The Trillionaires

Part One – Randall

Randall scanned the list, flipping his pointer finger upward in annoyance, glancing at the fictionalized smiling personification of each candidate. They would appear quickly in front of him, begin giving their political sales-pitch, and then – after Randall had lost interest and moved on – disappear. He had no idea of which political software was best – he never knew how to vote – he just chose the avatar he thought looked most like someone he could enjoy having a beer with. Everyone always took politics so seriously, but none of the options ever seemed very good to him. One program promised further space industrialization – speeding up the global-warming process on Mars so the red planet would soon become more easily habitable. Another promised to clean up the Earth, to implement green programs that would allow the planet to heal itself naturally. That possibility was more than a stretch, Randall knew that. It was an impossibility. Randall didn’t know how to vote. He didn’t know anything about politics, or software, or the issues affecting Earth and the rest of the solar system. The only reason he even registered was because his friends – who he only rarely saw, anyway; who seemed to consider themselves activists, of sorts – were offended by his unregistered status. Voting was pointless; Randall knew that. That’s why the trillionaires didn’t care whether anyone was registered. The software programs were designed by the trillionaires, who enslaved the world. It didn’t matter what future realities any specific program promised – what it would do, would be whatever its rich masters told its designers to modify it to do. Everyone thought political software promoted fairness – a most treasured American value – which to think about was a hilarity.

Humans aren’t capable of fairness – it’s a concept useful only in theory. No one ever has any power, not really – nobody except the trillionaires, and they only have it for a short time, relatively speaking. Yes, their lifespans are – on average – far longer than the average human, but their scientists hadn’t figured out the secret to immortality. At least not yet. Ageing was simply a biological process, they said. If there was a logical process that furthered its progress – which there was – then that process, with the right research, could be reversed. Immortal trillionaires – that was a terrifying thought.

The human species is by definition corrupt. There are only two classes in any human society: the rich and the fucked.

Randall decided on the software program called Europa, which promised both to clean up the Earth and to implement plans to colonize Jupiter’s moon. People had been there, already – to Europa – there was a base camp, but no one lived there permanently. It wasn’t like Mars – upon which a small society was slowly developing; a culture evolving – Europa was more like Antarctica apparently used to be, decades ago, back when it was super cold – inhabited only by researchers. Randall didn’t really care about the Europa software; he didn’t care about any of the programs the political-technology designers – controlled by their trillionaire masters – created to run the world. They were merely an elaborate illusion, facilitated for years by the owners of the inner solar system. People, by their nature, want to be able to believe they are free – they just don’t actually want freedom in any true sense. The political software programs allow for this necessary, allegedly healthy cognitive dissonance. The software itself, though, changed arbitrarily – only the most gullible, utopian buffoons were unaware of that. Randall wasn’t a buffoon. He may have been poor, but he wasn’t an idiot.

Randall submitted his vote, massaged his temple, and shut off his societal-communications device. There was no way to really shut it off – he knew that, but he still felt a placebo-like sense of privacy when he turned it off. Most people sat scanning their societal-communications devices all day – eyes fluttering as if in REM sleep – doing mostly nothing. Wasting their lives. Randall tried to avoid that, but he caved to its pull occasionally. He would get rid of his device – have it surgically removed and trash it – if it were legal. He told himself that constantly. It wasn’t, though; it wasn’t legal to trash anything, especially not a societal-communications device. That would get you shipped off to one of the legendary Martian gulags. There was apparently an organized underground, somewhere in the underbelly of the city, where you could have societal-communications removal surgery done free, but the thought of venturing into those sketchy, abandoned depths horrified Randall. The vision of some street surgeon digging into his nervous system with god knows what kind of utensil gave him an anxious migraine.

Randall put on his oxygen-helmet, told the door to open, and walked out onto his narrow balcony. Heavy smog wafted around the exterior of his visor. The ancient, brittle white tree – sitting solemnly in the middle of the playground of the towering, cylindrical constructivist apartment complex – stood as lonely as ever. It was a monument to the past – a landmark – a pickled tree. Remnant bugs – cockroaches, beetles and ants – crawled about it as if it weren’t petrified – as if it were still living. Maybe these small creatures could feel nostalgia, Randall thought. Perhaps they had an evolutionary awareness of the places they were supposed to be – of the way their home was supposed to appear. They were the only living creatures, aside from other people, that Randall had ever seen.

Randall needed groceries, but he wasn’t allowed to leave his apartment complex on Tuesdays. He had government-designated freedom of travel only on Thursdays and Sundays. That was a real pain, because he was nearly out of food. He still had plenty of bread; bread was still cheap, wheat being a crop not requiring much water to grow. He was, however, running low on dried, synthetic fruits. He also felt like splurging on some lab-cultivated meat this week – maybe a pork tenderloin. Thinking about food made his mouth water, but he knew he would have to subsist on merely bread until Thursday. He could have the groceries delivered by drone, by the government Food Distribution Agency, but he liked to go there and shop personally. He liked to look at the food he was going to buy. He didn’t trust the government. That’s why he didn’t have that many friends – its wasn’t polite to distrust the government.

It was a nice morning. Smog was present, but there was more visibility than usual. Randall could see down the hill of his northern Kentucky apartment complex nearly all the way to downtown Cincinnati, its cracked skyscrapers sitting in abandoned antiquity across the thickly flowing, toxic Ohio River. No one traveled downtown anymore – there was no reason. True commerce was essentially illegal, and the vast majority of jobs could be performed from home. Cincinnati – due to its location in the eastern Midwest – was a city experience exponential growth. The coastal cities, due to constant flooding, had become mostly inhabitable. People were fleeing constantly to the now ever-enlarging interior cities, such as Cincinnati. Cincinnati itself still experienced plenty of flooding, however – the Ohio regularly becoming swamped and spilling into the lifeless downtown streets – but that hadn’t yet become a major safety issue.

Randall continued gazing down the hill. It was impressive – being able to see that far away. Randall felt a sense of pride at the successes of his local Environmental Protections Agency, before remembering that he disliked the government, trashing the thought. Randall checked the weather. Local meteorologists advised that everyone stay indoors, because there was supposed to be mild-to-heavy acid-showers later in the afternoon. Randall chuckled at that. He always felt like he had won something, when the acid rains hit on days in which he had to stay home, anyway – every day other than Thursday and Sunday. He felt like he had gotten one over on the poor bastards whose days of travel-privilege fell on those rainy days, because they would have to stay home. The Culture Police would never allow anyone out during an acid rain – and god knows they shouldn’t – going outside in those conditions was a death wish; Randall knew that. He would stay in his apartment, protected by his synthetic granite solar roof. He hated the government, but he couldn’t deny its occasional technological ingenuity.

Randall massaged his temple, reigniting his societal-communications device. There was nothing else to do, so he thought he would check the news. The Global News Conglomerate was today airing from Mars. A new inter-planetary highway had been recently completed, expediting the shipping of goods produced in the exponentially expanding Martian industrial sector. Politicians promised new jobs in logistics and interplanetary transportation (also known as space trucking). Mars was a socio-political issue upon which nearly everyone agreed. Earth was dying, and Mars was the easiest option for a new swirling, spherical home. In order to move there, though, the atmosphere had to be modified, which was most easily completed through global warming. This, lucky for the human species, was something with which we had all too relevant experience. The trillionaires had opened factories there, competing with one another for extra wealth like pigs diving into a sty of fresh slop – elated at the opportunity to crank absurd amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere and feel good about doing it. All of the factories operated around the clock. Brave, rebellious journalists had reported a reinvigoration of the allegedly illegal nine, nine, six work schedule: nine in the morning until nine in the evening, six days a week. The trillionaires, so greedy for more capital, had even begun building houses and condominiums there – planting them in climate-controlled, domed resorts complete with artificial beaches and beautiful golf courses. Wealthy vacationers were greeted at these resorts by green costumed, wide eyed happy aliens – the logical mascot of this new, chalky red frontier.

The fledgling Martian real-estate business was now growing rapidly, thanks to the wealth generated off the backs of the blue-collar, lower-class workers essentially forced to move there. There was even a nature reserve on Mars, which rumor had it housed animals native to Earth. Randall had trouble believing that, considering that any animal without a super-strength exoskeleton had long since gone extinct, as far as he knew.

Randall massaged his temple and stalked his family. He was alone. He hadn’t seen his mother, his father, or his siblings in quite some time – the country had become difficult to traverse in recent years. Randall only had two days – Thursday and Sunday – in which he could theoretically go visit them, but that – even considering that they also lived in Kentucky, just a couple of hours travel away – would be very risky. Randall remembered fondly when freedom of travel was legal, but he understood the logic behind its current state of illegality. Even fully electric, self-driving cars gave people too much freedom. Too much freedom to go destroy the world – if not with their cars, then in other ways. Unfortunately, for the average geo-cultural-American, the destruction of the planet had moved much more quickly than the development of efficient public transportation on the westward shifting North American continent. Randall had an electric car – a miniscule, maroon Toyota – but he rarely used it. He would go for groceries on Thursdays, but that was usually it. Travelling made him nervous.

Randall felt confused and afraid, and those foreign emotions gave his head a manufactured, throbbing ache – fear and confusion were emotions both culturally and technologically suppressed by the current political institutions of the inner solar system. Randall hated thinking about that – about traveling freely and seeing the people he wanted to see – but he couldn’t always help it. He felt badly about that. He was, by doing that, destroying the planet. He knew that.

Randall checked on his work. He operated robotics systems at a recycling plant, monitoring apparently cheery androids as they collected and sorted trash. It was a pointless job, Randall knew that. Most jobs were pointless, these days, but the government wanted people employed. It gave them purpose – that was the idea. Randall didn’t feel much sense of purpose, watching machines distinguish paper from plastic. They hadn’t made a mistake in months – at least not as far as Randall could tell; he simply stared, dazedly watching them fulfill their duty as happily as Snow White’s singing dwarves.

Randall activated his pet, Achilles. Achilles, apparently, was a rabbit. He was brown, with long, springy legs and a bushy white tail. He was a grouchy animal. He liked to chew up everything, regardless of whether it was healthy for him or not – just like a human, Randall thought. Randall had never seen an actual rabbit – not in real life, at least – but that’s what it said Achilles was on the box; he was an Eastern Cottontail. That’s what the people at the pet distribution agency had told him. He supposed he believed them. He hated the government, but he didn’t think they lied about issues as trivial as the modeled species of household pets. Achilles, sniffing, darted around the room a couple of times before settling under the couch, relaxed – watching the projection on the wall created by the synaptic connection of Randall’s societal communications device to his apartment’s internet of things. Randall loved Achilles; that rabbit was the only constant source of real-life communication Randall had. Randall petted Achilles lovingly, between his long ears. Achilles always liked that. He purred gently, grinding his teeth in pleasure.

The acid-rain started coming down. Randall enjoyed stepping out onto his balcony to watch. He knew it was dangerous – he was aware that it smelled like shit – but he considered it worth it. Watching the rain, feeling the moisture in the air, did something for him. It reminded him nostalgically of a world he had never experienced, though to which he still felt a neurological, evolutionarily manufactured attachment – much like those bugs crawling around the bleached tree. Evolution moved slowly – that’s what all the big-brained scientists said – our minds weren’t equipped for the modern world. We should be running through the woods and killing birds with slings, and whatnot. That’s why we needed the societal communications devices, and the internet of things. It kept us sane. It was vital for the survival of the species, which was now, in a utilitarian sense, expired. Randall could buy that; it seemed to check out.

Randall daydreamed about witnessing the fruits of the Martian global-warming labor. He imagined a green planet – harboring parks filled with healthy flora and fauna. He became depressed at the thought; he wouldn’t be able to move to Mars, anyway – that luxury would be reserved for the ultra-wealthy, not the random people who lived in the towering, cylindrically shaped constructivist apartment buildings dotting the entirety of the world like craterous pimples. Former Soviet, Khruschevsky-styled architecture had really caught on worldwide, for some reason. It was efficient, apparently. Randall didn’t know about that; he didn’t know anything about architecture. He didn’t even know who Khrushchev was – not really. Just some guy who lived a long time ago. That guy seemed like a real bastard.

Randall enjoyed the rain. He even briefly took Achilles out onto the balcony, pointing to show him the weather. Achilles sniffed in recognition. He liked it, Randall thought. The cockroaches scurried about the trunk of the pickled tree. They were one of the only organic creatures that could withstand the toxic rain – one of the many reasons they were not yet extinct. They were tough. They adapted well to change. They adapted with their toughness, Randall thought, while humanity adapted with its brain. The brain of humanity both adapted to chaos and furthered it exponentially.

Randall massaged his temple and flipped through the headlines on his societal-communications device – the projection on the wall of his apartment blinking chaotically. The projections weren’t necessary, but people still preferred them, for apparently nostalgic reasons. Families liked sitting around the projections while eating dinner. Randall didn’t know anything about that, but he still used the projector, because everyone else did. He looked to the bright, flashing screen. The war in the Middle East was still raging, as was the war in Eastern Europe. We were winning – whoever we were – according to the talking heads. Not that it mattered. The reality of war – in Randall’s pessimistic, controversial (he thought) mind – had long since lost its danger; it was just a competition between the trillionaires, to see who had the most lethal toys. War was an arena upon which they could play with one another. Yes, sometimes they forced actual-people to go to war (at least apparently – local gossip was certain that these allegedly real people were merely lab-created clones), but that was just to keep the horde afraid of them – to maintain their iron grip on power. As long as they knew they were keeping the sheep in their pens – keeping the goats bleating happily (or at least happily enough for them) – they could go back to testing out their new toys on one another; go back to building resorts on Mars. Europa would be soon. No spherical terrestrial body could escape the greed of the trillionaires. Shit, the gas-giants may even see their time come. Anything was possible, with the trillionaires; Randall knew that.

Randall shuddered to think of what sort of warzone Earth would become once the trillionaires felt more comfortably about the sustainability of their new Martian home.

Randall sat on his couch. Evening was approaching. He would need to go to bed soon, he knew. If he stayed up past his government-regulated bedtime, his societal communications device would alert the police. They wouldn’t do anything, they only intervened if someone made a habit of staying up late, but Randall liked to fly under the radar – he didn’t like getting on the bad side of the law. He fed Achilles and changed the rabbit’s litter box. There was no practical reason for pets to eat, or to shit, Randall knew that – the pet manufacturing agency just decided that the smell and feel of organic material (even if synthetic) was healthy for people, psychologically. Randall agreed with that. He wasn’t always such a contrarian. The government progressed; it did some good things, sometimes. He knew that.

After Achilles finished his dinner, Randall shut him down and placed him in his sleeping-pen. Randall then went to his bedroom and lay down, staring vacantly at the ceiling. His internet of things shifted the projection on the ceiling to that of a rainy, pattering forest canopy. There was some noise coming from the apartment next door; a couple was fighting aggressively – screaming at one another. They seemed to do that often, but they would always make up. The walls were paper-thin, unfortunately – just as the government wanted them. Nothing was secret. Randall could hear all his neighbors, all the time. It made it difficult for him to sleep, but he still managed it, on most nights. Sleeping was part of his duty, as a citizen of the solar system, and he – even though he hated the government – still took pride in being a hard worker, in being a productive citizen. Those recycling androids weren’t going to oversee themselves. Once he remembered that sleeping was his duty – that, by getting good sleep, he was being a benefit to the world – he could close his eyes confidently. Plus, he couldn’t stay up late, even if he wanted to – as much as he hated them, he was afraid of the police.

The fighting from next door continued. Randall, exhausted, turned off his societal communications device. The light projecting the daily news onto his bedroom wall shut off. Randall closed his eyes, falling into a peaceful sleep. He tried to avoid dreaming; the government could read dreams through the societal communications devices. Randall didn’t want them to see his subconscious; he didn’t want to disappoint them. He hated them, but he still wanted to be a good citizen. He had a purpose; he was sure of it.

Part Two – Decisions

On Wednesday, Randall received a call he could have never expected; a call he naively thought impossible – a call disrupting completely his cynical, lazy routine existence. His mother had a stroke. She was in the hospital, in Lexington. She wasn’t doing well. Doctors thought she would live, but they weren’t completely sure. His father was there, at the hospital. His sister was there, too. Randall should be there, he knew. His father and his sister both had government regulated freedom of travel on Wednesdays, however – Randall did not. It would be illegal for him to leave his apartment.

Randall’s head throbbed, both from the unavoidable stress of the situation and from the thoughts – the ideas – involuntarily invading his mind. He needed to control them; he needed to consciously think only government-approved thoughts. If he couldn’t do that, those bastards would be knocking on his door in no time, and if that happened, there was no way he was going to see his mother.

Randall looked outside. Along with the blinding sun, a wave of anxiety-induced, paranoid lethargy washed over him like a bright shadow as he pulled open the curtains. The skies were clear, but more acid showers were forecast later in the day. He would have to cross that toxic, decrepit bridge when he arrived at it. He activated Achilles, quickly feeding him before putting him into his travel carrier.

Randall forced his focus on The Reds, the baseball team in Cincinnati. He needed to complete these incredibly important, extremely time-sensitive tasks as subconsciously as possible, while simultaneously directing his primary mental attention to The Reds. This was difficult, but Randall was skilled – he’d had lots of experience. He practiced this mental trick every day – not for any real reason – just because he’d heard of the potential to sneak past the government through mindfulness training. Randall found that interesting. Now, it was coming in handy.

Randall grabbed a piece of crusty bread before heading out the door. He chewed frantically, leaving crumbs in the empty, flickering hallway.

His car was fully charged. That was a relief, because he wasn’t sure whether he had left it that way – he couldn’t remember that last time he had driven anywhere. He tossed Achilles into the backseat and yanked open the driver’s side door.

“Hey!” came a confused shout from the balcony of a neighboring apartment. It was Mr. Phillips, a frustratingly nosey old man horrified of any sort of rule breaking. Randall waved as jovially as he could muster:

“Hello, Mr. Phillips! How are you doing? Hope all is well wit you! Beautiful day out here, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful now, but it’s going to rain later! You better not be out long! Say, isn’t your travel day on Thursday? What are you doing outside today?”

“Got my days changed!” I responded, “Got a promotion at work, and they let me change my day to Wednesday! It’s good – my dad and my sister both have Wednesday, so now I can go see them.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Phillips. He was confused. He had never heard of anyone getting their travel days changed, ever. He hadn’t heard of it because it never happened. He turned, limping uncertainly back into his apartment.

Randall knew he didn’t have much time. Mr. Phillips would open his mouth sooner rather than later, and if not his mouth, certainly his mind. Randall pressed the ignition button and pulled quickly, though politely, out of the parking lot. He was trying to keep his focus on The Reds, but Mr. Phillips had broken his concentration.

Randall attempted refocus. The Reds were on top of the division. Cesar Mendoza was batting nearly .400. John Castleton threw a no-hitter the other night, against the Cubs, but The Reds still somehow managed to lose. Randall focused, but he feared he had already revealed himself. He wouldn’t know for sure until he saw those flashing blue lights, though. He had to keep moving.

Randall’s head throbbed violently. The GPS signal in his societal communications device was punishing him for leaving his apartment on a non-travel day, shocking him like a vibrating dog-collar. The police would only fail to notice if he was lucky; Randall was aware of that. Hopefully, they had bigger fish to fry today. Randall’s trained focus on baseball could only help him out so much.

Randall swerved left onto Dixie Highway. He passed Reality Tuesday coffee house, which stayed open, Randall couldn’t help but think, only as a sort of local novelty – a remnant of the semi-recent past of late-stage capitalism. Randall wondered what stage they were in, now. The afterparty? He slapped himself, refocusing his attention on his favorite baseball club.

Randall made it onto the interstate. His car’s autopilot, operating by design, attached the car to the continuous conveyor-belt pushing southward on I-75. The piezoelectric interstate juiced Randall’s car. It also powered – at least to some degree – many of the growing towns lining the interstate. Drizzling rain began just south of Dry Ridge. Randall, wide-eyed and manic, felt surprised that the police hadn’t yet confronted him. He had even seen a cop car, just a few miles down the road, near the radioactive remnant of what used to be Williamstown Lake.

Achilles didn’t like travelling; pets weren’t supposed to travel, they were designed to detest it. Randall, feeling bad for his companion, had initially released him from his travel carrier. Achilles immediately began darting chaotically around the car, thumping a muffled bass sound into the soft back seat, chewing up the cushions anxiously. It was distracting, so Randall reached backward to shut him off. Achilles retaliated, swatting quickly at Randall’s hands like a flurry from a champion boxer. That didn’t work, though – rabbits were mostly helpless, Randall had learned – he shut Achilles off. He felt bad for the little bunny, but it was for his own good.

Randall’s headache was becoming unbearable. He wanted to call his family, but he was certain that if he did that, the cops would be on to him. He was incredibly shocked that they weren’t already. Randall didn’t spend too much time travelling, though – especially not illegally – so he was truly unaware of the likelihood of his capture. The rain continued, strengthening by the minute – turning into a downpour. Randall felt grateful for his self-driving car. Cars weren’t completely self-driving – Randall could take manual control if he wanted to – but that wouldn’t be advisable during a downpour. Manual vehicle operation was pointless on the interstate, anyway, considering the piezoelectric conveyor-roads.

Randall began zoning out. He even nodded off briefly to sleep, not because he was tired – he wasn’t – he just needed to shut himself off from the world, a classic trick of the anxious individual. He was shielding himself from reality by turning off his brain. He justified this by thinking to himself that it would make his thoughts more difficult for the police to intercept.

He was wrong about that. From within his dream state, Randall heard a knocking on his window. He snapped awake, glancing around confused and frantic before remembering his unfortunate situation. A cop was standing at his window, peering in. The downpour hadn’t yet subsided, but the officer was well protected – he was wearing an acid-protection suit and an oxygen mask. It was rumored that the government could easily facilitate the production of enough suits to provide protection for the entirety of the world populous. They didn’t want to do that, though – they needed most people to stay home as often as possible. It was the only way they postponed for as long as possible the inevitable destruction of the planet, while they continued their Martian preparations.

Randall looked into his rearview mirror. He saw another cop placing Achilles into the backseat of the police cruiser. An animal companion wasn’t a right, it was a privilege. The government warning said that on Achilles’ box. The bastards were taking him away from Randall.

The officer again thumped the glass, this time more forcefully. Randall began to roll down the window, though glancing instead to the internet of things display notification on his dashboard monitor. The unfortunate message, connected simultaneously to Randall’s societal communications device, caused his headache to worsen exponentially. Psychological conditioning software programmed into each societal communications device applied positive punishment for unwanted emotions, including shock, grief, sadness, and guilt. Randall felt all those emotions. The message was from his sister – their mother didn’t have much time left; any minute could be her last.

“Out of the car!” came a booming voice from outside. Randall, detached, had forgotten about the cop. Randall opened the door timidly. The downpour hadn’t yet subsided. The other police officer – the one who had taken Achilles – was walking back to the car, holding an acid-rain poncho. The cop shoved it into Randall’s cracked-open front window:

“Put it on,” he said, “Then get out, and get into the cruiser. The door will be open. You will have, at most, thirty seconds – so you had better be quick.”

Randall had never worn an acid rain poncho before – he usually avoided acid storms as all costs – but he had thought that they were good for more than thirty seconds of use. He put on the transparent tarp and rushed sulking toward the police car. Stepping into the vehicle, its blue lights swirling, a drop of rain struck the skin of Randall’s unfortunately exposed, ghostly pale ankle. It burned like hell, immediately eroding his skin.

“God dammit,” said the police officer, “Handing him a tube of ointment, “Put this on.”

Randall applied the ointment. It helped, but only a little; his skin would never recover fully, he was aware of that. Randall, sitting in the plastic-benched back of the police cruiser – a plastic, grated cage surrounding him; enslaving him – he looked across the backseat, seeing on the other side Achilles’ box. Randall teared up a little. He wondered if there was acid in his body – in his tears. Probably, he thought to himself. He sobbed more heartily. He would never see his mother again. He would likely never see Achilles again, after this. Who knows what his own fate would be? By his own assumption, he would end up in one of the storied Alaskan gulags, scouring the scorched wilderness for remnant natural gas for The Trillionaires to horde in preparation for their move to Mars.

Randall, by force of habit, thought about The Reds. John Castleton threw a no-hitter, but The Reds had still managed to lose. What a life.

End