Control Group

    Dawn.  I can tell this by my alarm clock, not by looking out of a window.  There are no windows down here.  I grab my bag and start to pack it in the way I was shown how.  Through the door in the back there are stairs leading to a hatch with a combination lock built into its center, compliments of Ian,our maintenance technician.  I spun the dial in the correct combination, 1-1-3-8,  opened the hatch, and was quickly out and down the street, keeping close to the shadows and strolling casually.  I had my street pass with me at all times.  It was a fake, compliments of Troy. 

    The usual mobile units were made up of three or four small, bulletproof tanks about the size of an SUV with a turret or cannon perched on top.  They patrolled 24 hours a day, in shifts.  Their main concern was working in conjunction with ground forces, one or two men placed on  every corner at every block in the city, to keep the peace, to keep an eye out for the ever changing array of counter forces that worked without a central command, every cell operating almost entirely independently.  Sort of the way Al-Qaeda operated before they were stamped out of existence by the corporations working out of Dubai at the time.  Seems all Al-Qaeda had to do was take a stance opposite the interests of Kahlid, the most powerful business and corporate owner in the UAE at the time, and that was it.       

    The organization that bin Laden had started in the mountains at the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan that grew into the worldwide powerhouse of Al-Qaeda in Iraq, Europe, China, Japan, Australia, America, and finally Al-Qaeda Worldwide, a household name, with all its cells, big and small, operating without a central command, crawling across the Earth like a plague of insects, impossible to eradicate, were, in fact, utterly and absolutely decimated by a corporate entity in a matter of a few years.  It was as if Khalid opened up his mouth and swallowed them all. 

    This unimaginable feat left the administrations of not a few countries, most notably the United States of America, picking their mouths up off the floor and scurrying off to hide their embarrassment.  Not long after, at about 9:13 AM on a gorgeous, sunny day in downtown Los Angeles, California, someone detonated a dirty bomb in Santee Alley while it was packed with pedestrians shopping for the next big thing in fashion.  Scores and scores killed, and many others sick with radiation poisoning, making 9/11 look like a  skinned knee. 

    The American Administration declared a second war on terror against the as-yet-unnamed terror organization, this new post-Al-Qaeda threat, the newest enemy in the never-ending war on terror.  Except the enemy was us, the citizens.  This newest attack was cause for a complete lockdown.  Amazing what a good catastrophe can do for the country, the way it can turn every discerning eye. 

         But those days are gone now.  I showed my pass to the corner guard.  He nodded and I kept walking.  It was all fake.  He had been on our payroll for months now, and knew all about the base under the alley.  He was a good ally to have, especially now, and we felt very fortunate to have him on our side.  Things were far more complex now than they had ever been.  In fact, we were losing this war, this revolution.  I looked back at the guard's uniform and thought it must be sweltering out in the morning heat, humidity rising with every passing minute.  But then I remembered they were now using nano-tech to create these large tear proof suits that kept cool and dry inside, no matter what conditions were like on the outside.  And the temperature on the inside was easily controlled with a dial on the cuff of the sleeve.  I had to get one of those.  Perhaps I’ll go see Amrika, see if she can get me one, I thought.  You had to be careful now-a-days.  You get caught impersonating a soldier, and forget about it, you no longer exist. 
         
    I strolled casually down the street, watching my pacing, paying attention to my breathing, my line of sight, everything.  It was necessary now.  Devices placed on building rooftops detect nervousness,  in an effort to quell the Revolt.  A necessary evil, they called it.  Evil was right.  A tank rolled by, with its quiet hum and vibration of the street beneath my feet, olive green with a big, bright white Nike swoosh painted down the side.  I hated that swoosh more than anything on Earth, and when I saw it there was a bile in my mouth that I struggled to swallow.  I saw that logo in my sleep, and now my waking hours were devoted to eliminating it for good. 

         I walked for blocks thinking about what Janine had said to me the other night.  "This war cannot be won", she lamented. 

"Then why fight it?", I asked.

"Because", she said, "it is the right thing to do."

No, I thought.  That is not why. 

    I came to the corner of Camden and Strap.  Off in the distance was Nike East Headquarters, towering like a giant above all, the swoosh painted on the side of the building with white lights that turned blue, then red, and then back to white again. 
   
    They made everything.  Clothing, houses, cars.  They provided all provisions.  Food, water, medicine.  They were the military, the hospitals, the churches. 
The only thing the Nike corporation did not control or provide to the American population was what was once called “the government”.  That was run by the Wal-Mart corporation, except it had changed its name to the Corporation United For The Good Of Humanity:  CUFGOH. 
Backwards this spells:  HOGFUC.  Which is what we were, I laughed to myself.  Hog-fucked.   

         I made my way toward the building, starting to sweat.  All I could think is, please don’t register, please.  Please make it, please make it.  I was mouthing the words and had to consciously make myself stop.  I was picking up ears, I could tell.  When they are watching you, you can feel it.  It is a warm, uncomfortable sensation, and quite unmistakable.  I knew I was not going to make it. 

         Two blocks later, I’m approached by a man with a jacket and beret bearing the swoosh, a Nike SUV parked steps away.  This was no guard. 

"Hey", he shouts sternly.  "You!" 

    I stop in my tracks.  The end of the road.  Janine is still wrong, I was thinking.  We do not fight them because it is the right thing to do. 

"What’s in the pack", he asks me. 

"Laundry, sir.  I ran out of tokens, I’m…"

"You’re late is what you are", he says.  He looks me in the eye, wide eyes, not looking away.  He’s bought, he’s fucking bought.  Relief washes over me like warm water, and I breath heavily, almost gasping for air.  I wonder if this is real, a trick, a dream, a …
"Move on", he says.  "And hurry." 

         I move my ass quick.  Holy shit, I’m thinking… how far does this go?  Who all is involved?  I’m excited now, and thrilled to be on my way, my heart pounding in my ears, I’m nearly jogging. 

    Soon, I’m in front of it.  The building is so tall, my neck hurts to look up at it.  My excitement and nervousness is so high pitched at this point, I know a tank will roll up at any moment, and that was all that I had left, a moment.  I take one last look around and watch the cars pass by, all the same model, all the same color:  gray.  And all, every one, with a white swoosh painted down the side.  A man leaves a Nike restaurant where he carries a nice, hot Nike burger in his bag.  The burger has been made from meat that was grown completely inside of a glass box.  Millions of glass boxes filled with living animal flesh, grown there and kept alive by the miracles of nano-technology, and an unlimited supply of money,  until time to harvest.  The chemicals that end up in that meat, purposely or accidentally, are of no one’s concern.  I can see from here the swoosh tattooed on the man’s  left hand.  It’s the only way to make a purchase now.  You have to have the swoosh, which is embedded with a bar code.  Of course, I didn’t have one.  We, as a collective organization, grew our food in an underground designated area under controlled conditions using heat lamps, among other tools, and had been since the beginning. 
         
    A woman walks out of a store, where she has just bought herself a new burka.  Of course, there is not much to tell it from her old burka, for they are the same color, size, with the same iconic symbol painted across the front, and it isn’t a crescent moon.  She might have asked if they had one a little larger, that her last one was a bit tight fitting around the neck, but in this country it is against Nike religious law to question anything.   
         
    An airplane hums low overhead with the swoosh painted down it’s side.  That plane is taking photos of me right now.  I smile for the camera, and set down my pack.  I open it up and place my finger on the switch. 

I will not buy, I thought.  I will not consume.  I will not. 

    Boots clomping pavement.  Shouts:  "Who are you, what is this !" 

"We will not be owned !"  I screamed, but I doubt they heard me. 

    I had flicked the little switch by then, so how could they hear me over such an enormous explosion?  Janine was wrong.  We were not doing this because it was the right thing to do.  We were doing this because it was the only thing to do.  The only thing left to do with the hatred that had built up inside, day after day, year after year.
         
    I can still see… for some reason, I can still see, and it does not make sense.    I can’t hear, but I see.  I see people running, and lying in the street, dying.  I see blood.  I see twisted steel, desks, burnt papers, a dead secretary.  But it is getting quite dim now, as if the sun were being eclipsed by the moon.  And as the lights flicker out, I can just make out the burka woman, lying across the street with shreds of  her new and old burka burning around her, her motionless body in a pose that is completely unnatural.  And she still does not look free.