by A. D. McLain
Traymore opened the backdoor, which led to the parking garage, before turning back to Mick and putting a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m going after my son.”
And then he was gone.
It didn’t take long to make all the calls. Mick only had to do the first thirty, and they all knew their roles, so no explanation was required. Those thirty called the rest of the massive phone tree. Within a half-hour, three thousand people had been contacted. Within an hour, that number would’ve tripled.
The first string was the priests, ministers, and rabbis, who informed their congregations. They would coordinate peaceful band-free demonstrations throughout this city and in all other cities in the state.
The tech guys would make sure that every printer in every home produced copies of uncensored texts, arrest warrants and court rulings from police officers who’d been wrongfully imprisoned since the Storm, and every crime that was covered up. These documents would also be posted on the Internet. Any 3D printer would be sent commands to create sports equipment and other banned items. Every tablet or television with Internet access would be sent images of old movies and clips from once popular sporting events. Hackers would broadcast live feeds of every protest.
Then came the teachers. With most children abandoned to State-run foster care schools, the underground movement knew how important it was to put people in place there. Up until now, the role of their undercover teachers had been to counteract the State-sponsored messaging and censorship without revealing their identities or agenda. Now they’d be responsible for transporting the children away from the group homes and into nearby free zone refuges. The youngest ones would be taken to The Valley. Older ones would go to similar areas outside the main population. All would be adopted by willing families and begin learning how to live with their Psy abilities. They would be taught discipline, self-reliance, and charity. The protests organized by the religious leaders and the chaos caused by the tech guys would provide cover for the teachers to move.
After one of the bouncers was set to escort Curtis and the two women to The Valley, Mick made one last call.
“Hey, Brian. Sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid it’s time.”
“Where’s the boss man.”
“Bug’s got himself in the big jar. Pappa went to break it.”
“I see. Well, be safe, and thanks for the call.”
“It’s time.” Father Patrick looked at his secretary, Mrs. Lacey.
She dropped her pen and notebook. After a moment of stunned silence, she picked up the notebook and called the teachers.
He continued on to Larry. The older man with a pot belly and a head full of silver hair was leaning over the old computer.
“I have something special I need you to print tonight. Get together all the volunteers you can find. We need to distribute this to everyone we can.”
“What is it?” Larry looked at the new document transfer icon blinking in the folder on his desktop.
“It’s a copy of special instructions to be followed after tonight’s sermon. Send out a flash church service text to all the parishioners. We need to get everyone here in the next hour. And instruct them to bring a friend. This is going to be big.”
Father Patrick spent the next hour waiting. He didn’t need to rehearse. He’d thought about what he would say a lot over the years, and he knew God would help him say what needed to be said to reach the most people. As he walked out into the church, he was heartened to see the pews filled for the first time in years. While there were always regular attendees and sporadic holiday visitors, numbers had declined since the Storm.
The building was worn. Paint was peeling. The carpet faded, and the front door creaked loudly. But it wasn’t the building that made up the church, anyway. The people did, and even if the building was demolished tomorrow, the church would carry on in the form of its true body. Wherever they went, the church would go, as long as they continued to search for a truth higher than themselves. That in mind, he took to the lectern and began.
“Thank you all for coming out on such short notice.” He looked out at the field of faces.
Some were old, but a good many were young. They wore formal and casual clothing. Some came with families, some alone. A few brought children. One child asked for a bottle, followed by a shush from his mother, and it made Father Patrick smile.
“The world will change tonight in dramatic ways not experienced since the Storm, and each of you must choose how you will react and adapt to these changes. Right now, people everywhere are being called to take off the bands and protest the censorship that has imprisoned us for so long. Tonight we learn that there is another way.”
Gasps resounded from the crowd.
“I’ve spoken with many of you over the years. A common concern voiced has been the feeling that something was missing out of life. You say and do all the right things, but in the end, you live and die in the same little box. Nothing ever changes. Every day is just like the last. People used to travel, take in the beauty of the mountains, art in the museums, fine food. They craved new experiences, and the world was more than willing to provide them. People had dreams, aspirations, and hopes. They dreamed of being something, accomplishing things, and if life wasn’t giving them what they wanted, they made changes to attain those goals. They may not have always been successful, but they tried. When was the last time you felt like that? When was the last time you felt alive?”
There was shuffling and a few mumbled their agreement.
“Some of you remember those times. For those who are too young to remember, you feel a void without knowing what you’re missing. The truth is, we need a purpose. Today, we serve without purpose, exist without living, enjoy without feeling, and fear repercussions every time we speak our minds or go against the norm. We do this because it keeps us safe. That’s what we’re told. They say if you deviate from the plan, Psy violence will destroy us all, as it almost destroyed the previous generation. We’ve learned from their mistakes, and things are better now. Maybe they aren’t perfect, but we do the best with what we have. They told us it was for our protection and we believed them. We gave up our freedom for the promise of safety. We gave up our freedom for a lie.”
Now people were covertly looking around to see the reactions of others. The boy ran his toy race car up and down the side of his seat and his mother quieted him again.
“Throughout history, we’ve treated symptoms instead of causes. People are quick to blame external sources for their problems. We all do it. Maybe you blame a movie or game. Maybe you blame poor education or economics. Maybe it’s poor nutrition and competition. Some people blame God. All these things ignore one simple fact. We have free will. We are responsible for our own actions. You can ban books and sports. You can arrest people for not wearing a band around their head, but what does that do? It doesn’t change the hearts of men. Because of free will, sometimes bad things happen. But great things happen as well. Back in the days of high philosophy, Hobbes and Rousseau had opposing arguments on what our true natures were. Are we inherently selfish and only do the right thing when forced to do so by laws and social pressure. Or are we inherently good and become corrupted by our environment to do bad things? No matter which theory you believe, the solution is not more laws and controls. If we are one or the other, we’re doomed. If we’re born selfish, we must be controlled to protect us from ourselves. If we’re born innocent and become evil through exposure to our environment, our environment must be controlled to protect us from the outside. Both schools of thought ignore the fact that the people creating the laws are also human, and are therefore still bound by the same judgments of human nature they place upon us. But none of that matters, because the world is not black or white. It’s a wide range of grays. If we were truly mindless beings acting only on instinct, our society wouldn’t have existed as long as it has. The truth is, there are acts of selfishness and acts of selfless kindness. People are persuaded to behave good or bad to avoid o
r provoke certain outcomes, but we are more than that. We are human, and that means something.”
Everyone focused on him. He could see the yearning and hopeful fear in their eyes. They wanted truth.
“Some will say to look at our crime rates to prove that the controls work in keeping us safer. But there’s problem with that assertion. Psy crime never went down. It was silenced, not stopped. People who speak the truth are arrested. Even police were arrested to keep their secrets. Anyone who shows exceptional Psy ability is taken away and imprisoned. You’ve all heard the rumors at one time or another. Maybe you knew someone who disappeared. Maybe it was a friend or coworker. Maybe it was a relative. While the current trends in society have cut many social ties and connections, they couldn’t disconnect us from all experience. We still feel a need to interact with other people. We still crave friendship and companionship. We still seek patterns and traditions that make us feel like a part of a community, even if it’s only in sharing a meal with co-workers or going to clubs with friends.
“After the Storm, we faced an emergency, but not the one we thought. Psy wasn’t a curse. It didn’t cause our society to fall apart. We were already those people. The Psy Storm just revealed that to us. It was a gift meant to show us what was truly in our own hearts. Thoughts are just as important as actions, and both can hurt. We were given these abilities, not to fear or hide from them but to learn from them. Instead of accepting the demons we saw, we were meant to become more than what we were. We were meant to become stronger and closer as a people. But we were confused and afraid, and we let ourselves be led. We faltered, and that was our mistake. But we can make things right again. The key is and always has been freedom. Without freedom, life is meaningless. We’re told that we can’t live without the bands or censorship to protect us from our own violent urges. We have no self-control. We can’t help ourselves. We are merely beings acting on instinct. We aren’t even allowed to read old stories or watch old football or baseball games, because they say competition and injuries breed anger and Psy violence. At one time, families took their children to these games to bond and create memories. It was part of our traditions, our history. It brought us closer together and gave us something to unite behind with our friends and neighbors. All that was taken away by someone sitting at a desk, making decisions about what he or she thought was best for us.”
Some of the older people shook their heads in disgust. The younger ones hid their eyes.
“I’m here today to tell you that in many places throughout the country, people are living and thriving without these shackles. In these communities, people live unchained and they aren’t killing each other. They produce uncensored art and literature. They preserve the documents of the past by sharing, reading, and remembering. They tell stories of their ancestors, of love and hope. In these places, people are taught discipline. They’re taught to take responsibility for their thoughts and actions, and in return, they’re free. Free to determine their own path. Life could be like this for everyone. Will we allow ourselves to be who they tell us we are? Or will we become who we were meant to be? This is your chance to take control of your life. You can choose to live in the dark, grateful for the little bits of light you’re given. Or you can choose to make your own light and experience the wonders this world holds for you.”
There were hopeful grins around the congregation, and he felt a level of excitement in the air he hadn’t experienced in years.
“We have a chance now to learn from our history instead of ignoring and destroying it. We don’t have to be the violent animals they think we are. Instead, we can vow to take control over our own lives. The future is in your hands. Will you accept the shackles of the past or forge a new path free of oppression? Everyone must make this decision on his or her own. That’s what freedom is all about. Some will choose to remain in the dark. All we can do for them is to continue to thrive in the light and show them, by example, what they can do.”
Father Patrick took off his inhibitor band and sighed as the people followed in removing theirs. Larry and Mrs. Lacey went to the ends of each row to hand out the papers.
“Take these papers and share them with everyone you see. On the back you’ll find a map to every church, synagogue, and temple in the city.” He took his own copy out. “Life and Liberty given by man can be taken by man. Freedom comes from Truth. Seek always the truth and you will find it. Do not accept the shackles of fear. There is another way. Remove your band and gather together with your brothers and sisters of the community, in peaceful protest. And for any who find themselves in need of help or guidance, seek out a house of worship. The holy men and women there will help you. Be safe and go in peace with God, for He is always with you. Amen.”
13
Lexy looked ahead and contemplated taking the alleyways. The Fixton building was close, and she could cut a lot of time off the walk if she darted between the buildings. But there were indications of unsafe energy hidden within the shadows of those alleys. The streets weren’t much better. A group of cackling un-banded den rats straddled metal railings and leaned over benches in front of a seedy club. They threw bits of food and called out insults to passersby. Each of them reached out with tendrils of Psy energy at anyone who passed within a dozen feet of them. Those wearing inhibitor bands walked by without a flinch. But anyone without a band who reacted to the touches, were pounced on by all members of the group. And if someone tried passing on the opposite side of the street, one of them would dart across and follow them until the victim found a building to duck into and hide.
Lexy strode down the street, with her head held high, appearing confident. She felt their touches across her skin but kept moving, careful not to react. The touches gripped her breasts and rubbed her legs. She felt touches elsewhere and ignored them all. As suddenly as the touches had begun, they ended. She took a breath and noticed a man fall into step beside her. He smiled and nodded his hat to her. His energy was subdued, barely visible. Then the pulse tendrils couldn’t reach her anymore. They were blocked from coming within several feet of her.
“You’re a Shield,” Lexy said.
He put a hand on her shoulder and led her to a gas station on the corner, facing the street that ran perpendicular to the one with the loiterers. They couldn’t see her there. He opened the door to the station and waited for her to enter. She read what energy of his she could see and felt no threat. While looking into the dim interior of the gas station, she felt another light being hidden by him and saw an older woman about the same age as her mother. She had light blond hair and wore a standard blue work shirt and denim pants stained with oil and grease. The woman wiped her hands on a wet wash rag and held out one in greeting. Lexy shook her hand and sat next to a wooden table with a chess board carved on top.
The man sat beside Lexy and moved one of the chess pieces. “Check.”
The woman cursed and sat down, then studied the pieces. “My name is Tracy.” She didn’t look up from their game. “This is my brother Daniel.”
“Thank you,” Lexy said to Daniel.
“Not a problem. I’m just the Shield. Tracy’s the one who saw you and thought you could use a hand.”
“Couldn’t let a young un-banded Reader like you face those guys alone.” She winked.
“You’re a Reader?”
The woman nodded. “What brings you here? Curiosity, or lost a bet?”
“A bet?”
“You’d be surprised how many of those come down here. Dares and bets. That’s how most of the regular den rats start out.” She moved a piece on the chess board and smiled.
Daniel pushed one of his pieces to the side. “Check.”
The woman cursed again. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Why would an un-banded Reader be walking so close to Fixton? Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”
“No more dangerous than running a gas station near Fixton, I would think. Which makes me wonder why you would help me and risk exposing yourself?”
The woman looked at Lexy, examining her Psy energy. “Your energy looks a lot like someone I once knew. I guess I got nostalgic.”
“Who?”
She looked down at her board. “Just someone I used to work with. But that was a lifetime ago.”
Lexy looked around the old gas station and saw a dusty, faded photograph behind the counter. In it, Tracy stood with a man holding her around the waist. Beside them stood a girl and a small boy who could’ve been her brother. Lexy looked at the woman’s face in the photo and then at her face today. There was something familiar in her. She looked a lot like a woman Lexy remembered seeing in one of her father’s old police photos.
“You were on the Reader Force.”
Tracy looked up.
“My father was Logan Smith.”
“Yeah, I thought you might be his little girl. Look at you, all grown up. So I suppose you’ve finally come to break your old man out of jail.”
Lexy felt the color drain from her face. She searched for some sign of her father but couldn’t sense him.
“You didn’t know?” the woman said. “Then what are you here for?”
Lexy turned her gaze to Jared’s light.
“I see. You’ve got someone else in there, too. Well, I’m sorry for you. You’ll never see either of them again.” She looked back down at her game and moved a piece.
Her brother knocked over her king, in checkmate, and pushed away from the table. She stood and started cleaning the front counter. She wouldn’t meet Lexy’s eyes.
“What if you help me?”
“Why would I do that? I barely managed to avoid going there myself twenty years ago. I have no intention of changing that now.”
“My father would help you if the roles were reversed.”
“Girl, you didn’t even know your father.”
“Am I wrong?”
The woman was quiet.