'Now class,' says the holoteacher in his dreary grey monotone excuse for living humanity. 'In today's lesson we will be covering some of the more important aspects of the Thirty-Third Consumer Crisis, including its lasting after-effects on the wider global economy as a whole.'
I lean back, finger tapping impatiently on the glossy surface of the interactive desk, waiting for the download to complete.
Man, these local Fang connections are slow.
'If you will now place your hands on your desktops you will be Impressed with today's lesson plan, along with accompanying homework resources for the weekend.'
Students groan as they place their palms on their desktops so they can receive even more homework for the weekend. Thank god I'm firewalled against these things.
'You too, Bitman. Yes. I can see you there.'
Impressions. One of the wonders of the modern age. A technology borrowed from the native Shal of the planet, though largely perverted from its original uses. A way of transmitting information from a physical surface directly into the mind, using only the electromagnetic field of the skin and body. Press a memory surface with your skin, and in microseconds your subconscious is tricked into believing that you've just had a real experience – like you really did just read a screen with your weekend homework assignment on it. Even more clever, the technology does this in such a way that for a while you can recall the details with extreme clarity - like someone with a photographic memory, only not as permanent (they're still working on that part).
The lesson begins, though I barely hear what the holoteacher is saying. I can see on the little stealthed holoscreen of my Slate that eighty-eight percent of the virtual safe has been downloaded. Eighty-nine percent.
Come on come on.
'It was in the aftermath of the Thirty-Third Consumer Crisis, with the help of the new field of Behavioural Politics, that the modern era was born in the form of the New … Anyone? Anyone? In the form of the New Confidence. As you already know, the early decades of the New Confidence saw the shaping of modern democracy into what we recognise today as coalition rule, or what is commonly known as … Anyone? Anyone? As The Combine. Thanks to the economic successes of this period, Behavioural Politics was to become the established third leg of the … Anyone? Anyone? Of the Democratic Process, where it joined alongside Identity Politics and … Anyone? Anyone? Consumer Politics, as another method for both government and consumers to engage on matters of social importance.'
Someone is snoring beside me, oblivious to the chair buzzing beneath her ass. Drool spreads across the shiny surface of her desktop, catching the white brilliance of the sunlight. The class has only started and the rest of the students look just about ready to burst. Outside in the playing field, another class of students are playing sports for an hour, their boisterous voices muted by the sealed plass windows of the classroom. They're the lucky ones, just to be outside with the sky over their heads for a while - for all that they're mostly being shouted at by their instructors.
Ninety-three percent downloaded.
I'm glad I've disabled the chair I'm sitting on so it doesn't give away my lack of attention. I don't know how these kids do it, day after day after day.
When I was younger, my father always warned us about schools like this. Born and raised in the Sprawl, he likened mass industrial schooling to day prisons for children, designed to break them of their free will. A way of creating a population more manageable to its owners; a way of dumbing down people into cogs.
I always supposed he was being his usual overly-dramatic self, but what I've seen during this week of highschool hell has been even worse than my father ever let on. Now I'm the one who sounds overly-dramatic about the dangers of schooling.
What I've witnessed here, in these airless halls and classrooms, is less like real education and more like re-education, more like outright brainwashing going on, from the youngest inmates up to the oldest. Brainwashing on a mass scale, though it's almost entirely hidden behind an edifice of traditions; hidden even to the teaching staff enforcing the daily brainwashing; hidden behind pomp and glossy perfections; behind smiles and outwardly good intentions; behind the unquestionable authority of scientifically-derived structures of routine; behind salaries and much-needed jobs.
Behind it all, this place really is a form of prison, where kids are confined for conditioning into machine-like behaviour.
Bells like alarms rule the long, dying days here. Regimentation and hierarchy. The separation and boxing of everything and everyone. From what I've witnessed in Orange Hill High, kids are mostly taught to disconnect from themselves and the rhythms of the real world through an endless litany of do's and dont's – don't run, don't dawdle, don't talk, don't get out of your chair, don't fidget, don't stare out the window, don't use that word, don't speak that name, don't question authority or what any of this is for. Even their inner authorities, their own original wills, are cast into self-doubt.
I feel sorry for them, I really do. In a single week I've seen how constant exams and tests and gradings force these kids to race against each other tooth and claw for position. How every day they find themselves ranked on scales of winners and losers that sets them up for the rest of their lives. I've seen how those who knuckle down the most, who learn to jump through hoops and please authority with a smiling, phony enthusiasm, are the ones rewarded with good grades and phony certificates. While the rest just seem to be sourly dragging themselves through the motions, with any remaining sparks of open rebellion effectively suppressed by punishment, mood-stabilisers and good old-fashioned peer pressure.
'I heard they zapped Farris Buller with a taser when they arrested him last night,' one of the girls is whispering behind me over the endless droning of the holoteacher. 'They told him he was mouthing off too much so they tasered him. His parents were in tears.'
I'm half-listening when the Slate purrs on my lap to draw my attention. On its dimmed and minimized holoscreen I see that the download is complete.
Got it!
I have the Animal's virtual safe, along with the contents still locked inside of it.
Right now the kid has no idea what I've just done. Instead Dav Bitman, aka Animal, is pretending to listen to the teacher while he surreptitiously scrawls another scrap of graffiti on his desk leg. Intrigued, I lean over slightly to see what this rebel in disguise is writing.
We Will Be Remembered! read his words in spidery blue ink.
Maybe Bitman is the same person who's been writing all that other stuff around the school that keeps catching my eye. Stuff that's always cleverly positioned to avoid any watching cameras. Don't Swallow Their Bullshit Pills! Or the equally worthy, You Are Not Alone In This. Maybe that's why Bitman always seems to be late for his classes.
I like this kid. I want to go easy on him. I'm not here to get him into any kind of trouble, just to get the money back. Quickly I type a few words into my Slate, then hit send. Bitman jumps when my text message flashes on his interactive desk in the most ugly flashing script I could find.
I HAVE YOUR SAFE - ANIMALS HUNGRY PIGGY BANK.
He's a cool one, I'll give him that. Bitman strains to look around the classroom as casually as he can. I pretend to look down at my desk, and watch him as he hunches over to type a response.
IF YOU HAVE IT WHY TELL ME?
BECAUSE IM TAKING BACK THE THREE-HUNDRED-THOUSAND STOLEN CRIPS INSIDE IT. GIVE ME THE ACCESS CODE. I'LL RETURN WHATEVER ELSE IS LEFT IN THE SAFE.
AH MAN.
THE ACCESS CODE.
I CANT GIVE YOU BACK THE MONEY BRO.
WHY NOT?
SPENT MOST OF IT.
ON WHAT?!
GAVE HALF TO SOME RESISTANCE CROWD FUNDING THING. DROPPED ANOTHER HUNDRED K AT POKER LAST NIGHT.
Great. My client's going to go bug-eyed crazy when he hears the news that most of the stolen money is gone.
WHATS LEFT?
Bitman pauses, wondering whether or not to tell me. Once more he glances around the classroom, taking in the cameras this time, certain that he's being watched.
ABOUT FIFTY K. PLUS MY OWN CRIPS.
ANIMAL. GIVE ME THE ACCESS CODE. ITS THE ONLY WAY YOU GET YOUR OWN CRIPS BACK.
ANIMAL SAYS BITE MY HAIRY ASS.
MAN THIS DOESNT HAVE TO GET UGLY HERE.
NO. THAT'S THE ACCESS CODE.
Ah. I see he's telling the truth when I type in the pass phrase, and suddenly I have access to his safe.
I also see he's telling the truth about spending most of the crips. I sigh. At least I have fifty K to send back to my client. I do that right now, quickly accessing the anonymous Deep Wire through the school's private network, so I can fire my client an email along with the entire sum of what remains of his crips, set up on escrow. Plus a digital log to prove what happened to the money.
Bitman is trying to take his Slate from his bag without being noticed. He's also watching his desk in anticipation of another message, but I leave him hanging for the moment. There's still nearly ten thousand of his own personal crips inside the safe. I send these to his anonymous Deep Wire identity, >>>Animal<<< so he'll get the money back next time he goes online.
Then I send him a final message:
>>>ANIMAL<<< SENT YOU YOUR CRIPS. DO YOURSELF A FAVOUR. STORE THEM ON A DATA SPIKE, NOT ON YOUR GODDAMNED SLATE! DO YOURSELF ANOTHER FAVOUR. GO TO THIS HACKING BOARD AND ASK THE MODERATORS FOR APPRENTICESHIP STATUS. TELL THEM THE ESCAPIST SENT YOU. ~THE ESCAPIST~
I'm done here, I realise with a sudden rush of relief. Now I just have to sit out the rest of this lesson, then slip outside with everyone else at the end of it, rendered invisible by the crowd, so that Bitman is none the wiser. Then I'll leave this place and get on with living.
I lean back, stretching my spine and arms, warmed by the slanting beams of sunshine and the Slate humming on my lap.
It was an interesting job while it lasted. Now it's done with, I'm reminded how I've been thinking of taking a much-needed holiday from the Sprawl. Maybe my usual thing of camping for a week or two up in the Cascade Mountains, enjoying some solitary campfires under the stars with a bag or two of good spaceweed.
I can almost feel the mountain air stirring through me, just thinking of it.
Feeling spirited for the first time in a week, I reach down to shut off the Slate just as a new email pops into my personal mailbox.
I blink in surprise. It's from my sister, Leaf, all the way from the Salt Plateau. I haven't heard from her in years.
I need you brother, reads her message. The Shal need you. Someone has stolen the First Fire!
I blink a few times then read the email again, thinking it's some kind of joke. My sister lives on the reservation of the native Shal, which is currently under siege by Combine forces due to an unruly uprising.
I can't figure out what she might mean by their First Fire being stolen.
YOU HIGH AGAIN SISTER? WHAT'S UP? I send back to her. Then wonder how long I'll have to wait for a reply, since she rarely checks her mail.
Thirty minutes of the class are still remaining, according to the clock on the wall. Over the heads of the students the teacher's voice carries like an automatic recording, on and on and on.
I really can't take any more of this.
Then don't. Get up and leave! Who the hell cares if the kid figures out it was you? Let's get out of here!
I always get the best advice from myself.
Students turn to look as I climb to my feet and sling the Slate into my bag, staring wide-eyed as I shoulder the bag like I'm casting off my chains or something.
Bitman glances up on my way past.
'Student Asfinkle,' announces the holoteacher as I head for the door. 'Please explain where you are going?'
'Need to drain the old snake,' I tell the hologram, tugging at the door handle just as I hear it's internal lock thudding shut.
God damn it.
'Student Asfinkle. Please explain why you need your bag to visit the bathroom?'
'I don't.'
'You don't what?'
'I don't need my bag to visit the bathroom.'
'Then why are you taking it with you?'
'I told you. I need to go drain my snake.'
Students are smirking behind their hands. The holoteacher stands immobile for a moment, trying to process the enigma of my words. I'm hoping his digitised fuzzy logic will decide it's not worth wasting any more time over, and let me go.
It does. 'Very well then. But make it quick.'
Suddenly the door opens against my tug.
'Remember your hall pass, student Asfinkle. Your hall pass!'
A numbered ticket slides out from a wall printer next to the door. It has a grainy photo of my face on it – or at least the face I'm wearing for this job, which I've modified slightly with the usual enhancements.
Every kid is watching me, unaware than I'm about to step outside to my freedom. It seems like a betrayal of some kind just then - or at the very least, a bad example - to just do as I'm told.
Instead I flash him a toothy grin.
'Animal says, bite my hairy ass.'
And then I walk out of there with the kids whistling and hollering after me, and the young hacker gaping in surprise.
To be continued ...
(Read previous parts here)
The High Wild is a passion project that I'm releasing on Steemit as I write it. The artwork is my own. With the support of readers, I'd like to release a High Wild novella as a free ebook when it's finished, under the Creative Commons license. Please consider supporting the project by Upvoting, Following and Resteeming, or give a TIP for the author's efforts! Cheers.
