In order
to fully understand why the Earth had fallen into such trouble when the
powers-that-be had so much warning time, one has to understand the history of
what was then called "Clean Technology." This was new knowledge that humans gained on
a just-in-time basis, as humans had been doing through most of history -- it's
just that its implementation was severely delayed.
Every
time a new technological innovation came to the fore, the engineers and
business executives who created start-up companies to exploit this new
knowledge would be attacked by huge energy conglomerates who would bludgeon
them with irresistible quantities of stock and cash.
Executives
who worked for CleanTech companies that were purchased by the petrochemical
industry soon realized, within days, that they were not expected to do
anything. Executives would quickly
cash-out and head out, mostly because successfully staying employed at a
CleanTech division required behavior that could only offer resumé entries like
"sat around looking out window until clouds achieved passing" or
"increased doodle production 37%" or "fornicated with secretary
all day, lost family, killed self."
All of
this buying and burying came to a head in January, 2043, when a 15-year-old
high school student from Minneapolis built a science fair project that looked
like a couple of donuts hinged together on top of each other. The student, Philip Portage, said he got the
idea for his devise when he found his grandmother's old Thigh-Master gathering
dust in the basement.
Working
from multiple articles he found on the 'Net and in "Popular
Electronics", he was able to fashion a small nuclear fusion
accelerator/reactor.
Starting
with magnetic confinement theory pioneered by a defunct CleanTech company, he
produced anti-hydrogen in the micro-accelerator donut and then smashed it
together with hydrogen in the micro-reactor donut, creating a plasma that could
heat the tiny generator inside the donut to a temperature that theoretically
would have reached that at the core of the sun, but he was able to control and
cool the reaction by squeezing the double donut between his knees in a regular
rhythmic motion.
In his
table-display, the hand-drawn graph showed that if the reaction was allowed to
continue, if he squeezed his knees together more slowly, the resulting energy
would be sufficient to power every electrical devise currently present on the
entire planet, for 10,000 years, at a cost of 75 cents. Of course, he got Second Prize in the Science
Fair.
The
specifications of his invention spread across the news 'Net very quickly,
before a representative from the Energy Industry had time to buy the patent,
though they did attack Philip’s parents with vast sums of money, thereby
rendering Philip harmless.
By 2044
several developing countries were manufacturing (with funding from shell
companies owned by the Creamy Krispclots Corporation) double-donut fusion
reactors -- with sprinkles.
By 2045,
the Petroleum Industry began losing class-action lawsuits claimed by
governments around the world, (and were forced to pay-out penalties that made
the sums stripped out of the Tobacco Industry look like parking tickets).
2044 is
now remembered as the last year that young "Generation Say-what?"
executives were in their prime, beloved by their elder masters who paid them
handsomely to root out emerging technologies and neglect them to
smithereens. However, corporate politics
being what it is, not one of these high-flying "innovation-enervators"
wanted to miss the GAG Festival because their ancient bosses would surely be
there and non-attendance was not an option.
There
was, however, one class of people in the "post-modern" West that was
definitely not going to be enjoying the GAG Festival. These were the members of the new servant
class who shared life-styles and living quarters with the robots.
Many
people, due to personal debt, had agreed to become indentured servants of the
credit companies. VistaCard inserted a
microchip in each creditor's earlobe to indicate ownership, including any
children under the age of 16. This
became such a profitable recruiting strategy that the credit card companies
began mailing "no-approval-needed" cards to target-marketed prospects
who fit a cross-referenced profile of good intelligence/education scores
matched with a poor sense of self-control.
VistaCard, the market-leader, could accurately approximate when these
individuals would go bankrupt, start all over again and then become so indebted
that they had to contract to become slaves or go to prison for fraud. After a while the credit card companies
reduced their payroll to almost nil and began trading their excess “employees”
for cash or stock in other companies.
Slave
market mutual funds came into being soon after and investment in credit-card
slaves became a big winner for retiring Boomers who wanted to really
"work" their money.
Governments
loved slavery because, since it was inherently immoral, they could tax the hell
out of it.
"Name, please," said the slave.
"Just wand this," said Edgley, holding up his SPECTACL for
the slave to see. No eye contact.
"Could I please just have your name, sir," asked the
security guard, who had a paper list to deal with.
"Listen to me, slave. I
don't take orders from the likes of you," snarled Edgley. "I made my booking before this building
was a hole in a the ground and I don't want to be dallied with."
"I only have this," said the Security Guard holding up his
clipboard.
"I could beat you with it right here and now," said Edgley.
"Yes, sir," said the security guard. "But how would that get you any closer
to the air-conditioning in the hotel?"
"Fine -- the name's Edgley."
"How do you spell that?" asked the security slave.
"I am going to beat him," said Edgley, starting to release
his seat belt.
"No, wait," said Mrs. Edgley. "Let's beat him later. I'm looking
forward to a cool mud bath in the hotel. Just spell your stupid name."
"E-D-G-L-E-Y," said Edgley, with the biggest sarcastic smile
he could muster.
"Oh, E-Deeeeee-G," said the slave. "That's your problem."
"I don't have a problem!" yelled Edgley.
"I'll allow you to go in, sir.
Enjoy your stay," said the security slave, pressing his little
green button.
"He'll allow me,"
Edgley snarled to himself and began driving, only just missing the rising
barrier and the retracting spikes in the pavement. The security slave turned and smiled at his 6
and 8 year-old daughters who lived with him in the security booth. He fanned his face with the clipboard,
preparing to torment the next guest for his children's amusement.
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