by Peter Tylee
Freedom Incorporated
Peter Tylee
© 2005
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Cover image by PJ Lyon
Prologue
Not even the toughest self-imposed code can put the multinationals in the position of submitting to collective outside authority. On the contrary, it gives them unprecedented power of another sort: the power to draft their own privatized legal systems, to investigate and police themselves, as quasi nation-states.
Naomi Klein – “No Logo”, 1999
Monday, March 25, 1998
Greenbrier High School
Evans, Georgia, USA
It’s the real thing – Suspension
High school senior Mike Cameron is serving a one-day suspension today for wearing a Pepsi shirt to Coke Day, an event Greenbrier High officials created to win a $500 contest held by the Coca-Cola Bottling Co.
Coke Day was Greenbrier High School’s effort to win a competition in which schools around the country had to come up with a plan to distribute Coke discount cards in their local areas. School officials hosted a Coke Day and invited Coke executives from Atlanta headquarters 100 miles away. The day included, among other things, integrating Coke into class instruction and a sea of human art. At one gathering students wore red and white Coke shirts and lined up to spell the word ‘COKE’ for an approving audience of Coke executives.
However, one human pixel was proving to be less than co-operative. Mike Cameron was making up part of the letter ‘C’ but wasn’t wearing his prescribed Coke shirt.
“I know it sounds bad – ‘Child suspended for wearing Pepsi shirt on Coke Day’,” Principal Gloria Hamilton said. “It really would have been acceptable… if it had just been in-house, but we had the regional president here and people flew in from Atlanta to do us the honour of being resource speakers. These students knew we had guests.”
Mrs Hamilton said Cameron also ruined a school picture, something that had drawn a six-day suspension in the past.
“The first thing the officials did was send the assistant to my classroom to get me,” Mike Cameron said. “He took me to his office and told me some B.S. about messing up the picture or something like that.”
Mike Cameron was then sent to the Principal’s office. “When I went into her office she gave me a speech about how I may have lost the school $500. Note this is the most important problem with what I did, it must have been, it was the first thing that came out of her mouth. Then she said something about how I damaged the picture, that this was an important day for the whole student body, and we all wanted this day to happen. But I don’t remember being asked if I wanted this day.
“I just sat in the chair looking around, and I noticed about 20 12-packs of coke sitting by a bookshelf in her office,” Mike reported.
The incident certainly provides an insight into the degree to which commercialisation pervades every element of our society. For Mike Cameron, suspension is certainly the real thing – but it also leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Chapter 1
There are certain corporations which market themselves so aggressively, which are so intent on stamping their image on everybody and every street, that they build up a reservoir of resentment among thinking people.
Jaggi Singh
Monday, September 13, 2066
Circular Quay
15:23 Sydney, Australia
Again it was Monday. And deceptively it felt the same as any other Monday – the hunt was on.
But why?Dan Sutherland wondered restlessly.
Why am I doing this? Again?And he gave the answer he always gave: Because it makes sense.Hunting provided a refuge, somewhere safe for him to hide. It was just a pity he couldn’t also find asylum from the turmoil in his mind.
He paused to scan the surface of the harbour; water churned up by the departing ferries sent eddies dancing from the quay. The pregnant clouds lost their battle with gravity and a curtain of droplets patteredon the paving. Perfect. It matched his mood and elicited a grim twist to one corner of his mouth. The men and women around him scuttled for cover and before long only a dissident child remained with Dan under the growing pelt. She stood wide-eyed, holding out a small hand in a futile effort to clutch the droplets that were disintegrating upon impact. A moment later the child’s mother gripped her arm and tugged her under the overcrowded eaves – to safety.
So Dan stood alone, mesmerized by the spiralling pattern of chaos etched on the water where the acidic rain mixed with the salt of the harbour. With effort he cast his gaze over the jostling crowd, nurturing a seed of envy and loathing it at the same time. Broken men could never rejoin the synthetic world of the living. Or so he told himself.
He watched as they blundered into each other, rushing to return to their cube-farms – claustrophobic squares of office space crammed in the middle of a ninety-something story building. Most were frustrated by the crush that each were, in turn, helping to create. No doubt they’d share comments of ire with colleagues while sipping a latté and shuddering at the nightmarish weather brewing outside their glazed windows. Dan’s smile faded. He couldn’t bring himself to care about his clothes and the rain wasn’t heavy enough to threaten his lungs. He wore a tattered coat, well past its use-by date. Only his boots were of any value, and they were waterproof guaranteed. He figured now was as good a time as any to put that to the test.
The throng was receding andhe recommenced worryingabout his target. Dan knew he’d be easy to spot. Adam.He tested the man’s name in his mind. Adam Oaten.He was wearing a distinctive brown beret, beneath which a few wisps of greying hair protruded. There you are.Dan spotted him walking toward quay five and lengthened his stride to catch up.
Ferries were such an antiquated mode of transportation, so slow and inefficient. Dan wondered how they managed to stay in business; he didn’t know anyone who used them, except holidaymakers. He scanned the boards before stepping out of the rain and shaking the beaded water off his coat. Rivercats to Parramatta departed from quay five, all-stop services – express ferries didn’t operate outside peak-hour. He joined the queue at the ticket terminal and craned his neck to watch Adam select his destination, but the terminal was at an inconvenient angle and Adam’s hunched shoulders blocked his view. Dan frowned, wondering whether Adam was being deliberately cautious. He’d been careful, but there was no such thing as toocareful, not when hunting. Soon it was his turn at the terminal and he purchased a ticket to the end of the line, eyebrows rising when the fare blinked on the display. So that’s how they turn a profit.He walked reluctantly through the gates and the sensor read his microchip, automatically deducting the exorbitant fare from his linked account.
He felt his left eyelid pulse and ran the back of his hand across his face, watching as Adam sagged into a seat at the end of the pier. Dan edged his way past the other passengers to lean against the railing. There he watched. And waited. He caught a dim flash of light from somewhere out at sea and braced for a thunderclap that never arrived.
He studied the mark. Time’s cruel touch had aged him since the photographs in his file and a quiver of curiosity played across Dan’s face. I wonder what he did.He recalled the words: moderate danger – approach with caution.But Dan couldn’t see anything dangerous about him.
With an effort
he pushed his thoughts aside and focused on his task. Only the insane would apprehend him there. Too public.Dan preferred something quieter and was content to wait and see where Adam led him.
The ferry arrived. A bedraggled deckhand sluggishly tossed some rope to secure the rivercat to the pier and hauled on the line until the ferry jolted againstthe protective foam. The young man’s muscles bulged under his oilskin and he was panting from exertion by the time he’d swung aramp to the pier. For their part, the passengers disembarked quickly. They trotted from the ferry holding up hats and half-opened umbrellas to stay dry.
With a resigned sigh, the deckhand swung the gate and, like cattle, herded the new ruck of passengers aboard. Dan deferred to the others, preferring to board last. He wanted to be sure that Adam would already be sitting so he could choose his seat accordingly. He always had a reason for his actions. His wife had called it exasperatingly pedantic, but Dan preferred the term efficient. This way he never wasted energy; everything he did worked toward a goal.
Oddly, a feeling of boyish excitement swelled from deep within when he boarded. The thought a ferry trip revived something he thought he’d lost forever. Enjoyment?He wasn’t sure, but then, he didn’t really want to know. It was irrelevant. It felt good, and good things should never be analysed. Analysis had the power to destroy.
The deckhand looked impatient,waiting for a secret signal from the Captain. When it arrived he closed the gate, kicked the gangway back to the pier and released the lines. With a whirr of the motors the ferry backed from the quay like a skittish cat, causing the brave passengers on deck to choke on diesel smog. It wasn’t until the Captain swung the helm and reversed his port engine that the ferry spun, proudly pointing toward the harbour and sparing the passengers from the noxious fumes. The Captain then pushed both throttles to the stops and the rivercat lurched forward, leaving turbulent water in its wake.
Dan fought the urge to go and stand on deck. The tantalising thought of a breeze ruffling his hair and the lure of salt spray on his lips were almost too much to bear. Despite the lashing rain that would sting his eyes, and despite the pain his flesh would suffer the next day, the thrill still beckoned him. But today he was busy. Today it’s business.So he contented himself with gazing at the other river-craft from his droplet-streaked window.
Lightning flashed just before they passed under the Harbour Bridge and it lit the water with a copper-green tinge. But this time there was also a thunderclap and Dan felt it reverberate in his knees. He pressed his cheek to the window and glimpsed the Bridge, barely for long enough to admire the miracle civil engineers had performedso long ago. But the rivercat raced ahead, spearing a path through the smaller craft that were brave enough – or foolish enough – to be on the harbour in the brewing storm.
*
The Raven fingered his scar, tenderly.
Black was his colour. Stealth was his virtue. And hunting was his game. Today was no different. But he needed an omen and it frustrated him that none had yet arrived. His coat gently flapped in the slow drizzle, shining black with the wetness. The Raven brushed it aside, reaching into the folds of his clothing to stroke his Redback-PX7. Banned by the international convention of ‘38, the Redback had all but vanished, held only by a scattering of terrorists and law-snubbing pistol enthusiasts. It fired pellets of glass that detonated an inch into the victim’s flesh, but its nanotoxin payload was the real miracle. Most men wouldhaveshivered at the thought, but the Raven was intimately familiar with this kind of convulsing death.
He caressed the cold carbon-steel barrel.
A shallow ripple of skin between his eyebrows was all that signalled a frown, the only outward indication of his mounting frustration. He crouched, the black leather of his mid-calf boots creaking in protest. And again he fingered his scar, an inch above his thick hairline. The sensitive pads on his fingers crept across the slight pinkish bulge, invisible to all but the closest examination.
The Raven was one of the few men who never found the rain bothersome. Perhaps he had thick skin stretching across his bones, or perhaps the tingling pain simply never registered with his tampered brain. Either way, he took no note of the trickle down his chin that dripped a steady tattoo on his trousers. It was getting heavier but there he would remain, as always, until an omen released him from the shackles of caution.
*
Adam stood before Dan noticed the rivercat slowing for Meadowbank station. He eased himself out of his seat, surprised to feel his lower back seizing in protest. He gently massaged the taut muscles while strolling casually to the front of the cabin.
The deckhand expertly looped a mooring line over the bollard and hauled the ferry close enough to use the gangway. The passengers shuffled past. The rain was pounding on the corrugated iron roof of the ferry terminal and it drowned any words they may have uttered. Once more Dan deferred to the others, disembarking last. He nodded a mute thanks to the deckhand who dutifully grunted in reply.
His attention shifted. There were four people between Danand Adam. He watched the beret’s peculiarbob and sway,caused by the older man’s arthritic gait. The Meadowbank terminal emptied into a barren car park where a dilapidated ute – parked lengthways across three faintly marked spaces – spoke volumes about the suburb. Dan stopped at the end of the terminal, his nose inches from a curtain of water caused by the combination of poor guttering and leaf-litter. It distorted his vision, giving the world a surreal texture. Most of the passengers scurried to their cars, one man holding his briefcase over his balding scalp in a futile attempt to avoid acid scarring. Another dived into his Commodore and revved the engine hard before grinding into gear and laying rubber on the road. With a vigorous swirl of the wheel, he navigated the chicane and sped out of Meadowbank as fast as his thrashed car would take him. That seemed to be a common sentiment. He was the first, but others followed. Soon only those unfortunate enough to actually live in Meadowbank were still there – stranded and ambling to their dreary apartments.
Dan took a deep breath. It smelled like rain. Rain and a broken sewage pipe – fairly common with Sydney’s outdated sewage system. His nostrils twitched, detecting a hint of chemicals drifting across the river from the factories that had reopened at Rhodes a decade ago. He knew, at least intellectually, that they had to go somewhere. But emotionally it made no sense. He couldn’t fathom why people would allow something like that in their backyard. But only poor people live here now,he reminded himself sombrely. And poor people had no political friends.
Adam had already reached the old rail bridge so Dan swept the car park with a final suspicious gaze before walking briskly to catch up. They passed beneath the new bridge and veered right to head up the hill, toward the apartment blocks that dominated the suburb. The only other passenger from the ferry was hurrying to the left, soon indistinguishable against the dreary backdrop.
Dan felt the familiar rush, the tingling sensation, the sharpening of all his senses, the knotting in his stomach. He had enough adrenaline pulsing through his veins to reanimate a corpse. Ten paces. Dan narrowed the gap, made sure they were alone, and reached inside his coat. His fingers laced the handle of his 1911 automatic pistol. His preferred model was virtually antique,but it was reliable and the newer weapons had never impressed Dan enough to make him abandon his favourite Colt.
Five paces.
Dan raised his weapon and calmly said, “Adam Oaten.” It was a statement, not a question,and it carried a note of warning. “I shouldn’t need to tell you not to move.”
Adam froze mid-step and turned slowly, only to see to the .45 jutting in his face. He uttered a resigned sigh. “I was wondering if you were one of them.” He didn’t bother to mask his contempt.
“Over to the toilet-block.” Dan gestured toward the brick structure with his weapon. It reeked of late twentieth century architecture. The once garish bricks now only held the memory of their former yellow. Dozens of snails had embarked upon the arduous journey across the path that rimed the squat build
ing, advertising themselves as a meal for hungry birds. Adam picked a delicate path around them.
“Hands on the wall.”
The skin on the back of Adam’s hands looked like tissue paper, ready to tear at a moment’s notice.
The air reeked – an acrid combination of vomit and excrement that the drizzle only aggravated. Adam spread his legs and let Dan pat his sides for weapons.
Dan pressed the muzzle of hisautomatic into the small of Adam’s back, hard enough to bruise. He grappled with his handcuffs and slapped them around Adam’s left wrist. Then, with a twist to the cruel metal thatwouldensure compliance through pain, he wrenched Adam’s arm behind his back and fastened the other half of the cuffs. It was never easy; Dan felt vulnerable working alone. He’d never grown accustomed to it after leaving the force. Only the reassuring click-click-click of secured handcuffs released the tension pent within.
“You’re American aren’t you?” – Silence – “Aren’t you going to read me my rights?” Adam turned to search his captor’s face when the tension eased on his arms.
“Hadn’t planned on it,” Dan said huskily, shaking his head. He no longer operated entirely within the law. He wasn’t acting illegally– after all, Adam Oaten was a dangerous man and Dan needed to apprehend him – but there were simply no laws that covered his line of work.
Adam Oaten had five days’ unkempt stubble on his chin and carried an air of moral superiority. He was the type of man that could look down his nose without tilting his head.
“So you’re the latest puppet?”
Dan didn’t understand the question. He raised an eyebrow, one of the few expressions he permitted on his stony face. “What’re you talking about?”