Nesson is a serial novel about living with technology and sprawl in the near future. Learn more or start from the beginning.
The crowd screamed a unified, unintelligible plea of panic and anger. He understood their fear, he felt some himself. How would he react if he had no money and the only store in town would not extend any credit? He would probably take what he needed anyway, maybe even take something he just wanted. This is why he spoke to them through a window, behind a locked door. He posted a sign that morning and few of the people that read it had left. Instead a mob gathered to confront the closest thing to a Links Corp representative they could find.
Helen watched the scene from the little apartment above the store. She felt a nervous energy about this culmination of several days of simmering drama. It was boiling over. No one was surprised to find out the US government was freezing the assets of anyone living in Nesson, as well as Links Corps and its employees. Links himself made an announcement about it. He told everyone via live video feed not to worry.
“Our former home, once happy to turn its back on us, has now decided on aggressive action. Yes, it is true. Your money is gone. Rather it may as well be, considering your chances of accessing it. Rest assured any ties you have in the US are being monitored closely in case someone might try to funnel money to you somehow. So, this is the end right? Time to go back home and settle back under the thumb of Uncle Sam? Not likely!” Here he pauses as if waiting for some sort of cheer or applause to pass. After waving his hands downwards, he continued. No one watching had made a sound.
“Before Nesson, Links Corp was already a nation unto itself. We are not tied to any particular currency, nor shall you be! At this very moment, I have teams researching your individual net worths and pulling every string they find to get you your money back. Or rather, the equivalent. Now, you’re asking, ‘what should I do now? How long will this take?’ Not long friends, not long. You should experience no lifestyle change. No hardship. I am sure in the meantime all parties can work out a system of IOUs, as it were. Links Corp will update you as things progress. Thank you and Godspeed.”
And so there had been a system of IOUs. The primary collector on this side of Nesson was the man on whom Helen now rested her gaze. He had taken them gracefully enough at first, had Connie setup accounts for everyone to shop on credit.
“No need for anyone to go hungry over politics.” Marcus had said. She felt a little swelling in her chest when she heard it. She found Marcus to be, despite his outward behavior and speech, quite generous. Was she not living here instead of a jail cell? He could have turned her in at any time, often threatened, but here she was watching a mob of wealthy men and women beat on a door. Of course, all generosity had limits. Two days ago, Marcus came into the apartment grumbling about the customers.
“I let them shop here with no money and what do they do? Buy food? Emergency supplies, medicine? No! They’re clearing me out of booze and electronics. If I didn’t have to order jewelry by the piece they’d take all that too. What the hell is wrong with people?”
She had no answer for him. She was actually wondering why anyone was allowed to charge things like that in the first place. Neither Marcus nor Connie had thought simply to restrict what was for sale. If people took a few apples to feed themselves and were never able to pay it back, what is the big deal? If they took a few mobiles? That was a different story.
She could not help but feel pitiless for Marcus. Nor did she feel anything for the island residents who lost all their money. Were they not building their own society out here, why did they need to a bunch of American dollars? Undercover journalism made her feel only less sympathetic. After encountering the wide array of human experience, she had a hard time feeling sorry for anyone. She did not feel sympathy for Marcus, the crowd, or her former traveling companions. There was something wrong with all of them, either that or something serious was wrong with her.
Still, part of her believed that one should help even those who deserve it least. Maybe it was all the old television she watched with her brother. Perhaps she believed at least some of the ideals she claimed to believe while she was on Open Acres.
She managed to placate Marcus for a night, the next day he let people keep right on buying extreme luxury on credit. Looting with the consent of the owner, or so Marcus called it the next night. This time there was no appeal. He dictated an announcement to Connie:
Attention,
This store is closed until management begins to receive payments for delinquent accounts. Payment can be made electronically or at the convenience window to the side of the front doors.
-Management
This was the sign at the root of the uproar. They were all subject to the expedience of Links Corp now, Marcus included. At least that is how Marcus saw it. The island residents however, considered him and his store as part of Links Corp. The message was: ‘you have no money, and until I give you money, you can’t shop at my store.’ The idea that someone besides them could have all the money and all the tangible goods and they have nothing was novel and infuriating. What injustice was this? Each person knew that he or she was not the one taking advantage of the credit. Why couldn’t I shop, each thought, while the others who are the problem are banned? Why everyone? After he tired of the pleading and threats Marcus called out, “Listen, I can’t give away the store. Work it out amongst yourselves!” He closed the window before the angry retorts came.
***
Earl had seen the video, but he also had special instructions from Links. The workers did not need to hear the full speech, most of it didn’t apply to them anyway. Earl could make his own announcement, one of the executives told him over holocall. He could not remember which one he was talking to; they all looked alike.
“Hey! Hey!” Earl was waving his arms. No one could hear him over the machinery. Finally someone saw him and let out a whistle to stop them. The change was sudden, almost like going deaf. After a second the sound of the ocean hitting the construction ship roared forward into Earl’s consciousness. He pushed it back and called out.
“Hey Everyone! Just wanted to let you know that you’re getting paid in Yuan until further notice. That is all. Thanks.” No one said anything or showed any reaction. Why should they care how they are paid? Most were not from the US or China, so one currency was as good as the other, as long as it could be cashed in back home. The machines restarted and the ship was back to life turning trash into new land. None of the workers questioned the wisdom of expanding Nesson when the US was already hostile and Japan appeared to show sympathy to the US, but Earl did.
Last time he was in New St. Louis that was the question on every lip. He had never seen outsider matters worry New St. Louians so. He did not blame them. Though the settlement had been operating independently for decades and unconnected to any country, conflict between the US and Links could easily bring unpleasantries to their door steps. Earl felt welcome pretty much anywhere he set foot, but lately the people of New St. Louis looked at him suspiciously. Not just the ones he knew, but strangers on the street watch him closely. Though Earl now spent more time on the little island than he did on the mainland US, something still pegged him as an outsider.
There were other strange things going on. Jack told him gambling was way down. The locals were tightening up and the Links workers were not coming around as often. Certainly Earl was not around as much. He liked Jack and his place, but he had plenty of money right now and no dream of doubling it. The only reason he went to New St. Louis every few weeks was to get some decent food and see women. A construction fleet mess hall offered little in those areas.
Would they change RinMinbi in New St. Louis? Well, why not? Even if they did not, he had enough other currency. He even held some of their hard money. Why they and the Neopolitans would not jump on the credit system was someone else’s guess, but he did kind of like walking around with real cash in his pocket.
Thud!
“What the hell?” Earl exclaimed, no one heard him over the din of the machines. What could have been louder than them? A group of workers gathered at the edge of the deck. Someone lingering behind turned off the equipment before following the crowd. This time it was not the ocean but another white noise roar. Earl pushed his way through his employees and found a screaming band riding in a little iron ship no larger than a dingy. There were at least twenty of them. Not one of them small, waving fists and holding signs. They rammed us! Earl thought.
“Ahoy! Did you just ram us? On purpose?”
“Yeah!” Twenty voices chorused. They waved their signs harder. STAY OUT OF OUR WATERS! they read.
“Umm… Do you need help getting unstuck?”
“Nooo” “Boo!” Hiss. They did not like his joke. “Hey! We’re not stuck!” Someone yelled and several hands turned to slap the maker of the gaffe. The group was comprised of a cross section of pacific islanders. Earl knew several small nations were displaced by Nesson, but who cared? They were all small countries no one had ever heard of. Now Links Corp, everyone knew that name. Like it or not.
“Alright guys, we’re getting back to work, try not to strain those hearty voices of yours. Start ‘em up!” Earl yelled. The sound was barely tolerable on the deck; Earl knew it had to be worse down near the hull where the protesters were. He did not expect that to make them leave, but there was no reason to make it easy on them. Too bad they could not pave right over them. They weren’t in the way anyway. The ship moved, just a few feet, to drop a load of freshly manufactured earth on the floating platform they had already secured.
Earl looked over the edge to gage the reaction of the protesters below. There was a lot of open mouths and gesticulation, it was like a twentieth century silent movie. He started to chuckle and was going to turn away when he saw still face in the crowd. A young man stood at the center of the boat, unmoving and focusing shining eyes on Earl. He was not tall, and compared to his shipmates he was rail thin, but there was a strong static quality to him. His gaze was dense and pressing. He could have been a statue. Yet his firm stance, his inanimation hit Earl like a blow to the sternum. That look contained all that could be said about the matter.
Though Earl felt instant admiration for the young man, he did not hesitate in his commitment to his work. Earl looked at a map. The poor pacific islands were getting boxed in, not that it was his problem, but he got it. They were not exactly going to run over any other country’s existing land. The current Nesson did not even cross into the southern hemisphere, but in ten years, who knew? Link’s could easily steer development south, especially since plans to connect to Japan were unraveling.
Really though, their economies stood only to gain if that happened. Earl had read somewhere about the little towns that lived on twentieth century interstate traffic. Was this not the same thing? Larger scale sure but almost the same. Perhaps he should visit one of these islands, see what kind of amenities they could offer new Nessonian neighbors. Not that they would ever interact with native islanders, it was unlikely they would interact with even their closest neighbor. There would be no need. He thought of asking the protesters where they were from, but then thought better of it.
***
“What, so did people really live like this, talk like this 100 years ago?”
“Shh!”
“It’s just, it seems strange.”
“Uhg. Just watch would you!” Helen had rearranged a living room display to face a video wall. She navigated the video library herself, taking several minutes to search and browse when it would have been so easy to ask Connie to do it. Helen did not exactly invite Marcus, but there were signs his presence was expected. She was sitting on a couch, for example, when it would have been far easier to move a chair. She had a large bowl of popcorn and an array of snacks set up on a coffee table. She asked Connie to dim the store lights. At that point, Marcus had two options: go to the apartment or sit with Helen in front of the screen.
He did not understand the movie they were watching. The sets were ornate but ordinary. Likewise, the characters were all a combination of comic, daring, and sad. He knew people lived outside of their homes much more in the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, but the way they interacted with the environment and other people was confusing. They all spoke in a way that was absurd yet rang with honesty. It was not that he did not enjoy it; he just wanted to understand. Unfortunately, Helen was not in an explaining mood.
Also confusing was her proximity. They started the movie sitting on opposite sides of a three-cushion couch. Halfway through the movie she had migrated to the middle cushion, but Marcus had no memory of her moving over. Probably she was just getting closer to the snacks, but from this distance, he could feel her movements when she readjusted and smell the candies she was eating. He would have to reach if he wanted to touch her with his hand, but he felt as though they were making a sort of contact.
Had Helen set this up to take his mind off the mob outside the door or did she just want to watch this movie? She must have watched this particular movie several times, but she was still laughing and crying as if it were new. Marcus was distracted most of the time, alternating thoughts about the store and Helen. He missed most of the jokes and bittersweet moments, but he was able to keep up with the plot easily enough. The plot, however, did not seem to be the point of the movie.
There was only one scene that implanted itself into Marcus’s memory. A great wave of sadness and joy overtook him when the main character’s valet stabs him with a pocket knife and immediately escorts him to the hospital. Helen let out a healthy laugh, but could see Marcus was shaken. She grimaced and moved a little closer, resting her hand on Marcus’s cushion.
***
Helen wandered the aisles, alone in the dark. Marcus went to bed after the movie; there was no discussion about the film or anything else. The need to express the connection she felt to movies and television shows wound tightly in her chest. She avoided any positive conversation about media while she was on open acres. While video walls and mobiles were accepted (she knew people used holorooms too), the more radical element of the commune believed in no media at all. Perhaps not no media, audio recordings and print media were ok, but moving pictures were the root of the existential decay they were fighting. It went something like this: photography gave way to cinematography. Film led to television. Television to video walls, which were admittedly just an innovation on television, and the video walls to holovision and holorooms. The mimicry of reality beamed into the home had been dissolving the meaning of real life since the mid-twentieth century.
However, there were such beautiful things that only moving pictures could express. Perhaps the media influenced the content, but did it have to be the whole message? What about the movie she just rewatched? The director was able to exploit visual cues to create an exaggerated environment that felt more real than the hyperrealism of most movies. If not more real, more honest. She wished she could have talked to Marcus about that. He seemed a little bored, or at least distracted throughout, but she noticed at least a few scenes that reached him.
Should she abandon works of art that held real merit simply because of the media? There were varying levels of value to visual arts just as there were to written and oral works. There can be trite spoken word stories just as there are trite movies and television programs. There are books that will turn your brain off just as quickly as a holoprogram. Maybe people sat at home in their holorooms all day, but does obsession indicate something inherent in the object or the obsessed?
Helen ran straight into a mannequin and nearly screamed. Thoughts of what the people camping outside the store might do to her if they snuck in crossed her mind. It was funny, though, that they were so livid about losing their purchasing power. Most of the objects on the shelves could easily be printed at home. It was just a strange affinity for authenticity that kept the wealthy from home manufacturing. Large factories were beginning to disappear while average people enjoyed high quality products made at home. The things Marcus sold had to be mostly handmade. If not handmade, manufactured in very small quantities. Maybe some of them were printed the same way all of the stuff in her parent’s house was printed. Regardless of how the items made it to the store, it took quite a sum to take anything out of it.
Helen stepped lightly down the escalator and grabbed an empty box laying in the middle of the floor. Since closing the store, Marcus had let empty shipping boxes accumulate around the store. She took the box to the produce aisle and began filling it with the ripest fruits and vegetables. Once it was full, there was no way she was going to carry it. She dragged it across the floor to the front of the store. There she pulled the box until it was almost touching the front door. She took two large breaths, opened the door, and put both hands on shoved the box outside. She slammed the door and relocked it. She did not know who saw her or did not see her, but she managed to satisfy two needs every time she did this. The people needed food and she needed the store not to smell like rotting produce.
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