The audience went quiet, followed by hushed whispering.
“You heard me right,” Naomi said. “Capitalism has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.”
Hissing and a few boos erupted from the audience.
Naomi waited for the crowd to quiet. “You’re probably thinking, That’s not true, Naomi. But it is. The goal of capitalism is to take from the many and to give to the few, to concentrate money and power at the top of the pyramid. The goal of capitalism is for powerful companies and individuals to take as much of the pie as possible. The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer.
“By my estimation, that’s exactly what’s happened. The largest companies grow larger. The wealthiest men grow wealthier. And they do this at the expense of everyone else. I, for one, am tired of watching the middle class being destroyed, jobs being outsourced to robots, and our environment being polluted. We live here too.”
The crowd cheered.
Naomi smiled at her constituents but motioned with her hands to quiet the crowd again. “I will continue to fight for you, but I can’t do it alone. I need you to fight for what’s fair and just and equitable. I need you to support not just my campaign but other democratic socialists as well. Together, we can take back our country.”
5
Derek and the Boys
The mechanical picker suctioned oranges from the tree, the hose moving up and down and forward and back with the precision of a 3-D printer. Derek used the handheld hose attachment to suction undamaged oranges from the ground. The four-wheel machine inched forward, making efficient work of the harvest. Satisfied that he’d gleaned the suitable oranges from the ground, he hung the hose on the machine.
Knowing he had a minute to rest before the picker moved to the next tree, he twisted his torso, stretching his lower back. He needed to be careful about bending over all day when running the suction hose. He was still young at thirty-eight, but not that young.
As Derek stretched, he glanced up at the morning sun, already bright yellow and glorious. Something caught his eye, something in the treetops a few rows over. Something big. Derek paused the picker and walked between the rows of trees. He frowned at the two skinny boys hiding in the center of an orange tree, about twelve feet up. They looked to be about ten years old, both dirty, one tan, the other pale.
“This is private property. What are you two doin’?” Derek asked.
“Um, … nothin’. We just wanted to climb. That ain’t a crime,” the tan boy said.
“You’re stealin’ my oranges. Get down before you hurt yourself.”
The boys climbed down the tree, their faces solemn. Their shorts’ pockets bulged with round oranges. The tan boy wore a backpack, no doubt also filled with oranges.
“Shouldn’t you be at school?” Derek asked.
“Don’t you know nothin’?” the tan boy asked with a scowl. “Everyone goes online, unless you’re rich.”
“Shouldn’t you be in front of a computer then?”
“We go at night,” the pale boy said. “Internet’s cheaper at night.”
“Where do you two live?” Derek asked.
The pale kid pointed to the government-assisted apartment building in the distance. “Over there at Hillside Grove.”
“Don’t tell him that,” the tan boy said through gritted teeth.
“Do your parents know you’re here?” Derek asked.
“We can do whatever we want.”
“How would you like it if I stole somethin’ from you?”
The boys didn’t respond, staring at their dirty sneakers.
“What are your names?”
Still no response.
“I’m Derek.”
Still nothing.
Derek took off his wide-brimmed hat. “You’re not in trouble, but we need to make a deal.”
The boys looked up.
“What kinda deal?” the tan boy asked.
“The kind that’s good for both of us,” Derek said. “But I don’t make deals with people I don’t know. Again, what are your names?”
“I’m Ricky,” the pale boy said.
“Nice to meet you, Ricky,” Derek said.
Ricky wore a stained baseball cap and had a splash of freckles under his eyes and across his nose.
Derek looked to the tan boy. “And you?”
The boy shrugged. “Carlos.”
“Nice to meet you, Carlos.”
Carlos had dark eyes, disheveled brown hair, and teeth covered with a yellow film.
Derek said, “Here’s the thing. I don’t make much money. It’s a struggle to keep this farm goin’ year after year. If I let people steal from me, it makes it difficult to stay in business and to take care of my family. You understand?”
“We only took a few. You have lots of oranges,” Carlos said.
“How many do you have?”
“Like four.” Carlos looked down at his bulging pockets.
“That all? What about your backpack?”
Carlos blushed. “Maybe like ten.”
Derek arched his eyebrows.
“Okay, maybe fifteen.”
“I sell these oranges for half a Fed Coin each. That means you stole seven and a half Fed Coins from me. That’s enough for a decent meal. How would you like it if I came to your house and took your dinner?”
“Go ahead and try,” Carlos said, his arms crossed over his chest.
“What if I told you there was a way to have all the fruit you can eat without stealin’ a single orange?”
“How?”
“I’ll show you. Come on.” Derek walked back to the mechanical picker.
The boys followed.
“That’s so cool,” Ricky said, gazing at the picker.
“Only rich people have robots,” Carlos said.
Derek ignored the comment and pointed to the row behind the picker. “This row has already been harvested up to this point, but good oranges are still on the ground. It’s fruit that I can’t sell because it might be oddly shaped or slightly damaged, but it still tastes great. You two are welcome to take as many as you like but only the leftover fruit after the picker has been through. Understand?”
The boys smiled from ear to ear.
“That’s way more than we can eat,” Ricky said.
“You didn’t hear this from me because it’s illegal, but you could sell the extras to your neighbors,” Derek said. “Say ten for a Fed Coin. It’s up to you, what you think they can pay, but you’re young enough that, if you do get caught, you won’t get into too much trouble.”
“I bet we could make like twenty Fed Coins in a few hours,” Carlos said, still grinning.
Derek grabbed two empty boxes from the back of the picker. “Here. You can use these boxes. I have an old hand cart you can borrow to take your haul home with you.”
“Thanks, Derek!” Ricky said.
“If I were you, I’d keep our little agreement a secret. You wouldn’t want other people to take your fruit.”
“Yeah, don’t tell anyone,” Carlos said to Ricky.
“I won’t,” Ricky replied, annoyed.
The boys went to work, and Derek went back to the picker, restarting the machine. Shortly thereafter, his cell phone chimed. Derek answered while suctioning oranges from the ground, leaving the imperfect ones for the boys. He grabbed his phone and checked the caller ID. It was the call he’d been dreading. The one where Lindsey backed out of her visit at the last minute, and Rebecca made an excuse for her.
Derek swiped right. “Hey, Becca.”
“Hello, Derek. I’m calling to let you know that Lindsey won’t be able to visit this weekend. She has a very important school project, and she needs VR access. I know your internet doesn’t have the capability for reliable VR.”
“It’s slow and pixelated, but it’ll work.”
“Well, like I said, it’s a very important school project, and I don’t want her hindered by an unreliable internet.”
Derek sighed. “I’d like to see
her. She missed last time. I feel like we’re driftin’ apart.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Rebecca took a deep breath. “I have something else to tell you, but I need you to be calm and open-minded.”
“Okay?”
“Lindsey wants Jacob to adopt her.”
“What? You can’t be serious.” Derek’s entire body tensed. He hung the hose on the picker and paused the machine. “Where’s this comin’ from?”
“Well, … from all of us. Jacob has grown very close to her over the years, and I think it’s a good idea. It’s been hard for her to fit in with the extended family, and this is a step in the right direction.”
“That’s bullshit. If they don’t accept her now, then they don’t deserve her.”
“I agree, but it’s complicated. Bloodlines are very important to them. A large trust fund is given to Roth children. If Jacob doesn’t adopt Lindsey before her eighteenth birthday, she’ll be ineligible for the trust fund.”
Derek pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “It’s always about money.”
“No, this is about Lindsey.”
“We could’ve made it. You didn’t have to leave.”
“Derek, stop.”
“I’m still hangin’ on here. We could’ve been happy. We wouldn’t be rich, but we would’ve been happy.”
“Let’s not do this. It was eight years ago. What’s done is done.”
“Are you happy?” Derek paced, his gaze on the ground.
“This isn’t about me.”
“Answer the question.”
Rebecca hesitated for a beat. “Yes. I’m very happy.”
“I guess it all worked out for you then.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t make me feel guilty for taking responsibility for my life.”
“Responsibility? That’s priceless comin’ from someone who doesn’t have to work. Shit, you don’t even have to be a mom with that robot.”
“How dare you. You have no idea. I left because I wanted more for my life, but you were happy with the status quo. And now you’re holding back our daughter. She’ll be set for life. She’ll be able to do whatever she wants to do. Don’t you want that for her?”
“She’s my only child. I don’t wanna lose her,” Derek said.
“All the more reason to do what’s best for her,” Rebecca replied.
“I wanna talk to her.”
“She getting ready for school.”
“You want me to sign her over, like a used car, and I can’t even talk to her for five minutes?”
Rebecca let out a breath. “Fine. Hold on.”
A minute later, Lindsey spoke with a tremor in her voice, “Hello? Dad?”
“Hey, honey. Your mom told me about the adoption. Is this what you want?” Derek felt a lump forming in his throat.
Lindsey hesitated for a moment. “It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“But you do want Jacob to adopt you?”
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. I wish I would’ve been a better …” Derek swallowed hard. “I have to go.”
“Then you’ll let Jacob adopt me?”
“It’s a big decision. Can I think about it?”
“Yeah.” Disappointment was evident in her voice.
“I have to go.” Derek disconnected the call and started to throw his phone in frustration but thought better of it midwindup. He didn’t have the money for a replacement.
6
Jacob and the Bilderberg Meeting
The Grove Hotel was only eighteen miles from London, yet isolated on three hundred acres of Hertfordshire countryside. The hotel was once a mansion, the former home of the Earls of Clarendon. The exterior had been impeccably restored to its eighteenth-century glory, with the inside updated to cater to the most discerning guest.
Jacob stood in the ornate lobby, watching the hallway as a few attendees filtered out. Twenty minutes ago, it had been like a who’s who of power players. Kings, queens, princes, prime ministers, premiers, commissioners, CEOs, central bankers, government ministers, chancellors, congresspeople, senators, and cabinet members. Security was tight. It had taken Jacob nearly an hour to go through three checkpoints and two searches.
The attendees fell into one of three categories: old banking money, politicians bought by said old banking money, and up-and-comers. The up and comers were the wild cards, the people with the potential to upset the established power structure. They were invited and shown the hierarchy, given the opportunity to benefit from the can’t-lose system.
There’d been rogue elites, against the status quo, but they’d never had enough power to effectively oppose the families who owned the world. These families could give away their money and their land and then, with a few taps on a keyboard, buy it back again.
This year, three up-and-comers were the prime ones to watch: Zhang Jun, the CEO of the Bank of China (North American Division); Corrinne Powers, the Democratic senator from Virginia, probably the next POTUS; and Truman Bradshaw, the CEO of Thorium Unlimited, the growing worldwide energy supplier. Of the three, Truman Bradshaw posed the biggest threat to the existing power structure.
Jacob checked his watch again—7:18. The last session of the Bilderberg Meeting finished at seven, but still he saw no sign of his brothers or his father. He’d tried texting them but got no response. They were supposed to meet in the lobby at seven, but maybe he’d misunderstood. They were supposed to have dinner in the hotel, but maybe they’d gone to London.
Or more likely they were networking with important people, too busy to bother returning his texts. Jacob felt like a puppy waiting for his owner. He continued to watch the hallway as attendees filtered out. Only the elite of the elite were invited. Jacob would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall. He’d been invited to the hotel by his father, but Jacob’s status as CEO of a failing government-sponsored enterprise wasn’t prestigious enough to garner an invite to the meeting.
Jacob finally saw his father, Nathan, walking down the hallway with Randal Montgomery. Jacob smoothed his suit and straightened his tie. The Democratic congressman from South Carolina shook Nathan’s hand with a big grin, then walked past Jacob, as if he were invisible.
Jacob approached and said, “Father.”
Nathan narrowed his dark eyes, looking down on his son. “Jacob.” They shook hands. Nathan was average-size, but still taller than Jacob by two inches. He had big bushy eyebrows, thinning grayish-white hair, and a perpetually downturned mouth that rarely smiled in Jacob’s company.
“How did it go today?” Jacob asked.
Nathan nodded ruefully. “Much work needs to be done. Still many opponents to the world peace we’ve engineered.”
Laughing came from the hall. Jacob’s brothers, Mayer and Eric, appeared with Truman Bradshaw, all smiles and dissipating laughter. Mayer and Eric wore dark suits, as did most attendees, but Truman wore a purple polo and khakis. This wasn’t surprising. Truman had a reputation for nonconformity. They said their goodbyes and shook hands.
Truman exited the hotel, and the brothers approached Jacob and Nathan. Mayer, the eldest, was tall, dark-haired, and handsome. Eric, the youngest, had an average build, with a small paunch and a squinty smile. Unfortunately Jacob, the middle son, looked more like Eric.
“Jacob,” Mayer said, still grinning. “How was your flight?”
“Long,” Jacob replied, accepting a hug from his older brother.
“Didn’t you fly hypersonic?” Eric asked. “It’s only an hour and a half flight from New York to London.”
“I’m not rich like you.”
“Come on.” Eric knitted his brows. “You can’t tell me that the CEO of Housing Trust can’t afford a hypersonic flight.”
“I can afford a lot of things. That doesn’t make it prudent to buy them,” Jacob replied.
“Touché, brother.” Eric hugged Jacob.
* * *
The Roth men settled around a square table in the
hotel restaurant. Aptly named the Glasshouse, the restaurant boasted floor-to-ceiling glass windows along the length of the building. Despite the darkness outside, tasteful lighting illuminated a nice view of the kitchen garden and formal pools. A spattering of Bilderberg attendees were also in the restaurant, but the parties were seated discreetly, and everyone kept to themselves, adhering to the unspoken rule: what happens in the Bilderberg Meetings stays in the Bilderberg Meetings.
A robotic waitress rolled to their table. The bottom half of the robot was a tapered block, covered with a dark dress, four wheels underneath. The top half looked like a female torso, with arms and a human-size head. The titanium and aluminum frame was covered in silicone, with wavy dark hair to her shoulders. She didn’t look perfectly human, nor was she meant to for this purpose. She was made to replace servers, but her model was only used in high-end restaurants. Most restaurants used a boxy waist-high robot that looked like a small van. Customers had to remove their food from the tray atop the robot.
The waitress took their orders, sending the message automatically to the robotic cooks. Then she moved on to another table.
The Roth men spent most of the meal talking about Mayer’s and Eric’s families. Wives, children, and vacations. To the unaware, the Roth brothers looked like three successful middle-aged men out to dinner with their father.
During dessert, Mayer asked Jacob, “How are David and Ethan?”
“They’re good,” Jacob replied, glancing up from his crème brûlée. “Lindsey’s doing well too.”
Nathan grunted at the mention of Lindsey.
“How old is Lindsey now?” Mayer asked, trying to recover from his faux pas.
“Sixteen,” Jacob replied.
“She wasn’t at the last family reunion, was she?” Eric asked.
Jacob set down his fork with a clang, staring through his circular glasses. “She couldn’t make it.”
Eric nodded, as if he were just figuring something out. “She was with her father, right?”
Jacob clenched his jaw, unresponsive.
2050: Psycho Island Page 3