Anarchy in New Enlgand (10 page)

Even thirty years later, he was not at peace, he would never be. Drake considered what happened to his lost love an indication of human nature, leading to his belief that it was justified for a "better" person to control others who could not be trusted to do the right thing. It was lost on Drake that it was precisely those people who controlled others that carried out the murder of his fiancée.
People are bad
, he thought,
and need to be controlled
; he ignored the fact that only “other people” could control them, thus not solving the original problem that "people are bad."

Drake guessed – incorrectly – that his fiancée would have gone along with his plan if he could convince her of the benefits. This was however somewhat circular thinking; Drake probably never would have desired this type of power if he had the girl he loved to go home to every night. And even though Drake may have thought otherwise, his fiancée would
never
have helped Drake rip control away from the people. She had died for the ideal of sovereign individuals; she had given her life in the pursuit of abolition of all slavery, in all its forms, even if she had compromised her principles in doing so.

The buzz from his secretary ripped Drake out of his reminiscing about his lost love and back into reality. A woman was waiting for a meeting Drake had arranged with her. He would be selling her the position of Minister of Resources, since her company supplied power to almost 7% of New England, the largest share of any other company.

She and Drake went way back. He once "lost" a file on some wrongdoing while her company was being established, and in turn she strategically cut the power to a well-positioned NESA competitor during their grand opening week, giving the impression of incompetence and helping to stunt their growth. Drake knew she was open to trades beyond strictly economic transactions.

By the time she left his office, the future administration had grown one woman stronger. Drake now had the ability to strategically cut power if need be to a couple hundred thousand people and businesses, almost 10,000 of whom were located within three miles of the future New England border. The woman left the office beaming and energetic, ready to put things in place for the plan to be carried out. Drake sat back in his chair, growing more confident by the day.

Trix was eating at Hillside. He had gotten some stares from people who could detect the nuances of wealthy versus poor, but most people were sufficiently tricked by his new clothes. He had arrived a bit high, but immediately tipped the waiter well before his meal even started so that he would get good service, calming any nervousness the waiter would have about the ability of some unrecognized high guy to pay his bill.

Hillside was not simply a restaurant, but an entire venue, an atmosphere. It was built on the peak of a hill that on the east overlooked a long lake, on the west a small valley. It was only a five minute pod ride from the main metropolitan area surrounding Food Corp, which roughly corresponded with where Worcester used to be. People would come from all over New England – and often further – for a night at Hillside. Many of the natural rocks were left in place on the west side, with tables and artificial decorations added. In good weather the entire west veranda, called the Peppercorn Patio, would be left open to the elements and diners would enjoy the sunset with their meals, or they could dine at the Hillside bar, Cliffhanger. Glass walls and ceilings waited to be activated, individually, or all together forming a giant indoor greenhouse. But even when it was indoors, the natural rocks and plants remained. This helped keep spirits up during the long New England winter.

On the east side, steps, patios and porches twisted their way down the hill to the water. Patrons could take a stroll down to the edge and onto the dock, where there was another bar on the water. About halfway up the east hill was the Hillside club for the younger crowd that wanted to dance and party. It was mostly glass with the large floor stretching out over the hill to form a plateau. It was a sight to see at night from on the lake, the three story glass building shimmering with lasers and flashing lights of all colors, seeming to pulse with the beat of the music. Fog often poured out of the club, sliding slowly down the hill, illuminated by lasers, and tumbling onto the glassy surface of the lake.

A large tower stood on the peak of the hill, offering another restaurant with a different menu. Above the restaurant were rooms with more bars, and different themes, as well as various tower lookouts. Rooms in this tower rented for no less than $2,500 per night, and the penthouse was $12,000 per night in the off-season. Hillside was arguably New England's most popular and most exclusive venue.

Vast gardens and paths surrounded the compound providing a lush environment for a romantic getaway, or a drunken stroll. There were always little nooks and crannies in which to escape – a spiral stone staircase covered in vines lead to a heart shaped wooden bench surrounded by 10 foot high perfectly manicured hedges, embedded with twinkling lights. A camouflaged cavern, cool and echoing, with a sunken-in couch set in the center of the natural cave, illuminated by a medieval cast iron chandelier.

Turn a corner and there might be another little half-building, offering a dartboard and pool table. Another twist, around a boulder, up a flight of stairs and a large hot tub awaited bubbling, the edge seeming to disappear off the cliff, with a perfect view of the night sky, and shimmering stars. Hillside was not too concerned if you brought your bathing suit; in designated areas patrons could feel free to strip down and go for a swim or soak in a tub au naturel.

Trix sat in the semi-indoor section of Peppercorn Patio on the west terrace of the hill, overlooking the valley, speckled with brightly colored leaves of orange, yellow, and red. It was not cold, but a crisp autumn day, therefore large Persian-style torches provided extra warmth. The first course Trix managed to get through without thinking much: New England clam chowder with a side of crab cakes. But as the second course arrived and he cut into a juicy steak, grief overcame Trix; his impending assignment weighing heavy on him.

Trix was not a violent person, he simply didn’t have a very structured upbringing. His mom and dad both worked long hours picking crops and tending farmers’ fields when he was younger, so he didn’t have much direction. When they got home from work, they were too tired to do much parenting, though they truly did love their son.

His dad died when he was 12 from a complication brought on by a bullet he took during the New Dark Ages. His dad was born in the "Kingdom" which arose out of Georgia after the collapse. It was a poorer region when his dad was born, just beginning to integrate with New England and the New England Style Economy. His dad had gotten into it with a gang, though shortly afterward, the gang was taken out by Royal Liberty, the former non-coercive "Monarchs" of the southern Atlantic coast, turned security company after integration with New England.

When Trix’s dad died, he had even less supervision going into his teenage years. Trix kept busy hanging out with the kids of the other farmhands who mostly lived on the same crowded dead end street in small shacks. He would seek thrills riding his bicycle off jumps and through shallow rivers, playing chicken or jousting on his bike with the other neighborhood kids, or seeing how high he could climb in a tree or up a rock face. They would climb on top of the larger farm animals and see how far they could surf before face-planting in the mud.

Of course, as he got older this just escalated to seeing how fast he could drive his car around dangerous curves, and partying all night with less reputable types. That’s where he started trying various drugs, which was the next best thrill he could get.

After Trix moved out of his mom’s house on a whim with a girl that didn’t stick around, he floated here and there traveling, and working for UtopaCorp before ending up in New England because he heard they had the best quality adaps.

Now here he was, eating at the best restaurant he had ever entered, wearing clothes that cost 10 times as much as the next best thing he had ever worn, buying more sophisticated and refined drugs, and he could not be more miserable. Trix wracked his brain for a way out of killing Molly; it didn’t help that he was often too high for his brain to function properly.

Maybe I’ll find my mom and move back down south, try to find some work or a decent adap,
he thought.
But they would surely find me. What if I changed my name and went to work for UtopaCorp again? They provide security, and I could save up to buy a gun for good measure. And then what? Run for the rest of my life? Anyway I would have to be mostly clean before going to work for UtopaCorp, and that would take longer than the handful of days left before I’m supposed to kill Molly.

Trix put his head down on the table distressed, eliciting some concerned glances from other diners.

"Sir, is everything alright?" asked the stately waiter with his hands behind his back and a gently furrowed brow.

Trix looked up with sunken eyes plagued by redness and shadows.

"Yeah I’m fine, but I could use another," he held up his almost empty glass twirling the remnants a bit before finishing the cocktail and placing it back down lightly.

"Of course, sir. Right away."

Trix stared out the large open windows over the valley. Where could he go, what could he do to disappear? There was nowhere he could go that the agents couldn’t go more easily. He thought about alternative societies where he might be able to blend in, and find some strength in numbers. But the communist ones generally encouraged new people to contribute what they have to the group… and Trix didn’t have much. He had some money, but he didn’t want to hand that over to the collective, only to be left high and dry a month later. Anyway, they did not so much approve of the types of drugs Trix did, preferring hallucinogens and psychedelics over amphetamines and narcotics.

There were non-communist alternatives, but they were pay to play. You either had to have a marketable skill, be willing to learn one, or have enough resources already that you would not be dragging the group down in these societal microcosms. And they were hard to get into without knowing someone… and again, the drug habit posed a problem.

Trix decided the best course of action was to head to the bathroom to take another hit, at least that way he would be able to enjoy what time he had left to spend at Hillside. When he got back, the waiter pretended not to notice Trix nodding off a couple times, before ordering more food and drink. An hour later Trix paid his bill, grabbed one more cocktail, and stumbled off down the west slope to see where the paths would take him.

Barry was back and forth, nervous then excited, terrified then elated about the impending plan for power. He wanted it so badly, but it so terrified him. He couldn't sleep, so he got out of bed slowly as not to wake…
what was her name again?
Barry thought. He had to picture his bank account statement to remember.
She costs me the most of any of them. Lisa? It starts with an L. Lily!

After splashing some water on his face, Barry stared into the bathroom mirror. In the back of his mind Barry was irked by the thought that if he was smarter in his younger years, if he hadn’t been so cocky, he could have retired already and just collected enough profits from the business to live better than any King had ever lived, quite literally.

But he loved the power of his position when he first started his company and it took off. With every heartbeat the feeling of superiority had coursed through his veins. It invaded his brain like a drug; pride radiated from his pores. He couldn’t take it when another up-and-comer made a joke at an "important" social gathering. The boy didn’t even mean it derisively, he actually thought it would be taken lightly. Barry struggled to remember what the jab was even about. He remembered the two had been acquaintances – the other probably thought they were friends.

Perhaps it was a tease about his appearance, or a quip about someone Barry had been seen taking out on the town. But it made Barry hate him with a passion. From that day on, everything this young man said made Barry burn with rage. He used Barry’s first name, Reed; showed no respect at all, despite the fact that Barry had built his business, while this boy merely got a job in the same field at a relative’s firm.

It required substantial effort for Barry to take revenge on the supposed wrongs suffered. In those days a pleasant social life was just beginning to re-emerge as normal, and people like Barry sucked down popularity like gluttons at a feast.

It took social maneuvering, a great deal of charisma, and plenty of backhanded planning. But months later, long after the culprit had forgotten about the party at which he "wronged" Mr. Barry, the boy was fired from his relative’s company. Barry was happy for his absence at that year’s social gatherings, but much to Barry’s chagrin the young man was back the next year, having started his own company.

By now he knew that Mr. Barry had been the catalyst behind his firing, and gave Mr. Barry a smug welcome, flaunting his resilience to Barry’s slander. The boy thanked Barry for allowing him the opportunity to start his own business, and elevating him to a place he could not have gotten employed at the old firm.

And of course, the people Barry had manipulated into sacking the young man had also learned by now of Barry’s dishonesty. This made certain company interactions tough, and any business at all with that particular young man and his contacts impossible. Had Barry known what the man would become, he would have avoided slighting him at all costs. However had Barry not pulled the strings of the young man’s firing, the boy may never have risen to that level in the first place.