Progtopia: Book 1 of The Progtopia Trilogy (2 page)

Two

The Year: 2172

The Giving Class

Judge Kelleher smoked a cigar while standing in his book-lined study, an unusual sight in most homes. He was holding a videoconference with the producer of
The Trials
. Appearing as a hologram in the Judge’s private quarters, the producer sensed Kelleher’s irritation by the increasing frequency of the Judge’s smoke rings floating in the air. Agitated, puffing on his expensive stogie, he badgered the producer. “What do you mean we need something different?”

“Judge,
The
Trials
have been great over the last few years. Unfortunately, the viewers are losing interest. We need something, well, fresh.”

“You have a captive audience, for God’s sake! What the heck do you mean we’re losing viewer interest?”

“Judge, very true. We have a total captive audience forced to watch by the State. In theory, they are
watching
. But we know they don’t like the show anymore.”

“How?”

“Our technology tracks their facial expressions, time they look at the screen, heart rate, and a million other parameters. The data is in. I can tell you with certainty that they are no longer amused with the proceedings. We have seen the decline over the last few years. We need you to revamp the show.”

The Judge, annoyed, asked gruffly, “So what do you suggest?” Before the producer could answer, a knock interrupted their discussion. He barked with irritation, “What? I’m busy!”

Opening the study door a crack, Thatcher peeked her head in. “Dinner is ready.”

“Okay, I’ll be out in a few minutes.” Once she left, he started to wrap it up.

“All right,” he said in a calmer voice, “let me give this some thought. Maybe my son, Jonathan, can help me out with this. He’s working with me at the Ministry.” With that, he ended the conference, and the producer disappeared from the study.

He stood there, finishing his cigar in a room reminiscent of a nineteenth-century library. As the Director of the Ministry of Justice and Reeducation, he was permitted the luxury of owning paper books, and not just any paper books, but the ones banned from general society—even from the Giving Class. He, himself, had sentenced people to death for owning some of the very copies that were now in his possession. He was surrounded by the thoughts of many who came before him—by their ethics, philosophies, religions, and adventures. All contained in one room. His mission was to ensure the thoughts of those men remained here, away from the people. The ideas of individuals were destructive to society.

He left the library and walked down the hallway toward the dining room. Lined with original Renoir paintings with a large crystal chandelier hanging from the twenty-foot ceiling, the room was designed to entertain dignitaries of the Giving Class, as well as, on occasion, the Benefactor himself. The table, a unique addition to the décor, was made from lumber which was several thousand years old. It was breathtaking, and the Kelleher family ate there almost every night.

When his portly wife caught sight of him, she started in on the Judge right away. “Honey, why do you always have to be late for dinner? You know you’ve kept us waiting. You could be a little bit more considerate,” she admonished him, nagging, whining.

“Muriel, you know with the upcoming
Trials
I am very busy right now. Please forgive me for impeding upon the highlight of your day,” he said sarcastically. She was used to his demeaning tone. Their marriage was not out of love, but rather convenience. It guaranteed a faster rise to the top levels of government for him. He tolerated her to reach his professional goals, and she him for the parties and high society.

Thatcher and her brother, Jonathan, remained silent, accustomed to their parents’ dislike for each other. The hostility between them was becoming more antagonistic and cruel. It was almost unbearable. Their mother buried her sorrows in alcohol. The Judge, afraid of what she might say, wouldn’t permit her out for an event unless she was sober.

Breaking the tension, Jonathan spoke. “Well, Father, I had a meeting over at the Institute of Science and Bioethics. I am concerned. We all are. There are still suicides occurring among the Recipient Class.”

Frowning, the Judge shook his head in disbelief. “I just don’t get it. The genes responsible for depression have been removed from the Recipient Class genome. They take a pill every morning filled with nanobots repairing any disease in their bodies. They have shelter, food, and employment. They have everything. Why kill themselves?” The Judge looked at his son, expecting an answer. Jonathan was a much younger version of him. Both were tall men who maintained a good physique, but Jonathan’s sandy brown hair was steadily being replaced by gray like the Judge’s.

Jonathan took a bite of his perfectly grilled filet mignon. Shrugging his shoulders, he had no explanation. Jonathan had heard the rumors of an underground resistance while growing up working together to establish a society where people had full control over their own lives. Not only was that a frightening thought to him, but it was also ridiculous. The surveillance was too tight. No one, not even some fictitious resistance group, could collaborate to get anything done. Sure, there were people who occasionally tried to buck the system by reading a book, mingling with another class, or not abiding by the dietary and exercise requirements of the State. Those individuals paid dearly for their transgressions, and they were just that—individuals—not a large-scale web of connected people infiltrating and overthrowing the power of the State. The entire notion was preposterous.

Jonathan wasn’t sure if a single person or a group was interfering with the genome or nanobots, but he was sure that the suicides weren’t being perpetrated by individual choice. No possible way. Not with all they were given. There was no reason to end their perfect lives.

The Judge now understood the producer’s concerns about the upcoming
Trials
. They needed a distraction for the people. They needed entertainment. “Jonathan, I need your help with
The Trials
this year. Viewers hate the current format. We need something novel. I need you to take the lead on this for me.”

The Judge, finished with that topic, moved onto his daughter, Thatcher. His children, and for that matter anyone who knew the Judge, understood the one rule about eating with the Judge—let him control the conversation. Only speak when spoken to.

“Thatcher, how were your lectures today?” Thatcher, a student at the Institute of Progress and Forward Thinking, was about to graduate from the most prestigious school in the world. It was expected that she enter an influential government department upon graduation, but Thatcher wasn’t sure whether or not she even wanted to work after she had finished school. Her desires for her future were only that—desires, wishes. Her destiny would be chosen by the State on Commission Day.

“They were fine,” replied Thatcher not revealing her focus during the lecture was Thomas Quinn, not the class. To her, he was shy, mysterious, and attractive. Thomas was in her sights for a long time, but she never acted on it. Unlike the other students, he refrained from talking to her. He didn’t kiss up to her because of her dad. That drove her to like him even more. Just being Judge Kelleher’s daughter made her popular, and she hated that. Although she was a petite, stunning young woman, she had a hard time making true friends. Never trusting anyone’s real intentions because they usually wanted something from her father, she withdrew from most social circles. Thomas was one of the few who didn’t go out of his way to be with her. She liked that about him.

“That’s it? Fine? You have nothing more to say about class?” The Judge asked incredulously, not believing for a moment that his daughter was without opinion.

Putting the last piece of filet into her mouth, she signaled to him to wait until she finished chewing. Once she swallowed, she revealed they were talking about the Crash.

“Well, that’s a pretty big topic,” he retorted with sarcasm. “It’s only what set in motion the world we live in today!”

After the servers cleared their plates, they brought dessert and coffee. The Judge took his coffee, poured in some cream, and stirred as his spoon clanked against the glass. Staring into his cup, he spoke. “So, Thatch, was there any
discussion
about this in class or with your study group?”

“Of course there was, Father. I think that’s why we all like Professor Martin. He’s not like the others who won’t let us debate history or policy. He doesn’t want us to take quanta cog pills and have pre-packaged information automatically fill our brains. He wants us to think about things logically and try to analyze the cause and effect of everything. He knows we’re going to be government officials who will be challenged. He wants us to be prepared for that.”

The Judge slurped his hot brew. “So what do your classmates think about things since you all feel so free to
converse about the Crash
?” he replied, irritated.

“We decided we’re lucky to be born now and not back then. Man has evolved, progressed, from a cold society to what we live in today. The anti-humanists wanted people to fend for themselves, to figure out their own direction in life. The State was not there to help them. Seemed chaotic back then.”

The Judge sat there appearing to listen to her, but thinking about Professor Martin. There wasn’t supposed to be
any
free discussion in classrooms. That could get dangerous. He would have to review the surveillance of the class and decide if the professor should be removed and executed.

“Father, may I be excused? I have material I need to review for class, and I know we have the Ball tomorrow night.”

“Yes, and don’t forget, Nikolai and his entourage will be here later tonight to drop off our dresses and suits.”

Thatcher’s mother perked up. “Do you think Jake will be with Nikolai? He’s becoming so handsome!”

Her comment fueled the already ill-tempered Judge. “Muriel, I can’t believe you would say that! What kind of example are you setting for our children? What are you suggesting? The very notion is insulting to our class!”

Thatcher could see where this was heading. Trying to diffuse the situation, she interjected, “Father, don’t worry. I’ve known Jake forever. I don’t look at him that way.” Deep down, Thatcher knew that was a lie. She liked him, but she knew she could never have him. It was forbidden. Any mixing of the classes could lead to reeducation, even death. Almost like
Romeo and Juliet
—a reference that would mean nothing to anyone else because she knew no one had ever read it.

“Thatcher, I’m going to finish some business with your brother, and then I would like to review some of the lecture material for tomorrow’s class.”

Once the Judge and Jonathan were finished with dessert, they walked back to the study. He filled him in on his conversation with
The Trials
’ producer and ordered him to hand-select a group in the Ministry to revamp
The
Trials.
Viewers needed to be excited about them. He demanded they select the most egregious cases of violations against the State and come up with a novel idea that departed from the normal format. The deadline was tight. He wanted a report by the end of the week.

Three

The Year: 2032

After three weeks in a hot, run-down apartment, Camille was going stir crazy. The only time she left was in the middle of the night to go through the dumpsters in the alley, looking for food, magazines, and newspapers. Running low on the protein bars she had packed when she abandoned home, hunger was setting in. Remnants of thrown-out leftovers she found in the garbage were a plus. Her only connection to the world and her parents was the newspapers she managed to find in the alley.

Needing to leave New York City, she had to wait until her story died down in the media. Until then, she couldn’t make a move. She was now a household name. Her picture was splattered everywhere. She hated the photo they picked posing in her soccer uniform.
Couldn’t they have chosen a better one?
She needed to get out of there, to make a run for it, but she couldn’t until she was old news. Unlike most stories in America, hers was still on the front page. She thought for sure the public would lose interest and move onto something else, but her situation clearly hit a nerve with the American people.

Camille was almost finished with the seventh grade, and like most American teens, she and her parents weren’t getting along. Her parents were convinced she was not applying herself in school. Camille knew they were right—she wasn’t. Because her parents didn’t like whom she hung out with, Camille purposely screwed up in school. It was her way of getting back at them and her only way to maintain control. She was sick of hearing them harp on her about her grades and her friends. To Camille, academics, politics, or anything beyond her circle was useless.

The tension between them boiled over when they told her she was going to be homeschooled for eighth grade. To her, it was a death sentence. She would be isolated from everyone she loved and forced to be with her mom all day, learning and studying. It was true torture in her book—cruel and unusual for any teen. Camille wasn’t dumb, though. She knew she was falling into a bad crowd, and this was her parents’ way to cut those people from her life.

The girl who didn’t even know there were three branches of government suddenly immersed herself into one of the biggest political controversies of her time. It all came about when the U.S. Department of Education instituted regulations banning homeschooling. It didn’t stop there—they reached their tentacles into religious-centered private schools, allowing them to remain open only if they stripped religion from the curriculum and removed all religious symbols from classrooms. Since she despised the thought of being homeschooled, she followed the controversy with a keen interest.

Specific dates were established for all parents to register their children for the next year’s classes and for religious institutions to present their non-religious courses. Homeschooling parents, as well as religious schools, decided to challenge the regulations. The Department of Education made its position clear—if parents and religious schools didn’t comply, children would be taken from their parents and placed in foster care, and religious private schools would be terminated. The private schools filed a lawsuit, but the Supreme Court upheld the ruling. Camille was ecstatic. No homeschooling for her.

Parents thought the State’s threat of removing unregistered children from their homes was an idle one. Believing the State had no authority to take their children, parents formed a coalition to challenge the government. Their opinion was bolstered by attorneys who assured them it would be considered kidnapping. So, the homeschooling contingent defied the authorities, evading registration deadlines. The State called their bluff.

Night after night, images of State Police, crying children, and panicking parents, desperate and hysterical, played out as children were pulled from their homes. Public outrage, op-ed pieces, and media attention only emboldened the State in its clear power grab, refusing to back down, instead moving forward in complete disregard of its citizens. Pushing the envelope further, they shut down religious schools from grade school all the way up to universities for not complying with a secular curriculum. Plastered everywhere by the media, the famous picture of a heartless bureaucrat, stiff and cold, handing termination papers to a priest, while in the background, another bureaucrat nailing a “closed” sign on the school’s doors with a nun trying to tear it down as police grabbed her arms, dragging her away.

Overall, Camille could care less about all of it except for the fact her parents weren’t going to register her. That meant one thing for her—foster care. Although she was mad at her parents, she didn’t want to end up living with strangers. She didn’t want to see her parents behind bars. The whole thing was getting out of hand. Thinking back to the night she ran away, Camille recalled her parents telling her they weren’t going to submit to the State’s demands. Remembering the tears in their eyes as they told her they loved her and didn’t want her to be taken away, but they had to stand up for their beliefs. Camille hated them. She hated everyone.

With no recourse, she decided to leave home, but before that, she made a going-away video for her friends. It wasn’t a
statement by a brave thirteen-year-old girl
, as the media referred to it. To her, it was really nothing but a joke illustrating the absurdity of the entire controversy. Now, she had nothing but regret because it set things in motion, and she couldn’t take it back. A two-minute video changed her life, probably forever.

She laughed to herself just thinking about it.
It was pretty funny
, she thought. She set the video to two songs, “Another One Bites the Dust” and the country song, “Proud to Be an American.”
It opened with the country song as images of the D-Day invasion juxtaposed with scenes of the Supreme Court with the words “Religious Freedom Over” over them, then back to depictions of fallen America soldiers, “What did they die for?” It did this for a while before the introduction of images of great American achievements—landing on the moon, inventing electricity, the car, computers—sprinkled with scenes of farmers, ranchers, and factory workers. Those positive images were contrasted with the Constitution on fire and the flag burning. Then, it transitioned into “Another One Bites the Dust.” As the music played, scenes unfolded of religious schools closing, parents being arrested, nuns, rabbis, and priests being dragged away, crying kids ripped from their arms, with Camille in between each scene holding a sign, “I’m outta here.”

She sent it to a few friends, thinking nothing of it. The next day, while eating lunch in a diner, the news was showing it. It went viral with over sixty million hits and growing. She couldn’t believe it. She was famous! She left there thrilled, thinking she had made something of herself. However, by that evening, the winds were blowing in a different direction. The government stepped in and removed it from the web, demanding the media stop showing it. Some networks complied, while others didn’t. Those who defied the government were shut down by the FCC. Americans went ballistic. There were riots and protests. Her face was plastered everywhere as a symbol. The government needed to find her, to stop her. As long as she was out there, she gave the people hope, purpose.

Never in her wildest imagination did she envision her actions would spark the firestorm going on in the country. A few weeks back, making a video and leaving home sounded like great ideas. Now, hungry, hot, and tired, the novelty of the move had worn off. The authorities were hunting her down, and they rarely failed. As the debate over freedom and government intrusion erupted everywhere, Camille cowered in her sweltering apartment, hoping it would all go away. Her video was a joke. She barely understood anything she even posted. That had to count for something if she got caught. But getting caught was not an option for her. Surrender wasn’t in her bones. She would not be found. She would not lose.

Camille regretted telling her parents she hated them. She really wanted to go home, but she knew that was impossible. If she turned herself in, she may suffer a worse fate than simply a foster family. Her parents had charges against them and were in jail. If they were found guilty, they could remain behind bars for the rest of their lives. She was afraid the authorities would do the same to her. Camille was running out of money, food, and resources. She still had determination, but that could only get her so far. Determination was not going to feed her.

She had just finished her last protein bar and threw the wrapper on the floor when she heard something in the hallway. Noises filled the apartment building all of the time, but this one was different. It was almost undetectable, but she thought she heard quiet footsteps coming down the hallway, like someone was trying
not
to be heard. She picked up her handgun and moved toward the fire escape. With her back to the wall, she craned her head to peer out the window. She didn’t see any movement below or across the street at the park hiding in the bushes. If someone was coming after her and it was the government, she would expect more disguised activity outside. She relaxed a little.

Then, the door handle turned. She froze. She thought about going out the fire escape, but decided against it. She moved away from the window over to the kitchen, crouching behind the counter. Whoever was trying to get in was no longer being subtle about it. He smashed his body against the door, breaking the lock. With another forceful push, he moved the couch away from the door. Everything became slow-motion. She saw a homeless man squeeze through the doorway. With a clear view of him, she raised her gun and fired. She didn’t expect the recoil from the gun, and when she pulled the trigger again, he had already moved from his original position.

“Camille, stop shooting! Hear me out first!”

He knew her name. Her stomach sank. Trying to act brave, she spoke.

“Shut up! Come out with your hands up!” The man didn’t move. Silence. “I’m not going to say it again, hands up! I know how to use this thing.”

Camille could see his arms coming up from behind the couch, and as he stood up, she could make out his face. He was a black man with a thick beard, wearing a baseball hat that concealed his hair. He walked over to the middle of the room and started to relax his arms to his side.

Camille yelled, “Hands up or I’ll shoot!”

As the stranger’s arms shot back up above his head, Camille began peppering him with question after question. “Who are you? How do you know me? How did you find me?”

“Listen, I can explain everything,” the stranger reasoned, “just put down the gun.”

“No, not until you tell me who you are.”

“I’m here to help you,” the stranger said.

“Yeah, well, of course you’d say something like that.”

“You need to trust me.”

Camille laughed. “Why should I do that?”

“If I found you, it’s only a matter of time until the government gets you. We need to get you out of here. You’re just going to have to put that gun down.”

“Like I already said, not until you tell me who you are.”

Before Camille could continue, the man was falling to his left side while pushing on his wristwatch with his right hand. A small projectile shot toward Camille, piercing her chest and instantaneously dropping her to the floor.