Progtopia: Book 1 of The Progtopia Trilogy (10 page)

Eighteen

The Year: 2172

After disposing of the Social Keeper, Judge Kelleher returned to the Ministry of Justice and Reeducation. As expected, there were reporters clamoring for a statement as he exited his limousine. Brushing past all of them, making no comment, he entered his building and made his way to his office. Nothing like his study at home, it was modern, sleek, and uncluttered. With floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, natural light poured through giving brightness to the office of a man with a dark soul. His desk, equipped with his DNA/Fingerprint pad, activated his female virtual companion when he pressed it. “Welcome, Judge Kelleher. How may I direct you?”

“Give me the media analysis on the arrest of Nikolai.” A hologram appeared over his desk with data, graphs, and polls filling the screen. Although able to touch the hologram and manipulate it, he chose to direct it with his voice.

“Give me a breakdown of favorability polls among the classes.” Immediately, graphs populated above his desk showing both classes were in an uproar about the arrest, but for very different reasons. The Giving Class was upset because the world of fashion was now being turned upside down. The Recipient Class was unsettled because they thought Nikolai had been framed. That concerned Judge Kelleher. The Recipient Class rarely voiced its opinion, especially if it was contrary to the State. In fact, he couldn’t think of one example in his lifetime when that had happened.
Why now?
the Judge asked himself.
What was changing in these people? First, the increase in suicides. Now this?
The Judge knew this could not stand for long. Considering his options, he reviewed normal legal recourse—arrest, interrogate, sentence to death or reeducation camps. It was simple, efficient, and effective. The only trials available to the citizenry were the annual ones that were broadcast to the world. The Judge knew Nikolai was too popular to make part of
The Trials
. Nikolai had too much he could tell the world during the televised courtroom façade. No, he knew there was only one recourse for Nikolai, and that was execution. In fact, maybe this would send a signal, a clear and harsh signal, not to question the State.

“Play some Recipient Class interviews with media regarding Nikolai.” The graphs and polls disappeared from the screen and were replaced by various interviews the reporters had with members of the Recipient Class. Multiple groups in the Recipient Class—farmers, scientists, teachers—all wondered whether Nikolai had been framed. When the reporters asked why they might think this, they all answered the same way—because he said so.

Realizing the Recipient Class didn’t come up with this conclusion independently, Judge Kelleher relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief. The Recipient Class was only parroting what Nikolai had said. Their conclusion was not based in logic. It made sense to him now. Nikolai was above them in social stature. They would obviously listen to something he might say. He knew then that he must take a firm stand against Nikolai and show the people what happens when you defy the State. Of course, only the Judge knew Nikolai was completely innocent, but that was a minor detail the Judge was willing to live with in order to achieve the bigger picture.

The Judge, keenly aware everything in politics was about timing, summoned his secretary, Nadia. “Yes, Judge, you rang?”

“Yes, Nadia, please get the press room ready and notify the media I’m going to give statements in about an hour. I want this to hit the evening news.”

Nadia hurried from his office to get the press assembled. Once alone again, he stared out the window, watching the boats on the river. The tranquil scene outside overshadowed the burden on his shoulders, the angst within him. Dismissing his feelings, he believed everything he did was for the greater good. Without him, the world would be in chaos.

Wanting to speak with Nikolai prior to the press conference, he made his way to the high-security floor holding Nikolai. Once he navigated through multiple layers of security, he reached the place where Nikolai was being held. Entering the interrogation room, he found him sitting in the chair, still strapped in and dozing off. Nikolai, roused by the Judge’s presence, opened his eyes and stared directly at the Judge, letting him know he was not intimidated by him. “So, Nikolai, have you had a change of heart? Are you ready to admit you stole the book from my home?”

“Like I told you, I did
not
take the book,” he whispered flatly.

“Well, Nikolai, it’s like this. We found the book in your home. That is treason, punishable by death. As is custom, admitting to your crime allows you to choose the manner of your death, and in your case, burial rites. If you don’t admit to your crimes, you will be executed by our choice. We will dispose of your body the way we see fit.” The Judge was circling Nikolai and once he came face to face with him, he asked, “Do you know what methods the State chooses to execute?”

Nikolai knew too well the grotesque methods the State undertook to punish and torment its people. The Judge didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, as you probably already know, it can take on various forms, but the one common theme among all of the choices is that it is extremely unpleasant. It is actually a fascinating process to watch—the once unrepentant criminal screaming and begging to confess. This goes on for hours, sometimes days, but once you make the choice against a full confession, your fate is sealed. Now I, like you, would hate to see you have to go through the pain and anguish I know you will experience. It’s your choice. I’m about to have a press conference to discuss where you are in this process. I will give you a few minutes to think about your choice.” The Judge left the room to leave Nikolai alone with his thoughts.

Nikolai weighed his options. It was looking grim, and he really didn’t have many options. It was either a pleasant death or an excruciating, torturous end. Plus, he still had an agenda to accomplish. The only way he could do that now was to make sure he was buried. He needed the undertaker to be there to finish what he couldn’t. The only way to make that happen was to confess, even though he was innocent.

“Judge! Judge!” Nikolai screamed. The Judge reentered the room. “Well, that was quick.”

“Judge, you have known me for a very long time. If I confess, as a favor to me and our long relationship, can I ask one additional thing?”

“Depends,” the Judge said cautiously.

“You know I am fond of Thatcher. She is like the daughter I never had. I know this must be upsetting to her. Can she be with me at the end? Until the undertaker takes my body?”

This request was somewhat unsettling to the Judge. How would that be perceived by the public? Of course, he could make arrangements so no one would know. He also weighed the fact that he was using Nikolai as a scapegoat, and he really didn’t commit this crime in the first place.

“I will grant this on one condition—Thatcher must agree.”

“Okay, I’m ready to make my confession.”

Nineteen

The Year: 2032

As Camille stirred from her deep slumber, she felt the hard, uneven ground underneath her. Rolling onto her side, the crunching of the dead leaves triggered the memory of last night. The three of them had hiked through the dense forest for hours until Franklin settled for this location. Before they could sleep, he had them shovel out small ditches. At first, Camille and Barbara didn’t understand what he was having them do, but his intentions were evident when he had them shove their backpacks into the holes, covering them with brush. They did the same to conceal where they were sleeping. Franklin’s fear of an uncooperative Bailey was proven right when he refused to sleep in the ditch they had dug for him. The only thing that kept the dog alive was his fear of Camille unraveling if he met an untimely end. She had suffered too much loss already. Franklin knew it would crush her if Bailey were gone too. It took a bit of coaxing from Camille, but she was finally able to get him to settle down next to her for the night.

Franklin assured them that their presence was completely undetectable to the naked eye. Unfortunately, it was the federal government, not amateurs, he was worried about. Armed with drones and satellites, they could easily pin down their location—if they knew where to look. Franklin was hoping the government still thought he was dead, but they had to keep moving to evade capture. As Camille wiped some leaves from her face, she could see Franklin talking on a burner phone. After he finished the conversation, he walked over to Camille and Barbara.

“It’s time to get moving, people.” At the sound of his voice, Barbara sat up, stretching her arms above her head as the leaves on her fell to the ground. Franklin wasted no time in grabbing their bags from under their forest camouflage. Camille and Barbara both sensed his urgency and picked up their pace as well. The sun was starting to rise. It was the beginning of what Franklin knew would be a very long day.

“Where we headed?” asked Camille.

“I hope somewhere safe,” he replied. “Just follow my lead, and if everything goes as planned, we should be in a safe place by nightfall.”

The three of them trudged through the woods for the better part of the morning. Bailey, on the adventure of a lifetime, was oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. Franklin refused to admit it, but the dog brought levity to the day. They walked in silence, listening for any noise out of the ordinary indicating they were being followed.

By early afternoon, Camille could hear an occasional car in the distance. Knowing they were nearing a road, she expected Franklin to turn away, but he actually led them closer to it. Once it came into view, Franklin signaled for them to stop and crouched down. The others, including Bailey, took his lead and stopped. Holding position there for a while as they watched the occasional car pass bored Camille to tears. But the monotony suddenly lifted when the vibration of an engine, gurgling and backfiring, pierced the silence. Soon, a large white delivery truck with smoke billowing from the front rounded the corner, and sputtering its last efforts, stopped dead. Camille’s stomach panged when she saw a delicious piece of chocolate cake under the large red letters spelling out,
Michael’s Bakery
.

The three watched intensely as the hood of the truck popped open, and the delivery driver rushed to it. Lifting it up, his face was met with a dense cloud of smoke. Swatting it away with his hands, coughing, he backed away from the truck.

Franklin and Barbara had moved back toward Camille. “The kid has got to be about sixteen years old,” Franklin said disgustedly. “This is who they sent to rescue us?” Before anyone could respond, another vehicle rounded the bend. This was the last thing they needed right now—a State trooper. Putting its lights on, the car pulled behind the bakery truck. Franklin started to reach for his gun, but Barbara put her hand on his to stop him. “Let’s see how this unfolds before we do anything.”

The officer, an older gentleman in his late fifties, approached the young man, who was still coughing and frazzled.

“Are you having trouble?”

The young man, in full-blown panic mode, knew he had to meet someone at this mile marker and did not need the police right now. Trying to play it up for the cop, he started pacing with his hands on his head. “Yeah, I’m no mechanic, but I think I’m screwed. I have to get this cake delivered today for a wedding, and I don’t think I’m going to make it. I really need this job. I can’t get fired. I left the bakery later than I should have. I thought taking the back roads was a good shortcut that would get me there faster.”

“Relax. What’s your name?”

“Peter, Peter Caldwell,” he said as he offered to shake hands with the officer.

“I’m Officer Stone, and this may be your lucky day. I happen to know a thing or two about trucks.”

Walking over to the truck’s engine, the officer started to poke around. Peter engaged him in small talk while the officer tinkered with the smoky mess. The three were watching this play out when they heard rumbling in the distance, clearly heading their way. The sound piqued Peter and the officer’s curiosity too, as they stepped away from the truck to catch a glimpse of a military Humvee rounding the bend, leading a long military caravan. As they were passing, Peter turned to the officer and asked what was going on.

“I have no idea. You stay right here. Let me radio headquarters.”

Peter watched as the officer walked back to his vehicle, scanning the forest to see if anyone else was around. Peter’s orders were to be at this mile marker, but other than that, he wasn’t sure of what he was to do. He didn’t see Franklin and the group. Peter was concerned about the military caravan canvassing the countryside, especially with what had happened to him earlier in the day. Still shaken by that experience, his courage to follow through on this mission was starting to waver.

The officer stood by his car watching the long line of transport vehicles filled with soldiers pass by before he opened his car door to get on the radio. As he was about to contact his station, he noticed the last Humvee in the caravan pull behind his cruiser. Two men in uniform emerged, approaching Stone who put his receiver down when the men reached him. The one in charge exuded confidence, strength, and arrogance. His physical build helped back up his air of superiority—tall, chiseled, and uniformed. He towered over Stone as well as his pudgy, short-statured side-kick.

Stone offered his hand out to shake, but the gesture was not reciprocated. They were all business. “Officer,” the man in charge opened, “what seems to be the trouble here?”

Officer Stone, who wasn’t fond of the current military invasion of his territory or the self-important pair, retorted, “I should be asking you guys the same thing. What could possibly be going on in the back woods of Pennsylvania to warrant your presence?”

The tall man spoke with authority. “It’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know. By the way, we’re from Homeland Security—not the military. I know the State police have their opinions about us, and frankly, I don’t care. We are the new national police force, so deal with it.”

“That’s fine. I need to go help this young man who has broken down.”

“You will do no such thing. We need to inspect this vehicle.”

“Like hell you will! You have no probable cause to search this young man’s vehicle. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“Homeland Security, TSA, or the military, for that matter, always have probable cause if we think someone is a terrorist.
I
think he might be a terrorist, and because
I think
he might be a terrorist,
I
then have probable cause. See how it works? It’s really that simple.”

“How could a sixteen-year-old delivery boy for a bakery be considered a terrorist? This is absolutely ridiculous!”

“Your opinion is irrelevant, as well as your jurisdiction in this matter. Step aside while we do our job. He is a suspected terrorist, and we will search his truck.”

Barbara was lying next to Camille and whispered in her ear, “This is why I tried to fight all of those bills passed by Congress. They never defined terrorist. It left it open for the federal government’s interpretation to detain anyone who they considered to be an enemy of the State. Everyone assumed at the time that
terrorist
meant a radical Muslim who flew planes into buildings and blew up things. How wrong everyone was—and I was painted as the extremist!”

“Officer Stone,” said Peter, “if it makes these guys happy, they can look in my truck. There’s nothing in there but cakes and baked goods. Something I think shorty over there is familiar with.” The small-statured, obese officer did not crack a smile. Officer Stone and Peter, on the other hand, chuckled at his expense.

The two Homeland Security officers drew their weapons, pointing them at the laughing pair, ordering them to put up their hands. Their amusement quickly transformed to fear as they realized things were starting to spiral out of control.

“Now, get down on the ground.”

They both hesitated as Peter looked to the trooper for guidance. Officer Stone, concerned about how this situation had escalated, said, “We won’t stand in your way of searching the truck. There’s no need for this to get out of hand. I think all of us can be reasonable here.”

“Officer Stone,” yelled the Homeland Security goon, “I don’t think you heard me. Get on the ground!” Stone and Peter immediately obeyed, and the Homeland Security officers wasted no time in zip-tying their arms behind their backs.

Franklin was watching from the woods. Knowing this was going to end badly, he whispered to Camille to get her gun ready. She followed his lead as he crept on his belly toward the unfolding scene. The officer in charge told his underling to search the bakery truck. Peter, nervous, started to chuckle. At that, the chubby officer stopped, turned to Peter, and asked, “Is something funny, boy?” Without waiting for a response, he kicked Peter in the face, hard, knocking a tooth loose. “That should keep your mouth shut for a while.”

Making his way to the truck, he searched it and found exactly what Peter told him he would find—cakes, cupcakes, and baked goods. “Nothing here,” he declared.

“I told you,” muttered Peter, whose mouth was panging from the kick. “Let us go. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Let them go, says the little teenage punk,” the lead officer mocked sarcastically. “What do you think, Harvey, should we let them go?”

Harvey, walking back while munching on a chocolate cupcake, stood over the two prisoners as he slowly ate his treat, appearing to contemplate their fate. Taking his last bite and swallowing it, he responded in a cold voice, “No.”

“Okay, have it your way,” replied the lead man. They both drew their weapons, stood over the two prisoners, and aimed the guns at the back of their heads.

“Have any last words, men?” the head officer asked as he cocked the hammer on his pistol.

Both Franklin and Camille were at a tactical disadvantage and needed just a few more seconds to get into position, but it wasn’t going to be enough time. Suddenly, Bailey started barking and charged the officers, startling them, giving Franklin and Camille the time they needed to get their shots off. Both of the men were hit. The portly one was shot right between the eyes, dying instantly. The tall one suffered a fatal chest wound, but got one shot off before he fell to the ground.

Camille glanced at Barbara. Noticing a small red spot on the lower part of her shirt expanding rapidly, Camille ran to her. Barbara saw the expression on Camille’s face, and looking down realized she had been hit. Camille at her side, she grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Mr. Franklin, Mr. Franklin, get over here! Barbara’s been shot!”

“Camille, get your first-aid kit and help her,” Franklin yelled back.

Since the Homeland Security officer was still alive and conscious, Franklin had to neutralize him. He zip-tied his hands, then cut Peter and Stone loose.

Camille was trying to slow down the bleeding, but she was quickly losing the battle. Although she was applying as much compression as she could, the blood was still pouring from Barbara’s wound as the color drained from her face.

“Camille, honey,” Barbara whispered, “I’m going to die. Don’t let my death be in vain. You are smart. You are our future. Please,” she said, her voice getting weaker, “please, don’t abandon us. Become the leader I know you are capable of being.”

Barbara stared blankly at Camille. Realizing she was no longer breathing, Camille grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her, commanding her to wake up, but to no avail. She was dead. Camille began to sob uncontrollably.

“She’s gone, Camille. There’s nothing we can do. You need to focus or we will end up the same way,” Franklin yelled to her.

Franklin commanded Peter and Stone to attend to Camille while he hovered over the dying officer.

“What is Homeland doing here?”

The officer looked at Franklin and smiled. “You know—rounding up terrorists. They all think they are so clever with their talk of liberty and freedom, but they will not win.” Eyes remaining open, vacant, he was dead.

Peter and Stone were standing with Camille as tears continued streaming down her cheeks. Peter looked toward Barbara’s body and then back to Franklin. “I’m so sorry about your friend. I was told to stop at this mile marker and was praying to God that you were already here. I thought I was a goner.”

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on here?” asked Officer Stone.

Franklin took charge. “It will take too long to explain standing here. All I can tell you now is this—unless you want to wait around for the Feds to finish you off, you should come with us. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed what’s been going on lately in this country, but the rule of law doesn’t really apply anymore. I wouldn’t trust an investigation into what happened here. You will be railroaded, but if you want to take your chances, you can stay.”

“This man,” Stone said, pointing to the dead Homeland Security officer, “just killed your friend without any cause or reason. Hell, he was going to waste me and the kid.”