Life: A Life Trilogy

by Travis Knoll

  Life: A Life Trilogy

  © 2018 Travis Knoll

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

  Fictional Jungle

  admin@twkpublishing.com

  Cover by TWK-Publishing

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  Prologue

  "State of the Union"

  "The law will never make men free; it is men who have got to make the law free."

  -Henry David Thoreau

  The year is 2035, and the taxes have increased to over 70 percent of a person’s total income, and even more in certain areas of the globe, as some people are not even able to afford to work. In America, while the infrastructure for the working class has changed to fade by the wayside, the masses have banded together to create some form of income and the ability to procure something to eat for their families. The governmental structure has now been purged to create a competitive meritocracy by masked Plutocrats on the outside of what Lifers call society.

  The president and Congress are taking bribes to increase their income and to keep the wool entrenched over the masses’ eyes. This is propagated by using the media and propaganda, the wool to scratch the retina of each Lifer’s eyes, to get into their minds and take up space in order to control them.

  Cash has been outlawed, and the only currencies that the banks allow are the centralized crypto currencies in an effort to track not only spending, but also people's every move, and to tax their lives. Sex is taxed, health is taxed, and the TV tube is taxed. They put in place hefty penalties and even potential jail time if caught using cash in a three-strikes rule, making it a rarity for a person to covet cash. The only way to garner cash is through CashBases that are heavily taxed later in the year. This has given the rise to street hustlers and creative thinkers exchanging items of value in some parts of the cities in an attempt at an archaic barter system.

  Society is only segregated by the person’s tax bracket. The Lifers, called “day walkers,” are the ones that work in the 9:00 - 17:00 world with their heads full of what is on the billboards and TV tubes around them all the time. These Lifers are the only ones allowed to have sex and to procreate, as evinced by the marks that have been tattooed upon them and the ID that they have in their pockets. The ID doesn't have a picture of the Lifer, but a QR code identity, which, once scanned, states their tax class and Lifer status. This QR code has also been tattooed on their bodies, as their marks.

  The next class of people is the Unlifes. These people were once marked by society, but cannot pay for their taxes and this has forced the governmental system to ban them from using the Internet, having sex, and coexisting with other Lifers. The Unlife class system has a hierarchical three-class structure that is used: those that are looking for work, those that are barely working, and the bottom Unlifes—the population that does drugs and drinks continually.

  A person that is striving for Life, but stuck in the Lifer society, is titled a “Half-Life,” as they have hope but are still bound by society’s chains. The society feels these Half-Lifes are a detriment, as they intermingle in both realms, partitioning their thoughts vicariously.

  The free ones that are the threat to society, the free thinkers and creatives, are called “Lifes,” as they have gained their Life. The younger, computer-savvy generation is deemed to have this Life, and have endeavored down a grey area to create an income for themselves that is essentially untraceable with the tax system in place. They own their own decentralized cryptos and have figured out how to manipulate the system. What they're doing is labeled illegal by the government’s beleaguered structure.

  This band of Life-Hackers have changed their names; some have created fake marks and IDs to stay completely off the grid to remain alone and provide for their loved ones in an effort to have some sort of future.

  There were travel bans put in place to create more borders in the world, which put certain countries on the new forbidden zone, which only Lifers can travel to with their marks. Lifes have to create fake IDs to be able to get into these countries and blend in seamlessly.

  Denominational churches throughout the country have been abolished, along with traditional education. The Lifer class is only allowed to go to church between curfew hours of 18:00 - 6:00 that is brought to them on the TV tubes.

  There is only one church in the entire nation, named HQ, that is deemed the religion of choice by the standing President, and every Lifer must worship in this manner. The education for Lifers’ children is to create more Lifers with marks present ready for the Lifer class.

  In 2030, the class system was denoted, as the revolt took many lives and pushed the mark further on people in an exorbitant manner. Some were being marked from birth, and now all were supposed to be marked if they wanted to be a part of society. This brought upon the inception of the technological dystopian age on the Internet, as technology was heavily taxed. It was hard to use by most, as only the Lifers were able to afford it, which is why Life-Hackers sprung up.

  A rogue underground group, which by some has been labeled "The Uprising," has realized that there is no government, but there is only a ruling class: the wealthy elite that is collecting more tax revenue than ever before from the system they own to keep the noose tightly bound around the Lifers’ neck for control of the masses. This is an effort not for the population and to better lives, but for the sole purpose to control the Lifers.

  The only problem in obtaining world control of the masses is The Uprising. The Uprising, which has fallen in numbers after the revolt ended and the government tightened the noose, are starting to grow in strength once again. These Lifes, denoting their Life concealed off the grid, are mostly underground, and call themselves “night walkers.” They've manifested names, and for some, money isn't the problem, but time has become their true asset as the Internet and technology is everywhere and in everything, but only to protect the tax class. This has led to the fall of society, as it's controlled, and started the technological dystopian age. These Lifes are trying to give Life to others, as the Internet has become only for the rich classes, as gender and race are diminished on the surface. The only separator is the tax that you pay and those that aren't allowed to use the Internet are the new homeless.

  ...This is the state of the union...

  March 21, 2035

  New York, New York

  Rikers Island State Prison — Holding Cell

  14:17

  “...Who invented time in the first place?” I asked my new friend, staring out the small barred window that held me inside this cell. I watched the sun and moon fade and change places—that was the only indication of time that I had.

  They took our freedom with the fabricated sexagesimal system, and put us on the clock. It all became an illusion that was in our minds, and that was exactly what they wanted. I never felt so free staring out through those cold metal bars, discerning the supposed hour by the sun and moon’s dance together that procured each day.

  “Have you ever felt love, or had your heart crushed?” I said to my ill-gotten friend that I knew nothing of... I knew it was there, the love that seemed so much like freedom to me, and it was all that I could position my mind towards. I even thought of becoming a Lifer to obtain a legal mark, but the love of what we think is love rarely wins out.

  The single blanket on the cold metal bed in my bare jailhouse gave me that freedom that they didn't allow Lifers inside of their heads. This was what they wanted, to control us from within. Most people were in prison already in their minds, and th
ey didn't even know it, but they couldn't put my mind in jail...

  I never created habits so I couldn't be traced, but I loved this one coffee shop. It was a good way to start my evening, or the Lifers’ morning...

  March 7, 2035

  San Francisco, CA

  Celtix Coffee Shop

  07:11

  I stood there with the usual morning rush at the San Francisco coffee shop that had some of the freshest organic roasted arabica coffee in the city, none of that imported leftover moldy crap either, but freshly imported to our cups. I needed it to up my intellectual propensity from working all night.

  The coffee shop was divided for the Lifers, or the working taxpayer class that were allowed to use the Internet, and the Unlifes that weren't. The Unlifes, if they could afford coffee, got the moldy import. There was a sign as you walked in the coffee shop that immediately separated the areas where Unlifes and Lifers were allowed. The Unlifes even had their own small outhouse-style bathrooms in the back that were placed there because the patrons didn't want them to pee on the streets to scare the prospective Lifers away. Needless to say, the Unlifes weren't allowed in 70% of the coffee shop. This was congruent of most places around the city because the Lifers were being taxed to pay for everything and the Unlifes could barely afford to eat. On the entrance sign it even stated Unlife time limits in the coffee shop, which was monitored by a barista that was standing at the door handing time cards to Unlifes as they entered. The cluster of Lifers huddled around their computers were being taxed by the minute to use the shop’s Internet.

  A middle-class Unlife homeless man stood in line next to me, which was the new middle class, dressed in a white collard shirt, pleated pants and a nice trench coat. It looked like a London Fog, and his thoughts didn't stink. His attire was astute enough to garner a job six years ago before the revolt, but it was an election year, and his only hope was to try and become a Lifer, a perpetual day walker.

  The man was holding a plastic cup, and I knew he couldn't afford the coffee because of the tax, but wanted to try and get water. As I could tell by the white spots under his nails, he had a mineral deficiency. He turned his wrist and revealed his mark, a QR ID code that was a tattoo on his wrist. He was a once Lifer that fell, and every Lifer had to be marked in order to pay taxes. They were supposed to be marked unless you were off the grid like myself, and some were starting to be marked from birth. I covered the pain points where the marks should be and created a fake ID. The ones without IDs were thought to be a part of the Uprising and to be eradicated.

  The Lifers on the computers weren't actually creating anything or working for that matter, but competing against each other for the same positions, for the work—wool—over their eyes... Not everyone could tell or separate the classes by looking at them, but I could. It was in their thoughts, and that is where the war was and exactly what they wanted...

  On the corner ceiling was a flat-screen TV tube that was continually projecting the only thing that was allowed during the Lifer non-curfew hours of 6:00 to 18:00, and that was news, both world and local. This was projected by a live link that was now controlled and operated by the governments systems. The only entertainment TV tube allowed was during the curfew hours, and this was dictated by the preaching of a daily televangelist that preached the HQ religion. The televangelist show was often followed by a rerun of an approved movie, or a TV tube show that was deemed proper to take people’s thoughts. It was scientifically proven to denote fear within Lifers. They wanted it to delve into the Lifer subconscious and stay in our heads, creating fear, and it worked. I tried to always turn my head, or put in ear plugs, as they were trying to hypnotize us.

  The broadcast changed to President Johnson, who was now running for his third term—he had changed things so that a President was able to run indefinitely as long as the Lifers’ fake votes allowed. It was an overall effort for the standing President to put another book out and boost sales. The election year came up every five years so he could make it to a decade after one campaign.

  He came on the screen talking about his election, and that they were accepting donations for change (his campaign motto was “donations for change”). The president stated that his campaign was the only fight that could save the people from the corrupt tax system, so be sure to vote. The problem was he was running uncontested. The people were voting, not for change, but for fear not to become an Unlife.

  "I'll have an Americano with an extra shot please Melissa," I said, asking for my daily drink. I gave the barista a casual smile. She winked at me of course, and nothing was any different.

  The phone in my pocket vibrated and in came that text message that I longed to regret. From Cowboy: They're onto you, MOVE!

  It was so vivid to me. I put the blue hood over my head like a soldier donning his helmet to go into battle. It made me feel strong, and I motioned to the Unlife next to me wearing the elongated trench coat, which was clearly in need of money.

  "That's a nice coat. I've always wanted one like that," I said.

  I winked at the barista and pulled out a wad of cash to pay. The man next to me and Melissa both eyed the coveted greenbacks in awe. They gave me a look, as if I had just shot someone, and the blood was still on my hands.

  "You know we're only allowed to accept coins," Melissa muttered. She apprehensively motioned her eyes to the small cameras in the corner of the room next to the TV tube that President Johnson was finishing up talking on. Below the camera was a sign saying “Smile, you're always on camera.” The register had another sign that stated coins only, and cash would garner you a potential strike. Coins and your tax status were denoted by your ID. I already had two strikes on the fake that I had, as three strikes meant you were facing time. I was waiting on a new ID to start using my mark to pay in coin again, so I had no other options and was running short on time...

  "This will be the last time. For him too, and you can keep the change," I said, giving the barista a tip covertly and paying for the Unlife next to me. She glanced around and scanned her coins that were linked to her ID to pay for my purchase.

  "Can I have a receipt?" I asked.

  A pigeon’s poop landed on the dress shoe of Detective Slate, a by-the-numbers technophobe, another servant of them and a Lifer. He grabbed a handkerchief and wiped the poop from his shoe. He stood beside other FBI agents, peering at the picture of a young man on a wanted poster. The picture, created by a graphic artist, showed a man with a blue hood on, and the name underneath the picture said “TaxMan.” The crime he was wanted for was local California state tax hacking.

  Detective Slate’s radio beeped, and clearly stated that the assailant was in the Celtic Coffee Shop. The detective motioned around the corner, peered though the glass in the coffee shop and spotted the presumed TaxMan with his hood on in line for coffee.

  "I have him in sight, Captain. Please give confirmation to apprehend the criminal," Detective Slate said into the radio.

  "Positive match, request approved. Detective to apprehend the suspect. Proceed with caution," the captain said, which was followed by the echo of a radio back feeding.

  Detective Slate pulled out his 9mm Glock 19 handgun from its holster and nodded at the other FBI agents.

  "On my count..." Detective Slate said as he put three fingers up, silently counting, and dropped them in succession.

  "Let's move."

  March 7, 2035

  San Francisco, CA

  Celtix Coffee Shop

  07:15

  The FBI agents threw open the door and raced into the coffee shop. They pointed their guns at both the Lifers and the Unlifes in the coffee shop. Detective Slate motioned with his eyes at the man wearing the big blue hooded sweatshirt; he walked with the gun pointed directly at the back of his head. Detective Slate put his hand on his shoulder, turned the man in the hood, and made him stare down the barrel of his 9mm handgun. The Unlife immediately threw his hands up in the air, and dropped his coffee on Det
ective Slate’s shoe.

  "What the hell, fellas, I just wanted a cup of coffee, OK?!" the Unlife said with his hands raised and a look of terror on his now pale face. The detective lifted the hood from his head and held the wanted poster next to the Unlife’s face. His face didn't match the photo of the TaxMan's...

  "It's the wrong damn guy. Everyone stand down," the detective said. He belted into his radio that the supposed suspect had fled the scene. The suspicious nature of the detective forced him to grab the receipt from the counter. He glanced at both the barista and the Unlife wearing the hooded sweatshirt.

  I put my sunglasses on and walked up the back fire escape exit, flipped the collar of the trench coat up, and turned to meet eyes with Detective Slate across the coffee shop. The detective examined the picture of me and instantly pointed his gun in my direction.

  "Freeze! You're under arrest!" Detective Slate yelled. I smiled and raced up the fire escape as the agents quickly followed behind, weaving through the partitioned coffee shop’s Unlife/Lifer occupants.

  The door opened to the roof of the building. I raced to the edge of the flat roof that was partitioned with barriers on the edge. I met another gentleman wearing a cowboy hat and holding a police radio. He tipped his hat with a wink at me and took the earbud from the radio out of his ear.

  "I thought I told you to move, mang, you'a lucky ya got me," Cowboy said in an exasperated Southern drawl.

  Cowboy rigged some sort of pulley device that was tied to the building and connected to the building across the street. My pupils dilated in awe at the majestic view of the San Francisco morning cityscape which jutted through the dense morning fog concealing the labyrinth of the concrete jungle.