“Is this a trick?” she asked, uncertain how this could be happening. The Profit held the Gates in an iron grip. “How are you doing this?”
“The Technician who serviced your screen installed a Paradise Chip inside its receiver. It allows us to temporarily disrupt the signal and communicate with you without being traced. However, we cannot speak long, or talk too often this way, or it will be noticed. I am contacting you because we need you, Rachel. We need true patriots, loyal to a rational vision of the future. We hope in the next few years to have amassed enough internal support within the various gated communities of the Kingdom to throw off the shackles that the Profit has placed on the people. Can we count on you to stand with us when the day comes?”
Rachel stood very close to the screen now, tracing the outline of his face with her hands. She tried to picture him with fewer lines on his face, no beard, fewer grey hairs, and succeeded. Recognition lit up inside her like a light bulb.
“You’re my father’s colleague, a college professor. You taught history. You used to tell me stories. I remember you. You’re Dr. Anaxagoras.”
He smiled broadly. “Yes, child, I am he. We have several agents within many Gated communities, but it is not enough for a true revolution. But once we have enough members working from within, we will set everyone free. I am so sorry they separated us. They got to you before we could. It was always my great regret that I couldn’t save your mother. Or protect you.”
“How did you find me?”
“One of our members is close to you. I understand you want to find out about the past? The real past?”
“Yes.” she explained. “There are things about my past that I need answers for. I want to know what happened at Megiddo. I want to know what my husband was doing there that day.”
“When you revise the past at your job, when you edit stories, where do you think your deletions go?”
“I imagine they are deleted from the system entirely.”
“Everything that was ever in any way on the Web, even when deleted, still exists in a condensed form, like a ghost. You cannot find it on the Web pages you have access to, that’s true enough. Only the elite, the so-called “Saints”, have knowledge of the existence of this repository of truth, known as “Pneuma”, and only a few among them have the pass code to gain entry. The Paradise Chip can suppress their signal, and it can also locate and interface with Pneuma. You merely need use an active pass code to implement your search and discover the truth.”
“If the truth of history is so dangerous to them, why do they keep it around in any form?”
“Because it exists outside their sphere of influence among other nations and states that they deal with. Therefore, they need to know the truth to discuss national affairs with the other national leaders. They must have access to it to better negotiate with outsiders, allies, and enemies. Also, it feels good to know a truth nobody else knows. Knowledge is not oblivion. Knowledge is Power. Do you remember the story I told you about the bad bread and the King?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. I don’t remember it. I suffered amnesia and have only recently begun to recall my past.” she said.
“Our time is up for today. I will try to contact you in a few weeks. Keep your eyes open and the pass code will come to you soon.” He told her, then disappeared from the screen.
As abruptly as he entered the room, he departed, and the Spider-Screen continued rambling on with statistics proving how much better everyone’s lives were under the Profit’s rule. The statistics were interrupted by an emergency news bulletin. The Spies managed to infiltrate a high-level facility of the New World Order, gaining access to top secret files that would assist them in bringing down the Humanist threat to mankind once and for all. Rachel heard cheering from other apartments in her building, and the people in the street danced joyfully at the news of another victory.
The New World Order was once known as the United Nations. However, the organization became corrupted by rogue terrorist states and enemies of the Kingdom. The Profit realized the organization was a manifestation of the evil one world government predicted by the King. The Kingdom sent representatives to undermine the organization from within, and thwart their progress at every turn. The United Nations was abolished in 2017, and the states that opposed establishment of the Kingdom across the globe formed a new coalition called the New World Order. Rachel wondered what made the Kingdom different from the evil one world global government predicted by the King, considering the Profit called for the Kingdom to rule over all nations in the name of the King.
Rachel tossed and turned in bed that night, unable to sleep, worried about Paul. After a while, she fell asleep, and began to dream. Dr. Anaxagoras sat at the edge of her bed, telling her a story, to distract her from the sound of her parents arguing downstairs.
“Rachel, your father must come away with me. We have important work to do, to try to keep us all safe. Your mother will not be happy about it. But I will tell you a story, so you can sleep well.
“Once upon a time, there was a kingdom filled with plentiful bread. One day, a servant came before the King with terrible news. ‘Your majesty,’ he said, nearly out of breath, ‘A terrible disease has affected all our bread supplies. Anyone who eats the bread becomes insane. But the royal storehouse has enough bread stored from the prior year that you and I can live off that until the next reaping comes.’ The King thought over the servant’s suggestion. He replied, ‘You are indeed a good servant. But we will eat exactly what the rest of our people eat. We will put a mark on our foreheads so that when we look at each other, we will remember that we are crazy, too.’ The servant said, ‘But sire, why would we want to be crazy?’ The King replied, ‘Why would we want to be the only sane people in the entire kingdom? Would we not then be the ones viewed as insane? Why would we abandon our people that way?’”
Rachel asked, “What happened, Doc?”
“They put marks on their foreheads and the King ate the bread. The servant very wisely pretended to be insane like everyone else, but ate what was in the royal storehouse, and remained sane enough to defend his homeland from their enemies until the rest of the people came to their senses once more.”
Rachel could hear her mother crying downstairs. Her father said from the doorway, “That’s not how the story ends. The King and the servant both join the people in their madness and ride out the wave. The mark on their foreheads lets them remember they are insane whenever they are about to do something totally destructive.”
Dr. Anaxagoras whispered to Rachel, “That’s the dumbest ending I’ve ever heard. I like mine better.”
Her father tickled her, then tucked her in to bed. Rachel felt safe and secure. Separation from her father would be painful, but she believed in his promises, and it eased the pain, making the wait bearable. She believed her father’s promise that he would return as soon as he could.
The next morning, Rachel awoke to the sound of advertisements on the Spider Screen. She stared at it expectantly, waiting to see if contact might be made. The first advertisement was for Wall’s Toil Market, followed by another one for Red Circle Store, and then a request for donations for the Profit Fund. The last advertisement was for a new movie coming to the local theater. It was called “Story of the King” and promised to be filled with action and amazing special effects. Rachel brushed her teeth and wondered if the film would reveal the King she had read about in the Bible. But she doubted it. Movies were made by the Department of Entertainment and heavily scrutinized by the Censors before being released for public viewing. Besides, what the King taught had been supplanted entirely by what the King represented in the minds of the people of the Kingdom. Rachel knew she was one of the few in the Kingdom who had ever read about the King in the Bible. The act of reading the Divine Word was punishable by being publicly burned alive. Only the Profit had the legal right to read and interpret the Divine Word.
When she looked at the screen, she realized there were images flashing, pulsin
g, just beneath the surface of the screen. Examining more closely, she saw they were a series of letters. The pass code! She watched it flash several more times, memorizing the sequence of letters. After a few minutes, the veiled images ceased on the screen. She took her shower and dressed in the closet, then departed for work as though nothing had happened.
Rachel sat down at her desk to begin her tasks. Although Rachel wanted desperately to ask after Paul, she knew that might not be wise. It might only make things worse. She felt something brush against her knee under the desk. She ignored it momentarily and performed her assigned tasks on her screen. At the appropriate moment, she slid her hand into her lap and felt around the underside of the desk. There was a folded paper taped to it. She removed it, and slid it under her long sleeve. After a few more minutes of work, she subtly put the note into her pocket.
Rachel ate her lunch in the cafeteria in silence. She received odd stares from a few of her co-workers, but they quickly redirected their gazes when she caught them looking in her direction. As the day wore on to its close, there were more instances of such glances.
On her way home, the RMS alert sounded. Following the crowd, she stood at the foot of the giant Spider-screen where the Tri-Roads met. The alarm turned into a long, wailing siren, creating a heightened sense of emergency among the gathering. The siren’s blaring noise faded, and was replaced with an angry sermon, decrying all those who in their hearts denied the truth of the Kingdom’s social and economic values. Examples were spoken aloud of such thoughts, as well as displayed on the screen above them. As each of the phrases were mentioned, the level of outrage amongst those gathered increased steadily.
The man next to Rachel shouted, “Taxation is theft! Taxation is theft! Small government! Get out of my pockets!”
His wife said to Rachel, “The nerve. That once people thought the Convicted deserved to be given free food or housing if they were without, by taxing the holy, wealthy people and corporations. The lazy hurting the noble wealth creators!”
They both guffawed at the idea.
“Really,” she continued, “people who can afford to purchase services, such as security for their home, or road repairs, can do so of their own volition. Those who cannot afford to do so...well, God has passed His holy judgment upon them, hasn’t he?”
Rachel felt as though she would be ill, but had to hold down her lunch. Losing it now would certainly earn her scrutiny. Though she may already be under close observation, she realized. She grinned agreeably at the woman and nodded affirmatively. But their attention had since returned to the session. It was a memorial of Megiddo, showing images of children’s corpses, body parts of mothers holding their lifeless infants as though their arms could shield them from attack, and soot covered toys and furnishings. The narrator explained what they were looking at.
“At the time of the tragic event,” he continued, “we believed terrorists from afar were to blame. But we have since come to discover that it may indeed have been the work of an internal foe- a Heretic- working with the dreaded Humanists to the north and along the coast.”
Everyone gasped in shock and horror, including Rachel. One of the Elect? A Convicted? Turned traitor, and killing innocents to advance their cause? Horrible! Rachel had never heard of the Humanists launching internal terrorist attacks against the Kingdom. Their attacks were usually ideological in nature. Rachel refused to believe the Humanists would do such a thing, but she kept this to herself.
An image of Hillary appeared on the screen. The assemblage began screaming, “Death to Heretics and traitors! Death to the Liberal Elitists!” Normally, Rachel would have been caught up in the frenzy by that point, but this time, something had changed. She no longer agreed with these tactics, with the ideology of the Kingdom, with this farce of what the King had truly meant to create. Another image came across the screen, one of Benedict Lucius Judas, the leader of the Alt-Left terrorists who remained on the fringes of the Kingdom. As she stared at the same still image of the mystery man she had seen thousands of times, she studied his features closely. A light bulb went off in her mind, and she drew in a sharp breath and held it. She knew this image. Rather, she knew these images. The original image was masterfully blended with the superimposed image of a stereotypical terrorist foreigner. The underlying image was her very own father.
As the people surrounding her began to crumble to the cold, hard ground in their frenzied, shaking release, Rachel fled the scene. Struggling to breathe, she didn’t stop till she entered her apartment. How could the most hated villain in the Kingdom be her very own father? If they realized what she now knew, would they kill her?
Leaning against the door, she caught her breath. She went into the closet to escape the RMS that still played out on her Spider-screens. Rachel reached into her pocket and pulled out the paper she had retrieved from underneath the desk earlier that day. It read: Don’t be worried. I’m alright. I don’t think Mr. Christian will be bothering you any further. -P.
Rachel tucked the note into the back of her bible and left the closet. She was deeply relieved to find out Paul was fine, but was still troubled that he had made an enemy of Mr. Christian, who by all reports was a wealthy and influential man. The last thing she wanted was to bring trouble to Paul’s life. But Rachel feared trouble was about to come to them all whether they wanted it or not.
Once she heard the RMS end, she came to stand in front of her main Spider-screen once more.
“Web Navigator,” she requested, “locate Pneuma.”
“I’m sorry.” It replied, “There is nothing called...” for a few moments it paused, whirred, as if it were reconsidering its position on an important issue, then said, “Pneuma requires Pass Code Activation. Please state the Pass Code for verification now.”
Rachel repeated the letters she memorized. “A-P-P-L-E.”
“Pass Code verified. Welcome to Pneuma.” The facsimile voice changed midstream from male to female. The word “Pneuma” appeared on the screen in green letters. “What is your query?”
“What happened at Megiddo?”
“An explosion of thermite.”
Rachel considered how to best word the question. She didn’t have much time. “What was John Wright doing there?”
“Mr. John Wright, faithful among the Elect, entered the property in Megiddo Park at 1:15 p.m. on a Tuesday. He was inside the building when the thermite explosion occurred.”
“Hmm...” she paused, “Did John Wright know about the explosives?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he get out in time?”
“He was not supposed to leave alive.” the female voice answered in a low tone.
“Was his death planned?”
“Yes.”
“Why was he not supposed to leave alive?”
“He knew too much.”
“What did he know too much about?”
“Megiddo.”
Rachel sighed. She didn’t understand what Pneuma was trying to relate to her. “Why was John Wright there that day?”
“To set off the thermite explosion.” Pneuma answered. “As instructed.”
“As instructed? By whom?” Rachel asked, a creeping feeling of horror building within her.
“We.” Pneuma said casually.
Rachel crashed down onto the floor, sitting in a pile on the floor. Horrified, she managed to ask, “Why? Why would we want to destroy our own people?”
“To increase lagging support for the War Against Terror amongst the populace, which in turn allows us to keep wages depressed, prices high, and military-industrial contracts lucrative.” Pneuma responded flatly as a matter-of-fact.
The picture on the screen began to warble. Rachel ended her session, picking herself up from the floor. Rachel began to wonder if all the terror attacks had been perpetrated by their own leadership. She realized she didn’t really want to know. The knowing wouldn’t change anything, nor did it relate to her personal past. In a few moments, the regular Spider-screen
signal resumed uninterrupted.
Although part of her found the idea that the government may have been behind the attacks on their own people unbearable, another part of her believed it. If they had orchestrated the last attack, it certainly made other plots possible. She remembered the pictures of the dead. All those innocent people, murdered. Rachel didn’t change her clothing that night. She pulled the covers up over her head and rocked herself to sleep.
The next morning as she prepared for work, she heard a soft tapping on her door. She finished dressing quickly and opened the door slowly. No one was there. Just as she was about step outside to leave for work, she noticed a dirty bonnet on the floor at her feet. Kneeling, she hurriedly picked it up and placed it in her dress pocket. She looked both ways down the hall corridor. No one was there. Spooked, Rachel walked as fast as she could to the DOC.
She was acutely aware of the eyes of the others taking her in, the hushed tones in which they spoke to each other as they looked at her. Most of them hushed up as soon as she came too close. Some were less discreet about their talebearing.
“Mrs. Wright,” Mr. Farrow stepped in front of her just outside her cubicle, blocking her path, as his three friends watched, amused. “How is Mr.
Hale in the sack? How many times have you two met outside of work?”
She slapped him. Hard. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the smartest move. But it was very satisfying. He was stunned for a moment, which she took advantage of to manoeuver past him. Rachel stormed down the corridor to Paul’s office and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” He said from the other side.
Temperance was in his office already. He sat behind the desk. A duffle bag sat next to him on the floor. Temperance rose from her seat and hugged Rachel tightly.
“Oh, Rachel,” she said, worried, “Mr. Christian is making rumors about you.”
2042: An American 1984-Dystopian Thriller Page 12