Darkweb

by Lia Laserre

  As I pour over last night’s horror show, two things continue to trouble me. How does covering up the past serve anyone’s purpose, and how has it been done?

  Sure, there’ve been crackpots in Jefferson Square. Guys with megaphones spewing conspiracy theories about corporate hypnosis and government thinktanks and secret labs, but they have been shut down in quick time.

  Was it a sham? Or did the powers-that-be feel responsible for a failure to protect their citizens?

  No, something else. Something more sinister.

  I thought back to the violent uprisings I’d seen on the darkweb. The police and army using tear gas and flamethrowers to quell protests. Why? What were they afraid of?

  Everything seemed peaceful nowadays. The few public uprisings or demonstrations I’d witnessed in my childhood were swiftly contained. Instigators loaded into police vans and shuttled away in a much more streamlined manner than that savage age of the past.

  One thing’s for sure, I look at the city with different eyes. The concrete seems greyer, as if there’s a hidden lie everywhere where I look. I mean, people are walking down the street, going about their business, but there’s an unspoken eeriness lingering about the core…in the small puddles from the evening’s rain, the shadows of the back alley, even the ornamental trees clambering up past the glinting glass of the government buildings, with their genetically modified fronds drooping and palm leaves swaying in the wind. But it’s well hidden, only now visible to my eyes.

  I make use of my time in the library before I step into class, half in a trance, my mind wandering a million miles away.

  I vaguely notice Karie. My wristlet buzzes. I open the home page to see a bunch of unread messages. I tap my avatar, a lone gull, to hide the mainstream, low-grade posts that somehow always filter their way up into my stream. Many more have piled up since I last logged on.

  Vin is nowhere to be seen. Probably got suspended. Can’t say that I’m grieving. Joey’s got a black eye from their scuffle. I’m touched he stood up for me. Troubled though, as I didn’t ask for it in the first place and I don’t want to owe anybody.

  Torv is looking cheeky per usual and hot as ever. Ben Gilsen remains indifferent to everyone, except Zandra who he is clearly ogling. Karie, Leta and I exchange knowing grins.

  Several kids wear halobands. They circle around each other and chatter enthusiastically about the gadget. Trish and Zandra are wearing them. So is Lonny.

  As soon as Nelly materializes though, everyone goes silent and the halobands come off. Some stash their headgear away, looking all innocent. Nelly has that effect.

  Peters seems almost distracted as he stands before us, searching our faces with his laser stick clenched in hand. Maybe at the absence of Vin?

  His eagle eyes fall upon me. “Ellan, I hope you’ve got something to present. You’re up.”

  I nod, though hesitation has me biting my lip. I make my way to the front while readying my wristlet. I heave a deep sigh. Forty-some faces are looking at me. I’m not used to the attention and can feel my pale cheeks burn and the butterflies crawl in my stomach. So now it’s show time. What are you going to say? The light or the heavy? Screw it. The heavy.

  Peters tosses his baton from hand to hand. “What’s it on? Think I asked you this before.”

  I hold my head high. “An examination of the social and physical impact of historic events.”

  Peters pauses, his face curling in a frown. “A provocative topic, if not rather odd. But your choice. Carry on.”

  I begin in a quiet voice, emotionless, hypnotic to my ear. “Facts of the Past. I’d like to highlight some alarming truths and put them in context to what we’ve learned. We can dispute them, or we can wonder if they are true and even get enraged by them. We study history, but we’re told that there has only been a ‘Cataclysm’, with no further details of evidence outside of vague myths of public record. I did some digging.”

  Peters’s starting to get edgy already. I can tell by his pursed lips and glinting eyes. “Very well, Ellan. What did you find?”

  “A boatload.” I take a forced breath. “A few decades ago, savage bush fires raged in Australia and burnt a billion animals: koalas, kangaroos, dingos, and countless other forms of natural wildlife. I’ve brought pics.” I sync my wristlet to the overhead projector. Scenes of burning forest thirty feet high flash across the screen. Fleeing animals and vehicles pan the periphery. All eyes turn to the licking flames.

  “There were two known species pushed to extinction.” The kids’ eyes moon at the tragic unfolding scene. I hear whimpers from some of the girls. “Shocking, I know. Meanwhile world leaders, including those of the Australian government, turned a strangely cool eye while tucked in on their xmas vacations abroad.”

  An outcry over their indifference rises from the class members. Yalee, the resident dreadlocker, half afro-American and Nordic, hops out of his seat at the back and belts out a roar of outrage.

  “Calm yourself,” says Peters.

  I flick to the next clip. “Extreme cold snaps in the northern states and Canada—floods worldwide, record high temperatures elsewhere, destructive migrations in Venezuela, crop failure. All signs of extreme climate change and global warming shucked under the carpet by governments and corporations. The funny thing is, I noticed all this was suppressed from regular Starcom web searches. Invisible. Yet only one who is clever and knows where to look has access to the feeds. You can see the footage yourself. Why aren’t these facts readily available?”

  “Where did you get this data?” Peters snaps.

  Determined to continue, I ignore his furious gaze and cover the pandemics that wiped out millions and the GMO seeds that proliferated and altered the flora forever. Then I flip to focus on a brief clip of police aggression against angry protesters opposed to 5G+.

  “As you know, we run 6G+ now. I wonder what it’s doing to our bodies, and why our clinics, owned and operated by corporations, are so full of ailing patients, many terminal. Already one in three women can’t conceive and the sterility stat is higher for men. But again, that information is not publicly available.”

  There are sharp whispers from the back, shocked exclamations. Even Torv and Joey have stopped horsing around and are listening. Others, too, sit quietly attentive, some bristle with confusion.

  “My grandma’s dying of thyroid cancer!” one girl yells. “In a Starcom clinic.”

  “And my cousin has rheumatoid arthritis at Agra,” seconds another. “His daughter was already told she’d never have a baby.”

  More heartfelt claims echo throughout the classroom.

  Peters grows distraught, flushed to the ears. He holds up a hand. “Settle down. People, as they age, get sick. Viruses and diseases get stronger. The gene pool changes. We can’t blame natural selection and survival of the fittest on governments and Starcom, especially without scientific proof.”

  “So what are these videos then? Casual entertainment?” someone yells.

  “Yeah!” cries another.

  There are more grumbles and murmurs. As I flip to the next clip, a sweeping view into a forced labor camp, Peters surges forward and manually kills the projector. “Enough! What are your sources, Ellan?”

  My lips curl at the corners but it’s anything but a smirk. “There are sites out there, Mr. Peters, if you know where to look.”

  “Where?”

  Zandra pipes up, “Darkweb.”

  My cheeks flush with anger. There are exhalations of shock from the class.

  Karie shares the same look of consternation I felt while sneaking peeks at death and destruction in the wee hours of the night. Mom’d be pissed if she ever knew I was exploring darkweb sites.

  A shadow falls over Peters’ face. “Browsing darkweb’s illegal, young lady, if you don’t know it already. Forbidden. Against the law.”

  Somehow, my mother’s mood of confidence from the night before’s Haloband rollout has infected me. “I could be just exaggerating or reporting fake data.
Are you going to report me?”

  It was a stupid thing to say, but I had dug myself into this corner. Then how to undig oneself?

  Nervous giggles trickle from the students. A cherry red blush mottles Peters’ features.

  Nelly the hologram breaks her silence as she sweeps over. “A level two infraction. Recording.”

  The muscles in my shoulders knot. “As I said, maybe I’m just making it up, Nelly.”

  “Recorded.”

  Peters blows out his cheeks and clicks a button on his laser baton. Nelly’s figure shimmers out. Many gape in astonishment. It is the first time we’ve seen him do that.

  “You’ll thank me for that, Miss Weis,” Peters says in his reedy, lecture-hall voice.

  I nod. Incomplete evidence is inadmissible in court.

  At least I was smart enough to raise doubts about where I got the data. They’d have to search the whole freeweb to prove I wasn’t lying. And then, would they want to admit the truth in public?

  Peters is still trying to shut me down and control the class that is descending further into chaos. Half are talking over each other and rising from their seats. Torv’s up and shadow-boxing Cody. Zandra’s got fists planted smugly on hips. She looks over my way with a satisfied grin, aware I’m in big trouble. But I remember Ignatia Frehan’s heroic death and I’m overcome with a fierce wave of passion. I wave my hands and yell at everyone to hush.

  “Listen!” I cry. Before Peters can stop me, I push on. “Ever since a new technology came out, 5G radio towers, there were more and more cancers and dysfunction in the human body than ever. Then viruses broke out. Cupiolo epidemics wiped out 65% of the human populations. Go figure. Oddly Africa was mostly spared where the technology was not rolled out in such damaging proportions.”

  Peters turns and glares. “Evidence for that is not conclusive. Nothing was proven either way. Epidemics have been around since the beginning. They take human lives without regard to race, sex or gender. Recall the Bubonic plague, the cholera and flu pandemics.”

  I don’t like Peters’ cold defensiveness. Almost suggests collusion, or denial, if you ask me. I wonder how much he really knows. He strikes me as an intelligent man, the kind who would probe and dig if he had the chance, but who is not ready to ask questions. Right now he’s not looking like a man prepared to lose his job over a student’s wild conspiracy theory.

  His face resumes that reddish, fleshy look, as the kids seem to favor my arguments over his. He clears his throat, as if it’s his duty to uphold the establishment. Worse things have happened to those endorsing such wild sentiments.

  “Thank you for your intriguing contribution, Ellan. You may return to your seat.” He casts me a terrifying gaze.

  “Everyone, quiet down!” He raps his baton on the desk. “Clare, you’re up next.”

  Peters seems eager to keep things moving and attention off the forbidden data I’ve laid bare. He’s combing his fingers through the ruffs of wheat-colored hair over his ears, though whatever small control or distraction he’s won is scant.

  Clare’s flushed face and bird-like movements are testament of the pressure she’s feeling trying to compete with the sensationalism I’ve created. She starts in uncertainly, smoothing her slender fingers on her white dress. Nobody’s listening and at last after ten minutes of a boring treatise on ‘The pros and cons of alternative diets’, she sits down in a huff. My brain only half registers her spiel about mineral salts and enzymes, iron in reconstituted beef, the benefits of freeze-dried celery and protein in GMO soy.

  Four more students go after me. Everyone called up speaks in nervous voices, no one relishes public speaking. Peters’ chronic habit of interrupting only adds to their distress. Kids are giving me funny looks. Even the girls who don’t normally like me, like Bess and Kyla—they’re giving me decent space, flashing me sideways glances, as if I’m now a person in a different category, maybe less of a persona non grata. I can almost catch a whiff of their confusion over the smell of their heady perfume.

  I spend the last hour of class fighting the fear that the vice principal will bust in and escort me away, but nothing of note occurs.

  The period’s over and the bell rings before we know it. My palms are still sweating from the adrenalin rush of the presentation.

  I sigh in relief. Fifty minutes respite. I wander down the fluorescent halls in a semi-daze to drop my stuff in my locker. My brain barely registers the naked chests of hot, muscle-bound guys I have taped on the walls. The buzz of voices and activity in the halls don’t penetrate my awareness. Karie’s excited voice intrudes on my reverie as I look up on the way to the cafeteria.

  “Wow, those were some choice vids, girl. Some butt on you, to mess up old Peters like that.”

  I’m quick to shrug it off, feeling now that I’ve created a slew of new problems for myself. I may have to deny everything I said. A rebellious part of me doesn’t want to, though.

  I feel a presence at my back and I turn sharply. Torv. He seems to have made a point of sidling up to us with a few lanky strides.

  “Those words you said, and the clips—they were good.” His voice is sincere, complimentary. His lips part and tongue dips to trace a curve on his lower lip. A look of admiration, also challenge.

  I move a step faster, tugging at Karie’s arm. She just grins and gives me a wink, as if I’ve found a new admirer. Still, I feel uncomfortable under Torv’s gaze, something akin to a mouse being eyed by a stealthy tomcat. At least he’s not eyeing me as lasciviously as before.

  We pass by the school bulletin board. No new signups for my ‘duct cleaning’ petition. I frown. Maybe it’s too plain. People have posted their fluff over its edges. I adjust a few words with my pen and pin it up higher, then straighten the curled edges of the greyed paper.

  Karie shakes her head. “I don’t know why you bother with such causes, Ellan.”

  “Life is what you make of it, Karie.” I brush her a severe look.

  “I hate maxims but I’ll give you a point for that.”

  I snatch a fresh card in the box and start writing a new sign. “VOICE OF THE PAST. Discussion group. Are you curious about what happened before you were born? Thursdays, 4:30. Meet in room 10B off the indoor gym.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I murmur. It’ll probably get shut down by Ms. Hent but in the meantime, I might get some curious people interested in our secret past. “Karie, I know you’ll at least come.”

  “Don’t’ hold your breath.” She turns with a wry grunt.

  Karie and I are heading back toward the caf and the crowded hall of our lockers. On a sudden hunch, I look over my shoulder. One of the admin staff is reaching over to tear my paper off the wall. A cold chill surfaces on the nape of my neck.

  I hustle Karie along.

  No worries, Ellan, just repost it tomorrow.

  Chapter 6

  It’s the middle of the day and we’re in math class, the worst for me. I feel like school is closing in on me and it’s all about math, especially this weird one called calculus. Something with the limit as F at x goes to zero. I can surely say there’s a thousand other things I’d rather be doing, like getting my teeth pulled or eyebrows plucked. I’m more about geography, ecology, plants, nature and history, which are sadly lacking in our curriculum—things the teachers hedge around or downplay. Instead, offer us vague stories about civil wars that don’t add up. Hopefully my classmates’ll be thinking twice about the lies they feed us of the past.

  Gilsen’s reaching for his Haloband with the gold headband and white goggles, so is Trish, and hers are actually draped over her eyes, making her look like a Martian, but Mr. Singleton reams them out for using them in class. “Get those off, you two. Now!”

  I smile a pretty smile. Pretty soon there’ll be a rule we have to check our halobands at the door before heading into class.

  More messages appear on my wristlet. One catches my attention, from Leta. ‘Chilling stuff. You raised quite a stir. Ready for the pop
ularity boost?’

  I text message back, ‘No, not in a million years.’

  People are still giving me the wary eye. But I’m saved by a sudden diversion. A piercing alarm sounds. Not seconds later, three space-suited figures in bubble helmets barge in through the heavy door. My heart skips a beat, thinking they are coming for me.

  No. Just a surprise drill. The principal’s voice crackles over the mainspeaker. “Do not panic. This is only a drill, repeat, a drill. Follow what the technicians have to say.” I exhale relief. Only exercises of what to do during an outbreak, or what to do in case of a violent storm, hurricane or flash flood. There’ve only been two real cases that I’d remember. Both were contained, thanks to the UHO (United Health Organization). Relief technicians in space suits administering spray, vaccinations, hauling off the sickest kids, the ones coughing, some hacking up blood. We’d all been sent home, told to stay indoors and to return in two weeks. A thousand people had died in the city, including Tommie, one of my closest friends. That was sad. I have a slew of recurring and painful memories about that. A stinging wetness floods my eyes. I remember his laugh, his brown eyes. His innocent way of speaking and looking up at me without pretense. Saying something profound, even funny, without trying to be.

  The drills eat up an hour of math which doesn’t bother me in the least.

  All the while I’m assaulted with a peculiar feeling, as if I’m floating on air, or glowing. I should be crapping out now for stirring up a hornet’s nest and exposing a sliver of darkweb. But I’m not. I almost feel euphoric by speaking some truth for a change that others have not heard, or been too scared to talk about for so long. Strange, long-buried memories pop in my head: as a child, calling out relatives at the dinner table when they say stuff that doesn’t add up. Dates, places, people’s names. Seeing the shocked looks, awkward pauses and nervous laughs, it’s uncanny, and yet, all so weirdly synchronistic at the same time. The masked girl-rebel in me is grinning like a caged monkey. Kids around me mutter and give me brow-furled looks, as if I’m talking to myself. Which I kind of am, in my head.