THE TRILLIONAIRES

by Robert Pettus

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 did not know 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. It was an impossibility.

Randall didn’t know how to vote. He knew nothing 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 saw rarely, anyway, who considered themselves activists, were offended by his unregistered status. Voting was pointless; Randall knew that. That’s why the trillionaires didn’t care whether anyone registered.

The trillionaires who enslaved the world designed the software programs. 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 change it into. Everyone thought political software promoted fairness, a most treasured American value–which to think about it was folly.

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.

Aging 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–now that’s a terrifying thought.

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

Randall decided on the software program called Europa, which promised both to clean up the Earth and implement plans to colonize Jupiter’s moon. People had been there, already–to Europa–there was even 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 it 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 want to believe they are free–they just don’t actually want freedom in any genuine 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 be 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 shut it off, not entirely, 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 in occasionally to its pull. 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 were rumors of an organized underground, somewhere in the city's underbelly, 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 around it as if it still lived–as if it weren’t a fossil.

‘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 didn’t have permission to leave his apartment complex on Tuesdays. He had government-designated freedom of travel restricted to 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 merely on bread and water until Thursday. He could have the groceries delivered by drone from a government Food Distribution Agency, but he liked to go there and shop personally. Randall 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–it was taboo to distrust the government.

It was a pleasant morning. Smog was ever present, but the visibility was better than usual. Randall could see down the hill of his northern Kentucky apartment, almost to downtown Cincinnati. Its cracked skyscrapers sat mostly in abandoned antiquity across the toxic, syrupy Ohio River.

True commerce was essentially illegal; most jobs, and most shopping, could be performed from home. Cincinnati–because of its location in the eastern Midwest–was a city experiencing exponential growth. Compared to the coastal cities, that is, because of constant flooding, which made them nearly uninhabitable. People were fleeing constantly to the interior cities, such as Cincinnati. Cincinnati itself still experienced flooding; the Ohio regularly spewed its bile out into the street, but it hadn’t yet become a major safety concern.

Randall continued gazing down the hill. It was impressive–being able to see that far. He felt a sense of pride at the successes of his local Environmental Protection Agency, before remembering he disliked the government. Randall checked the weather. Local meteorologists advised everyone to 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 (every day except Thursday and Sunday).

He felt like he had gotten one over on the poor bastards whose days of travel-privilege fell on rainy days, because they would have to stay home. The Culture Police wouldn’t allow anyone out during an acid rain–and god knows they shouldn’t–going out in those conditions was a death wish. He would stay in his apartment, protected by his synthetic granite solar roof.

He hated the government, but he couldn’t deny its occasional tech- nological ingenuity.

Randall massaged his temple, reigniting his societal-communications device. There was nothing else to do, so he thought he’d check the news. The Global Conglomerate was airing from Mars. A new inter-planetary highway, recently completed, would expedite the shipping of goods produced in the 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 planet needed to be terraformed through global warming. This was luckily something which the human animal had all too relevant experience.

The trillionaires opened factories, competing with one another for extra wealth like pigs diving into a sty of fresh slop–elated to crank absurd amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere and feel good about doing it. The factories operated around the clock. Brave, rebellious journalists reported the resurrection of the allegedly illegal nine-nine-six work schedule: nine in the morning until nine in the evening and vice versa, six days a week.

The trillionaires, so greedy, even built houses and condominiums there–placing them in climate-controlled, domed resorts complete with artificial beaches and beautiful golf courses. They greeted wealthy vacationers with leis draped on them by green costumed, wide-eyed happy aliens–the logical mascot of this new, chalky red frontier.

The fledgling Martian real-estate business was booming thanks to the wealth generated from the backs of blue-collar workers essentially forced to move there. There was even a nature reserve, rumored to house animals native to Earth. Randall had trouble believing that, considering that any non-human animal without an exoskeleton was long extinct, as far as he knew.

Randall massaged his temples. 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 when he could theoretically go visit them, but even considering that they lived in Kentucky, just a couple of hours’ travel away, it would be risky. He remembered fondly when freedom of travel was legal, but he understood why it was unlawful. Even fully electric, self-driving cars gave people too much freedom. Too much freedom to destroy the world–if not with their cars, then in other ways.

Unfortunately for the average geo-cultural-American, the destruction of the planet occurred more quickly than the development of an efficient public transportation system. Randall owned an electric car–a minuscule, maroon Toyota–but he rarely used it. It was primarily for grocery shopping. Traveling made him nervous.

Randall felt confused and afraid, and those undesirable emotions gave his head a throbbing ache. Fear and confusion were, both culturally and technologically, suppressed by the current political institutions. Randall hated thinking about traveling to see people–but he couldn’t help it. It made him feel bad. He knew doing so destroyed the planet.

Randall logged into work. He operated robotic systems at a recycling plant, monitoring faux cheery androids collecting and sorting trash. It was a pointless job. Most jobs were these days, but the government wanted people employed. It gave them purpose–that was the idea. Randall felt little sense of purpose, watching machines distinguish paper from plastic. He simply stared, dazedly watching the bots fulfill their duty as happy as Snow White’s singing dwarfs.

Activating his pet Achilles, Randall gazed at him lovingly. Achilles, apparently, was a rabbit. His legs were long, and he had a white tail with brown fur. Achilles was always grouchy. He liked to chew up anything he could find–whether or not it was healthy for him–just like a human.

Randall had never seen an actual rabbit–not in real life, anyway–but that’s what it said he was on the box: an Eastern Cottontail Rabbit. He supposed he believed it, because the salesperson said so, too. Randall hated the government, but he didn’t think they’d lie about issues as trivial as household pets.

Achilles, sniffing, darted around the room twice before settling under the couch. Randall relaxed, watching the projection on the wall created by his synaptic connection to his apartment’s Internet of things. Randall loved Achilles; that rabbit was his only constant source of real-life interaction. Randall petted Achilles affectionately between his long ears. Achilles always liked that. He purred gently, grinding his teeth with pleasure.

The acid-rain started coming down. Randall enjoyed stepping out onto his balcony to watch. He knew it was dangerous–it also smelled like shit–but he liked it. Watching the rain, feeling the moisture in the air, did something for him. It reminded him of a world he had never experienced, but to which he felt neurologically attached–much like those bugs crawling around the tree.

Evolution moved slowly–that’s what the big-brained scientists said. It did not equip our minds for the modern world. We should run through the woods and kill birds with slings, and whatnot. That’s why we needed societal communications devices and the Internet of things. It kept us sane. It was vital for the psychological well-being of the species–a species whose brain was now, in a utilitarian sense, expired. Randall could buy that; it seemed to check out. He daydreamed about witnessing the fruits of the Martian global-warming labor. He imagined a green planet–harboring parks filled with healthy flora and fauna, only to become depressed at the thought. Randall wouldn’t be able to move to Mars, anyway–that luxury was reserved for the ultra-wealthy, not random folk who lived in the constructivist apartment buildings dotting the entire world like swollen pimples.

Former Khruschev era architecture had really caught on worldwide. It was efficient, apparently. Randall didn’t know why; he knew nothing about Soviet 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 brought Achilles out onto the balcony, pointing out the weather to him. Achilles sniffed. He liked it, Randall thought. The cockroaches scurried about the trunk of the petrified tree. They were the only organic creatures that could withstand the toxic rain–one of the many reasons they weren’t extinct. They adapted well to change. Cockroaches, with their toughness, adapted with the same ingenuity humans did with their brains. Humans, however, adapt- ed to chaos simply by furthering it.

Randall massaged his temple, flipping through headlines on his societal-communications device. The projection on the wall of his apartment blinked chaotically. They weren’t necessary, but people still preferred them, for apparently nostalgic reasons. Families enjoyed sitting around the projections while eating dinner.

Randall didn’t have much of a family life, but he still used the projector, because everyone else did. He looked at the flashing screen in boredom. The war in the Middle East raged on, as did 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 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 the trillionaires could play. Yes, sometimes they forced actual people to fight (at least that’s what they said–local gossip was certain that these allegedly real people were lab-created clones), but that was to keep the horde afraid, and to maintain their iron grip on power. As long as they knew they could keep the sheep in their pens and the goats bleating happily, the trillionaires could go back to testing out their toys on one another.

Succumbing to boredom, they’d eventually go back to building resorts on Mars. Europa would be next. No spherical terrestrial body could escape the greed of the trillionaires. They even made claims on gas giants. Anything was possible, with the trillionaires; Randall knew that. He shuddered to think of what sort of war-zone Earth would become once the trillionaires felt more comfortable about the sustainability of their new Martian home.

Randall sat on his couch. Evening was approaching. He would need to go to bed soon. 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 enjoy 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 defecate, Randall knew that–the pet manufacturing agency decided that the smell and feel of organic material (even if synthetic) was psychologically healthy. Randall agreed. He wasn’t that much of 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 a rainy, musical forest canopy.

There was noise coming from the apartment next door; a couple was fighting aggressively, screaming at one another. They did that often, but they always made 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, and he–even though he hated the government–still took pride in being a hard worker, a productive citizen. Those recycling androids wouldn’t oversee themselves. Once he remembered that getting adequate sleep was his duty, and a benefit to the world, he could close his eyes with confidence. Plus, he couldn’t stay up late, even if he wanted to, because he was afraid of the police.

The fighting from next door continued. Randall, exhausted, put his societal communications device on standby. The light projecting the daily news on his bedroom wall faded. Randall closed his eyes. He tried to avoid dreaming; the government could read dreams through the societal communications devices. Randall didn’t want prying into his subconscious; he didn’t want to disappoint them. Hated them, but he couldn’t help wanting to be a good citizen. His life had a purpose; he was sure of it.

Part Two–Decisions

On Wednesday, Randall received a call he never expected; a call he thought impossible–a call disrupting 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 might not survive, but they weren’t completely sure. His father was at the hospital, his sister too. Randall should be there, he knew. His father and his sister both had government regulated freedom of travel on Wednesdays, Randall did not. It would be illegal for him to leave his apartment.

Randall’s head throbbed, both from the stress of the situation and the unwanted ideas invading his mind. He needed to control them; he needed to think only government-approved thoughts. If he couldn’t do that, those bastards would come knocking on his door, and if that happened, there was no way he could visit his mother.

Randall looked outside. Along with the blinding sun, a wave of anxiety-induced lethargy washed over him like a bright shadow. He pulled open the curtains. The skies were clear, but they forecast more acid showers later in the day. He didn’t have the luxury of worrying about that. He activated Achilles and quickly fed him before putting him into his travel carrier.

Randall thought about The Reds, the professional baseball team in Cincinnati. He needed to complete an incredibly important, extremely time-sensitive task as subconsciously as possible, while diverting his primary attention to The Reds. This was difficult, but Randall was skilled–he’d had lots of experience. He practiced this every day–not for any real reason–just in case he needed to sneak past the government censors through mindfulness training. Randall found the exercise entertaining. Now it was coming in handy.

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

He kept his car fully charged. Leaving it always on the charger, he couldn’t remember the last time he had driven anywhere except the store. 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 nosy old man horrified by any sort of rule breaking. Randall waved as jovially as he could muster.

"Hello, Mr. Phillips! How are you doing? Hope all is well with you! Beautiful day, 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?"

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

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

Randall knew he had little time. Mr. Phillips would open his mouth eventually, and if not his mouth, certainly his mind. Randall pressed the ignition button and pulled quickly, though carefully, out of the parking lot. He was trying to maintain his focus on The Reds, but Mr. Phillips broke the connection.

Randall attempted to refocus. The Reds were on top of the division. Cesar Mendoza was batting nearly 0.400. John Castleton threw a no-hitter the other night against the Cubs, but The Reds still somehow lost. Randall concentrated, but he feared he had already revealed himself. He wouldn’t know for sure until he saw those flashing blue lights. Randall’s head throbbed violently. The GPS locator in his societal communications device punished him for leaving his apartment on a non-travel day, shocking him like a vibrating dog-collar. The police wouldn’t notice if he was lucky. Hopefully, they had bigger fish to fry. Randall's concentration on baseball could only help him so much.

He swerved left onto Dixie High- way. 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 recent past, of late-stage capitalism. Randall wondered what stage they were in now. The after-party? He slapped himself, refocusing his attention on his favorite baseball club. Making it onto the interstate, his car’s autopilot engaged, shuttling him onto the continuous conveyor-belt rolling southward on I-75. The piezoelectric interstate juiced Randall’s car. It also powered many of the failing towns along the interstate. Drizzling rain began just south of Dry Ridge. Randall, wide-eyed and manic, felt surprised the police hadn’t spotted him. He even saw an apathetic cop car on the roadside, near the radioactive remnant of what used to be Williamstown Lake.

Achilles didn’t enjoy traveling; pets weren’t supposed to travel, they detested it. Randall felt bad for his companion and released him from his travel carrier.

Achilles darted chaotically around the car, then settled down to chew the cushions anxiously.

Achilles was distracting Randall from his mindfulness, so he reached back to shut him off. Achilles retaliated, swatting Randall’s hands like a champion boxer. That didn’t work, though–rabbits were mostly helpless; Randall shut him down. He felt bad, but it was for Achilles’ own good.

Randall’s headache became unbearable. He wanted to call his family, but he was certain that if he did, the cops would be on to him. It shocked him they weren’t already. Randall drove little, especially not illegally–so he was truly unaware of the likelihood of his capture.

The rain continued, strengthening by the minute, becoming a downpour. Randall felt grateful the car was self-driving. Cars weren’t completely self-operational–Randall could take manual control if need be–but that wouldn’t be advisable now. Manual vehicle operation was pointless on the interstate, anyway, considering the piezoelectric conveyor-roads.

Randall zoned out, even nodding off briefly. It wasn’t because he was sleepy; he wasn’t; he just needed to shut himself off from the world, as anxiety exhausted him. By turning off his brain, he shielded himself from reality. He justified this by thinking it would protect his thoughts from the prying minds of the police.

He was wrong, of course. Within his dream, 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 wore protection–an acid-resistant suit and oxygen mask.

The rumor was that the government could easily facilitate the production of enough suits to protect the entire world populous. They didn’t want to do that, though–they needed people to stay home as much as possible. It was the only way to postpone the inevitable destruction of the planet while they continued preparations on Mars.

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, so informed by a government warning written on Achilles’ box. They were taking him away from Randall.

The officer again thumped the glass, this time more forcefully. Randall rolled down the window, but glanced instead to the flashing Internet of things display on his dashboard. The unfortunate message connected simultaneously to Randall’s societal communications device, causing his headache to worsen exponentially.

Psychological conditioning software programmed into each device activated punishment for unwanted emotions, including shock, grief, sadness, and guilt. Randall felt all those emotions. The message was from his sister–their mother had little time left; any minute could be her last.

"Out of the car!" came a booming voice from outside. Randall, detached, forgot about the cop.

He 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. Shoving it into Randall’s open door, he ordered, "Put it on! Then proceed to the police cruiser. The door will open. You have thirty seconds to comply. Move!"

Randall had never worn an acid resistant poncho before–he avoided acid storms at all costs–but he believed they were good for about a half minute of use. He threw on the transparent tarp and rushed, sulking, toward the cruiser. Stepping into the vehicle, its blue lights swirling, a drop of rain struck Randall’s exposed ankle. It burned like hell, immediately blistering 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 fully recover, he knew that. Randall, sitting in the plastic-benched backseat of the police cruiser, noticed a plastic, grated cage surrounding him–solidifying his enslavement. He looked across the backseat, seeing Achilles’ box. He teared up. He couldn’t tell if it was from the acid, losing his mother, or losing his beloved pet. ‘Probably everything combined,’ he thought. Sobbing more, he realized he would never see his mother again. He would likely never see Achilles again.

Who knows what his fate would be? Maybe he would end up in one of the fabled Alaskan gulags, scouring the scorched wilderness for natural gas for the Trillionaires–gas they would horde and transport to Mars.

Randall, by force of habit, thought about The Reds. John Castleton threw a no-hitter, but The Reds still lost.

‘What a life,’ he sighed.