by Bob Crosley
“Jacob,” Alina tried to sound reassuring. “You didn’t lead Transport to Marcus. The captain had him in custody before you told him what he wanted to know. Marcus did this to himself. He heard you were here and left clues all around the net. He thought if he could get inside, he could get our help to get both of you out. He never thought the captain would do what he did. It wasn’t your fault.”
“If they hadn’t picked me up, he never would have done something so stupid.” Jacob wasn’t reassured by the pretty nurse.
“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t.” Alina tried to smile, knowing her new friend wouldn’t believe her, that he couldn’t. She handed Jacob the clothes. “Go into that bathroom and put these on. They should fit. I have you on the list of releases, under the name Thomas Anderson. The release van will take you a few blocks from here and drop you off. There are a couple of protein bars and a bottle of water in there.”
“But if you’re sneaking me out of here, won’t they just pick me up again when they find out?” Jacob had no desire to go through any of that again.
“No. They never formally charged you because they didn’t have evidence you really did anything wrong. I’m sorry, but you were just here to lure Marcus out of hiding. You’re in the system as a free man now. I’m just afraid that if the captain finds out you’re awake, he’ll try to amuse himself at your expense again. Now go, before Dr. Nichols lets him know.”
***
Jacob rode in the back of the van with three other Transport detainees. None of them looked like they had experienced what he went through. The van was lined with benches instead of seats and a caged door separated the detainees from the driver. There were no windows. Jacob wasn’t sure if that was to keep the prisoners from seeing the compound as they drove through, or to prevent outsiders from seeing prisoners released, maintaining the illusion that people entered the Transport compound, but never left. Before getting in the van, they handed each of the detainees a protein bar and an airbus pass. Jacob was sure that the rest of these men would willingly step into a Transport airbus, but Jacob was going to walk home, regardless of where they dropped him off.
Chapter Fourteen
Jacob saw that something was wrong as he approached his door. A plastic sticker, a seal really, was placed across the door jamb. In large type, it read, “Transport Investigation Scene – Do Not Enter” and smaller letters spelled out penalties, relevant sections of the Transport Code, and other things that didn’t concern Jacob. He simply saw that bold type across the top and knew one thing: Something was wrong, very wrong, with his mom.
Jacob was about to use his key when he noticed that the door around the lock was broken apart, like it had been kicked, or hit with one of those battering rams Transport used. The seal served as a warning, but was also a way to secure the damaged door. Panicked, he pushed against the door until the seal tore apart, and fell into the small kitchen. His peripheral vision barely registered the official-looking stack of papers placed neatly on the kitchen table as he strode toward his mother’s room at the back of the apartment.
As he entered the bedroom, he almost didn’t recognize it. The bed was neatly made, with no trace under the tattered blankets of the shrinking lump that had been his mother for the past two years. The curtains were open, in defiance of the sensitivity to light that often plagued victims of the Wasting. The smell of human filth was gone, replaced with the smell of antiseptic, as if someone was trying to erase what had happened here. The only thing that was familiar was the chaotic swarm of dust, dancing in the harsh sunlight streaming through the open blind. But the dust danced in the light from the entire window, not just what was sneaking through the gaps in the blinds. Mom was gone.
The stack of papers registered in Jacob’s memory. He staggered back toward the kitchen, losing his footing beneath him as the realization hit him. The Wasting had taken her. It took her while that Transport thug was questioning him about Marcus. He reached the kitchen. Trembling fingers picked up the papers, and cloudy, watering eyes tried to focus on them. The words swam on the page, and only when the tears fell from his eyes and ran down his cheeks did the meaning register.
Official Certification of Death
Annabelle Harris Alders
29 June 2120
Cause of Death: Idiopathic neurological failure and dementia (commonly known as the Wasting)
Burial Plot: Public Cemetery 32, Plot 8243W, New Detroit
File Number: 78232487J
A file number. To Transport, that’s all you were. The life of a girl, a young woman, a teacher, a wife, a mother, a caregiver, and a vibrant, laughing, and then dying soul came down to a file number, a goddamn file number. “That’s all she was to Transport. That’s all any of us are to them,” Jacob muttered to himself.
Something snapped. The thin veneer of civilization and obedience that Jacob had worn since that day his father was arrested fell away in a single motion. Everything. Every pent-up frustration, every worry about every Transport rule, any fear of a return to the Transport Detention Center was released at once. What replaced it was primal, savage, defiant, and free.
In chemistry, energy that is bound by barely stable chemical bonds can be violently released in an explosion, with the right trigger. In the history of man, the energy bound by the barely stable bonds of tyranny can be violently released in an explosion of rebellion. Sudden freedom, even freedom of the mind, can be a catastrophic explosion rivalling the most powerful weapons ever created.
For Jacob, that sudden release, that explosion was centered in the kitchen of his mother’s small, two-bedroom apartment in a planned housing complex in a planned city on a planned terrain. Decades of careful, central planning that could not predict what was to happen next.
The first casualty was the kitchen table, the resting place of those official documents. Jacob’s hands slid under one side and threw it up and over, turning it almost 180 degrees in the air, until the top of the table, now heading down, collided with the countertop. Momentum gone, the table crashed to the floor, landing on its side and bending one of the metal tube legs. Jacob grabbed one of the chairs and threw it at a cabinet door. The collision separated the door from its hinges, and it crashed to the countertop below. The force of the impact knocked the small containers of kitchen spices from their shelves, setting them free to spill onto the counter and floor and roll around the small kitchen. Jacob grabbed the remaining chair by its back, and started to swing it around and send it sailing through the kitchen window. Then he saw the row of small clay pots on the sill, each one containing a dried-up, dead herb.
Months ago, on one of her better days after a doctor’s visit, they had planted the herbs, one in each small clay pot. As she tamped down the soil with her trembling fingers, she said proudly that she was going to beat the Wasting, and get back in the kitchen. Once again, the smell of fresh herbs, savory sauces, and roasting meats would fill the apartment, accompanied by her singing; she always sang when she cooked. Ever since that day, Jacob had kept them watered and healthy. When she was doing well, she would have him help her to the kitchen so she could check on their progress and talk about the future, her hopeful future. When Transport locked him up, there was no one there to care for them, or for her. Now all of that hope was gone forever. The smell of those herbs and the sound of her singing would never fill that kitchen again.
In an explosion, when the outward force from the shockwave is overcome by the pull of gravity, those things blasted into the air come crashing down to Earth. For Jacob, everything seemed to come crashing down onto him, and he collapsed under the barrage, sliding to the floor. He sat with his back pressed to the hard metal cabinet doors, his face in his hands. When the first sob escaped, it was like pulling the plug from a drain. Every emotion and fear fed the tears that started to flow. His body shook from the force of his crying, his sobs punctuated with gasps as he struggled to pull air into his aching lungs and damaged ribcage. As the minutes passed and the tears faded, the outflow
of grief was replaced by an influx of resolve. Jacob slowly stood up, wiped the tears from his face, and walked out the door, grabbing the papers as he left.
The seal having been torn, and the jamb shattered, there was no way for Jacob to lock the door behind him. That didn’t matter. There was nothing of value left in that little apartment. Jacob walked down the three flights of stairs and out into the harsh afternoon sun.
Chapter Fifteen
The sky was hazy with dust, making it look like the sun was coming from everywhere at once. Jacob looked down at the papers in his hand. Public Cemetery 32 was at the corner of Gratiot and Chalmers, about 27 blocks away. He started walking. The blowing limestone dust pelted his skin, scraping off the remaining veneer of fear that had built, layer by layer, since that day he dared to ask a child’s question. If democracies derived their power from the consent of the governed, tyrannies derived their power from the fear of the subjugated. That fear could be from something real, as it may have been in the early days of the First Transport War, or it could be manufactured, as it certainly was today. Fear was fear, and each step in the harsh wind served to slough off the residual layers Jacob was carrying.
His underlying resolve was now exposed and could be shaped and tempered. The harsh sunlight and dry heat of the mid-day sun acted as a forge to harden that resolve; his loss and anger served to shape it to a hard edge. As he grew closer to his destination, he grew more certain of what he must do. To surrender to the fear of tyranny was no crime. Billions of people on two planets had grown up like Jacob, told from a young age that Transport was a harsh but benevolent guardian that acted only to protect the citizens from the danger of terrorists. Accepting that truth was what children did, and most never questioned it in adulthood. There was no crime in that path, only ignorance.
But once you knew the truth, once you saw beneath the fear, to do nothing was to be complicit in the lie. To continue to live as before was to be a participant in the tyranny. No, once you saw the true enemy, to do nothing was criminal. Jacob knew he needed to take action, but he was unsure of what to do. He knew he couldn’t be a public voice against Transport. First, he was too young, too easily dismissed as a know-nothing kid. Second, he now knew all too well what could happen when only one man took a stand against the Authority. The only value he would have as a rabble-rouser would be after he became a martyr. And, having escaped death just days ago, Jacob wasn’t ready to die yet.
His thoughts were interrupted by the hum of a security drone, hovering about three feet in front of and over his head. Looking around, he realized where he was; outside the Transport detention facility where he had just spent three weeks. Only now, the tall, windowless gray walls didn’t look so foreboding. The tall fence, topped with jagged barbed wire and buzzing with an electric current, didn’t seem so dangerous. And the drone sent to intimidate him did the opposite. Jacob stood tall, looked the drone in the electronic eye, raised his fist and extended one finger in a centuries-old gesture of insult. He looked straight ahead and walked the last seven blocks to the cemetery.
***
Jacob found himself sitting beside plot 8243W, looking up at the wooden stake and printed plastic sign that acted as a temporary grave marker.
Annabelle Harris Alders
14 Jan 2068 - 29 June 2120
Burial Plot: Public Cemetery 32, Plot 8243W, New Detroit
File Number: 78232487J
Somehow, ‘Beloved Wife and Mother’ was summed up as 78232487J. Jacob would contact the cemetery office tomorrow. He still had some Unis left, and he wasn’t going to let his mother rest under a gradually fading plastic sign. Jacob sat by her side until well after sundown, until the cooling nighttime breeze made his sweat-soaked shirt uncomfortably cold.
Chapter Sixteen
Jacob took an airbus home, no longer fearing anything Transport could do to him. While he sat, thinking about his mother, he realized he shouldn’t draw unwarranted attention to himself, at least not if he was going to be effective in whatever he was going to do next. As he walked up the last few flights to the apartment door, he braced himself to accept that someone might have stolen some or all of their things.
But when he reached the door, he saw that the damaged wood was cleared out, and a fresh piece patched into place. The slight odor of the fresh paint on the door told him the work was finished a few hours ago. Jacob used his key and walked in, turning on the light. As soon as he did that he realized the mistake it could have been, if whoever fixed the door was waiting for him. But the house was empty. In fact, the spilled cabinets were cleaned up. The cabinet door was replaced, the table turned upright and repaired, and the chairs back in place. On the table was a small bouquet of flowers. The card read, “Our condolences on your loss, Jacob. Your mother was a special woman.” Next to the bouquet was a small black box. Jacob picked it up, thinking it was some kind of gift. But it was heavy, electronic. There was no way to open it, but on top of it was a small oval impression, just the right size for a fingertip. Jacob set it down and placed the index finger of his right hand in the impression.
Snap! He pulled his finger away quickly, stung as if it had been bit. Looking at his finger, he saw the small drop of blood forming where the machine indeed poked him. On the box, a red light was lit on the front, and a similar drop of blood was slowly drawn into the box. Jacob thought for a moment that it could be a Transport trap, but nurse Antonov, Alina, told him Transport was done with him, at least for now.
When the drop of blood completely disappeared, the red light switched off, and a yellow light started flashing. It was soon replaced with a green light. There was a flash of light and a person appeared in front of Jacob. He immediately recognized the older man in the military uniform. It was Amos Troyer, the leader of the TRACE rebels. TRACE was in his BICE.
“Hello, Jacob. I am very sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry for the strange way we needed to contact you. That device in front of you is called a BICE proxy. This proxy makes it virtually impossible for anyone to listen in on our conversations. It also makes your BICE traffic impossible to track. It shows Transport routine net traffic, while it hides the work you don’t want them to see. It’s a safe way for you to use your BICE to help us, and for us to communicate. We needed a blood sample because your BICE communications are keyed to your DNA. As long as the proxy is on, we can speak safely.”
“Are you…,” Jacob started.
“Jacob, you’ll quickly realize that what we would like your help with is very dangerous. I think you know who I am, but I think it’s best if we don’t make things too formal.” At this point, the avatar of Amos Troyer was replaced with that of a young woman, a little older than Jacob, in Amish garb. The voice changed as well. “We have a strong presence in the City, and in space, but almost none on the Shelf. There are things you could help us with. Valuable things that will hurt Transport. We think that’s something you’re interested in. Are we right?” As she finished her sentence, the avatar transformed again, into a young Amish man, unmarried, if Jacob was right about what the clean-shaven face meant.
“I think you know now that Transport is the real enemy of the people, back on Earth and here on New Pennsylvania. We think they’re hiding something here, on the Shelf, that’s very valuable. And we could use help.” At this point, Jacob was speaking with Dr. Antonov, and he was now certain that he couldn’t be sure of exactly which person he was talking to, but he was sure of one thing — he was talking to someone in the TRACE leadership.
“I think I know where they hide it, but I’m not sure what it is,” was Jacob’s first real contribution to the conversation.
Dr. Antonov replied. “We will figure that out, but first, we have to know…” Dr. Antonov slowly morphed into Mr. Abbas, from the market. “…will you help us?”
“You want me to join TRACE?” Jacob decided that being direct was the best approach.
Now the image of Amos Troyer returned. “We’re on the same side. We want Transport stopped, so the
y can’t do to anyone what they did to you, to Marcus, to your father, to your mother. But sometimes, we’re better off keeping certain things outside of the normal chain-of-command. In any organization that gets to a certain size, there are those who don’t agree on policy. Some want to be more accommodating to Transport, want to think we can negotiate a truce.”
“A truce? With those monsters?” Jacob felt the rage rise up immediately.
“That’s not going to happen, Jacob, not if you help us.” The voice tried to reassure their potential new recruit. The avatar was shifting, moving quickly through each of the people that had appeared so far, and adding new ones. Marcus, young Donavan Troyer, and even Captain Gutierrez. Each shift in face brought a shift in voice. At times, it seemed as if several avatars appeared at the same time, merging the faces, and voices, of several people.
“Will you help us, Jacob?” All of the voices were synchronized with each other, sounding like a choir singing a plea for help.
“A man aware of the truth, but complicit in the lie, is the foundation of tyranny. Yes, I’ll help you.” Jacob was simultaneously fearful and determined about the words he had just said, Marcus’s words, and the commitment he now made. “I will help you. Tell me what to do.”
The shifting choir of faces and voices all smiled at once. “Thank you Jacob. We’ll be in touch.” Along with the green light on the front of the box, the avatars blinked out. The kitchen was empty again.
Jacob Alders stood alone, but for the first time in his life, he also stood truly free. “Time to get to work,” he announced to the empty kitchen. And get to work he did.
Acknowledgements
First, I want to thank you for reading Shelf Life. It means the world to me that people will chose to spend a little of their precious time with my book. I hope you enjoyed it, and are looking forward to the next chapter of Jacob’s journey. Can I ask a favor? If you enjoyed the book, could you please take a few minutes to write a review at Amazon, or at the store where you purchased it? For an independent author, readers are both our audience and part of our marketing team, and reviews are one of the best ways to market a book.