Progtopia: Book 1 of The Progtopia Trilogy (3 page)

Four

The Year: 2172

While the Judge was waiting for Thatcher, he gazed at his expansive library. Leaning back in his chair, he reflected on the ideas surrounding him—all failures as far as he was concerned.
Freedom
, he thought laughing to himself,
what a misadventure.
Things were perfect now, not even close to the times before the Crash. He always thought his duty was to understand the theories of the men of that era. It made it easier for him to spot the idea of freedom, so he could squelch it. Thought needed to be one with the State.
Only with unified knowledge can great societies be achieved
, thought the Judge.

It was Judge Kelleher who chose what information could be disseminated to the public, using the education system and media to control the State’s message to the people. His great-great grandfather implemented the policy of “thought homogenization” after the Crash, and he carried on the tradition. All facts from science, mathematics, history, and literature were “cleaned” by the State and then re-introduced back into society. In fact, his family was instrumental in the consolidation of the Departments of Justice and Education, which was renamed the Ministry of Justice and Reeducation. As far as his predecessors were concerned, justice and education went hand-in-hand. The Ministry’s motto—
Without education, there is no justice, and without reeducation, there is no atonement.

Thatcher was curious as well as persuasive. She liked to discuss, question, and challenge everything. If she did that at school, his career would be over, and it would ruin any chance he ever had of ascending further in the government. Being proactive, he was making a daily habit of reviewing her schoolwork and fielding her questions.

Thatcher entered the study just as the Judge’s videoconference screen was ringing. Clearly, it was an important call because he activated the soundproof barrier, insuring total privacy. While sitting there waiting for her father to finish, she began to reminisce about her times in the study. Her earliest recollections were around the time she was five or six years old. It was her father who taught her to read (with the help of quanta cogs), and when she could, she started to read on her own. Her father was at work and didn’t know, and her mother was usually too drunk to bother. She had her favorites,
The Hobbit, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
. She always wondered why those books were banned. Was it imagination or good versus evil that threatened the State?

Growing up, she would ask her father some of these questions, but he always gave the State-sponsored answers. It became obvious to her at quite a young age he was against independent thought. When she realized many of the books she was reading came from people who were executed for possessing them, she pulled back from discussing anything with him.

Nikolai, on the other hand, was someone whom she could be open with. When he tailored her dresses as a child, she would babble on and on about
The Hobbit
and
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
. He would always warn her to keep such talk to herself or she may become one of her father’s casualties. He would even joke around with her, standing straight up pointing his finger in the air, speaking in a French accent, “Thatcher Kelleher, a member of
le resistance
, hereby sentenced to reeducation camps—forever.” They would laugh and have a wonderful time. Jake, Nikolai’s apprentice, was usually hanging around while all of this was happening. He was her best friend growing up. Thatcher was sharp enough to enjoy them only in private. As she got older, she would confide in Nikolai about her thoughts on religion, ethics, and philosophy. He would only listen, never commenting one way or another, which she understood. It was far too dangerous to speak his mind, never knowing who was lurking around.

Her father’s call was coming to an end, and once he deactivated the soundproof shield, she knew he was ready to lecture her, to keep her in check. She knew the routine. Speaking sternly, sparing no time to get to the heart of the matter, he said, “Thatcher, remember, the Prog Party saved the world. That is all you need to know and hold to. Because you’re my daughter, you are probably one of the very few humans on this planet who has access to all of this,” he said, pointing to his expansive collection. “You know what went down with the Crash. Your own professor isn’t even aware of the truth. No one needs to know what really happened. Do you understand?” His cold eyes pierced Thatcher, sending a chill down her spine. She slowly nodded. She knew well enough not to reveal the true cause of the Crash—or, rather, what was done to the people living at that time. She cringed when she thought about it.

Their conversation was interrupted by the doorbell. Judge Kelleher turned his deadly stare from his daughter to the security system’s view of the foyer. It was a grand entrance with marble floors and artwork from the Renaissance, including the statue of David at its center. When the maid opened the door, an entourage of six women flooded in with Nikolai in the center. Thatcher searched the screen for Jake. Initial disappointment turned to excitement when she caught sight of him. The Kelleher’s small dog, Rusty, a Jack Russell terrier, ran into view and jumped repeatedly on Nikolai. Despite feigning disgust over Rusty, Nikolai loved him. He leaned over to pet him. “You little scoundrel, you’re going to ruin my pants!” Nikolai exclaimed as he pulled a treat from his pocket. Rusty gladly snatched it from his hand.

“Well,” the Judge sighed, “I guess the real circus begins now.” Thatcher and the Judge were getting up when they heard Nikolai welcoming Muriel as he kissed both of her cheeks. “And the lovely lady of the home welcomes me first!”

Nikolai’s appearance was the antithesis of the world-famous designer he was known and cherished for. Never flamboyantly dressed, he usually wore plain gray suits dressed up with a colorful tie. He had a French-Italian accent, an unassuming height, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and was balding. Simple, but sharp.

Thatcher was in her room studying when a knock came at the door. “Come in,” she said.

Nikolai entered with one of his female assistants. Disappointed at Jake’s absence, Thatcher wasn’t surprised after the comment her mother had made at dinner.
Why can’t she just keep her mouth shut?
she thought to herself. Nikolai sensed her disheartened mood, figuring it was because Jake was not with him.

“Thatcher darling!” He welcomed her with his usual trademark
Nikolai greeting
with both hands on her waist while kissing one cheek at a time. Knowing his customary exchange, Thatcher offered each cheek to his lips. “How about looking at this wonderful dress I designed for you? You will look ravishing, as always.” He pulled it from the garment bag. His assistant stepped back, acting awestruck, admiring it. It was strapless, plain red, and made of a soft material.

“It is simple, yet bold. I want you to be noticed, Thatcher. Darling, it’s time for you to come out of your shell! This will do it!”

Of course, Thatcher didn’t go crazy over the dress. She never did. She really didn’t care about fashion. Nikolai, knowing this about her, never expected much of a reaction. It was just one of the many reasons he liked her. Everyone always told him his designs were wonderful—even if they didn’t think so. People thought of him as the “Great Nikolai—designer extraordinaire.” As the designer for the famous in the Elite Recipient Class and the Giving Class, no one would dare critique his work. Thatcher, on the other hand, made no bones about her disinterest in the whole scene. She didn’t really see what the big deal was. To her, clothes were clothes.

“Thatcher, darling, trust me on this one. Put it on while we step out. Open the door when you’re ready, then I can make any adjustments, if necessary.” They walked out while Thatcher tried it on. She was only able to zip it up about halfway and would need someone to help her finish. Before she opened the door, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. An attractive young woman was staring back. She hated to admit it, but she looked pretty good. She gave a little twirl as she wondered what Jake or Thomas Quinn would think of her right now. She had to stop thinking about Jake, but how could she? He was somewhere in her home at this moment, and she wanted him to see her in this dress.

She sauntered to the door, thinking of Jake. Opening it, she was abruptly brought back to reality with Nikolai standing there, hands outstretched in the air, exclaiming, “What a masterpiece! You’re a walking piece of art!” He walked in and zipped up the back.

“Nikolai, I think it might be slightly loose around the waist. Weren’t you just teaching Jake a new technique about how to fix that?” Nikolai was no fool and knew where she was going with this.

“What a memory you have. Yes, but he still hasn’t completely perfected it.” He turned to his female assistant, snapping his fingers, ordering her to fetch Jake. Once alone, Nikolai asked, “Thatcher, how are you doing?”

“I guess okay,” Thatcher answered hesitantly.

Nikolai peered into her eyes. “Thatcher, I see a deep sadness in you.”

“Nikolai,” she said, taking a seat, “you know me so well.” She sighed—her posture defeated.

“Darling, I should. I’ve known you since you were a baby.”

“It’s just, well, just that I’m getting older. Things are changing. I have feelings for people I can’t be with. I have thoughts in my head I can’t talk about. I feel like I’m living some type of lie. I don’t know how long I can do this. The rest of my life? It’s all so much! I see Jonathan following in my father’s footsteps. He used to be a free spirit, but now, it’s all business. It’s all about the State, offenders, and reeducation. I don’t want to be a part of that, but I have to. I have to go to the Ball tomorrow night, pretending to have a good time, hobnobbing with government officials and their children. My father and their fathers will probably be discussing whom I’m to marry. Sometimes I wish I never knew the way things used to be. I look at all the people who don’t know, and they seem to be fine with everything.”

Before Nikolai could answer, Jake entered the room. Immediately, Nikolai could sense Thatcher’s mood turning. “Oh Jake, you must have designed this,” she said pointing to her midsection, “because it’s a little loose in the waist,” she giggled.

He just stood there and stared. He couldn’t believe the beauty in front of him. “The first man that you meet tomorrow night will certainly ask you for a dance.”

Thatcher, who could never take a compliment gracefully, answered, “Not with this loose waist, they won’t!”

Muriel walked in with a glass of wine in her hand, raving how beautiful her daughter looked. Jake was trying to take in the material at the waist, but his hands were trembling. Nikolai stepped in to assist. After they had the pins in place, they all stepped out of the room to have Thatcher take it off so they could alter it. Once she was changed, she handed them the gown and followed them to the sewing room.

Every high government official in the Giving Class had an on-site sewing room just for occasions such as this where clothing had to be altered immediately. The Ball was the following evening, and all the garments needed to be perfectly tailored the day before. It was a nice room filled with two sewing machines, about every color of thread imaginable, needles, different fabrics, and a small cutting table. It was truly a tailor’s dream. While Nikolai worked, Jake and Thatcher occupied themselves with small talk. Nikolai was too busy showing his assistants what he was doing to reprimand Jake. He also could see how excited Thatcher was to talk to him.

“Where are you off to after us?”

“Cassandra Williams.”

“Cassandra, not one of my favorite people in this world.”

“Why? Is it because of what she did to your dad a few years back?”

“No, well yes, that’s part of it, and luckily it turned out okay, but I generally just dislike her. I never met her personally, but I guess there are just some people in this world you just don’t like. She is fake and ambitious. I swear she would sell her soul to get good ratings.”

“You sure you’re not just jealous? I mean, she is beautiful.” Jake’s comment stung Thatcher. She was gorgeous, but she wouldn’t admit that to Jake. And besides, why would he tell her that?

Nikolai was talking to his assistants while eavesdropping on Thatcher and Jake. He was wondering what Thatcher was going to say after that one. Thatcher was usually quick on her feet and good with comebacks, but she didn’t have one this time.

“Ah, the truth is revealed!” Jake laughed. “You are jealous.”

And maybe she was, Thatcher wondered. She knew Jake and Cassandra could be a couple. He had access to her. They were in the same social class, and he just revealed he thought Cassandra Williams was beautiful. This night was not turning out the way she would’ve liked.

Jake, sensing Thatcher was not amused, tried to recover. “Oh Thatcher, don’t be so serious. Cassandra may be beautiful, but she has no personality.”

For Thatcher, the damage was already done. Her feelings were hurt. “Jake, Nikolai, thanks for making my dress. I have to go back to my room and study. Just bring it when it’s finished.”

Thatcher left the room, and when she was gone, Nikolai looked at Jake, shaking his head as if to say, “You just blew it.”

Five

The Year: 2172

Recipient Class

The strong, yet soothing rain pattered against the window. The apartment alarm blared, drowning out the sound of the storm raging outside. 345 rolled over in bed, opened his eyes and looked out the window. Another day, more rain. He sighed. Depressed, he wanted to remain in bed, but the powerful alarm pulsated from the ceiling speakers. The deafening, piercing shrill got louder and louder the longer he stayed in bed. He thought his head was going to explode. Before it drove him crazy, he forced himself up. As his feet hit the floor, there was silence. Sweet silence.

Before he could appreciate the moment of peace, the computerized, femalesque voice he had known for years greeted him. “Good morning, 345. Welcome to Tuesday, April 3, 2172.” He ignored her. Stretching his long arms above his head, he walked over to the window and gazed at the showers outside. Its melodic rhythm against the window lulled him into a trance, only augmenting his deep feeling of emptiness.
What is wrong with me?
he wondered, daring not utter his true feelings as he was always being watched.

“No time for contemplation,” his female virtual voice companion (VVC) echoed. “You will be late if you continue staring out the window.”

“I know,” he replied dryly, automatically, half listening. “Was it supposed to rain like this?”

“If you had followed last evening’s weather calculations more closely, you would have known this. Your mind has been drifting, 345.”

He did not answer his VVC. He knew she was right. He was pondering her rebuke when his virtual-reality screen (VRS) came alive with the familiar opening theme music to the
Morning Show
. It was always the same perky anchors spitting out the news, weather, and traffic, day after day. It was a stale show, no matter how they disguised it with their catchy music and graphics. He had the option to view his VRS in archaic 2-D or the virtual version with the illusion of the entire broadcast playing out in his apartment. He was a 2-D guy, except for sports.

He wandered into his dingy bathroom as the banter between the anchors and reporters filled the apartment. The bathroom lights, sensing him, illuminated automatically as he entered the cramped century-old space. It had what he needed—a toilet, sink, and shower stall—but it was by no means meant for relaxation as some in the Giving Class had. He didn’t care his bathroom was not a spa because it was a major upgrade from the overcrowded, decrepit showers in the State home. All citizens outside the Giving Class grew up there. He disrobed and stepped into the shower as the water automatically burst from the shower head. It was the usual lukewarm temperature, and clear—not cold and brown like the State home. Lathering soap in his hands, staring at his naked wrist, he remembered the bracelet that once covered it—silver, engraved with 345. Scrubbing the soap over his muscular shoulders and arms, his hand ran over the branding on his well-developed deltoids. He could feel the depression of the numbers 3-4-5 in his skin. It was his identity, nothing more and nothing less.

Thinking about the first sixteen years of his life at the State-run home always stirred horrible memories—overcrowded, cruel punishments, poor living quarters. He shuddered just thinking about it. From the Headmaster down to the staff, viciousness was the way to run things, even encouraged and enjoyed. There was no pity, no sympathy. He made it out, though.

His genetics and aptitude testing at age three pushed him to the State home dedicated to training boys in nuclear fission technology. Modern-day education was perfected by the discovery of quantitative cognitive packets,
quanta cogs
, as he called them. Shaking his head, he thought about how people once spent their entire lives educating themselves, studying and memorizing information to excel in their field. Now, they were simply given quanta cog pills at various stages of their development. The pills instantaneously filled their brains with everything they needed to know, but only the best students were selected for the harvesting.

The harvesting was not only an honor, but also the ticket out of the hell of the State homes. Growing up, 345 always heard about the life factories, the places where humans were made. He was taken there on harvesting day where they used his genetic material to make life. Then, they made him infertile, placed a computer biometric screening chip in him, and branded 345 permanently into his arm. It was his number—his identity.

The warning alarm sounded bringing him back to the present. One minute before the water turned off. With time-regulated showers, there was no time to enjoy. When the water stopped, that was it until the next day. He hurriedly rinsed the soap from his body and stepped out. In the background, he could hear the upcoming weather of the day. Rain. Again. It had been like this all week.

After he toweled off, he looked into the mirror. Staring back was a handsome, lean, and muscular, young man with a strong jaw, dark hair, and blue eyes. His mere presence exuded a sense of strength. Within minutes, he was shaved and headed over to his small closet where he pulled out one of his twelve one-piece navy blue biometric suits, and put it on.

Standing in his blue biometric suit, he glanced at the virtual-reality screen where his blood pressure, heart rate, and weight were scrolling on the bottom beneath the smiling blond anchor. The interface was successful between the suit and the biometric screening chip in him. He absentmindedly ate his mandatory nutrition bar and popped his bio-screening pill releasing hundreds of thousands of nanobots into his body to perform a full-body surveillance and repair any disease in him. Very few illnesses were beyond their repair. Even aging was delayed with this technology, but it was not eliminated—yet.

Without paying attention to the time, he left his apartment earlier than he was supposed to. Traveling the twelve floors to the lobby by himself, he did not seem to hear his female artificial intelligence companion warning him he was ahead of schedule.

He pushed through the doors, walking out into the deluge, not getting wet, protected by the biometric suit’s generated force field. The grayness of the sky and sadness of the rain was the perfect backdrop to the city filled with harsh, metallic buildings. Cold, sterile, and unwelcoming. Everyone in the Recipient Class either walked or took the tram since they weren’t permitted to own private property, including cars or bikes. He was moving at a brisk pace, splashing against the uneven cracked sidewalks. Protected by his suit, he had never felt the sensation of rain on his body. Making the walk many times, 345 no longer paid attention to the enormous housing structures lining the narrow street.

Entering the dilapidated, outdated tram station, he realized he had arrived too early. The women were still waiting on the platform. On top of that, there was another tram delay today. Had he been paying attention while he was eating breakfast, he would have known this.

Well, I’m here now
, he thought to himself.
I’m not going back out into the rain.
He looked around and didn’t see any Social Keepers, but he knew he was being watched. He figured as long as he didn’t do anything wrong, he should be safe. Surveillance was everywhere in the State. There was no privacy, none.

He knew enough to stand back and not mingle with the women. He waited, gazing out into the crowd. All of the women were dressed in pink biometric suits, staring robotically at the empty rail, waiting for transportation to a job they didn’t choose and probably hated. As 345 surveyed the crowd, a woman looked back, locking eyes with him. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. His heart skipped a beat. His face became flushed. He had seen many women on the virtual reality screens and during his daily virtual reality time, but no
real woman
had ever looked directly at him in his entire life. The familiar sound of the tram startled him from his stare, and when the sleek, metallic gray tram arrived, the doors opened, and the sea of pink biometric suits, including the woman, entered the vehicle. As quickly as it arrived, it left—but not before he caught the number on her sleeve. She was 888.

He stood there alone. Silence. No doubt the State captured what had just happened. His biometric suit must have picked up his increased heart rate. Hearing footsteps behind him, he was fully expecting to see the Social Keepers coming his way. When he turned around, it was just some of his coworkers.