The Future Will Be BS Free

by Will McIntosh

  The crack of a third gunshot echoed through the parking lot. I flinched, even though I knew it was coming. Marcus turned to ask Kelsey questions.

  I wanted to tell these people what I thought of their vigilantism, but this wasn’t the time or the place.

  “They’re all good.” Marcus stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. When a woman near the access road looked his way, Marcus pointed at us and our van and gave a thumbs-up.

  The woman gave him a thumbs-up in return.

  I had to tolerate one more handshake from Marcus. “Have a great day,” he said.

  We climbed into our van and headed for the exit.

  “Who the hell do these people think they are?” I said.

  “As long as they’re taking out the worst of the worst? I’m okay with it,” Kelsey said.

  “But you don’t just shoot people in parking lots like they’re animals. Even people who’ve done terrible things.”

  “You do in wars,” Beltane said.

  “But we’re not at war.”

  “No?” Beltane gave me a deadpan look.

  We were passing the people begging for food along the access road.

  I put a hand on Kelsey’s shoulder. “Wait. I want to give out the food.”

  “I told you, if you go out there, they’ll mob us,” Beltane said.

  “That’s why you’re going to help me,” I said.

  “Me?” Beltane looked horrified.

  “That’s right. Be pleasant and help me pass out the bags. If things get out of hand, get us back to the van.”

  I pulled bags from the back and held a bunch out to Beltane. “There’s not enough for everyone, so we only give them to kids. Not their parents—give them right to the kids so the adults not getting them can see why we’re doing it the way we’re doing it.”

  Beltane snatched the bags from me, cursing under her breath.

  “Kelsey, can you pass the rest out the window once we’ve given these out?” I asked.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Beltane slammed the door, went right up to a little girl. “Here you go. Merry Christmas.”

  People surged toward us, shouting pleas. Beltane held up her bionic right arm like a linebacker about to deliver a stiff arm. “Back off immediately. Kids only.”

  I placed a bag beside a toddler as the child’s mom cried out her thanks and grabbed the bag, pressing it to her chest. A little girl with a dirty face, maybe seven years old, came running up to me calling, “Please, please, please!” She squealed when I gave her a bag.

  The lump in my throat felt like an egg. There were kids like this all over the country, the world, because of me. Handing out these bags was like feeding one grain of rice to a hungry whale. But it was all I could think to do.

  Kelsey crept along in the van, keeping up with us.

  “Here you go, kid,” Beltane said in a tight voice. The boy tucked the bag to his solar plexus like it was a football and ran. When Beltane turned to get more bags from the van, I saw her face was wet with tears. I didn’t know whether she was crying because of the part she’d played in getting the truth apps out there, or for some other reason. I only knew why I was crying. How had this all gone so wrong?

  I stopped in Mom’s doorway. Mr. Chambliss was in a chair facing her, his hands covering hers. He was speaking in a low, soothing tone. I heard him say, “When I was in Siberia…,” but the rest was too quiet for me to hear.

  Mom noticed me and tried to draw her hands away from Mr. Chambliss, but his hands just followed, until Mom was clutching them to her chest along with her own.

  “I’ll come back,” I managed, and headed down the hall, feeling stunned, slightly embarrassed, and happy for Mom. Their body language said there was something between them. I hoped things worked out for once. Mr. Chambliss was one of my favorite people on the planet.

  I passed Rebe’s room and nearly burst out laughing when I saw her and Boob sitting shoulder to shoulder on her cot. Another blossoming couple? I picked up my pace, not wanting to pry.

  Then their facial expressions registered, and I backtracked. They were watching TV, both looking like they’d eaten something rotten.

  On the screen a line of tanks rolled down a city street strewn with bodies. The tanks rolled right over the bodies and through thick black smoke. The sound of explosions and gunfire punctuated the scene.

  “Are we being invaded?”

  “No. The army is fighting itself,” Rebe said without looking at me.

  I cursed under my breath. The day before, there’d been a standoff at the Pentagon. The secretary of state had claimed he was in charge, while the four-star general in charge of Vitnik’s Elite Guard (Vitnik was still in hiding) insisted she was still in charge. There was no mention of General Austin, the chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs. The secretary of state had pulled out a truth app and began interrogating the general, who tried to look like he was storming off indignantly, when he was clearly fleeing. No one in power wanted to answer questions with a truth app pointed at them.

  I wondered about General Austin. She’d been the first to defy Vitnik, and she’d done it in public, with truth apps pointed at her. I wondered if we should reach out to her and see how she responded.

  Molly appeared in the doorway holding Basquiat’s hand. They joined us.

  It seemed as if all anyone cared about was seeing people nailed by truth apps, whether it was world leaders, religious figures, teachers, or their next-door neighbors. The Internet was packed with videos of “gotcha” truth app confrontations.

  “I honestly thought we were going to make things better,” Molly whispered.

  I wanted to tell her we were—we were making things better, but it was impossible not to draw a straight line from the truth apps to the street battle on TV.

  We hadn’t understood just how many secrets were out there. At seventeen we didn’t have spouses to cheat on or employers to embezzle from. That wasn’t to say there weren’t many people out there who had nothing of consequence to hide, who were going about their honest lives, heads high. You just didn’t hear much about them as liar after liar was exposed. And it seemed as if the higher you got in the echelons of power, the more people had to hide. Was it true that the rich and powerful weren’t smarter and more talented than the rest of us, just more willing to lie and cheat to get what they wanted? Maybe that was my cynicism talking. Maybe the lies the rich and powerful told just resulted in larger consequences.

  Rebe switched to US Green, one of the midlevel news channels. It was showing a feed from someone in Saint Louis, where members of the local chapter of the pilgrims of Truth were going door to door through a suburban neighborhood. It was incredible how quickly the Pilgrim movement was spreading.

  On the stock market, half the listings had been suspended; the only stocks still being traded were companies that made basic necessities. And weapons.

  Basquiat sprang to his feet. “We need to stop. The more apps we sell, the worse things get.”

  His words startled me. Every tragedy that could be traced back to the truth app was like a punch in the face, but it felt like we were all in, like there was no going back. We had to have faith that in the long run, the truth was better than lies.

  “What would it accomplish to stop now?” I asked. “We’ve open-sourced the plans. There are dozens of other factories making them. We can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube.”

  “So we might as well get rich off our doomsday machine?” Basquiat said. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It’s not a doomsday machine. It’s the truth. The lies were the doomsday machine.”

  “That’s a rationalization.” Boob threw his hands in the air in frustration. “When exactly did this become a crusade? We were developing a product so we could make money. All of a sudden it became about saving the world.”

 
“It was always about saving the world for Theo. And the product was his idea to begin with.”

  Molly was staring at her hands as she picked at her fingernails. She’d believed so strongly in the truth app; she’d been the one who showed me Theo’s blog, which changed my mind. Had she changed her mind? I felt backed against a wall. No one was taking my side.

  I pulled up Theo’s blog on my phone and scrolled through it, reading passages at random, looking for one I’d read weeks ago.

  “What are you doing?” Boob asked.

  “Theo should get a say in this.”

  It wasn’t the passage I’d been searching for, but when I saw the words, I was so startled I lost the spot and had to find it again. It was as if Theo was speaking into my ear from his grave.

  “Here.” I expanded the screen so everyone could see it, then read aloud, “ ‘Our leaders don’t know how to tell the truth, and they’re too old to learn. Our institutions may not be able to handle what we’re going to unleash, but it’s a cancer. We have to cut it out, even if, like surgery, it hurts.’ ”

  “Theo wrote that months ago,” Basquiat said. “We don’t know if he’d have the same opinion once he saw what was going on.”

  Mom and Mr. Chambliss appeared in the hallway. They’d probably heard our rising voices and come to investigate.

  “Mr. Chambliss, what’s happening out there?” I asked, seeking an ally who was still alive.

  He shrugged. “I don’t really know, Sam. Things are getting worse. Not that they were good to begin with.”

  “Could this be growing pains? Could we end up better off in the end, or is everything going to keep getting worse until it all collapses?”

  “I think either outcome is possible at this point, depending on how things unfold from here.”

  Rebe had switched back to News America.

  Roshanna Lupe was smiling brightly, like it was all sunny days on the horizon as far as the eye could see. “Authorities are asking people in the following cities to stay in their homes while the police, with support from military forces, get the situation under control. Food and fuel rationing remain in effect….” She trailed off, studying her coanchor, who was smirking and shaking his head. “What’s that you’ve got there, Rob? Is that a tattletale machine?”

  Rob was indeed wearing a truth app. I hadn’t noticed. “It’s a good thing our viewers can’t watch you through this thing because, whew”—he shook his hand like he was extinguishing a match—“is that needle dancing.”

  If looks could kill, Rob would have burst into flames. “You want the truth, Rob? Is that what you want?” Roshanna looked at the camera. “All righty. I’m not sure who’s in charge, folks. We’ve got a civil war raging across this beautiful country of ours, while right across the river in Trenton, on Industrial Drive, the bastards responsible for it go on cranking out their tattletale machines, and no one is doing a damned thing about it.” She looked at her coanchor. “How’d I do that time, Rob? Did I tell the truth?”

  Rob gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Did she just give out our location?” Rebe asked.

  “You want a little more honesty?” Roshanna went on. “When it comes to President Vitnik, I don’t think things are as simple as the tattletale machines claim. What I do know is our dear president was keeping this country functioning.” She looked right into the camera. “Save us from this anarchy, Madam President.”

  Roshanna Lupe and her sidekick had me fooled for a minute. I thought they were finally off script, but it had been nothing but carefully rehearsed theater designed to help Vitnik.

  “We’re bugging out in ten minutes. Pack up.” Mr. Chambliss went onto the catwalk overlooking the factory floor, stuck his fingers in his mouth, and whistled. “Mott. There’s a mob heading our way. Ten minutes.”

  “I’ll find Beltane and get weapons.” Mom headed for the stairs.

  We looked like a band of aliens in disguise, everyone’s faces framed in ovals by the catsuit hoods. Our eighty-odd veterans-turned-factory-workers were crowded near the doors, with Cliff in the middle handing out cash to make sure everyone could get home once they were out of here.

  “Get in the van,” Beltane said to us. Then she turned to our workers. “Haul ass. Keep up with the van.”

  Except that made no sense, because we were wearing bulletproof catsuits and they weren’t. While Beltane readied the security forces, I picked the slower-looking workers out and put them in the van. Kelsey, who was driving, didn’t protest.

  I spotted Mom near the door, rifle in hand. I wasn’t sure if she’d told Beltane to take charge, or if Beltane had just seen Mom wasn’t up to it. Either way, Beltane was clearly in charge.

  “Let’s move out.” Beltane pressed the button to open the big garage door. It rose with a mechanical hum. As soon as it was high enough, Kelsey gunned the van. I jogged behind it, Molly to my left, Basquiat to my right, Boob, Rebe, and Mott on our heels. There were maybe thirty people standing near the fence, nowhere near enough to pose a threat. They backed off as one of the bionic vets pushed the gate open.

  It was like being in a strange parade. We jogged behind the van down the mostly deserted road, passing industrial sites surrounded by chain-link fences.

  Behind us, our helicopter rose; a moment later, it was hovering overhead. Vets ran along either side of our contingent, their heaters now holstered, assault rifles in hand.

  A mile from the factory, Mott pointed out a black van parked in an empty lot. “That’s my ride. I can take about ten people and make sure they get where they’re going.”

  She pulled ten workers from the crowd and headed for the van with a wave. “We’re not done. I’ll be in touch.”

  We jogged into town puffing and sweating in the chilly air. Our employees gradually peeled away, heading home by bus or rental car. We dropped the last of them at the bus station, climbed into the van, and headed for the highway, the helicopter still shadowing us. Traffic was dominated by pedestrians and bicycles, which slowed us considerably. I had no idea where we were going.

  News America was running a live feed of a mob tearing up our abandoned factory. Some of the microchannels were showing it, too, only their feeds also showed the mob looting truth apps. Sure, they wanted us to stop making them…right after they got theirs. Another feed opened on News America—a close-up of a face I was hoping I’d never have to see again.

  Vitnik was standing on the White House lawn, surrounded by soldiers. In the background crews were working to repair the damage to the White House. Vitnik claimed she was the country’s democratically elected leader, that insurgencies would be put down and traitors brought to swift justice. Including us.

  “Except the microchannels are saying forty to fifty percent of the military is not backing her,” Rebe said.

  “What the hell is that?” Boob was looking out the window. Off to our left, parachutes dotted the steel-gray sky, drifting toward rooftops two or three blocks away.

  Kelsey craned his neck. “Vitnik’s Elite Guard. About thirty.”

  A thump on my window made me jump. “Cut your feeds!” Beltane shouted through the glass.

  Rebe cut her feed.

  Kelsey turned right, following the vets leading the way.

  “If they have access to satellite output, they can still track us with our feeds cut,” Rebe said.

  We couldn’t move very fast because of the bicyclists and pedestrians. I unzipped my backpack and pulled out my handgun as Beltane shouted something outside. The vets spread out, some to the sidewalks, others running ahead of the van or dropping behind.

  “Get low. Watch in the directions I can’t,” Kelsey said.

  I ducked between the seats. We were on a side street, four-story brick tenements on either side.

  “If there’s shooting, cover your face with your forearms,” Kelsey said.r />
  Beltane leaped onto a moving bus and dropped to her stomach, rifle raised.

  The windows shattered inward. Shards of glass rained down as I dropped to the floor and wrapped my arms around my face.

  Pain tore through my thigh, like someone had hit me with a nail sticking out of a plank. I cried out just as I was hit again, below the shoulder blade. Then again in the ass. I curled up into a ball as two more bullets struck me. The suit wasn’t working—I could feel the bullets tearing into me as my friends cried out in pain.

  “Drone bomber!” Kelsey shouted.

  An explosion swallowed all other sound. My skin was suddenly hot, my mouth and nose filled with smoke as the van plunged nose-first, as if dropping off a cliff. An instant later, it slammed to a halt.

  Someone was pulling my arm. I was confused about where I was. Then it came back to me. I’d blacked out for a moment.

  “We have to get out!” It was Molly, shouting over gunfire.

  I coughed; pain ripped through my rib cage, and I remembered that I’d been shot five or six times. Only there was no blood. The suit had worked. It had just felt like I was being riddled with bullets.

  I struggled to my knees. The van had crashed into a deep gash in the road caused by the explosion. A drone must have tried to drop a bomb on the van and missed. We’d be an easier target now that we weren’t moving.

  “Kelsey?” Basquiat was in the front seat. Kelsey lay motionless on the giant marshmallow airbag.

  I took a step, my legs trembling wildly, as Basquiat reached Kelsey and unbuckled his seat belt. He grabbed Kelsey’s shoulders, slid an arm between his chest and the airbag, and tried to lift him.

  “Oh God.” Basquiat set Kelsey back down and turned away. “He’s gone. Go.”

  I stared at the back of Kelsey’s unmoving head. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Basquiat’s voice broke. “Go.”

  I climbed out of the van. Across the street, a building was in flames. Two silver drone bombers the size of kites cruised overhead.