Chapter 1

Dealing With the Ninety-Nine Percent

Brian shuffled wearily into the kitchen. There, he collapsed into a chair as though he’d just finished a fifty-mile hike. He looked at his wife, feeling guilty and inadequate.

“Well, I finally got through the bills. The good news is that I paid what I could. The bad news comes as no surprise and in a clump. First, there wasn’t enough to pay all the bills. For another thing, there isn’t a whole lot left to live on.”

Mary had not turned from the stove, where she was busy preparing one of her ‘Mary’s Originals,’ consisting of whatever was on hand. At the moment, it was featuring a maximum number of beans and the least possible amount of ground meat. “So what is your solution, dear?” she asked absently.

Brian thought whatever she was cooking smelled pretty good. What he didn’t know was how they could get by, even at this minimal level very much longer.

“I don’t know,” Brian said, shaking his head. Although he claimed both schooling and a background in finance, he had never found any solutions in any school or job for what he was looking at now.

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“There just doesn’t seem to be any way to live on any less than we are already. Maybe I could find a job.”

“A job? How are you going to find a job? You’ve been retired for five years, now. There are endless people walking the streets around here searching desperately for work, who have acres of experience, not to mention an up-to-date education.”

“Maybe I could stand there and say, ‘Welcome to Wally World,’ or ‘Do you want catsup and mustard with that?’”

They’d had this conversation any number of times. An unchanging situation seemed to bring the same string of ideas. None of his ideas had a chance in hell to work, but Brian felt an obligation to play his part in the little melodrama.

Mary knew her lines and played her part with much more convic- tion.

“Assuming they’d hire you -- and that’s an awfully large assumption, you’d have to get the car running well enough to get there. Winter’s com- ing on, and the first ice storm or heavy snow would be the end of the job. What would you do then?”

“At least we would have that little bit of extra money we could work with.”

“By the time you repaired the car so we could drive it, we’d have spent twice as much as whatever you could hope to make. Then we’d be right back where we are now, except we’d be even worse off. Why don’t you get back to writing? That’s something I know you’re good at.”

Brian snorted bitterly. “Am I good at writing? Nobody has ever read anything of mine. How good is that?”

“There’s that book you self-published. You sold some copies. Some- body must have read it.”

“At this moment, my writing and my books are part of the problem. I sold enough to cover ten percent of what I paid to get the damn thing printed. Yeah, some people bought it, but they either did it out of pity or obligation. I am quite confident that none of them even cracked the cover. The e-Book version has not gone anywhere. At least with that, I wasn’t out-of-pocket, which is something I can’t say about the money we spent on the soft cover edition.”

“You need to get out there and market it, then.”

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“Marketing is a subject I’ve learned theoretically, but have absolutely no feel for. You know that. There are all those people who want to sell marketing programs. Hardly any of them work, and all of them cost way more than we could afford.”

“You were successful in marketing yourself to me, my love. How did you manage that?”

“I got very, very lucky. You obviously weren’t thinking clearly at the time.”

Mary shook her head. “So, what about that other book? You got that publisher to declare an intent to publish anyway.”

“Them? They keep assuring me they will get it out, but they never do. There’s always some bullshit reason. Well, I’ll take that back. They haven’t even bothered giving reasons here recently. The last time they deigned to communicate, it was to offer me back the rights to the book.”

“Well, why don’t you get it back, then?” “What difference would it make? We don’t have enough money to self-publish the thing. What I have is far better than the first one, but that doesn’t mean I’d be able to do anything with it even if we did let our butts hang out there so far as to get the silly thing done.”

Brian stared down at his hands on the table, and it wasn’t as though he thought they looked good or were even very useful at this point. Per- sonal confrontations were something he avoided whenever and how- ever possible. Usually, his conflict avoidance strategy was to give in to whoever was leaning on him, and then to get back to whatever he felt he needed to do. The trouble was, Mary knew his tendencies and wasn’t about to simply let him crawl off and ignore the issue.

“Maybe you should start a new story, then.” She turned to face him then. “I know what you could do. Try writing something involving the real world, for a change. You’ve got a marvelous imagination and all, but try a change of pace, and do one involving the real world for once. People actually read that sort of thing.”

“I’ve tried any number of times to write about the real world. The last time I tried to write a simple story about going horseback riding, it turned into a full-blown apocalyptic novel that was even further out than anything else I can remember doing.”

“Of course, that’s the novel the publishing company liked.”

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“I suspect the story could have been pretty much anything, or maybe even nothing at all, and they’d have still accepted it. I was going to say they bought it, but no money every changed hands. My impression is that they’d decided to take on some predetermined number of wannabe authors. Actually getting any stories out into the world — that would be the real world we’re talking about, now that was a whole other kettle of fish.”

“Well, why don’t you give reality a chance, to paraphrase the song. Maybe it will go better this time. You’ve been stuck in science fiction, or speculative fiction, or whatever it’s called these days ever since I’ve known you.”

“That is my genre of choice. The trouble is that most of what I like is what they now term classical science fiction. Most of what’s out there now is termed science fiction/fantasy. The emphasis is on the fantasy. They’re all either wannabe Tolkien ‘Lord of the Rings’ stuff with elves, dwarves, and such. Otherwise, they go toward vampires and zombies. It ends up being different people writing about a few worlds already created, to the point that I’ve read book reviews saying nonsense like, ‘vampires don’t act that way.’ Of course they don’t act that way. They don’t exist.”

“The real world of vampires wasn’t what I was talking about, and you know it. Try writing about real challenges and real emotions happening in a real situation. Make it happen to real people, and not individuals with extraordinary powers. Give it a shot. Who knows? You might even enjoy the experience. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you go outside for a walk? It’s a nice day. Think about real things going on, and about real people impacted by those real things. That should give me a little more time to work some magic on our real dinner, which I plan on serving on a real table. Now, shoo!”

Once outside and wandering down the sidewalk, Brian’s mind was free to wander in directions of its own choosing. Mary commented his imagination was a strong point. Brian’s boss, a few years before, would have not only confirmed the observation, he would have seconded the motion. Brian saw a seminar titled, “Thinking Outside the Box,” and asked if he could attend. His boss immediately replied, “No,” adding that

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Brian never thought inside the box. Well, okay, his boss made like it was a bit of humor. It stung anyway.

So what kind of topic could he pursue? Mary was talking like it should be the real world. Her implication was that the subject matter should be relevant to the vast majority of the potential audience. So if he wrote something relevant to, say, ninety-nine percent of the popu- lation, her theory would maintain it should be a best seller. That would be Mary’s position, anyway. Then Brian recalled the Occupy Wall Street movement. They called themselves the ninety-nine percent. Okay, as- suming their descriptive tag was true, there was his vast majority. What on earth could he ever write about that? He hadn’t been anywhere near any of their people or activities.

About the only thing he really recalled about them were a number of snide comments about how well-off many members of the so-called “ninety-nine-percent” seemed to be. Brian didn’t think he could ever imagine being part of that group. Still, suppose the government taxed the top one percent so they would not have any more income than the top of the ninety-nine. Everything would suddenly be peachy, at least for those making just under whatever became the magic number. Bri- an recalled that number was somewhere around $500,000. That would still be more than $450,000 more than he made currently. Such a situ- ation would not make Brian feel any better, that was for sure. Further- more, it would simply create a new top one percent. What would make everything equitable?

Brian walked on rather aimlessly for a while, letting it all process. Finally it hit him. For everything to be equitable, the minimum wage and the maximum wage would both have to be the same. Suppose an ‘equitable’ wage was $10.00 an hour. People could make as much as they wanted above that, but they would have to pay 100% of whatever $10.00 an hour worked out to annually. For things truly to be equitable, nobody could be exempt. So it would apply to the President of the United States just like a bus boy at the local greasy spoon.

Everyone would then be on Medicare and Medicaid, just like the government wanted. Everyone would be on SSI. Nobody would have better medical care just because they could afford better insurance. It would also mean doctors would keep the same amount, as well. With

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that consideration, there might not even be any medical care. Of course, there were any number of folks who had incorporated themselves for the tax advantages. That would mean that corporations, since they were considered persons legally, would be treated just like anyone else for tax purposes. Something like that would be sold as curing the Federal deficit immediately. Still, how could anyone afford a house or car?

Local jurisdictions would end up owning virtually all property be- cause nobody could afford to pay real estate taxes, much less a mortgage. All businesses and farms would end up being owned by one government or another. Brian considered that given the choice between doing some- thing and doing nothing, when the rewards were identical, probably a great many people would elect to do nothing. Further, most corpora- tions and individuals wanting to protect their wealth would leave the country as quickly as possible with as much as possible.

This would create an urgency on the part of the government to seal the borders on one hand, and force people to perform necessary work on the other hand. There would also be questions about how fairly the tax laws were being administered. Brian supposed the gross domestic product would take a nose dive. Nobody would have any funds to invest, and nothing to invest in, since all available funds would be absorbed by the government. Actually, local jurisdictions would end up selling the Federal Government assets simply to keep open for business.

With that situation, and Brian had to admit he was already a long way from the real world prescription from Mary, what sort of charac- ter would be his protagonist? What kind of a story arc could he follow? Standard fare called for a lone hero or small band, taking on and over- coming the system. There was always the Orwellian take, where Mr. Av- erage tries to cope with the situation, and fails in the end. Brian sup- posed such a system would disintegrate in short order, so Mr. Average might not only see it come, he would also see it go, whatever he did or did not do.

Brian suddenly noticed his feet guiding him back toward the house as he considered all of these things. He thought it was interesting, in a way, how these totally imaginary worlds started to develop within his mind, and gained a level of reality exceeding the real world Mary talked about. It wasn’t as though these created worlds were necessarily nicer or

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cleaner than the real world, so called. He could visualize the old news clips of what New York City was like when they didn’t collect trash for an extended period, and imagined the entire country in that situation.

In addition, would anyone bother with any jobs which were in the least dangerous, difficult, or distasteful? How about running a sewer plant? The petroleum industry might not be popular if the pay was the same as just rolling over in bed. Brian recalled working on the drain under his sink, and contemplated how many would still work as plumb- ers. Life would get nasty very quickly. The government might have to resort to armed force to get anything done. Then again, who would have stuck around, either to be part of that armed force or the object of that force? There would be the usual class structure of schemers, dreamers, and sheep.

Brian suddenly felt dizzy and disoriented. It seemed as though all as- pects of his surroundings blurred momentarily. He didn’t think it could be an earthquake, exactly. Brian also didn’t believe he was having any health problems, although that could never be ruled out. If it was health related, he didn’t feel any pain or anything like that. The strangest thing was that he was walking along a busy street. At the same time as the blur- ring of his surroundings, all the traffic suddenly disappeared. Glancing at the houses he passed, Brian saw a number of overflowing trash cans. Then he saw a pack of dogs go across the intersection in front of him. The animals looked like they were starving, and comprised the only moving things he could see between there and home, which was straight ahead.

By the time he got to the intersection, the pack of dogs had disap- peared. Brian looked both ways carefully. It was one of the busiest un- controlled intersections in the city. He had read numerous complaints demanding a traffic signal there. Now, there not only wasn’t any traffic, but he saw grass starting to grow through cracks in the pavement. When he got halfway across the street, another wave of disorientation hit him again. Once more, things that had been in sharp focus went blurry. What the hell was going on? After a gut-wrenching moment, the feeling passed, and Brian quickly looked up and down the street for traffic. There wasn’t any, but there were far more cracks in the pavement, and the vegetation

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growing through the cracks was visibly higher.

None of this made any sense whatsoever. He got to the curb as quick- ly as possible. All Brian could imagine was that the traffic was still there but he just couldn’t see it. Brian paused for a moment to catch his breath, and looked at the buildings. Many showed signs of abandonment. Win- dows were broken and doors hung open. About the only thing Brian associated with such areas usually were covered in graffiti. He’d seen pic- tures of Detroit and Chernobyl. What he saw now looked a great deal more like Chernobyl. Like here, that place had emptied in a hurry, and nobody had come back to even go through the refuse. On the other hand, there were piles of garbage beside and in front of some houses.

As he walked by, Brian noticed a few blinds and curtains move sur- reptitiously. He felt more than saw the scrutiny of fearful, suspicious eyes. It was almost like he just fell into the fictitious world of his nine- ty-nine percent. Feeling like his imaginary world was more real than the day-to-day world was one thing. This was another thing, altogether. He identified his location easily enough, but it was like he’d been gone a dec- ade rather than a few minutes. Home was now only a couple of blocks away, and he picked up his pace.

Ahead, he heard the roar of a number of engines. All of them sound- ed as though they needed new mufflers. Some of them evidently didn’t have mufflers at all. The vehicles sounded like they were coming his di- rection, and for reasons which escaped him, Brian ducked into the next vacant house. He just managed to get out of sight as three beat-up pick- ups rolled by. Each held a gang of nasty-looking guys. Worse, they all had weapons. It appeared they were looking for trouble, and for some reason, his instinct told him the trouble they were looking for might well have his face. He let them get well out of sight before he moved out of his hiding place. It reminded him of news clips showing the Taliban wandering around, looking for somebody to beat up.

At his house, the lawn looked as unkempt as every other place in the neighborhood, even though he knew he’d mowed two days before. Ac- tually, his neighbor had been out perfecting his property yesterday, and that property looked even worse than his, if possible. Actually, his neigh- bor’s house didn’t look like anyone had been there in quite some time. At his own house, the front door hung open, and getting up to it, the

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imprint of gun butts were visible, pressed into the cheap wood framing. The bunch of thugs had been here, and Brian suddenly feared for Mary. A musty odor assaulted his nostrils as he went into the house instead of the dinner he knew had been cooking not a half hour before. Oddly, the kitchen was vacant, and what smells of food he picked up now were nothing like what he remembered beguiling him as he had left.

Out the back door, he saw a couple of pans on a charcoal grill. Brian didn’t remember the grill, and would have thought he’d walked into the wrong place except Mary was standing by the grill, cooking and check- ing the area suspiciously.

As she looked over at him, Brian was shocked at how she could look so much older in this short a time. He felt as though he’d been acciden- tally dropped into a B movie, where nobody had given him a script. For her part, she looked at him with something resembling relief.

“You saw the recruiters before they saw you,” she told him. “I’m glad. You’re going to have to stop these stupid walks you insist on taking. There’s nothing out there to see or do, and they’re going to get you into no end of trouble. Anyway, I’ve managed to get something together for us to eat.”

Brian thought about reminding Mary that she was the one who in- sisted he go take a walk, but the situation was just too strange for him to say a word.

The meal consisted of what Brian could only imagine was some sort of bulk cheese, something like overage Velveeta gone bad, thinned with water, and various items added to it that he decided he didn’t want to in- vestigate too closely. Mary was eating it out of a sense of necessity more than any relish, and Brian decided he’d better consume it in the same spirit in which it was served. As they were finishing eating, Brian saw a couple of people staring through gaps in the fence at them. From what he could see, their expressions resembled envy.

Afterward, she scoured the pans and plates with sand and brushed the sand off. Quite obviously, normal utilities such as water, power, and gas were not part of the equation. Brian went back to the front door, and secured it as best he could.

Later, as the sun set, Brian asked, “So what did the, uh, recruiters do?”

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“They broke through the door, shouting your name. They said you needed to be doing your part for the cause. It was a good thing I had only started the charcoal and hadn’t put any food on. They’d have taken it for sure. So did you come up with any ideas for a story?”

“Well, yeah, I did. The trouble is that it ended up looking just like this.”

“If you’re going to get anyone to read your stuff, you’ll have to talk about stuff that’s not already around them all the time. I mean, what’s the point?”

“I can definitely appreciate what you’re saying, dear.” “Now, you’ve got a good imagination. Why don’t you use it some- time?”

Brian thought he knew how the writing conversations always went. This seemed to be the reverse image of that conversation. How could any of this be happening, anyway?

Mary touched his arm. “It’s getting dark. I’m going to get some sleep.” “Okay. I think I’ll just sit up for a while and try to think up some other kind of story. You never know what might come to me.”

“Well, don’t stay up too long. You’ll need all of your energy tomor- row. You know the recruiters are going to be back. They’ll be bringing help. We’re going to have to get out of here the second there’s any light. We’ll probably need to go quite a long way to find someplace the recruit- ers won’t think to look for you.”

“That makes sense to me, my love. I won’t be long.”

Standing in the darkened doorway to his office, Brian tried to get a grasp on what might be going on. He felt around the room, and discov- ered the desk was old. One corner was held up with what felt like a two by four nailed and wired on to the rest. There was nothing resembling the pile of bills he distinctly recalled. Neither was there a computer of any kind, but if there were no utilities, there wouldn’t be a computer.

The chair felt so wobbly that he decided to sit on the floor, already covered with a great deal of debris he didn’t think he wanted to know about, so it was probably just as well that it was dark. What could have happened? There was the famous observation that once you eliminate

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the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth. In this case, he couldn’t conceive of any solution that wasn’t impossible. So where did that leave him?

Maybe he died while he was out walking, and his eternal reward was to live in the beginnings of a world situation he was putting together for story-telling purposes. Even if that was true, it didn’t solve or accomplish anything.

Then again, there was the possibility that some organization was monitoring his thoughts, and was holding him prisoner by putting his mind into some sort of closed loop, composed of this highly unlikely world-view. The question at that point would have to be why anyone would bother with a nobody like him in the first place. That was not to mention the fact that even imagining such a thing was quite a bit further afield of reality than a majority of the science fiction he’d read over his lifetime. Believers in that sort of thing ended up wearing aluminum foil hats.

Try as he might, Brian could only come up with one other possibili- ty. Well, okay, maybe he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, and the truth might actually lie in some other direction altogether. Still, what seemed to remain was the chance that he was now the protagonist in a story he just started to construct. Were that the case, then to get out of this story line would be simple. Brian simply needed to construct a new plot and world that he could believe in. He figured he’d really rather have a more comfortable world than this one.

The result of staying here was pretty obvious. It would end with him in a forced labor camp of some kind. Mary would end up there as well, and she definitely was not doing very well even where she was in this sorry excuse of an existence. About the only difference between this and what he saw on the news reports about North Korea was the language. If creating a new world was what it took, this one had come together in less than half an hour. Well, maybe he could come up with another one that was better. While he could imagine worse worlds, he sure didn’t want to go to any of them. Oh boy, imagination don’t fail me now!

Okay, creating this current line started with tax policy aimed at cre- ating total financial equity nationwide. It also put the government in charge of the show. Now, what about pursuing the laissez faire model a

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while. Yeah, it had been done any number of times, but not by Brian. Ac- tually this dystopian thing had been done, or perhaps over-done as well, and there it was. For this new plot, Brian considered he could go back to where he started, but instead of going for the ninety-nine, he might go in the direction of lower taxes increasing overall prosperity.

As he considered, a new pattern fell into place. This time, the world could go along the lines of the Republic of Venice, or at least drawing its inspiration from that period. Commercial operations, whether they were corporations or organized along other lines, would have choices if they wanted to do business in the country. One way was to swear fealty to the United States. The country itself would have neither an army or a bureaucracy. Swearing fealty would include the requirement that the organization create its own security operation to protect its own inter- ests both at home and overseas. In addition, a certain percentage of its security would be specifically for defense of the homeland.

Domestic organizations (those swearing fealty) would also have to build roads and other civic improvements. Organizations would do these things in lieu of taxes. Organizations not swearing fealty would be charged for every transaction made in the country. Funds received in this fashion would be used to run the government. This rather less-in- trusive governing body would include representatives of organizations swearing fealty, as well as a lower house of popular representatives. In short, those organizations termed special interests would now be their own branch of government. Companies would get special recognition for support of education and science. This recognition would extend to the arts, including literature. Sports and sponsorship would figure in all this, as well.

Brian considered his protagonist might be a lower-level artist with- in this system. Taxing individuals would be considered a waste of time and effort, since it was obvious that requiring people to self-report their income to the government required them to lie. This all sounded rather promising as a situation, but the question now became what the story arc could possibly entail. Where the ninety-nine scenario turned out to be a story about attempting to survive in spite of impossible odds, this new plot line would have to be more subtle.

His protagonist would work for a patron corporation. Like univer-

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sity professors with their publish or perish scenario, the corporation would have to show some number of literary and artistic works in order to qualify for some distinctions. Possibly, it could give the corporation more votes in the special interest senate. Such additional votes would make it more likely the government would approve corporate projects, such as mines in Africa perhaps. His protagonist would then be support- ed so long as novels continued to be produced at a certain rate. For lower level authors, it would be a matter of quantity over quality.

That sounded like good background, but it wasn’t yet a story arc. Perhaps, in addition, such lower-level types might also be required to participate in requisite corporate security endeavors, working as securi- ty guards in offices or plants, or even on board ships, in order to fight off the pirates at various points around the world. The situation might even include confrontations with nations at one point or another, either at the behest of the government or possibly the corporation by itself. There might even be joint ventures with other corporations that could turn into armed conflict for one reason or another.

Brian had been sitting on the floor, fighting an incipient rebellion in his belly relevant to the quasi-meal he’d eaten. A wave of ... something, he wasn’t sure what, came over him. At first he thought it was simply nausea, but realized after a moment that wasn’t it. His hand felt the car- pet suddenly lose a good deal of grittiness and he realized he was lean- ing against a leather-covered recliner. A second wave of that dizziness subsequently enveloped him, and Brian found himself up in the recliner. The light in the room turned on, and there was Mary in a very nice peignoir. “You’d better come to bed, Brian dear,” she said. “Didn’t you remember you have to work the security detail tomorrow?”

Brian got up, his eyes on Mary. In the ninety-nine plot line she had aged a decade. Thinking about it, Brian wasn’t sure whether that reflect- ed more age or a harder life. Most likely, it leaned toward the latter. In this shiny new plot line, she looked about twenty, very much like when he’d first known her. Actually, now that he was standing up, the various aches and pains he’d put up with over the past several years had also dis- appeared. Glancing down at himself, his abs were toned like they were

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when he was in his early twenties. Brian didn’t have to look down to know his body was reacting to Mary the way it had years ago. He already liked this plot line much better, thank you very much.

She looked at him and smiled knowingly. “Actually,” she commented, “I think we’d better make sure you don’t forget where your happy home is, and who keeps it that way.”

“That works for me,” he breathed, as she led him into the bedroom. It was a short night, but he woke up with what felt like a full load of energy, which was very unlike his recent recollections where he’d just as soon roll over and go back to sleep. As a matter of fact, Brian was ready, willing, and able to pick up where they’d left off the night before. Mary reminded him that he needed to get his last real food until after he got done with the security detail. Brian had to act as though he knew the particulars, even though he didn’t have a clue what he was expected to do, where he was expected to be, or how long it was going to last.

He looked in the closet, but didn’t see anything resembling a uni- form, so he just put on some clothes that somebody had laid out. It was most likely Mary, since laying clothes out wasn’t anything he ever did. Then he found his way into the kitchen. There, Mary was preparing all kinds of great food, little of which would have been considered healthful by the food Nazis Mary had followed for a number of years. It all tasted wonderful, and Brian ate with more appetite than he could remember having in a long, long time. She evidently found nothing out of the ordi- nary with how he was dressed, so maybe that was okay.

They chatted for a while, and then a car horn blew outside. The way Mary looked at him, Brian concluded that must be his ride. He gave Mary a kiss, and headed out the front door. He noted with some sat- isfaction the door now appeared to be in good repair. His front yard was reasonably well-groomed, as well, although not quite as perfect as his neighbor. Of course, that had always been the case, seeing how his neighbor had always enjoyed that kind of thing. Out in front was a blue van with the side door open and three guys inside plus a driver. There was an emblem on the front door, “Universal Service Associates, Inc.” over an insignia very close to what he recalled being on U. S. Govern- ment vehicles not too many years before.

As he got into the van, he turned and waved at Mary, who was watch-

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ing from the front door. The driver was the only one with anything re- sembling a uniform. He had a patch on his shoulder identical to the one on the door. “From now on, you’d better be ready when we get to you,” the driver growled.

There were some predictable comments from his fellow passengers about him getting some last-minute nookie. Brian made no effort to con- tradict them, having noticed a good many admiring glances in Mary’s direction. Hell, if Mary hadn’t kept him focused, they’d have been more right than they could have imagined. Then again, maybe they could imagine. Since the other guys riding with him were about his apparent age, Brian would bet they almost certainly were imagining all kinds of scenes. The van made the rounds of the neighborhood, picking up more guys, all of them about the same age.

Whatever this was about, it was definitely a better situation than what the press gangs were offering in the ninety-nine plot line. So was this truly some kind of parallel universe he fell into by imagining a situ- ation similar to it? That possibility had merit. None of it could be proven or disproven, though, so Brian considered he should just stay in the mo- ment. The van, finally full, headed across town, going through a secure gate. Everyone in the van seemed to know where they were. Brian didn’t think he could find his way home from here unassisted, even though he prided himself on knowing the local area. The city had changed a great deal from the one he knew.

The van passed several buildings that looked like offices or adminis- tration, finally stopping at a place like a warehouse. “This is your stop,” the driver announced. A door opened in the building, and two men, one in a suit and the other in a uniform came out. Brian got out toward the end, and noted the suit was looked at each individual and making a check on a form he was carrying on a clipboard. Of interest was that the uniform seemed to be doing the same thing, but only when the suit said something.

Now it was Brian’s turn. The suit looked at Brian like he knew him, nodded, and made a check mark on his form. “Brian Fuller,” he said to the uniform. The uniform grunted and made his own check. It was all as though they were checking off cargo at a receiving dock. Okay, so maybe this plot line wasn’t perfect. At least they weren’t breaking through doors

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with rifle butts, and terrifying everyone just to get their jollies. Inside, everyone was heading down a hallway to a particular door. For some reason, Brian found himself hoping there wasn’t a giant bug zapper just inside.

As it turned out, the door was just a door, and inside was an area evidently designed to be a classroom. At the moment, there were just chairs with small writing surface mounted on the right side. These faced a low speaker’s platform. There were already ten guys there. Brian found himself a seat, and looked around, but there was little to recommend the place. In a few minutes, another clump of fellows trailed in. This time, the suit and the uniform came in as well. Brian checked out the uniform, noting there were various badges as well as what he could only assume must be indicators of rank.