Freedom Incorporated - Peter Tylee (best biographies to read TXT) 📗

under their machines. Contractors often face heavy financial penalties if they fail to deliver on time, no matter how unreasonable the deadline. In Honduras, when filling out a particularly large order on a tight deadline, factory managers have been reported injecting workers with amphetamines to keep them going on forty-eight-hour marathons.

Naomi Klein - “No Logo”, 1999

Thursday, September 16, 2066

16:33 Groningen, The Netherlands

Heavy smoke stifled the air in the pizzeria. It was a dank, dingy little place that Hans had found well out of the way. The few local patrons he’d ever seen there tended to be ragtag and surly. That made it the perfect place to escape the confines of his apartment, even if for only a few hours.

He’d just ordered a ‘tropical delight’ pizza from the menu, but knew from experience it would more closely resemble ‘subtropical infestation’. Regardless, he was in high spirits. Getting away from the seemingly endless cycle of experiments always cheered him up. He hugged a corner of the room, always with a watchful eye on the other pizzeria regulars. Most of them were puffing on a pipe or cigarette in flagrant disregard for the multitude of laws explicitly forbidding it. There were seven, all single men. He couldn’t imagine the owners were encouraged by the lack of patronage, but it suited Hans perfectly. Yet he vaguely wondered whether he looked the sore thumb jumbled in with such a crowd. He mentally shrugged. I must get out sometimes or I’ll go crazy. He was already going crazy, he knew that. He would’ve loved to take a walk after his meal. He was tired of heading straight home. What about a movie? He would have personally traded a thousand movies for one decent walk around his beloved city. Two thousand! But though the cinema was dark and anonymous, it was just as perilous as a stroll. Indeed, since the movie house was across town it amounted to the same thing anyway.

A plump waitress bustled to his table and slapped his pizza onto the protective mat before hurrying back to the bar, nestled in the opposite corner. He didn’t know why she made such an effort to look busy. How long can it possibly take to dry one plate? Hans had watched her repetitively rubbing a grotty tea towel around and around the same plate for close to half an hour. Hmm… I thought so - subtropical infestation. It looked dissimilar to the fresh steaming picture on the laminated menu card. The cheese looked stringy and his palate blandly informed him that it had seen better days before reaching the pizzeria’s oven. Probably mouldy, he thought. The base was dry and too thick for the meagre topping, and the tomato paste, which the Lebanese cook had applied sparingly, was brittle from overcooking in their wood-fire furnace. Overall, it was little wonder the pizzeria was hazardously close to going out of business.

He ate slowly, savouring every second away from his post. Only after he’d scraped the last of the burnt cheese off the platter did he consider leaving. He stood reluctantly and smiled at the waitress as she scanned him for the bill. She smiled warmly back, as if she had to thank each sponsor individually for braving the establishment. Two months ago her smile would have caused a stirring in his groin and he’d have vied for her affection in a passionate one-night stand. But the strain of constant fear had taken its toll. Tonight he merely checked the amount on the display to make sure she hadn’t overcharged him before heading into the evening outside.

It was already dark. Only a hint of the fading glow in the west remained to signify the death of twilight and the onset of night. He was dragging his feet, ambling as slowly as he could through the back alleys to his tatty little apartment, breathing deeply to clear the smoke from his lungs. He was nervous when walking home, or when he was anywhere outside for that matter. Cameras were everywhere and he had to remember to shield his face. Microchip scanners were even harder to evade and he had to squeeze down the tightest alleys to pass them unnoticed. Sure, they were great for eradicating crime in Groningen. But what about the innocents who are presumed guilty? The system had faults, but wasn’t one of the demons he was willing to wrestle. Nope, he’d chosen a bigger, more dangerous foe. Mandatory microchipping was just an extra hurdle for him to jump, one more obstacle on the road to a safer planet.

Hans sneered.

They’ve got no idea what’s going on right under their noses. He wondered whether it was already too late to avert. Maybe it’s all in vain and I’d be wiser spending the remaining time doing things I enjoy. The thought of living in a ticking bomb without knowing how long the idiots had unwittingly set the fuse made him jittery.

His nerves were taut as he stalked through the streets. The sudden meow of a cat startling him close to a heart attack and he slapped a palm over his chest in a token bid to make sure it was still beating. “Please don’t do that,” he said as the cat rubbed against his leg. He could feel the purr of its tiny inbuilt motor vibrating through his trousers.

Hans crouched in the darkness and petted the ginger cat with long strokes, which encouraged the feline to rub its head across his bent knees. “Hey, fella.” Hans scratched it behind its ears and rubbed it affectionately under its chin, something that seemed to drive the curious thing crazy with pleasure. “Hey, you live around here?” The cat meowed again. No collar, Hans thought as he stroked its side and felt its pronounced ribs. “Are you a stray?” The cat nudged him harder, nearly disturbing his delicate balance and sending him sprawling across the cold brick alley. Then it looked up with bright yellow eyes, pleading with him for… What? “What is it?” Their eyes remained locked until the cat brushed against him again, in sheer bliss from the sudden abundance of attention.

“Oh, no.” Hans stood, much to the dismay of the cat. “No, no. I can’t have a cat,” he said, looking apologetically at the soft-furred animal. “I’m not allowed cats in my apartment.” He turned his back and started walking the stiffness from his knees. They always seized up when he squatted or knelt. He deliberately bent his thoughts to something else and quickened his pace before he fell helplessly under the stray’s spell and the benevolent streak that blemished his personality forced him to adopt it. “I’m sorry, but I have enough problems to deal with at the moment.”

The resulting meow beseeched him to help. It tugged at the very fabric of his heart, the last desperate plea from an abandoned kitten whose instincts forewarned of its impending doom unless it found warm shelter and nourishing food. A devout cat-person, Hans couldn’t bring himself to forsake the animal to whatever fate tossed its way. What if I’m its last chance? He turned to see a cute whiskered face looking forlornly up at him.

With a sigh, he threw his hands in the air. “Okay, I suppose I’m breaking enough laws to go straight to hell already. One more can’t hurt.” He scooped his new companion into his arms and it restarted its adoring motor, smooching his clean-shaven chin. “What am I going to call you then?”

He took a quick peek under its tail. “Oh, so you’re a girl cat.” He ran a finger under the animal’s chin and she pianoed his jacket with her claws. He was feeling uninspired and deflated by his recent experimental ill luck, and that sentiment weaved into his lack of creative flair. “How about Kat?”

She didn’t object.

“Okay, Kat it is,” he huffed. “So what do you want for dinner, Kat?”

She purred some more.

“How about mince?” He thought he had a small packet tucked toward the rear of his freezer, which shouldn’t take long to defrost. “Tomorrow we’ll get you some real cat food.”

Despite acquiring a new friend, his problems quickly wound up his mind and consumed his thoughts. So his torment continued afresh, just as agonizing as before. His quandary revolved around an issue in the manufacture of the material PortaNet needed to contain a space fold. He’d managed to get his hands on some through Lars Olssen, before he’d been assassinated. Dangerous, dangerous stuff. More shocking was how they were disposing of the by-product. All told, they were heading down a path that led to a catastrophe the likes of which nobody on Earth had ever had the gall to imagine.

Fear of the inevitable cataclysm kept Hans van de Berg toying with the equipment that crowded his apartment. Fear of being killed like Lars Olssen kept him cautious on the streets.

As he expected, his apartment smelled like smouldering silicon. The sordid smoke engulfed him as soon as he entered. Great. Kat gave him an uncertain look when he placed her carefully on the carpet. “Sorry about the smell, you’ll get used to it after a while.”

She spent the next ten minutes exploring her new surroundings, cataloguing where things were, and sniffing all the fascinating scents that humans didn’t notice. By the time she’d finished, Hans had fixed dinner and Kat ate the mince with a gusto that could only come from true appreciation.

Hans scanned his instruments to refresh his memory on the sate of the previous experiment. As usual, it was fubar. Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tempted to start pulling it out. Okay, what’s going wrong here? He knew what the original material would do if gathered in large enough quantities; Hans was striving to fabricate something that had the same desired properties but none of the disastrous side effects.

Kat distracted him by entwining herself around his legs in gratitude for the first smidgeon of kindness anyone had shown her. Hans couldn’t begrudge a smile and he flopped onto the couch and petted her until she was twitching in a dream-filled sleep. Although he didn’t know it, he was indebted to the animal for nudging his mind from the endless cycle of failed experiments. Okay: cat food, kitty litter, a basket to sleep in, something to play with - like a ball, a plate… It was the first time he’d truly relaxed in months and it felt fantastic. And, as many great inventors would testify, the best ideas usually came when something completely different occupied the inventor’s mind.

*

Thursday, September 16, 2066

World Economic Forum

14:45 Washington DC, USA

The heat was sweltering.

At least, it was for Nathan Bradford as he struggled to focus on the proceedings. He nervously adjusted his tie and collar then mentally rebuked himself for the outward manifestation of his anxiety. Why’s the environmental control set so damn high? He didn’t enjoy having sweat trickle down his back and soak into his underpants. And neither his suit nor the starch his drycleaners had ironed into his shirt was helping. It left him feeling like a potato crisp.

Their seating in the WEF conference hall was arranged in concentric semicircular rings with a daunting stage pinned at the focal point. A screen that reminded Nathan of the last time he’d visited a cinema was hanging on the far wall, behind the French dignitary who was blabbering about the images projected there. If Nathan had bothered to plug in his earphones he would have heard the English translation, a poor approximation of the Frenchman’s flamboyant speech, but a translation none the less. The hall designers had spared no expense; they’d splurged on exquisite upholstery and the most ergonomic chairs they could find. But Nathan’s discomfort had little to do with