Flight or Fight (The Out of Dodge Trilogy Book 1)

by Scott Bartlett

  Maria’s last name, of course, was Ylifeali (she pronounced it ee-lee-fee-lee).

  Thomas Intoever came back in. Several noodles from the supper he’d thrown still clung to the wall. Carl had resumed eating his.

  His father pointed at him. “I stayed in Dodge to ensure you upheld our family name. Your mother retired to the New World, and I stayed here. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Carl stirred his spaghetti around and thought of his mother. The last time he saw her she’d been about to board her Air Earth flight, short hair waving in the breeze, non-carcinogenic cigarette smoking in her hand. “Before I go,” she’d said to him, “I should mention that nothing you do will last, everyone you know will die, the human species will one day disappear entirely, and the Earth is a closed system that has very little impact on the rest of the universe. Bye, sweetie!” Then she’d given his father the finger and left forever.

  “Carl?” Thomas said.

  Carl sighed. “It’s hard, Dad. I’m not quite happy living with Maria. She…I don’t know.” He looked at his brother. “What do you think of Maria, Leo?”

  Leo seemed to consider this as he sipped from his water. He put down the glass and said, “I think the world would be a better place if she died.”

  Carl had to stifle laughter. He didn’t know many people with his brother’s brazenness, given that any off-color remark could end up zinging around social media within twenty minutes. Their father now clenched his hands so hard they trembled, and his gaze wandered the table. Carl wondered if he was looking for something else to throw.

  “I’m sick of your empty declarations, Leo,” Thomas said. “Why not back up what you say for once?”

  Leo nodded. “You’re right, Pop. I can’t convincingly elaborate on why I think Maria’s a despicable human being; she doesn’t have enough personality for that. She’s just abrasive.”

  “Abrasive,” their father said, chuckling tersely. “Abrasive. That’s a rich word for you to use, abrasive. Live in my house, eat my food, parade unsavory women right under my nose—none with the slightest interest in family phrases—and you presume to tell me who’s abrasive. Why don’t I tell you how thin my patience has worn? Then you’ll have an idea who’s abrasive.”

  “Is it me?” Leo said, grinning. “I’m just guessing.”

  Carl didn’t want to risk having to participate in any more conversation, so he strode into the kitchen and snatched a sweating bottle of Sleep from the fridge. He downed it with the remainder of his meal. That earned him an annoyed glance from Thomas, but it was the last of their interaction for the night.

  Once Carl finished his supper, he went out into the TV room couch, where he lay back and stared at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t actually make you sleep. It just dismantled your ability to use language for a few hours. You could still comprehend it, and most people went on social media after taking some, just scrolling through their feed, favoriting things. It was considered a valuable way to de-stress. Users would set their smart clothes to glow a soft pink, which indicated they were biochemically unavailable to talk. Not a lot could be asked of you when you couldn’t talk.

  Carl refrained from going on social media or watching his lifelog. He began counting the ceiling tiles instead. He already knew how many there were. Twenty-three. He counted them anyway.

  Hateful messages from hackers would not bother him in here. His father’s security system ably kept them out, which made sense. Thomas Intoever was half-geezer himself.

  Carl had asked his father to upgrade his and Maria’s security, but Thomas refused to do it unless they married. It was one of the few levers at his disposal.

  Having counted the tiles twice, Carl shut his eyes and tried to sleep, without success.

  At times like this many people would kill time by watching their own lifelogs, but Carl generally avoided that. Memories had a way of surfacing anyway, and he found himself thinking again of his mother, Daphne. In particular, he remembered a CabLab contract she’d held down for two years, harvesting customer data from the app used to order taxi rides. The app used a weak artificial intelligence to process texts, emails, geolocational data, and even spoken conversations, and then it passed on the data to contract workers like Daphne, who adjusted the fare proportionate to each customer’s need. Workers whose contracts depended on punctuality paid more when they were running late, and pregnant women about to give birth paid much more, as did sick or injured people in need of medical attention.

  “Generosity will bankrupt you,” Carl remembered his mother telling him. He would have been around ten at the time. “So will remorse. If exploiting other people bothers you, do it more. You’ll get out of Dodge quicker that way, and then you won’t have to do it anymore. Other people are just as ready to exploit you, trust me. If you don’t do it to them first, you’ll end up stranded here, while they fly off into the sunset.”

  Carl was just getting to sleep when his phone went off, wrenching him from the muddled beginnings of a dream. He scooped it off the floor. Morrowne had messaged him. “Don’t come to SafeTalk tomorrow morning. Report first to the customer service station in the Air Earthport.”

  The Sleep still held him in its sway. He couldn’t formulate a response, and by the time he could it was too late to message his boss back. The wondering disturbed his sleep all night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning he used the CabLab app to summon a taxi to the entrance of his father’s residence block. The price the app showed for the trip made him wince. It knew from scanning his messages that his boss had ordered him to go to the Air Earthport, and that he had no choice in the matter.

  The driver didn’t speak to him. CabLab didn’t allow its drivers to accept tips, probably because they didn’t actually drive. They were more technicians than anything else, there in case something went wrong. Without the incentive of a tip conversation failed to materialize, leaving Carl to ponder what being summoned to the customer service station might mean.

  Determined to avoid losing his new position before even starting it, he decided he would appear perfectly orthodox throughout his meeting with the reps. He set his smart clothes to red in order to indicate he was on urgent business and unavailable for small talk. That done, he posted on Unfurl that he was headed to the Air Earthport for a meeting with the customer service representatives, the purpose of which he didn’t know, though he felt excited to find out, as it was always a pleasure to speak with the guardians of Dodge. Pressing “Post” even made him feel a little better. His post hit the correct level of disclosure, and it might even result in a LifeRank bump.

  A plane rose into the sky before the Air Earthport came into view. He watched it go, and he noticed the driver watching it, too. A fairly rare sight. Flights departed only twice a day—once every twelve hours.

  They crested a hill, and Carl saw the Air Earthport. Even now, in the midst of his anxiety over his meeting with the reps, the building brightened his mood. In his spare time, he would sometimes stand on the very hill they’d just driven over and simply look at it.

  Space was at a premium in the rest of the city, but here at its center the Air Earthport took up obscene amounts of it. The structure took the shape of a giant donut, and oh, what a donut. Everyone aspired to that donut. The section open to the public was made entirely of glass, and from the outside it resembled the ocean’s waves, except much tamer. Air Earth’s various departments were housed in the rest of the building, which resembled Dodge’s hilly countryside: brown, rolling, opaque.

  In the donut’s middle sat the giant inclined treadmill, from which Air Earthplanes took off for the New World. As a youth, Carl had watched from inside the Air Earthport as his mother’s plane leapt off that treadmill and flew right over his head, so low he thought it would smash the glass to smithereens, raining it down on him. It hadn’t, though, and his mother’s departure had seemed queerly anticlimactic.

  A rep waited for him just inside, hands in his pockets. He had reddish h
air, close-cropped, and he stood about a foot shorter than Carl, who wasn’t especially tall to begin with. “Spenser,” his nametag read. “Mr. Intoever,” he said.

  “Yes,” Carl said, though it was redundant. The rep clearly knew who he was. “Um, can I know what this is about?”

  “You can. But not until we reach my office.”

  “All right.”

  Spenser set a brisk pace through the glass portion of the Air Earthport, toward a discreet door in the corner that led to the opaque section. Meanwhile, an announcement seemed to come from everywhere at once, in a female voice. “Air Earth is so grateful to our sponsors and investors, who remain in Dodge to keep the markets operating smoothly, affording everyone else the opportunity to purchase a ticket and begin anew in the New World. Air Earth: a responsible resident of air and earth.”

  When the rep reached the door he held it open for Carl. “After you.”

  They proceeded down several featureless white corridors, ending up in a similarly unadorned white office, with just a chair and a desk toward the back. The desk had nothing on it.

  The red-haired rep declined to sit, instead taking a position near a wall perpendicular to the desk. “Take a seat,” he said, indicating a chair near the opposite wall. Carl did.

  A flick of the rep’s hand and the wall came to life, showing Carl’s Unfurl profile. “History,” Spenser said, and a log opened that documented all of Carl’s activity on the site. Anyone could access that, and he failed to see why the rep would waste his time with it.

  Spenser instructed the activity log to show only Carl’s favorites, and then using a pinching-and-flicking motion he scrolled through pages’ worth. He stopped at a date several months in the past, and he highlighted a post by pointing at it.

  “This status update here,” he said. “Why did you favorite it?”

  The post had been made by Carl’s cousin, who worked as a personal trainer at a local gym. It read, “Days like this make me want to light a match.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Carl said.

  “I only asked you a question.”

  “I favorited it the same reason fifteen other people did, I suspect. It was clear from the post that he hates his job, which is a sentiment I can relate to.”

  Spenser didn’t react to his explanation. Instead he found another favorited post, featuring a cartoon about an inmate on a prison barge who found a comical way to misrepresent the amount of trash he’d harvested. The punchline was clearly at the expense of the barge’s guards.

  “And this one?”

  Carl frowned.

  The rep brought up favorite after favorite and questioned each one. Then he opened Carl’s reading log, which was also available for anyone to peruse. It showed every online article he’d ever read and how long he’d spent reading them. If he’d grown bored with an article it showed where he stopped reading, as well as what he clicked on next.

  “What’s the point of all this?” Carl asked at last.

  Spenser made an abrupt cutting gesture, and the wall flicked off. “Everyone in SafeTalk’s new Youth Dignity Department will be given the ability to switch off lifelogs at will, in order to discuss sensitive work matters. But before that privilege is granted, under Air Earth law the customer service representatives are required to screen each candidate. Everyone watches everyone. That’s why we have such little crime in Dodge. Before we give you the power to keep secrets, we have to check you out.”

  Carl let out a sigh of relief. “So this is all routine, then?”

  “Not quite. Out of everyone who’ll be working in Youth Dignity, you’re the only one we’ve had to call in to the Station. By themselves, the items we’ve discussed today are fairly innocuous. But together they form a picture of someone who could potentially pose a threat to public safety.”

  Carl blinked. “Me?”

  “You show a tendency to conceal certain information from others, and you’re skilled at appearing orthodox while harboring subversive thoughts. There are no legal consequences for having a deviant profile, of course. If we prosecuted everyone who was different we’d actually be doing a disservice to Dodge. We find that people who contribute the most to maintaining the markets tend to exhibit the most unorthodox behavior online. Do you know whose profile is the most unorthodox, out of everyone in Dodge?”

  “No. Who?”

  “The Hand of the Market himself. Xavier Ofvalour.” Spenser permitted himself a small smile.

  “Well, then. I still don’t see the point of this exercise.”

  “The point is to bring to your attention that we’re aware of your unorthodoxy. Not only will you be required to submit a detailed report each time you turn off your lifelog, but the rest of your lifelog will be subjected to increased scrutiny. I’ll be watching you, Carl. And I’ll be visiting you from time to time. Don’t screw up.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Strangely, the meeting with the inquisitive rep left Carl feeling buoyed. He had a deviant profile, just like Xavier Ofvalour! And it was the reason for his success thus far. It explained why Morrowne had chosen him, and it had given him unusual skills, which he would use to make the new department an outrageous success. This would be impossible for his superiors to ignore, leading to further promotions and raises, bringing him closer to reaching the New World and finally using his talents to pursue much nobler ends.

  The Youth Dignity Department was located in a modest-sized room on the sixth floor, near the rear of the SafeTalk building. Carl marched in, intent on establishing dominance over his new underlings immediately. He found them already at their terminals, awaiting instructions. He told them to gather round him.

  “As I’m sure you’ve all learned already,” he said, “communication with management is extremely limited. From here on out, your value to this department, and to SafeTalk, will largely be represented by me, especially since we’ll be pausing lifelogs occasionally. If I get unquestioning obedience I will pass on favorable performance reviews, along with recommendations that SafeTalk renew your contracts. If you defy me, I will work tirelessly until you are terminated, to rot in Dodge for all I care. And trust me, I am a tireless man.”

  They all gave slight nods, as though Carl had declared he liked his tea with extra cream. Of course, they would be accustomed to being micromanaged and dominated. The reason they seemed to take his threat in stride was likely that they had no plans to be insubordinate

  They got to work. There was a lot of it. The networks were aflame with indignation. First, Carl tasked his new subordinates with identifying the accusations being leveled against FutureBrite the most, and with finding associated keywords to feed the bots.

  FutureBrite was a for-profit corporation whose sole income came from charitable funding bodies. The more funding FutureBrite applied for, the more money its shareholders made. Many critics were pointing to the high percentage of FutureBrite kids being medicated; they posted studies suggesting it was highly unlikely that so many of them suffered from conditions that warranted medication. Others accused the company of unnecessarily blocking families from regaining custody of their children. They said it was all part of the company’s efforts to apply for even more funding.

  None of the accusers had data to support their claims, of course. FutureBrite kept its records strictly confidential, arguing that releasing them could prejudice future employers against the children in its care.

  Still, the accusations persisted, and they were toxic. By noon he’d gained a clear impression of the rate at which individual criticisms were appearing, and the enormity of the job began to worry him. If things got too messy he’d have to file for a temporary shutdown of the networks while they cleaned up, and that would not reflect well on him.

  He spent his lunch hour with a spreadsheet, assigning tasks to each subordinate, carefully weighing their skill sets and backgrounds while doing so. Each task was a thread in the beautiful tapestry that would become FutureBrite’s public image. As he worked, he received an al
ert that someone had started an online poll about whether FutureBrite was a responsible citizen of Dodge. The results weren’t looking too favorable for the company. He paused to shoot an email to one of his subordinates, telling her to alter the poll’s results as they came in.

  Finally finished sorting out which tasks he would delegate to whom, he pushed his chair back and grinned at his terminal, satisfied with his work.

  “Carl.”

  He looked up. “Why, Gregory!” His childhood rival stood over him, holding a coffee mug. Carl’s grin widened. He was going to enjoy this. He spread his hands. “You’ll never guess what I’m doing here. You see, I’ve been given charge of—”

  “The Youth Dignity Department. Yes, I know. I’m your supervisor.”

  “What? No. I’m the supervisor. Morrowne made me supervisor.”

  “He made me the supervisor supervisor. Given this task’s sensitive nature, Mr. Morrowne thought it prudent to include an extra layer of accountability.”

  Carl realized he’d risen to his feet and balled his fists. “Who watches you then, Gregory? Hmm?”

  “God, probably. Now, switch off your lifelog.” He waited, eyebrows raised, until Carl complied. Then he continued. “I came by to ask how many employees you’ve assigned to take down posts that attack Mr. Ofvalour personally.”

  Carl could have hit himself. His determination to protect FutureBrite had left him blind to the more important goal of protecting Xavier Ofvalour’s reputation. “Um…”

  “This is it here, is it?” Gregory was looking at the spreadsheet. “I don’t see anyone assigned to them.” He looked back at Carl. “How long do you suppose Mr. Ofvalour will continue funding us if we don’t defend him as well? Get out of the way.”

  He did, and Gregory took his chair. He pored over Carl’s spreadsheet for twenty minutes, making several adjustments. Carl watched with tight lips, criticizing Gregory’s choices in his head.