Here's the latest installment of my current dark scifi project. This is chapter 22. If you're just tuning in, consider starting with chapters 1 and 2. Be advised that this work considers difficult subjects, including suicide. If you're in crisis, please seek help. Help is available here.
The wave of strikes precipitated by 321 mostly resolved themselves by the end of the year. Strike 25 became less about the rent strike and more about reshaping the relationship between landlords and tenants. Horace stayed involved as a figurehead, speaking at monthly meetings and helping with public statements. But his classes resumed in January, limiting the amount of time he had available for activism.
Today, with Chicago winter in full swing outside, Horace sat in a classroom listening to an economics lecture and trying not to fall asleep. At one point, he did fall asleep. Sitting in the front of the class, this didn't go unnoticed. "Mr Gomez," the professor shouted in response to the affront. "Care to tell us how central bank interest rate adjustments protect us from inflation?"
Coming to with a snort and dropping a pen on the floor, Horace quickly got his bearings. "Should I say the real answer or the answer you want to hear?" he asked.
"Just answer the question, Mr Gomez," said the professor.
"Increasing base lending rates reduces the number of new loans that are created, thereby limiting the amount of new money coming into the system," said Horace. "The Fed basically uses interest rates to adjust the cost of new money, and the theory is that making money more expensive somehow slows rate of increase in the cost of goods and services, which is bullshit."
"So you're saying that the law of supply and demand is bullshit?" asked the professor. "Are you aware of another law that better explains economic activity in the free market?"
"Uhh," said Horace. "I know what I'm supposed to say here, but I just can't do it. We don't have a free market. Our markets are totally distorted by government policy and common practice. Supply and demand are heavily manipulated, to the point where these terms have become completely meaningless. So like, inflation isn't some magical force happening in idealized markets. It's an attack on the people by the industries that set prices. And the Fed raising rates a few basis points can't magically make this predatory behavior go away."
"Yeah, you tell her, Go," said a classmate, referring to Horace by his recently acquired nickname.
"Alright," said the professor, smiling at these youthful antics. "How would you solve inflation, then? And if you say price fixing, I'll make you write two thousand words on Venezuela."
Seriously? said Hector. "I'd start with the money. Right now, new money is created out of thin air by banks and distributed through the economy from there. This means banks decide what is and isn't valuable, not people, which is wrong. A better way to do it would be to create the new money as new value is created, in a decentralized way. So the money begins at the bottom, in the exchange of real goods and services, and economic priorities get realigned according to actual human needs, instead of according to the political and economic priorities of our predatory control regime."
"Interesting," said the professor. "But I'm not hearing anything about inflation."
"Inflation in my system could happen, and would probably show up here and there, in pockets of the total economy," said Horace. "The solution would be simple. People would simply not pay excessive costs, and the businesses run by profiteering assholes would fail. Even in our screwy system, Strike 25 used nonpayment of rent as a negotiating tactic to reign in property owner profiteering, so I know it could work."
"If I'm hearing you right," said the professor. "You're characterizing inflation as a weapon of class warfare, instead of as an economic situation brought about by an excess of currency in the system."
"No, I'm saying it's both," said Horace. "Bankers inject too much money into the total economy, but only into parts of the economy that average people can't access. Then this excess of money in these inaccessible parts of the economy is used as an excuse by businesses to price-gouge."
"That's ... not a bad argument," said the professor. "We're almost out of time. If anyone wants to write an essay on alternative perceptions of inflation in addition to the assignment in your syllabus, I'll give extra credit."
After class, Horace found his vocally supportive classmate waiting for him. Lori, he recalled, as she forced a high five. "Nice one," she said. "You totally told it like it is."
"Someone has to," said Horace.
"Hey listen," said Lori. "What are you doing right now? There are some people I want to introduce you to. Serious freedom fighters. You up for that?"
Although he knew he should return home, Horace was avoiding his apartment. Domonique had been acting super weird this last week and Horace was tired of dealing with it. "Okay," he said. "What kind of activism are we talking?"
"Class war, baby, all the way," said Lori.
They took a train downtown, then proceeded to an unremarkable patch of sidewalk a few blocks west of Clark Street. There, Lori moved a loose board from a wall between two buildings, revealing a passageway. Soon, she led them to a boarded up window, pulling the plywood off and turning on an interior light that illuminated a staircase to the basement level of the property.
Horace followed nervously as Lori replaced the plywood behind them and led the way to an unmarked door in the dusty basement. On the other side of the door was a space that looked like a cross between a lounge and a command center. "Holy shit," said Horace, finding half a dozen people there.
"Everyone," said Lori. "This is Go from Strike 25."
"Hey," said Horace.
After going around saying their names, a young man named Jam approached Horace. "Lori tell you what we're doing?" he asked. "You good with it?"
"What are you doing?" asked Horace.
Jam motioned to a large bulletin board with a city map and various things pinned to it. "Operation Monster Bash." he said. "We're going after executives who invest in the incarceration industry."
"Okay," said Horace. "Going after ... how?"
"Shit, you're the engineer, you tell us," said Lori.
"So far, we've identified five offices in three buildings here in the city that deal with investments in inmate services and prison slavery," said Jam. "Our plan is to blow the fuckers up."
Hearing these words, a section of the bulletin board Horace was looking at snapped into focus. It was a bomb diagram. Peroxide explosives in cardboard boxes lined with metal strips, by the look of it. Horace suddenly felt overwhelmed by fear, a variety of fear he'd never experienced before. "Find another way," he said. "Find another way or I'm out."
"Don't worry, we have a plan to limit collateral damage," said Jam. "That's part of what we need you for. The engineering. Getting the wiring right so the bombs all go off when they're supposed to."
"Okay, give me what you got and let me do some research," said Horace, desperate to get out of there. "But just so you know, I'm not about getting blood on my hands over this shit."
On the train home, Horace felt like his world had suddenly become a much scarier place than it already was. Not knowing what else to do, he called Special Agent Weaver and asked for advice. Weaver said he had a friend in the FBI's Chicago office that he trusted and told Horace to await a call from her.
Arriving home, his mind overloaded, all Horace wanted to do was zone out and play video games. But what he found upon entering his apartment caused this plan to vanish from his mind. Domonique was there, laying on the bathroom floor. She was breathing, but wouldn't wake up. Calling 911, Horace sat down with Domonique and held her until the EMTs arrived.
(Feature image from Pixabay.)
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