Data Dump IX

It was as if Daria had spent too much time on the treadmill. Every muscle in her body ached and the top of her palate was coated with dried spit. It was probably another dart, and her body had only fought the drug to the point of waking her.

She forced her eyes open, and her tongue chewed at something invisible. Looking about, she found her glasses on a concrete floor, there being no table in the room.

Four walls. One bare cot. Bars on the windows. A locked door with a small window. Great. Back to the poverty pen. Or to prison.

Daria forced herself to rise. She wanted to pace the room back and forth furiously but only had the bare strength to stand. She looked at her sleeve.

Orange. Son of a bitch. They didn’t even leave her the dignity of her clothes. She thought of some robot undressing her and shoving her into the one-piece. With the durable jumpsuit, no sheets, no belt and rubber slippers there was nothing from which one could make a weapon.

Daria ran her hands through her hair. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the door opened.

“Daria Morgendorffer?” the woman asked with an odd accent.

God damn you. I’m not going back. I’m NOT GOING BACK!

Like a doped animal, Daria stumbled forward and collapsed towards her attacker. The woman (it was a woman) screamed as the two tried to subdue each other. Each was making a clumsy attempt.

Daria finally thought she had the upper hand and could safely bolt for an exit until she saw the machine. It was blue, and looked as sturdy and strong as an old forklift. An attachment as large as a staple gun extended at the end of its hand which attached to a telescoping arm shot forward covering three feet in zero point three seconds surprising Daria and

ZAP

she could hear the sound of the staple gun

…


…


(* * * )

It was as if Daria had spent too much time on the treadmill. Every muscle in her body ached and the top of her palate was coated with dried spit. It was probably another dart, and her body had only fought the drug to the point of waking her.

She forced her eyes open, and her tongue chewed at something invisible.

It seemed as if what had just happened was only a dream. Daria stirred. It was then that she noticed the restraints which had been attached to her hands and the four large leather-like bolts which strapped her to the bed.

Great. This is just fucking great. What if I piss my pants? Daria felt it was necessary to make a futile gesture, to at least confirm its futility. This took even less time than it took for the robot to subdue her. She was as snug as a bug in a rug.

“Hello?” Daria asked. “Hello? O hell?”

Daria sighed. Nothing was going to happen, and it was going to happen soon. By acting out, she had given whatever power that held her there the moral high ground in ignoring her.

(* * *)

With Daria counting dark spots on the brown ceiling, the doors opened again. It was the same woman from before.

“Are you Daria Morgendorffer-oh-oh-three?” she asked. She was carrying what appeared to be a phone book. Another woman peeked tentatively through the floor.

“All right officer, you got me. What we have here…is a failure to communicate.”

“Ms. Morgendorffer, my name is Dot Reed. The young woman behind me is Michelle Pondexter. We need to clear up a few things with you, but we need to be assured that you’re not going to attack either of us.”

“All right,” said Daria. “That’s not going to happen again. I don’t need that mechanical truncheon.”

Daria felt the four straps suddenly disappear, retracting into the wall as if they were unfastened seat belts. The two wrist restraints loosened themselves.

“Thanks.” Daria sat up.

“Ms. Morgendorffer, we wish to begin a process that will hopefully secure your freedom. Unfortunately, it will also result in your being asked to depart the United States.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from around these parts,” said Daria with a faint drawl.

“We’re not. We’re Australian.”

“Well,” said Daria. “That explains everything. You should have said that at the beginning; it would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

“First: are you Daria Morgendorffer, the daughter of Jacob and Helen Morgendorffer?”

“You got it. This isn’t some sort of psyche test, is it? I hate those.”

“You have a deceased younger sister, Quinn Morgendorffer?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever heard of the Australia Project?”

“Fraid not. I was never much a fan of television. And these days, I’ve not been a fan of reading the papers.”

“Ms. Morgendorffer, it can all be explained through the actions of your father, Jacob Morgendorffer. When you were a teenager, he purchased one share of stock for you and one for your sister, Quinn Morgendorffer. The Australia Project has been tracking down its shareholders. As a member of the corporation, you are entitled to the benefits of any of the shareholders. This includes membership in the Project, room, board, and the freedom to come and go on the project grounds – which happen to be the entire continent of Australia.”

It was Michelle’s turn to speak. “After what we tell you, you will be free to leave with us if you choose. We will immediately depart for Australia afterwards.”

“On Deus Ex Machina Airlines, I suppose?”

Daria looked at the two. They both looked serious. “And they’re just going to let me walk out of here?”

“Yes. If you agree to come with us,” Dot answered.

“If I have cushy digs somewhere, how come I wasn’t let out of this hellhole after my prison sentence ended?”

“Your resources are in Australia, and not here. If the robots let you leave, you would technically be a homeless person. You have no job. Americans do not want to be reminded of the existence of their millions of homeless. You would be returned to either a terraform domicile, or to prison.”

“And the robots agree with you coming here?”

“Yes. Given the inclination, the United States government does not want to spend the time or resources in maintaining even your minimal room and board,” said Michelle. “There will soon be other homeless mouths to feed. You’re just taking up space. The United States would rather not see its citizens go to Australia, but it has made the decision that it’s better to take you off their hands. Furthermore, any one holding Australia Project stock is a citizen of Australia, by Australian law. Since you have dual nationality, they can’t stop you from leaving.”

“Your sister is deceased,” said Dot. “As executor of your sister’s estate, you took control of her assets. Those assets were seized by the United States Government upon your imprisonment, but according to the courts of Australia, Australia project stock cannot be seized by a foreign government, and it pays no material dividends anyway. You now hold your sister’s share of stock in addition to yours.”

“Is there any person to whom you’d wish to pass ownership?” said Michelle.

Daria thought about the question. Sandi’s name popped into her head. She had been as close to Sandi as anyone over the past few months, but she was now determined to leave Sandi behind. She never wanted to see or hear the name of Sandi Griffin again.

“I can’t think of anyone,” said Daria.

“Are you sure?” asked Dot.

Daria thought about the matter carefully. Then, slowly, she spoke. “I want to offer Quinn’s stock to Jane Lane.”

Daria explained who Jane Lane was to her new visitors. Jane’s situation was complicated, and Daria hadn’t spoken to Jane in years. “Finding someone in Europe will be very difficult…if Ms. Lane is still alive at all,” said Michelle. “Jane might not join you immediately.”

“I’ve been thinking about her. If you’re as powerful as you say you are…I want to know what happened to her.”

“Very well. We’ll see that she gets her share of stock and that the benefits of membership are explained to her when she’s located.”

“So what are the benefits?”

“They’re here in this catalog.”

Daria looked the catalog over. “I’m surprised you don’t have anything in data file form. What kind of paper is this?”

“It’s not technically paper. It’s laminar carbohydrate. Paper is a massive waste of resources.”

“Okay. But why a catalog?”

“The machines won’t let us bring anything metal or electronic into the building.”

“It figures.”

(* * *)

Daria, Dot and Michelle left their electronic car and proceeded to the Raleigh-Durham International Airport. Daria was still dressed in her orange prison togs. She wondered if anyone would attempt to stop them at the airport.

No one stopped them. They simply walked through the airport, stopped at the optical scanners, and after Daria had momentarily blinded by her scan, the three continued walking.

Past the security gate.

Past the check-in line.

Through a door marked “Exit A6002” and into a holding room.

Then, through the holding room and directly onto a plane.

It was no sort of plane that Daria had ever seen before, bigger even than an A480 Airbus. Daria thought that she had momentarily stepped into a five-star hotel until she noticed the traditional square airplane windows at the sides. There were other people on the plane, standing around, chatting. Many wore orange uniforms just like Daria’s.

Dot and Michelle continued walking. “These seats are ours. These seats are recliners that will fold out into a bed. It’s going to be a long flight with a stopover in Los Angeles.”

Daria looked up at the luggage racks on the aisles to determine the isle and seat designation. Then she noticed there were no luggage racks – and no designators, either. The seats were not so much as numbered.

“Okay, here’s my first question out of several. We walk into an airport. Aside from my optical scan – a scan that you wisely skipped – you walk through all kinds of airport security without a ‘by your leave’ and end up in some kind of opulent superplane. You don’t even to bother asking any questions doing it. How the hell do you know where you’re going?”

“I’m going to answer this question the way I answered all the other ones,” said Dot.

“Yeah,” answered Daria. “You’ll learn it all during orientation. I suppose it’s a lot better than ‘sit down and shut up’. Do you mind if I put this thing in recline mode?”

Dot reached over and touched the chair, which immediately reclined back as a footrest swung forward. Since topics of conversation had dried up – and since there was nothing about which to communicate with these two complete strangers – Daria decided to think about what was happening.

She did know one thing – it was unlikely that she would ever return to the United States again. Daria had been categorized as a felon, an escapee, a three-time loser. The U. S. government wanted nothing more to do with her. She figured that she’s probably be barred from entering the borders of the United States on any return visits.

Daria had always felt like an exile all her life – exiled from the company of her family, from the close bonds of schoolmates and friends. She realized that much of her time as an exile was by choice, but life had turned the tables on her. Now, everything exiled her, rejected her. Even Jane had decided that her friendship with Daria was not worth staying in the United States for.

Nothing had felt like home to her, ever. No situation, merely an unquenchable restlessness. A complete reject. She had lost her dignity, and despite the fact that she had only given lip service to American cultural institutions, she felt like a complete failure. Mom, Dad, Quinn, I fucked up so much that they don’t even want me here any more. They have no use for me, they have no place for me.

She knew that she might never see the graves of her parents and sister again. This chilled her.

It was all too much. Daria closed her eyes and prepared to flee once again, this time into sleep.

Data Dump VIII

A man’s character is his fate.
-Heraclitus

(* * *)

Once again, Daria would have to escape. Better to be shot escaping than wait for the touch of the guillotine blade.

She forced herself to clear her head of rage. It wasn’t working. Her fingers were slightly trembling, she sucked every oxygen molecule out of every breath before inhaling, as if she were coming up for air before diving down into the depths again. Her vision became blurry, her eyes slightly moistend with a film of salt water, testifying to the cliché about being so angry as to not be able to see straight.

Being in this…house…only added to her anger. Everything she looked at, in all directions, was a possession of Tom Sloane’s. The choice was either to walk outside or to look for a weapon so as to kill both of those treacherous ASSHOLES RIGHT THERE IN THAT FUCKING BED -

No. She would not kill them. She would leave them there, let Sandi earn her fortune on her back, let Tom remain the perpetual man-child. Sandi, bless her small, onyx heart, had proved decisively that any thought of beginning a new life with Tom Sloane as a spark was a thought grounded in delusion. She could not afford to be deluded. Her life and her freedom were at stake.

(* * *)

As she walked, Daria tried to order her thoughts in a logical progression. Escape had become a pop quiz of high stakes. Get one answer wrong, and get thrown in jail.

Daria was certain that the two had not heard her. When she forced herself to turn away from the sounds coming from the Sloane bedroom, she knew that the two remained in ignorance of her and vulnerable to surprise. They would not question Daria’s absence for a while. Then, after cleaning themselves up and calling for Daria’s company, they would find her absent. They would start to worry for any number of reasons. Either that, or Sandi would finally “take care of things” – with Daria providing the excuse herself. This gave Daria a limited window of opportunity.

With the grass still under her boots, walking was out of the question. The distances were too great and Daria feared robot bloodhounds, imagining electronic barks chasing her like a refugee from a bad B-movie.

Automobiles were worse. Autos had not had pilots for years – you stepped in and told the OnStar your destination. The auto drove itself. Daria’s fear was that it would drive itself right back to room 030397, where Daria could meet her brand new roommate.

Like it or not, it seemed that Daria was doomed to walk. She had no aptitude for the outdoors, not even Girl Scouts. (Jane, on the other hand….) She would have to make up some sort of plan on the fly, would have to cram a lifetime of survival skills into five minutes.

First rule: find tools. There was a large tool shed on the Sloane property. There had to be some sort of impromptu weapon inside.

There was no door. It seemed to be a converted barn, and it was simply a matter to walk inside.

Inside, Daria found that her guess of a tool shed was completely wrong. There were several cars hidden under large canvas cloths, like old furniture that was not being used. Along the walls were the tools of trade for the motor mechanic. If they have gasoline….

Daria eyed the cloaked automobile from all directions, despite the fact that the cloth reduced the machine to an indistinct mass. Getting on her knees (…to show her appreciation…) she found that one edge of the canvas connected to the canvas on the other side of the car by simple hooks. She undid each of the hooks on her side, allowing her to pull off the concealing tent.

The car was a red automobile. A small, metal logo on the front hood read “FIAT”. The cloth hood betrayed that the car was supposed to be a convertible; the hood was inexplicably in the “up” position. There was some sort of filmy plastic cover over the hood, one that could easily be removed. The automobile was bulkier than the convertibles Daria had seen in her youth, but the curves of the design betrayed the power of the vehicle – it was the engine, and not the design, that gave this vehicle its speed.

Daria opened the door – it opened. And the greatest surprise of all - the keys were still in the vehicle.

Daria turned the engine, and the machine angrily woke. Even a small touch of the pedal provoked the roar of a great beast, growling to be made free. It was stick, but Daria could drive stick. Daria was determined to give the machine its freedom despite the fact that that she had not driven in years.

It was as if touching a bicycle. You never really forget how to ride one, and Daria’s skill with a car, drilled into muscle memory with multiple exercises, simply returned to her. She put the machine in first gear and the red convertible lurched forward, off to new adventures.

(* * *)

There was no gate. There was no need for one. Daria passed a robot groundstender but it paid her no mind as she wound down the winding road. After two minutes, she found a sign:

CONTROLLED VEHICLE AREA

You could still drive the car yourself if you wanted to. No one wanted to, however. Entering a controlled area meant that you obeyed the traffic laws and drove at the speed limit as to not upset the machines traveling around you. It was much easier to let the car drive you where you wanted to go and save the red convertibles of the world for uncontrolled areas where you could take turns on privately-owned roads at 180 mph.

Daria wondered where she could go. She would have to get supplies from somewhere. Perhaps Tom had put an RFID chip in the machine. Tom would of course be prudent. She could imagine a younger version of Tom (but with the older version’s mustache) sitting next to a car with a dead engine, waiting for the helpful robots to arrive and tow them away. She could hear the younger version of Tom in her head. Why should I call someone? Why not just let the robots do it?

There was a temptation to give in to the paranoia that the robot police were on their way. If you do that, Daria told herself, you might as well just frog-march yourself to the police station. She had to assume – at least as a working proposition – that the police, the robots, the whole crooked system around her was not omnicompetent, that human eyes would fail to see, that machines would make the wrong calculations. She knew, however, that her expensive car was a burden – it would be the first identifier of many. She had to shake herself free of identifiers.

(* * *)

When you’re a fugitive, everything is a plan.

Daria had confined free thought, sarcasm, cynicism, speculation to a primitive part of her mind. The car would be identified. She could not abandon and then walk; it would be a literal red flag – “fugitive within walking distance of vehicle”. She had to find someplace where she could get lost among many.

As she pulled the machine into the mall parking lot, she felt she was making a mistake. Maybe entering a large closed space was not a good idea. But staying by herself in a large, open area was not a good idea, either, or at least it seemed that way. I can’t second-guess the decision. Anything I decide has the potential to screw me. I have no training in survival.

With no secret tunnels or massive air ducts, Daria began to formulate an alibi if she was caught. I just took Tom’s car to buy some new…something. She didn’t know what she could purchase that Tom couldn’t literally make, but there had to be something.

Her mind turned to the old skit about two men in prison talking:

You turned right going out of the bank? Aw man, you shouldn’ta turned right! If you get out again, next time, turn left!

She faced the left-right dichotomy immediately.

To her left was a store marked “BOOKS”.

To her right was a store marked “PRECIOUS DESIGNS”.

“Books”. That’s where anyone would look for me. She was certainly more familiar with books, and the thought of there being some book called “How to Get Away From Everybody” a few steps away was tempting.

But who would look for her in PRECIOUS DESIGNS? You turned right going into the mall? Aw man, you shouldn’ta turned right!

Changing her appearance was a high priority. So Precious Designs it was.

(* * *)

Daria entered the store, which had several customers. There were several mannequins displaying the precious designs, each standing watch from their elevated platforms.

What there weren’t were were the designs themselves. Instead of finished clothing on racks like there were at the Cranberry Commons Daria remembered from years ago, there were bolts of cloth. Daria figured it out. There must be some sort of automatic costumer in the store.

It made sense. A customer would simply carry a bolt of cloth to a counter, and say, “make me X”. The machines would make the customer “X”, and the customer could fit “X” on whenever he or she wanted. It was more like a bakery than a boutique. (As Daria looked around, she saw that the customers were middle class or slightly higher. They had this haunted look on their faces.)

There was only one question – what to wear? Oh, if Quinn could only see me now…wondering what to wear…. But Daria knew that “she shopped like a guy”, according to Quinn. Daria homed in on a look like a laser, sized it up in a split second, and if the look fit society’s requirements for non-nudity and was remotely flattering, into Daria’s cart it would go. On her visits, Quinn made a habit of culling Daria’s closet. Certain favorite shirts would vanish.

This would be a strength. She merely had to find the least likely thing to wear, having the machines make it, and box it. Even there, she was offered a multiplicity of choice, until a voice in the back of her head said, pick the most durable.

Daria found a denim jacket (!) and jeans combo. She grabbed a durable looking bolt of dark blue denim and prepared to take her place in line.

As she walked towards the line, she could see what was going on at the head of the line. Someone would step towards what looked like an old-fashioned airport scanner. They’d sit in the scan booth for a few moments while the machine made a three-dimensional topographical projection. The sewing device would then stitch together a garment in the size that was needed.

”Step into the archway, m’aam”

Daria saw herself stepping into the arch and the machine scanning her.

She imagined the machine. FUGITIVE. DARIA MORGENDORFFER003. ARREST IMMEDIATELY. She saw robots, hundreds of them, following her, with infinitely long arms of the law….

And Daria lost her nerve. This was no choice to make.

She retreated to the back of the store. Goddammit. I should have chosen the bookstore. She created a new story. Tom, I remembered that you liked Stalin so much, I decided to buy you a biography. I wanted to surprise you. I needed some way…to show you my appreciation.

She put the cloth back where she found it. Maybe there would be no problem at all. Maybe Tom was just waiting for her to come back.

As she returned up the isle, she saw one of the mannequins - leave the podium. It had a head without features, the better than some shopper could imagine her own head in its place. It was coming down the aisle towards Daria.

Daria knew to keep a wide berth of robots. She simply turned and walked in the same direction as the robot, then resolved to leave the store by way of an alternate aisle.

Then she saw it. Another mannequin, which had recently left its post, was now heading in her direction as well.

Once again, Daria had to make a quick decision. Fight or flight? The closest thing she had to a weapon was a long file she had secreted from the garage, one which just barely fit in the pocket in front of her formless sweater.

It’s paranoia. It’s time for the mannequins to be changed. They know that. They go back to their changing rooms, they put on new clothes, they come back. It’s that simple.

Daria tried to betray some confidence as she walked forward, a careful eye on the motions of the mechanism walking towards her. She tried to find a plan, and some courage, both items in short supply at this critical moment. She walked closer…Niagara Falls…slowly I walked…step by step…inch by inch….

As she walked, she saw it. It made her stop when she noticed it.

The camera.

Perched high in the store. Now swiveling slightly in her direction, like a poker player’s bad tell. She saw the curve of the lens tighten for a nice close-up.

Daria found what she was looking for.

The mannequin stopped her. “Can I help you?” its sexless form asked her.

“NO.” Daria was firm.

“Please,” it said, “let me help you.” And then it touched her. It took her by the arm, her left arm.

With one fluid amazing moment, Daria grabbed the file from her sweater, and in a snarl, struck with a stabbing motion. The dense metal cracked a hole right in the mannequin’s head and Daria could feel something grabbing the file right out of her hand, as it was ground up in whatever helped the head to move.

The head began to move like a woodpecker looking for an insect, shaking rapidly, nodding “yes” a thousand times over, the imbedded file as Pinocchio’s nose. The machine let go.

Daria broke for it. She didn’t care what was chasing her, what these machines wanted. She just had to get away. Look for a bathroom. A changing room. A back exit.

Three fashionable mannequins immediately pursued. They were faster. Daria knocked over a display of accessories (cheap watches? necklaces?) behind it.

They were no impediment. It jumped the items on the floor.

A machine with model-thin arms grabbed Daria’s arm and tried to swing her around. She pushed it instead, and it lost balance. Daria tumbled forth, over the device, when another machine tried to grab at her. She pushed off the fallen machine’s body using her legs, and bolted again, at a full run.

That was when she saw it. The silver machine. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a mannequin. It wasn’t one of the robots from the poverty pens. It looked sleek, and very expensive.

“HALT,” it said. “Do not resist!”

Daria turned her back to the machine. She ran, ran as fast as she could. And then she heard it –

-- thhhhhhWWWWWWWWWpphhhhhttttttttt

…she continued to run….

-- thhhhhhWWWWWWWWWpphhhhhttttttttt


…this time, she felt the stab of the needle at her back. No. Have to get away. Have to getttt awwwwaaayyyyy…. As consciousness eluded her, she looked up at the mannequin in front of her, still on a pedestal, wearing the latest can-you-just-die-for-it costume? The blank face portrayed nothing at all, but Daria, as she slipped away she interpreted the mannequin’s posture as betraying a sense of superiority….