by Greg Krojac
“Since that day, now known as the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre 2.0, pulse guns used to control crowd disturbances must have their capacity to kill removed. That is why we see water cannon being used in numbers here, today. The government is very aware that it is being backed into a corner. People are suffering in their daily lives. Job losses are at an all-time high. Homes are being repossessed at an unforeseen rate as families are being forced to prioritise their expenditure, buying food in preference to paying their mortgages. Dozens of businesses are failing daily, due to lack of both investment and customers. The price of bread and milk seems to be increasing weekly. People just can’t keep up with the effects of this global recession which is crippling countries all over the world.
“Scenes like this are being repeated in cities across the globe, from London to Edinburgh. From New Orleans to New York to Chicago to Los Angeles. From Sydney to Perth, From Kolkata to Delhi. From Rio de Janeiro to Brasilia. No country is escaping the wrath of its people. It’s almost as if the recession has been globally orchestrated.
“The crowd is being forced back – Peter, if we don’t move quickly we’re going to be knocked over and trampled – move towards the corner over there. There’s a side street we can run down if necessary. But only if I say so. Whatever happens, keep filming, Don’t forget that.”
The cameraman moved towards the relative safety of the corner of the Square, and Aarika tapped the shoulder of the protester closest to her.
"Sir? Sir? Aarika Bhandari, BTV News. Can you tell me why you’re here today?”
A man, in his early to mid-twenties, leaned in towards the camera.
“Why am I here? Why am I here? ‘Cos this government has to go, that’s why! ‘Cos this government is fucking up everything!”
Aarika wasn’t overly concerned about the man’s swearing – there was a few seconds delay before transmission and the offending word could be bleeped out.
“What’s the government doing wrong, in your opinion?”
Aarika knew that this was a stupid question, but she was paid to ask stupid questions.
“Everything. Sky high prices. Mass unemployment. Companies are dropping like flies. My parents can hardly afford to feed the family. My dad’s lost his job because of this recession. We’re living on my mum’s money now. I’m a student. I’m studying to be an accountant, but if it keeps on like this nobody will have any money to be accounted for.”
“What’s your name, please?”
“Maurice. Maurice Boone.”
How do you think this recession can be stopped, Mr Boone?”
“I don’t know. Probably a mass injection of cash into the economy. But where’s that going to come from, eh? The people haven’t got it. We’re barely surviving as it is. If the government try to raise money through higher taxes, it won't work. Joe Public hasn't got the money.”
“Are you married, Mr Boone?”
“Engaged. To Karen.”
“And how do you see your future, Mr Boone?”
“Unless this shit gets sorted out, I don’t really see a future. It’ll need something really radical to sort this mess out.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boone.”
“You’re welcome.”
Maurice turned back to the crowd and joined in their chants, his fist pumping the air. The calls for the Government to resign were so loud that even the starlings were giving Parliament Square a wide birth that afternoon. Aarika and her cameraman walked briskly back to their car. She chided Peter for his slowness, oblivious to the fact that he was carrying all the heavy equipment and all she was carrying was the microphone.
“Come on Peter, get a move on. I don’t want to get caught up in things if the protest turns ugly. I do have a job and I mean to live to keep it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
19:02 WEDNESDAY 11 JANUARY 2051
In order to establish a New World Order, there were two main obstacles that had to be overcome. The first was the stranglehold that religion still held upon large numbers of the population. The people had to be free from religious influence – hence the Revelation back in 2015. Religion could have been a uniting force against the Illuminati but, by revealing reincarnation to exist, the infallibility of the various Churches had been compromised. Seeds of doubt swiftly became an unstoppable deluge and, although the organized religions weren’t totally destroyed, they were ravaged to the point of impotence compared to the power they held before the Revelation.
The second obstacle was political. In May of 2040, a new political party had come out of nowhere to sweep the old guard out of power in the UK. The Order of New Perfectibilists (more frequently referred to as the ONP) was a global political party and promised the electorate a panacea to the horrendous economic problems that, unknown to the British public, the party’s Illuminati paymasters had orchestrated. Once Britain had succumbed to ONP rule, the other countries of the world began to fall like a house of cards. Everything in the British garden appeared to be rosy and other nations were envious of the apparent prosperity that the UK was now experiencing and their populations followed suit, electing ONP governments or rebelling against their leaders and installing ONP controlled regimes instead.
But what can be given with one hand can be taken away with the other and, as soon as the new governments felt secure in their respective positions, they showed their true Illuminati colours, abandoning the policies that they had introduced to improve national economies in favour of oppressive and barbaric policies designed solely to fill the coffers of the Illuminati.
***
Thomas McCall had done well within The Order, as the Illuminati was known to its members, rising rapidly to the rank of Prince-Prefect. Of course, he’d had to make his way through the ranks but his potential hadn’t gone unnoticed and his professional career had been fast-tracked. Promotions had been frequent. He owned a beautiful house in the country, a classic Aston Martin sports car for weekends and this high-end executive model for all other times.
The Audi’s door slid back silently along its tracks and Thomas McCall eased himself out of the vehicle. It was bitterly cold outside and there was a thin layer of snow on the ground. Fortunately, the snow had stopped but it still made walking treacherous, especially for Thomas. He was wrapped up warm in a thick battleship-grey trench coat, a crimson scarf coiled around his neck, with thermal gloves to keep his hands warm. Under his left arm, he carried a tattered brown briefcase. It should have been replaced years ago but it reminded him of the part he had played in the success of the Revelation, His right hand gripped the top of the cane that he’d been using ever since his legs had ceased to be able to support his weight unaided; the muscle wastage caused by the onset of ALS wasn’t abating and Thomas didn’t know how much longer he would be able to walk with just the help of a stick. A parking valet took his car keys from him with a welcoming smile. The valet didn’t know who exactly Thomas McCall was, but he could tell that he was a very important man. He only had to take one look at his car; these new Audi Executive models didn’t come cheap.
Thomas (he no longer liked to be called Tom, as he thought that the full version of his first name gave it more gravitas) had been summoned by Nathan Smith, the Illuminati leader, the Pindar, for a private meeting. That was unusual.
Nathan Smith, in one of his previous incarnations (Adam Weishaupt, the first lay professor of canon law at the University of Ingolstadt), had created the Order of Perfectibilists, on May 1st, 1776 in Bavaria. Shortly after, he changed the name of his foundling organisation to the Illuminati, feeling that The Order of Perfectibilists sounded a little too bizarre for the time.
It was Nathan’s decision to include the world in the secret that he and his organization had known for centuries. If he proved to the world that reincarnation was a reality, that the great mystery – what happens when we die – was no longer a mystery, then how could the major religions continue in their peddling of Heaven and Hell? It would obviously not be an overnight transformation but with car
eful planning and execution, it would be possible. Christianity, Islam, Judaism etc. could be critically compromised. The New World Order would be one step closer to becoming a reality. And he had been proved right.
Nathan had taken a special interest in Thomas, and Thomas had sensed this interest. However, he was at a loss as to why he was now at Nathan’s private residence and the headquarters of the Illuminati. Had he done something wrong? Not that he knew of. It surely couldn’t be another promotion; he’d climbed almost all the rungs of the corporate ladder. He was 59 years old now and wasn’t really expecting any more career advancement. The next phase of life that he was openly anticipating was retirement, perhaps to his holiday home on Bernardo Island, his private island just off the coast of Rio de Janeiro or to his other island, Dhidhoo Island, in the Maldives. The only other possibility that he could imagine was that there was a new project that Nathan Smith wanted him to run.
A security guard opened the large oak door to the house and Thomas entered, walking as best he could, considering the pain and discomfort that followed him wherever he went. He positioned himself in the centre of a 2-metre diameter white painted circle, spread his legs a little, taking the weight upon his cane, and allowed his left arm to loosely hang by his side. Once settled, he nodded to another security guard who pressed a button on his wristwatch. A blue light bathed Thomas, checking for weapons of any type and any communicable diseases. If any weapons or contagious or infectious illness had been found during this scan, the light would have transformed into a red force field, preventing Thomas or anything he was carrying from leaving the area. The light also performed a DNA security check, six minuscule samples being drawn painlessly from random parts of the subject’s body in order to avoid stolen body parts from a person being used to allow imposters access to secure locations. Once it was determined that Thomas was who he appeared to be, the light beam returned to its origin in the ceiling, retracting into a small pod located directly above the centre of the circle.
The security guard knew who Thomas was and that he was a very high-ranking member of The Order, but everyone – even Nathan – had to undergo this procedure.
“Thank you, Mr McCall sir. Mr Smith is expecting you. You know where to go?”
Thomas did indeed know the way to Nathan’s office, as he’d visited it probably a hundred times previously. The security officer’s enquiry was more of a ritual than an offer of assistance. As he approached Nathan’s office, another light – this time green – flashed six times in quick succession and the door opened.
“Ah, Thomas. Come in. Come in. Take a seat, please.”
Thomas did as he was bid, letting his cane rest on his lap. The seats were very luxurious, reflecting the opulence of the room in which he was now sitting.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I imagine you’re wondering why I asked you here today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How old are you now Thomas?”
Nathan knew the answer. The personal details of everyone in the country were on government databases, to which Nathan had complete freedom of access.
“I’m fifty-nine, sir.”
“Do you know how old I am, Thomas?”
Thomas didn’t want to hazard a guess. He too had considerable access to a myriad of personal details databases, but even he wasn’t privy to Nathan Smith’s details. He decided to be conservative with his guess. He didn’t want to be too complimentary though; he didn’t want to look as if he was fawning over the Pindar.
“Erm… Early seventies perhaps?”
“I’m eighty-three, Thomas. I’m eighty-three.”
“Yes, sir. I mean… you don’t look it, sir.”
“Thank you, though I know you’re just blowing smoke up my arse. Thomas, I have a very important task for you.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.
“Of course sir.”
“Good. Let’s cut to the chase then. I’m eighty-three years old. Reincarnation is a fact but, alas, immortality isn’t. At least not in the sense of occupying the same body, ad infinitum.”
Thomas was confused. Where was the Pindar going with this conversation?
“This body won’t last forever. One day I will die. As a Recarn, I will obviously come back in another body and, as you know, I have no choice as to what body I’ll return to, it’s completely random. One day we anticipate that we’ll be able to direct our souls from one dead body to a specific new host, but that day has not yet arrived. We’re working on it, but we haven’t managed to find a way to do it yet. Thus, to use the vernacular, where we end up is in the hands of the gods – not that they exist, of course.”
Some would have been surprised to hear religious imagery coming from Nathan’s mouth, but Thomas knew that they were just words. ‘Soul’ was just a word to define the life-force that was within all of us. It had no deep religious significance nowadays. And ‘hands of the gods’, well, that was simply an idiomatic expression. No more, no less. Such expressions were ingrained in the language and people couldn’t be expected to stop using them overnight.
“Obviously I won’t come back as a fully-fledged adult. I’m not Doctor Who – more’s the pity - so there’ll be a gap of twenty years or so when I’ll have to be away from my desk, as it were. That’s where you come in.”
Thomas was starting to see where this might be heading.
“I need someone to take care of things until I get back, Thomas. I need you to do this for me. But, let me also say that although I may be old, I’m not foolish. I have taken measures to ensure that my return isn’t compromised.”
“This is indeed a great honour, sir.”
“One that I hope you’ll gladly accept.”
“Of course I accept sir, thank you, sir.”
“I’ll prepare you for the handover personally over the next month. Then I’ll self-terminate and you will be in charge until I get back. I’ll see you bright and breezy on Monday morning. Goodbye Thomas;”
Thomas knew that this wasn’t really a request, but a command. In reality, he had no choice. He also knew that the Pindar wasn’t bluffing when he said that steps had been taken to ensure that his return as a twenty-year-old would be unhindered. He’d no doubt that Nathan had gone through this procedure on numerous occasions and yet was still in command of The Order; as far as he was aware there had never been a successful usurpation in the history of The Illuminati. As he waited outside the building for the valet to return his car, he wondered if he might be the first.
CHAPTER EIGHT
15:14 WEDNESDAY 25 JANUARY 2051
Two weeks later, Maurice Boone was all but tearing his hair out. He and his wife, Karen, had been ushered into a small ante-room at Central Hospital to discuss the future of their youngest daughter, Caitlin, who had been admitted with acute kidney failure. The National Health Service still existed but was creaking severely under the strain of over a century of providing heavily subsidised treatment. It still nominally provided this function but spiralling costs had taken their toll. The Revelation had come at the right time for the NHS senior administrators; with the knowledge that everyone would be reincarnated, the pressure to save lives had been diminished.
Doctor Brynjar Stefansson was, on the face of it, showing great concern for the plight of the Boone family, making all the right noises, but behind the sympathetic facade, he was a firm advocate of the ONP health policy. Financial resources should now be dispensed sparingly – the NHS could no longer treat every disease or injury with the same priority as before. There just wasn’t the money available to do so; the ONP, funded by the Illuminati, could have saved the NHS but where was the profit in that?
“Mr and Mrs Boone, I do sympathise with your problem, I really do, but the decision isn’t mine to take. NHS funds are at an all-time low and we must all make tough decisions. Your daughter, Caitlin is it?
“Yes. Caitlin. My beautiful, innocent, six-year-old daughter
.”
“Well, Mr Boone. She’s still young. She’s only lived among us for six years. She hasn’t had many experiences that she’ll really remember. It would probably be a blessing for her to start her life over again from scratch, without this kidney problem which – if I may be frank – is already killing her anyway.”
Maurice was furious.
“She’s young, yes. But why shouldn’t she have the right to live a full life? And, as for her not having many experiences that she would remember, she’s had six years of life with loving parents and a loving sister.
Karen Boone wasn’t one to stand by and say nothing, especially when it involved her daughters. She wasn’t going to stay silent.
“And we’ve had six years of wonderful life with our beautiful little girl. I don’t want to lose her. I won’t lose her!”
Tears were streaming down Karen’s face. Maurice couldn’t bear to see his wife crying like this. He, himself, was struggling to hold back his own tears.
“The guidelines are quite clear Mr and Mrs Boone. The rules clearly state that kidney treatment is reserved for those of fourteen years of age and above, and those below sixty years of age.”
The reasoning behind these age restrictions was callous. Children who were almost at the point that they could leave school were considered an investment. Their schooling had been geared to creating adults who were useful to society, who would be able to pay back the government through their hard work. Perhaps they wouldn’t earn enough to pay the actual financial debt but even those who didn’t become sought-after professionals in their field had a useful place in society. There would always be a need for people to do the dirty jobs. Such work had been automated as much as possible, but manual labour would always be necessary. However, a seriously ill six-year-old child was too young to be considered a worthwhile investment. The government could write off the one year’s schooling that he or she’d already received, but the incentive to continue educating someone so young, for so many years, without the certainty of a return on the investment was considered unwise. The same reasoning applied to those of pensionable age. The government was grateful for the work that they’d done during their years of employment, but it was no longer seen as fiscally prudent to treat them for life-threatening illnesses. Indeed, treatment for any illness when over sixty years old was hard to come by. The line had officially been drawn at sixty for both men and women but unofficially the upper age limit for withdrawal of medical services had been falling for some time; fifty-five-year-olds were now frequently being refused costly medical treatment. After this age was reached, pensioners were expected to suffer in silence until they died naturally, until their disease finally overcame them and killed them, or until they could take no more and visited one of the many Self Termination Centres, the STCs, to commit assisted suicide, and thus relieve their families of a financial burden and society of an inconvenient embarrassment. The families of those who took this step of self-termination received a tax-free windfall payment to the value of one year of the eldest child’s salary. This caused a lot of friction within families and many an elderly parent was persuaded to go to an early grave because of the greed of their children.