“Oh, only stored locally on the chip to verify you as the owner. We don’t collect or retain the data on our servers.” She paused to see if he had further questions. “Have a wonderful day!”
###
Virnig sat in the back of the dark club nursing his drink, condensation creating a puddle around the glass. He observed a cozy couple in a booth opposite from him across the dance floor, watching with the faintest flicker of curiosity as they smoked something out of a transparent tube.
The dance floor was empty, but the stage was occupied by a quartet. Two men in shiny black suits waved their hands over multicolored beams of light, evoking ethereal sounds. A third man sat in the back, rhythmically slapping his hands on a panel before him. Fronting the group was a beautiful woman with long, burgundy hair draped over a bare shoulder. She wore a clinging dress that seemed to vary in color between different shades of red as she moved. Her singing was slow, breathy, and in a language he’d never heard before. She swayed as she sang and the sergeant didn’t need to comprehend the words to discern the sultry nature of the lyrics.
Virnig had spent most of the day tracking down leads and spending his coins in the process. He’d shown the remnants of the droid’s jammer to dozens of people in the industrial and retail rings before someone recognized a few of the components. The path led to an electronics artisan named Jural Blake.
Jural had a reputation for being a skilled prototyper, which is how he made his living. The wealth of technology companies in Core-5 alone meant he was never without paying work. Probably not a terrorist, but certainly someone who could be a supplier. He was also known as a hobbyist who liked to tinker and implement weird, obscure concepts of dubious utility. And apparently, he also liked smoking illicit substances out of transparent tubes.
###
The sky overhead was black and punctuated with bright pinpricks of light. Jural meandered in a zigzag pattern, pausing to rest his palm on every third tree, head drooping. Once he regained his balance, he moved forward another few yards.
In stark contrast with the Freezone, where public areas were awash at night with bright floodlights that hummed angrily, this tidy avenue was lit with unobtrusive landscape lighting. Most illumination was directed at the ground, minimizing light pollution and allowing a clear view of the expanse of stars. The street had a park-like atmosphere and was lined with tidy homes of varying architecture. It appeared to be designed for foot traffic and possibly light personal vehicles.
Virnig was growing impatient. It had been several blocks of stalking since Jural bid goodnight to his date with a long kiss at her door. They were finally alone, the inebriate and his shadow, who crouched lower and moved more deliberately the closer he crept to the former.
###
Jural paused at his door, trying to stand steady. After a moment and a soft click, he pushed it open. The light flickered on automatically and synth music started to play in the living room. He kicked off his boots, each in turn, sending them sliding in entirely different directions across the foyer. Without looking, he reached behind to slam the door shut. Almost as it was shut, it flew open again explosively.
He turned, off balance. A muscular man stood in the doorway, his face strained. Cold blue eyes pierced Jural, and the man’s mouth was tight, showing the hint of a frown. “Who are-”
The man grabbed him two-handed and suddenly he was airborne. Floating weightlessly for a stretched moment, Jural’s limbs flailed loosely, like lengths of ropes knotted at the end. Then he crashed abruptly, exploding his entryway table into chunks and splinters of wood that scattered across the polished stone as he landed, forcing the air out of his lungs.
Just as he registered hitting the floor, the man’s boot was on his throat. Jural clawed instinctively, eyes wide. He didn’t have time to wonder if this was really happening, he just reacted. He kicked his legs and writhed, but the boot remained firm, insistent.
The man pulled what looked like a small circuit board out of his left pocket and held it out accusingly. Curiosity made Jural pause his struggling just long enough to realize it wasn’t a weapon, then he continued with renewed effort. The man took his foot off his throat and used it to sharply kick his victim in the ribs. Jural moaned and wheezed, fighting to take a breath against the screaming pain radiating throughout his side.
With his meaty right hand, the intruder picked Jural up by his throat. “Who did you sell this to?”
Disbelieving, Jural looked from the man’s face to the item and back, confused. He let himself go limp but remained in place, his entire weight supported by the intruder’s arm. “Th-those are common, nothing special.”
“Who did you sell this to!?” the man repeated, louder. He shook Jural for emphasis. “Who bought this jammer? How many did you sell?”
“J-jammer? No, it’s just a t-transpond, I m-mean, I-I guess it could be modded, but that’s not how I sell-” Jural was starting to blather as he usually did when nervous or scared.
###
The idiot was useless like this. Virnig was going to have to secure him - maybe tie him to a chair to settle him down, and then start breaking fingers to jog his memory. He scanned the living room for heavy or sharp objects that might assist his inquiries.
Then he heard it - heavy boots on the front landing. He released Jural, who grabbed at his coat as he fell. Virnig spun on his heel and tried to draw his weapon, but the imbecile hanging on to his coat kept it snagged in the holster.
His eyes sought the doorway, which framed a dark silhouette in the night. Blinded! A few pulses of intense green light seared his retinas. He felt pain in the middle of his head as he fell to the floor, losing consciousness.
###
“What’s his story?” asked the protection agent.
“Biggsly was keeping an eye on an inebriated resident. Pulling duty for the Cypher Club, making sure their customer and his girl got home safely. Apparently they had a great time, blowing vCoins like holostars.” The watch supervisor grinned.
“Ah, the good life. I could use a little of that. And him?” He nodded in the direction of the man in the detention cell, visible through the monoglass.
“After the resident drops his girl off, this guy starts creeping on him down on the Greenway. Followed him home and kicked in the front door. Biggs got there just as the resident was getting throttled. Almost choked him out.”
“Precious. Jealous lover thing, lady’s side man?”
“Nope. Mr. Scary in there starts questioning him about hardware. It seems that the resident is Jural Blake, a fancy electronics savant.” The watch supervisor wiggled his fingers as if casting a magic spell. “But get this, Jural thinks it’s going to help his business. He’s going to spin the corporate espionage angle and let everyone think he’s working on some ultraware. So, we’re cutting the guy loose.”
“That’s it? What about restitution?”
“Jural doesn’t want anything. As long as the guy moves along peacefully, he’s free to go. We’ll keep an eye on him while he’s in the city. He was packing some antique slugthrower, but never drew or discharged it. He’ll get it back when he leaves.”
“Whoah, kinetics?” the agent asked excitedly.
###
Virnig had no choice, it was only a matter of time. Back in the Freezone, he’d already be smelling his flesh cooking and doing the voltage dance. These “protection agents” were likely bringing in their heavy. Some little sadist with a case full of tools to operate with.
He wasn’t going to talk. They would eventually hurt him so bad that words would spill out. Like holding water in your hand, no matter how tightly you kept your fingers together, it eventually trickled through. The sergeant took some solace in knowing somebody would eventually come looking for him. They could find where his trail ended and pick up the thread, maybe complete the mission.
He chewed at the corner of his left thumbnail. A thin, transparent film lifted. He peeled it off and carefully aligning the edges, folded it in half
. The film grew warm, balanced on his fingertip. It became opaque as the reaction progressed. Red indicated it was ready.
The sergeant thought about the Public Safety Officer monument, his name carved in the cold onyx. Citizens lighting candles and praying for him. Senator Gallus might even speak about the brave officer who gave all for the Freezone.
Tilting his head back, Virnig used his index finger to raise his left eyelid wide. With his right, he placed the red film on his eye. He counted down 5...4...3...and was gone.
###
In a back alley of Freezone SW, near the south end of Red Row, two teenagers huddle behind a dumpster, fidgeting with excitement. The boy holds a metallic foil sack large enough to cover a person. The girl is preparing a small box with a sticky backing. The patrol droid is only ten yards away and closing….
RED LAKE
BY
PEREGRINUS
If I want my people to be free,
Americans need to be free.”
-Russell Means
The United States government in its death throes treated Native Americans exactly as it had in its youth.
Agent Samuel Bush ducked as a bullet whistled over the open door of his federal-government-issued SUV. Fifty yards away, members of the Red Lake band of Chippewa Indians fought to maintain control of the Seven Clans Casino on their Red Lake Reservation in northern Minnesota. Bush, as the local Bureau of Indian Affairs agent, was part of an operation to seize control of the casino. FBI operatives from Washington D.C., backed by about thirty U.S. Army troops, had descended on the tiny community located an hour south of the Canadian border. Bush had a backup role in the operation: observe the progress of the firefight and call in a nearby troop contingent if circumstances dictated.
As the occasional shot landed in his vicinity, Bush climbed back in his vehicle and reflected on the past decade. The firefight stood in stark contrast to ten years of desk-job boredom that had been his work until this point. He was hired as the federal liaison to the Red Lake Reservation just months before what came to be called “The Crisis”, an economic collapse that began a period of fiscal sleight of hand where funding was greatly reduced to federal agencies deemed ‘lower priority’, though the change was not announced to the public. The Bureau of Indian Affairs was one such agency. Bush continued to receive a paycheck, but all funding for Red Lake Reservation schools, police, courts, roads and utilities was cut off. Through the decade, his only real duty was to submit a monthly report to Washington on the general status of Reservation life. He did so for a couple years before it was inadvertently revealed that he had no official supervisor and nobody had read any of the reports.
Proudfoot was 15 years old at the time and vividly remembered the beginning of The Crisis. His father, a tribal elder, had stormed into Samuel Bush’s office demanding an explanation for the lack of response to terribly deteriorated Reservation roads. Bush had helplessly hung up the phone and explained that funding would not be available for road repair. “What do you expect me to do?” Proudfoot’s father had screamed, to which Bush only shrugged. His father left the office and drove immediately to the nearest town to hire a construction contractor, working out a creative payment plan that pleased both Reservation residents and the contractor. From then on, all funding for promised “infrastructure” was cut off. Proudfoot watched his father, the other elders, and everyone else in the community work together to fill the gaps. One by one, the problems were solved by ingenuity, hard work, and cooperation. Cut off from all external administrators, they decided early on there would be no internal “rulers”. Everyone was welcome to contribute and expected to. There was only one rule: do not take what is not yours. If disputes arose, impromptu meetings were held between disputants and their representatives. Various people offered up their mediation services for a fee and several proved themselves especially good at it, commanding above-average fees.
It was found that the Red Lake Band lived much better autonomously than they had when under federal administration. Agent Bush and most people in surrounding areas went to Friday night walleye fries, bought wild rice and other foods harvested by Red Lakers and enjoyed hundreds of goods & services offered by the people of The Band.
During this period, the Band hired Dr. Mary Smith, a semi-retired lecturer at nearby Bemidji State University, to recreate their school system. Proudfoot took classes from Professor Smith, first at Red Lake and then at the University, excelling at them all. By the time he had taken every class she taught, Mary had become a close friend and mentor to her star pupil, encouraging him to go wherever talent and determination could take him.
One day, Proudfoot knocked on Professor Smith’s open office door and she smiled and waved him in. “What’s on your mind today?” she asked. Proudfoot stopped by often, though he’d long since completed all of the Math and Computer Science classes she taught. This term, he was loaded-up with social sciences and his History of The Ojibwe class was on his mind. “Have you ever heard of Public Law 280?” he asked Mary. “Never have,” she replied. He explained. “It pertains to the sovereignty of Native people. Apparently, it handed ‘management’ of us over to state governments instead of the Feds.”
“Isn’t freedom beautiful?” replied Mary sarcastically. “Yeah,” Proudfoot laughed, “except it doesn’t apply to us Red Lakers. We are still ‘sovereign’ but managed by the Feds. At least that was the case before The Crisis.”
“No such thing as sovereignty if someone manages you,” said Mary. Proudfoot nodded agreement.
“Why are you so interested in this right now?” she asked. “I don’t like how things are going,” he responded. There’s a lot of trouble in the world these days. The people who used to manage us spend most of their time stealing. It’s only a matter of time before they start looking around here again.”
Mary sipped her coffee as Proudfoot turned to leave. He was such a perceptive and intelligent young man. She too was shocked at the injustice. Nothing made any sense these days. Things had gotten really bad when the stock market crashed a few years ago. Speeches were made by government officials, but nobody really believed that things were under control. A new war started in Southeast Asia and the ones in the Middle East turned 20 years old. You couldn’t watch a sporting event without being fed some form of war propaganda. In the past three months, there had been two cases of police violence in the small town of Bemidji, where Mary taught. Those were just the ones reported due to witnesses being present. Everyone now knew that interacting with the police got you a ticket for some made-up infraction, or it got you beat up or both. Mostly unheard of until now in American history, it was now fairly common to pay cops to leave you alone. The last straw for Mary was the recent announcement by the president of the ‘Laying a New Foundation’ initiative, part of which included the confiscation of gold and silver from private citizens!
Neither knew it but both Mary and Proudfoot were changed by that brief conversation. Mary realized that she needed to find a way to live safely in a world that now only paid lip service to basic rights. Proudfoot realized that good people have no need for rulers and that many so-called rulers aren’t very good people. He resolved to do anything to help his people at Red Lake thrive, should something ever get in their way, and to not seek permission from officials to accomplish it.
As time went on, the people of Red Lake were doing progressively better while those outside Red Lake were not. Unemployment and crime got worse, as did escape into alcohol and other drugs. The human tendency to look outside ourselves for someone to blame led to jealousy and racism against the people of Red Lake. This was heightened after the Red Lakers built a casino. It had operated only a year when it caught the attention of an increasingly desperate federal government.
This led to the brutally cold February day just eight weeks ago when Agent Sam Bush of the Bureau of Indian Affairs drove to the Red Lake Reservation. He had been asked to deliver the message that, effective immediately, “administration” of all “strategic
assets” would be done by the U.S. government as part of the ‘Laying a New Foundation’ initiative announced by The President. It was designed to stimulate an economy that has been stagnant for more than 25 years. “Strategic Assets” were not defined, but in this case included the Seven Clans Casino owned by the Red Lake Reservation. Sam could barely get the words out as he tried in vain to deliver a message to his good friends at Red Lake that he knew would not be well-received and which he knew was terribly unjust. Proudfoot, now one of the most respected tribal leaders, put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and said “Old friend, I know you have nothing to do with what’s going on in the outside world or with this new policy. Please inform your government that their policies do not apply in the Sovereign Community of Red Lake. We have been independent for years now. Our relationship with your government ended long ago and it has been to the betterment of the Red Lake people”. Sam’s eyes welled-up with tears of shame and he looked down from Proudfoot’s gaze. He would report back to his superiors and he knew how they would respond. Before leaving the meeting, Sam told the group what kind of response they could expect. Proudfoot nodded and thanked him, shaking his hand as he left.
A bullet broke the windshield of a nearby car, startling Agent Bush from his recollections. The Natives had turned out to be well-armed and very capable with their weapons. He looked around and saw agents and soldiers in retreat. The drones that were supposed to be providing location information on combatants and firing on them were no longer in the air, which puzzled Bush. He thought briefly about previous wars between the U.S. government and the indigenous people of North America. This one was going the Red Lakers way. It was time for him to report back to HQ. He pushed a button on his cell phone. “Everything went as planned. No need for back-up”, he said to the voice on the other end and then hung up. He believed he was going to be arrested or worse but nothing happened. His superiors in Washington never called. Instead, The Crisis entered a new and even more desperate stage, the final one. Those outside Red Lake suffered a complete collapse of their government-economic system.
Anarchy Rising: The Clarion Call, Vol 1 (Volume 1) Page 3
