by Joe Jarvis
"They’re the minority though," Molly humbly downplayed her skills. "Most of my cases play out in the court of public opinion."
"Just as useful! Sometimes hitting them right in the bank account is the most appropriate punishment anyway!" Otto said as he made a slow punching motion. "Anyway keep up the good work, you are invaluable to me and to this company, and I shudder to think what businesses the good people of New England would patronize without your journalism to guide them!"
And with that, Otto was off leaving Molly smiling and shaking her head modestly. It feels good to be appreciated.
Molly had been courted by a few different arbitration agencies, some offering her a decent raise compared to her current journalist salary, but she loved reporting, and did fine financially. If she went into arbitration, Molly thought she would want to start her own firm. She had been laying quite the foundation for a solid career in the field with her high-quality-reports over the past decade.
Molly was becoming something of an expert on the interactions of people and groups. The non-aggression principle was the foundation for modern common law – no victim, no crime – but there were always disputes on what constituted aggression, and what the victim could do to respond. She studied these cases, analyzing arbitration outcomes and retribution, in order to better scrutinize arbitration agencies and security companies.
For instance, an "equal and opposite reaction" was considered appropriate for a violation of a person’s rights. This meant that if someone trespassed on your property without knowing it, the appropriate response was to escort them off, and shooting them would not be considered an "equal" reaction to the violation (unless of course they had exhibited violent behavior towards the property owner).
Molly learned over time that it was a fine line for arbiters to walk, keeping their customers happy, but also making sure that outsiders were treated fairly. Otherwise the legitimacy of the arbiter would falter, and companies and individuals would stop doing business with them out of fear of unfair treatment themselves, or the desire to not be party to aggression. Vigilant patrons and the public policed arbitration agencies which had on some occasions gone under after a single misstep.
Even less important businesses were not immune to rapid boycott, when it became an overnight faux pas to patronize them. This sometimes happened if it got out that an employee, or a customer had been treated poorly, or if an adap expelled a zero-profit-generating-tenant. The fear of public backlash also contributed to why companies like UtopaCorp would hire pretty much anybody as long as they were willing to follow their rules.
Molly also found it useful and interesting to study groups who did not like the commercial world. Some people preferred to exit it completely, or only use the modern economy for certain high tech medical needs, or the occasional harder-to-come-by product. There were plenty of little neighborhoods and communities around where like-minded people joined together to form their own mini economy. Most of these were agriculture-based, involving many people who enjoyed working outside and with their hands making natural products and living a simpler life. Or sometimes their lives would be just as high tech, but the inhabitants just preferred to consort with their selected group. They would often have their own systems of property ownership and conflict resolution.
Only in extremely rare cases did a security company have to visit these mini societies for a breach of contract on behalf of an outside victim. And like businesses, if the microcosm cared about their public image – which admittedly some of them didn’t – they would give the occasional interested reporter a taste of what life was like in their world, and let the public know if they were free to join, they had to know someone, or couldn't get in even if they wanted too.
Over the decades a few sketchy cult-like communities cropped up, but each time a victim would leave and the perpetrators would be brought to justice on the victim’s behalf when the word got out, collapsing the settlement. There were groups that performed a charity service of finding victims of crimes who could not, for whatever reason, find protection, or bring the assailant to justice. Also, professional bounty hunters made it so that criminals had nowhere to hide in the shrinking world where you could get practically anywhere on earth within 8 hours from some combination of modern travel – usually magnet pods, but also space planes, and skyships.
But there were plenty of places the mag-pods didn’t go, because the people in the area had no interest. Or, in some areas just one pod terminal was required for thousands of residents, for occasional long distance travel.
The midwest of North America was host to several large societies with preordained rules that people had to follow in order to live there. The land would be owned by one person or group, and in order to rent or buy it, the buyer would have to agree to the owner’s rules, and this was the basis for "law" in the region. The attraction was bundled services and a sense of community.
In this way it was much like a town, where if people liked the system set up by the property owner, they would move there, and if not, they would move away. When major grievances arose against a town or city (i.e. if crime rates rose, or it was hard to do what you wanted), it was common to see a rival town spring up just miles away, attracting the disenfranchised folks from the other place. Since these towns were run like corporations, attracting townspeople with good rules and convenient services was necessary, and this created constant competition to form better and better towns where people wanted to live.
If a town became a cartel, and forced their will on people in a particular area without their consent, there were plenty of companies for hire that would set them straight, backed by arbiters who would essentially legitimize a company’s response to violations of others’ rights, by investigating, weighing the evidence, and offering guidelines and backing for an appropriate response.
In other communities rules were looser, and shunning was the most practical form of punishment for non-serious crimes. The Amish carried on, pretty much as they always had, and other groups adopted a more technologically advanced and less repressive version of their societies.
The so-called "social contract" was not forced on people based on geography, but was rather agreed to by people deciding to join a community or not. Since there were many options, anyone could easily choose another microcosm to inhabit without having to move around the world… although moving around the world was also pretty easy. And some people just decided to go live alone, or with a small group, take their protection into their own hands, make and grow most of what they needed and otherwise find those to trade with. They weren’t bothered by anyone who valued his own life and freedom.
And there it was, the crack in Barry’s records. Molly jolted to attention as she saw that Barry had used 5,000 units of a particular currency to pay bills in the last two years, while only officially bringing in 2,000 units. Since the currency was introduced two years ago, it was impossible that he had retained some from earlier years. It was however possible, that the money was acquired legitimately from the private sale of assets, or investment income – though the latter was unlikely based on Barry’s claim that his hesitation on providing records was due to his investments performing poorly. Molly’s next step would be to check into any sales Barry made of homes, vehicles or other large assets over the last two years, which she began immediately, invigorated by her find. It was like solving puzzles to Molly; this was why she loved her job so much.
Trix sat in his adap, watching TV. He was trying to hold off on getting high for a couple more hours so that he wouldn’t have to buy more drugs that day, and he could save the few dollars he had scrounged together. He was thinking about getting a decent meal for once. Of course his version of a decent meal was fast food – healthier than pre-collapse fast food, but still the worst option out there. When the wall with video ads popped up with an advertisement for the Sandwich Shack, showing a grilled fish sandwich from all angles, complete with fire potatoes and carbonated ice tea, his mind was made up. He flicked off the TV, and
left the adap to stop by the Sandwich Shack.
Some Sandwich Shacks were small buildings, while others were just booths or kiosks with one or more stations, but none of them had full time workers. The busiest and upscale locations had a service technician standing by during peak hours, but most were only visited by company employees for cleaning and maintenance. The ingredients were shipped in through vacuum tubes fed directly into fast food units.
It was only one block for Trix to the nearest street kiosk for the Sandwich Shack; just two wall units right off the sidewalk, with nowhere to sit. Trix simply walked up to the screen on the sidewalk and ordered from the digital menu. Everything was automated, and his meal popped out next to him in the cubby with a clear hatch that unlocked when the order was ready. The hatch lifted, and Trix took his meal on the tray, and transferred it into one of the to-go bags provided.
Fried food had never made an immense resurgence since the New Dark Ages and the aftermath when cooking oil was more scarce, and would instead be used to coat potatoes – or more often dandelion root or Jerusalem artichoke – and bake them causing a similar crispy effect. But grilling had been the most popular cooking method after the collapse, over wood fire usually, except inside Food Corp where they still used mostly electric stoves and ovens. Soda had turned into various carbonated beverages from flavored water, to the more typical sweetened drink, as well as a plethora of sparkling juices and concoctions.
Trix decided to take a short walk to eat his meal in a park paved with white stone, on a bench under some oak and maple trees. There was a fountain in the middle made of marble, with the water pouring out of a man’s cupped hands. It was the owner of the adjacent outdoor shopping plaza who had built the park to attract shoppers and allow them to enjoy the scenery while shopping or with their food, and he was vain enough to place his own marble likeness prominently at an entranceway.
Every bite of the fish sandwich tasted so delicious to Trix that he wondered for a second if he was high, before realizing the natural joy he was getting from a simple meal. So he slowed down and made sure to soak in the moment, a rare one that felt good without drugs. It was later afternoon before he got back to his adap, having taken the long way home to enjoy the weather for a nice walk.
He was also trying to prolong his time sober. He had nowhere to go but home, and knew that once he got home he would just get high. It depressed him, only because he had found simple joy in eating his lunch. Even when he arrived back in his apartment, as the advertisements flickered on talking about vacationing in Iceland, he actually scooped some of the trash that was on the floor into the bin, pushed it down with a greasy box, tied it, and threw it down the garbage shoot at the end of the hall. The shoot led to trash pods, transported to waste management facilities through the same main pod system used for travel. He couldn't find any other trash bags though… in fact Trix wondered how he had gotten the last one.
Trix then spent another minute or two making things a bit neater in his adap, although it mostly amounted to moving things from one place to another, perhaps placed in slightly more organized piles. Then he flicked on the TV, grabbed his EZject, plopped down on his mattress, packed up the cartridge, and injected. Trix drifted off imagining himself in a geyser fed natural hot tub and taking a mud bath.
The agents did not wear any identifying insignia. Efforts had been taken to obscure where their pay stemmed from – their pay was kept off the books, as was their job description. The two agents wore suits typical of an investigator, inconspicuous, dark, with mundane silver- colored badges. They also wore sunglasses so no one could tell where they were looking. The sunglasses were screen lensed; the agents had all the best technology and any piece of relevant information literally right in front of their eyes, controlled by thought with EEG detectors. The first time they visited this adap building they followed the GPS on their tiny screens, but this time they remembered where it was.
The two agents could be mistaken for brothers with their glasses on, because they were about the same height, late thirties, average to muscular build, strong-jawed, confident eyes, and a tendency to wear the slightest smirk on their face, as if they were getting the better of everyone they met. Their eyes, apart from the similar tenacity, showed the difference of the two that no one ever saw. The difference that was noticed by those who dealt with the two agents was their good cop/bad cop personas, and their hair. "Good cop" was referred to as Agent White who had the lighter hair, blue eyes, and a slightly smaller build, and "bad cop" was Agent Orange, dark haired speckled with gray, brown eyes and square shoulders. They were self branded names that the partners found humorous. They adopted this persona in order to fulfill their jobs, which usually bordered on legitimate, but on the wrong side of the line.
They would deliver messages and arrange certain meetings. They would hire particular types of employees for one time jobs, sometimes clean up a mess themselves, or do the dirty work in rough investigations. But officially they had no business with anyone. Those for whom they fulfilled contracts wanted to be able to distance themselves from the agents, if the need arose.
They walked through the wide hallway of the adap with kiosks and shops lining the walls, and took the elevator to the second floor. The advertisements were random, since technology in the agents’ glasses jammed the facial recognition which would have tailored the ads. They walked only a few feet down the hall before stopping in front of a door with chipping paint. Agent White knocked.
Trix was sitting up on his mattress slumped with his back against the wall, staring in the general direction of the TV. He was actually focused behind the TV, distracted by the ad on the screen wall in the background which was promoting some brand of toilet paper. There were some strange animated animals soaring through the sky with a rainbow trailing behind them. The EZject was lying on the floor a few inches away from his upward facing palm which was relaxed on the floor, his left arm hanging off the mattress.
At the first knock Trix didn't seem to notice the slight banging on the door, on the second knock he slowly turned to look at the door, as if he would be able to see through it. His mouth drooped slightly open with a little dried white drool on either side of his lips, his eyes half closed, with each blink lasting longer than usual. Trix felt like each time his eyes closed a wave crashed over his apartment, and as they reopened the wave receded back into the ocean, complete with the shwoosh sound of lightly pounding currents, and the feeling of being immersed in cool salty water with fractured light flickering through.
On the third knock Trix finally responded, "Whoisit?" a bit slurred.
"It's Agent White, open up Trix," the agent said calmly.
There was a pause. "I don't have to let you in," Trix slowly responded without moving, in the same emotionless tone.
"Yea, but you probably want to," Agent Orange chimed in, with a smirk infecting his voice.
Silence. The two agents exchanged a glance and waited.
"It’s a job offer Trix," Agent White added in a tone of comforting a sick child.
Another twenty seconds passed before the door was opened part way, and Trix's tired face, still expressionless peeked out.
"Can we talk inside?" White said in the same tone.
Trix turned and walked into his apartment, leaving the door open for the Agents to come in. He sat down on his bed as the agents glanced around, again exchanged a quick look, and remained standing facing Trix as he lethargically lit a cigarette.
Agent White stood with his hands clasped, arms relaxed. Agent Orange stood with his arms crossed.
"We have a job offer for you Trix, but it's a little more serious than last time. You're not going to be simply transferring a suitcase." Agent White explained. Trix wasn't looking at them. The agents waited for a response.
"So? What is it?" asked Trix annoyed, finally looking up at the agents with bloodshot eyes.
"Well, first..." Agent Orange took an envelope out of his jacket pocket, "We want you to see what we're offering
." He tossed the envelope onto the bed next to Trix.
Trix took another drag on his cigarette, and left it in his mouth as he reached for the envelope without excitement. "Jesus," it was an exclamation though subdued and emotionless. "Do I even want to know what the job is?" Trix flicked the envelope back onto the bed where Agent Orange had tossed it. A few of the fifteen notes were visible. They were each 100 unit notes from AtlantiTrade.
AtlantiTrade was a worldwide investment firm that traded stocks, bought up currencies, and issued their own currency. It was so widespread with so many various transactions taking place that it was a difficult currency to track, being preferred by those who didn't want anyone to find out where particular funds came from or went. While the notes were coded to prevent forgeries, the codes were encrypted so that AtlantiTrade didn't know which notes had been issued or redeemed by particular individuals depositing or withdrawing them from banks. One unit of AtlantiTrade was worth about 35 dollars. The agents were offering 1,500 units.
"So what do you think Trix, are you interested?" Agent White asked.
"You haven't told me what I'm supposed to do."
The agents hesitated, and glanced at one another. Agent Orange gave a slight shrug to White. "We need some files to be destroyed, and in the process, we need the owner of those files... deleted as well," Agent White explained, while Agent Orange smiled and suppressed a chuckle at White's choice of words.
"Pff." Trix shook his head slowly without looking up and took the final drag on his cigarette, putting it out in the ashtray on the windowsill. "I'm not a murderer," he said calmly exhaling the smoke, finally meeting eyes – or sunglasses rather – with the agents.
"Trix," began Agent Orange, as a coach might begin an inspirational speech to an athlete, "sometimes, there are problems that can't be handled in a normal way. Sometimes... the outcome of not going above the law would be worse than the suffering caused by letting things play out on their own."
