Sociallist

By Paul James Gabol

Marcus was born in 2025 inside a wealthy family. In many ways, he is an ordinary man with his concerns and joys. Inadvertently, life has given him the possibility to meet the world and to understand the predicaments of society. In a parallel way he has received the tools to make it all change.
For the moment he is on the run, chased, his precise whereabouts, unknown.
By 2060, the global economy is starting to bounce against its limit, the world has been reshaped. The system is already shredding, readjusting, trying to preserve its hold on people, but losing it.

The Social list
Today, upheavals in the western hemisphere are common news, ‘people have had it’ you may say. Anti or Brexit-for demonstrations, women ́s rights endless marching columns or Gilet Jaunes roadblocks are just examples of it.
We have a pending list of social issues: the social list. The first one to solve –and really the only one- is the right to earn a dignified living.
We all want a better world, don’t we? That ́s where we’re wrong, some people are abusive and stupid enough to think that a better world is a world where they need trenches, behind which the can enjoy a sumptuous life. They believe that an improved security, behind walls, is an improved living. They do not understand that a door lock, a system firewall, are only needed in a world of abusive differences.
Enjoy this forecasting novel, about the fall of those abusive people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul James Gabol
• Release date: Nov 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370847402

Paul James Gabol

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Sociallist

A novel by Paul James Gabol

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Copyright © 2019 Paul James Gabol

All rights reserved.

Smashwords edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Sociallist

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Contents

1- Bloody Wednesday (July 7, 2060)

2- Border probability (2046, 2060)

3- ‘Not the east coast’ (2031-2047)

4- Feasibility (2045-2046)

5- Statistical Thursday (July 8, 2060)

6- ‘It is just software’ (2047)

7- ‘No matarás’ (2047-2048)

8- Friday’s door to door sale (July 9, 2060)

9- Ruminating time (2049-2051)

10- Help wanted (2051)

11- ‘There’s nothing wrong here’ (2052)

12- Software wrap-up (2052-2053)

13- Flambeau Saturday July 10, 2060)

14- Sciences Po / Sorbone (2053-2057)

15- The low energy society (fall of 2057)

16- Sunday mass mess (July 11, 2060)

17- Out of bounds (2058)

18- The sideline players (July, 2058)

19- Stalling (September, 2058)

20- Monday defeat (2058-July 12, 2060)

21- Are you there? (July 12, 2060)

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1 Bloody Wednesday (July 7, 2060)

He was running as fast as he could, opposite to the Broadway traffic, on that rainy July afternoon. He was soaked, not from the rain, but from the water cannon the demonstrators had faced a few moments before, while pursuing, once more, the anti-capital conversion goal, right at the heart of it, the NYSE. He was limping with an aching knee that, right now, as he kept foolishly going towards City Hall, was the least of his worries. He feared he had lost an eye after that baton spark on his head -a mere brush actually, otherwise he would be knocked out and detained by now-.

The rally had somehow twisted into a real riot. He knew about that kind of turnovers in Cairo and Mexico City, where the acting government had infiltrated muscle in the pacific crowd enough to escalate matters and, thus, endorse police brutality.

The activists had begun to gather around noon. By one o’clock they had started chanting all the usual bars, the boring rhymes people no longer paid attention to. Around two, with Broad Street overcrowded and under a light rain, the speeches started. He was to be the third and last, but things got out of hand before his turn. When Elias Roam was half way through his discourse, people suddenly charged towards the building entrance, then were repelled, gunshots were heard, the cavalry moved in, chaos established. They all ran north, south, east and west, some were apprehended, some chased, many just dispersed. He wasn’t yet at the podium, hence, he was spared like any other banner-carrying civilian.

He passed Chambers Street and kept unsteadily North, along with more protesters fleeing the same route. The automated electric cars rolled by. The passengers could or not be staring at them. They could be asleep or hooked to some video, no one knew for sure, since the vehicles did not stop or lower their speed, for they had preset directions and destinations.

He was bound for Little Italy, yet decided to avoid Park Row, because it felt safer to remain against the traffic. His head pounded at every step and anxiety grew over his blanked eye. It had been a stupid idea to accept his presence at that massive meeting, no matter how iconic it was, since time had shown its uselessness.

He had no need to prepare an allocution. There were no new ideas to convey, no concepts to teach or elaborate. The economic popular damage of profit and interest rate requested no further explanation. He was tired of repeating himself, of listening to his own story over and over again. Where the years of struggle had succeeded it had become empty to post reinforcing slogans, people also soon got tired of it. Likewise, where the models had been pulverized by the capital power and system, it also became inoperable to promote the change. Anyways, he despised propaganda. It reminded him of authoritarian times in history that were no pride for the human race, it too prompted that those times were not over, that humanity was still far from brotherhood.

.

He finally reached the flat he was longing for -or rather the street- everything seemed fine. At last he would rest. Suddenly, a young woman pulled him out of the sidewalk and into a laundromat upsetting some of the customers.

You’re a wanted man, come! My god you look awful. He hesitated for a moment, was she to be trusted? In the next split second he concluded it made no difference, but for an instant he forgot his blame on the events and himself, over the injury he surely would endure forever to remember this day, this stupid day, when nothing had been accomplished.

Come, hurry, no time to waste, she urged, directing him towards the rear of the place, not without stepping on some baskets of clothing.

Hey watch it!

What the hell... But soon they were out and across the alley. A few feet away, they walked into another building and climbed one story to a small apartment. She led him to the bathroom and, lacking a chair, sat him on the toilet.

Let’s look at your face.

You a doctor?

Hell no, no nurse either, but I’m all you got, she said as she started inspecting it, pushing aside his hair. "Lost your glasses, didn’t ya?

Not a big loss. Who are you?

Your bodyguard, whatever. Now, be quiet and let me work. She took a towel from a drawer and turned on the faucet. Damned! There is never hot water. We’ll have to wait. The water poured slowly in the sink -an old model from the 20’s-. Meanwhile she looked carefully on the swollen reddened area around the eye and the straight cut to the side of it, at least two inches in length. It was hard to see the damage through the blood, clots and mud, some hair glued to the skin.

You can’t see shit, can you?

No, nothing. He was still wondering, assessing, concerned. Was it right to remain there? Was it worse? How badly was he compromised? Would he lose the eye?

How’d you get it so dirty? The water coming out, still too cold.

Don’t know.

You will need a shower...and a change. Gino! she cried, Gino! I need you right now! A fifteen, maybe sixteen year old boy showed up, dressed in a T-shirt, sneakers and jeans, as if time had not changed fashion.

Listen, go to the gym and bring your duffle bag. Put inside a cutman’s kit, jelly, gauze, swabs, hydrochloride, Monsel’s...the whole thing. Don’t overdo it though.

My bag is here, he started to explain.

Get someone else’s, okay? He nodded. Go out the alley, but come from the street, act normal. Got it? Keep your cool on the way back, no running. Must act normal. She was right, thirty minutes or even an hour were not going to change the outcome -discretion was paramount-.

.

.

Mia Johnson was sitting at the edge of the bed, a weary look in her face, biting her lip and nervously rocking a little back and forth.

Okay lady, you need to see the ‘holo’ again? As he flashed out from his mobile a full 3D image of a very young looking slightly tanned man, wavy dark hair, 5’ 10, 150 pounds approximately, brown eyes, perfect teeth on a broad gentle smile, black rimmed round glasses. Have you seen him? Is he renting this place? When did he arrive? When is he leaving? Is he alone?" the man on the overcoat kept impatiently asking, pacing from wall to wall.

I don’t think she knows anything, said a younger man dressed accordingly -a white comm-earpiece showing on his right side-.

Are you conducting this Edwards?

No Sir, sorry Sir. And kept quiet for a moment as he looked at the floor. Maybe...

What Edwards, what else? Again that dominant tone from his boss. Despite the mood, he ventured.

Maybe he hasn’t been here.

Don’t give me that. He was caught on camera only yesterday, faint, far, low D, but it’s him alright. Then paced the room once more, opened the drawers again, turned the pages on the Bible over the desk and stared at the wall as if looking for clues.

Do you have a receipt? Anything he signed? Back at her, as he slightly opened his arms much like a priest offering. He didn’t pay in Cripto$, did he? But she remained in her trance.

The boss moved towards the window and peered outside, cautious not to move the drape. The wet paved street did not reveal anything. He walked to the other side of the room -a corner apartment- and performed the same gesture with analogue results. Then from that window he sat on a chair, placed his hand on his chin to pause.

Peter... paid cash, Mrs. Johnson feebly said at last, Peter, that’s his name. What did he do to you? She lifted her head to meet his face.

What did he do? What did he do! He squared her eyes. He is a terrorist, a world known TE-RRO-RIST! And, pointing a finger at her, he added, and you are helping him. You see, this is a matter of national security. We need all the details, understood? Edwards take charge, I’m going out. It’s been too long, he’s hiding somewhere. Then, switching-on a mike he said, Schumman, Ixt, Palace, report. But nothing had been heard or seen. Not the neighbors, not on tape.

How could he avoid surveillance? How had he entered, remained, moved around the country undetected? How large the conspiracy could be to allow a man to hide for almost a year on US soil? A wanted man, nonetheless. The 2025 Freedom Act greatly inhibited rural observation, here were the consequences.

He went down the small and creaking stairway and came out to the street, waved at a fortyish brunette sitting at a corner cafe, but, as she was standing, he waved again and finally met her at her table.

We are in a tough spot Karla. He sighed.

Coffee Sir? An unexpected waiter showed.

No! Yes please, black, he corrected when Karla placed her hand on his arm to say: ‘easy, calm down’.

Look Commander, let’s think straight. Let’s think. We spotted Jiménez shape -awful recording though- and we came here at about the time the rally was on its way. An eyebrow raised. The first tenant to enter was questioned and released. Then, Mrs. Gallo, again nothing to hide, all clear. The Marino brothers and Todd Miller...

The young fellow we still have in custody.

Right, she said, reassuring with an upward index. Finally Mrs. Johnson, the landlady, whom, you must agree, you deeply disturbed. No, no, let me finish. As he tried to interject. We have been carefully disguised. We interviewed very inconspicuously, no noise, no racket. We have been hard to notice for someone just arriving, but we’ve been too long and, throwing her hands, no longer invisible for the local. Wait! Wait! Let me finish. What if: a) He went elsewhere after the rally; b) He never had intended to come back;

But there’s a bag there.

Still, she said, putting a stop hand towards him.

Your coffee sir.

Thank you, he said, noticing the red glow on the table tiny screen showing his due account: 1.35 Cripto$. Go on.

c) He somehow spotted us and fled for good or, most likely, d) He is getting help from the locals we are no longer transparent to. I say we bring reinforcements, new faces, new eyes, new ears and patrol this place for the next 48, 72 hours. If he is in Little Italy, he will emerge. She smiled.

If he’s gone as you say, we are wasting our time here.

My dear Ron, if he’s gone it will be like San Diego or Chicago, untraceable until further notice. She shook her head. No, we are not wasting our time. Let’s regroup. Let’s change the strategy but do not let go, after all, what’s a 72, 96 hour effort in terms of the national impact of this? He sipped his coffee, she did not -it was quite cold already-. She looked at the street, far away, at the pedestrians, the slow moving cars, the dog walkers.

After a while he broke the silence. I have a feeling we will not see him again.

Maybe, I suppose the Exchange was the coup de grace on our soil. He did not intend to stay after that, she validated.

So you think someone is helping.

You brought me here to think. I’ve been thinking and watching. Someone is helping. More an assertion than a thought.

Your plan?

Reinforcements, patrol, a virtual siege, while you and I do some cabinet work.

Work behind walls?

Yes dear. Warm coffee and lots of cold sandwiches. You will see statistics at work, elementary statistical work. Come, let’s go. Leave the people here, send the next shift, release Mrs. Johnson -Has she talked by the way?-

Started too. She confirmed. An alias, paid cash.

I had no doubt it was him. No doubt, she repeated, Edwards there? He nodded.

All right. She rose as he swiped his card over the screen that now showed in green ‘thank you for your business’, before fading out into a black rectangle.

Do you hate Jiménez? she asked, but he did not answer. He offered his arm, she took it and both walked off as he gave instructions over the mike.

.

.

Gino left the building from the back, as told, and walked the first block through the alley, but then turned left for half a block and right for three blocks until Romano’s Gym. He encounter no one on the way, but realized he had probably walked a little faster than usual. He was nervous. The fact of having Marcus Jiménez at his house and being a key helping hand to the legend was thrilling, although, he had to admit to himself that, what he had witnessed from the living room, was an ordinary man or less.

He crossed the threshold to a busy place with scents of sweat, ointment and humidity -a vivid fight was being followed by several at the ring-. For a moment he stood not knowing what to do. He should have brought his own bag, he thought. Maybe he could bring the stuff back in a laundry bag or something. He couldn’t go back home for his bag. He picked his phone and voice-dialed.

Not now, whatever! was his mother’s answer.

I don’t know how to...

Your problem, not over the phone. She disconnected.

He approached the ring side and greeted some people, watched two full rounds and finally spotted someone on the other side. He went around.

Hi Joe.

My man, howdy, answered an older boy. Coming on ‘Sat’?

Yeah. Look... Just lost at what to say, how to ask.

What’s wrong? I know. You got your girl pregnant.

Get out.

So, what’s up? Parla, the boy said, patting him on the cheek and faking a blow to the nose with his left fist. Gino ducked slightly.

I need to borrow your bag and gear, also some cutman’s stuff, he finally requested.

What for? What’s wrong with yours? Is it for you? Cutman you said? Having a cage fight? No, you’ll be in trouble. Need money?

No, no, no, not that. Can’t explain. Please. I won’t even touch your things.

What? What you want’em for? Gino felt helpless. What now?

.

.

The flat screen showed clips of the failed rally. Repeatedly, different angles of the charging attempt. Nothing on the speeches. The banners meticulously not shown, instead, a clean, effective, police intervention. Broad street footage accelerated from the early opening hours to the clearing of the space, passing through the gathering, the agitation, the excitation, the turmoil and the final peace. A very interesting collage of the event. Certainly bad publicity for the movement and, at the same time, proving how open, how free, how patient the people at the NYSE and the NYPD had been towards the crowd. There it was the proof of freedom of speech and assembly, also that of public order, since the activists had unmistakably attempted against the institutions and public harmony. Numerous manifestants behind bars and being questioned -Two key members among them, the Police Commissioner stated-, damages kept low, in the order of tens of thousands of Dollars, no casualties, but 37 injured being tended at Bellevue, NYC Health and the Presbyterian, charges yet to be confirmed. Everything flowing very fast, very efficient, like the great country the USA was.

All lies, Emma shouted.

All true, Marcus retorted, I’m not even sure if we actually did not charge against the Exchange. Someone did, maybe us, he explained, using her mobile to look at his cleaned face.

But you were there! What are you saying! This our making? This!

Elias was heating them pretty much. I don’t know.

Emma had succeeded to clean the wound and his face, which had a partial first degree burn on that side, but nothing serious. In fact she had washed his whole head, leaving a messy sink and bathroom and some dirty towels. The bleeding had started again as soon as she had removed the clots, but it was momentarily stopped by onion peelings Marcus had suggested -an old family recipe. After all, who doesn’t have onions at home?-. He had also recommended just soap and water, first warm, then cold, which she agreed. He needed stitches or a patch at least, but Gino had not come back yet.

Marcus had been quiet all that time, thinking, assessing. The probability of the encounter was very, very small, yet it had happened. At the same time he had to consider that so far everything was on his favor, he was aided when needed. Nevertheless, time could be ticking against him. In this game the opponents had a chance to make several moves, rather than the gentlemanly chess battle way of alternate one by one.

And now? I think we have to get you out of those clothes. You need a shower. Just be careful with that, she said, pointing at the cut. Can you stand? He nodded. You ain’t too good with blood, are ya?

No, my parents wanted me to be a surgeon like my grandfather, but no, blood is not my field. It’s silly.

It is what it is, she ended as he began to strip. His pants were bonded to his knee that had a cut and a large bruise. He would do that himself.

I’ll fetch some clothes. My husband’s about your size. Then it dawned on him: there could be more people in the house. Did she mean is or was? He dared not ask. Still, showering was the next best move. Should he cut his hair? No time to grow a beard or a moustache. No time for a skin color change. His honey colored contacts, as well as the deep black ones, were in his pants pocket. That, he could use. In any case, he was in trouble, since facial/cranial recognition systems would be enhanced. The Sorbone rally had given them enough information, more than sufficient media coverage. You never knew what personal info could be scattered, ready to be collected or already gathered. He turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm up. Was it the left or right tap?

.

.

Gino was at last leaving Romano’s, walking with Joe. He had finally told him the reason. Joe was delighted to help. He didn’t care about politics, he even made fun of the socialists. He was convinced they were fools, but a star is a star. One day he would also be a star, a champion, a millionaire. Besides, he hated rich people, so if someone had the guts to face them, it was someone respectable. Even more, this Jiménez wasn’t even Russian, which he also despised, and who ever heard about a commie not Russian? He might even take his picture with this celebrity or influencer -all the same-. He also claimed that his great-grandfather had appertained to some group in Sicily, so he came from a family of activists, right? Joe was the perfect example of well-uninformed citizen, just like anybody else. He was absolutely ecstatic.

Gino, on the contrary felt he had made a big mistake, but it was too late. They had both gone to the locker room where they had stolen the medical supplies, profiting from the fight drawing attention.

They started to walk towards Gino’s home. Inadvertently they passed by a couple of agents posted on the same block as his house. However, if at any moment Gino would have betrayed his mission, the body language of Joe was completely at ease and joyful. Since it was understood no talking was to be done about the