Thumb Tech

By Raymond Duane

Thumb Tech: The Evolution of Technology vs. Mother Nature. Some years from now, the State of Corporate was brimming with all manner of people, but each person had a distinctive characteristic that separated the current civilization from all that came before. Male or female, whatever size, color, shape, political persuasion or sexual orientation, they all shared a common physical characteristic that no other generation had.Their hands evolved because their ancestors long ago preferred using a certain digit to perform everyday computing tasks.

A sturdy baby with a pudgy face, he was the most beautiful thing his mother had ever seen, except his hands weren't right.
"Oh, no, Roger. Look at his hands."
Roger saw the hands. He picked up his biocup, but didn't drink any coffee.
"It'll be all right, Abigail." He looked at the midwife. "How did this happen? All the tests came back okay."
"Poor thing," Pam said without emotion.
Roger looked at his son's hands. Beautiful, even deformed. He looked at his own hands, bigger, longer thumbs tapered slender to a tip, so unlike what his son's would become.
He glared at the midwife and disliked her prim and superior attitude.
"My son is not a poor thing."
"Lovely," without meaning.
From her outward manner, the birth assistant appeared calm and all business. Her belly, however, knotted in tension and fear from the moment the newborn came into view and she saw his horrible hands. She stopped thinking straight, just went by rote, right on through the washing and the skin-to-skin bonding time. She should have stopped and reported. Big mistake not to do so. A mark in her file was certain. That was the least of her worries.
She looked at her hands.
"I wonder if I've been infected. My hands are going to become deformed and useless." She was wide-eyed. "This birth is a major catastrophe. The whole city will be quarantined and investigated. Any mothers-to-be will be reexamined. We could have a statewide lockdown."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raymond Duane
• Release date: May 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005657192

Raymond Duane

Born in antiquity, I was raised with Robert Louis Stevenson, Walter Scott and Mark Twain. I'd spend Friday nights with my grandmother and she would read to me. With sound effects and excitement.All I've ever wanted to be is a writer and dreamed of being Ernest Hemingway. (I got the drinking part right.)I worked for the college paper; was founding editor of a weekly newspaper; and I did a lot of magazine work, including for adult entertainment.That experience formed the basis of Noodle Boy in Porn Valley, which is very blue and very "adults only."My fantasy books are for Jill, my wife, who loves dragon stories with strange creatures and magick. Sword and sorcery, with a blend of mystical philosophy about life and love. She and I wrote a dragon story titled Fort Jafra and we're working on a follow-up.She and I published Unfinished Faces, a book of my poetry and her art. I also have written a few cookbooks. My characters like to eat.These days, I'm in rural Central Valley, with Jill, three dogs and five kittens I found in a discarded box in the walnut grove.

Book preview

Thumb Tech

The Evolution of Technology

vs. Mother Nature

Raymond Duane

For my brother, Kirk,

the artist in the family.

1960 to 2014

Thumb Tech

The Evolution

of Technology

vs. Mother Nature

The artist who died started …

Now with Prophet City fading …

The last parcel divided from …

Six voices sounded at once …

At the Tipton Detention Facility …

Maxwell was four months old …

Maxwell's brain power accelerated at …

Flint Moscowitz woke up on …

"Does that mean Maxwell infected …

The professor was inclined to …

Art is a choice and …

Branch Prophet III hated convening …

The gallery was open when …

Stubbornly, Chairman Branch Prophet III …

Late at night, dressed in …

That Monday, Nancy was at …

Barton appeared in the gym …

Nancy clicked the intercom direct …

The clinic was quiet. Softness …

Nancy woke up an hour …

Like ants with a plan …

"A lot of people in …

The third inquiry remained on …

Natalie and Nancy didn't even …

Author

The artist who died startedlife underwater in a birthing pool set up in his parent's kitchen. It had been a sunny day, but upon his arrival, the sky thickened with clouds and heavy rain began to fall.

A sturdy baby with a pudgy face, he was the most beautiful thing his mother had ever seen, except his hands weren't right.

Oh, no, Roger. Look at his hands.

Roger saw the hands. He picked up his biocup, but didn't drink any coffee.

It'll be all right, Abigail. He looked at the midwife. How did this happen? All the tests came back okay.

Poor thing, Pam said without emotion.

Roger looked at his son's hands. Beautiful, even deformed. He looked at his own hands, bigger, longer thumbs tapered slender to a tip, so unlike what his son's would become.

He glared at the midwife and disliked her prim and superior attitude.

My son is not a poor thing.

Lovely, without meaning.

From her outward manner, the birth assistant appeared calm and all business. Her belly, however, knotted in tension and fear from the moment the newborn came into view and she saw his horrible hands. She stopped thinking straight, just went by rote, right on through the washing and the skin-to-skin bonding time. She should have stopped and reported. Big mistake not to do so. A mark in her file was certain. That was the least of her worries.

She looked at her hands.

I wonder if I've been infected. My hands are going to become deformed and useless. She was wide-eyed. This birth is a major catastrophe. The whole city will be quarantined and investigated. Any mothers-to-be will be reexamined. We could have a statewide lockdown.

Roger firmed his stance and spoke with exasperation, How do you know that?

It's the Law. I know the Law. The word came with faithful acquiescence, the same as most everyone spoke of Corporate.

You read the law for fun?

Why don't you?

Roger stared at her.

I have to record the birth even though the baby will not be allowed to live.

Not allowed to live, Roger repeated with bile. Nice way to say it. You're going to kill him.

Abigail gasped and clutched her baby.

It has to be done for the good of everybody. I'm sorry.

Yeah? I don't believe you're sorry.

Pam touched the screen of her arm pad with the tip of her long, right thumb. Extra long compared to what thumbs used to be in ancient times. Much longer than the baby's little mutations. Her practiced thumb glided across the screen, touching the surface in specific areas as she input Abigail and Roger's data and information on the infant.

I've never had to thumb the only double zero Corporate law, her voice quivered tense.

Roger thought she shouldn't do it. Then what happens?

They'll come for him, and you'll both be sterilized.

You shouldn't be so happy about it.

I'm not happy. It's frightening. No one thought another one would ever be born again.

Don't report it.

What? Pam shuddered aghast. I can't do that. For you even to ask is a crime. I must report that, too. She glared at Roger. Lives are in danger.

Lives aren't in danger.

You should take this seriously. This is a medical emergency.

Abigail pleaded, Please.

He's already infected you. Do you feel any pain in your hands? Better if you give it up right away.

Roger's expression twisted mean. He's not an It.

This is the start of a pandemic.

Pam twitched. She gaped at mother and father. You two don't seem too surprised, like you planned it all along. Did you go to your regular checkups, the ultra sound and confirmation of health?

Of course, we did. You know that. Frustration gripped Roger. You have the documentation.

Which doesn't say anything about a malformed baby.

Roger wanted to spit. They screwed up.

Impossible. Pam stood proud and self-righteous, eager to call Compliance. The labs don't miss anything. They never miss anything.

They did this time, Abigail said.

Pam's startled expression made her eyes squint and her mouth twisted in derision.

Impossible, an aggressive grunt. She focused her narrowed eyes on Abigail. The mother's facial features were themselves unremarkable; as was the blond hair, but combined, they came together in pleasing contours. Just the same, she could be a criminal. Her redheaded husband, on the other hand, was a shady character. One look at him, anyone could see that.

Pam's thumb hovered over the send button.

Roger pictured the button as his life, his wife, his child, everything he loved, and Pam's thumb as a bludgeon about to crush his heart. He dropped his biocup on her computer. Hot coffee splashed her stark white uniform. The biocup was heavy enough to dent the fragile screen, and the liquid easily flowed into electronic parts and sparked the end of the computer.

Made cheap to be replaced, Roger stated the obvious. Computers were a dime a dozen, not made to last or be repaired, and always a new version. Oops.

He exaggerated, Oh my, I'm so clumsy.

You're going to jail, Pam vowed with the force of a Corporate official, which strictly speaking she was. That stunt won't help, only make things worse. You're in big trouble. I'm calling for Compliance. I'll use the screen on the refrigerator.

Roger stepped to block her path. She tried to go around.

Let me pass. Don't you dare touch me. Get out of my way, turnip brain.

Roger agreed to his mental shortcomings and grabbed her by the left elbow, anyway. He dug his thumb into the joint.

Ouch! Let go of me! How dare you!

Pam had been through self-defense training mandated for all Corporate employees, but she'd never before had to use the moves they showed her. They didn't tell her how scared she'd be, either. Roger's red hair was like a flame on his head. He showed his teeth. The thumb pressure on her elbow made her arm go numb. She forgot most of the fight training, but she remembered kicking shins, scratching cheeks and stomping on feet.

She screamed as she fought, unintelligible sounds like a wild beast.

Abigail screamed, too, and the baby started wailing.

One of Pam's thumbs poked Roger's left eye. He almost lost his grip, but held on. The struggle took them into the hall. He got a new grip on her other arm and pushed her face against the wall. He held her squirming by the back of her neck while he opened the hall closet.

He locked her in with a final thumb push of the keypad. She pounded the door.

Let me out of here. She rattled the door knob in a rage.

Can she get out? Abigail stood up.

I think so, but it will take a while.

The prisoner screamed demands for release.

I wish you hadn't done that.

He looked at his wife with one eye and frowned. Me too. Is my left eye still there?

Abigail had her child swaddled in blankets. What are we going to do?

Roger pinched his nose and upper lip, felt stubble where a mustache used to be. He rubbed his mouth and chin, up from the chin to the nose and back down several times while he tried to think.

We can't stay here.

Where are we going to go?

We'll decide that on the way. I'll pack the bags.

No need. Remember, we packed in case of problems and going to the hospital?

I didn't remember, did I? But we're going to need more than that. He looked around noting all they were going to lose. We'll share the big suitcase.

Pam kept screaming. Roger's face went stiff.

I'm sorry, through the door. You'll be all right.

You won't be, a screech. Let me out of here, you smelly cabbage head.

That I am. That I am.

Maybe we should let her out, Roger. I don't know.

I don't either.

"What are we doing?

Resisting Corporate, I guess.

Pam screamed from the closet. I heard that. I knew you were criminals. You manipulated the medical records. No one resists Corporate. It's illegal to even complain.

Roger blew air and mumbled a curse word. He knew it wasn't illegal to protest, at least not in any official law on the books. Many people, however, acted as if being against Corporate for anything was the worst thing anyone could do in their lives. They reported suspicious behavior to help the person correct the wrong path they were on.

Come on, help me pack the bag.

Abigail followed her husband into the bedroom. She rocked the baby in her arms. It wasn't our fault, Roger. The lab screwed up. Maybe we could talk to them.

That will help us, maybe, but not him. Roger touched his son's head. The little guy is Patient Zero to them. They won't let him live. They're afraid of him. You heard Pam. Everyone is like that. We used to be like that.

No not really.

Obedience is freedom. We had the e-poster.

We've changed.

Gotten older. With age comes wisdom.

We're not that old.

Not that wise.

They're going to catch us, Roger.

Roger exhaled a bad feeling.

They waited inside the front doorway for the autocar and watched the rain drench the old greenbelt residential section of town where they lived on three acres, now with walnut trees and a vegetable garden.

We should name him.

Yes, Mother, we should. I thought we decided on Maxwell, after your favorite grandfather. Good to me. But not with our last name.

No last name?

Sure, but not Black, not ours. Don't want to connect him to us. Officially, he has no name, and lucky for us that the damn midwife didn't record his birth before I broke her computer.

Abigail looked worried. He has no birth number.

Ways around that. Won't have to face that for a while, anyway. How about Winterbottom, after my second uncle?

What about a middle name? How about Russett?

Your older brother? I wish he was still around.

Me, too. So we have a name. Abigail swirled the letters in her mouth and let the moniker out for a test drive. Maxwell Russett Winterbottom. She nodded. I like it.

She picked up the child and went nose to nose. Hello, Maxwell Russett Winterbottom.

Roger smiled. I think he likes it.

The driverless vehicle pulled up at the curb and a side door opened.

Roger gathered the bags.

Open the trunk, to the car.

Abigail sat in the back seat holding Maxwell. Roger's clothes were wet as he sat up front in a swivel seat. He gave the car their destination.

The storage place on East Gibson, cross street is Wirth.

The car responded, That's a long trip, citizen. You need identification to enter that place of business.

Good, you stupid machine. Roger didn't like talking to autocars. The happy voices bothered him because they were stylized to make machines seem friendly, and because to him autocars represented what was at Corporate's core: an overriding need to control and manage people. Be quiet and take me where I ask.

Yes, sir. Estimated time thirty-seven minutes. The rain will slow us. The fare of fifteen credits will be debited to your account. Please insert your thumb.

Specially designed slots for thumbs as expected, with a place to swipe a cash card. Roger smiled at his luck. Cash cards were on the way out. Fewer businesses accepted them and banks made the process of getting one difficult. Corporate disliked cash payments. The State had long sought to end the last remaining way a person could pay for something without being tracked.

He had a universal cash card given to him long ago by an old friend who knew computers. Roger had seldom used it. Too afraid of being caught. He stuck it in his wallet and forgot about it. He wondered if such cards expired. If so, the machine would seize the card, and the doors would lock until Compliance officers arrived.

If the card worked, it would buy them a little time before Corporate found out where they went. Maybe. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about anything, except wanting to give his son a chance to live. That desire had consumed everything else. Nothing mattered but Maxwell staying alive.

He put the card into the slot. The machine pulled the card inside. Beeps and whirrs. The sounds stopped.