What's in a Name?

With a name like Mart Lindblast, you know there’s going to be trouble. No, you didn’t get that wrong. I said Mart, not Marty, not Martin, just Mart. You know, like K or Valu or Kwik-E. Mart. It’s just not the kind of name that lends itself to anything going right.

I’m not sure what my mother was thinking. She said my dad picked out the name, and she went along with it. It was original and cute, supposedly. I’d ask him about it, but I never met him. He saddled me with this ridiculous moniker and split. Nothing like giving your baby boy an open invitation to an ass-kicking and not having the guts to hang around and deal with the mess.

I was something of a science and engineering whiz, despite my moronic name. Somehow, the seeds of genius were implanted in me by 2 simpletons.

You may recognize my moniker from Protocol 17. You know, the Atmospheric and Climatic Adjustment Protocol — the ACAP. I was the lead research engineer on the project. Clean air and temperate climate for all. A lofty idea. A good idea.

It started in 2031. Climate change ravaged the world. Floods, droughts, famines, the world was in a state of crisis. Animals started birthing young in winter, leaving them to die of starvation weeks later. Industry polluted the planet from all corners.

Efforts were made to ameliorate the problems, taxes, carbon credits, and stronger regulations. But the harder we tried; the worse things got. Geese all but became extinct.

I, along with a team of brilliant minds from around the world, under the sponsorship and supervision of The World Governing Body (WGB for short), came up with the answer — Protocol 17.

To be honest, it wasn’t that difficult. I won’t bore you with the nuts and bolts of it. Suffice it to say, it’s 17 jets in 17 strategic locations around the globe, spraying a mix of 17 substances into the atmosphere every hour on the hour.

The substances are and were safe. They act together to neutralize industrial toxins emitted by factories, vehicles, and what have you. They also regulate climate through a very complex mechanism that results in balancing heat from the sun and rain production.

It worked a treat! It was working decades before the public knew anything about it. Heady days indeed! Those areas that needed cooling cooled. The ozone layer began to close its hole. Rain came at regularly scheduled intervals. Food was growing at unprecedented rates. It was a time of plenty, of joy and prosperity for all.

Until it wasn’t.

The protocol began to fail. Slowly at first, then more rapidly. It started in the west and moved eastward. The extreme weather patterns we were avoiding became even more extreme. Food production, other than that conducted indoors, all but halted. And disease ran rampant. Strange

illnesses were popping up all over the world, all with the same symptoms, boils, breathing troubles, fever…death.

I warned the team the Protocol needed to be scaled back. It was in my initial report. The seventeen flyovers an hour were never designed to be permanent. They were meant to stabilize the planet. Maintenance operations would have eventually seen 4, maybe 5.

That never happened. The more flyovers there were, the more money was made for the WGB and their corporate friends. Each flyover meant roughly $1.8 million. Saving our lives became big business instead of a goal in itself.

I was fired from the team for saying so. I, along with my partner, Richard Jones, posted a few videos on WorldTube, warning people. They were taken down within hours. Then the calls started coming. And the surveillance. I’m in hiding now. I shouldn’t even be writing this. It will likely be my last communication with the public.

The brownouts are now 22 hours long. Electricity, for those that still can get it, is available 2 hours per day, 7 to 8 am and 6 to 7 pm.

I’m hungry. So very hungry. I think it’s been three days since I’ve eaten anything of substance, maybe 4. I have a bit of water here, but not much. I don’t dare show my face at the food distribution center. I’d be picked up for sure.

Plus, I’ve been sanctioned for having an unauthorized food source.

Not that it matters. As a single man of my age, I’d get next to nothing anyway. There’s not enough to go around. It’s women first, no, scratch that, it’s World Government employees first. In fact, if they’re high up enough, they don’t even wait, they take whatever pleases them. I used

to do that when I was on the inside. Meat, fish, milk…haven’t had any since I spoke out.

When I think of that, when I remember the taste of beef in my mouth, I wonder if I should capitulate. Maybe I should just give up and throw myself at the mercy of the WGB, play the game, and get the goods. Maybe I could fight better on the inside.

Naw. I’ve gone too far and said too much. Anyway, that’s just not how life works. Not mine, anyway. Richard didn’t get fired. He was reprimanded, that was all.

But back to the distribution. It’s women first, officially, then men working for the World Government Administrative Units in lesser capacities, then children. That leaves nothing for anyone else.

It’s so bad that I’ve actually seen men, men I know, impersonating their sisters, aunts, mothers or female neighbours to gain extra provisions. It never works; the retinal scan always shows them out. And then they get

sanctioned on behalf of their family.

As for the unauthorized food source, they’re not wrong. I did. I do have a small window sill garden. The last time I had celery, peppers and tomatoes, I saved the seeds, dried them and planted them for my own use.

I knew it was wrong. I knew I didn’t have a permit. I didn’t care. First, I don’t have 10 World Digicoins to get a permit. I don’t know anyone who does.

Second, I didn’t want to pledge 50% of my “crop” to the WCB to be distributed. Judge if you will, but the truth is, caring for your fellow being goes out the window when you don’t have enough for yourself.

I also didn’t want my scrawny celery and anemic peppers to be placed on the public record. I’ve seen what happens to people on the record. Jonas Lincoln, for example…had a small greenhouse and a skinny lamb. He got his permit like a good World citizen. And the day his name and details were published in World News Weekly, he was looted, attacked, and killed.

Yeah, killed, for a 32-pound lamb, 42 tomatoes, 4 handfuls of spinach and 6 squash. Oh, and some basil and dill. There were allegations he had potatoes too, but I doubt it, nobody has had them for at least 15 years.

He didn’t even have a chance to pay his dues to the Collective. And he’s not an isolated incident. I can name at least 35 people who followed the rules, who got the permit, and who ended up dead or badly hurt.

Like I said, when resources are scarce, rules be damned! People resort to self-help. There’s no community, no society. There are just individuals trying to get what they need to survive by any means necessary.

It’s relatively cool tonight, about 43 degrees. Dogs are meowing, and cats are barking, I swear. I don’t remember the last time I saw a bumble bee or a bird other than a crow. Crows, those things can live through anything. I’d love to have their resilience.

There’s no sun. There’s no moon. There’s just a sort of early dusk. Half light, half dark, as if the switch for night and day is broken. I know. I’m the guy who broke it.

The air is thick and heavy with impending doom. I think there might be another riot tonight. They happen a few times a week. Hungry, angry, scrawny people, screaming, marching with the little energy they have left, for something, anything. A crumb, just a crumb, while the rulers get

fat.

The protesters come and then disappear. Scooped up by World Cop Enforcement, only to be replaced with new ones somewhere else in the world the next time around.

It’s 6:58 pm, I don’t have much time left. I don’t know how to right the wrongs I created. I couldn’t even if I did know. I hear footsteps getting closer. Shit!

I screwed up. I screwed up big. You can’t beat Mother Nature. She always wins. Mother Nature saw fit to give me a name like Mart Lindblast. And I dared to challenge her. That was a mistake. If I had a name like Richard or Joe, even Jason, I’d likely not be in this mess. Like I said, with a name like Mart Lindblast, you know there’s going to be trouble. And I got nothing but.

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Originally published on Medium.com