The Anarchists

by Brian Thompson

  “It’s a sad state of humanity when bringing a life into the world becomes ‘inconvenient’,” said the conservative, drawing a small pocket of applause.

  “Let me point out,” said the liberal, “those numbers are documented cases of incest, rape, and molestations. It happens off the record all the time. How does a 12-year-old girl report that her stepfather or mother’s boyfriend impregnated her and get someone to believe her story? This law forces her to keep a daily reminder of a sick act or seek a dangerous and illegal alternative.”

  Micah became so engrossed in the conversation that he failed to notice his name being called. A different nurse tried to mute the HTV in vain.

  “Mister James, by now your wife should be in recovery.”

  “That was quick.” Micah rose and quietly approached her. “Is she alright?”

  “She’s still under anesthesia. She will need you to fill a prescription.”

  “Any idea of how much this’ll cost?”

  “Not sure. I can’t access that information at this time. Probably 300 units or so.”

  Micah’s eyes bulged. “Generic?”

  “That's the generic version.”

  He would have to pay a fraction of the utilities again and pray that they did not get cut off until Harper’s next paycheck. Thankfully, her position as a psychiatrist paid reasonably well. But with the cost of living, the note on her transport, and their burdensome student loan debt, 1.2 million units a year did not go far.

  “Here,” she said, handing him a thumb segment-sized, blood red disk. “I know Kareza Noor, the woman on the HTV. She’ll be able to help you with whatever you need. Be back at a quarter ‘til one to pick her up.”

  Hands in pockets, Micah started the half-mile trek back to the free parking lot. “It was our decision,” he told himself, though he knew that he pushed for it more than she did. He regretted forcing her to do anything and hoped she did not resent him for it.

  More than halfway there, he checked the time. Ten minutes past noon. He stopped inside a busy Dunkin’ Donuts on the next corner. Harper had not eaten breakfast, so a bran muffin and a shot of hazelnut-flavored caffeine might do her some good.

  Fifteen minutes later, he ordered and paid, hustling the rest of the way. With all green lights, he’d still be on time – barely.

  He docked his phone to charge it, placed the coffee in the cup holder, the muffin on the passenger seat, and started the Jupiter's engine, which turned over without reservation.

  The sun broke through the clouds and shined on him. Thinking it a sign of good things to come, he turned on the radio. One of his favorite classical pieces, “Mars,” played. He smiled, backed out of his space, and turned onto the street. When Harper got in, he would turn it off, and they would peaceably talk.

  Since his layoff from the structural design firm, they had been under financial pressure. Harper’s pay didn’t cover the bills, so budgeting became a complicated balancing act. Unexpected expenses meant begging or borrowing to make it work. Micah’s job search had been so unsuccessful that he even applied for menial jobs that preferred humans over droids. “Too educated” for those, and “not educated enough” for high-level mathematics positions, he was stuck. But, with this pregnancy out of the way, he felt better about their future.

  Micah braked at the light a block away from the clinic. The song continued to build and he pretended to conduct the strings. Up the street, the protesters had vacated the property. Almost half of the tune had played before Micah realized the light still had not changed. His holophone lit up and projected an image of Harper in front of him. “Mike, where are you?”

  “I know you’ve been waiting. I’m sorry. I’m stuck at the light out front. Be there as soon as it changes. And I have a little surprise for you.”

  Harper spotted the Jupiter from a café across the street. “Can you see me?” She waved behind the front window. “Baby, I didn’t. . .”

  “Plus,” he interrupted, “I think I’ve got a lead on something good!” The signal turned green. Micah accelerated and pulled over 30 feet from the entrance. We can finally afford to talk marriage! “Do you know Kareza Noor? Is she in your department? Never mind. Tell them to wheel you out. I’m on time for once. And, we need to talk about. . .”

  “Mike, listen, I’m across the street. I told them to stop. . .”

  Suddenly, a raucous explosion blasted through the clinic, turning the Jupiter over and upside down. The suicide doors swung open, but the vehicle’s collapsed dashboard pinned Micah into his seat. Shards of window glass jutted out from his face. He struggled to breathe.

  “Harp. . .” Micah could not finish her name without coughing out the blood pooling in his mouth. He hoped someone heard his pleas.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DAMARIO AND MADISON

  New Year’s Eve night, 2049

  The short-haired brunette at the bar winked.

  Damario Coley – dark-skinned, dreadlocked, and terribly bored – gazed back at the archetypal beauty. Healthy and tan-skinned, she wore her curly chestnut hair in a school-boy haircut. Her slender waist sloped up to full breasts and down to a thick set of hips. In truth, she did not outshine Madison by much, but his wife considered curves “the Devil.” She modified her diet, exercised, and dropped a dress size or two. Now, Madison was built like a well-toned rail.

  Unwilling to be caught window-shopping, Damario whipped out his holophone and manipulated its displays. Drawn by the flickering blue lights, Madison elbowed him in the ribs.

  “We’re supposed to be spending New Year’s Eve together. It’s a Friday night, for God’s sake.” She smoothed her silver dress. “Put that thing away; I didn’t plan this party for nothing.”

  “Just let me. . .finish. . .this. . .” Damario’s fingers roamed across the glass surface, which projected a number of pictures and words above his palm. “I’m behind on the analysis impact…for the currency deal. Checking a few figures, Maddie.”

  Madison sighed with disgust. “If you’re going to ignore me the whole time, I might as well let the others run the show and we can leave. Let’s talk and not go into the New Year fighting.”

  “Now? You want to talk now?” Damario stifled his irritation. “I’ll get you something to drink. After that, we can talk about whatever.”

  Madison’s face softened. “Alright.”

  Damario crossed the room to the bar, where a bartender mixed drinks. “Pomegranate martini, up with a twist, two olives, and Macallan 18, neat.”

  “Sorry, Mister Coley, we’ve got Justerini and Brooks, but no Macallan.”

  Damario gritted his teeth. Since the barkeep referred to him by name, Madison must have briefed him as to her husband’s liquor preferences. He offered to spring for the expensive stuff, but she said she’d “handle it,” which apparently meant purchasing the cheap stuff to spite him. She’d mock him through its smoky aroma, as if to say their marital strife canceled his right to drink anything classy or vintage. “Fine, make it on the rocks.”

  From order to fulfillment, the process wasted barely three minutes, and now he faced returning to Madison. They would make small talk, and then argue more over something stupid. He did not want to mingle with the attendees: agents from Shenk Real Estate and their spouses. Employees of the development empire incessantly talked shop.

  With any luck, the kiss between them at the dropping of the ball would be a smidge passionate and not an awkward peck. After that, the return drive home may even be civil. That would be a welcome change, and possibly improve the remote chance of them being intimate – but not dramatically.

  It had been three months since she had openly undressed in front of him and six since they had touched one another in a loving fashion. It had been so long that Madison closed herself off to all of his indecent proposals. A massive financial project at work involving the federal government occupied his mind for the most part, but lately, even that did not help. Neither did practice at the gun range or the gym. Two months ago,
he found out how she had managed her loneliness and found himself fighting similar temptations.

  After he received his order and authorized payment with his fingerprint, a soft hand rested on his forearm. “Hi,” she said with a foreign accent, European from its lilt. “I saw you across the room and I wanted to tell you that I love your locks.”

  “Thanks,” he shrugged, heartbeat racing. “I. . .”

  “Scotch neat, huh? That bad of a party?”

  Absolutely. “I kind of hate New Year's parties.”

  “Me, too. Partiers are much more entertaining to watch from a distance.” She viewed the two very different drinks in his hands. “You're here with someone.”

  He glanced over at Madison, who waved him over. He held up an impatient finger and mouthed wait a minute. “Over there, in the silver dress with the black heels. That‘s my wife.”

  She giggled at his morose tone. “It figures you would be taken. I’m Kareza Noor, and I’m terrible at flirting. It’s like I haven’t had a decent date in 20 years.”

  “Damario Coley,” he said with aplomb, as they shook hands. “Flirting's easy, especially for women. Anyone could walk you through it.”

  “So you’ll do it? I’m game for a lesson. But you better take that to her first. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Damario slowed his pace back to the loveseat, but his unsteady hand spilled a little of the drink onto the floor. “He had pomegranate juice after all.”

  “Half of which you spilled on the floor. What’s wrong with you? Forget it! Just sit down.”

  “Look, I get it: I screwed up. The bartender’s busy. But just give me a bit. I’ll bring you another one and I won’t spill it. I’ll even have him throw on an extra olive.”

  “Alright,” she assented. “But after that, we talk. No convenient disappearances.”

  He wondered what the “emergency situation” could be. She’d never tell him the truth, but always found the time to bother him with minutiae.

  Damario returned to his post and drank from his glass. Another man had engaged Kareza in small talk directly in Madison’s sight line. He positioned himself close, tapped the small of her exposed back, and then excused himself to the back edge of the bar. Kareza ended the conversation and met Damario.

  “Thank you for saving me. One ‘don’t I know you from somewhere?’ and a drink and he thinks he owns me dead to rights. Maybe he’s the one who needs the flirt lesson, and not me?” She jiggled the dissolving ice in her glass. “I hoped you’d make it back. What’s first?”

  “We exchange names,” he lazily said. I wonder what Madison wants to say? he wondered, while letting a swallow of scotch settle in his mouth. A confession perhaps?

  “Did that, remember? Me, Kareza. . .you, Damario. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Oh. . .no, I’m fine. Right, we did exchange names. Now, I say something like, ‘Kareza? That’s a lovely name.’ Then, you tell me. . .”

  “. . .what it means? It’s Italian. I’m half-Arabic, so that’s where my last name comes from, but your opinion of me might change if I tell you what Kareza means.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s world-class flirtation right there, but I consider myself pretty open-minded. Give me a shot.”

  Kareza edged close, leaned into his ear, and explained her name’s origins in a few sordid phrases. The sensation of her breath against his ear, the percussion of her sultry accent on certain syllables, and the aroma of her perfume warmed the length of his body.

  She drew back and smiled at the red flush washing over his face. “It’s the name of an Italian city, too. My mother heard it and thought it was pretty, but swears she didn’t know its meaning when she named me. So, I don’t tell many men. They usually say all types of freaky things to me.”

  “‘Freaky’? Definitely not a word you want to use in the first conversation. . .unless that’s the kind of company you want. Keep it simple.”

  She parted her purple-glossed lips with a devilish grin. “Who says I don’t want it? I need a good match, and I can’t remember the last time I had good sex. Maybe that’s who I need to attract.”

  “Suit yourself.” He placed the empty whisky glass onto the bar and ordered another. “But why tell me all this?”

  “Because you’re off-the-market and it’s easy to talk to strangers,” she smiled, while readjusting the falling strap of her dress. “Every attractive person at this party is taken. And you volunteered to show me the ropes – which I appreciate, by the way. Who knows – I might meet someone after all.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled. “So you think I’m attractive?”

  “Does it matter?” her voice trailed off. “You’re married. Some married men have actually tried regardless of that. For some reason, I think I can trust you.”

  The label of “trustworthy” disappointed him. “You think you can trust me, but you don’t even know me? I could be like every other person you’ve met.”

  “No, you can’t be. It’s just your personality, and it’s nothing to get all riled up about. Believe me, I’m not great at flirting, but I am a great judge of character. I never miss.”

  Thankfully, a former client-turned-friend – the talkative, southern divorcée named “Sloan” – had engaged Madison in a lively conversation. After ordering his wife another drink, he decided to call Kareza‘s bluff. “Prove it.”

  “You’re the type who allows the woman to make the decisions, not because you want her to, but because you want to keep the peace. Your wife probably finds you too passive and when you exert yourself, too aggressive. If you can’t find a balance, you drift to whichever fits the situation.”

  Damario nursed his drink, taking in a little to avoid making direct eye contact. Kareza’s assessment had stripped him naked and highlighted his vulnerable points. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  “I do high level work for the Genesis Institute, but I’m a psychiatrist by trade. I start out by reading into whatever my clients aren’t telling me. Most communication happens on a nonverbal level. It looks like you are the aggressor when she wants you to be.”

  “Genesis Institute,” he mused. “That a non-profit?”

  “For profit. I’m overseeing an advertising campaign that kicks off in the next week or so. What do you do?”

  “Financial analysis for G.R. Cooper, a little trading here and there.”

  “Aren’t you involved in the congressional push for the new currency?”

  “Yeah.” His enthusiasm pushed his voice up an octave. “But if you ask me, the mark will never pass the House, or in the other nine countries where they’re pushing it. Too much opposition.”

  She smiled, her top lip mischievously curled. “I don't know. You might be surprised.”

  The passionate charge behind her question forced him to safer conversation. “And you’re a psychiatrist…you counsel married couples?”

  “Nope. Don’t believe in marriage. Lifetime monogamy is a ridiculous, contrived concept. I counsel singles, do a little grief, and I sometimes advise the newly-divorced on how to rebound.”

  “Be honest,” he joked. “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Think about it, Damario.” She licked her lips and grabbed his right hand with her left. She traced his wrist veins with the pads of her index and middle fingers. “We're two, able-bodied human beings – an attractive man and woman. There’s something between us that’s electric, and you know it. But you’re willing to give up what could be for what shouldn’t be.”

  “Who’s making the freaky proposals now?” Kareza had lied. She knew how to flirt well. Damario thrust his hands into his slack’s pockets. How many other people in this room has she offered the same thing? “This cannot happen.”

  “Yes, it can. You could have me,” she said with allure. “Your devotion to an antique concept stands in the way of something beautiful and passionate. Think of kings, David and Solomon. They knew this and were considered to be great leaders.”

 
; Damario jerked back. “Why bring up the Bible?”

  Kareza touched a spot just below her throat where the emblem of his platinum chain fell. “I assumed that you aren’t wearing that for decoration’s sake?”

  He dropped the object beneath his undershirt. “I love my wife and respect her.” He paid once more and cradled the nearly-full glass. “Pleasure meeting you, Kareza.”

  Damario disappeared into the throng of people surrounding the HTV’s three-dimensional images. By the time he reached Madison, her eyes had glazed over with boredom. This time, he softly walked until reaching them.

  “Why, hello, Damario!” The audacious southern twang assaulted his eardrums. “Beginnin’ to think you were gonna leave Shenk here all alone, while you chatted up that pretty Hispanic gal. Gosh, I just loved her dress, but I’d never be able to pull off something cut that low in the front without a lotta help, if you know what I’m sayin’?”

  Madison cocked her head. “That’s what you were doing over there?”

  “She’s not Hispanic,” he argued. “She’s European and Middle Eastern.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Well,” said the southern belle. “Ya’ll g’head and talk. Shenk, you and I. . .we’ll conference first thing Monday.”

  Please go away. “Will do, Yvette.”

  “Tell my assistant if she don’t put you through right then, I’ll have her on the unemployment line.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll do it! Tout de suite! Happy New Year’s, ya’ll.”

  “Happy New Year,” they said in droll unison. Damario reclaimed his seat and downed his scotch at once, while his wife continued to silently stare him down. How dare he! “So, you were talking to another woman, but you won’t talk to me?”

  “What if I did? You talk at me, Madison, not to me. You yell, nag, complain. But, if you want to talk, then let’s talk. Why's Sloan calling you Shenk and not Coley anyway?”

  “Stop being so loud,” she admonished. “Her name is Yvette, by the way. Sloan‘s her last name. Get our coats. We’ll talk more in the Cougar.”