Anarchy Rising: The Clarion Call, Vol 1 (Volume 1) Read online

  Edited by: Jon Garett

  With stories by:

  Calvin Mickel

  Peregrinus

  Mark Johnson

  Genesis Mickel

  Christopher Burg

  Niklas Ludwig

  Matthew Tanous

  Richard Walsh

  The Clarion Call, Vol. 1: Anarchy Rising

  The Agorist Writers’ Workshop

  Published by

  Very Good Books

  www.vegobo.com

  Cover design by Genesis Mickel

  This volume is an official release and copy of

  The Clarion Call, Vol 1: Anarchy Rising by the Agorist Writers’ Workshop published by Very Good Books

  All proceeds from the original sale of this volume go to support the Agorist Writers’ Workshop, Very Good Books, and the contributing authors.

  Anarchical Copyright © 2015 Very Good Books & Agorist Writers’ Workshop

  First Edition

  Violence-enforced rights are not reserved on this work by either

  Very Good Books or The Agorist Writers’ Workshop.

  After all why should guns and government have anything to do with literature and ideas?

  However, fraudulent distribution of “Official” copies of this volume will be addressed under appropriate voluntaryist and non-aggression principle processes.

  ISBN: 0692518789

  ISBN-13: 978-0692518786

  IF THE STATE HAD BEEN ABOLISHED A CENTURY AGO, WE'D ALL HAVE ROBOTS AND SUMMER HOMES IN THE ASTEROID BELT.

  -Samuel Edward Konkin III

  CONTENTS

  Editor’s Note

  i

  STORIES

  Transponder

  by Calvin Mickel

  1

  Red Lake

  by Peregrinus

  27

  ThoughtWire

  by Mark Johnson

  35

  The Transgressors

  by Genesis Mickel

  61

  The Peace Keepers

  by Christopher Burg

  67

  Special Delivery

  by Niklas Ludwig

  87

  Utopian Convergence

  by Matthew Tanous

  101

  The Garden and the Market

  by Richard Walsh

  117

  About the Contributors

  143

  Note From the Editor

  The concept for this volume was developed almost exactly one year ago to the day of this writing. Why, at that time, the idea of gathering together a group of libertarian authors to construct an anthology of entertaining, well-written, freedom-themed, speculative fiction should have seemed plausible and enjoyable is still a mystery to me and the other members of the Agorist Writers’ Workshop. It is not that we did not believe in the value and quality of the outcome of such an undertaking, but, as anyone who has ever worked with 2 or more libertarians (or 1 or more authors) could tell you, at the outset of this project, the only likely title for the volume would be “Herding Cats!”

  Perhaps it was the effects of spending a weekend with like minded Agorists; perhaps it was the late nights, early mornings and caffeine-fueled planning session; or perhaps it is a testament to the eternal optimism of authors and freedom lovers, both groups which are used to toiling against unending obstacles. Whatever the reason, the newly formed Workshop set itself this potentially Sisyphean task, and it is now my great pleasure to share this volume with you, after a small confession.

  None of the potential hurdles, struggle, aggravation or fruitless wheedling came to pass. Something truly surprising and wonderful happens when you rally people around a defined, achievable goal that promises to reward their world view and offers them a chance to unapologetically share of themselves through two of their passions: writing and liberalism (old style, of course), in this case.

  The excitement of creating worlds that illustrated the boundless benefits of freedom and liberty served as a lure to the usually retiring libertarian and antisocial author. And thus wheedling and other forms of non-aggressive harassment were not necessary.

  As a side confession, I do not mean this to impugn on any single contributor to this volume, whether real or fictional. Many may not have these faults, as I here profess. This should be taken as a personal confession of mine and psychological projection onto others of my libertarian, writery ilk. Yet it serves to illustrate what should have been our misgivings around this project.

  But it is often said, “If you don't like it, do something about it.” and I think the reason that we did not end up “herding cats” is that the contributors saw this as a chance to “do something about ‘it’.” In their own talented and meaningful way. Thus, I have spent so much time dwelling on potential problems that did not occur. It is meant to encourage rather than dissuade; meant to motivate the doing of something.

  (One quick caveat to this: it does not extend to the attempt to extract personal information/“bios” from the contributors. Ask for 50 words of earnest reference and background, and the results would lead you to believe we live in a totalitarian police state... of, umm, civil spying and, er, umm,... databases of enemies of the state. Well, anyway, this is where one enters real camel/eye of a needle territory, aggravationwise, if that’s the word I want. So, if you feel a similar urge to create this type of volume, allot half your time to collecting stories, editing, formatting and creating a cover, and the other half of your time to pestering the contributors for scraps of personal information.)

  To avoid the foibles that bring aggravation and fruitlessness, I suggest this: “If you don’t like it, do something about it.” How about instead, “If you don’t like it, ignore it, and do something you do like?”

  Do something attainable. Do something you love. Do something with people you like. Do something honest. Do something earnest. Do something without apologies. Do something you want to do again and again. Do something that is a reward in its own sake.

  But do something. And, if you do, your fellow travelers will rally round and help you achieve your goal. (Actually, they’ll do the hard work of writing great stories and you’ll sneak out only writing a few hundred words of congratulations and thanks).

  So, again, back to the true purpose of this note, it is with great pride and pleasure that I welcome you to the first volume of The Clarion Call, the regular series of the Agorist Writers’ Workshop. In volume 1, Anarchy Rising our goal is to show the positive outcomes of societies built on voluntary action, freedom of association, personal responsibility and culture built from the ground up, not the top down. Our hope is that the energy and excitement that went into the creation of this volume is infectious to our readers and also spurs on the creation of our upcoming volumes - and forbid that this was a one-time anomaly of exuberance.

  Jon Garett

  August 2015

  TRANSPONDER

  BY

  CALVIN MICKEL

  Damn. The woman eyed the man warily, his cold stare following her as she tugged her son's arm and quickened their pace. He was clad in grubby cargo pants and a large jacket that was out of place on such a warm, sunny day. It wasn't uncommon to see the homeless here at this hour, occupying benches or seeking shade under the trees of the plaza. Often they exhibited signs of disability, an arm hanging lifelessly at their side or by dragging a leg as they lumbered along. They seemed to appear out of nowhere during the lunch period, maximizing their panhandling efforts b
y targeting office workers as they scurried off to eat. It was a numbers game. When the tall glass lobby doors of the skyscrapers opened like a cattle gate, there were always a few in the rush who would pay a few notes to be on their way with minimal hassle.

  Noting the number of people around her, she decided it was safe enough to walk briskly by the vagrant rather than change course. Her son was just shy of his 6th birthday, and naïve enough to be unafraid of strangers. She tugged his arm again as he loped along while looking down, trying to avoid stepping on his midday shadow. If he remained distracted, he might miss the vagrant entirely.

  As they approached, the man deftly stepped into their path. The boy, still watching his feet, was caught unaware. The mother pulled him roughly, barely preventing him from walking in to the stranger. Although the man smiled, his blue eyes conveyed a hint of annoyance.

  “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “Excuse us.” The mother glanced beyond the man, her eyes seeking anybody who might intervene if they needed help. About 100 yards away was a patrol droid, its smooth, white cylindrical body balanced on two gray rubber wheels. About 12 inches in diameter, it had neither arms nor attachments. This design allowed it to glide effortlessly through the bustle of the crowd. The sensor sitting atop the body was protected by a thick plastic dome, constantly mapping the environment in a full 360 degrees as it rotated in a blur. If it observed a problem, authorities would be notified to assist. While this gave her some comfort, she dreaded the unknown scenarios that could play out in the space of their response time.

  The man shifted his weight to put himself in her line of sight. “What a handsome boy you have,” he intoned, maintaining eye contact with her. The smile had dropped, his hard, smooth-shaven face conveying no emotion. “Can you spare a few notes to help a former public servant out?”

  Ugh. Not today. She glanced at her boy, as he looked up at the man with curiosity. “I really don’t--”

  “You look like a busy lady. A few notes and you can be on your way. I’d hate to detain you any further.” His tone softened. “I’d really appreciate the help.”

  “Sure,” she replied, doing a poor job of hiding her irritation. I hope I have something small. She rummaged through her purse looking for singles and found two. “Here, this is all I have. Good day.” The mother thrust the notes at him with her left hand, and pulled at her son with the other to get him moving. If the beggar didn’t accept what she offered, she planned to drop them as a distraction and depart with haste.

  His large hand engulfed hers and clasped it tightly, crushing the notes. With little effort he resisted her involuntary motion to free her hand, making it clear she wasn’t leaving until he allowed it. The vagrant glanced around at the surroundings, briefly fixing his gaze on the patrol droid. It was now only twenty yards away.

  The woman followed his eyes and spotted the droid, hopeful for intervention. Come on, hurry up! “Please, you’re hurting me…” She felt him loosen his grip enough to extract the notes with his free hand. A few office workers parted, flowing around the scene fluidly. The sole woman in the group locked eyes with her for a split second as she passed. Her look was one of pity. After the group passed, they started chattering in lively tones as if to resume a conversation they had paused.

  “Pleasure doing business, ma’am.” The vagrant pressed a small packet into her hand, its plastic crinkling as it crumpled against her palm. He released his grip.

  Instinctively, she recoiled, pulling her forearm to her breast and dropping the packet. Seeing his smug expression, she looked at the ground where it landed. Within the clear baggie was a purple translucent powder. The contents seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, and cast a violet shadow around the packet. What is… Her eyes widened. “N-no, that’s not what I-”

  “Public Safety Officer, you are hereby detained!” The vagrant flipped open his overcoat revealing the badge on his chest, its polished surface sharply contrasting the stained t-shirt it was affixed to.

  She saw the look of shock and horror on her own face reflected in the badge. Oh no, no, please no! “Please don’t, I’m a good citizen! I don’t want any trouble; I’m just taking my son back to statecare!” Her throat was tightening, raising the pitch of her voice as she pleaded. “I’m not doing anything wrong!”

  “It looks to me like you’re purchasing illicit stims, which is a level four infraction,” Sergeant Virnig replied, nodding to the baggie on the ground between them. His eyes shined with pride. “Stims are a terrible scourge on our society. We don’t tolerate these in the Freezone. You’re up for heavy fines, incarceration, child citizen safety reviews…”

  “Please, sir, let us go,” the mother implored, clasping her hands together without letting her son’s go. The plaza was clearing of office workers. No one dared even a glance in their direction. “I know you’re acting in the interest of public safety. I promise I would never--”

  With his left hand, he grabbed her by the hair and forced her roughly to her knees. Her son fell forward with both palms outstretched, barely managing to prevent his face from hitting the permacrete of the plaza. Reaching into his jacket with his right hand, Virnig pulled out a metal cylinder. With a flick of the wrist, it extended to half a meter in length with a smooth click. At the end of the rod a bright indicator began to flash, alternating between blue and red as it emitted a high-pitched hum. “Compliance is mandatory, stop resisting!” he shouted, waving the baton menacingly. The humming varied as it moved, making otherworldly music while cutting through the air.

  The little boy, eyes wide, looked at his mother, her eyes closed tight as she winced in pain, ineffectually trying to free her hair from the officer’s grip. He looked at the man and the baton, its flashing light tracing a blue and red circle above her head. Desperate, he rose to his feet and rushed the man, both hands forward. The officer felt like a solid wall, and the boy only managed to shove himself to the ground.

  “Well what do we have here, battery against a safety officer?” Sergeant Virnig spit, sneering. “It looks like I’ve found two criminals today!”

  “Please, he’s just scared,” the mother pleaded. No honey, don’t! “I’m complying, I’m complying!” She desperately wanted to tell him to run away, anywhere. Such a sweet boy. She knew it would only make it worse. Where would he go? She began to sob, crestfallen. Her body went limp, hair pulling taught as the officer maintained his grip. “Please, please, don’t hurt him,” she begged. She thought of just an hour before, how her son smiled in the restaurant. Mouth red with the iced fruit he was devouring, free from care.

  The officer’s lip curling in disgust, he pushed the mother away leaving her to collapse on the pavement. “This boy has to learn. He’s on a bad path…” Virnig stepped forward, looming over the child who raised a hand in mute defense, blocking the sun that was making him squint. The boy was on his back, propped up on an elbow, one leg bent. The officer rolled his wrist in a circle, transcribing a blue and red arc in the air. The baton hummed angrily.

  Rather than strike the boy forcefully, Virnig simply touched the end of the baton to his bent knee. The child convulsed, his body locking up as his leg shot out straight, involuntarily. His teeth were clenched and lips pulled back tightly into a corpse’s smile as he wet himself. The boy tried to cry out but only managed a shuddering grunt. Virnig turned and twisted the baton as an orchestra director would his own, conducting some nightmare symphony.

  He could have simply smashed the boy’s knee, but it would bring a flurry of reports on the pirate netbands. The chief would have to hold an obligatory press conference, justifying the enforcement methods and pacifying the few citizens to question them. While it was useful for flushing out dissidents, the chief hated press conferences. The closer to retirement he got, the more he wanted to just bang at the keys on his office terminal, taking a greater interest in netgames than public safety duties.

  This method was so much more elegant - just as excruciating but with deniability. The permanent nerve damage tha
t often resulted could be blamed on the device, all the while praising its use for being less-than-lethal. Virnig liked to “mark” little troublemakers this way. Even grown to adults, they would bear the mark of a criminal, hobbling around on a dead leg. Easier to spot and less chance of escape. It was brilliant.

  Virnig’s reverie was broken by an authoritative synthvoice. “Your actions are criminal, cease at once! Authorities are inbound! Surrender and lay face down!” He looked up to see the patrol droid, now within arms reach, flashing red and blue strobes from its sensor dome. What the…? It must not have been reading his badge’s transponder chip.

  “Public safety officer Sergeant Virnig, alpha one one niner one eight three,” he spoke, clearly enunciating his identifier code. He opened his coat so the droid could get a visual lock on the badge.

  “Confirming.” The droid emitted a thin red beam of light that circled the outline of the badge. “Unidentified. Your actions are criminal, cease at once! Authorities are inbound! Surrender and lay face down!” Its cylindrical body shining white in the midday sun, it began to emit an impossibly loud high-pitched warble.

  In unison, the officer, the mother, and the boy all clasped their hands to their ears to block the auditory assault. Growing angry at the violence on his person, Virnig shoved the droid with all the strength he could muster, leaning forward with his body weight and pushing off of his back foot.