Scarcity

by Robert Calbeck

  “These goddamn Christians are coming out of the woodwork lately, Ten. Where are they all coming from?”

  “I heard that a lot of them have been traveling in from the country to try to get new converts.”

  “When all those churches went crazy and sold everything to buy those communes I thought we’d seen the last of them. Becoming Amish just to avoid getting a little computer chip in your hand?” Chaz shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Alfonzo and Marina thought it made sense. They had their chips removed and they shipped out to some big church-commune on Saturday.”

  “Really? Damn that was fast. I had no idea they actually took it that seriously.”

  “Everybody needs a cause to believe in.”

  “They believe in it enough to completely leave society?” Chaz asked.

  “I can sort of see where they are coming from. There actually is something to the Christians’ argument.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Luthor raised his hands, “I’m not saying I buy it; still sounds like coincidence to me. Marina tried to get me to go with them. She showed me that Bible passage, you know the one they are always quoting? It talks about how in the end times everyone will be forced to get ‘the mark of the beast’ on their hand or forehead if they want to buy or sell anything.”

  Chaz grunted, “not bad I guess, considering its a couple thousand years old. Isn’t the Beast supposed to be Satan or something?”

  “Yeah. They think that if you get a CPI chip you are getting ‘marked.’ They think you are giving up your soul to the devil if you get one.”

  “Well, I guess I’m screwed,” Chaz said showing his scar, “looks like I’m going to hell.” Luthor laughed, “me too.”

  They entered the large lecture hall and found it buzzing with much more activity than Luthor typically saw for a political history class. Students milled around talking and looking at phones. Very few were in their seats.

  “What’s going on, Ten?”

  “They’re probably talking about the protest,” Luthor said.

  Professor Barlow’s comforting voice boomed over the loud speaker. “Please take a seat, we are continuing our lecture on social media and its effect on presidential elections.”

  The class took their seats, but did not stop talking. Chaz took out his tablet to begin taking notes.

  Barlow leaned next to the podium, his usual posture. He rarely looked at his notes. He flicked his presentation tablet and a large graph appeared on the projector screen.

  “For those of you who actually read last night,” the class offered a polite laugh, “your textbook told you that the 2016 election was the first election to be decided by social media, but it is wrong. It was a major factor, but not decisive. Please examine the graph.” He indicated the screen, Chaz had it pulled up on his tablet and showed Luthor. “You will see that it wasn’t until the 2024 election that social media became the decisive factor. Notice the jump in the polls here when Google, Facebook, and Twitter began suppressing differing opinions and officially endorsed a candidate for the first—” Barlow cut off mid-sentence as a lone student stood up and raised his hand. “Yes?”

  The student cleared his throat, “Dr. Barlow, this is interesting and all, but a lot of us are wondering what is happening in Antarctica. There is stuff all over the web about China and the oil down there.”

  “Do you know what he is talking about?” Luthor asked. Chaz began flicking through web pages.

  Students all over the auditorium began shouting similar questions to him. The only words Luthor picked out consistently were oil and attack. Barlow raised his hands again. “Quiet, please. Perhaps my lecture will have to take a back seat today.” He called up a new page, the screen reflected his rapid-fire commands.

  A new chart appeared which monitored the occurrence of certain words across the major social media sites. Fully 50% of them had both the words war and China in them.

  Barlow struggled to keep the class in check. “The centrifuge of society has yet to completely separate truth from speculation, so do not believe everything you read on a Twitter feed.” He cleared his throat. “However, judging from the traffic, there is one thing about which we can be certain. It appears that talks of sharing the Titan Dome oil field in Antarctica have broken down.”

  The students erupted, as if by shouting they could become the centrifuge the professor had mentioned. Luthor just wanted them to shut up, he wanted to hear more.

  “As we discussed when the field was discovered earlier this year, Antarctica is strictly neutral territory; by international law no single country has a claim to any part of it. As a result, the talks of sharing its resources for the common good have been tenuous from the beginning. To any true student of history, whatever is transpiring should not come as a surprise. The combination of neutral territory and the most valuable commodity on the planet is nothing short of a powder keg waiting to explode.”

  Luthor had to hand it to the guy, he was still managing to squeeze in a lecture despite the bedlam. The students for their part were more engaged than they had been all semester. Dr. Barlow continued, “it is lamentable that the oil was discovered on the continent in the first place. Exploration of oil, or the mining any other natural resource in Antarctica, was completely illegal until 2021. The fools who we elect should have seen the inevitability of conflict if oil was ever discovered there. It seems their proclivity for lining their pockets with lobbying money has led us all to ruin.”

  Get to the point already. If— Luthor’s thought was interrupted as an announcement began to broadcast over the classroom speakers.

  “Please tune into channel 7 for an important broadcast.”

  Barlow flicked his tablet toward the screen which popped to life with the NBC logo. The classroom fell silent as a podium with the United States seal appeared. A caption informed the viewers that this was Secretary of State, Manuel Jimenez.

  The class murmured, like water waiting to boil, as Jimenez walked to the podium. His eyes bored into the camera fiercely, anger and resolve painted on his face. “Several years ago, the largest oil field on the planet was discovered underneath the Antarctican Ice Sheet. It is estimated to be four to ten times larger than the Ghawar field in Saudi Arabia. Since, four other large fields have been discovered throughout the continent. The world leaders believed that Antarctica held enough oil to stall the oil crisis and be the bridge we needed to enter into a new sustainable future, free of the world-destroying effects of carbon dioxide. In short, we thought it would save the world from total economic collapse. With the Titan Bore Resolution, 156 countries agreed to equitable sharing and distribution of Antarctica’s bounty.”

  Jimenez gripped the podium like a machine gun. “Two hours ago, the treaty was shattered. A combined force of Chinese and Indian forces attacked the oil drilling forces on Titan Dome. During the surprise assault over one thousand innocent oil workers were killed or captured along with twenty-five hundred Carbon Coalition peace-keepers. The remaining American and European forces have retreated to protect the Shackleton oil field and the civilians working there. It is clear that the Chinese-Indian Alliance intends to take the oil entirely for themselves and condemn the rest of the world to economic ruin.”

  The auditorium became deathly silent as they waited for the secretary to continue. “At the same time, they initiated a massive invasion of the middle east and have already secured 75% of the oil producing fields from that region. Our allies were helpless and unprepared to resist the ruthless, unprovoked aggression from the East.

  “The President and Vice President are safe and en route to secure locations. They will address you within the hour. But I can assure you of this: The United States of America will not allow such heinous acts to stand. Our Allies in Europe and South America have already assured us they are standing together with us against this threat to world peace and stability.”

  “We will stand firm. We will not back down. And may Go
d bless the United States of America.”

  Chaz turned to Luthor, “you’ve got to be kidding me! This is crazy! You know what this means, don’t you?” Luthor never much cared for political science; it didn’t deserve the title of science. It was the bastard child of history, law, sociology, superstition, and voodoo magic. But even with all its flaws, it pointed to one inescapable conclusion, and everyone knew it. War.

  The ticker at the bottom of the screen displayed more disasters as if they were scores of college football games. North Sea Oil Platforms Under Attack…Missiles Blow Holes into Alaskan Oil Pipeline, Hundreds Dead...Communication Satellite Destroyed, Spreading Space Debris Threatens Geo-Stationary Orbits…

  As the students screamed their protest at the news, Luthor lowered his head in silence. Fighting reality was an exercise in futility. The future opened up before him in his mind. This would not be like the other wars of the 21st century. America hadn’t even lost 5,000 soldiers in both Iraq wars, and not much more than that during the entirety of the subsequent occupations and the ongoing conflict with terrorist factions in the Middle East. But a war with China… something like that could claim the lives of tens of millions. If either country decided to employ their nuclear arsenals, then the earth would cease to support any life at all. Or equally frightening, it would be a drawn-out conflict spanning all the major oil producing sites of the world. The world would piss away its resources until one power dominated the scraps that were left.

  #

  New York City, United States of the West

  "Get off my wheat, you filthy Markless!”

  Luthor’s eyes refused to open, blood and sweat had crusted over them. How long have I been here?

  “I mean it! If you aren’t moving in 2 seconds, I will shoot.”

  Luthor rubbed his eyes. His muscles ached from the meager effort. The sun sat below the artificial horizon of the skyscrapers. A portly old woman stood on the edge of the wheat field, three meters from him wearing a lavender floral-print dress. She held a pistol and a large trowel. He wasn’t particularly excited about having either used on him. He rolled over and pushed himself to his knees.

  “Go on. Shoo!” she said, swatting with the trowel as if gesturing to a stray dog.

  “I’m going, I’m sorry.” Luthor stood, his legs shot searing protests up through his nervous system. “How do I get down?”

  “You managed to find a way up, didn’t you?”

  “I… I jumped from the next building.”

  The old lady’s face crinkled up into an even bigger frown. “Stupid suburbians,” she said under her breath. Without taking her eyes off of him, she walked to the edge of the roof. She removed a padlock holding a sturdy metal cage shut. It presumably sealed off the fire ladder from having roof access.

  “Here. Now leave.”

  “Thank you. And… I’m sorry.” Luthor limped to the ladder, trying to ignore the trowel trained on his chest.

  Fear reared its ugly head again, but Luthor viciously shoved it down. Fear is meant to be fought and conquered. I sure as smog am not letting it control me again. Never again! Luthor grabbed the top rung and ignored the jarring tumult of fear as he descended. No sooner had he dropped below the roofline as the woman relocked the cage.

  “Look at this mess. Stupid Markless.” Luthor ignored her muttering, but legitimately hoped he had not financially impoverished her by using her crop as a landing strip. His legs and side did not stop their disapproval of his movement. But he had to move, he had to find the others, he had to find some smogging help.

  The bottom of the alley flipped a switch, his fear unclenched, and Luthor’s other senses regained consciousness. The foul stench of rotting garbage accosted his nose. The alley was as rife with refuse as others he’d seen. The omnipresent homeless sat or stood in small groups. They were dirty, disgusting, and gaunt; the forgotten trash of the new green society.

  An emaciated woman in ripped rags sat next to the base of the ladder. Her hair was knotted and natty and might have been the same color as Tanya’s if it hadn’t been caked in dust and dirt. Dark smudges on her cheekbones highlighted her severely sunken cheeks. She might have been pretty if she hadn’t been on the brink of starvation. She reached out and grabbed his leg with a grip that was stronger than it should have been.

  “How did you get up there?” she said. Her voice fit her face. It was just as worn out. “Did you get any food? I heard there is wheat up there.” She looked up at him with hungry eyes full of desperation.

  “I don’t have any food.”

  “But you got up there, didn’t you? Why didn’t you get food?”

  “I... I wasn’t hungry,” Luthor said.

  “You look like you eat often,” she said, the hunger in her eyes deepening with a feral quality. “Tell me your secret.” He had seen eyes like those before. They had belonged to broken men. Starving, freezing men in Antarctica. Luthor shuddered as he tried to push the memories away. He didn’t even deserve to be alive to have those memories.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Luthor said. He shrugged her off.

  She grabbed his ankles with both hands. He drug her a short distance, she weighed almost nothing. “No. Don’t go! I’ll suck your dick! Just tell me how to get up to the roof. Please!”

  The thought repulsed him. “I can’t help you.” He gave his leg a violent yank. It drug her half a meter before she let go. The sound of weeping followed him as he exited the alley.

  Luthor melted into the throngs of people walking the streets of New York. He was probably safer from prying eyes in the crowds than just about any other place in the USW. There were just so many people. Homeless bums, business women, and hardworking Joes blended together in a great melting pot of economic diversity.

  Luthor limped by a window and saw a reflection of himself. The spitting image of a Suburban refugee stared back. A purpling bruise from Pain’s punch bloomed on his face; it was partially hidden by a layer of dirt from the wheat field. His clothes would not have been out of place in a dumpster. A bloodied knee poked out of a jagged hole in his jeans and his coat appeared to have taken a bath in dust. No wonder that woman grabbed me, I look just like her.

  Luthor bobbed like a tidal generator in a sea of people, his mind buzzing with the day’s events. With only the energy it took to throw a baseball from shortstop to first base, he had vaulted across an entire city street. He had also wrecked a helicopter and smashed doors. Never before had the raw power of gravity been more apparent. Gravity was a well of potential energy just waiting to be unleashed, yearning to be harnessed. It couldn’t be more obvious that this was a world-changing discovery. If everyone had access to the energy contained in 126, the food shortage could be ended in a matter of years and he wouldn’t have poor broken women offering to trade sexual favors for food—or mere information leading to food.

  Unfortunately, others had different plans. The man who called himself Pain seemed bent on stealing the technology for whoever had hired the Sabers.

  It makes sense that they would want to capture me or steal my technology, but why were they trying to shoot me as I escaped? Does that mean they already have the research, making us expendable? Maybe Qwiz isn’t as safe as I thought. It’s possible he lost the research but is still alive.

  There were too many questions to answer. None of it made any sense. The only thing Luthor knew for sure was that he desperately needed to meet up with the others—if they were even still alive—and he needed to call Qwiz to find out what the hell was going on. And he had to do all of it without getting his CPI chip scanned or being seen by the Sabers. No easy task.

  Luthor looked up at a billboard plastered to the side of a building. It proudly boasted that due to the current mayor’s intervention there were now only four million homeless in New York city, down 23%. What the billboard didn’t say was that almost all of the decrease came from starvation deaths. The four million that are left ought to be enough to hide me, Luthor thought as he melded back into th
e crowds.

  #

  I thought the son of bitch was afraid of heights. Michael squinted against the sun as he watched Luthor fly across the street in a great arc, doing an excellent impersonation of Spiderman. Ears of corn and dirt followed him, also pulled by the gravity. He landed in a puff of wheat and dust on the roof of the far building. Seconds later, the gelvar-bastards emerged from the corn looking in all the wrong places. They peeked down each side of the building and searched the adjacent structures. Not one of them even glanced across the busy street.

  “I can’t believe it,” Tanya said, “he got away. Thank you, Vika. Thank you so much.”

  “I said I would help you.”

  “Yeah, but you came back to help. I didn’t think you, uh…would.”

  “I meant what I said. Why are we still talking about this?”

  “You had some impressive shooting back there,” Michael said awkwardly, trying to change the subject, “but where the hell did you find a gun? We weren’t gone for more than a couple of hours.”

  “A carbon cop on the roof of immigration.”

  “He just gave it to you?”

  “Sure.”

  Somehow Michael doubted that is was that simple, but he knew better than to pry further.

  “You must have hit five or six of those guys.”

  “Seven.”

  “You were awesome.”

  “My performance was unacceptable. I missed my fifth shot.”

  How could she possibly be upset about missing only one? “Vika, you single-handedly held off all of them. You allowed us to escape. How can you be upset about a single shot?”

  “I don’t miss.” Vika glared at him like she was aiming down the sight of her rifle. She did not elaborate.

  Michael had thought for a brief moment that everything had straightened out. With Luthor’s carp friend on their side, they had a chance to release the data on that laptop during a trial and clear their names. Now, not so much.

  His moment of hope vanished when the lead carp car made friends with an RPG. The explosion had flambéed all their belongings—including the smogging laptop. Actually, smogging wasn’t a bad term for the smoldering, worthless mess now farting toxic, computer-fumes into the air. With that laptop had gone any chance of shedding the label of terrorist Luthor had acquired—and Michael by association.