We repeat this several times and mid the last demonstration Poip emerge from behind a massive storage tank. We jolt as though shot, quickly shed encumbrances and race for a nearby scrub.
Behind us, the Jerry-can topples over, gasoline ignites with a wild explosion and sends the can flying in the direction of the Poip. The Poip dodge around the flames and set off in pursuit of us.
“Halt or we fire!” A-one calls out.
A flash of light, a thunderclap and both are gone. I am well pleased. Madsen sighs with greater relief as he is already huffing-n-puffing. We ease off to a fast walk.
“You need to shed some pounds, Madsen.”
“You need to understand I still outrank you.”
I smile but not because I am impressed.
CHAPTER 74
Of Breathable Air, Hidden Agendas And Old Plans
I do not understand why but this lady here, me, I, Agnes Soulone, keeps her Nomadi in permanent record mode. Just seems a good idea at this time. I have been doing it since the first Transcript my Supe gave me on this subject.
I sense a purpose and an importance, but I need to learn more.
As I enter my apartment, an alarm sounds and my heart lurches and sets off racing. My BA bill is due at 9:00 PM tonight. Of course, the time is already eight-fifty-nine. If you are late by even a minute, they turn BA off. Immediately, UnBreathable Air pumps into your home—breathe too much UBA and you soon die.
I grope for my Nomadi and am about to transfer payment when my TV turns on without any input from myself and at the same time my Nomadi freezes. I sit down and oh my Equalness!
A typed letter appears on the screen.
Dear Ms. Agnes Soulone,
Like millions of others, your Breathable Air payment falls due tonight.
As with most citizens, you have waited to make your payment until the last possible second.
Please be comfortably seated, watch and listen.
Thank you.
I sit, watch and listen.
The locks on my doors and windows go clunk, locking me in. BA supply groans and turns off. Stale, lifeless UnBreathable Air pours in.
Oh, how gullible I am to have sat here waiting. A new Law must have passed affecting those of us who do not pay our bills on time. How long can I survive breathing this? No need to ask for I already know. Not long at all, mere minutes.
I await my fate as afraid as anyone would be.
But there’s hope for tomorrow.
As mentioned, I am recording events for a future in which it may play a role. I check my apartment over for the last time. I won’t miss it—there is nothing appealing in its fifteen by ten feet. Neither in its gray walls, gray ceiling, kitchen nook, shower nook, toilet nook and closet nook with its shabby concertina door.
I check the closet.
He is sleeping—still recovering. Good. He will never realize what happened.
Writing on the TV screen fades and hundreds of little squares appear.
I lean closer to find each is a headshot.
I appear in the center of my screen.
Every other one is of a different person.
Some are neighbors, but their faces change too fast to keep track.
Hundreds, maybe thousands, maybe millions of us are sitting in front of a TV. UBA pours into my grim mortuary of a home moaning as though mourning its own insidious duty.
I wait still, cold and silent for soon the genocide will begin.
We are all watching, waiting, afraid. It seems a long time coming.
Time likely slows when Death hovers over one’s shoulder.
I focus on the TV and discover that faces never show up twice.
Mine remains centered.
Does everyone pay bills at the last possible moment?
UnBreathable Air now fills the room. I turn this way, that way, but cannot escape the foul stench. Won’t be long now. I check the time.
Oh, my Equalness—it can’t be. How?
Ten-thirty?
A whole hour-and-a-half has ticked on by.
No one can breathe UBA this long and live.
I rush to the air vent and take a deep gulp of UBA. The stale odor is worse than sickening so close to the source. I gag but do not suffocate. What is happening? I stare at the TV. Thousands of others are checking air vents. They gaze around lost as I am, unable to believe.
I fall asleep on the couch—breathing foul UnBreathable Air.
In the morning when I leave the door is unlocked.
No one says anything in the grim, dark green elevator.
No one needs to.
I note a new kind of silence. One in which we examine each other. A forthrightness never dared before. In every eye shines a little brightness. That tiny spark of hope says we are young, we are eager again and more...a sense of knowing, of learning.
Still, the air thick and stale makes me gag.
We do not give a damn, though—we are alive.
Halfway to the office, traffic grinds to a halt. Cars, buses, trains, moving sidewalks, everything—only stale UBA continues to blow.
Every screen turns on; advertising, Nomadi, History Lessons, even Security. Perhaps every screen on Earth is on.
Across them these words appear:
This happened three days ago. Please pay attention.
Focus shifts, comes back and I lean forward.
Mister Warrent McPeters sits at his place in the Hub.
In awe, I admire the dark wood panels, the wood desks, chairs, and benches. I drool over the silverware. I can almost taste the fresh coffee, orange juice, and pastries.
All are present—the President, the Vice President, their staff and all the Members of Congress. Their suits glow in the way a History Lesson depicts silk garments.
I am envious and sickened.
The hum of voices dies and quiet settles over the Hub. No one shuffles. They all watch McPeters. He waits as the silence deepens. He leans forward and types his eyes fixed on a monitor screen. He looks up and scans the attentive faces for several minutes.
Members shuffle, pat their clothes, glance at him and away.
McPeters speaks softly, urgently. “On this day BA earnings are sufficient to secure our destination—our destiny.”
A roar of applause explodes; happiness beams blaze outwards from broad smiles. McPeters inspects their faces and grins, satisfied with what he finds.
“My Fellow Rulers, Welcome. Today we have success. Prince MaChordam Multra and his Court have accepted our current offer for the purchase of Rio-Tero II.
“A quick recap if you don’t mind. Unlike Rio-Tero, Two is a world as Earth-like as any that can be found but without desert scarring its surface—not even one square inch worth. Yeah. I don’t get why they live on Tero and I don’t care. More importantly, we the owners of BA have a stake in this.”
Another round of applause erupts.
McPeters hits Enter and the BA bank account displays on a wall screen. The total is too vast to decipher.
He points and says, “Fellow Rulers...time to vote. Yes, and we purchase Rio-Tero II. After that, we migrate all our friends and families from out the Red Zones. From out those our real homes...and all which that entails. Yeah. Let me clarify further plans.
“First off! We’ll obliterate all evidence of the Red Zones but leave a staffing contingent behind quite capable of following orders and maintaining the status quo. Remote Management via Poip maintains our iron grip upon all those left behind for obedience stands paramount. Or we vote no and remain here...as we are.”
A long silence ensues during which McPeters checks each one eye to eye. His nose twitches and so does his eyebrows. It takes twenty-six minutes to look all in the eye and linger a moment.
“Members...” and he pauses dramatically, “our fortunes and futures are on the line. Everything our predecessors and we worked towards over the preceding thirty-five-hundred odd years, perhaps longer, led us here to this—the attainment of the New World!
&nbs
p; “But this time an actual New World on which we are the sole occupants. Here and now, the ultimate lifestyle lies within our grasp. Yeah! We the Members need no longer brush elbows with those we rule. But! And understand this well...we are risking all for this...our ringing of that bell....”
He waits and you could have heard a flea jump.
“The Freedom Bell!” he roars.
A cannonade of applause fires off.
He smiles until it wanes then throws his arms wide embracing the entire universe. “Oil, gasoline and oil derived products along with gold from Here-Born paved the way for this our future. BA having raised the initial finance will continue making annual payments.
“Yeah. BA covers over three-hundred years of mortgage payments and pays as well all salaries for every manager and their staff. Those trained veterans who have chosen to remain behind.
“For them we’ll leave a portion of the Red Zones—as mentioned and as agreed.”
From the sea of faces, a voice calls out. “What of the future? Our future, our travel, finances—taking into consideration our act of commitment?”
“Excellent question,” McPeters replies. “Finances are always critical. Now Rio-Tero holds patents for their much in demand Inter-Constellation travel and they do not care to share. However, they need oil. Does that remind you of anyone?”
Laughter tickles the walls of the Hub.
Into it he says, “Agreements already negotiated and concluded will put in place as many of their Inter-Constellation ports as needed...on Rio-Tero II.”
“Who’s paying for all this?” calls out a somewhat disgruntled sounding voice.
“Again BA pays,” McPeters says.
“What do we live on?” another shouts. “BA can’t cover payments for everything, forever.”
McPeters nods sagely and says, “True. Hear me now. Attention! Please.
“Here-Born’s oil and gold take care of more than everything we’ll ever need...what all our future generations will need. Why do you think we negotiated the distribution of their gold across all borders and boundaries real, imagined, current and future?
“We control both products. And that’s the bad news.
“The good news is that Here-Born will soon become just another State of the United Earth and will soon be subjected to Earth law one-hundred percent. All their assets, wealth, production, and services are soon to be assimilated under the Assurance of Happiness and All Citizens Are Equal Laws as already implemented here on Earth!”
He checks his audience over. They are enraptured.
He continues.
“Here-Born’s gold and oil belong to us. We own everything. Everything! Today we vote to make the dream first dreamed in the late eighteen-hundreds become reality.”
Twenty minutes of applause ends and McPeters continues appearing to have been humbled. “But please! Let us not forget those soldiers of the past who made this all possible. Without those seasoned fighters, we would not be here today. So let us give thanks as well...to what our enemies refer to as the Tides of Evil and those of 2026 in particular.
“Without whom the International State of Emergency would not be in place. Yeah! We can smile at that. Yeah. It is still in place—that Emergency. Ha-ha. Yeah. We would not have this future sans the dedicated and organized union members...all those our soldiers of yesteryear. And like all soldiers through all of time—they were hired and indoctrinated for nothing other than to fight and die...on our behalf.
“Some died clandestinely while others stood openly before the citizens of their own countries and decried and railed against their own. Many gave their lives on the front lines of civil protests to light the spark of violence. And why so?
“Our opposition refused to engage in violent retaliation back then. They reasoned to out-wait us. Thought they would eventually out vote us and undo the tremendous work done by those who came before. Yeah and Hell no.
“Nothing quite as biased as unregistered voters. But we needed violence in the streets and on campuses. That solely as a tactic whereby we could disarm the public and let loose the hounds of liberty, of progressiveness—so that here today I can speak as I do.”
He glances about, dead silence reigns.
“Those early soldiers came from many camps, diverse backgrounds, and so many Unions. Teachers, Federal employees, Firemen, Policemen, Longshoremen, Taxi drivers, Auto Workers, Miners, Truckers, Coffee makers, Hotel Workers, Gardeners, Actors, Writers, Directors, Managers and Executives Unions. And of course, Politicians, and News Media.
“Yeah. I wish I had been alive back in the day. But no...and worse...my forefathers chose to leave Earth. Something I will always regret. Yet now and with you all, I have done my part. All too true what our Fellows said and did back in 2026. Allow me to meander some here.
“True change comes from Chaos my friends—from out of Chaos alone comes change. Do nothing if Chaos results. Do something if Chaos results. From out of Chaos comes real change. How many of our past leaders used this technique? Too many to count I’d say. Thank you to them all for their help in bringing to fruition all our dreams here on this historic day...today.”
The room goes wild.
Applause and hoots of victory finally settle and McPeters says, “I repeat. The International State of Emergency would not be here today without our unionized soldiers of 2026.
“Here now in victory and for a moment let us be honest. Nothing glows with quite the same radiance and fulfillment as an honest, worthwhile group perverted and twisted in its purpose.
“And in particular, groups populated by those fool enough to believe empty promises. Thank you to all past Unions, TV, radio or elected officials including Government and News personalities who trumpeted our cause. May you Rest in Peace.
“Yeah! And lest we should forget!
“These very same people who gave their all to help us arrive here today...were all rounded up and shipped to work camps. There we worked them to death along with those fools stupid enough to have registered for entitlements. Yeah! Thanks for supplying all your info. And so willingly you did. It made finding you and shipping you out a simple task.
“And we enslaved each of you long before we started with those who openly opposed us. Wake up! Come on! You opposed your own government. Now! We are your government. Yeah!
“It follows you will soon fight us. Naw! We had shipped you out before that happened! Yeah, we worked and starved you to death! Yeah! Thanks for registering! Thanks for volunteering! Thanks for repeating the talking points!”
A few snickers circulate the Hub.
McPeters whispers. “Anyone here remember the last time we experienced rioting? Protest marches? Have there been any Union negotiations? Any of such like talks gone wrong? Have you heard of any negotiations on behalf of the worker, ever? Have you attended any negotiations at all? Not in my lifetime.”
Their chuckles skitter across the airwaves.
McPeters waves them silent. “Now to the matter of oil and gold. Glance around fellow warriors. Those you see around you are the owners of both—I’m emphasizing that.”
They nod eagerly.
“Let us vote,” McPeters concludes.
They do so in silence.
Not one No-vote makes an appearance.
The BA account empties as McPeters makes the down payment on Tero II.
All screens gray out and voice-over cuts in.
“You’ve been cheated, deceived for thousands of years. You’ve been lied to...but listen well to this, if you so please.”
Words appear on screen and voice-over reads them:
“Yet. We the People are the economy.
“Without us where is the consumer?
“Without paychecks, we cannot purchase.
“Without our paychecks and without our purchases there is almost nothing to tax.
“Even at the highest levels of commerce and industry...all filters down to our level...for we are the buyers...the consumers.
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�Without us there is nothing worth growing, making, manufacturing...let alone distributing!
“Think about that. Thank you.”
CHAPTER 75
Of The Conqueror’s Minions, Their Use, Their Deaths
For the first time in my life, everyone on the bus talks at once, almost drowning the grind of steel wheels on rails and the crackle of electrical sparks from the trolley contacts. Strangers cross age-old barriers to reach out like never before. Each seeing themselves in the faces of others, their lives revealed in another’s eyes and we recognize something more, but no one is sure of what.
I struggle, I search and insight touches me lighting a flame within.
My travel companions grapple with comprehension as well—eyes light up one after another. A long silence ensues into which a dear lady whispers, “I’m worth something. I am economically valuable. I contribute!”
The dam walls of personal oppression crack open and splinter apart. We the People of Earth reach out through the cracks hungry for more. First as little drops soon becoming a gentle flow, which rushes onwards as we cascade outwards like a dammed river free to once again seek the ocean...the ocean of ideas.
Some whisper, others speak openly.
“We’ve been lied to.”
“Yes, we have.”
“What can we do?”
“Should we be paying for BA?
“What’s this stale smell they keep pushing out?”
“I thought it was carbon dioxide.”
“Yeah. That stuff kinda kills you dead.”
“I’ve seen someone suffocate from it—over on Here-Born. They got those ditches.”
“Me too. Lucky it’s got that color and odor.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know people were living in Red Zones. Did you?”
“No.”
“They must be maintaining fake homes locally!”
“Yes!”
“Damn liars...all of them today and yesterday!”
“Let’s speak as one!”
“Until now...how silent our world...and so too our lives.”
“I say leave well enough alone.”
“Shut up you!”
“Why am I taking daily drugs? There’s nothing wrong with my health. No pain.”
Once-Other Page 48