickered several times a second, killing all U.S. government leadership at federal and state levels. They also targeted the command structure of the U.S. military, past and present. All remaining hardware, both airborne and ground, was reduced to scrap metal. It would take longer than the hour it took to reduce Canada to subservient status but the result would be the same. When Sarah finished, there'd be no semblance of a government or military.

  The lasers were programmed to move around the world, country by country, doing the same thing.

  Individuals, and communities would start over and there was only one system left functioning to meet their needs.

  QuellCorp.

  Author Notes

  Somewhere out in Lake Ontario, off the city of Kingston, Ontario, Canada (or in Central Florida) depending on the time of year.

  Fall 2016

  It's very rewarding to write something and have you reach the end. You didn't toss it into the garbage (literally or on your computer) but got here.

  This is the first book in a projected series called Future Forward.

  The next book in the series is titled Flee Or Kill and it's set another 100 years in the future.

  The third is the end game telling the story about what really happens to humanity.

  Let me give you the first scene in Flee or Kill to give you some sense of one possible future. It follows this page.

  I'd welcome your thoughts on 2047. You can contact me on my website at DFrankGreen.com

  You can also subscribe there for updates, stories, weekly tech developments I find interesting and the weekly podcasts.

  Click here to subscribe.

  (https://dfrankgreen.com/subscribe-updates/)

  D. Frank

  Questions? Comments?

  Help make the next edition of this book even better. If I made spelling mistakes or there are things that are missing or could be explained better, do let me know.

  You can contact me through my website at

  https://dfrankgreen.com/contact-dfrank/

  Flee or Kill Chapter 1

  13/05/2167 15:00:00

  It was the third day of the run and the runner had set a distance record and had not been seen, much less shot, by the Chase team. Drones broadcast across the Corporate nets, thousands of people watched his every move, tracked his biometrics, and placed bets on all possible aspects of his success or failure.

  At their regular table in the Techno-Warrior, their favorite bar, Jake Connon and his four best friends sat surrounded by multiple wall screens showing the chase, but paid more attention to their scrolling personal info feeds, pop-up table holographic displays and beer. As usual, no matter the time, tables overflowed with beer and food baskets. People filled the dance floor, a few closer than allowed by current regulation. Music screamed from multiple speakers and the base beat vibration threatened to overwhelm all other sensations. Screens covered the walls and multiple channels pulsated for attention creating a visual and auditory overload. In short, it was crowded, noisy and overflowing with young people. It was perfect.

  "Oh crap. The word is Jacobs is springing an advanced server code test on us first thing Monday morning," messaged Jake directly into his subvocal voice feed, "Smithy says he found a draft in his garbage files."

  "Garbage picker," posted Kevin.

  "Well, somebody has to clean up," replied Devon. "It's the only way he'll pass anyway. Stupid fokker."

  Jake shook his head. "Jacobs probably planted it there for him to find. But we won't have trouble with it anyway so relax." He looked at Devon, he'd changed his hair color again, and knew this new color - bleached blonde - wasn't going to make him any more successful with the women. Devon saw him looking, raised a questioning eyebrow and Jake only shrugged. He's a fokker for such a smart guy thought Jake.

  Jake's channeled the runner's biometric data in his eye feed. The runner's blood-glucose graph had turned and was now headed sharply downwards. Jake decided the program would end in the next half hour when total exhaustion set in. "Half hour to end. He loses. Fokked. One beer." he said.

  "I'll take that, half hour plus, one beer matched," said John.

  "Ho, check the odds on him making it all the way," said James. Some of the wall screens showed betting odds; they were mostly ignored as the boys could call them to their personal eye feeds with a few subvocal commands.

  The overhead drone views tightened to show a former candidate for the Olympic games. Drenched and covered in mud from the incessant rain, his clothes ripped and body bloodied from the ever-present thorn bushes and black flies, he pumped across the rolling hills.

  "Speed graph is steady though," said Kevin more intent on getting the other two to argue than bet himself.

  "Well, take the bet then, I can drink more than one beer," replied Jake smiling, raising his hands and waving Kevin forward with his fingers. "C'mon."

  "Done. Hope your credits are good today." Kevin didn't hesitate. He'd started drinking an hour before the others and didn't need the encouragement. He also hadn't checked the biometrics.

  "I'll give you that he's still running well but the biometrics never lie," said Jake.

  Half the screens around the room showed the view from the personal eye feed of the runner. Rolling hills of short grasses covered in the purples and blues of fall blooming asters and golden yellows of goldenrods bounced along with his runner's cadence - in high contrast to the techno-color pulsating walls of the bar.

  "Can you hear what he's saying?" asked Kevin.

  "Yeah, he's repeating something over and over. It's "one more step, one more step," said James.

  "Did you hear somebody say something?" asked Kevin. "I didn't think this one could talk anymore, I thought he had his head stuck so far up his console he'd forgotten how to speak."

  "Nice. I submitted my senior thesis yesterday though," said James. "Kevin - how's yours coming along? You get that last module to track and play nicely yet? And what's the date? Mine's in two weeks early. Want to put a beer on it that you'll need an extension?"

  What the others didn't know yet was I beat him by two days Jake thought. Should I tell them? Nah, let him enjoy his moment. They'll figure it out sooner or later. Jake finished the last half of his beer without stopping, plunked the glass down on the table top, "I'm thirsty and you boys are keeping me topped up tonight."

  "Glucose level says he isn't reaching the safe zone so do you think he'll win the vote?" said Devon. "Look at his run, he's getting a bit wobbly, slowing down. The Chase team should be on him any minute now"

  "Speak of the Captain and his team, catch this action," said Jake flicking his finger to the screen in front of him and sending it to the other table top screens.

  The runner was not permitted downloads so he didn't see the addition of the Captain's feeds to the prime social nets and the team's feeds to secondary channels for those who followed individual troopers. The Captain's eye feed delivered long-distance visuals of the runner moving across the flower-filled meadow while his ear feeds provided sound coverage. Both were mixed into the programming and available for downloading. Viewers saw the Chase team getting closer and closer and now everybody except the runner understood the end was near.

  "Look at the betting odds for his biometric levels when he takes the first shot," said James.

  "I don't want any of that. This sucker is going to crash when he gets hit," said Kevin.

  Jake pulled up the runner's personal history and press releases, saw the Secretary standing beside him i
n one picture, arms draped around each other's shoulders. He thought about this for a second. The Secretary is running an old friend. If he's angry enough to run him, he's going to take him out and do it slowly he decided.

  "A beer says the runner takes three shots or more before he stays down." said Jake.

  "Done."

  Powered by beer, the conversation flowed smoothly.

  "He's slowing," said Jake.

  "Shit, it's only been a few minutes since we made the bet. He won't last," said John.

  "Here it comes. Number one," said Jake.

  The central big-screen view switched to the Captain's personal view feeds through the gunsights and watched his heads-up brain-chip display the weapon systems as he settled in for a shot. A drone settled in behind him to frame the Captain and the runner.

  The bar went dead quiet. Jake suddenly realized the broadcast sound was almost silent as well. Frogs had stopped croaking. No birds flew overhead. The only sound was the incessant hum of mosquitoes and black flies.

  The boys heard the sizzling, frying sound of the laser bolt as it hit the runner's side leaving an inch-wide burn across his pale skin. Involuntarily, they all grimaced.

  "That's gotta hurt," said Devon.

  "Poor bastard just got his maker-call," said Kevin.

  The runner spun, barely kept his footing but didn't fall. The wound wasn't deep and was cauterized by the heat so there was little bleeding. But the pain and smell of burning skin staggered him. He stumbled, nearly tripping, for a dozen steps.

  "He'll keep going, he's good," said Devon.

  "Look at his face. The man is a machine again. He knows he's done and he's going to go all in," said Jake.