“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He slowed for the Yield sign, waiting as a car turned onto the lane from the highway. As the car went by, he lifted a finger. Age-old farmer-to-farmer wave in this part of the country. “Wasn’t that Harry?”
I sighed, squinting at the driver. “Yeah, I think so. I wonder what he’s doing on this side of 206.” Dad guided the truck out onto the main thoroughfare. “Way to change the subject, though,” I grumbled under my breath. “Did you ever get that mess with him and your goats straightened out?”
Dad shrugged. “Never heard anything else about it. I guess his hayfield turned out okay.”
“Did you go over there and apologize?” I looked over my shoulder, surprised to see Harry’s vehicle pulled to the side of the road behind us, a cell phone pressed to his ear.
“Nah.”
“That wasn’t the first time. You should have.”
“Maybe.” Dad fiddled with the radio dial, his signal that he was done with the talking.
I let the matter drop. The sun peeked through the clouds, and I made mental lists of what to do when we got back. The goats needed to be moved from one pasture to another. The chicken tractor needed moving, eggs needed collecting. I eyed the bag between us; I might even make some butter this afternoon.
A car sat beneath the state line sign that marked the halfway point, a familiar logo on the driver’s side door. “Is that one of those new USDA/FDA patrols?”
“I think so.”
“Strange.” Last year, the new laws allowing the patrols had caused uproar in the area. The initiative had been tacked on to some other legislation and passed without proper due process. The government promised they were only for enforcing laws on the commercial food industry, and the ruckus died down. It was weird to see one out there.
Dad groaned. “Good to be back in our home state,” he said, as though it had been a day-long drive—like I hadn’t heard that joke before. We did all the town-shopping in the closest metro. That happened to be just over the border and into Louisiana.
“Funny,” I said, distracted by the shadowy shape of the vehicle behind us. I studied the side mirror.
“You used to think so.”
“Are you speeding or something?”
Dad checked the speedometer. “No, I’m sure he’s just going from one place to—” The light bar lit up, throwing red and blue lights across us. “Hmm,” he said, slowing. “We’ll get on the shoulder where the road widens.”
The bullhorn squealed as the officer pressed the key. “Pull over. Now.” Those three words were enough to make anybody feel like a criminal.
I shifted in my seat. We hadn’t done anything.
“Well, that’s a bit excessive. They must have us confused for someone else.” But Dad obliged, driving into the grass-covered borrow ditch as far as he dared. Blue was tough, but it wasn’t four-wheel drive.
I glanced over my shoulder, surprised to see a pistol on the officer’s hip. I placed my hands on my thighs, Dad kept his hands at ten and two, both in plain view of the federal cop.
The uniformed officer strolled to Dad’s window and knocked on it, lifting the sunglasses from his face. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Arlo Miller,” Dad’s shoulders slumped, and he rubbed his chest. “Good to see you. I didn’t know you got a job with the new agency. What’s it called again?”
“Officer Miller,” he bit out. “Sir, we received an anonymous tip that you are transporting an illegal substance across state borders.”
“Sir?” Dad’s confusion was apparent. “I know you. What is this?”
Officer Miller turned to me. “What’s your name, Miss?”
“Gail Barrett,” I said, leaning against the passenger door. My stomach rolled in my middle.
“I’m going to have to ask you both to step out of the vehicle.”
“I don’t think this is really necessary.” Dad sputtered. “Is this about—”
“Sir, please step out of the vehicle.” Officer Miller’s hand fluttered on his gun.
Dad nodded. “Okay. Get out your side, Gail.” He eased out his side and I eased out mine. Officer Miller escorted us to the back of the vehicle, told us to place our hands on the tailgate while he searched.
Two minutes later, he strolled back with the paper bag in his hands. He deposited it in the front seat of his car and returned, pulling handcuffs from his utility belt. “Bill Barrett, I’m placing you under arrest.” The restraints clicked as they closed on Dad’s wrists.
“What? For what?” Dad started to turn, but thought better of it.
“Possession of an illegal substance.” Officer Miller led Dad to a rear door of the patrol car. The window was half-rolled down. My stomach flip-flopped and bile burned the back of my throat. He had always planned to arrest Dad.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You can arrest me for that? When did that happen?” Dad blustered. “It used to be a ticket.”
“You are in possession of raw milk, sir. And you transported it across state lines.” He put his hand on the back of Dad’s head as he helped him into the car. “That’s against Federal law.” He slammed the door closed.
“How is this possible?” I asked, watching the drama unfold, hands still on the tailgate. “What about our Miranda rights?”
“Not applicable to our department.”
“This is crazy, Arlo.” Dad yelled from the back.
“I don’t make the law,” Officer Miller answered. “I just enforce it.”
“This is insane,” I huffed. The truck would be towed. For raw milk. The chickens needed their feed, and the goats needed to be moved. The goats. Harry. This was Harry’s doing.
Officer Miller retrieved another set of handcuffs from his belt. “Hold still, Miss.”
Dad leaned out of the car. “Listen, Arlo, you have a daughter about Gail’s age. Let her take my truck home. You’ve already got me.” Dad’s voice cracked. “Let her go.”
Officer Miller stopped, indecision flickered in his eyes. He tucked the shackles back into his belt. “You’re free to go, Miss,” he said and turned back to his car.
“Get back home, Gail. Find a lawyer.” Dad wasn’t panicked. “We’ll get it worked out.”
I stood pressed against the tailgate, tears filling my eyes. Officer Miller climbed into the driver’s seat and put on his blinker. The engine revved as they pulled out onto the highway.
I love you. Dad mouthed the words as they rolled by, and he held my gaze as long as he could. Then they were gone, leaving an empty highway in their wake.
Dad would have a record, if they didn’t decide to make an example of him. He wouldn’t give up Mary. He wasn’t that kind of man. And he wouldn’t take a deal. He was one of the most stubborn, hardest working men in the country.
They had ratified laws while no one paid attention.
And breaking all the promises they had made to the local farmers afterward, they made my father into a criminal.
Over raw milk.
About Bokerah Brumley
Bokerah Brumley is a speculative fiction writer making stuff up on a trampoline in West Texas. When she’s not playing with the quirky characters in her head, she’s addicted to Twitter pitch events, writing contests, and social media, in general. She lives on ten permaculture acres with five home-educated children and one husband. In her imaginary spare time, she also serves as the blue-haired President of the Cisco Writers Club.
bokerah.com
The City
A. G. Wallace
Today I am thirteen years old: the first day of Gen2. I pretend to be asleep, but I’ve been awake since first light and I can hear Veronik hovering quietly toward my bed. Every year the bots get better, and they tell us that one day they’ll be silent and perfect.
V gently removes the covers that keep me warm, and I slip into my dayclothes like they’re a second skin.
I live at Haight and Ashbury with my escort, and today we all celebrate the Progression. I know D
aris will move to Gen4, but I don’t ask about it anymore. The only answer I ever got was “bots provide the full range of human experience.” But I’m juiced about it anyway, even though the City is exactly the same as it was yesterday and the thirteen years before that.
The air is still, the temperature at its always-perfect norm, and I feel naked as I head toward the Whole Foodmat. A few others from my Gen are already there, but no one greets me. Most of us stopped talking a week ago when we realized that the Progression was all we could think of but no one knew anything about it.
I nod at my best friend Cint and get a nervous glance in return. The foodbot issues my favorite drinkable. I chug it and toss the container into the bin. We don’t have to be at the Peaks until noon, but I say to Cint: “You wanna start up there?”
Cint nods and we start walking.
Billboards advertise the Progression, and inform us that the hovertrams aren’t running today. As if we need a reminder. Daris told me that would be part of the deal. We’re supposed to walk to the Peaks to increase our appreciation for the transitbots. It’s absurd, but the trams sit empty at their stations and what can I do about that?
Normally, Gen1 would be prowling the City and I’d already be down at the wharf, peering through twenty feet of superglass into the depths of San Francisco Bay, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Great White everyone’s been talking about. The Outsiders had been cleaning the Glass over by the tunnel when the White bit one in half.
“Did you see the Great White attack?” I ask Cint.
“Yes.”
Cint has never been a great talker, but knows something about everything, so I try to draw out some details. “How did it happen?”
“We were bored like always and Leve said we should follow the Glass.”
“Where did you start?” I don’t need to ask anything else. There is nothing else to ask. We’ve all lapped the Glass a hundred, a thousand, times. I even counted my steps once. Fifty three thousand eight hundred and ninety one.
“At the Helmet, going toward the tunnel, because I didn’t want to get my shoes full of sand and I guess no one else did either. It was dark inside the Glass. The sea lights were on, so we stopped to watch the cleaning crew.”
No one I know has been in the tunnel, but that’s a stupid thing to say because I know all of Gen2 by name and none of their escorts have been inside the tunnel either. The Outsiders got out there somehow, but all I know is that I’m inside and they’re not.
“Leve pointed, shouting that something was coming. Everyone else looked for the White. I watched the Outsiders, and I think they knew because they all started pulling on their ropes. Anyway, that’s when the White bit one of them in half and swam away. We all saw the red plume. The ragged half of the body floated there for a few seconds. And then the lights went out.”
“Do you think they’re human?”
“I don’t know.”
I don’t know either, but I say, “I think they are.”
“It looks that way. They have arms, legs, and a head.”
“Plenty of bots do, too.”
“A bot wouldn’t have tried to get away,” Cint says.
I think that’s right, and I add another mental checkmark in the column for Why We’re Best Friends. “That means the Outsider is dead.”
Cint says nothing, and I know that means the conversation is over, but I keep thinking about it anyway because that’s what I do.
I tried once to talk about Life and Death, but Daris made sure I never did again. I don’t like to think about that, so I focus on the dead Outsider. Usually the bots clean the Glass, but bots are as boring as they are common. I’ve seen Outsiders exactly three times. Why this week, just before the Progression? I answer my own question: As far as I can tell, nothing ever happens that the bots don’t want, so that means the bots wanted us to see.
But what if it was an accident?
I try to remember if I’ve ever seen a bot make a mistake. The foodbots have never given me someone else’s favorite drinkable, and even if they occasionally give me something different it’s always something I like. The medbots have never missed my distribution time. Even the hovertrams are intelligent. We’re almost to Castro and Market, and I can see one sitting at the station.
“Wait a sec, Cint. I want to try something.” I walk up to the bot and wave my hand like I want to get on.
“I’m sorry, Kiral,” the tram says. “I’m out of service right now. You have four hours and thirteen minutes to reach your destination, but that’s only thirty one minutes away at your current speed.”
Cint looks annoyed. “What was that for?”
“Have you ever seen a bot make a mistake?”
Cint doesn’t say anything, and I think maybe it was a mistake for me to ask. We reach the Castro Theatre. A pride of actors are collected outside. Some of my friends like the shows, but it’s not really my thing. I wave and we keep walking. They’re the first people I’ve seen since we left the foodmat, and none of them are Gen3. I mean Gen4. I’m having trouble imagining my escort as a Gen4 because I’ve never seen one.
“No,” Cint says. “Never.”
It takes me a moment to remember what we’re talking about. “Then why did you see that Outsider die?”
Cint looks at me, and I don’t like it. “What do you mean by that? Besides that, it wasn’t just me.”
“I don’t know, exactly. If the bots allowed it, then it wasn’t a mistake. If the bots didn’t allow it, then the bots don’t control everything.”
“But the bots do control everything.” There’s an edge to Cint’s voice I’ve never heard before. “And I like it that way just fine.”
I know I’m lying before the words come out. “I’m not saying I don’t like it.”
“Then what are you saying?”
I’m not sure, so I try out a few ideas in my head. Why can Outsiders die but not us? Maybe dying is normal and we’re not. What if the bots are wrong and the City is just a giant mistake? But I can’t say those things, and the hurt takes me by surprise. I stutter. “I … I … I’m saying that … maybe … the City isn’t as perfect as we think.”
Cint stops at the corner of 19th and Eureka. The giant white gated complex on the Peaks floats above Kite Hill. “You go on without me,” Cint says.
“What?”
Cint just stands there, and I know this conversation is over. The hurt in my chest expands like it wants to get out, so I clamp my jaw shut and cross the street without looking back.
When I reach the corner of Market, there’s a lawbot at the gate, and a sign warns that the Peaks is a Safe Space. It’s a stupid sign because my escort raised me to know that the entire City is safe and the Peaks is the safest place of all. I’m angry about Cint, but I know it’s not the bot’s fault so I don’t say anything.
“Kiral,” says the lawbot. “I’ve been instructed to let you in early.”
The gate opens. A medbot is waiting. “Hi, Kiral. Would you like something for the pain?”
It’s the first time a medbot has ever asked my opinion, and I feel overwhelmed by the combination of hurt, anger, and now confusion, so I nod silently. Before the dose floods my body with calm, I feel like the meds are a mistake.
“You will require a ride to the summit in your current condition.” A single-seater glides up next to me and I gratefully sit down.
The view from the Peaks is impossibly beautiful. I’ve circumnavigated the City a thousand times, but I’ve never seen it from above. The brilliant sun glints off the Glass that rises a thousand feet into the Pacific air. I’ve always called the water the Bay, but from up here it’s just ocean. The spires of the Golden Gate are just visible above the surface, and I can see land in the distance. The City is an island below sea level.
We arrive at the entrance, a semicircle paved with glistening white marble where a number from Gen2 are scattered about. I know them all. Leve is talking to a small group. Dimas is alone, looking out over the City.
&n
bsp; It’s still several hours before noon, but the huge front door opens and a humanoid strides out. I’ve only seen a profbot once or twice. They’re the only ones that wear clothes, and this one has a full suit, plus gloves and a matching hat.
We gather round.
“You are the earlybirds,” says the bot, and it laughs airily at its own joke. “The rest will be along at their appointed time, but you’re here now so we can protect them from you.”
I can feel the group bristle at the words, but the meds dull the impact on me. The bot turns and motions for us to follow, and I shuffle along and try not to trip over anyone.
The door closes behind us, and the air in the foyer smells somehow cleaner but the temperature remains constant. A row of wooden benches stretches along each wall. “The Peaks can be your home until the next Progression,” says the bot, “and you can graduate to Gen3 and move back to the City. But you’re different from the others, and therefore you have to choose. I’m here to help you make that choice.”
Leve starts to talk, but the bot raises a hand. “All your questions will be answered. We have structured the time for maximum absorption of knowledge. For example, all of you are wondering why no one dies. That’s simple. Bots keep you alive. We predict and keep you from harm. One of you – Teha – wonders why you are all the same age. We have optimized the generations for your own good. You all know that today you become members of Gen2. Some of you have guessed that each new member of Gen1 will be delivered today to their Gen3 escort, just as you were. None of you have ever seen a Gen4, because they live here on the Peaks. Some of you question whether the City is perfect. I can say with authority that it is. Today you will learn the price of that perfection. Bots do not make mistakes.”
A medbot hovers in from a door at the end of the hallway. “Please sit down and remove your dayclothes. It is time for your distribution.”
Everyone complies. I don’t notice the sting, but something is different about this distribution and I feel uneasy. I’ve never seen anyone else naked. Some of us have things between our legs.
Freedom's Light: Short Stories Page 9