by Frank Klus
“She might not answer.”
“She might. We need her help—you as much as I.”
Schmidt gulped, and looked to be deep in thought. He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Look, I know you have money, and you have a lot of it—what was that figure? Oh, yes a million dollars, wasn’t it?”
Schmidt looked gobsmacked. “Are you suggesting we hire somebody to kidnap Moore and bring him to us?”
“You said you know where he’s being held, right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you known there?”
Schmidt nodded. “I could get in.”
“That money you have would buy a lot of favors wouldn’t it?”
He thought a moment and then nodded. “Do you have a place to go?”
“No.”
“You can stay at my place. I’ll give you my key, and I’ll have someone drive you there. You’ll be safe until I can figure out what to do.”
“Thank you.”
Less than an hour later, Schmidt and Grifton were on their way to Alt House. “Fred, do you understand why we’re doing this?”
“You want me to treat Moore.”
“No. I need you to concentrate. This is very important. I’m going to say I am going to do a brain analysis of Moore because time is of the essence, and we can’t wait for the other doctor to get here. But it’s just a ruse, Fred. We’re going to rescue Moore. The word will go out anytime now that he is to be killed. They don’t trust the machine anymore, and if they don’t trust the machine, they don’t trust us. We must all get out now.”
Grifton looked perplexed. “Not trust the brain probe?”
“This is what I told you at the Institute. People are dreaming about the clinic. When they wake up they reflect on their dreams. When they do this—”
“Yes, yes I know—retrocognition.”
“They’re remembering, Fred. Sandra Casimir has already figured it out. The press is talking about it. NOGOV will pressure them to shut up, but independents will continue talking about it over the internet. NOGOV will shut down the program and kill all those connected with it; then clamp down on the news. When that’s done, they’ll start a reverse-news campaign to spread misinformation, calling all those who talk about torture chambers by the government, crackpots and conspiracy nuts. It may take them awhile, but they’ll succeed. We may not have more than a day or two before the Squad, under NOGOV orders, comes after us.”
There was silence for a few minutes, and then Grifton spoke up. “I know how we can fix the remembering problem.”
“Sedratol,” Schmidt said.
“Yes, I told you about it.”
“I know, Fred, but it doesn’t help us now. They’re already remembering. Remember Hayfield? His clients are starting to remember. Now he wants his money back, and wants to sue us for millions. NOGOV will never allow something like this to go to court. They’ll hunt him down, scare the bejesus out of him, and if that doesn’t do any good, they’ll kill him.”
Grifton looked confused.
“Fred, I need you to concentrate.” He repeated the plan. “You know what to do now when we get there?”
Grifton still appeared confused; Schmidt went over the plan again, and Grifton was made to repeat it. He got parts of it wrong. Schmidt corrected him. He repeated the plan one more time, and quizzed Grifton about it. This time he got it right; just as they reached Alt House.
Schmidt knocked on the door. A guard opened the spy hole, saw them, and then opened the door. “Dr. Schmidt and Dr. Grifton. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Sorry no one let you know we were coming, but Dr. McCardell will be delayed another day. A brain analysis needs to be done right away.”
“Oh, good. Come right in.”
“How many guards are here?” Schmidt asked.
“Just me and Jesus.”
“Good. Once we start the treatment Casimir will order more security.”
“Oh, yeah. They already worked out the plans.”
“Let’s go downstairs and get Moore. I want to get started right away.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Grifton stayed up and engaged the other guard in conversation while Schmidt and the first guard went to the basement. The guard unlocked the cell, and took Moore over to the metal chair.
“Secure his arms, guard.” He did so as Schmidt shot him.
Upstairs, the other guard was startled. “Homer?” As Jesus started for the stairs, Grifton then shot him. A startled Everson Moore yelled. Schmidt assured him he was here to rescue him, and then released his shackles.
“The phone,” Moore said. Schmidt grabbed it, hurried him upstairs, and the three got in Schmidt’s Dodge Durango. They sped off for Schmidt’s home.
“Sandy,” Schmidt said, “this is Dr. Grifton, the inventor of the brain probe, and this is Senator Everson Moore. We won’t have much time. We killed two guards in the rescue of Moore. It will take the Squad time to figure out who did it, so we have to make the best use of it to figure out how to meet up with Pamela Piper.”
“Dr. Grifton?” Sandy said, a bit unsure of things.
“Hello,” Grifton said, equally unsure.
“Did you do a treatment on me?”
“No,” Schmidt said, lying. “Neither one of us did.”
“I’m glad,” Sandy said. “I don’t think I could go anywhere with someone who destroyed my life.”
“YOU WERE TREATED!” Grifton shouted.
“Fred! You must apologize to Mrs. Casimir.” Grifton looked confused.
“There was an accident at the clinic. Dr. Grifton suffered a mental breakdown.” Schmidt thought it better not to go into any details. Sandy seemed unimpressed.
“The important thing is to get out of here. So let’s focus on that.”
“I have Pamela Piper’s cell phone,” Ev Moore said, “but thanks to that security guard, I don’t suppose she’ll answer it.”
“Can you leave a message?” Sandy asked.
“Yes, but she may not believe it’s me. That guard scared her off because he revealed that he could get their position from the GPS in her phone. I was coerced into revealing the encrypted code.”
Grifton sat down, apart from the others. His mind was still confused, and Schmidt knew he’d be of little help.
“Senator Moore—”
“Please call me Ev. It’s what people closest to me call me. May I call my wife? She’s got to be frantic.”
“Of course.”
He and his wife talked for almost an hour. Meanwhile, it gave Schmidt more time to think. By the time Moore hung up he had the semblance of a plan, but he would need Moore’s help.
“My wife and I are flying to New America,” Moore said. “We made sure we still had exit visas. Government officials are the only ones allowed to go right now. I wish I could take you guys, but it’s impossible. She’s flying in and she’ll be at the airport at six tomorrow morning. I’ll take a cab to O’Hare now, if you don’t mind.”
“Ev,” Dr. Schmidt said. “If you consent to help us now, I’ll drive you to the airport myself.”
“What can I do? Contact with Pamela Piper appears to be out of the question.”
“Do you know anyone else who can help us?”
Moore nodded. “Have you heard of Raymond O’Reilly?”
“Dennis O’Reilly’s brother?”
“That’s the one.”
“Sure, I’ve heard of him. He and his wife are a couple of bad asses.”
“He and his wife are assisting Pamela while she escorts her charge to New America. He won’t answer this phone either, but he has another number that he occasionally uses. I think I can get the number off the phone, but it will take me a little while.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d try,” answered Schmidt.
“This phone is used by the NSA, and it has a way of gathering phone calls made from another phone. However, retrieving that information involves a good deal of searching, and matchin
g that number with the owner of that number. When I find a match it lights up in green.”
It took Moore almost an hour, but he found it. Moore dialed the number. Ray answered. “Ray, this is Senator Everson Moore. I’ve escaped from that Hell House. Drs. Grifton and Schmidt rescued me, and they need your help.”
There was a pause. “Are you there, Ray?”
“Senator, how did you get this number?”
“Occasionally, NSA phone hacking can be useful.”
“Hang on, Senator.”
After another pause, “Ev? Is it really you?”
“Yes, Pamela. I’ve escaped from Hell House. Well, I was rescued by Drs.—”
“I know. Ray told me. Where are you?”
“I’m at the home of Dr. Schmidt.”
“We want to help you,” Schmidt said, grabbing the phone. “We have money. We can bring security in return for allowing us to go with you.”
“Give me a minute, doctor.”
“Dr. Schmidt?” Ray O’Reilly said.
“Yes.”
“Dr. Schmidt, I need Chad Armstrong, but he costs a lot of money. We may be talking in excess of twenty grand plus travel costs. He’s the only one who’s a match for the Hogs.”
“What’s your situation?”
“We’re about fifty miles south of the Canadian border, in western Minnesota, traveling east. I believe the Hogs are guarding all the roads leading into Canada. They’re probably behind us and maybe to our south. A confrontation at some point is probably unavoidable.”
“How do I reach Armstrong?”
“He won’t answer your call. I’ll call my cousin. He can arrange everything. Hold on.”
“Ev,” Schmidt said. “What’s their best plan of action?”
“They can’t continue to travel east more than two hundred miles. They’ll enter Roseau County and that’s RAC territory. It may be the Hogs’ plan. Force them in a situation where they can be easily captured. I wish I could be of more help.”
“Dr. Schmidt?” Ray said.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Armstrong told me he’d help me for a flat fifteen G fee—cash, of course. When he gets me out of our jam I’ll send for you.”
“There are three of us. The third is a woman who has the fee for Pamela. Okay?”
“The more the merrier, I guess,” Ray said. “Look, in return for assisting in your escape, you are to use the cash to pay Armstrong. Bring the money in cash, and rendezvous with my cousin, Sean. I’ll give you his address.”
“That sounds like close to the Wisconsin border.”
“That’s right. Call me when the transaction is made. I’ll need to talk to Armstrong.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Schmidt said. “Senator Moore says you can’t enter Roseau Country. It’s about 200 miles to your east. It’s RAC territory.”
“Okay, thanks, but we should be fine here where we’ll wait for Armstrong.”
As he hung up, Schmidt turned to Moore. “Thank you for your help. I’ll take you to the airport now.”
“Thank you for the rescue. Oh, and one more thing. The same guard who blabbed to Pamela about coming for them, also blabbed to me about one more thing.”
“What’s that?” Schmidt said.
“You better leave right away because the order has already been sent to bring you two back.”
“They know where we live. That’s no secret.”
“I think you all should take me to the airport, and pack everything you’ll need because you can’t afford to come back.”
Chapter 19:
A Needle in a Haystack
The four wayfarers stopped at a Hamburger Heaven restaurant, and grabbed a table to sit down and enjoy a meal. Eugene got the all-American dinner: quarter-pounder, large fries, and a large coke. Pamela went for the salad, and Cassandra grabbed a fish sandwich. Ray chowed down on the double beef “heartattack”.
They ate quietly until Cassandra spoke. “Hey Pamela, tell me something almost no one would know about New America.”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll tell you two things: there’s no sales tax on anything, and they did away with the penny. Nothing costs nine ninety-nine anymore. It’s ten bucks.”
They all laughed.
“Why do you have to buy your job?” Eugene asked. “It’s pretty much all co-ops, right?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“So why don’t you buy your way into the co-op? Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?”
“In many cases it does. Buying your job is an option to buying a position in a cooperative.”
“How does that work?” Ray asked.
“It was my brother’s idea. His first employees didn’t have the money to buy their way into the cooperatives he set up, so he depended on billionaire investors when he set up his large industrial cooperatives. Many of them were the size of an entire city, with several hundred thousand workers. Redd could move them around as needed. Today, these independent contractors have their own cooperative. They go to wherever they’re needed, and their cooperative negotiates their payment. It’s great for special jobs where you might need a machinist specializing in a certain product. If they can’t use a specialist full time, they utilize the special hire. The benefit to the freelancer is that they enjoy the benefits of the co-op they belong to, and typically earn more money.”
“Professor Zinney,” Eugene said, “said these worker-owners would eventually buy their way into the cooperative while the original investors would earn their money back when the labor bought their shares in the co-op from them.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Cassandra, “is what stops them from building a corporate empire of their own so they don’t have to divest themselves from anything, much less share profits with anyone?”
“I’m sure that’s illegal,” Ray said.
“No! Actually, it isn’t,” Pamela answered.
“You mean the same bastards that destroyed Old America could do the same to New America? I don’t believe it,” Ray said.
“A few tried, but they failed. They didn’t have the clout they had in Old America where they could destroy the cooperatives. They tried replacing them with democratic corporations. They gave workers a say in management, and did away with layoffs. The workers had a vote in any strategic decisions management wanted, but it didn’t work.”
“Yeah, professor Zinney told his class about it,” Eugene said. “The university allowed him to teach the history of cooperatives in Old America and the formation of New America as history. He said it collapsed. Once labor decisions threatened profits, management simply rigged the system to make sure they’d always have the votes.”
“Sounds like Old American government,” Ray said. “Once they control the media and education they can control the message. Control the message and everyone votes the way they want them to, even if the people think they’re making the decisions for themselves.”
“Exactly!” Cassandra said. “They think they still have democracy, still have choice, but if the only message you hear is the one the rich and powerful want you to hear, then you end up voting for their program.”
“It’s how totalitarianism works,” Eugene said. “Control all aspects of communication, limit the power of the opposition, but don’t get rid of it completely—”
“That way there is the illusion of choice,” Ray said. “First, create laws that negatively affect the voters, then there will be opposition to those laws; then the law is repealed or fails in the first place. The voters think this is democracy, but what they didn’t understand was that the leadership never wanted that law in the first place.”
“Huh,” Pamela said incredulously.
Ray just smiled. “Take welfare, for example. NOGOV doesn’t want it, so they pressure government to increase taxes that the Middle Class bears the brunt of. The taxes pay for welfare. The Middle Class hates this arrangement and pressures government to get rid of welfare; believing the taxes go away. Maybe i
t does or maybe they’re used to pay for something else they want to get rid of.”
“It’s all a racket,” said Cassandra.
“What happens is that there is less money in circulation to buy things—”
“And when that happens,” said Pamela, “everything falls apart.”
Ray nodded in agreement. “Less demand, less supply. For the rich, it means everything costs more. They have to use more of their wealth to pay for things that used to be so cheap.”
“Is that why they have a problem with electricity even in the Fortress?” Eugene asked.
“Exactly!” Ray said. “First, they have to build their own generators at enormous cost, and then it’s costlier than ever to get fuel. Although fuel is cheap these days, it’s very expensive to have it shipped to the Fortress.”
“Could this happen in New America too, Pamela?” Eugene asked. “I mean could corporations rise again, rig the system, and kill off the economy?”
“No, not at all. The Constitution has provisions to make totalitarianism virtually impossible, but that doesn’t explain why corporations don’t do well there. They fail because labor gravitates toward the cooperatives. They get better pay, because they can vote on that, and they get a share of the profits. They can plow that share into the cooperative itself, become an owner, and get even a bigger share. Corporations just can’t compete. Generally, corporations only exist in certain areas where cooperative jobs are hard to find.”
The group continued discussing life on the other side, but Ray had more on his mind. Chad Armstrong said he’d meet them in this parking lot in twelve hours, and that was ten hours ago. It would be a long two hours because he didn’t know if Armstrong would get here before the Hogs would.
“Thanks for coming, Beverly,” Jaydan Casimir said.
“How are you holding up, Jay?” she asked.
“Not very well. I’m frantic. You want a drink?”
She made a face, and Jaydan realized it was only nine in the morning. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“Love it.”
Jaydan made the coffee and fixed himself a drink. He didn’t much care what hour of the day it was. Beverly just smiled.