2084 (A Short Story) by Richie Cooley Jr. - HTML preview

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Richie Cooley (2015)

Creative Commons: Attribution 4.0 International

Cover vector by: vectoraart

Email: fundamentalist.fiction@yahoo.co.uk

The following short story mainly uses British spelling.

It is dedicated to Alveda King and to all those who have fought against the genocide of African Americans, without selling out.

The small group began to file out of the modest bungalow of Francesca Collins. This elderly Christian lady helped Jessica fetch the coat of her daughter. Jessica’s daughter was also called Francesca, being named in honour of this kindly Christian lady who had made such a positive impact on her life.

Jessica took the coat and smiled warmly. “Thanks again. I wish these prayer meetings happened more often,” she said.

“I know dear,” Francesca said. And please keep praying for my new application. I feel really good about this one.”

“You’re applying again? Where did you get the money?” Jessica asked.

Francesca simply shrugged and smiled coyly. The three women hugged each other before Jessica and her daughter (whom she called Frankie when she wasn’t around the other Christians) left for the hover-bus stop.

Jessica hurried to button her daughter’s coat before the hover-bus arrived. It wasn’t very cold, but she couldn’t risk another infraction. Ten people had already tapped against her this week for other offenses, and she had dodged a few knocks on the door that she feared could be the Civil Liberties Brigade of Greater London, again.

“But mummy, I’m roasting already,” her Frankie said.

“I know dear, but the hover-bus is nearly here. You must stay buttoned up. Don’t talk too loud on the hover-bus either. And don’t say you don’t like something, especially if it’s on the purple list, and…”

Jessica stopped speaking for fear as the vehicle slowly rounded the corner. She dreaded the thought of public transportation, especially the hover-bus (the hovering mechanism couldn’t be operated because it irritated a certain species of dust mite, but it was still called that anyway). There were too many people; there was always a tap against you, especially if you had kids. This was one of the design flaws in the whole “nudge your neighbour” scheme, but for some reason it wasn’t one the Greater Government was quick to rectify. The inner-city people therefore were tapped more than anyone, and Jessica often wondered if this was intentional, in a Margaret Sanger sort of way.

The hover-bus stopped and the two hopped on.

“Good day Ms. Jackson,” the driver said, who was wearing special glasses designed to keep out laser-pointer rays from blinding her while driving. Thankfully this was the only protection she needed; in other countries the hover-buses themselves had to be made of depleted uranium.

There were only a few hours left before Frankie had to go back to boarding school. They were on their way to the town’s autumn fete, and Jessica was hoping to put her daughter in good spirits before having to initiate the talk she had been putting off for weeks. Her only fear was that she wouldn’t be able to sneak away after phase 1 of the pony rides. It wasn’t that Frankie minded phase 2, but it was painful for a parent to watch nevertheless. Her thoughts were arrested with the peeping of her phone. She smiled wryly as the text informed her that she had already been tapped twice since getting on the hover-bus. She shook her head in disappointment at herself. She should have spoken loudly when walking down the aisle. Being of Moroccan descent will always get you taps in London, but generally speaking, if you have a local accent it normally cuts the number in half. If she didn’t make a greater effort at congeniality her family would never get out of The Altruism Trust (TAT). Nevertheless, she was always amazed how perceptive people were. It was almost impossible to tell who descended from what ethnic group, since genetic engineering saw to it that everyone was basically Caucasian.

Jessica pulled out her little notebook with the New Testament and tried to sneak a peek. It was written in code. In order to stay ahead of the Civil Liberties Brigade the code had to be changed bi-annually, which made things difficult; for belonging to TAT meant leisure time was at a premium, making the code hard to learn.

“Mummy, what’s that?” Frankie asked.

“A grocery list love.”

The child’s face lit up with glee. “Does that mean we’re off the purple list? Can I get sweets this month at school, mummy?”

Jessica tried to remain calm and glanced around at the faces for familiarity; blessedly, no one on the hover-bus knew her. The purple list got its name for only allowing things like radishes and beats and kidney beans, with the occasional eggplant feast on the sole holiday of Halloween.

“No honey, we’re not.” Her hard glare was enough to silence the child and dim her glow. “And don’t call it the purple list. Call it altruism.”

“But mummy….”

The child received another glare.

“Well can I at least ride the ponies this time?”

Jessica sighed, put away the notebook, and looked out the window.

“Mummy? Can I?”

The hover-bus pulled to a stop and the woman rose to her feet. “C’mon Frankie. We’ll see.”

The fete was crowded and the two walked along the rows of games and rides and passed a small stage where a symphonic band was playing Verdi’s famous chorus. Belonging to The Altruism Trust at a time like this was the worst. You could play the games but not keep the prizes. You could ride the rides but had to wear glasses with duct tape covering the lenses. You could purchase drinks but only if they had no sugar and no carbonation. Because Frankie was such a clever child she could probably manage to sneak onto a ride or two and perhaps eat a chip or two from a friend, at least without her mother receiving too many taps. Jessica just hoped the child would tire before the phases of the pony rides began. Frankie ran off and Jessica found a seat on a bench and began reading through her New Testament again. It wasn’t long however before she heard a giddy voice in the distance.

“Jessica!”

She looked up and saw a very well-dressed woman coming towards her with a little beagle on a leash. Charlie was one of the town’s most successful entrepreneurs, growing a mighty brick-making operation from scratch. She had obviously just come from the beautician’s for her skin was practically glowing orange, which looked especially peculiar in a London’s October afternoon. Perhaps she had just gone to the hairdresser’s as well, but it was hard to tell definitely, for she donned the hairdo that all fashionable young women had donned for at least a decade; namely, a crewcut. The style for female beauties had gone back and forth from crewcuts to bald then back to crewcuts since about 2030.

“Hey Jessica, I thought that was you!” Charlie said, as she sat next to her on the bench.

Jessica forced a smile, halfway. “Oh wow, you’re so, um, tan-ish. Have you just been on holiday?” Jessica knew that Charlie’s perfect, polished smile would remain, yet she would doubtless receive an anonymous tap later in the day. Someone like Charlie was bound to have been given the exclusive “unlimited anonymous” upgrade on her “nudge you neighbour” app from The Greater Government.

“I saw your little one running about; that’s great that you brought it,” Charlie said. “It looks very well.”

“She’s nice and warm anyway.”

Charlie gave a slight gasp of a laugh and the two sat in an awkward silence. Jessica had obviously been wryly referring to the embarrassing Network-Immense-Episode (NIT) of tapping that had happened the year before.

“You know I didn’t really totally agree with all that happened then, Jessica. At least you got it back.”

“Yes, I got her back. After five months that is. Five months of fighting The Children First Brigade for sending a child out on a winter’s day without a coat.”

“Yes, I know; it does seem a bit aggressive,” Charlie said. “But that always happens with a NIT, doesn’t it? I mean, at least when children are involved.”

When children aren’t involved “aggression” doesn’t really apply, as the executioners rarely show emotion.

If it was up to Jessica she simply would pull out of the conversation altogether and sit in silence. The problem was that someone as trendy as Charlie was bound to have a vast network of people who could systematically tap her. Perhaps out of kindness they would intentionally keep the numbers below what was required to constitute an official NIT, but they surely would see to it that neither she, nor any of her family for generations to come, would ever get off the purple list. It wasn’t that Charlie or her umpteen friends had any special hatred for Jessica; rather, they simply had a tremendous fear for their own wellbeing. Uniting in hatred towards an outsider was the easiest way of preserving themselves from the savage viciousness of civilization.

“They grow up so fast, don’t they?” Charlie asked. She looked off into the distance and smiled at her child who was waiving from afar with a crewcut and a pair of designer dungarees.

“Yes, they do,” Jessica said. “And how’s your, um, child?”

“Oh, it’s fine. It’s doing really well in school. Eighteen hours a day, seven days a week aren’t enough for it. I think it would live in the school if the state would let it.”

“Oh, yes; well my daughter wouldn’t know,” Jessica said. She didn’t actually want to chance her arm by using the “d” word. She didn’t want trouble, but she was still in the process of learning how to bite her tongue. “She would love to be able to go to a public school.”

“Don’t worry, Jessica. You’ll get off the list someday. At least Children First is now letting it come hope once a month, right? Besides, having to make sure the nannies help with homework and answer all sorts of questions can be really tough. You know 1479451 said the funniest thing the other day. It was learning about the old timey stuff in history class. It came bursting through the door and said, ‘Custodian, custodian, I want a husband!’ Imagine it knowing what a husband is! I can’t believe a child could even be told that word in a public school!” She giggled and sighed. “But all the same, I’ve applied to have another one.”

“Another child?” Jessica asked, doing her best to seem interested.

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m thinking about it. I have the first few years to terminate it if I change my mind.”

“The application?”

“No, the child. I’m not sure I like the whole process anymore. You used to be able to select the exact genes that you wanted to be implanted and all; now they want to broaden the gene-pool a bit. Apparently you can’t even choose between blue eyes and green eyes. Imagine. I mean I wouldn’t even know what colour clothes-wrap to buy it for its first photo. Apparently they even want you to actually have the baby spend the first few months growing inside you again. Some quack doctor thinks it’s healthy. I don’t think it’s law yet. They’re waiting to see how many people complain. But wow, can you imagine?” 

“It’s difficult.”

“And not only that but then there’s the whole name thing,” Charlie said. “Apparently numbering has gone so viral for so long that the new child will belong to the 2 million series. Ah, that would be awful having 1479451 and then a 2 million and something. That would do my head in.”

“It’d be quite a tongue-twister.”

“Well, I’ll try it for a few months and see if I can get used to it. I wish you had more time to decide. Those stupid right-wing activists have ruined everyone’s rights. Imagine putting an age limit on toddler-recycling. If worse comes to worse I could always put it up for the lottery and hope for the best.”

Jessica glanced at her watch and tried hollering for Frankie. It became obvious after a few attempts that the child didn’t hear and that Jessica was out of breath. She had bad lungs and could only do a minimum amount of shouting before becoming winded. After a few minutes Frankie came streaking towards her mother anyway. “Mummy, mummy. I need to go to the altar. Where’s the altar?”

“I don’t know. Do you think there are any altars here for TATs?” Jessica asked Charlie.

“No,” she said. “The altars in my offices are open though. Frankie, tell 1479451 to go with you. It’ll show you where they are.”

“Okay, thank you 1479451’s custodian!” Frankie shouted as she sped off.

Jessica shuttered that Frankie used the term “altar” so freely. The Children First boarding school was having a dramatic effect at lightning pace. In the 2020s angry progressive protestors began urinating and defecating in front of congregations during evangelical church services. It didn’t take long before a Faecal Matters campaign was started, and some celebrities even began to wear little pieces of toilet paper on their lapels as a sign of solidarity. Not long after that the right to alleviate oneself in places of religious instruction was granted unanimously by parliament. The great swing in favour of the Faecal Matters movement came after key scientific data was presented that some people with irritable bowel syndrome are soothed by organ music. Soon after this churches had to be abandoned; they all smelled too horrible. Although churches were a thing of the past, the “altar” euphemism stuck around. In some cities they even had public toilets marked by a huge steeple with a cross on top.

Charlie stood to her feet as Frankie disappeared from sight. “Can you look after my precious wee Athena?” she asked, handing the leash to Jessica. “I have to go buy a ticket for the pony rides. Will I get one for Frankie?”

It was nice of her to offer. With a proper ticket the duct tape glasses wouldn’t be needed. Jessica’s heart was slightly warmed. “Okay, thanks.”

As Charlie walked off her smile quickly turned into a frown however. She realized that with Charlie and 1479451 around there would be no chance of sneaking off after phase 1. Maybe that’s why she’s buying me the ticket, she thought as she made her way over to the stables.

All the same it was nice to see Frankie have so much fun on the ponies. She and 1479451 were allowed to ride for the entire 30 minutes of phase 1. With the time ticking down a bit of panic began to set in with Jessica however. “Frankie!” she shouted. “Come over here!” She shouted and shouted until she was out of breath. The child finally dismounted the animal and ran towards her mother.

“What’s wrong mummy?” she asked.

Jessica was about to respond when she glanced behind her and saw the piercing eyes of Charlie and noticed that she was holding two small bridles.

“Hey Jessica, I got you a bridle for phase 2,” Charlie said. “I think it’s about time for it now. Will I help you put yours on Frankie or are you okay?”

Jessica of course knew it would come to this, but she had to at least try. Her conscience couldn’t rest if she didn’t at least try to go through the motions of escape. “Yes, please help.”

By this time Frankie had already dropped down on all fours. Charlie quickly threw the harness onto the child and put the bits into her mouth. “Right. Here; just hook this end to one of the horses,” she said while handing Jessica the reins of the bridle. “I have to go get 1479451 harnessed.”

All the children were made to drop to their hands and knees and were attached to horses via bridles. It was the job of the parents to make sure the horses didn’t trample their child. Child-trampling was an unforeseen consequence of the Animal Equality movement, and after a few years of parliamentary debates a solution was finally called for. After a few more years the solution was for parents to be allowed into the pen during phase 2.

The children laughed and giggled; of course it was impossible to know if they were truly enjoying themselves or if it was simply owing to the fact that crying was outlawed. Crying spread negativity, and negativity hurt the development of children. Being exposed to too much crying nearly always resulted in a child being recycled (i.e., “terminated,” in old timey talk).

It was a long half-hour for Jessica, but she knew she must not even think about letting Frankie up early, despite the child’s profuse sweating in her winter coat. There would always be a skinhead watching very closely at a time like this. “Skinhead” was a slang term for women who didn’t follow the bald-crewcut-bald cycle, but rather used a straight-razor to dispense with their hair year in and year out. These hawks were always out for blood, and were normally behind the NITs. In fact, they invented the NITs. For a time Jessica had wondered if Charlie might become a skinhead, yet she realized through experience that skinheads were hardly ever pretty. It didn’t really make a whole lot of sense why not; after all, new males had been outlawed in 2028, right after the invention of synthetic sperm. Mind you, the synthetic stuff didn’t work very well at the start, and more children were recycled than “born” for many years.

After the school fete Jessica and Frankie walked to a nearby park. Jessica loved parks because she loved flowers. That was personally one of the hardest things about the purple list; you could only own cacti. There was a time in her youth when Jessica wasn’t on the purple list. She ate chocolate, drank Coke, had pets and flower beds, and even played once a week; it was great. Everything changed when she got older and met Francesca; soon after Frankie was applied for and granted, and soon after that she was censored. She dearly loved Frankie; her heart had went out to her from the start. She found such beauty in the child. Because of this she gave her a name instead of a number, used gender-specific pronouns, taught her religion, did anything and everything to make her unlike the rest, to make her the object of, well, actual altruism. She knew it was possible only to a point, and above all, she had to pick and choose her battles very carefully. Now she was forced to succumb to a terrible loss, and she had to inform Frankie of it. So she walked the child over to the duck pond. Frankie was not allowed to throw the ducks bread of course; technically it was allowed, but only if the bread was from the gourmet bakery and still very fresh.

“Isn’t it time I go back to the boarding school?” Frankie asked.

Jessica glanced at her watch and stood in silence for a few moments. “Yes, nearly. But I need to talk to you first.”

“About what, mummy?”

“Frankie, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s difficult to explain.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about your grandmother,” Jessica said.

“What about her? What’s wrong?”

“Well, nothing too much, yet.” Jessica sighed. “You see, grandma’s been sick three times in the past five years. They weren’t big illnesses, but still, she had to see a doctor three times and was given prescription drugs twice. She’s being audited sweetie by the Greater Dignity Department.”

“You mean she might have to be recycled?”

Jessica glared at her daughter. She should have known that the boarding school would have covered the work of the Dignity Department at some point, but she liked to dream that it wasn’t really that bad at the school, that her nightmares were not actually present realities. Using the terms “altar” and “recycling” so freely gave Jessica a feeling of utmost despair. She sat by the pond and stared off, away from her daughter.

“Mummy,” Frankie said.

Jessica turned her head slowly with tears in her eyes. “What is it, dear?”

“I don’t want grandma to be recycled.”

A smile slowly cut through the flow of tears. “Good dear. I don’t want it either.”

“Why should she have to die now anyway?”

Jessica glanced around for anyone who might have heard the other “d” word being used.

“Well honey, I think it’s supposed to be about production. Your grandma can’t give anything to society anymore, and is doing too much taking. And since we’re all carbon and carbon is needed to stop the global cooling, they need her services elsewhere.”

“What does Charlie give to society? What does 1479451 and all her friends give to society? Is money all that matters? Money or being popular I guess. You know, sometimes people are against money, but no one is ever against being popular.”

“Frankie, do you say all these things at school? I don’t want you to get into trouble. Maybe one day if we try harder we can get off the list.”

“Mama, do you think it’s really possible for a Moroccan in London to get off the list?”

Jessica was always surprised to be called anything other than “mummy.” She had used the term mama only before the effort at becoming more British became a strategy decided upon by her local case worker. “My mother did it Frankie. She pretended to be a skinhead and called me Jesse, but it worked. We were off the list.”

The two sat in silence and Jessica glanced at her watch. “Right, dear, we better get back to the hover-bus station.”

“Mama, put me in the lottery.”

“What?” Jessica said, panic stricken.

“I know how the Dignity Department works mama. They take vouchers from Planned Population. You can get an anti-productive voucher if you sign up for the lottery. That will get grandma a lot more doctor visits.”

“Quit talking that way Frankie! There’s no way I’m putting you up for the lottery! No way! Stop that talk!”

Frankie paused, and then said slowly, “Mama; you know of course that I don’t need your consent to sign up for the lottery. I’m going to do it. I want to do it for grandma. I won’t get chosen. I’ll be okay.”

Jessica said nothing and was awestruck as she walked Frankie back to catch her hover-bus. She hated the thought of her precious daughter’s name being entered into the quarterly lottery; yet she also hated the idea of this firebrand becoming more and more quenched by the Children First Brigade. As usual, Jessica decided to say nothing; yet the two broke with convention, kissed each other on the cheek, and said goodbye. Before parting she said softly, “But call me mummy dear.”

Later that night, before going to bed, there was a peep on Jessica’s phone; she raised the phone and chuckled: an anonymous tap.

A few months went by and it was the weekend. One Sunday a quarter she received a full six hours of leisure time in the evening, which often gave her the opportunity to meet with Francesca. The Christians met under the guise of a “neighbourhood watch” committee. It gave the believers a great cover. They would all intentionally tap each other’s family members from time to time, so the Brigades didn’t suspect anything untoward. The government was brutally oppressive of religious studies, but it was still the government, and therefore fairly ineffectual. The real danger was the skinheads. Every newbie had to prove themselves by soaking their head in paint thinner and then having their hair tugged. Many wigs came flying off, and the organization was thus spared infiltration. Of course the skinheads could have intentionally grown their hair out for the sake of deception, yet strangely, they never tried it.

It’s not as if the government really minded religion so much; it’s that they minded sedition. Skinheads started sedition, so instead of penalizing the skinheads, they took the easier route of penalizing the objects of the hatred of the skinheads. The government tried to defuse the endless amount of riots and protestors and movements and violent wars of attrition by introducing the genteel “nudge your neighbour” scheme. A reward and incentive package was given to everyone who downloaded the app onto their phone. In order to get the money they had to renounce all other forms of social media and any membership to any movement that was considered a potential form of volatility. From the app they would be able to have the ability to digitally “tap” anyone near them. It was a way for people to release any anger and annoyance (there was the option of pre-arranged messages such as “you offended me racially,” or, “your driving could use improvement,” but such were hardly ever used), and if someone was “tapped” enough then there would be a police investigation of sorts. It was ingenious and a longshot, and it solved nothing. All it accomplished was to create the greatest pyramid of tribal warfare the world had ever seen. Atop were the Charlies of the world. Of course, every system puts the Charlies on top; and even if the Charlies are not put on top, the ones who are put there will soon become Charlies. The world always found new ways to reroute the sewage of sin, but there was no way of it being able to truly cleanse it.

Evening came and she arrived at the home of Francesca. Jessica and Francesca had been friends for years, and they both enjoyed their local neighbourhood watch as a means of propagating the knowledge of the Bible, especially the messages of sacrifice and authentic, meaningful altruism. Both were on TAT’s purple list. Francesca had been on it all her life, and thus any application for a child had been  rejected. She was allowed to apply as many times as she liked, but it was hopeless, and the £2,000 application fee was non-refundable. To drown her disappointments she spent all her energy helping to publish the New Testament in code.

“Hello Jessica!” Francesca said in her doorway. She glanced down at her watch. “Come in, come in.” She continued after Jessica had entered and the door had been shut: “Is everything okay? You’re early and you look upset.”

“I didn’t come here for the prayer meeting so much. I need to watch the lottery with you tonight Francesca.” Jessica headed for the couch and lifted the remote. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” she said while taking a seat next to her. “But why do you want to watch that horrible thing?” The expression on her face changed as the only possible answer to her question crossed her mind. “It’s your daughter Francesca, isn’t it?”

Jessica filled with tears. “I don’t know. I hope not. I hope not.” Her hand trembled as she raised the remote and switched on the T.V. The channel that went on was the local kid’s network. Francesca had obviously been babysitting earlier, which she loved to do. In general the television programming for children wasn’t too bad, although the presenters did have a tendency to use rather foul language and they occasionally engaged in mild erotic behaviour. This was for the children’s own good of course; it was declared deplorable and monstrous to shield young children from vulgarity. A scientific study had showed that 53 percent of children were given the impression that such acts were wrong if shielded from them as infants. Added to this was the proven fact that there was nothing more harmful to society than the idea that some things were harmful. The presenters had just begun one of their un-clothing sessions (apparently a throw-back to the olden days of Mr. Rogers, but with the twist that they didn’t stop at an overcoat) when Jessica quickly changed the channel.

Francesca appeared a few minutes later with a cup of tea for her friend and the two grew deathly quiet when they realized the lottery was about to begin. In an ironic twist the lottery for Planned Population coincided with the lottery funded by the treasury. It might seem tasteless, but actually, scientific research had uncovered that 50.12 percent of the population felt better about the recycling of the older children if someone got rich at the same time. It was an evolutionary object lesson that greatly pleased the throng who devoutly worshipped the remains of Peter Atkins, assuaging the touchy division (and before the “neighbouring” app, a rather blood-thirsty one) in their midst over if the ashes really came from him or not.

The list of recycled children always came between the “ring of fortune” game and the big jackpot draw. After the game Jessica poised the remote, ready for the list to flicker. She pushed pause just in time, and there in tiny writing were the names of the 100 children who had “won” the lottery sponsored by Planned Population. They would get to be turned into dust, with their ashes used to plant trees. Thus their carbon-footprint was no more, and they even helped to add carbon to the atmosphere.

Jessica walked slowly to the screen and read the tiny writing. There was no need for Francesca to ask for the result, as she watched her friend sink to the ground and nearly melt in a flood of tears. Francesca walked over slowly and sat down next to her friend on the floor, throwing an arm around her heaving shoulders.

“It’s okay dear. We’ll find a way through this.”

After sobbing for quite a while the two women arose and sat on the sofa. Although it was now cold, they tried drinking their tea to break the stillness. Francesca left the room and appeared with a tray of sweets to consume with the tea. Jessica instinctively reached out for one, and then froze.

“Wait. How do you have sweets?”

Francesca blushed and then donned a serious look. She left the room, came back with a Bible, and took a seat next to the grieving mother. By this time many others began to arrive for the prayer meeting, all with short hair-cuts.

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