The Anarchists

by Brian Thompson

  “And since then?”

  “Nada,” she lamented. “No more dreams. But I ain’t havin’ nightmares, neither.”

  Cee Cee turned into the apartment’s parking deck. “That’s a good thing. It’s a miracle nothing else happened to you. What if you OD’ed on it?”

  Quinne exhaled. “I know, Cee. I thought about it.”

  “And?” She cut the engine off, waiting for exposition.

  Quinne looked blankly ahead. “What if I did die. . .in that alley, or on that bathroom floor? Straight up? Who wanna die in an alley or a bathroom floor, or a prison cell? If I gotta choice. . .I’d wanna go in battle, fightin’, doin’ somethin’ for somebody who can’t do it themselves. Not over somethin’ stupid.”

  “Of all the things I believe God allows us to do, Q, controlling how we die isn’t one of them. People do stupid things every day and die for it. They do heroic things, and die too. And sometimes, they just die. Whatever you do, just make the best out of what you do, right here, right now. That’s all I really want for you.”

  “I know.” The friends held hands. “But I have to want it for myself. And right now, I want to lay down in complete silence without some chick fartin’ in my face.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Quinne napped well. In fact, she had slept clear through until early evening, waking only to use the restroom. She lazily returned to bed and set the HTV to two dimension images instead of three. A virtual flat screen appeared and displayed a syndicated rerun of her favorite sci-fi drama.

  When the second act broke for commercial, a representative from the Genesis Institute appeared in front of the corporation’s building. “Hi, I’m Kareza Noor and I’m here to announce our four participants for the Begin Again initiative. Before we do that, I would like to thank the nearly 300 million people who applied.”

  Hey, that’s the chick who handled my case! As part of Quinne’s release, she had called the Genesis Institute. The automated message informed her that she should attend a briefing tomorrow at 9:30 in the morning.

  “Out of the hundreds of millions to respond to our recent advertising campaign, we have chosen only four for our initial intake cycle.”

  Quinne sat up in bed. This is what I signed up for?

  “In addition to having a month’s worth of their life expenses paid for donating their time, those lucky individuals will have the unique opportunity to right a wrong, fix a regret, be freed from a habit, reunite with a long lost love. . .‘begin again’, so to speak.

  Pangs of excitement fluttered in her chest.

  “These four people will join us tomorrow at our main building located at 216 Xavier Street downtown in the business district. There, they will be briefed, handed their promised stipend, and fully immersed in the program. They will be our first volunteers to begin again.

  “Let’s get to those lucky four people.”

  Quinne watched the commercial in its entirety, then rewound it and watched it three times before vaulting from her room to find Cee Cee in the kitchen.

  “Cee!” Quinne prodded her in front of the HTV. “Watch this.”

  “Hi, I’m Kareza Noor and I’m here to announce our four participants for the Begin Again initiative. Before we do that, I would like to thank the nearly 300 million people who applied.”

  “Wow,” Cee Cee said with astonishment. “She's gorgeous. Why am I watching this?”

  “Shh!” Listen.”

  Cee Cee watched the commercial in its entirety, pausing with shock as the names were announced. Hands on hips, she looked Cee Cee in the eye. “Ain’t that what I signed up for: the ‘Begin Again’ thing? Focus group? Four people? Sure sounds like it.”

  “I don’t know, girl! You signed up for something. Who knows until tomorrow?”

  “Ain’t you say I have to have faith? That’s what I’ma do. And half a trillion people trying to get into this thing. . .it can’t be bad, right? You’ll get your rent. . .maybe even some back utilities. . .and all I have to do. . .”

  “. . .you have no earthly clue.” Cee Cee smiled. “C’mon, dinner’s almost ready. I fried some chicken for you! Eat up, then get some more rest.” She patted Quinne on the shoulder. “Tomorrow’s a big day for you.”

  Yeah, thought Quinne. The first time in a while.

  Harper wanted to ignore the announcement.

  Adharma said the recent widow had eligibility for it; the “Begin Again” initiative. To be a candidate, one simply had to call the toll-free number and get through, which, like millions of others, she could not successfully do.

  At their most recent session yesterday morning, Harper burst into fits a few times in reaction to Adharma’s antagonistic therapy techniques and her increased hormone levels. Harper’s boss, Kareza, coldly dismissed the painful process as “weakness leaving your mind.” Besides, “even head shrinks need to be shrunken sometimes.”

  Harper checked her degrees and certifications at the door and submitted. But if Kareza had not suggested him in the first place and insist that he sign off on her return to work, she would have quit long ago.

  “That’s it for today. Our time together has expired.”

  Still rattled, Harper’s alto dropped off parts of words, as she spoke. “I tried for the ‘Begin Again’ thing, like you said, and I couldn’t get through.”

  “You and the rest of the free world.”

  “I’ve never gotten anything with great odds attached to it.” She tossed the wet balled-up tissue into a silver trash can. “But, I need this.”

  He laughed, as if she had cracked a self-deprecating joke. “You need it? You don’t even know what it is. Nobody does!”

  “Then, why am I so drawn to it?”

  “Because it has money attached to it.”

  “That’s not why I want it.” Her voice steadied. “I’ve been numb for weeks. . .living in a world where everything I need exists but nothing's real, or I can’t get to it. It’s an out-of-body experience I can’t escape or control, and I just need to change something. This might be it. Help me. . .please?”

  “It may be.” His glasses hung onto his nose’s edge. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  From that point on until later the next night, all that remained was the confirmation of her exclusion. Harper cooked generic macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets for her children and braised a chicken quarter and steamed vegetables for herself. Her food would be done in a few minutes, which gave Christian and Gabrielle’s food enough time to cool off and be edible.

  “Mommy Harper! Mommy Harper!” Gabrielle scooted across the hallway floor in her socks. “The six! Look!”

  Harper stationed Micah’s four-year-old in front of the living room clock and asked her to say when the clock display showed a six. After 5:56, the next time she said something would be 6:00 p.m.

  “HTV on, volume level 15.” Harper sat on the couch. Christian climbed into her lap and Gabrielle sat beside them. The Genesis Institute’s logo preempted the regularly-scheduled cartoon program they were watching.

  “. . .here to announce our four participants for the Begin Again initiative. Before we do that, I would like to thank the nearly 300 million people who applied.”

  Harper’s eyes bulged. Three hundred million people? “Someone must’ve fudged those numbers.”

  “We have fudge? Mommy Harper, I want fudge please?”

  “I want fudge.” Christian perked up.

  “Let’s get to those lucky four people.” Kareza opened a digital display.

  Harper frantically waved her hand. “Shh. . .not now.” Her heart skipped. The insurance money would not transfer for another week and bills were way overdue. A stipend would do the trick.

  “Quinne Ruiz.”

  Harper did not know anyone named “Quinne,” but she liked the name for a guy or girl. It was unique, but not overly so, unlike the names of some of her client’s children.

  “Teanna Kirkwood.”

  “Mommy Ha
rper, can I have fudge? Mommy Harper, please? Mommy Harper! Mommy Harper!”

  Harper clenched her fists and shouted. “Gabrielle! Be quiet!”

  “Damario Coley, and our last participant. . .”

  I have one shot left. One out of 299 million-plus. “We don’t have fudge, baby,” she grumbled. “Wait for your dinner. You know what, let’s. . .”

  “. . .Harper Lowe.”

  Harper’s mouth dropped. “I won!” She jumped to her feet and leapt up and down. Her children screamed with joy.

  Ten seconds later, the home line rang. “Incoming call from Charlotte Lowe,” it proclaimed.

  “Answer,” she giggled. “Block all other incoming calls.” The HTV turned itself off and a projection of Harper’s mother beamed down from the ceiling. “Hello Mother! Guess what?”

  “I heard.” Charlotte crossed her arms, the bluish veins in her temples nearly visible. “You’re not seriously thinking about doing this.”

  “No, I’m not thinking about doing it, I’m doing it.”

  “I know you’re excited. Calm down and think about this. I suspect, since I’m retired and have nothing better to do, that you want me to watch them tomorrow night?”

  Even Charlotte’s disapproval did not dampen her spirit. “Would you? If not, someone will take them in, maybe Laverne. I have to do this.”

  “Harper Charlotte. . .”

  “Mother, look.” She sent the children in the other room to watch holovision and set the area to soundproof. “You’re not here when I dream of Mike at night, and all that’s on his side of the bed is a pillow that barely smells like his cologne anymore, except for when I spray it.”

  “Harper, I know, but. . .”

  “We have conversations, Mother, in my dreams. We talk about our kid and our baby that’ll never know him. I go back. I look back in my mind and think about all of the times we argued about money, and bills, and his career. We’re not rich, like you, but we could’ve made it. Soon, I’ll have money and I couldn’t care.”

  “That’ll change!” Charlotte interjected. “In time, that’ll change.”

  “How much have things changed since Daddy died? How happy have you been, all these years? You’ve seen the world, done things I’ve only read about. I’m a shell of a human being right now and I need to be more – for all of our kids. Help me do this.”

  Worry materialized on Charlotte’s brow as well as at the corners of her mouth. “I miss your father every day. Nothing I do can bring him back, though I’d give everything I ever owned to try. You can’t live like that, Harper. Thinking like that will kill you.”

  She shook her head. “No, Mother, I can’t live like this. It’s like I’m already dead.”

  Charlotte huffed. “You were like this once before. Look at where it’s left you.”

  Her mother never let her forget that solitary time of defiance, when Harper supported Micah’s decision to follow God’s call to start his own business instead of applying for other architectural positions. Inside, she questioned whether things would have worsened had he found another job. If she ever saw his former boss, Miles Chu, she would have words for him.

  “Maybe I can get back some of my deposit from the trip.”

  Harper smiled at Charlotte’s admission. “Sorry about that.”

  “No, you’re not. At least I get my grandbabies all to myself. Don’t you dare ask Laverne.”

  “Soundproof, blocked calls off.” The transparent orb surrounding them vanished. “I won’t.”

  “Get going. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Seen you then. And thank you.”

  Once the call disconnected, Harper rushed into the kitchen to rescue her dinner from overheating. Though it violated every parental instinct she had been born with, she allowed her children to eat in the playroom unsupervised. At the dinner table, she ate and listened to the 13 messages that had been left on her voicemail. Most were from family members who wanted to know the nature of what she had been selected to do. She also wondered.

  An automated representative of the Genesis Institute left the one message of note. She should report to the main building tomorrow morning at 9:30 a.m. sharp and wear comfortable clothes. She did not, however, have to pack a change.

  Why don’t I need clothes? Will I be naked? Harper wished that she had not muted the line to incoming calls, as she surely would have answered that one. Will I be able to come home? Charlotte would want to know, and Harper would give the answer as soon as she received it for herself.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  January 20, 2050

  Damario placed a canary yellow golf shirt atop the other clothes he had packed and zipped the luggage shut with his human hand. Though the Genesis Institute instructed him that he would not need a change of clothes, he assembled the outfits. Madison had not been in on the call and, therefore, did not know his wardrobe assembly was unnecessary. She naturally assumed he’d be leaving their high rise apartment for no more than a few days.

  He wavered on whether or not he intended to stay, but he had stored the papers that Yvette Sloan had sent over to Madison. Playing his final decision close to the vest meant going to great lengths to clip his responses. When his wife prodded him for information on the Begin Again program, he shrugged his shoulders. He really did not know much. She had wondered about the date of his return, and he responded “soon.” That satisfied her. But when she inquired about his intents concerning their marriage, he kept mum. “We’ll see,” or he said the occasional “I don’t know.”

  Madison compulsively tapped her fingers on the bedpost, as he finished. “Tell me what they told you on the call again? Where are they sending you? Out-of-state maybe?”

  The well-discussed topic exhausted Damario. “Don’t know what you want me to say. There something you think I’m not telling you?”

  It wouldn’t be the first time. “End us or continue this. I can’t stand the in between.”

  Damario flexed his artificial right hand, which intermittently transmitted sensations. “I got in a major accident, underwent surgery, PT. . .I’m still getting accustomed to it all. You can’t make a major life decision on a whim.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, you can.”

  He understood the reference to their past. “I need a break.”

  “From me?”

  “From everything.” He dropped the suitcase onto the floor. “The currency deal was stressing me out before the accident and, when I get back, I’ll need to concentrate on that. . .which I can’t do if I’m worrying about my arm, my eye and us all at the same time.”

  “And if you weren’t going, what then? What would we have done?”

  “There is no if.” He rolled the suitcase toward the door. “I’m going.”

  A wave of nausea crashed in Madison’s stomach. Not now, she thought. “What about Robinne? I checked the home holophone records. Nobody you know lives in Philly but her.”

  Damario stopped without turning. She’s checking up on me? “You think I’m going to see her. It’s 12 hours, round trip. I’d barely be able to say hi and be back tonight.”

  Madison anticipated his building anger and backed away from her comment. “I just want to know why you’re dreaming about her, calling her.”

  His college ex entered his thoughts more than he cared to admit, which increased with the administration of that drug. “I don’t know. She didn’t return the call.”

  Madison’s smile shined with disgust. “I thought you were holding something back from me, all this time. It wasn’t me or my career ambitions; it’s Robinne. Why rush to propose and marry me, if you felt this way? You thought I’d leave you, too?”

  At the mention of their impromptu marriage, Damario wheeled his suitcase to the door. “I don’t have time to do this now, Shenk.”

  “You’re still in love with her,” she shouted at his back. “Tell me!”

  Damario’s attempt to press down his rage failed. Quickly, he turned, swiveled his hips and pu
nched a hole in the drywall. He knew the electrical sparks jumping into his brain’s pain receptors were manufactured attempts to imitate pain and they did not hurt as much as he anticipated. Damario brushed off the dust and fragments from his metal fist. Breathing heavily, he pointed at Madison, whose body trembled. “They’re thoughts. And I told you that I need time. Leave it at that. Give me that.”

  Madison nodded, and then violently threw up onto the Berber carpet. At first, Damario credited the sickness to taut nerves, but he knew better.

  Disgusted, he stormed out of the apartment and entered the elevator chute at the end of the hall. Later, on the bottom floor, he used his holophone to access his personal computer server. Then, he opened a set of Sloan’s documents, authorized his signature, and sent them back over to Madison. Our marriage is over.

  He hailed a public serve Crown Alice, got in, and gave the address of his storage locker. There, he stored the bag he packed along with some belongings he had stashed away. When he returned tonight, he needed a new place. Whatever she had not ruined, given away, or shredded, he would retrieve later.

  From there, they drove to the Genesis Institute. At the entrance, a holographic assistant greeted Damario. “Hello, Damario Eugene Coley and welcome to the Genesis Institute.”

  “Whoa, easy on the Eugene.”

  “My apologies. Please remove your glasses and verify your identity by allowing us to scan your retinas.”

  He did so, but before he disclosed information about his artificial eye, the scan completed. “Not to worry, Mister Coley. We have the latest in retina scan technology.”

  “Nice to know.” The hologram led him to the left and into an elevator chute.

  “Please hold your feet together, as tightly as possible. I will meet you on the fifth floor.” The hologram dissipated, as soon as Damario entered the tubing. The sensation of pressurized air beneath his feet instead of something tangibly solid always put him ill at ease. As he ascended, he closed his eyes and refused to look down. The sensation of flying thrilled him as a child, but not so much now. Soon, he exited the tube, and the receptionist greeted him again.