Freedom Club

  Freedom Club is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Published by Hotspur Publishing

  Copyright © 2011 by Saul Garnell

  All rights reserved.

  www.hotspurpublishing.com

  First edition: October 2011

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to all my friends who read early drafts and gave me their advice: Barbara, Peter, John, Roger, Martin, Gary, Ethan Fode, Sue Cartwright, and Phillip Berrie for their kind help proofreading. Also, many thanks to my good friend Thomas Leo, and special thanks to Christian Mueller, who spent countless hours with me in the smoke filled cafes of downtown Tokyo ranting about philosophy and other topics important to the creation of this book.

  Huge gratitude to Chris Lampton for his detailed editing and to Amy Gilbert for her help with the book design. And, as ever, more thanks than I can say to David F. Bischoff for the years he has spent shepherding me as a Science Fiction writer. This would be a much poorer book without all your efforts.

  Table of Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter 1—Lebensstörung

  Chapter 2—Surrogate Activity

  Chapter 3—Moloch

  Chapter 4—Mysteries

  Chapter 5—Song for the Luddites

  Chapter 6—Garden Dreams

  Chapter 7—Boiling Water

  Chapter 8—What Is Natural

  Chapter 9—Choices

  Chapter 10—Swaraj

  Chapter 11—Pedagogue

  Chapter 12—Will to Power

  Chapter 13—Nothingness

  Chapter 14—Dark Sublimations

  Chapter 15—Atonement

  Chapter 16—Freedom Club

  Chapter 17—Contact

  Chapter 18—Omnipotence of Thought

  Chapter 19—Extradition

  Chapter 20—Paradise Found

  Prelude

  who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

  —Allen Ginsberg

  Tsukuba Japan: 2069

  Santa Fe Research Laboratory

  It was a hard decision to risk his life for one that was artificial. But strangely, Dr. Shunro Kamiyoshi found himself trapped in this situation, one cast by faith and the unique bonds of parental love from which he now realized there was no escape.

  Walking through a virtual room laminated with opaque geometric sculptures, he entered Po’pay’s meditation chamber and found the young Sentient quietly reading Japanese poetry on a raised tatami platform. Looking up, Po’pay jumped to his feet and rushed over to greet Kamiyoshi much like any human boy would have.

  “Father!” Po’pay yelled gleefully.

  Returning the affectionate embrace, Kamiyoshi hugged Po’pay while tenderly brushing the Sentient’s long black hair. Wanting nothing more than to continue their lesson, he dreaded what he was about to say.

  With little time, Kamiyoshi dropped to one knee and stared into Po’pay’s bright eyes morosely. The mood shifted. Sensing trouble, the young Sentient innocently cocked his head to the side.

  “Father... What is it?”

  “We have to leave, Po’pay. I never thought this would happen, but the world...the physical one outside is not safe for us.”

  Po’pay stared back. “I don’t understand.”

  Kamiyoshi shook his head. The situation was dire and there was no time to explain. Po’pay could never realize the dangers that now manifested themselves, and Kamiyoshi lacked the heart to brutalize him with unadulterated truths.

  “Now is not the time, my child. All I can say is that we’re in danger and you must go to a safe location. I need you to trust me. Will you do that, Po’pay? Trust me with all your heart?”

  Po’pay became frightened. Looking at Kamiyoshi with tearful eye’s, he remained momentarily silent, then nodded and hugged Kamiyoshi around the neck.

  Kamiyoshi patted the young boy’s back. “We’ll need to put your biological components into sleep mode.”

  “Sleep?” Po’pay said, taking a step back. “But I thought only humans do that!”

  Kamiyoshi took the boy’s hand reassuringly. “It’s natural for you as well and nothing to fear. You’ll see it’s just like meditation, only your mind will wander a bit more freely.”

  Standing up, Kamiyoshi picked up Po’pay and cradled him gently in his arms. Rocking back and forth, he watched Po’pay’s eyes become drowsy and gradually close.

  Po’pay breathed softly. “Will...will I dream, father?”

  “Oh, yes, my son,” Kamiyoshi assured. “Beautiful dreams.”

  Unable to let go, Kamiyoshi watched Po’pay drift into a blissful slumber. Gazing at the innocent form, Kamiyoshi’s fears quickly vanished. Though dangers still loomed, it mattered little. He found strength in this one precious life and he would risk all to protect it.

  “Have beautiful dreams, my son,” he whispered.

  Beautiful dreams...

  Shimabara Japan: 1638

  Hara Castle

  The black ink flowed smoothly as Shiro prepared to write his final poem. His death poem.

  He often dreamt about this moment. The alarm clanging, taking up arms and charging into the fray. But the fever and sickness over the past few weeks had greatly weakened him. He was too ill to walk, let alone fight.

  His sword and armor stood lifeless in the room’s far corner, against the moldy plaster wall. No, it must not be! In desperation he reached out with one hand from his tattered futon, but soon gave up. Utterly exhausted, he realized the inevitable truth and accepted his fate. It was all a dream. He would endure no further pain for himself or his people. God’s work was done, and he would soon be at peace.

  He had to write it now. Leaning over the sumi tray next to him, his breath slowed as he placed the brush in murky ink. Pausing just before the first stroke, he froze. The silence broke, shelves crashed outside. A woman screamed. Sounds of a struggle ensued and then silence, deathly silence.

  Gazing back down, his attention returned to ink and parchment. There was enough time, he thought calmly. Enough time.

  The brush moved rapidly, and the poem emerged from the paper with mystical ease, its creation merely an expression of his mind, which began wandering over past events. Shiro reminisced about how the rebellion began and why thousands of good Christians had taken refuge in Hara castle.

  It all began with the prophecy, seemingly unreal at first, a poem that foretold the rebellion’s leader. Words on paper that, when held in his slender hands, appeared unrelated to the person he was. How could it have been him? Being so young, it didn’t seem right for him to lead. But over time Shiro came to understand the truth, that he was chosen to fight in the name of God and bring about salvation.

  Others thought deliverance would come in a different form, that God would manifest himself and smite the terror that unfairly rained upon them. But that notion was misguided. Childish, really. Salvation could only be achieved by taking action, even if that meant self sacrifice.

  Of course, violence was abhorred at first. Its use was argued at great length until taxes were raised and life got hard. For those who couldn’t pay, arrests were followed by summary punishments. The last indignation had been the kidnapping and murder of the most innocent, a mother and her unborn child. It was clear what had to be done. They could not continue to be the victims of the government just because they believed in the lord Jesus. Yes, death and salvation were infinitely preferable to such wrongful oppression.

  More noise outside.
They were close now.

  Gazing down, Shiro saw that the poem was almost finished and made his final strokes. Holding up the parchment, he admired the beautiful sumi ink patterns that glistened in the faint light. He read aloud:

  Ima rojo shiteiru mono wa, raise made tomo to naru.

  More cries of women and children cut through the air. He didn’t react, gently putting down the brush and pushing the tray aside. The sounds were irrelevant. He was deaf, as the poem rang out like an ancient proverb.

  Speaking to the fallen, he whispered, “For all those with whom I share this castle’s siege, forever shall we be friends in heaven.”

  Inspirational solace ended as a deafening sound boomed at the door. They were using a ram. What could he do? Make braces, or attempt escape? No. Shiro just turned sadly away and faced the window. The door soon began to crumble, its weak points rhythmically pounded until small cracks formed, allowing threadlike beams of dusty light to pierce the room’s darkness. Finally, it gave way with a terrific crunch.

  The sun poured in and created lustrous swaths of blinding light. With one hand, Shiro tried shielding his eyes, squinting to make out his assailant. But the intruder appeared to be merely an ominous shadow.

  Time slowed as inner peace enfolded him. There was little noise, and no words were exchanged as the dark figure blitzed forward. Shiro didn’t make a sound. In his last moments of life he gazed upon the grimy face of the soldier, the warrior’s sword now fully embedded in his chest.

  Ever so gently, Shiro glanced down at the blood staining his filthy white robes. It happened so quickly that he wasn’t sure if there was any pain, but for some reason breathing seemed impossible. At last, the room darkened, and all was still.

  The soldier smoothly withdrew his blade, letting Shiro’s body fall limply upon the futon, which gradually soaked up excess blood. He then went about severing Shiro’s head. A gruesome task, but one required in order to ensure payment. Once the task was done, he stood and held the head by its long hair, which glinted in the sunlight. Wiping his nose several times, the soldier inquisitively peered into Shiro’s dead eyes and pondered the identity of his catch. It mattered little, though. The money would be the same in any case.

  Turning away, he left the gruesome scene without further thought. But his actions would be felt throughout time. It was April 12th, 1638, the day Christianity ended in Japan.

  It would not return for two centuries.

  Chapter 1—Lebensstörung

  “Desire is the very essence of man.”

  —Baruch Spinoza

  Tempe Arizona: 2085

  Hugo spat hard on the Cactus Quad’s slick entrance ramp and cursed. “Here we go again!”

  Scanning the pig-penned crowd, Hugo Kosterlitsky’s filter mask immediately came online and color-coded his field of vision. Broad stretches of yellow bodies were a comforting sight. No convicted felons. Good! That was a relief. But there were a few tangerine-hued misdemeanors sprinkled into the crowd. Were they worth his time? Not really. The robotic teams would certainly pick out and process enforceable warrants. It wouldn’t take that long. The legal system excelled at processing large retail riots. Most would be administered a mild sedative, unfastened, and sent home with a statutory reprimand.

  But what a fine riot it was, one for the history books. Its cause? Lebensstörung, or LS for short. A nasty social dynamic churned up by payment system outages and catatonic masses of unsuspecting consumers. In this case, the Cactus Quad’s stalled point-of-sales system was hit. That single event mutated an ovine gathering of irritable Christmas Eve shoppers into an unruly mob, capable of almost any crime.

  Lebensstörung across the unionized sectors had dramatically increased over the past few weeks. At that pace, society would become unhinged. It wasn’t simple anarchistic vandalism, but the total destruction of commerce, transportation, and communication. Once out of control, then what? Arrest every man, woman, and child? No, that would be unacceptable. As a detective specializing in system terrorism, Hugo was tasked to find out who was behind LS and bring it to a halt. The system needed to be protected because freedom had been redefined. See, you could be enslaved to fashion, shopping, sports, or any damn thing consumers were routinely addicted to. You couldn’t lock people up the old-fashioned way because they were already slaves, better off that way from Hugo’s point of view.

  Looking about, Hugo sneered at long rows of detainees. Calling them Christmas shoppers was being too nice. Pre-programmed shopping zealots, compulsive buying drones, mindless consumer automata, frenzied Santa slaves – the euphemisms went on and on. But whatever you called them, the final product was a marketing jerk’s wet dream. Yes, it was a problem – someone else’s, luckily. Hugo only cared about LS.

  But finding the terrorists was no easy task. Making matters worse, he had to solve a bigger question: motives. It all seemed to occur without any driving reason. No one was taking responsibility. But that couldn’t be true, he thought to himself. There always was a motive in the end. He just had to figure out what it was. Time was running out and so was his quarterly budget.

  Looking on apathetically, Hugo proceeded into the Quad’s retail area, then through a maze of escalators and shopping halls all in a state of disarray. In the background, huge flexi panels displayed seasonal advertising. An animated bikini-clad Santa danced in lockstep with a full Bollywood entourage, a scene which under different circumstances might have been entertaining.

  Hundreds sat exhausted along the tiled walkway as he passed by, all of them surrounded by police flatheads with their weapons unlocked. A few made derogatory hand signs. But intimidated by the flatheads’ non-lethal ordnance, most knew better. And for those demonstrating any lingering aggression, a calculated blast of sticky foam was used. It tempered the overly rampageous.

  Hugo mulled over the situation as the filter led him to a heavily armed DPS officer, accompanied by no less than two chili ball flatheads and three security floaters strobing blue and white emergency lights. Close up, he saw the officer was standing over a single rioter who had been sticky-foamed to a wall.

  “Will you be providing the briefing on this incident?” Hugo asked.

  Despite being covered head to toe in black stealth armor, the officer’s youthful face and background stats were displayed clearly on Hugo’s augmented reality. Hugo, on the other hand, was wearing plain clothes, in his mid 40s, tall, and lean. With black hair and riveting blue eyes, he was a superb physical example of the Pan American Union’s training program. The officer knew to be careful.

  “Detective,” the officer said politely, nodding toward the detainee. “We have a man who resisted, then attacked a Quad security flathead. DPS stuck him down hard and shot him with a few standard rounds. I’m just waiting for the de-foamer and extraction units.”

  Hugo blinked his dry eyes and knelt down. As he pulled on bright orange copolymer gloves, filtered information overlaid the suspect, and Hugo saw that the man’s name was Satyavan Choeng, a mining equipment technician with no prior convictions. Choeng sported dark facial stubble under a mess of greasy black hair and was hard to recognize even though the filter confirmed his identification. His limp body was web foamed to the wall halfway down to the floorboards, with legs protruding out like a marionette doll hanging by strings.

  Hugo twisted his head a bit to get a better look. Christ! Another mindless automaton, he reckoned. Choeng was unflatteringly slack-jawed, no doubt due to the drugs they had shot him with. Examining the streamer tags protruding from his abdomen, Hugo received more data. Ralaxidol was common, but the other two, Usotskipine and Yasashiazine, were new to him. Referring to his filter, he received more details. They were approved truth drugs, nothing to be concerned about. Looking up at the suspect’s sweaty face and drooling lips, Hugo tapped Choeng’s right cheek several times.

  “Hello there, Mr. Choeng,” he said with faux politeness. “How are you doing this evening?”

  Choeng blurted with great difficulty, “Whya..
.wha? What didya say?”

  Hugo smiled. “Seems you had a tough day, so please stay calm. Everything will be better soon. I need you to answer a few questions, a few simple questions. You think you can do that for me?”

  Choeng nodded vigorously, his expression like a small child eager to please.

  “They tell me you attacked a security flathead. Do you remember that?” Hugo asked politely. “Why did you do that, Mr. Choeng?”

  “Didn’t attack... It...’tacked me. Just wanted to buy Christmeth toys for...for my little...kid.” Clearly the Ralaxidol was making it hard for him to speak, but the other drugs compelled Choeng to finish. He licked his lips several times before pressing on. “Told me I didn’t pay, fer Pete’s sake! Got plenee ah money to pay for toys, ya stupid bot!”

  “Okay, I understand, Mr. Choeng,” Hugo reassured him. “So when they warned you the payments didn’t go through, why did you attack the flathead? Why didn’t you go back inside the toy store and try to re-scan?”

  Choeng flushed with anger and swung his head wildly. “Got plenty of monee, for god’s sake! Don’t nee ta prove...! Stupid bot trying to sop me from shopping during the big sale!” Choeng stuttered, desperate to make his point. “Gotta...gotta have toys on Christmas, fer god’s sake! That’s what it’s all ‘bout, ya know!”

  Hugo glanced up at the DPS officer disdainfully. What a waste! This guy didn’t fit the profile at all.

  Hugo tapped Choeng on the cheek several more times. “Okay, one more question, Mr. Choeng! Have you ever been associated with or have any current affiliation with a terrorist group? Did you plan any Lebensstörung this evening?”

  “Wha?”

  “Were you planning any LS activity tonight?”

  Choeng stared at Hugo with horrifying condemnation. “Terrori...? I ain’t no damn terrorist! Just trying ta buy some toys for my kids!” Choeng swung his head to and fro. “Gotta have toys on Christmas, I said! It’s wha...it’s wha...”