by Tariq Saleim
As the night progressed, the music got louder, the lights softer, and the ethics nonexistent. More than forty men and women celebrated their freedom of choice by stripping one another to their bare skin. They danced to the thrill of untamed passion. Hawk was the first one to strip Zin of her clothes and dignity that night. As he moved on to other opportunities, he handed her over to three of his friends who tested her ability to engage at multiple fronts. Zin did not resist—she was in no condition to. Hawk watched in amusement as his friends went to work on Zin. She was not looking shy now.
Hawk had perfected the art of maximizing these parties. As a cohost he would push people to get drunk and drugged as quickly as possible. For him, however, he would switch to nonalcoholic drinks very early on. He never took drugs at these parties and distributed his quota among his conquests. He wanted them all to be wasted, but him sober.
As he looked around for his next target to exploit, he noticed the ginger girl with an elderly man. She looked different with her hair down and clothes gone. Just then, Spike appeared from nowhere wearing a necktie—only a necktie.
“What is with the necktie?” asked Hawk.
There was no answer. His friend was staring at him, but not really looking at him. Hawk grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him firmly.
“What is with the necktie?” Hawk repeated his question.
Spike raised his hand and pointed at Hawk’s head. “There is a fairy on your head. She is beautiful…white…furry…”
Hawk laughed loudly. “Yeah, she has been there for a while.”
“Are you an angel?” asked Spike.
Spike was talking trash and Hawk made an attempt to change the topic. “You were right, the salesgirl is ginger all over.”
“She is not ginger, she is white, furry white.” Spike was still pointing at the mystical fairy on Hawk’s head.
“Not fur, fairies have wings, Spike. Turn around and look at your ginger girl.” He then forcefully turned his friend around and urged him to look at the ginger girl, who was about to allow her elderly partner into her domain.
“Rubbish,” said Spike and turned around. “I like her.” Spike was still pointing at his friend’s head.
Hawk shook his head in disgust. “OK, there is one on your head as well.”
“Really?”
“Yes, go to the bathroom and see for yourself.” Hawk pulled his friend along as he walked toward the toilets. He opened the door and pushed Spike inside. That should take care of him for a while, he thought. Spike was hallucinating and chances were he would indeed see a fairy on his head in the bathroom mirror. What if he sees a demon instead? That would be an interesting development.
Hawk was amused at that thought. He walked back to the center of the living room and looked around. There was happiness all over. He could never understand the criticism leveled against the system by Spike’s brother and a few others like him. Who is stopping anyone from what? This is freedom—freedom of expression, choice and action. Spike’s brother Ken is a wasted bastard. I have a great life, a good job, and an even better girl; what else can anyone want. There is nothing wrong with the system, concluded Hawk. He closed his eyes, raised his hands in the air, and let the music guide his naked body into a rhythm.
CHAPTER 3
Spike was waiting for his brother at a café in downtown, close to his employer’s office. He had an hour between two meetings and, on his brother’s insistence, he had agreed to meet him. As Ken entered the café, Spike noticed that his brother had aged considerably since their last meeting of a few months ago. At thirty-eight, Ken looked like he was in his fifties. He had put on weight, had unruly gray hair, and totally white stubble. He was dressed shabbily in a jacket and trousers that were loose enough to fit him if he was two sizes bigger.
Spike raised his hand so that his nervous brother could spot him and stop looking around anxiously. Ken was pleased to spot his brother sitting at the far end in a lonely corner. This was exactly what he needed—a secluded corner to talk to his sibling.
“I was at Mom and Dad’s place on Friday night. You were not there,” said Ken, sitting on the chair opposite Spike.
No hellos, no greetings? You weirdo! Spike was astonished.
“I was at my place. I had a party,” replied Spike.
“Dad told me about it.”
“Can I order something for you?”
“No. I did not come here to have coffee. I need to talk to you. You need to listen to me. I think my life is in danger and I cannot trust anyone.” Ken nervously looked around. He wanted to make sure no one had followed him into the café. He did not see any of the faces that he had been seeing consistently around him over the last few months: those of three men who appeared on different days in different places. They were always there, not hiding, just following him from a distance. They never said or did anything, but they made him nervous.
“Are you looking for someone?” asked Spike.
“No.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“You have to trust me.” Ken spoke in a barely audible voice.
“You can speak louder. No one will hear us. No one really cares.”
“I may look like an idiot, but I am not. Respect me as your elder sibling. There are ten years between us and I think I deserve a little bit more respect than this.” Ken responded cynically, trying to send Spike on a guilty trip for his rude attitude.
Spike did not reply. Ken was right; he had been a kind brother until a few years ago when he started losing it and their relationship became bitter. Ken had been there for Spike in everything he did. He had taught Spike how to ride a bicycle, swim, do weights at the gym, and a lot more. Ken was like a second father and rightfully deserved more respect.
“I am listening,” said Spike.
“This system is rigged. All of this is a façade—a sly pretense,” said Ken.
“Wow, these are heavy words.”
“Listen to me and don’t interrupt. Annual draws are near and I am sure my time is up. Surely this year the computer will randomly pick me up,” he said sarcastically.
“There is always that chance. You are unemployed. You cannot blame the system. Look at yourself. Who would employ you like this? Besides, what have you done? Why would the system try to pick you up?” Spike could not make sense of his brother’s paranoia.
“I know things that few do. Like others who knew before me and are no more, I shall be executed as well.”
Spike wanted this brief conversation to end here. You never know which camera is recording from where, he thought. There was always a hidden camera somewhere—on the street, inside the café, some satellite watching from space. He did not want to get recorded listening to a rebel like his brother.
“They use annual draws to eliminate people like me,” Ken continued with his criticism. “If I am selected, I am surely dead.”
“You will not be selected.”
Ken looked at Spike in disgust. His sibling was so naïve.
“About two years ago, I was handed some video recordings from a technician in the IT office at the UPF Head Office. He was a nobody; a small-time technician. I do not know how he got these recordings. It does not matter how advanced the technology is, it is vulnerable to human error. Someone must have either forgotten to switch off recordings or deliberately recorded it. I don’t know and I don’t really care how this man got these recordings. What matters is that he had reached out to me. He told me he liked my work, was an admirer, and handed over to me the recordings,” said Ken.
“What was on those recordings?” asked Spike.
“Footage of several meetings, private moments etcetera—this shit is as big as it can get.”
“You need to stop here. I don’t trust you and I do not want to hear more on this. You are disillusioned. You will get us all in trouble and I want no more of this.” Spike got up from his seat with intentions to leave. Ken pulled his hand and forced him to sit down.
“The
IT guy has disappeared mysteriously. I went to his place to see his family and I was told they have moved. I tried his mobile phone and got no response. I fear that he has been murdered. Media, being the way it is, will never ever cover this story.”
“What makes you think he is dead? Maybe he has been transferred to a different Sector or Sub-Sector. Why are you assuming the worst?”
“Why is he not responding to my calls?”
“Maybe he does not want to talk to you.”
“You are such a kid. You blindly trust the system like everyone else. You don’t know that it is playing with you, with all of us.”
“You are disillusioned, Ken. Do not ever talk to me about this again. I do not believe you, and please refrain from talking to Mom and Dad about this as well. Don’t trouble them with your stupid theories.”
“I have evidence.”
“I am not interested in your evidence. I don’t care what happened to your source and his family. I have a perfect life and I do not want it to change in any way. I work in IT too; there are no human errors. Someone probably made a fake video and has made a fool out of you. You have wasted years of your life trying to prove something that does not exist. Whatever evidence you have, it makes sense to you because you are confirmation biased. You see things because you want to see them.”
Ken stared at his brother with tears in his eyes. If I cannot convince my own brother, how can I convince the world? he sadly concluded.
“I remember holding you in my hands the day you were born,” Ken said emotionally. He raised his hands as if he was holding a baby in them. “Mom and Dad told me to be careful, not to drop you, not to hurt you. I have tried all my life not to drop you, not to hurt you.”
As far as Spike remembered he had never seen his brother crying. As tears rolled down Ken’s cheeks, Spike felt bad for talking sternly to his brother.
“The day you started walking, you took a few steps and then fell. You hurt your head and cried for hours. After that I tried not to leave you alone. I watched you carefully as you learned to walk, always ready to support you before you could fall. You grew up into a fine young man. As you learned to swim, dance, drive, I was there keeping my promise to Mom and Dad—never to drop you. You talked to me about your first kiss. You cried on my shoulders for hours on your first heartbreak. You bought me a nice pen from your first salary. We were so good together—and then you changed. This system corrupted you and now you talk to me as if I am a lunatic.” Ken wiped his tears and looked out of the window.
Out on the streets, a tall man was walking on the pavement with a little boy who was devouring a chocolate bar. His face and hands were dirty, but he was oblivious to the mess it was creating. The chocolate no doubt tasted good, he was happy, and the rest did not matter. His companion, probably his father, took a napkin out of his pocket and cleaned the boy’s face. Soon enough, it was messy again.
Spike is like that boy. He is happy in his little world, unaware of how cruel the system is, Ken sadly reflected.
“I apologize for being rude. However, I do not want to hear anything further on this subject,” Spike said.
Ken did not bother to reply. He looked at his brother with the utmost disappointment.
“If you think this material is so dangerous, why you don’t return it to them?” asked Spike.
“Return to whom?”
“I don’t know. These people who are after you, who want to kill you.”
“It is the system, the state. It is not one person, it is the whole machinery. No one has threatened me. No one opposes me openly. There is no one to negotiate with, no one to strike a truce with. They follow me from a distance, watch me, confuse me—but do nothing. They know I am coming their way. I am unemployed, have no business—all they have to do is wait and I will fall into their trap by myself.”
Spike still looked unconvinced.
“I cannot publish this material in paper, digital, or social media. Everything goes through a screening process and of course this one will never make it through. I cannot go to local Militia. What do I tell them? Register a case against the head of the UPF? And for what—for creating an elaborate system of corruption and deceit that we are all part of? No, Spike, I have nowhere to go. I am stuck. I do not know what to do with it. I cannot even go to a different Sector; no one will give me asylum. For all practical purposes, I am a dead man walking,” Ken said.
Spike was feeling bad for his brother. He does not need a brother, he needs a psychiatrist, reckoned Spike.
“I have to go.” Spike got up from his seat, fully determined to leave even if Ken tried to stop him. “It was good meeting you. Take care of yourself.”
“Watch my back when I am no more,” said Ken.
“What is that even supposed to mean?” replied a confused Spike.
“Remember my words, Spike, remember my words.” Ken stood up from his seat and hurriedly left the café.
No good-bye, no hugs, indeed a weirdo, concluded Spike.
For Ken, this meeting had confirmed one important point: it was difficult to convince anyone of what he had to say. He had raised Spike like a son and even he had difficulty believing Ken.
As Ken walked out of the café, he noticed a familiar face just across the street. Their eyes met and the person across the street smiled. Ken looked the other way and started walking to the bus station to his right. A few minutes later, he boarded the first bus that arrived and settled for a window seat on the right side of the bus. As the bus started moving, he saw that familiar face again. Their eyes met, the other person smiled and, once again, Ken chose to look the other way.
***
Back in the café, Spike was fretting about his brother’s future. Annual draws would select 1 percent of the unemployed every year and execute them. They were killed in the name of honor and were idealized as willing sacrifices who protected the system. They were heroes—the only problem was that they were dead.
Annual draws kept people motivated, on their toes, willing to work, ready to accept any job they could get, knowing very well that being unemployed could lead to death. The system was working; there were no labor unions, no strikes, no rioting. Everyone needed a job to live and to cheat death.
People with higher risk tolerance set up businesses of their own. All businesses had to be approved by a designated state department. Business plans had to be submitted to support one’s business case. Very rarely were such business registration applications rejected. Ken was one of those few unlucky people who had their business plans rejected, again and again.
The unemployed were given a grace period of twelve months after losing a job. Once this grace period was over, they could be selected in the annual draws. Ken had been unemployed for more than a year, which was worrying. Spike hoped that his brother was not one of the unlucky 1 percent.
There was, however, a way to survive the annual draws—a potential target could sell something of himself, for example a kidney or whatever was medically possible. Every year, at the time of annual draws, sick people would file applications with Health Services, requesting for organs that they needed. They would also disclose how much they were willing to pay for these organs. Their needs were then matched to people who were selected in the annual draws. The dying were willing to pay any price to live, and the unemployed were willing to sell anything to live. Often deals were struck quickly and medical expenses were normally borne by the purchasing party. Those who were able to find a buyer for their organs survived annual draws and were exempted from the next one, giving them two years before they were eligible again should they remain unemployed.
In the unlucky event of Ken being picked up, Spike hoped that he would be able to sell an organ. Kidneys were always an easy choice. Introduction to alcohol at an early age left a large part of population with defective kidneys. For those who could afford it, annual draws were a good way out if this predicament.
Spike paid for his coffee and left the café. As he hailed a cab and told
the driver where to go, he failed to notice a man eyeing him intently from only a few feet away. When the cab left the café, that man dialed a number from his mobile phone and spoke to someone on the other side.
***
Ken got off the bus two stations later and strolled aimlessly. He did not bother to check if someone was following him or not. It did not really matter anymore. If indeed he was selected in the annual draws he would not let the system win. He sighed as he remembered his decision. He looked around at the concrete jungle of tall buildings evidencing prosperity, growth, and development. United Planet for Fairness, he recalled, and smiled. Fair, my ass.
Ken had carefully told Spike where to look for his work when he was gone. Spike had not understood, but when Ken was no more, Spike would think of his last words. It would be up to Spike to decide what to do with the information. He could ignore it, which is probably what he would do, reckoned Ken.
So what shall I do with the last two weeks of my life? Ken calculated how much money was left on him. It was enough to last two weeks and more. He had a sudden urge to pray. But pray to whom? he thought. Religion was a taboo in his world and he had grown up an atheist. He looked up and wondered if someone was really there. Quickly, he concluded that God did not exist. If there was one, He would have helped him out today.
Ken decided to treat himself to a nice meal first. Later that night, he would pick up a hooker, take her out for dinner, and then spend the night with her. It had been a while since he had a woman. He would treat her respectfully and pretend as if he was going out with his girlfriend. Sex would be nice, but even if that did not happen, just being with someone was enough.
No one plans to die young, and neither did Ken. Now that force of circumstances had left him with no choice, he would embrace his fate valiantly. He was surely losing his life, but it was important that he passed on his work. He was happy to have left behind the seeds of destruction that would eventually bring down the system.