The Society Builders

by Anthony Puyo

  Contents

  societycover

  THE

  SOCIETY BUILDERS

  ANTHONY PUYO

  This is a fictitious story derived from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real life, living, or deceased persons is purely coincidental. Mentioning of any events true, false, or in theory, are done so for entertainment only and nothing is intended to be taken as anything other than thereof.

  Conception of work 2017

  Copyright © 2017 Anthony Ruz

  This publication is an “All right reserved” work. No part of this book shall be reproduced or used in anyway without the written permission of the author.

  Thanks to God before all else.

  I’d like to thank my family for always supporting

  my efforts. You guys mean everything to me.

  I’d like to give an extra special thanks to my wife, Mindy. I couldn’t have finished this without you. Thanks for staying up with me to meet the deadline.

  I dedicate this work to my two wonderful daughters. Valerie, my oldest. And Audrey my newborn. You were only a month old when I wrote this.

  Forward

  Where do I begin? How about a rundown of the timeline.

  My name is Jason Mendez, and I’m an accountant for Matson Cybertech. Matson Cybertech is in the business of computer-organic-hardware and software. Though only in business for fifteen years, the company has already garnered awards for innovation. The technology produced by them is formatted to be installed in human body parts; an effort to conjoin computers and electronics to ourselves.

  Once we make it, we distribute it to carriers who then sell it to the public. Many of the cell phone carriers of the past are now gone. They could not keep up with Matson and its new technology. The ones who’ve survived, switched over and decided to distribute Matson’s products under their own brand. Because of this, Matson easily cornered the market.

  Just as Matson lives partially under the cloaks of different names, most of them unknown to the public, I too hide. However, I hide my other identity from the beast itself.

  I am an activist for a cause to ban B.C.E.B.T (Biological Cyber Enhanced Brain Technology). When I first joined the group nine years ago, these technologies were being used by two thirds of the global population. The activist group I run with: P.A.C.A.M.C. (People Against Computer and Man Combining or PAC for short), believe this technology is dangerous for several reasons, which I will get to.

  The government has already tried numerous times to take our right to bear arms away. And when they realized they couldn’t abolish media or the flow of information, they sought to control it—distort in a way to confuse the masses. They controlled us this way for a very long time, making us think we had a choice amongst candidates and parties. Though in reality, we were always being corralled. When people think there’s a choice, it gives their lives meaning; something to fight for. It also divides us, which in return, makes all of us weaker.

  Things have never been the same in this country since we allowed corporations to overtake our politics. Sadly, this mantra of governing has spread into every country on the face of the planet.

  So when it comes to enhanced bio technology, my group sees it as the tools of all tools that the elites could use to enslave the people. With a chip connected to every person on the planet, there will be no privacy. It could even serve as the pathway to the cashless society the elites have been desiring for decades. Where every dollar a person makes could be stored and tracked. In theory, it sounds like a good thing. A way to protect the innocent from the harmful. But it could also be used to oppress, giving the population no chance in stopping anything the prominent few want to enforce. Anyone seeking to start a rally against them could be found instantly, perhaps jailed quickly before any resistance could ever emerge.

  Besides the ruling class issues, hacking is always a concern when it comes to computing. Anything with updating software can be tapped into with the right methods. Even if it’s in your brain. Assuming someone has access to it.

  Of course, our group and many like ours are branded conspiracy nuts—whackos, and treated with little respect by the authorities and the people we are trying to help. But what kind of Americans will we be if we give up? All we hope for is that one day we finally find solid proof. Enough to open the public's eyes. But in the meantime, we will continue to mount pressure on these so-called elitists to let them know we know what they were up to. And sometimes, that’s all you need to do. If the evildoers know there’s someone watching them, it could cause a great delay or even stop their plans. Regardless of the hate we have received and will continue to get from the many, we will still fight the good fight for them. Being the balance that helps keep what was left of their freedom—our freedom—intact.

  Unfortunately, we are progressively losing this battle. Because the want for these technologies far outweighs the risk in them.

  With great funding Matson Cybertech hires the best minds. That is also true in the marketing department. The place where all the psychological data is put together in the form of colorful pictures, videos and other media that eventually meets the eyes and turns into the vibrant wings of butterflies, soaring in the form of parasitic thoughts.

  It’s brilliant the way they’ve advertised through the years. With most campaigns aimed at the young. That’s how modern brainwashing works; go after the young minds who are open to new, cutting edge ideas. Make them feel like they are the unique ones who will change the world for the better. Though they won't. Because it is nothing more than planted ideas—a sham from old minds who know how gullible and executable the young are when they are given a couple of extraordinary compliments. It’s as easy as feeding pigeons in the park to them, except these pigeons are the starving for notoriety, and the feed is made up of delusions.

  Sometimes I wonder how far this collusion of the mind goes back. I think of my days as a child and the sports I used to play. How they gave all the teams I was a part of trophies, even when we didn’t deserve them. They were telling us then, that we were all special, all winners, even when America itself was built on competition. So why as a child did they act as if competition wasn’t important. I had heard from my grandmother that it wasn’t always this way. So why did it start? Was there an order passed down to change the culture of the future? To make us less resistant to change in our older years?

  I’m positive elevated thinkers had thought this through decades ago. Seeing a future of mended minds allowing themselves to become easily manipulated, possibly to the point of becoming a herd of animal being led to their own slaughter.

  PAC believes, as do I, Matson and corporations like them could care less if the middle aged and elderly partake in their schemes. That’s why they spend little effort in trying to sway them. Rarely is there a commercial showing a senior buying a chip. My grandmother told me it was same for the predecessor of the chip, which is the cell phone, back in her day.

  Another reason for Matson’s lack of interest with the over forty age group, is they have been proven to be lazy when it comes to their teens. A weak economy that requires busy lives to make a living help in this regard. And once you add adolescents into the mix, you can forget about it. “Little time” becomes an even more acceptable excuse.

  My grandmother wasn’t a fool, though. She told me it was all a part of the society builder’s plans to separate the family. She compared it to the nature shows where the predators hunt in packs, separating the young from the herd. “The young are the key,” she would always say. I attribute my overly use of animal analogies to grandma by the way.

  But looking back, there are two things she said that always stuck to me. One is that everything is done systematically. That there’s a
lways a process of how something is put together or torn apart. The other thing was to never let them deceive me. They will try every way to do this, even by making me feel it’s the right thing to do or believe. But don’t fall for it, because if I do, they will own me.

  1

  New York has changed plenty in the last three decades, so I’ve been told. Though, the streets are still moist in the mornings and steam still releases from the manholes, it’s what rides on them that has evolved. Seventy percent of vehicles are now unmanned driven and run on a mix of electricity and hydrogen technology with thirty percent now airborne. Another site that grabs the eye of today is the sides of buildings both large and small. Neon lighting and television screens fill many of them. Neon for shopping: to earn a dollar is hard these days, so a boom in eye catching lights are everywhere. The screens are more for media and high dollar advertising. Some screens are as tall as four-hundred feet. A true modern marvel.

  One of the bigger issues the city faces, though I know it has been a problem since the country’s modern existence, is the homelessness. Nearly every street in town, except the more affluent areas, has people sleeping on sidewalks, alleys, in parks, and it’s not just a one or two, but sometimes bus loads. However, it is said that thirty percent of the world's population struggles with hunger and disease, so it’s not just a New York problem.

  One of the stories of the time, which is April 21st, 2052, that PAC and I have been following, is the strange tale of David Casper. The event happened a little over two months ago and the news channels are still in a frenzy over it. Every outlet has adopted the narrative when discussing the story, as The Hunt for David Casper.

  It doesn’t matter where you’re at; a coffee shop, chocolate shop, muscle and skin enhancement business, or the most popular Cyber-Mind store where you were Eved or Adamed (depending on your sex), you will not be able to escape David’s story.

  What makes Casper’s story unique to PAC are the details. David was a thirty-eight-year-old city bus driver who in his spare time volunteered at a local youth center where he taught the less fortunate, mostly kids, the fundamentals of sports. He was identified by family members and friends as a kind-hearted man who believed in the human spirit. Though frustrated with the political times, they said he always felt man was redeemable. That he believed all good nature begins at youth, and it was the adults’ duty to guide the innocent and prepare the young for the future landscape.

  It was a shock to many when this kind-hearted fellow walked into the youth center where he mentored, carrying two semi-automatic rifles with enough ammo to bring down half an army. He shot and killed eight adults and thirty-one kids ages ranging from six to fifteen. It was a story that sent shockwaves through the country and the rest of the civilized world. And what was even more unbelievable, was that David somehow managed to escape the clutches of the hardcore authority. He took a bullet in the arm but got away. And ever since, the authorities have been scouring the skies day and night searching for him.

  Amidst the tragedy I knew what was coming before I heard it: the cries of the government aimed at the public for the support of banning all firearms. Disappointed repeatedly in the past, they seemed to believe they had a chance this time. The David Casper story was their golden ticket. However, the polls still showed a strong resistance against the idea.

  PAC always tries to read and see between the lines; examining the grey while everyone else is fixated on the black or white of the picture. To us it doesn’t make sense why a regular, or in this case, an outstanding person who never showed signs of violence in the past, would one day wake up, grab a cold glass of orange juice (as the authority’s report states), walk down his basement, grab a stash of weapons that were unregistered and in damn near perfect shape, and shoot everyone at a place he was reported to love by his co-workers. Of course, the public ate the hell out of this slop. But PAC did not buy the version of the story that the news put out. Something about it stunk then, and it still does today. I find myself asking this question every time I see his face on the large screens of the city: “What could explain the bizarre turn of David Casper’s life?”

  In a time where upwards of seventy percent of the population has an implant, it would be easy to plant a dirty chip in someone. Why wouldn’t it be? People don’t know what’s being put in them from a syringe at the doctor’s office. They just assume the doctor is giving them what they say they’re giving them. Trust is the key. And trust is also the gateway to hell.

  Here’s another question. How do you control the masses? Either through fear or necessity. That’s the way they did it in decades’ past. Mass killings bring on tremendous fear. PAC believes if the elite don’t get their way through this avenue, they will surely find another. Because one thing is for certain, evil never sleeps.

  I walk past the usual suspects on the way to my desk. Dave and Rob sit at their cubicles, playing with their ties, talking about girls I’m sure. At this blasted company, those are two guys I actually enjoy talking to.

  We’ve gone out on occasion. Usually right after work to have a few beers. I don’t do the whole facade thing when I hang out with anyone from the company. I’m always myself. One half of myself, anyway. The half that fits the largest definition of normal. I watch sports, drink beer, love to eat nachos like any other regular guy. I am, though, a bit of a retro geek. I love all decades all the way up to the 2020’s. And if I could have chosen, I would have been born in the 90’s.

  My activist life style can’t be known by anyone at my job. If word got to Michael Scarp, everyone’s boss, that I was a protester, I’m certain he would fire me from my position.

  My life at Matson has always been tricky. I’ve been living life as a spy for eight years. A very low level spy. An accountant by day, activist by night and weekends. I remind myself in the bathroom mirror, nearly every morning before I come in.

  I’ve been trying to gain proof of Matson’s nefarious agendas ever since I got the job. But nothing of real substance has crossed my path. Occasionally I’ll get little tidbits of leaked info that usually isn’t all that important. However, it is still inside information, since it won’t be heard anywhere else. Either way, it’s as the saying goes, there’s no better way to stay close to your enemy than to work for them.

  I’ll be working late tonight. I’m behind on payroll, which is nothing new. At Matson, you're either expected to be chipped, or work late and extra hard on the same salary if you’re not. The late hours don’t bother me much. If anything, it just gives me extra time to snoop with very few eyes on me.

  Tonight I’ll be trying to dig for anything I can about our upcoming announcement three Mondays from now. Word around the building is that Henry Matson, the founder and majority shareholder, will be announcing the big news himself.

  The company has been real busy as of late. They unveiled the Thin Chip a month ago. It supposed to be a steep upgrade from any of its brain-chip predecessors. And on that same day, they released the mainframe onto the public: a cyberspace world that I heard makes the internet look like something from the stone age.

  I need to check the numbers on our payroll, make sure everyone from Sector A and the Ads department is getting paid correctly and on time. It’s Friday tomorrow, so this is a must to get done tonight. Technically, I have till 9 a.m. on Friday, however, it would not look good for me to submit the figures at the last qualifying minute. As much as I loathe what Matson stands for, they certainly pay well, and I would not want to lose this job before my mission is complete.

  Hours have passed and the atmosphere is lonely and dim. Most of the ceiling lights are off. A couple are left on towards the corners of the room for security walk throughs and for the Janitors. Dead air hovers over the idling screens of the PCs in each cubicle.

  At my desk, the yellow light of my personal lamp feels like it’s slow cooking me to perfection. I sift through the monthly payroll names on my computer, rubbing my tired eyes underneath my glasses every few minutes. I’ve b
een told the bio chip enhances data gathering and speed in the human brain. You’d be hard pressed to find an accountant that is not Adamed for this reason. If I was chipped my job would probably take an hour the way I work. But since I’ve chosen to stay natural, this area of my job can take in the ballpark of ten hours to complete.

  Going through the names of our larger accounts, a name comes up that has no job description. Though we do business with many different affiliates and contractors, there should always be a job description, or at the very least, a company they work for. The name Phil Balock doesn’t have either.

  "Balock . . . Balock, where did I hear that name before?"

  It hits me, he was at the launch of the Thin Chip.

  He stood behind the CEO of Matson, Michael Scarp, most of the time. He didn't show much emotion. His face was hard, leathery, eyes beady, and he stood the way security guards do: hands folded near the crotch area. Come to think of it, I don’t remember him speaking to anyone but Michael that day.

  I scroll the screen to see how much money I’m supposed to approve for this guy’s monthly service. My mouth nearly floors to see Matson is paying nearly $115,000 for a service I don’t even know the description of. I find this transaction really odd.

  My ancient gizmo, the cell phone, rings and breaks my escalating thoughts.

  “Hey, Jason, where are you?!” the voice shouts into my ear. The loud chatter in the background along with music gives clue to where this call is taking place.

  “Work, of course. And just having a ball.” I only wish that was true. I lean back in my leather office chair, feeling my tense shoulder muscles for the first time. The sign of working too stiffly for too long.