by Joe Jarvis
Trix kept walking. He planned on taking the conveyor 17 blocks up town, but he needed the dollar Barry gave him in order to get an entire gram. Trix was a young adult, a bit too skinny with slightly sunken cheeks and set-back eyes with shadows underneath, and a tendency to slouch. His skin was paler than natural, and blue veins showed through in a few noticeable spots on his face. His natural hair color was black, though he had bleached it a month back. The roots were showing dark now, and his hair which grew straight up was leaning over due to its length, starting to cover his ears. His clothes were casual, too baggy, but not ragged, left over from when he filled them out, before the drugs had changed his look.
Many roads in the most populated areas had been restricted to walking, biking, and conveyors by the owners of the roads. Moving conveyor belts were built into some streets, set up in parallel rows of 3-6, each about one meter wide and traveling at a slightly higher speed than the adjacent belt. Pedestrians would access them through a gate with subscription or single payment options. Then they would step onto the first conveyor which traveled at a speed of about 5 kilometers per hour, with each parallel conveyor increasing by about 5 kph. In a 4 conveyor system, the furthest conveyor would travel at about 20 kilometers per hour, and a pedestrian would walk across the three slower moving belts in order to get to top speed.
Connecting belts traveled at the slowest speed when riders needed to take a turn or divert in order to get to their destination. Most systems were made up of several miles of conveyors in the most densely populated areas of cities, or sometimes only a one or two mile loop placed downtown. This particular area had a vast conveyor system which would reach most parts of the city. In New England no official cities existed in terms of government, but people still referred to where they lived by town, city, or region, which designated no more than a geographic area.
Trix had managed to scrape together $10 (in various currencies) that morning from begging, and found another $2 on the ground. He earned $3 picking up coffees for some businessmen who were working outside of their building. If he covered Jim's store for half an hour while Jim took a break he would get another $4, and that would get him a gram. Jim owned a small drug distribution store in the worst section of town – which was only four blocks.
The same vacuum tube system that shuttled people all over the world hosted smaller magnet tunnels to ship goods. Most shopping was done from home, and many items were shipped on the spot and arrived just seconds after ordering. Jim sold drugs from his distribution center, packaging them as the orders came in online, and shipping through the small mag pod port that hosted pods the size of basketballs. But next to that port was a tube that hosted larger pods: spheres with a diameter of about 1.5 meters.
There were multiple size shipping tubes, and not everyone had them built into their homes. It was relatively inexpensive to have a small tube installed, but many centers existed that hosted larger tubes, and charged a fee for anyone who wished to ship something there to be picked up. Of course there were also store fronts that specialized in letting people see, feel, and try out products before they were sold. But Jim got orders on his website from all over the world, though his business was still small. For that reason, he also served as a shipping center where people could pick up their larger goods. The bigger the tubes, the more expensive it was to have them built into your building.
"Did you eat anything today?" Jim asked Trix when he arrived at the store a half hour later.
"Yea they were giving away some new, like, burrito thing downtown."
"What are you going to have for dinner?"
"Do we have to go through this every day?"
"Do you have to get high every day?"
"You're the one selling it to me."
Jim frowned. "Look, I only ask because I care. The church on Oak St. has a free dinner every Monday and Thursday, you should stop by."
"I'll be fine, I get enough to eat, man."
"Yea but you don't get the nutrients you need! All I see you eating is crap."
Trix was done with the small talk. "Do you need a break? Let me stock some pods for a half hour."
Jim looked down sighing, "Alright," he said shaking his head a bit, "I'll be back in 30."
There was no real risk leaving Trix in charge of his store for a half hour. Jim had the security, and he knew Trix just wanted to get his fix. Stealing would mean time in confinement, without easy access to any drugs, and Trix was well aware.
When the half hour was over Trix took his gram and walked the block to his apartment.
It was an advertisers' apartment commonly referred to as an adap. Free room, free water, free electricity, free heat: the only catch was that the walls were covered in advertisements for all sorts of products, most of which were sold in the store that filled the wide hallways at the entrance and exit of the building, or could be shipped directly to the apartment via small shipping mag pods.
Pretty much anyone could get a free adap, but Trix was at the bottom rung, ranked a low priority consumer because he hardly bought anything. Still, it was worth it for advertising companies to keep these apartments; the advertising was so targeted that somewhere around 97% of adaps proved profitable according to various studies. And anytime an adap tried to kick out someone who wasn’t buying anything, the public backlash was a greater threat to their profits than the few people gaming the system.
The apartments ranged in size and style. Even some very wealthy folks would get a penthouse adap at the top of the buildings where the advertisements were for luxury goods, services, and travel. But Trix’s adap was on the sleazier side due to its location. Adap dwellers had to spend a certain amount of time at home to keep it, but it amounted to little more than half the year, meaning those who traveled for work would use an adap sometimes instead of hotels. Other people were just extreme couponers, and loved to get good value. Some college kids would get an adap to save money, or single moms so that they could be home for their kids. Trix had his because he liked to spend what little money he could gather on drugs.
He opened the door to his 2nd floor studio adap and the wall screens flickered on. A mild voice greeted him by name, asking if he had given much thought to skin care lately, and maybe he needed some help clearing off the blemishes on his face. He hit the "off" button on the wall panel, which made the room go silent, though the walls still offered information on a dozen products at least.
Every couple of minutes one of the panels would switch to another advertisement, but generally only one wall contained video advertising. Trix’s whole apartment was seven meters long by six meters wide, with a three by four meter section on the right of the entrance for a bathroom and closet. The three meter section beyond the bathroom had a basic kitchenette. The rest of his adap was pretty bare. Trix had a mattress with some sheets, a coffee table, and a TV. His kitchen was dirty with all of the few plates, pots, and pans he owned piled in the sink, as they had been for months. The trash emitted a fishy odor, and overflowed with takeout boxes, and wrappers left over from weeks of being ignored. Every couple of months Trix would find a day of inspiration, clean his adap – well, his version of clean – and look into getting a job, or rejoining UtopaCorp. It usually lasted until about 16:00 when he would break down and go to buy or find more drugs. He had been a daily user for less than two years.
At 18 Trix went to work for UtopaCorp since he didn't have many other options. UtopaCorp was one of a few companies that would offer a job to practically anyone who wanted a job, and would follow UtopaCorp’s rules. Usually it was "hippies," or people who wanted to party, who couldn’t organize their lives, or young folks who didn't have many friends or family that joined up. The company would offer low take home pay, but take care of every aspect of their employees’ life. Apartments were included, and the advertising stayed in the halls so employees could relax without products being shoved in their faces. Meal plans were included for all employees, and a plethora of sports, clubs, and activities were planned by e
mployee groups for down time and weekends. They worked more hours than most people – about 40 each week – but the jobs were generally easy, and employees had no stresses of paying bills, or worrying about...well, anything really.
UtopaCorp placed workers in one of their many roles, top-heavy towards manual labor and low skill jobs. The company would offer all sorts of contracts that made sense for different people. Some employees had practically no access to their wages, as specified by the original contract they signed, instead placing the pay into high-interest accounts to earn money and help them control their spending. Others would take all their money up front.
UtopaCorp was willing to structure employment in a way that worked for the individual, as long as they showed up when you were supposed to, and did the job required. Trix lasted a little over two years with the company before he couldn't handle the structure anymore, and quit. He traveled with the money he had saved up until that ran out eight months later, at which point he had already formed some bad habits from some of the people he chose to associate with. It was another year before Trix was unable to hold a job for more than three weeks, and that is when he became a daily drug user. Trix knew his 25th birthday was looming, and it depressed him.
He thought about how unfair it was that he was stuck in some crummy adap while so many in the world had so much. He felt sorry for himself that during his traveling days he could only afford level 3 pods while he watched snobby college kids grab a level 1 with their daddy's credit. He heard you could order drinks in the level 1 pods, and they would pop up cold and fresh from the storage compartment below, but he had never been in a level 1 pod.
As Trix injected half a gram into his arm with an EZ-Ject syringe (which also appeared in an advertisement on the wall a few feet away), he fell into a nirvana like daze of imagining his life if he were rich.
Half dreaming, he imagined what it would be like to get a nano-bot injection of immune boosters that eliminate 97% of disease before the host even notices them, never having to feel sick, never having to wait two weeks to get rid of scabies with the topical ointment from the free clinic. He pictured himself taking a trip to a moon resort, driving the rovers over craters, and laying in a lounge chair under the glass dome, being waited on, while gazing at the earth from a perspective he would never know. Trix wanted to eat at Hillside, and be invited to a party on Mount Olympus – the most exclusive venue in the world, which actually was located on one of Mount Olympus’s many peaks.
As he came-to a couple hours later the telescreen was showing an episode of "Switch 'Em" where a billionaire was being interviewed at his immaculate rural Georgia estate, preparing to switch places with a retail worker from the west coast.
"I think it will be tough to be essentially cooped up in the same storefront for 30 hours this week, but I know I can handle it. It will be an interesting experience – certainly something new to be going to work at a solid building everyday instead of just telecommuting online."
Trix rolled his eyes as he flicked off the TV "Pff, asshole."
He put his jacket on and walked downstairs to find something to eat. He briefly considered going to the church for dinner, then decided it wasn't worth hearing the religious volunteers give their "God saves" spiel.
Instead he decided to head 15 blocks to the main food market, where he could fill up on samples from all the vendors; maybe even get a free beer if he saw someone he knew. “I bet they don't have beers at the church,” he thought as he stepped onto the sidewalk, and lit a cigarette. He looked down and realized he only had two left. Tomorrow he would have to find enough money for another pack somehow. He didn't bother picking up the dirty bank coin worth a half dollar that he noticed at his feet.
"Trix, how are you doing?" Officer Themis was just walking by, and his tone suggested he actually cared how Trix was doing.
"Just planning my next hustle," Trix replied dryly.
"Just don't hustle me." Themis joked. "Hey you know Corner Cop Security still has a few grants available for people who want to get clean. You should see some of these rehab centers, it's like a vacation. There's – "
"Am I being detained?" Trix interrupted. Officer Themis let out a confused laugh, thinking Trix was joking.
"What, no?" Themis replied with a smile.
"Have a good day officer," Trix said emotionless without smiling, and walked away towards the vendor district.
Officer Themis watched him walk away, wishing there was something he could do to help. As Trix turned the corner Themis sighed, shook his head, and continued the beat. Themis was offended and a bit hurt that Trix had asked if he was being detained. That was usually something people without security asked overzealous cops as a way to disengage.
Asking "am I being detained" forced an officer to admit he suspected you of nothing and allow you on your way, or move ahead with procedures. But if the procedures were trumped up, then the officer could lose his job, or be prosecuted if he initiated force. Security agencies were not about to hire or retain officers whose unjust actions they had to spend money defending.
And even if someone didn’t have security insurance, he could buy some after a crime was committed against him. Although this was more expensive, if the perpetrator was caught and determined guilty, he was generally made to cover the costs to the victim.
Trix had obviously meant the phrase as an insult after Officer Themis mentioned the rehab grants his security company offered as charity. It bothered Themis since he had come into contact with Trix before over some petty crime and wanted to help him, seeing the best in Trix, but he knew not to be too sensitive.
Officer Themis was the head investigator for violent crime for Corner Cop Security. Since violent crimes only occurred on CCS’s customers once every few weeks, the rest of his time was spent patrolling customers’ property, like the street he was walking along. His shift ended as the sun started to set, so Themis grabbed a level 2 pod and headed home.
Themis was a friendly outgoing man in his mid thirties, happily married to a teacher; they had two young kids, a boy and a girl. Officer Themis was a good looking man with prominent cheekbones and a strong jawline. He had dark hair, but was relatively pale for modern times. Themis was in shape with a muscular build, he worked out regularly, and practiced regularly with his 9mm – though he had never used it on the job. He was not especially tall, but people seemed to think of him as taller than he actually was.
His darker, equally stunning wife was making dinner when Themis walked in. "Hi James, how was work? Oh before I forget, we got our security contract today, I left it up on the screen for you to look at and sign."
Officer – James – Themis kissed his wife hello, "Anything different this year?"
"Just that Atlas Protection is taking care of more in the gaps between CCS's coverage. They’ll be carrying out some patrols, nothing that really affects us."
"Somebody is doing things right, I feel like everyone's flocking to AP these days."
"Well they have a great product, I would feel better about traveling further north now, not that I would've worried much before, but you never know! Oh, can you pick up the kids tomorrow from school? I need to stay there late, I’m tutoring after school now on Tuesdays."
Themis’s wife was a teacher at Three Rivers Elementary School. It was one of many schools in the area, and was a branch of Three Rivers Education Group which operated an elementary school, a high school, a trade school, and a daycare/after school care.
"That’s fine. Are you still tutoring on Thursdays?"
"Yeah, but it’s a different group of kids. The Charity Club raised money last semester to hire tutors for some of the kids who get their tuition through grants. Most of them are doing fine, but I’d say about a quarter just don’t seem to be able to keep up with the rest of the kids at school. We noticed about 12 of them falling behind, and of course their scholarships are at risk if they don’t maintain their grades. Good kids though, just their parents don’t have the skills to teach t
hem outside of school what most of the suburban kids get. Some are only second generation in the New England Economy."
"That’s interesting," James said, thinking, "Do you have any first generation students?"
"Yea I actually have one this year who came with her parents three years ago from far east Asia, where the New England Economy hasn’t spread yet, but she is a great student. She just gets confused with cultural things; certain lessons, the language, the date. Where she is from they didn’t keep the old calendar after the collapse. So their year is, I think… 53? 54 maybe. Based on some 'King’s' birth," she made quotation marks with her fingers as she said the word king.
"Wow. So you notice more of the kids who grew up in New England, but had parents who came into NEE late that have more trouble?" asked James.
"Well not all of them, but a lot yes, I think because their parents aren’t fully integrated, so they aren’t getting all the same home life as third or fourth generation students. Well not that their home life is bad… just they don’t have the same roots in the culture. We’re actually already starting to see fifth generation kids in the younger age groups. One boy, he’s only six, his great great grandfather was born inside the walls of the Worcester Food Corp in 2024. And his great great grandfather's parents had been admitted because the father’s dad knew a lot about electrics, plumbing, and keeping things running, even though he was a janitor before the collapse. It’s really interesting to hear some of the stories, I love teaching the history of New England. We’re so close to it, that everyone has some connection to the development."
"That’s for sure," James agreed, then smirked slyly, "But it’s not every day you meet a family that’s 100% descendants of the Blackstone Valley settlement founders," and he puffed out his chest and bobbed his head from side to side with his eyebrows raised, sarcastically putting on an air of superiority. His wife just laughed, rolled her eyes, and shook her head as she finished setting the table, and turned to check on dinner.