The Dark and Shining Future

by P. F. White

  There was little hope to be had, in this new world, but somehow mankind endured anyway.

  Inside the tower things were a different story.

  In response to the continued talks that Mr. Hank Fletcher had with both security chief John Smith and those few executives that had been inside the building: rules of all kinds became gradually reduced and reconsidered. Men and women had little to hold them back now. While many of them shrugged their collective shoulders and went about their work, pleasure, or idleness without comment: others moved on to new and exciting things. Impromptu gatherings formed on every floor now. There were suddenly art classes, theater troupes, live music and exhibitions of all kinds. Projects of passion began to flourish, tentatively at first, but then with increasing speed. Nearly everyone seemed to have some interesting idea or two that they believed would be of benefit to humanity- or simply neat to someone or another.

  Unsurprisingly: drug use flourished within the safe confines of the office. More so than its' simple use: many projects sprang up to perfect the classic intoxicants of caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, marijuana, cocaine and opiates. While some of these would, ultimately, go nowhere: some showed incredible promise for a future in which such things could be indulged in with little to no drawbacks towards the user. There was hope here, and to spare.

  Sex also flourished in the office, though it was slower to take on than one would think. While many an office romance was unceremoniously consummated on those first few days after the “incident”, many were more reluctant to embark upon a relationship with persons that would be forced to remain in close proximity for the rest of their lives. This did not stop sexual congress, or even bad feelings from emerging, but it did hamper it a bit.

  Those within the tower were not chosen at random, after all. They were all known to make informed and educated decisions. Because of this there was a sudden and unexpected feeling prevailing the halls...a feeling of real power. Finally, they thought, there is a time in which achievement was no longer hampered by the fears of the ignorant masses. Things were not perfect, and never would be, but as the days turned to weeks the tension within the building began to slowly leak.

  Here, they realized, was more than simple safety. Here was hope. Here was home.

  # # #

  Hank had picked up a bad habit again after many years. This sort of thing isn't unusual in captivity, he knew, as the rigid excuses one puts up during your daily lives have a tendency to fall away when faced with a seemingly unchanging world and a seemingly endless expanse of time before a man. You start to do things because you simply want to and you can. In a very real way: people change when faced with a rigid routine in which the daily struggle for survival has no meaning. Even that old American standby of “work” had started to fall away. People were gradually, simply, doing what they wanted to do. Unsurprising to Hank: this often involved things that they had been simply too tired to do beforehand. Very few people were finding excuses not to exercise regularly, if they had a taste for it. Others were committing themselves to reading the great works of literature, learning to play a musical instrument, or working on their own version of the quintessential “Great American Novel.”

  Some, like himself, had simply taken up vices they long ago thought themselves immune to. It was not the greatest use of one's time, he knew, but it was certainly enjoyable...and why not? What else did he have to do with his life now? This world was becoming his. It was becoming his family's as well. Even Adriana was having her garden now. He finally, after a life of struggle, taking a well deserved break.

  He exhaled the smoke in a giant cloud.

  “Jesus,” he said as he slowly shook his head from side to side, “I am fucking out of it...what did you say this one is called?”

  Bryan, the man ostensibly in charge of the hydroponics department of the thirty-third floor, just laughed and shook his massive bearded head. His wreath of hair surrounded him like a lion's mane. He was roughly the size and shape of one of Tolkein's Dwarves. He was a good man. Hank was spending more time with him, he found. There were worse things, Hank knew.

  “What did you say man?” asked Bryan.

  “I said-”

  “No I mean...woah...”

  The two of them shared a moment as they watched a troop of ape-like monsters trudging along in the parking-lot below. The beasts were becoming less frequent now, for some reason, but occasionally you would still see them out in force. Hank suspected that they tried to conserve energy, hunt sparingly, and like so many others: were ultimately just trying to survive now.

  The fog was gone, or mostly gone now. Whatever it was, wherever it had come from, these things would be in debate for years...but regardless: it was over now. The monsters had few places to hide. They were, like all good monsters, somewhat less impressive in the daylight.

  “Don't be stingy on me now,” chided Hank as he reached for the joint the other man was holding. Bryan allowed it to be taken from him easily. He sat as if mesmerized by the group of Gorilla monsters. His expression was a mixture of horror and wonder. Hank just took another puff, only glancing at the horrid beasts below.

  “You suppose we could kill one of those?” asked Bryan softly. He was a little afraid and it showed. Like many others: he had stayed away from the windows during the first few weeks of the “incident” and only now had returned to see how the world had changed. He took the joint in slightly shaking fingers when Hank offered it.

  “Probably could,” said Hank. He shrugged slowly and added: “I killed one on the first day.”

  Bryan's eyes widened.

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Whoaaa...”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I mean- like...woaaah...”

  Hank laughed and so did Bryan. It was an easy and familiar laugh. It helped to break the tension. At this point they both knew they were safe inside the tower. However scary those things were outside: they had been completely unable to even scratch the outer surface of the building. There was every indication, as John Smith had said, that this place really was impervious.

  Hank got up to get a soda from the bio-engineer's mini fridge. That was Bryan's job: head of a bio-engineering lab if you could believe that. Hank could. Everyone here seemed to be a specialist, a doctor, a scientist, or some sort of insanely talented amateur. It could be a little disconcerting but, like anything else, you got used to it over time.

  The two of them were sitting in two surprisingly comfortable plastic lawn chairs, and staring out the window. The smell of marijuana was strong, very strong in fact. Bryan had no less than two dozen marijuana plants in his room, and more still in a sealed section of the lab. He had quickly grown into the tower's most popular dealer. Not that anyone exchanged money for his products, but still he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the role. When not in his lab coat he liked to dress in baggy worn clothing, sandals, and a perpetually open bathrobe. It was a little silly, but he liked it that way. He always said he hated wearing suits and his was far from the most extreme new style of dress to be adopted.

  Bryan was also really good at growing his marijuana. He currently grew more than enough for the population that he provided for, always turning his excess into concentrates to preserve them for the day where, he predicted at least, people smoked far more of it.

  “How do you like this strand?” asked Bryan suddenly. He eyed the joint in his hand critically, as if looking for a flaw that would condemn it to the garbage bin.

  Hank just shrugged.

  “Certainly better than the shit we used to smoke in the nineties. What's this one called?”

  “This?” Bryan just shrugged, “I haven't got a name for her yet. I combined the DNA of three different herbs to make her, but I'm worried I ended up with some of the worst qualities from the bunch.”

  He shook his head in evident disappointment with his chimera herb.

  “I wanted her to have the smoothness of a-”

  �
�I'm gonna stop you there. I'm a neophyte man. I won't know any of the names you were about to drop. To me it's just a potent, relaxing, wonderful little plant.”

  Bryan shrugged. He seemed immune to compliments and was always seeking to “perfect” what he had.

  “We all got to start somewhere you know,” he said, “Do you like it though?”

  “Oh yeah,” Hank stretched lazily, “I'm a bit couch-stuck right now, but aside from that-”

  “Yeah I was hoping to get rid of that,” said Bryan. He stood up, walked swiftly over to the sink and tossed the half smoked joint down the drain. He began to run water after it to speed its' journey down to the shredder below.

  “Hey!” said Hank, “Why did you-”

  Bryan opened up one of several coffee cans and took out a jar marked “Specimen 2” which was filled with pre-rolled joints of nearly identical size neatly wrapped with rubber bands.

  “Don't even tell me...” said Hank in amazement.

  “Yep,” said Bryan as he took out a new joint and sat down next to Hank, “I have eight different DNA combinations going right now in my apartment,” he pointed at a few of the hanging plants around the room. “More in the lab of course. Sixty I think? I do a lot of the grunt work there of course. Most specimens just end up getting recycled or turned into products the culinary experimenters can work with. The select few that make the cut end up here, where I can look after them more personally.”

  He lit the joint and took a few long puffs before passing it.

  “They all have nearly identical DNA, of course, just with slightly tweaked properties. I'm trying to see how well I can tailor this bud and, hopefully, start making some really designer strains before too long. This one is just supposed to be the best smoke, but eventually I want to get really far out flavors and tailored effects...maybe in a few years? Shit, who knows!”

  Hank just shook his head and laughed.

  “God, I remember when all you could get here in Florida was brown weed that smelled like dirty feet and gave you a headache half the time.”

  Bryan laughed at that.

  “Times, my friend, they are a changing.”

  As if by magic the smart settings on his portable music player picked up the song name and instantly cued it up. The two men sat and listened to Bob Dylan for a few minutes without speaking. It was one of the things that Hank liked most about the diminutive bio-engineer: he was the sort of man who didn't have to talk a lot, but still seemed pleasant to be around.

  It didn't hurt that his herb was also simply better than everyone else's in the building. Those amateurs and traditionalists could turn out a decent product, but if you wanted something really exceptional you went to Bryan. The word was beginning to spread.

  “I can't believe I'm doing this again,” said Hank as he laughed.

  “Doing what?”

  “Well, when I stopped last time I thought it was for good. I had conflicting feelings about my daughter seeing me like this, and I just got out of prison-”

  “Jesus, can you get any more masculine?”

  Hank raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, look at me for a second Hank,” said Bryan. He gestured to his paunch belly, short stature, thick glasses, and chubby face surrounded by a dirty brown beard, “I haven't killed any monsters, or been to prison or, fuck I-don't-know: punched a bear!”

  “I've never punched a bear either. That sounds pretty stupid.”

  “My point, man, is that as far as the manliness scale goes: you are off the chart. So what if your daughter catches you smoking pot? You have to know that she has lit up once or twice in here.”

  “She has?” Hank let the merest hint of his “scary-dad” voice seep into the words.

  “Oh don't give me that,” said Bryan. Hank grinned. He knew about it all right, but he was still a little weirded out by the whole thing. It was only a few weeks ago that he was living in the outside world, along with everyone else, and following the dictates of old men in Washington as well as the various policemen, judges, and lawyers that helped them enforce their desires upon the rest of the populace. He had, occasionally, spoken out against the various bits of legalized insanity that periodically seemed to sweep his nation- and his state in particular...but largely he had done what everyone else had: sat back and stomached by what he could, while breaking the law when it became more important to do so.

  It was a problem he knew well. You cannot make people accept your morals by writing on a piece of paper- though many men through history had tried just that. Even popular laws would be broken by those who simply believed they were wrong. It was the essential problem with government in general...and why he had so strongly advocated a relaxed precedent for all laws and rules inside the office.

  Unlike the larger world: this advocacy had led to surprisingly good effect

  Laws were becoming increasingly relaxed here inside the building, and part of that was most certainly his doing. Hank knew that intellectually, but it didn't really make it any less strange to observe. Drug use had been completely decriminalized here. Problems were going to come of that, but the personal freedom of it had made almost everyone instantly happier. Even John had reluctantly agreed to it. Though it did take him some convincing.

  John had made the case for social stability and protecting people from themselves. In this he was citing the same arguments that politicians had been carting out for years. He claimed that a population allowed to do any drug with impunity would inevitably crumble into decadence. Hank had ruthlessly cut him down with the findings of nearly every report on the subject. He had furthered this with the common knowledge that, here at least, they were not dealing with the common man. If ever a case could be made for elitism among a human population the strict guidelines of the List made it quite well.

  John still hadn't been entirely convinced so Hank had brought up the practicality of policing a population that was forced into confinement and could become dangerous if too strictly managed. A rebellion inside of an office building would not do well for anyone involved. John admitted that, but had then tried to cite the health risks of drug use, Hank had countered with studies that could be researched and the continued fact that they lived inside a rigorously controlled environment regardless. Here there were more doctors, medical professionals, and safety than you could reasonably expect to find in any of those studies. If there really was anywhere in the world you could produce a safe sort of high, it would be in this building.

  It was only then that John had started to really come around.

  Humans need chemical stimulation, claimed Hank, especially in times when exterior stimulation is limited. Look at the statistics, he had said, and see who use drugs. Are they the free, wealthy, and stable members of society who can do pretty much whatever they want? Some, but mostly it's those who simply can't afford a stimulating lifestyle. These sorts turn increasingly to drugs because they have real obstacles preventing them from easily getting the sorts of “healthy” stimulation everyone always seems to expect of drug-users. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with chemical stimulation, finished Hank, except for the stigma that has been cast upon it.

  “If you want to do something about it: make the drugs safer and more effective to take,” Hank mumbled, rehashing those same arguments even now.

  “I can't believe you got them to set up a still though,” said Bryan, either hearing Hank's mumbling or simply on the same track as Hank had been. Hank just shrugged at that.

  “Humans and alcohol have existed alongside one another since pretty much forever. It only made sense really. Someone else would have done it if it wasn't me.”

  The event had been a lot of fun though, he thought. It was only a little more than a week ago when it had finally been complete. Now they would have automatically produced beer of six different varieties, five types of liquor, and even two hard ciders made from the crops of their hydroponic gardens. More than three hundred people showed up to christen the still, and they drank a good hal
f of the remaining supplies of beer and spirits before it was done.

  Thankfully the first batches wouldn't be long.

  “Well, hey, I'm not going to complain,” said Bryan, Still what about the problems with-”

  “Bryan we are going to have problems in here, that's just a fact. Pretending that we could set up the perfect little microcosm without any, uh, hiccups is not only wishful thinking it's plain stupid. Humans always cause problems. Especially problems with each other. We have to start being able to deal with that now instead of getting used to a fragile peace that will inevitably fall apart when the first real obstacle hits us.”