The Mother Earth Insurgency
by J.G. Follansbee
Winner of an Honorable Mention
in the 2017 Writers of the Future Contest
©2017 Joseph G. Follansbee / Fyddeye Media
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9849054-3-0
Seattle, Wash., USA
Cover art by Christian Bentulan
http://coversbychristian.com/
Editorial consulting by John Paine Editorial Services
http://www.johnpaine.com/
Proofreading by Edith Follansbee
For Edith
I
The rubber slug glanced off Nick Sorrows' cheekbone, gashing the skin deep enough to make a scar certain. It stung, but he welcomed the laceration. The blood infiltrating the stubble on his jaw hid his intent and reduced the chance he might hesitate.
He stumbled forward, eyes on his quarry, a single individual ahead of him in the angry crowd. A surge carried him toward the police cordon, each officers' truncheon at the ready. He pressed his right hand to his bleeding check and his left hand on the backs and shoulders of other demonstrators to maintain his balance.
He was part of the seething mass, but not with it. He chanted the protest slogans, but he didn't sing them as a true believer. Nick was like the nano-bots that stalked free-floating cancer cells in the bloodstream. His target was Jon Janicks. Could he stop Janicks before his insurgents assassinated another green energy investor? Maybe Janicks was after a Great Basin solar farm, or one of the Santa Barbara tidal energy converters. Nick had to know.
Debris sailed over his head from the protesters behind him. Cops launched tear gas canisters in response. Nick kept his one eye not obscured by swelling skin and sticky mucus on the man with a 10-centimeter, hairless scar on his scalp. Janicks was a predator, like a tiger or a snake, invisible in his hideouts, staying quiet until he struck. Nick had caught up to him after weeks of following his trail, but doubts dogged the undercover agent. The protest was perfect cover, but would he recognize the time to act? Would he have the nerve?
Like a seawall, the triple line of cops protected the entrance to the hotel where the Consortium CEOs were meeting. The officers' faces were determined but fearful behind their masks. Raindrops glittered like jewels on their helmets. The sergeant droned at the marchers about clearing the area. On either end of the cordon, anchoring it like buttresses, stood the security bots, their ostrich-like bodies sharpening the atmosphere of incipient violence.
Nick was about to grab a handful of Janicks' vinyl jacket when the terrorist reached for the semi-automatic pistol in the jacket's pocket. His hand centimeters from the weapon, Janicks was seconds from taking out a cop or a demonstrator and transforming the raucous protest into a full-blown riot. It didn't make sense, though. Janicks was smarter than that. Nick weighed his options: let the gun go off and keep his cover, or stop Janicks there and then. He'd resist the latter choice until the last second, but he'd waited too long once before, and it had cost lives.
Janicks removed the pistol from his jacket and lifted it.
A concussion grenade detonated at Janicks' feet. Nick's Army training kept him focused, but acrid smoke and orange sparks enveloped Nick and Janicks and a half-dozen other demonstrators. A security bot emerged from the cloud, its spike-like staser deployed, the hiss-hiss of its actuators as terrifying as the deadly energy weapon. Nick's ears rang like a church bell as he spun around looking for Janicks, finding him sprawled on the asphalt.
The cops charged, changing the equation. Nick fell forward, feigning injury and crawling toward Janicks. The prone man waved to ward off the truncheons that swung like swords. Nick raised an arm over Janicks protectively, and a club landed on the back of his hand. Pain shot through his arm and into his ribs, but his eyes were on Janicks' gun hand, which was empty. Another cloud of tear gas floated over them and Nick snagged Janicks' jacket with his bloody fingers.
A second line of police rushed forward. Two pounced on Nick and Janicks, screaming GETDOWNGETDOWN, pushing both men's faces into the wet pavement. The laceration on Nick's cheek screamed painful orders to run and hide from the helmeted demons, but he locked his arm around Janicks', because his mission mattered more than a few cuts and bruises.
The officers patted down every inch of their prizes and turned out every pocket. Nick had no weapons and neither did Janicks. The gun was lost after the grenade knocked everyone senseless. Cuffs went on the men's wrists and they were hauled to their feet.
For the first time, Nick met Janicks face to face. “You okay, brother?”
Janicks' ice-like blue eyes regarded Nick. “What's it to you?”
“I saw you go down. Solidarity, my friend.”
The cops told the arrested perps to shut up and pushed them toward the curb. A dozen other arrested protesters sat with knees to their chest or legs splayed in front. All were cuffed at the elbows and wrists. A medic tended to scrapes and cuts; Nick's looked worse than it was. The agent kept his attention on Janicks as the target studied his surroundings. Dossiers give you a lot of facts about targets, but they don't say anything about their souls. Accustomed to making snap judgments, Nick pegged Janicks as everything he expected: ruthless, murderous, and utterly without fear or feeling.
He set out to become Janicks' next volunteer.
◆◆◆
The paddy wagon transported Nick and Janicks to an empty school gym. The cops expected hundreds of arrests from the protest and the anarchistic opponents to the Consortium and its plan to consolidate clean energy didn't disappoint them. Nick stood behind Janicks in a queue.
“Been arrested before?”
Janicks barely turned to acknowledge Nick's question.
“I was in Chicago and London,” Nick said, “but I managed to avoid the cops. Seattle's the first time I've been busted.”
Janicks ignored Nick.
“It's kind of exciting, don't you think?”
Janicks' look of contempt would've melted lead.
“I mean, no one wants to be arrested, I suppose, but it's, like, making a statement, that you're willing to sacrifice for the cause, know what I mean?”
Janicks lifted a corner of his mouth. “And exactly what cause is that?”
“Against corporate energy, the Consortium, right? Inequality, everything.” Nick offered a puzzled expression. “Against corporations, well, because they're corporations.”
The line shuffled toward a table. If Nick had the luxury of breaking character, he would've laughed at his silly pabulum about corporate power. Good companies had hired his mother to make sure the Carbon Laws were followed after the string of Cat 5 hurricanes during the Year of Storms remade Florida into an archipelago. And Angela, his ex-wife, had gotten an engineering job with SpaceLift. She was rising fast, in a manner of speaking.
A uniformed officer with three stripes on her sleeve asked each of the prisoners a few questions and touched a keypad. Licking his lips, Janicks scanned the crowd, as if searching for an escape route. Nick chatted with others in line, keeping one eye on Janicks.
As Janicks answered the sergeant's standard questions, she watched his face and eyes. Folding her hands, she nodded to a flak-jacketed street officer, who ordered Janicks to a group of detainees separate from the mass of miscreants. Nick noted Janicks' anxiety. He'd relieve it soon, if Janicks took the bait.
When Nick's turn came to answer the seated officer's questions, he delivered the ones he'd planned, along with his controller at the Bureau of Environmental Security. He pr
ayed the identity database had been modified; he hadn't time to double-check the BES records. The officer tapped the keys, and Nick forced back a sigh of relief when he was taken to the segregated group.
In front of Janicks, he feigned his own anxiety. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “They want to ask me some more questions. Is that what she said to you?”
Nick's target wavered, as if uncertain whether to share his nervousness with a stranger. Nick had taken a blow with a billy club to protect a “brother.” Maybe he'd feel a sense of gratitude. So Nick hoped.
“Yeah, questions,” Janicks said.
“What sort of questions?”
Janicks folded his arms and turned away, ending the dialog.
One by one, the other segregated detainees went through a door marked “Men's Locker Room,” whether they were male or female. None came out. With one detainee left before Janicks' turn came, Nick nudged him.
The target regarded Nick as he might an insect.
“Hey, brother, this is kind of a last resort, but I think I can get us out of here in one piece.”
“Fuck off.”
“The cops missed this.” With a quick move, Nick reached down into his crotch and pulled out a flat, flexible piece of plastic small enough to hide in the palm of his hand. Holding it close to his body, he ran his finger along one edge, and text characters flowed in.
Janicks' attitude changed 180 degrees. He was curious. “What are you doing?”
“What's your universal ID number?”
“My what?”
“C'mon man, we've only got a couple of minutes.”
Clearing his throat, Janicks gave it to him.
“Now I'll enter mine,” Nick said, tapping the plastic without a sound. “Okay, listen to me. When the cops start talking to you, tell them this.” Nick wove a lie, but he knew the outcome.
“Why should I trust you?”
“You want to end up in the hole?”
Janicks considered the possibility of imprisonment. He nodded his thanks. And then he smiled.
It hooked you, as sure as a wriggling worm triggered a fish's urge to strike.
A plainclothes detective came for Janicks. Nick offered a tiny grin to give his quarry confidence, and ward off his charisma.
A few minutes later, the detective came for Nick, and the incognito agent told his own lie. The detective tapped at his version of the police sergeant's keyboard. The cops released Nick, sending him out a side door.
Night had fallen, and Nick was blind in the darkness. An arm shoved him into the concrete wall, opening up the cut on his face. For an instant, Nick was back in the mountains of South Asia with an extremist mullah in his face. Janicks had the same look, as if he'd slice you open from navel to neck and sleep like a baby ten minutes later. No smile here.
“Who the fuck are you?” Janicks spat in Nick's ear and wrenched Nick's wrist. “What do you want?”
“Hey man, that hurts.” Nick's wrist was close to breaking. “I'm just trying to help. We're supposed to help each other, all for the cause.”
“You fucked with the records. How?”
“Christ, you can download anything off the dark com. I have a skill or two,” Nick said. The BES had its own tricks.
“You're annoying me. What if I killed you right now?”
Nick managed a shrug. “Not exactly an expression of gratitude.” He smelled his target's breath, dark and heavy with cynicism.
With a push, Janicks stepped back and walked away.
Nick watched his tall, thin body dissolve into the night. He was ready to deliver his punchline. “Hey, Jon.”
Janicks kept going. “Stay away from me.”
“I've been looking for you for months.”
Janicks halted. He flexed his fingers, as if debating whether to close them around a throat. The target took another step.
Nick took on a different mien. “I know who you are. I want to be part of the Insurgency.”
II
Nick followed Janicks to the parking lot a few blocks from the gym, and when the public self-driving car arrived, Nick stood close. He couldn't force his way in, but he waited for an invitation. It came, though Janicks programmed the car's destination.
“Where are we going?” One of Janicks' trademarks was his network of spider holes; Nick's controller wanted to know where he was going next. Or at least where Nick's bullet-riddled body might be dumped.
“You'll see.”
Nick checked the on-board water stash. “Empty. You'd think our tax dollars would at least keep a couple of bottles around in an emergency. What if we break down in the middle of the New Desert?” The mid-continent desertification hadn't reached this far west, but maybe Janicks would respond to humor.
“You talk a lot, Sorrows.”
“That's 'SOH rohs.'”
“Really. May I call you 'Nick?'” He was the opposite of cordial.
“Of course.”
Nick decided not to annoy Janicks with chattiness. The terrorist ignored Nick for the rest of the trip, though the hairs on his arm tingled with the occasional glance. As part of his cover, Nick masked his always-on digital identity, which was broadcast through his minds-eye com implants. Anyone could access him through the worldwide communication network, but his real identity was buried deep in the Bureau of Environmental Security's servers. No security protocol was perfect, but no government or private group had penetrated BES's servers. At least, that's what the techies said. He sent his status to BES headquarters in Eugene. The encoded acknowledgment returned within seconds.
Janicks' identity was masked as well, but Nick had already infiltrated the layers of false and anonymized identities. That's how he tracked Janicks to Seattle. The leader of the Mother Earth Insurgency glanced again in Nick's direction, as if checking on a sudden insight, but Nick's confidence in his digital veil held. It need only last until he knew Janicks' target. Then he'd disappear.
He hoped his BES defenses would last. He'd never gone this deep into a case before, but Janicks had already blown other agents' covers. Nick was the last arrow in the quiver.
As the car cruised south, the possible destinations narrowed to one: Takilma.
After an all-night drive, the public car turned left onto Oregon 46, then left again onto the road that hugs the East Fork of the Illinois River. An old mining settlement in a narrow mountain valley, Takilma was populated by hippies, artists, black-market mist producers, and assorted misfits.
The car halted in front of a building at least 200 years old. The unpainted, rough-hewn siding had bleached to the color of a sweat-soaked t-shirt. The floorboards creaked like an elderly cat. The most recent exterior decor was a solar panel mounted on a steel pole streaked with rust. A bell on the door tinkled, and Nick smelled lavender and beeswax.
He also smelled wood smoke, but that was impossible. Wood burning was banned under the Carbon Laws.
On the store's half-bare shelves, no national brand names or packages screamed for attention. Instead, labels announced “hand-made,” “true organic,” “locally grown,” or “no waste.” There was honey in jars with red-and-white checked lids, peanut butter cookies with cross-hatches made by forks, and fresh loaves of bread piled in a wicker basket. Stuck on the basket rim was a hand-lettered sign that read, “Two euros a loaf or 30 minutes chopping wood at Momma’s place.”
“Can I help you?” The raspy voice belonged to a fit, gray-haired man about seventy in faded overalls. His full beard featured a single thin ponytail that reached down to his navel. His face scrunched in recognition and sadness, as if he saw a terrible future. “Jon Janicks.”
“Good to see you again, Bobcat.”
Near the old man was a six-inch square of plywood with painted letters: We have no gas, so don’t ask. No one had sold gasoline anywhere for a dozen years. “You're looking for Georgia.” Bobcat stated the fact with a sigh.
“Is she here?”
“I'm here.” A woman in her late twenties pushed aside a bead
curtain. Nick's heart stopped. He recognized Georgia Napoli from the mug shots, but nothing prepared him to see her in person. Dark, curly hair cascaded past loam eyes and high cheekbones, down her neck to the point where her breasts began their forward thrust. Her threadbare shirt draped over a muscular frame that could snap Nick in two, in a fight, or in bed. She reminded him of a girl in high school who gave him a hard-on just by winking at him.
She ignored Nick's gape and kissed Janicks, lingering a full 10 seconds, pressing her body against her lover's. Bobcat scratched his head in embarrassment. Even Nick had to avert his eyes.
The old man broke the spell. “Would you like some coffee? Just got some beans from Colombia. Direct trade, the good stuff.”
“Is the old group still around?” Janicks said, pushing Georgia off, and introducing Nick.
Bobcat eyed the new visitor with practiced skepticism. “Most of them, but there's been changes. Let's go over to the hotel and see Momma.”
Georgia clasped Janicks' hand. Nick followed them down a gravel road and the illegal smoke drifted through the tree canopy. Through a break, Nick saw the smoke's source: a dozen tents and shelters in a clearing.
“Refugees,” Georgia noted Nick's curiosity. “They're coming up here now to avoid the BES.”
“From where?”
“All over. The storms going back years. They're all victims of one sort or another. The '54 tsunami topped all the seawalls from Eureka to Coos Bay. A lot of them are BES evacuees.”
After the Year of Storms and the Carbon Laws banning anything that put more carbon in the atmosphere, the Bureau of Environmental Security “encouraged”—that was the official word—people in low-lying areas to “follow preventive evacuation advice.” As BES units watched, columns of displaced people from the storms and the evacuations streamed away from the coasts. The evacuations troubled Nick; he had seen similar marches in South Asia. Thousands were buried along those routes. A minority were victims of the plague of insurgencies. Fewer refugees died on North America's evacs, but the misery struck him as unjust and unnecessary. This was an advanced country. Couldn't the government help them where they lived?
The Mother Earth Insurgency: A Novelette (Tales From A Warming Planet Book 1) Page 1
