Anarchy in New Enlgand (3 page)

Drake quickly forced his mind back to business. He started to read the report on NESA’s main competitors. Some companies were doing better this quarter, some worse, but none seemed to have much connection to NESA; about an equal number of customers left the other companies for NESA, and vice versa. There was no strong correlation between customers leaving for any other specific company, until he came across Atlas Protection in the report.

Atlas protection was a newer but established company which had recently been ramping up their services after a few years of extraordinary profits. In the previous 12 months, a whopping 22% of former NESA customers who canceled their policies had joined up with Atlas Protection. It appeared that most of them were saving money for basically the same service, and those that were spending more were getting more, a lot more.

Exit surveys identified the lack of additional benefits in security packages as the main reason for leaving, and it made sense that their destination would be Atlas Protection. An AP package gave you access to nearly every road and highway in New England – except route 90. But customers also cited AP’s charitable giving as a reason for the switch. Every year 5% of all Atlas Protection profits were donated to various charities, so people felt like they were doing a good thing by patronizing AP, and they were.

Drake was glad that he had given the go-ahead to partner with ICE, but in his heart he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He sat back and swiveled in his chair to gaze out the broad window behind him, thinking that there must be some way to rise again as a business. He had a primal urge for victory, and to crush his enemies in the dust, but a civilized society afforded no such opportunities. As Drake looked down at the street full of busy shoppers, and slow moving cars, he saw an all-black SUV with white letters emblazoned on the side that read, "Atlas Protection."

It was a busy day at Atlas headquarters; actually, every day was busy. The company was receiving an influx of new customers daily, and had been for some time. AP was successful originally because of the variety of package deals they offered for security. There were over a dozen plans to choose from, from a bare bones package to one with all the bells and whistles. And even then, it was easy for Atlas Protection customers to customize the plans for their needs.

A guy who lives off in the remote woods might only want legal protection in case he needs to call for an investigation. This type of crisis-only insurance was dirt cheap, and worth it since every company charged more for customers who only came to them after being victimized. Only a very small percentage of the population chose to purchase no security up front.

Other customers wanted the gold plan of multiple daily checkups of their property by AP officers. Obviously this was more expensive, and generally reserved for businesses, or the extremely wealthy. Sometimes neighborhoods would go in together for a patrol, and each household would purchase a separate more basic plan for their security needs. AP was happy to accommodate any customer, and the customers appreciated the excellent service.

Kittery Atlas was the President and CEO of AP, having started the company almost 20 years ago when he was only 35. Kittery, named after his birthplace, who went by Kitt, was medium height with mostly gray curly hair that would always get a little out of control before he cut it. In shape and energetic, Kitt’s positive attitude infected his staff who swore they never saw the man have a bad day. That was probably because his home life was just as great as his office life. Happily married for 30 years, Kitt was the father of four, with two grandchildren, and a third on the way.

Kitt truly built the company himself from the ground up. For the first few years, his frugality was the only thing making the company survive. He hardly took a salary, and made sure to eat at his parents’ house 2 or 3 times a week to save money. When Kitt was building his company he didn’t have new clothes, he walked the 2 miles to work every day, and never drank alcohol – well, he never
bought
alcohol. Often a generous friend or family member would send a beer his way as a nice gesture.

But the days of want were over for Kitt and his family, though you might not know how profitable his company was by the way he lived. He and his wife kept the same modest home, though they made improvements and modernizations as the years went on. They had no need for luxury or expensive cars and clothes. Their one indulgence was vacations, often escaping from the grind 5 or 6 weeks each year to hit the best vacation spots on earth. As the years went on, Kitt added a vacation bonus for his employees, feeling guilty that they might not have the same opportunity to travel as he and his family.

Kitt’s office door was never closed, and there was a near continual stream of employees filing in and out for various reasons. Kitt loved to be involved in the daily activities of the company, but was not a micro-manager. He generally listened to updates and said, "Okay, go get em!" with a genuine smile on his face. He was a great manager who didn’t have to sacrifice morale for order. He could get the best employees because of his unmatched employment offers, and the lack of turnover further helped the company profit using experienced staff.

Over the past 5 years AP had really taken off, with so much growth it was tough to keep up. Kitt handled this by absorbing smaller companies, and introducing them to his business plan without shaking the place up too much. This meant he was not over-extended from expansion, and could gain new customers without them having to lose the old faces of their security companies. But once customers got a taste of patronizing AP, they were so impressed they told all their friends.

"Great job, can you send the Nashua branch manager a thank you for handling that issue so well?" Kitt was saying to a young female employee as he signed a tablet put in front of him by another, who swiftly exited with a nod. "It’s great when we can avoid arbitration in small cases like that. Frankly I was surprised his security was even going to take it to arbitration. Thanks."

"Mr. Atlas," his secretary interjected, peeking her head around the door, "Molly Metis from Business Ethics Review is on hold."

"Oh! Thanks Jan," Kitt energetically replied, before turning to the young lady to whom he had been talking to finish, "Thanks, I gotta take this, let me know if he needs anything when you thank him!" He picked up the phone, "Hi Molly how are you doing on this fine fall day?"

"I’m great Mr. Atlas, and how are you? I just had a couple more questions that popped up for the article we’re releasing next month on Atlas Protection."

"Absolutely, what have you got for me?"

Two

As Molly hung up she leaned back in her plush pink fluffy chair. She liked Kitt – good guy, always positive, charming really – not that it would have much influence on her article, AP
was
squeaky clean ethically. And what a contrast, she thought as she looked down at her next assignment; Mr. Barry, the arbitration agent.
Uhg!
She had dealt with him before, and getting a straight answer out of the man was like prying teeth. He always seemed to be hiding something, calculating, dodging. She couldn’t quite understand his attitude since she had never uncovered anything
too
unsavory about Barry Arbitration – just that he hired a few family members who might have not been
completely
qualified for their position. But after the Business Ethics Review (BER) report, they were all given lucrative severance packages, and sent on their way. Barry’s reputation didn’t suffer too much from that slip up, since he acted quickly to remedy it.

Molly was in her early thirties, had tan skin (even in the New England winter), but bright blue eyes – which was rare as the recessive trait was quickly disappearing in the modern worldwide melting pot. Molly’s nose was small and sharp, but the rest of her facial features were more rounded. Her hair was wavy and light, almost too blonde for her skin tone; but it was natural, and looked natural. She was a stunning woman by anyone’s standards; not a stick figure but certainly not chubby either.

People that were too skinny were found unattractive in 2115, because it wasn’t too long before that this signified starvation, disease, and death. Weight was actually more moderate than before the collapse. Very few people were obese, because the market had geared towards less meat and oil consumption after the collapse, and healthier, leaner food options in general. But with the collapse fresh in the collective memory, people saw the benefit of having a little extra in case things went sour. Nuts remained a favorite source of protein, keeping well without refrigeration or salting (unlike meat). Diets were extremely varied, since food could be shipped quickly anywhere around the globe and remain fresh. An orange picked on the Florida peninsula in the morning could easily be eaten by an urban New Englander that same afternoon. This also meant fewer preservatives were necessary, so natural farming stayed the standard even in the Modern Renaissance.

Lots of bad habits of food production were lost after the collapse, and as populations rebounded, the market provided the means for agriculture to remain natural, with the example set decades earlier by Food Corp, the miniature walled city that survived the 2020’s collapse of society by building skyscraper farms and factories centered in what was then called Massachusetts.

Barry had left four questions blank on a recent survey for BER, and the survey itself he had been returned late. Molly mustered the energy to make the call to Barry. She flicked on her video screen, and pressed Barry’s number.

"I told you I don't want any calls right now!" snapped Mr. Barry to his secretary. He was his typical, uneasy self that morning. He hated talking on the phone, and dealing with customers, except for a few of his favorites. But even then he was more interested in playing golf, or attending dinner parties than conducting business. His reputation as an arbiter had slowly diminished over the years so that many of his clients were slightly less than reputable these days.

Rumors had swirled now for a few months that Mr. Barry had taken a bribe to ignore a breach of contract one of his customers committed against their colleague. This was being investigated by Molly from Business Ethics Review, who Mr. Barry was already on shaky terms with for being standoffish and failing to disclose records pretty much every arbitration agency gladly shared with reputable publications like BER. Most of the remaining honest customers left the agency as soon as they learned of Barry's lack of cooperation, but a BER finding of corruption would essentially doom the company – it would be bankrupt in a matter of months.

"It's Molly from BER," shot back his secretary, not quite rude, but obviously annoyed at Barry's demeanor. The secretary was used to Barry's attitude. She was reminiscent of a 20th century librarian, with a tight graying bun and seeming to wear invisible glasses which she would look over when she wanted to talk down to someone in the waiting room. She took liberty to talk back to Barry because through the years she had deleted a number of sensitive documents, and erased a number of sensitive files, and made a number of sensitive calls on Barry's behalf. She had job security as long as Barry Arbitration existed.

"God damn it." Mr. Barry looked at the screen as if trying to figure out some way to dodge the call. His lips curved into a frown as he reached for the screen, then hesitated, cleared his throat, and quickly hit the "receive" button, the motion of his hand invoking images of a striking snake. Most people used the two way screens when answering calls, but Barry habitually disabled his camera.

"Hello Ms. Metis so good to hear from you!" Barry said a bit too joyfully and a little too loudly. But he wasn't fooling anyone, especially not Molly, with his fake enthusiasm.

"Hi... Mr. Barry" Molly stumbled a bit when Barry's screen remained black instead of his face popping up as with most people on a call.

"How can I best serve you today Molly – may I call you Molly?" Barry wasn't letting up on his happy-go-lucky act.

"That's fine." Molly said shortly. "I am just calling to find out why you left four questions blank on the survey that you returned to us last week."

"Oh did I? An oversight I'm sure."

"Well that's what you said the first time, but you still failed to fill out the information when we resent the form."

"Just message that over to me and I'll..."

"Frankly we need to clear this up in person, BER has a policy that a personal interview is required if it is determined that the subject is refusing to answer certain questions."

"I'm insulted!" Mr. Barry retorted unconvincingly – he was well aware of this policy. "I am certainly not trying to be evasive, why don't you come by next Tuesday."

"Tomorrow or Thursday would work much better for me. It will be almost as bad for your company to have a blank rating when the report comes out next month than to get a C rating... assuming you answer my questions to BER's satisfaction."

Barry hesitated, as if again attempting to think of an exit plan. With a slight sigh that he hoped Molly did not detect, Barry replied, more subdued than before, "Ah, Thursday will be fine. Come by after lunch."

"Thank you Mr. Barry, I will see you around 13:00," responded Molly before she hung up.

Barry's fake smile (which he was wearing despite disabling the video screen) quickly vanished as he hit the "end call" button.

Frown returning, Barry ground his teeth, reaching for the scotch bottle in his top drawer – it was already half empty. Barry was in his mid sixties with gray hair that slightly receded away from his forehead. He had a matching gray goatee that formed a small triangle; Barry must have used gel or wax to keep it in place, and sometimes when he would twist it out of habit, the goatee would develop some curls. He was bony and pale with red cheeks, and bags under his dark blue eyes; the iris sometimes blended right in with the black of his pupils. His ears came to dull points at the top, and extended to the sides a bit further than normal. His nose was slightly rounded, and his lips were thin.

Barry was old enough to remember as a child, politicians. He was envious of the lost profession, and wished he could have lived in a time where he didn't have to spend every day fighting his competitors to stay in business.

"
It is too much work! Haven’t I earned enough already? It is a cruel society that forces an aging man to work his fingers to the bone everyday just to turn a profit. It is pathetic,
" he thought as he swigged his scotch from an iceless glass like a pirate drinking rum, "
that I have to attend charity events in order to make speeches and take my rightful place at the head of a crowd. Government events would provide me a much more fitting platform
”
,
but the days of government in New England were a distant memory.

Even the politicians that Barry remembered were hardly the type that used to inhabit every region of the continent and globe. The politicians from Barry's childhood were mayors and local selectmen who were big fish in a small pond. In the end they were out-competed by bigger, private entities which delivered all the benefits of a town government, for a lower cost, and without compulsion.

It was the force that Barry envied most. As an arbiter he was well aware of having to negotiate and concede; having to finely word agreements so that he could squeeze a little gain out of hours of hard work. He wished more than anything that he could simply issue a proclamation, and have that be law!

Law: a dead meaning really, the word more applicable in the modern day to scientific principles. What was once called law was now called agreements, contracts, and free association. What was even more aggravating to Barry was that for every little litigation he had to find a victim. How many times had the perfect opportunity arisen to help along a business he had invested in – by ruling against a competitor – only to lack a victim! In the good old days, it could be claimed that society in general was the victim.

Money had only gotten Barry so far, and although he had plenty, it would not support him at his current spending habits for thirty years of retirement. And given the choice between money and power, Barry would have taken power any day, if true power was still available; power in the old sense of the word, where people in the right positions could do whatever they wanted without retaliation. But power was no longer derived from who had the most guns and the biggest muscles. Today, power flowed to those with the most friends, who had helped the most people, who never tired of positive interactions and good intentions. They had influence; the power of networks, the power of acquaintances. Barry knew all too well the detriment of burning bridges. His company could have been the largest in New England if not for an event, 30 or 40 years earlier.

Mr. Barry read a lot of books and boasted an antique library in his home full of novels and texts from before the collapse. He still enjoyed paper pages, and had as much interest in historical works as he did in old fiction from the 20th century. He read about when there were governments, and he pined to have an agency at his disposal like the FBI, daydreaming about standing in J. Edgar Hoover’s shoes. He read about how the FBI once raided the lab of a guy named Tesla, just because a rich tycoon, JP Morgan, told them to do so. He read about hits carried out by the CIA on reporters and loudmouths who threatened the power structure of politicians and bureaucrats. He poured over books about judges giving decades long sentences to rape victims for "perjury", and other judges giving time-served to their rapist friends. He slipped into a daydream about having the power of force at his fingertips.

He thought about Molly driving home from work, hitting the brakes and nothing happening. He thought about her frantic expression, her terrified scream, and her car burning all around her. Barry imagined Molly walking down the sidewalk to work, with a coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other when, BOOM, a bullet slams into her skull and out the other side, spraying brains all over the sidewalk and onto the wall behind her. Finally Mr. Barry could not help but let a real, genuine smile cross his lips.

"Ahh..." he sighed. If only things were as easy for people like him as they used to be.
But why can't they be again?
It was wishful thinking. And Barry knew he was dreaming if he thought he could get away with killing a reporter. The investigation would inevitably lead back to him if he hired anyone to do it, and every cent of his money wouldn't be enough to pay off a single security agency, let alone the dozen that would be involved in one way or another with the investigation.

The frown had returned to Barry's face because he knew there was nothing he could do to stop the corruption report from surfacing. But he had to do
something
to avoid the impending report ruining his business. Security agencies and their customers would be furious, and the last thing he wanted was protesters outside the building; the quickest way to make customers drop like flies. And once customers started leaving an arbitration agency it was doomed to the snowball effect. He would be forced out of business, and worst of all start burning through his savings. Unless Mr. Barry wanted to be doomed to a retirement of playing golf at pay-per-game courses and drinking merely $90 per bottle scotch he had to do something. But what to do, that was the problem!

"Well I'm not going to get any work done with myself all in a frenzy like this!" h
e thought to himself, and he got up to head out to lunch at Hillside. At least at Hillside he could consort with the movers and the shakers, and forget his current problems. There's nothing like a $500 lunch to clear the mind!

On his way out of the building Mr. Barry saw a familiar and unwelcome face at the bottom of the steps to the sidewalk. It was the drug addict, Trix, who would make rounds a couple times a week in this part of town, because he could always manage to squeeze a few bucks out of the folks who found it worth it to slip him a few dollars in exchange for leaving them alone.