“True. But you do realize that’s why desertification has increased, right? The restriction of herd animals is causing natural grasslands to erode at terrifying rates. We have to have a return to roaming. Buffalo, cattle, and, yes, Glyptodonts must be allowed to graze in the scrub, either by moving them directly from field to field which helps, but does not cover enough unclaimed land. Or, by reintroducing something that doesn’t care. Ignoring fencing is not a bug, it’s a feature.”
Another rancher stood up, half the people in the audience were standing now. He had to speak loudly over the muttering.
“No Ma’am, anything that busts our fences without noticing ain’t gonna be welcome on our property,” he said emphatically
She sighed. “Let me put this another way. They reach maturity in four years and need to raise their young for the entire time. They show signs they can age to thirty or so, we aren’t sure. They breed in litters of four to six, so they grow relatively fast for such a large land animal.”
Someone else responded.
“So these things will triple in number every four years, and you think that’s a good thing?”
Several people rumbled in agreement.
Susan had to speak up, even with the microphone on, “They can likely be bred to mature faster, but we don’t see a point. Although you might.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Walter said.
Susan continued, “They are docile and domesticate easily. We can turn them away from those ‘cabbages’ with a garden hose or a loud noise. A guy with a broom in a Glyptodont’s face will easily chase them away. They can share a field with cows just fine and prefer to eat the things the cows don’t like. The hides are very tough and durable, similar to alligator or rhino with interesting and marketable patterns and colors. The bone is dense and would work well as a replacement for ivory. They thrive in wasteland scrub and turn it back to prairie and forest land over time. There is no apex predator right now that can take one down. You don’t have to feed them and they find their own water just fine.”
She paused before she said her last bit, her ace in the hole. “They taste fantastic.” Susan spoke up to call her assistant.
“David?”
Everything got quiet as David emerged from the front door with a large picnic cooler. Stopping at every row to hand out tiny hoagie rolls with some sort of brisket on it. The smell permeated the hall instantly. Mouth watering.
It was ten minutes before anyone spoke as everyone ate their little sandwiches. There was no dissent. They tasted delicious.
Walter spoke first.
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? How much for a breeding pair?”
Discussion broke out all over the hall. What kind of fences could keep cows in but let the damn things wander in and out?
They were discussing the feasibility of swapping the bottom of electric fence posts with a metal spring as Susan smiled and left Grange Hall.
One down, sixty more to visit, before the reintroduction began. This went a lot easier than she had anticipated. In fifty or so years, there should be enough Glyptodonts in the wild to start actually becoming a problem. But this should make a huge difference in turning the land from desert back into a very pleasant place.
They could worry about that fifty years from now, when people will see these giant armadillo’s as a regular thing, spotting them from the highway the way we do cows now. She smiled to herself.
When they become a pest, well, that will be her next phase. She needs the Glyptodonts. Needs them badly. So she can reintroduce her real target.
Sabertooth tigers.
•
Coming Out
John knocked, and waited.
He knew something was up. Charly had made the net call pretty late at night. A little hesitant, asking him to come over. He had been expecting something like this for weeks. He’d seen the signs. He knew what Charly wanted and he knew he could help. If John was wrong though, well, tonight would turn out awkward.
He had called for an autocab before Charly had even finished the call, using gesture controls so as not to interrupt. He’d cleared his calendar at the same time, and tapped the air to have his voicemail call up Steve and cancel his previous plans. If he was right, Steve was going to be ecstatic! The autocab was waiting for him by the time he stepped out his front door. He had put on a masking screen before he got in the cab, preventing any and all cameras or sensors from getting a good look at him, a common thing, nowadays, ever since the privacy war. Well not a war exactly, more like the privacy flashmob and sit-in.
The autocab ride didn’t take long, and there he was. Less than ten minutes after the call. On Charly’s doorstep.
John felt like he’d been waiting forever. The door finally opened. Charly stood on the other side, a little embarrassed. He gave John a little hopeful smile, and let him in. John took a deep breath, and entered, popping his mask as he stepped inside.
John sat on one end of the couch, a dominant piece of furniture. He was a little amused that the couch faced a screen, a big one. He noticed speakers in the corners of the room, at least six.
“That’s cool,” John said. “A flat screen TV with surround sound.”
Charly tossed him a beer. John caught it easily.
“Yeah. I know. Old tech. An antique. I like sitting here and watching, uh, stuff.” Charly hesitated. John wanted to tell him he knew already. But it was important that Charly say it. “I’m a—.”
Charly started to say it, that three letter word so full of meaning, but he chickened out.
“—I’m an antique lover. The glasses don’t capture the same effect. Not really. And the contacts are worse. Glad you know what it is.”
John chose not to press him.
“No, no. I’ve always liked how important this was in the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries. It’s, uh, good to remember.”
Charly sat on the same couch, other end, and tapped the top of his beer can. A small actuator slid aside and allowed vents to let compressed air release quickly. Once freed from the coiled tube inside, the sudden pressure release caused the can to cool quickly. In a few seconds it was frosty. The can changed colors, letting Charly know the beer was ready to drink. Later, when he was finished with it, that same actuator would reverse, squeezing all air out and causing the titanium can to compress down to the size of a pea, ready for recycling. John popped his can too.
Charly took a deep breath and looked at John.
“I need to tell you something—”
John focused. This was it.
“Sure Charly. What’s up?”
“I’m a fan.”
Calmly John looked Charly in the eye. He didn’t want to scare him. He had said it, things would be OK.
“I suspected you were.”
“You knew?” Charly looked surprised. “I thought I had it pretty well hidden. The people at work, they don’t understand.”
“You’d be surprised at what some of those same people are into.”
“I see you all the time. And I figured if anyone was, it would be you. Once, I could tell you were wearing a jersey, under your shirt.”
John smiled. He remembered that day, he’d made sure Charly saw it, and changed right after to keep anyone else from knowing.
“So, what kind of fan?”
“Football, mostly. A little hockey. Baseball. Basketball.”
“You know why they were made illegal?” Charly asked.
“Yeah. I know. Repetitive head injuries. Displays of naked aggression. Broken bones. Riots after games. Competition is seen as the root of selfish behavior. Blah. Blah. Blah. It was made illegal a long time ago. For the children.”
“And things changed,” John stated. ”People began to look at fans like there was something wrong with them.”
“There’s nothing wro
ng with me!” Charly glared.
“Easy, easy,” John spoke calmly. “I know. Trust me. I know. But after the crackdown on the networks and the changes in laws. All the court cases, and then the aversion therapy. It’s been pretty hard on fans. They say now that they can ‘cure’ it. They say aggressive competition is a gateway to criminal behavior.”
“No. I don’t want to be cured. I’ve been keeping it pretty secret for so long. Found some darknet sites. They put entire seasons up on multiple streaming casts. Encrypted and well hidden. They get taken down once in a while, but I find them again.”
“Sports Central?” John smiled.
“Yeah!” Charly smiled back. ”And ESPN archives.”
“Really!” John smiled. “I’d lost track of that after the last crackdown. I’m gonna need the address for that.”
“No problem.”
“So, um. How big a fan are you?”
“Nothing too crazy,” Charly hastened to add. “I got some memorabilia stashed away, a baseball signed, a couple a jerseys, a keychain with a few thousand games on it. Stuff I can hide easy.”
“Yeah, good plan. If you get caught with it, next thing you know they think you are bringing kids home and making them watch it with you.”
“I know. I know. I won’t go that far.” Charly hesitated before asking, “Um, how far have you gone?”
John looked Charly straight in the eye, “I’ve played.”
“No way! How did you get enough people together for teams?”
“I know a few guys. There are a lot of us. Lot of women too. We meet in secret and have resorts we go to. Weekend excursions where it’s just us, some benches and a field. No webcams or e-glasses allowed. EMP field for blocking signals. A mask covering the whole area. Not just teams. Leagues.”
“Holy crap. That explains the bruises that time—”
“—Yup. Told people I fell down the stairs, and I’m allergic to the repair nano. But it was really football.”
“Wow. Football. You, uh, you wanna watch a game?”
“We soundproof here? I tend to yell.”
“Hell, yeah!”
“Awesome. Start it up. Say, can I call Steve to come over?”
“Steve? Steve’s a fan?
“The biggest. He’ll bring pretzels.”
“Hot damn, call him up!”
“How about Susan?”
“She’s kind of flaming, wears her jersey in public and all. Will she be, y’know, discreet?”
“Not a problem.”
“Okay, but we gotta keep this secret.”
“You got it. We’ll just tell people it’s an orgy.”
“Okay. Good. I’ll make popcorn.”
•
Watch This
There he is.
Eric spotted him at the gate. Jack Lyttle. Here for the big game. The bastard was smiling as he handed over his ticket. He probably thought he was going to be enjoying this day. Eric had other plans for Jack.
He knew Jack had a season ticket. Six months after the last time Eric had gone to a game he had seen Jack there, oblivious to him, a dozen rows down, along with several of his buddies. Laughing and drinking.
Eric seethed at that memory. He’d be in pain for the rest of his life because of Jack. He’d never be able to walk without a limp. Dentures replaced all his broken teeth. Loss of vision in one eye. A bland, soft food diet. A colostomy bag. All because of Jack and his laughing friends.
He had lawsuits against Officer Jack. Improper procedure, illegal entry, police brutality. He had been hopeful about the lawsuits. He really had. But one of the people Jack was drinking with was the very judge who had denied each of his cases.
Eric had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d been walking home at night, a techie who kept odd hours. Officer Jack drove by, stopped his patrol car, and demanded to know what he was doing. Eric told Jack he was doing nothing wrong, and to go to hell. That was the first beating.
The second one was in his home. Eric had filed a lawsuit. Somehow Jack found out the same day he filed. Jack had broken down the front door and beaten him again, far more brutally. Laughing and yelling the whole time, “There ain’t nuthin’ you can do!”
Even with Eric’s home cameras recording every blow, the judge had dismissed the case. That judge. The one drinking beer and slapping Jack on the back in the stadium.
Jack had gone federal at that point, an agent of the FBI had contacted him. Eric was told that due to the uncooperative police department, it would take years before his case would ever reach a trial. He researched Jack Lyttle then, hoping to prepare a massive case, this time his plan was to show it to the local newspaper. Maybe they could bring him some justice. That was the third beating. Someone at the newspaper had warned Jack.
After he’d recovered, Eric had tried to do something normal again. He’d gone to a game to clear his mind, to watch the teams play. He sat there wondering what other options he had, beginning to despair, when he had first spotted Jack.
Till the end of the game, Eric had pulled up his hood and gone quiet, staring at Jack’s back. He knew from what he saw then, there would be no legal justice for him. No day in court. His research had brought up other cases against Officer Lyttle. And two other lawsuits had been dropped. Both for “lack of evidence” even though there was camera footage. And both of the accusers could no longer be found. Either they were hiding from Jack, or Jack had killed them. Jack had hinted at that, telling Eric he would not walk away if there needed to be a fourth visit.
And Eric watched Jack laughing and joking with the people Eric had hoped would help him. Both the judge, and the federal agent. All three side by side, laughing and enjoying the game. Eric realized the FBI agent may be nothing of the sort, maybe just a friend of Jack’s, pretending to help Eric, while telling Jack his every move. He realized, in any case, he would get no help from him.
That’s when he decided on a different path.
He prepared for some time. It was a modern arena, full of cameras and technology. But the sysadmin hadn’t fully locked down the network. Eric gained access to a wiring closet easily enough. Full of equipment. Routers. Switches. A couple terminals. A server rack. Eric had always been a master of these. He had pulled out his smartphone and taken pics of every label he could find. Mac addresses, model numbers, wireless keys and passwords.
Someone had left a clipboard hanging from a nail with the names and ID’s of every tech with access to the closet. It was supposed to be for security, a log of who came in, when they left. Wow, that was a score. And, sure enough, Eric found a piece of paper taped underneath a keyboard with numbers and letters. Another score. Sloppy password protection. Eric smiled at that. “Hard to guess. Changes often. Not written down. Choose any two.” He shook his head. He had access to half the network that very night.
Working steadily, he had managed to gain one login after another. It took only a few days before he could remote into every camera, every server, every piece of equipment in the stadium. The scoreboard. The plasmatron. The spotlights. He had control of it all.
He kept up the pretense of the appeals. Meeting with the judge, meeting with the ‘federal agent,’ recording everything. Every lie. Every betrayal. They would tell him they were working on his case, and yet, every game, there were the judge and the agent, sitting side by side with Jack.
Now. Today. At the bottom of the plasmatron, he inserted a short message that scrolled every few minutes. “For free wifi connection, log into Arena-Network.” Jack didn’t have a smartphone, as far as Eric could tell. Jack wouldn’t care about the scrolling message. Well, not at first. He had prepared anyway, a tight deadzone prevented anyone in the seats around Jack from getting online. A small box under Jack’s seat the size of a deck of cards made it difficult to connect to any wireless signal for at least a five foot radius.
Weeks ago, Eric had installed dozens of routers onto the network, breaking in late at night. It was easy when he already controlled the electronic locks.
He’d made his own badge, buying a batch of cards online and matching those serial numbers up to the security program. He simply changed the serial number of the card to match an arena employee, and changed it back when he was done. Had there been a guard, he might have noticed that his badge was a plain white card. But the arena was modern, and they trusted the technology.
He’d hooked his wifi up to the arena network and made sure it all worked. The only differences were, in the rest of the arena, the hotspots were completely open. Anyone could use them. But of course now they routed through his own gateway before they connected to the internet supplied by the arena. An amazing connection, that. The latest in technology. Eric was impressed.
When he was done, his routers were running far more efficiently and giving a better connection than even the original format. He smiled. In his profession, he always tried to leave things better than before he had touched them. Amazing the kind of motivation he had now. The software he installed that improved the cameras almost felt like an act of love. The control center was going to get a gift. He wondered if they would appreciate it. He hoped so.
As he set his plan in motion, it crossed his mind that he might not be allowed to live to the end of the week. He didn’t much care.
Copy Me: & Other Science Fiction Stories Page 7