Calm Act Box Set (Books 1-3)

by Ginger Booth

  THE CALM ACT BOOKS 1-3

  GINGER BOOTH

  Copyright © 2015 - 2017 Ginger Booth.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photo copyright © Kladyk, 2015, iStockPhoto.

  Cover design by www.coverbookdesigns.com. Maps by Ginger Booth based on Google Maps.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

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  CONTENTS

  Book 1: End Game

  Book 2: Project Reunion

  Book 3: Martial Lawless

  PART I

  END GAME

  1

  Interesting fact: UNC Inc., headquartered in Stamford Connecticut and New York City, built its ark in mid-Tennessee.

  My first shot at an ark berth arrived as one of life’s little pop quizzes.

  On a typical Tuesday I expected the usual afternoon meeting down in Stamford. Normally I’d take a long walk to the train station, make one transfer en route, and I’m there at corporate headquarters. I had navy chinos and blazer and professional-enough looking tops expressly for Tuesdays at HQ.

  I’d been doing this once-weekly commute for a few years. One of the interns had begun to imitate my ‘signature style,’ right down to the bright horizontal stripes under a navy blazer. Maybe it was creeping me out. Well, no – it was definitely creeping me out. If she copied one more of my mannerisms, she and I were going to have a little talk of the brush-off variety. Asking my professional help as a mentor is one thing. Mimicking my clothes is just weird.

  At any rate, that Tuesday I ditched my navy corporate camouflage gear, and wore my favorite steampunk outfit to Stamford. There are so few occasions to wear it, you know? And maybe Shelley the Intern and I could skip that little creepy talk.

  One thing leads to another. It’s a couple miles to the train station. I have gorgeous mid-calf lace-up boots with lace gaiters to go with my steampunk ensemble. They wouldn’t fit in my backpack the way my sneakers do. And the striped rose sateen skirt would just look foolish with sneakers. And I’d been meaning to try out the robot taxi service just unleashed in my area.

  I own a car, mind you. I just hate driving.

  The adorable robot vehicle showed up right on time, as promised on my mobile phone. To bolster their advertising, the robocar was painted as a cheerful pumpkin. A couple neighbors were out walking their dogs, and did a gratifying double-take. They enthusiastically waved me off in my Cinderella’s carriage. I waved back. No doubt the feather in my little rose felt hat waved too.

  My phone rang. The caller was the car I was sitting in. It called to ask me to open its special tracking app. I reviewed its proposed detour to pick up someone in East Haven on the way in to the New Haven train station.

  Add 5 minutes to trip and save $0.50?

  Accept or Decline.

  Accept.

  Connect to a train at New Haven station?

  Yes.

  Are you going to New York City?

  No, same train, but destination Stamford.

  Apparently the car had nothing further to discuss just then. The app display returned to live tracking on the route map into East Haven. We stopped at a million dollar beachfront property. A very fine-looking man in perfectly fitted business suit – Adam – climbed in to join me in the robo-pumpkin.

  As the car drove off, introductions were interrupted by Adam having to answer his own phone. I recognized the ever-widening goofy grin from my own face wearing it moments before.

  “Holy – !” he finally began.

  I lifted a ‘wait’ finger as my own phone buzzed for attention.

  Add 15 minutes to trip and save $25.50?

  I frowned at this. A garden-variety yellow taxi could get me to the train station for $15, and the app had promised me $10. My pumpkin app hadn’t let me down before. Then I saw that the proposed destination was all the way to Stamford, not just the New Haven train station.

  Accept!

  My ride partner was grinning like he’d just been waiting for me to see the punchline. “Stamford?” I asked, matching his grin.

  Adam shrugged. “Greenwich actually. But we’ll be together a while, it seems. Adam Lacey.”

  “Dee Baker,” I replied, accepting his handshake. “This ride is just too entertaining. Do you work in Greenwich?”

  “Well, meetings sometimes. You?”

  “Meetings every Tuesday afternoon. I don’t usually enjoy the commute so much!”

  Other riders came and went. We collected a couple with skis – the pumpkin car featured a roof rack – and rendezvoused with a pumpkin limo. Apparently a half dozen skiers were taking a robo-ride up to Vermont.

  “I should do that before the borders close,” Adam commented.

  Sad thought. I murmured, “Mm. I’d like to see Montreal again.”

  Adam smiled warmly. Maybe he felt guilty for disturbing my obvious delight with the transportation, which we had to ourselves again. “Don’t ski, Dee? Though I like your idea better. I love those little sorbets they serve between courses at the French restaurants in Montreal.”

  “Oh, I love those!” I agreed, his downer promptly forgiven.

  We passed the big sign to the Trumbull ark without comment. At that point, it was still considered vulgar to ask if one had an ark berth yet. Granted, in Connecticut, even introducing yourself for an hour-long robo-car ride was a bit forward. This isn’t the friendliest place I’ve ever been. Actually, it’s the least friendly place I’ve ever been, but it’s home. By then, it was already assumed that of course you would do anything to get into an ark. Perhaps Adam just assumed we both already had one.

  Excuses were found to exchange business cards as we pulled up to my corporate headquarters campus. As Connecticut Yankees, it would never do to simply say, “I had fun. Let’s exchange phone numbers and get together again some time.” Or maybe…

  Maybe nothing. I’d likely never hear from Adam Lacey again. Time to get some coffee.

  The robocar pinged me again first, though.

  Did you enjoy your travelling companions?

  5-star.

  Did you enjoy your trip?

  5-star.

  Would you like a return trip?

  Sure! Probably after 5:00.

  I love cool tech. I really do.

  “Dee!” my pal Mangal called out with a grin. The cubicle maze didn’t have room for all of us telecommuters, so we thronged the break room waiting for the weekly meeting.

  My boss Dan and Shelley the Intern turned toward me with smiles preloaded on their faces. “Dee!” they cried. Smiles morphed into puzzlement and gradually alarm as they took in my steampunk outfit.

  “I love it!” cried Mangal, pushing through the throng. “Wow, even lace on the gaiters.”

  “We weren’t doing a Halloween party,” said my boss Dan, still much put out.

  I shrugged. “Just breaking out of the rut. Hi, Shelley.”

  Shelley the Intern stood frozen. She’d surpassed herself today. Her navy corporate camo outfit matched my usual look right down to the horizontal melon stripes on the dressy T-shirt. Her jacket was a gold-buttoned double-breasted blazer, just like mine. I scowled at her outfit – my outfit – even more strongly than she frowned at my steampunk.

/>   “Ah –” said Dan. “Am I missing something?”

  “Probably,” Mangal agreed. Mangal grimaced at Shelley’s outfit, too.

  In all likelihood, Dan had never noticed my clothes or Shelley’s before. Now what he noticed, was that I was being weird. This was not unusual.

  “Dee, let’s, um, talk, before the meeting.” Dan steered me toward his office. Mangal made urgent motions toward his phone at me behind Dan’s back. “That’s, um, quite an outfit,” Dan continued. “I guess I should have warned you. But I mean, why would I warn you? You always dress… normally. And I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

  “Dan? What are we talking about?”

  He found some paperwork on his desk and handed it to me. “I got you to the head of the list. You’re my best, Dee. I’m even assigning Shelley to report to you full-time. Hey, maybe you could borrow Shelley’s clothes?”

  “No. About Shelley, Dan –”

  “No, you’re right, there isn’t time. Conference room 108A, by the elevators in the lobby. You’ll probably miss today’s meeting, but that’s OK.” OK by his bossly fiat, he meant. It wasn’t particularly OK with me or my current project.

  I should have checked my phone for what Mangal was so anxious to tell me. But I was too preoccupied with how to discuss my creepy Shelley problem with Dan.

  I don’t want to remember my interview with the corporate psychologist. I was shaking when I escaped conference room 101E, or whatever it was. The meeting I was supposed to be in, the one I’d travelled to Stamford for, was still going on and would be for another hour or so. I took the elevator back upstairs on automatic. But then I turned the other way at our floor, and got my belated coffee in some other cubicle farm’s break room.

  I’d just have some coffee and calm down, I thought, then rejoin the meeting. I chose an empty stretch of high-rise glass to look out of. This patch of hallway was organized as a social area. There were orange upholstered seats and one of those plants that might as well be plastic, and some corporate art on a fragment of wall. No doubt someone somewhere selected the corporate art and orange upholstery for some carefully considered reason. I contemplated the pale watercolor print of an anonymous looking little brown songbird. The label advised that the portrait was of a boat-tailed grackle. This little nook was a mirror image of my usual side of the elevators. Ours featured mustard yellow and blue upholstery and a watercolor of beach toys abandoned to the rising tide. None of it meant anything.

  Maybe that was the point. The décor was to distract you from the zombie rut of life in a cubicle farm. But I only visited cubicle land for a few hours on Tuesdays. My real life was out in the woods and shoreline, full of real birds. When I was out for a walk, I picked up lost beach toys and put them in the trash before they washed into the Sound.

  Someone must have narked on me. Dan left the meeting and joined me at the window by the boat-tailed grackle. “That bad, huh?” he asked gently. Dan was a good guy. More heart than brains, but a good manager.

  “Not the best day to wear steampunk to the office,” I agreed, and stared out the window. The corporate psychologist had dwelt at length on my costume during my misbegotten interview, and not in a good way. The shrink was very impressed with herself for concocting a theory about my using steampunk as a way to avoid ‘authentic’ interaction with others. The conversation went downhill from there. I hate shrinks.

  A squall of sudden rain had come and gone while I stood there. Indian summer was starting to break up into the cold clammy bleakness of late autumn. In Vermont there was already enough snow to ski.

  “Why steampunk?” Dan asked.

  “We need to talk about Shelley, Dan. She keeps copying what I wear. It’s creeping me out. Maybe you should get one of the guys to supervise her instead.”

  “Oh. I tried that. She came on to Mangal. He was polite – you know Mangal – and told her he was happily married with children. But she told him she didn’t mind if he was married. I’m thinking, not the guys.”

  I laughed, too hard, but it was good to laugh about something. I wiped tears from my eyes. “OK. So I’ll talk to Shelley. Maybe I could get her a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People. Giftwrap it nicely with a little bow. And then tell her if she ever wears my clothes again, she’s fired. Because she’s creeping people out.”

  Dan smiled. “You see, that’s why I want to give her to you. A girl who’s that clueless how to act – she needs a woman’s guidance. She does know how to program, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she’s competent enough at the work. I’ll deal with it.”

  “It’s not just you, you know,” Dan offered, after a pause. “They’re not even going to interview most of the programmers. They’ve got these ideas, about who will fit in, in the company ark.”

  “Who will fit period, Dan,” I said. “Less than half a percent of the population.”

  “It’s not that way! Personnel says they’re building room for 12,000 in our ark. Not everybody, but… It makes sense, what they’re trying to do with the psychological interviews. Everybody needs to get along well in tight quarters. I thought, because of your gardening, you’d have the best shot of any of my people. And you’re great with people.”

  I nodded slowly. “I think we already know which half of one percent will be in the arks, Dan. That wasn’t really in any doubt. Was it?”

  “Look, I’ll talk to the shrink, get you another appointment. Promise me, you won’t go looking for another job for the ark benefit.”

  That’s how it was supposed to work. Everyone was scurrying after ‘good jobs’ back then, that offered an ark berth as an employment benefit. Of course ‘everyone’ couldn’t get that kind of ‘good job.’ Probably less than a quarter of people had any benefits at all from their jobs, not even a living wage.

  “Thank you, Dan,” I murmured, in polite reflex, if not faith.

  The storm clouds broke into a cloud pattern that looked weirdly like parasitic wasp egg sacs, in yellow, dangling from a giant grey tomato hornworm in the sky. I didn’t mention it. Dan of corporate HQ didn’t know what hornworms or egg sacs looked like. He probably wouldn’t even realize that it was a bizarre cloud formation.

  “Interesting times,” I murmured. I kicked the glass window lightly and turned back toward our proper cubicle farm. “Anything else for me before I head home?”

  I took Metro North back to New Haven. The commuter train was papered with advertisements for the most ‘aspirational’ arks. In the fabulously wealthy suburbs of New York City, there in the Gold Coast southwest corner of Connecticut, plenty of people didn’t worry whether they could get into an ark, but rather which was the most prestigious one. As we got further from Stamford, the Wall Street business suits thinned out. Students, inner-city blacks, and tired women dominated the train. In my steampunk costume finery, I should have struck up more conversations than ever on the train. But I stared out the window.

  The robo-pumpkin car was awfully cool, though.

  2

  Interesting fact: The Calm Act was introduced by the U.S. President in closed session, debated, and passed with a 78% majority in the House, and 63% in the Senate. Few sections of the Calm Act were ever made public.

  I met Zack just a few days after Adam, just after Halloween. An Alberta Clipper storm front hit while I was out for a lunchtime walk. I’d only been out twenty minutes. I was headed home when it hit.

  It was so lovely when I went out. Most trees were bare, but the last of the maples shone orange and scarlet, fluttering jewels gleaming in the early November sun. The Clipper hit out of a brilliant blue sky at about 75 miles per hour, a roiling black bank of hail and lightning and sheets of rain out of the west. When branches started to crack and fall, running for home seemed like a bad idea. I pelted up onto Zack’s covered porch for shelter.

  I knocked on the door for politeness’ sake. Actually I tried the doorbell first, but the power was out. One of the lightning flashes might have been a transformer. We didn’t mee
t strangers at the door with a shotgun in that sort of situation yet. A neighbor taking shelter from a freak storm was a friendly occasion. Freak storms weren’t so common then.

  “Hi, I’m Dee,” I babbled in a rush, when his door opened. “I live over there on Blatchely.” I pointed. “I hope you don’t mind if I hide on your porch for a few minutes.” I smiled, then cringed, as lightning and a huge boom! of thunder arrived simultaneously.

  “Come in!” Zack cried.

  He didn’t need to ask twice. I leapt into his house. We struggled to get the storm door closed, as the wind wanted to take it. But finally I was in, with the storm noise slightly muffled in the living room gloom. Soaked to the skin, I dripped on his hempen door mat.

  “Maybe I should just, um, drip here. Thank you so much for letting me in. It’s kind of scary out there. Was that in the weather forecast?”

  “I don’t think so. Let me get you a towel. Cup of tea?”

  “Both sound great.”

  “I’m Zack Harkonnen, by the way. You were – sorry, the wind was kinda…”

  “Dee Baker. I live over on Blatchely. I wasn’t gonna make it home.”

  “Yeah, no. You’re welcome to wait out the storm. I’ll get you some sweats, too.”

  Zack looked like a Harkonnen. Something Scandinavian, anyway – blond and muscular, over 6’ tall, with a weathered angular face, maybe a few years older than me. His living room looked like a political party headquarters, leaflets and posters everywhere, over beautiful woodwork. Plenty of plants loomed as anonymous organic black humps in the midday storm dark.

  I would never have met Adam Lacey in the course of my normal life. He was out of my league. I’d never have met Zack, either, except maybe to wave at him working in the yard as I walked past. Though all three of us lived within a few miles of each other. It was a pretty area, the shoreline east of New Haven, and gave a carefully staged impression of small town New England. But the towns weren’t actually small, in population. They were right smack in the I-95 corridor, the megalopolis of 90 million souls that stretched from Maine to Washington D.C., embracing a quarter of the population of the U.S. At some level, we lived in a nicer neighborhood of the same city as Baltimore and the Bronx, only less friendly.