by Shawn Davis
The movie screen flashed back to the middle-aged reporter standing outside the prison walls.
“That punishment will be decided, democratically, by you, the viewers. To decide the manner of this cold-blooded mass murderer’s Absolute judgment, call us at 1-800-555-JUDG. That’s 1-800-555 JUDG. Just punch in the number representing the mode of Absolute Judgment you prefer and our computer will record it in our database. The elected mode will be announced after this word from our sponsors. Stay tuned.”
The image on Peter’s television screen changed to an idyllic scene of an upper middle class neighborhood. The camera zoomed in on a beautiful Colonial-style house surrounded by a lush green lawn. The camera focused on the front of the house’s façade and circled around to the rear where a sinister-looking burglar wearing a black ski mask was attempting to break in through a first floor window. Peter used the remote to turn down the sound before the advertisement could mention the type of home security system it was recommending. He sank back onto his couch and covered his eyes with his right hand.
This can’t be happening. Yesterday, Henry, Billy, and I were all hanging out after work having a good time. Now, Henry has been framed as a vicious murderer and Billy’s gone missing. They’re my best friends! What am I going to do if they’re gone? Hold on a second, he caught himself. I’m still not sure if Billy was caught in the line of fire. He may have escaped. He may be back at his apartment watching the same television broadcast!
Rayne couldn’t contact Ryder because they both hadn’t owned phones in years. They simply couldn’t afford the exorbitant bills. Peter flicked on the sound with the remote control and recognized the obnoxious sound of the announcer’s voice emanating from the television. He reluctantly opened his eyes and focused on the excessively solemn face.
“You, the people, have voted. Our computer has tallied up the votes and a decision has been made. The prisoner is on his way here. Soon, he will be put to his Absolute Judgment. A democratic system will decide the outcome.”
The announcer paused as the camera panned slowly across the row of execution devices.
“You, America, have voted. And your vote has been heard. Here is the result of your vote.”
The screen switched to six columns with numbers in them. Above the first column was the heading ELECTRIC CHAIR. Above the second column were the words FIRING SQUAD, and then so on down the line. The ELECTRIC CHAIR column contained the number 36%. The FIRING SQUAD contained 32%. The LETHAL INJECTION had 6%. The TORTURE RACK had 14%, the QUARTERING 8%, and finally, the YOU BET YOUR LIFE column contained a mere 4%.
Peter sank deeper into his chair and covered his eyes.
The electric chair. The bastards voted for the electric chair. Only six percent voted for lethal injection! Only four percent voted for that game show! The fools! They have just condemned an innocent man to a torturous death!
“America has voted!” the announcer’s voice shouted from the TV speaker. “The murderer of Martin Prince will receive a high-voltage Absolute Judgment!”
The television camera zoomed in on the ancient-looking electric chair and cut to a person wearing an orange prison jumpsuit being escorted down a wide aisle by four armed guards. The studio audience sat on both sides of the wide aisle, cheering. Peter felt physically sick upon witnessing their demented show of exuberance for the punishment.
Leaning forward suddenly from the couch, Peter vomited onto the carpeted floor. He was so distraught, he didn’t even think of getting up and finding a wastebasket to continue throwing up. He released what was left of his last meal onto the carpet in front of the television. When he had finished, he looked up at the screen with a horrible feeling of dread.
On the screen, he saw his friend, Henry Johnson, being led onto the stage by a group of armored Federal Police Officers – commonly known as “Shock Troopers.” Henry had his hands fastened securely behind his back. There was no sign of the announcer.
When Henry focused on the electric chair they were dragging him toward, his eyes bulged and he began struggling against the Troopers. He was screaming something, but the sound had been diluted so the viewer couldn’t hear what he was saying. The Troopers began dragging the kicking, screaming victim toward the chair, inch by inch. Peter leaned forward again from the couch and began dry-retching. There was simply nothing left in his system to throw up. Tears of rage and helplessness streamed down his face as he leaned over his soiled carpet, coughing and retching.
Rayne brought his dazed, bloodshot eyes up to the screen once more to see his friend struggling against the guards as they tried to force him to sit in the electric chair. They had to undo his handcuffs in order to strap him into the chair, so Henry seized the sudden opportunity to break free and punch one of the Troopers in his exposed throat.
The Trooper dropped to the ground, clutching his neck. The other guards redoubled their efforts to push Henry into the chair, but it was no use. Henry braced himself against the chair, brought his leg back, and kicked one of the guards over the edge of the stage onto the front-row of spectators. One of the two remaining guards pulled his electrical baton from his holster and struck Henry in the head.
The harsh blow and electric shock seemed to infuriate Henry rather than bring him down. He reached out for the man’s only exposed body part, his throat, and clutched it with the fury of a madman. The guard tried jabbing his electrical baton into Henry’s mid-section with little effect. Henry’s body trembled from the electric jolt, but he kept his hands locked around the guard’s throat.
The other guard, who was still trying to hold Henry down in the chair, began to tremble and shake as his body also received electricity. Peter realized the Trooper was getting a worse jolt because of his metal body armor. The guard let go of Henry and tumbled onto the floor, quivering from head to toe. The remaining guard sank to his knees while Henry rose to his feet and gritted his teeth in a vicious snarl, glaring at the guard with bulging eyes as he strangled the life out of him. The guard finally dropped his electric baton to the floor, but it did not stop the trembling of Henry’s muscular body as he pushed him to the floor of the stage.
Rayne finally noticed the yells of outrage and fear emanating from the live studio audience as they watched the execution go horribly awry. He had instinctively stood up at the first signs of a struggle with the unconscious intention of trying to help his friend fight against the guards. Standing frozen above the television, he hoped against all hope that his friend would escape.
Rayne watched with mounting excitement as the final guard dropped to the floor, unconscious, and Henry turned and ran across the stage toward the other instruments of torture. The TV camera panned to the left where a squad of armored Shock Troopers were ascending the stairs to the stage. The camera then panned to the far right of the stage where another squad of armored Troopers were ascending another set of stairs. Henry was being cut off from both sides.
Henry’s grinning, triumphant expression darkened and his eyes narrowed as he spotted the guards running toward him. He stopped and turned to look behind him at the other squad running toward him from the other direction.
Henry stood for a brief second, frozen in indecision, and then ran toward the group of guards coming at him from the left. He slammed into the squad with his body, knocking down the two in front like ten-pins. Unfortunately, this gave the other squad a chance to catch up and they tackled him to the ground. Armored guards from both sides lunged on top of Henry like demented football players in a suicide tackle until he was completely buried in armored bodies and flailing limbs. It was over.
Peter winced as he watched the Troopers on top of the human pile swinging their batons wildly into the tangled mess of bodies. He wiped tears of rage, frustration, and loss from his eyes as he advanced through the puddle of his own vomit and seized the television with both hands.
With great effort, he lifted the nineteen-inch television above his shoulders and threw it across the room. The chaotic picture on the screen was wiped out as the televi
sion struck the floor, cracking and shooting sparks and smoking metal components across the boards.
Chapter 10
The Underground
Revolting, Campion thought, switching off the small 3D television on her desk. She had seen plenty of executions before on national television, but she still never got used to them.
Abhorrent. Repugnant. Wretched. Disgusting.
These were just some of the words that came to mind while watching the despicable broadcast. Like most intelligent people, Campion had moments of self-doubt. Sometimes she questioned whether the current government was really corrupt enough to be brought down by an armed revolt. Whenever she witnessed one of these atrocities on national television, all trace of self-doubt disappeared. She knew her cause was just. because they had just proven it for her on TV.
Campion hadn’t been able to stomach the actual execution, which she knew would take place after a swarm of armored guards brought down the fighting prisoner. She felt a brief moment of exhilaration as the prisoner fought back against the guards, taking them out one by one. Then, of course, reinforcements arrived and her exhilaration changed to despair in an instant. The man fighting for his life did not have a chance.
He probably had nothing to do with the crime.
Campion knew that most people who were executed on national television were political prisoners, many from her own organization, who were unfortunate enough to be captured. Once in a while, the people who controlled the broadcast threw in a handful of real criminals to make the show convincing.
The buzzer sounded on her intercom and she pressed the activation button.
“Campion here. Go ahead.”
“Jane, did you see what I just saw?” Rick Connelly asked.
“You mean the execution?” Jane asked.
“Of course. What else?”
“Yeah.”
“It was unbelievable. The prisoner almost fought his way out of there,” Connelly exclaimed.
“He didn’t have a chance,” Campion replied, dismally.
“Maybe, but it was nice to see someone fighting back for a change.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“This execution may help to bring public sentiment back to our side.”
“You think so? Maybe the public will see a crazed maniac who went berserk rather than a wrongly-convicted man fighting for his freedom,” Campion said.
“I guess that’s possible. After the failure with the White House, I was hoping something positive would happen for the organization. We need it,” Connelly said.
“Somehow, we have to get the word out that it wasn’t our organization that blew up those businesses at the Mile Mall,” Campion said. “Why the hell would we want to target a travel agency? It has absolutely no strategic value for our organization.”
“The government blew it up because they knew we’d be blamed for it,” Connelly said, somberly. “They picked a target where the victims would be sympathetic to the general public. The victims were ordinary citizens trying to get away for a few days – killed suddenly and violently by evil terrorists.”
“This is the fifth time this year they’ve initiated a false flag operation – attack the public themselves and blame it on an “enemy” – namely us,” Campion said, sighing deeply. “It’s been their modus operandi since the beginning of the century. It works well because the media backs up the government’s version of what happened and people don’t question it. I don’t know how we can stop it.”
“We just need to find the right candidate for the mission to New Washington,” Connelly said.
“I don’t know how that’s going to happen,” Campion sighed again. “We’ve gone through all our personnel files and come up with nothing. We either have people who are great computer programmers and lousy covert operatives or great covert operatives and lousy programmers.”
“Maybe we overlooked someone.”
“Maybe. We’ll go through the files again. It couldn’t hurt.”
********
Rayne got down on his hands and knees with a cleaning brush and scrubbed the spot on the carpet where he threw up. He scrubbed harder than he had to, using all his strength to strip away the disgusting mess. He imagined he was wiping the slate clean to go back in time before his friend was murdered. When the task was done, he stumbled to his room, hardly aware of the tears streaming from his eyes. There was only one escape available to him: sleep. He was mentally and physically exhausted from the day’s ordeal. Despite his anxiety and despair, his eyes closed almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. His dreams were not good.
Luckily, he remembered few of the details when he awoke fourteen hours later to find afternoon sunlight streaming through his bedroom window. Glancing at the alarm clock on his bedside table, he saw it read 12:58 PM.
I’ve slept for more than twelve hours, he thought, leaning on his elbows and squinting at the brilliant shaft of sunlight streaming into the room.
Fragments of the previous day’s events flashed through his mind like a disjointed film. In his semi-conscious state, he wasn’t sure if the fragments were real or memories of bad dreams from the night before.
He got to his feet and he knew.
It was real. All of it.
A black wave of despair flowed through his mind like an immense oil slick as the images began to coalesce into a recognizable order.
The assassination. Henry framed for it. It was all real.
Rayne trudged through the living room into the kitchen. His hands made breakfast as if they were on automatic pilot. He chewed his corn flakes slowly and deliberately, as if they were bland military rations. His mind was still filled with horrific images playing in his head like a nightmare movie. When he got to the part where Prince was gunned down, his eyes suddenly flashed to his living room table and the pocket computer resting on it.
Prince’s computer. What does it contain? Maybe something that will help explain this mystery?
Walking to the table, he picked up the palm-sized computer and switched it on. The nano-nuclear power cell was working perfectly; the tiny black screen lit up immediately. Green fluorescent letters appeared in front of a black background. Peter scanned through various files. He maneuvered the tiny keyboard to scroll down the list. All he could find was a long list of Prince’s many public speeches. The last entry caught his eye. It read “Hovercrafts International.” He clicked on the file and a screen came up that said PLEASE ENTER PASSWORD.
Oh, great. He had to make this challenging for me.
Rayne left the file, entered the hard drive, and began an attempt to hack into the system. Forty minutes later, he found a way in through a back door. He clicked on the file HOVERCRAFTS INTERNATIONAL and a set of blueprints appeared on the screen.
Blueprints? Why would Prince have a set of blueprints on a computer containing his written speeches?
The blueprints contained complex architectural layouts. He scrolled through the Byzantine designs until he saw words in the lower left-hand corner; CAPITOL BUILDING – NEW WASHINGTON.
Why would Prince have the architectural design of the nation’s Capitol Building on his computer?
It dawned on him suddenly.
The only people, other than the government, who would be interested in the architectural plans for the city of New Washington would be the rebels. Prince must have had ties to the underground rebel organization that has been harassing the government for the past ten years! It all makes sense. Prince was an activist who fought against the negative policies of the government all his life! It only makes sense that he would have connections to the rebels!
Rayne’s heart hammered in his chest and his palms became moist as he searched through the extensive architectural blueprints. He recognized many of the famous buildings in New Washington: the White House, Embassy Building, Federal Building, Library of Congress, and finally, the infamous two-hundred-story Frump Tower.
Whenever Peter saw a picture or photograph of New Washington
, it couldn’t help but include the gleaming monstrosity shooting into the sky and surpassing the towering city walls. The Frump Tower’s one-way mirror windows reflected the sunlight in a dazzling display at any time of the day. At night, it reflected the city lights almost as impressively.
There was a massive glittering dome at the top of the building, which closely resembled Virtual-world’s Powerdrome. Apparently, all the windows in the building, including the dome at the top, were constructed so people could look out upon the city, but no one could look in. This meant news satellites couldn’t catch a glimpse of a famous national or international figure inside the building and use their picture in a newscast.
This is incredible.
Searching through the blueprints, Peter was surprised to find many of the businesses and contractors that built the city listed. One name didn’t seem to fit. Hovercrafts International.
Why is Hovercrafts International listed as one of the contractors that helped to build the nation’s capitol city?
Rayne also found a listing for every Hovercrafts International site nationwide; over four hundred. The closest site was in the Waterfront District; an immense warehouse at 828 Seaside Drive. The Waterfront District was on the far side of Inner City. He figured he could walk there in two hours.
Maybe they’ll know what to do with Prince’s computer?
Peter searched through file after file on the pocket computer. There was one common link that kept coming up: Hovercrafts International. All the software on the computer was the property of Hovercrafts International. The blueprints were owned by Hovercrafts International.
Why was Prince so mixed up with a company that manufactured air-cars? It didn’t make any sense. Maybe Hovercrafts International was somehow connected to the underground rebel organization?
Rayne decided he was going to find out. It was time to break out his winter jacket because he was going on a trip across town.
He exited his apartment into a virtual blizzard and began to wonder about the practicality of his decision. Snow was coming down hard. Glancing around, he saw there were already a few inches of accumulation on the streets and sidewalks.
