“We’ve had world peace since 2040,” Connor said.
“Yeah, because the bankers own every country now,” Javier said. “Venezuela went down in 2039, and North Korea just let ’em in after fat-ass Kim Jung Un died in ’37.”
“And those people aren’t starving anymore.”
“Seriously, Connor? Are you really arguing in favor of central banking?”
“I’m just looking at the facts.”
The Resistance was in session. Javier sat on the couch, across the coffee table from Connor and Summer. Mark hadn’t arrived yet.
Javier shook his head. “The bankers control money and credit. They own the world and everyone in it. If you don’t comply, they use the government to fuck you up. Plain and simple.”
Connor rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I’m not denying that it’s a corrupt system. I’m just suggesting that maybe it’s the best we could do at the time, and maybe now it’s run its course.”
“Nah, fuck that. They planned all this shit. You ever heard of gradualism?”
“No.”
“Like doing something slowly over time?” Summer asked.
“Exactly. Gradualism was their plan. That’s what they called it,” Javier said. “They created the Federal Reserve in 1913. The League of Nations in 1919. The IMF and the World Bank in 1944. The United Nations in 1945. The World Health Organization in 1948. The EU in 1993. The World Trade Organization in 1995. The euro currency in 1999. The African Union in 2002. The Union of South American Nations in 2008. Government cryptos in 2022. Then the Crypto Exchange System in 2038. Now we have a one-world-currency controlled by the central bankers, and we don’t have any wars anymore because they can control governments with credit. If a country gets out of line, they can collapse their economy with the tap of a screen.”
Connor shook his head. “I don’t buy the New World Order nonsense. Just because things happened over time doesn’t mean it’s a conspiracy. They were reacting to disruptions in the economy.”
“Dude. Come on,” Javier said. “Tell me that you’re not falling for their Hegelian dialectic bullshit.”
Connor’s phone buzzed. He tapped the screen. “Mark’s here.”
“What’s a Hegelian dialectic?” Summer asked.
“Problem, reaction, solution. For example, the crash of 2020 was the problem. The reaction was, people freaked the fuck out and begged the government for a solution. The Federal Reserve, in concert with the government, already had a solution. They banned cryptocurrencies, precious metals, and cash, so we couldn’t escape with our wealth from one paradigm to the next. Then they introduced government cryptos, and everyone readily accepted their solution.”
“People accepted it because they were afraid,” Summer said.
“Exactly. Another good example is the crash of 2038, with the Saudi revolution and the oil shortages, which were worse than the oil shortages during the Greater Depression of the 2020s.”
“I remember the crash of 2038,” Connor said, nodding. “They rationed food. They rationed gas. They closed the banks. Then we had rolling blackouts because people compensated by using electric vehicles.”
“After the crash of 2038, we had Bretton Woods III and the Crypto Exchange System, which is basically the one-world-currency we have today. People were so freaked out by what happened that everyone accepted their bullshit money without a fight.” Javier grabbed his beer from the coffee table and took a large gulp.
“It could always be worse,” Connor said. “At least Fed Coins are relatively stable.”
A banging came at the door.
Connor stood from his chair and walked toward the door.
More banging continued.
“Hold on. I’m coming,” Connor called out. He opened the door.
Mark Benson stood, breathless, his face beet red.
“Hey, Mark.” Connor stepped aside.
Mark entered the apartment, shutting the door behind him, then looking through the peephole.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if anyone followed me,” Mark replied.
Javier wagged his head. “Nobody’s following you.”
Mark stepped back from the peephole. He was a pale, heavyset man, so his red face wasn’t abnormal, but he looked genuinely afraid. “I think it’s safe.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Javier called out from the couch.
Connor sat in his chair next to Summer. Mark plopped down next to Javier, the couch cushion compressing under his weight.
“I need your cell phones,” Mark said.
“What?” Javier replied.
Mark took a deep breath. “I have life-and-death news. We need to put our phones in the fridge. Also, any tablets or anything that’s connected to the internet. This can’t leave this apartment.”
“Our fridge is connected to the internet,” Connor said. “And what about the TV? You can’t fit that in the fridge.”
“Then just put what you can in there.”
Connor and Summer placed their cell phones on the coffee table.
“Why the fridge?” Summer asked.
“In case the NSA is listening.” Mark looked at Javier. “Your phone.”
Javier sighed and set his phone on the coffee table. “Nobody’s listening.”
Connor scooped up the phones and took them to the fridge. Then he went to the bedroom, grabbed two tablets, and put those in the fridge too. Connor returned to his seat in the living room and said to Mark, “Well?”
With all eyes on Mark, he said, “My sister, Zoe, recorded a meeting with Jacob Roth and Naomi Sutton, and I have the video.”
“For real?” Javier asked.
Mark nodded gravely. “It proves what I’ve been saying all along. How the central bankers buy and sell politicians to maintain their control of the money.”
“I’ve been saying that too.” Javier crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s see the video.”
“I put it in a safe place. If I got caught with it, I could be arrested for treason. I don’t know what to do with it yet.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“It’s not safe.”
Javier chuckled. “This is such bullshit.”
Mark glared at Javier. “Part of me wishes it was. This is serious.”
“How did your sister get the video?” Summer asked.
“I gave her a nanocamera and a mike to install, and she did it.” Mark talked faster now. “I mean, I never thought she’d actually do it.”
“What’s on the video? What did they say?” Connor asked.
“Basically, Jacob Roth offered to help Naomi Sutton win the presidency by giving her campaign a ton of money. She actually asked him what he wanted in return.”
“I don’t think she’s even announced,” Summer said.
“She hasn’t,” Mark replied.
“That’s crazy. What did Roth want from her?” Connor asked.
“He wanted her to tax Thorium Unlimited 90 percent, and he wants her to continue with the Federal Reserve charter.”
“What did she say to that?”
“She actually told him that she’d rather lose with her integrity intact.”
“I told you she was for real,” Javier said, grinning ear to ear.
“The Fed charter makes sense,” Connor said, “but why would the Roths want high taxes on Thorium Unlimited?”
“Thorium Unlimited is one of the most profitable corporations in the world,” Mark said. “More important, they have no debt.”
“I’ve seen a video of their CEO, Truman Bradshaw, talking shit about the Federal Reserve,” Javier said.
“I think Thorium Unlimited is trying to establish an energy-backed cryptocurrency to usurp the power of the central banks.”
16
Naomi and Vernon
On the screen, Randal Montgomery announced his candidacy for president. He smiled and spoke in platitudes about restoring integrity and service to politics. The Democ
ratic congressman from South Carolina was a tall blond, with a matching mustache. His round glasses, striped suit, and hokey grin exuded white privilege.
Naomi grabbed the remote from the coffee table and muted the OLED television. Vernon sat on the couch next to her in her congressional office. The afternoon sun glowed orange through the windows.
“I’ve had this sinking feeling in my stomach since this morning,” Naomi said. “Do you think I made a mistake turning him down?”
“Depends on how you look at it,” Vernon replied. “We could definitely use the money. That’s some serious old-banking money you turned down.”
Naomi frowned. “Don’t remind me.”
Vernon smiled that perfect smile. “I’m proud of you. What you did wasn’t politically smart, but it was the right thing to do. That’s why I believe in you, and that’s why the people will believe in you.”
“But they’ll never know about it.”
“Two years from now, people will know who you are and what you stand for.”
Naomi nodded. “I hope so.” She pointed toward the muted screen. “You think we have anything to worry about with Montgomery?”
Vernon shook his head. “When was the last time we had a white guy as the Democratic nominee?”
“Not since 2020.”
“That definitely won’t change with Montgomery. He could be an excellent running mate though.”
Naomi giggled. “We’d make quite the pair. The white moderate and the black socialist.” That description reminded Naomi of her husband, Alan. He was a white moderate when they met, but she’d radicalized him over the years.
“I’m serious. To win we’ll need the moderates. His presence will help appease those people.”
“That’s a good point. But I’m sure he’d rather jump on the Corrinne Powers bandwagon.”
“We’ll see.”
Naomi glanced at Vernon, then to the door. “Did you lock it?”
Vernon pursed his full lips and raised his eyebrows. “Why would I need to do that?”
Naomi kicked off her heels, stood from the couch, and smoothed her skirt suit. She stood in front of Vernon. He leaned forward in his seat and ran his hands up her legs, smiling as he moved past her thigh-highs and beyond. She gasped, letting him play with her; then she placed her hand on his chest and pushed him so he leaned back again.
Naomi spread his legs apart and kneeled on the hardwood between them. She placed her hand on his crotch, squeezing his bulge. Their gazes locked. His, dark and unblinking. One eye a little droopier than the other. His single flaw, which only served to make him more beautiful. Hers, brown and searching, eagerly soaking up every inch, every detail. These brief moments with him made her life worth living.
17
Derek and the Harvest
The sun rose over the horizon. This morning, Derek and the boys had already been working for two hours by tractor light. Over the past four days, Derek had worked eighteen hours per day. He was sore and exhausted, running on adrenaline. He’d barely had time to call his mother. The boys had worked right alongside him, quitting a little earlier each night at Derek’s urging but still logging in a solid twelve hours of work each day.
Derek placed another orange in the large pocket of his apron. His lower back ached from the weight, and the skin around his shoulders was irritated by the apron straps. Ignoring the pain, he moved up and down the ladder, filling the apron. Once full, Carlos set a box by the ladder, and Derek filled the box. Carlos moved the full box to the tractor, then worked on picking oranges from the low branches. Ricky was in the understory, picking up and boxing loose oranges. At this point, everyone knew their role very well, so they worked in silence, like a machine.
A car approached in the distance, dust from the gravel road in its wake. From his vantage point near the top of the ladder, Derek looked over the treetops as the car stopped at the farmhouse. April exited the vehicle with a little suitcase on wheels. Derek smiled to himself and climbed down the ladder.
“I’ll be right back,” Derek said to the boys.
“I heard a car,” Ricky said.
“It’s my girlfriend, April.”
Carlos deadpanned, “Is she hot?”
Derek chuckled to himself. “She’s very pretty.” He walked across the rows of fruit trees toward the farmhouse. The car pulled away, leaving April standing in the driveway with her suitcase. She wore athletic shorts, an old T-shirt, sneakers, and a straw hat on her head that looked brand new. As he approached, he said, “This is a nice surprise.”
She smiled wide and asked, “Need a hand?”
“You know what you’re gettin’ yourself into?”
“Picking oranges?”
Derek kissed her on the cheek, then the mouth. He stepped back, appraising her, then glancing at her Claddagh ring. The heart and the hands were facing inward now.
“Don’t you have to work today?”
“I called in sick.”
Derek gazed into her blue eyes and said, “Thank you.”
She grinned and placed her hands on her hips. “You like my farming outfit?”
“Looks more like a runnin’ outfit with a straw hat, which nobody wears by the way. But you do look beautiful.”
She looked him over. “You look tired.”
Derek nodded. His jeans and T-shirt were dirty, and his John Deere hat had seen better days. “Somethin’s been botherin’ me, and I should’ve asked you about it when you were at the hospital, but I guess I didn’t wanna know the answer.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, I was, uh, just wonderin’ about your ring.”
“My Claddagh ring?” April touched the ring reflexively.
“Yeah. It was turned out at the hospital, but now it’s turned in. I was just wonderin’ how you feel about me. I know I’m not the best catch in the sea, but do we have a future?”
April stepped closer and pressed her lips to his, wrapping her arms around him. They disengaged, and she said, “Does that answer your question?”
“What about the ring?”
She giggled. “Seriously? I probably just put it on wrong. You don’t need to worry about us.”
Derek took her hand. “Sorry for doubtin’ you. I’m not in my right mind these days.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “How’s your mom?”
“I talked to her yesterday, and she seemed fine. I’m hopeful.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Derek nodded toward her suitcase. “You plannin’ to stay for the weekend? We could go out for dinner after the farmers’ market. My treat.”
April winced. “No, I’m sorry. I have to go back tomorrow. I have to work this weekend.”
“That’s okay. I’m glad you’re here now. We should get to work. It’s gonna be a long day.” They walked back toward the orange grove. “Ricky and Carlos have really saved my ass. They’ve been workin’ nonstop to help me.”
“That’s so sweet.”
“Carlos wanted to know if you’re hot.”
April giggled. “Hopefully I don’t disappoint.”
“They’re good boys.”
18
Jacob and Beholden to Lies
The autonomous Mercedes crossed the Francis Scott Key Bridge. Jacob sat in the back, looking at the blackness of the Potomac River below. A man sat in the driver’s seat, but he didn’t operate the vehicle. He was there for show and protection. Despite Jacob’s low status on the Roth hierarchy, he was still a Roth and still an heir to the wealthiest family in the world. The Mercedes slowed as it drove into Georgetown, the brick sidewalks jam-packed with college kids and the wannabe-wealthy as they went bar- and club-hopping on a Saturday night.
Once beyond the Georgetown nightlife, they drove toward a stately brick building. The building was protected by a security gate and a canal. They stopped at the gate, provided identification to the robot guard, and the security gate rose. They drove over a small bridge to the front entrance of The Rega
l Hotel. Perfectly pruned boxwoods—lit by landscape lights—lined the front of the six-story building.
The Mercedes stopped at the entrance; the driver stepped out and opened Jacob’s door. Jacob exited the vehicle.
“Do you need my services inside?” the driver asked.
“No need. I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave,” Jacob replied.
“Very well, sir.”
Jacob entered the hotel lobby. He walked on checkered marble. Vintage chandeliers hung overhead. A young woman stood at the front desk.
“Good evening, sir,” she said.
“Good evening,” Jacob replied, continuing to the elevators.
He pressed six and watched the numbers as he climbed to the top floor. The elevator opened to a long hallway, two large men standing in his way.
“May we help you, sir?” one of the men said, not budging.
“I’m here to see Zhang Jun,” Jacob replied.
“Name and chip please.”
“Jacob Roth.” He handed over his chip card.
The man waved Jacob’s chip card over his phone, reading the information and cross-referencing it with a list on his tablet. He returned the card and stepped aside. “Thank you, sir.”
The other man said, “I can take you to Mr. Jun.”
Jacob nodded, and they walked down the hallway. The man opened the glass double doors and they entered a dimly lit restaurant and bar. The furniture and the bar were modern and minimalist with lots of glass, sharp angles, and black-and-silver details. The far wall was nearly all glass, providing a panoramic view of the city.
A handful of Asian men and American women fraternized at the bar and the tables. A few security guards lurked in the corners, looking bulky in their suits. The women far outshined the men. They were young, stylish, and beautiful.
Interestingly, they all wore tight dresses and flats, no doubt to eliminate the height advantage. A few were obviously robotic, their movements not as fluid as the “real” women, but every bit as beautiful and able to converse in any language. The men were mostly middle-aged and slightly overfed.
2050: Psycho Island Page 8