Tubes of Death

Tubes of Death

A novel

by

Robert James Allison

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage, and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First Suitor Enterprises

All rights reserved

www.robertjamesallison.com

Copyright © 2014 by Robert James Allison

ISBN: 978-1-31065-379-7

Published in the United States of America

December 2014

Cover photo by the author:

DC metro—Red line

Introduction

According to Dictionary.com a seer is:

1. a person who sees; observer. 2. a person who prophesies future events; prophet: Industry seers predicted higher profits. 3. a person endowed with profound moral and spiritual insight or knowledge; a wise person or sage who possesses intuitive powers. 4. a person who is reputed to have special powers of divination, as a crystal gazer or palmist.

Prologue

The Potentate watched the several video screens simultaneously, all depicting the sterile-looking room from different perspectives. There was a deep satisfaction in seeing this after all the years of pursuit. One screen depicted the operator as he pushed the button activating the chamber and a center screen showed the man inside the chamber almost instantaneously glow, turn bright gold, and disappear.

It is finished, the Potentate thought. Nothing can stand in the way now. Herman Fowler was gone, the last Seer, and no trace of any Seer was now left on any part of the planet. The Potentate had directed that annihilation personally.

Chapter One

Over a century later—

It was always so slimy down in the tunnels and conduits. What little moisture that remained seeped in through the walls and ceilings, congregating on the floor and in the center channel cut into the floor. Not all of the tunnels had center channels so sometimes the water was ankle deep with slime underneath and walking was treacherous. This one had a channel, but for Joe Borders the worst was not the slime, rather the darkness, or what the darkness concealed—the unknown—and the smell. A putrid, sometimes acidy odor seemed to constantly permeate what little air there was down here. Then there were the crevices, bottomless pits, uncovered manholes, rodents, and the occasional snake. How the later survived down here after so long was beyond him, but they seemed to do it and he hated them.

Still, it was almost better than what was going on up above right now. A vicious magnetic storm had been building up all morning and it had struck just as he had dropped into the manhole to the tunnels below the city. It probably wouldn’t result in much rain, if any, that rarely happened anymore, but it would interfere with communications for a while and then the wind and tornadoes would follow, spawned by the rotation of the atmosphere at ground level caused by electrical charges displacing the normally calm air and supercharging what was left. It was never a pretty sight, there were always deaths and injuries from either the tornadoes or lightning strikes. Yes, he thought, I’d rather take my chances with the pits, snakes, and rats. He could somewhat control them, or at least avoid them.

Joe was a material reclaimer; he combed the old utility tunnels and conduits under the city for any scrap of metal or other valuable material left over and long since abandoned. Any scrap of metal of any kind overlooked by the government reclaimers who had years ago cleaned out all of the copper, brass, iron, and other metals no longer used or necessary for the transmission of people, goods, communications, or old utility services long since unneeded. There wasn’t a lot of anything left, but some was here if you knew where to look and if you looked long enough and hard enough you could make a living. Maybe you couldn’t get rich, but you could get by on what you found, and Joe did—just barely. The government needed all the metals that had been, and were being, reclaimed for building purposes. The new composites were replacing much of the metal and computer chips and components were now being made out of other synthetics, but it seemed there was still a great need for metals. In the end Joe didn’t care what the metal was used for just so long as the government paid him for it. Trees were pretty much a thing of the past so building materials came from plastics, composites, and metal—and that was good for his business.

Ahead and to his left in the dim glow of his headlamp he saw a manhole, just a hole, no cover since other miners, government or private, had taken it away to be scrapped along with any other metal they could find. Joe peered carefully down the hole and shuddered, he hated to go deeper, it was always worse deeper, slimier, wetter, and darker, if that was possible since where he was right now was so dark that without his headlamp, he couldn’t have seen his hand in front of his face. This place and every place down here were blacker than the inside of a sewer at midnight, which was pretty much what this was anyway. As much as he hated to go deeper, he knew he would, because there might be metal down there and metal was what he lived for or how he lived.

The smell would be worse, too, but it wasn’t the smell that bothered him so much, it was the chance that down there somewhere was a pocket of methane gas, and that odorless gas could kill him before he even knew it was there. The environmental control suit he was wearing was fitted with a gas detector, but sometimes his suit didn’t function well down this deep. It didn’t like the slime and dampness any more than he did. Up above in the city the temperatures were pretty constant, and the suits worked well, but they didn’t like rapid changes in conditions. Joe had always thought it kind of stupid to design and distribute an environmental control suit that didn’t like temperature swings, but the government distributed them, and everyone accepted it and the suits.

There was no ladder left, it too had been metal and had been salvaged. Had there been a metal ladder or iron rungs he would not have used them—too dangerous after all this time, too much corrosion over too long a time. He had taken a nasty fall a few years ago trusting one of the old iron rung ladders so now he brought his own. He packed a portable ladder comprised of a chain on each side of a long bar with rungs in between and ten feet in length. It was made of an almost indestructible composite and rolled up it was compact. Although heavy, it wasn’t as heavy as metal would be and it was worth its weight in copper to him, or brass, which was valuable, too.

He shined his light down the hole and watched as water trickled along the sides and down the shaft. Some days there was more water down below the city than above. The light showed him the bottom and he estimated it to be over fifteen feet to the floor of the next tunnel. His portable ladder would work so he stretched it out on the floor, making sure the top rung was secured to the chains, because it would hold the ladder and him. That top rung was longer and fit across the hole, anchored by his weight and the weight of the ladder. Once the ladder was lowered into the manhole tunnel, he lowered himself and slowly climbed down. It was deathly quiet in the manhole access tunnel, and he could hear the water trickling down the sides to fall into the tunnel below.

The manhole access tunnel was only three or four feet long and when he dropped below its bottom edge the portable ladder began to swing slightly with each step and he slowed down so he wouldn’t dislodge it from the floor of the upper tunnel. It would be hard to get back up if that ladder gave way, although he could do it with his length of nylon rope and small grappling hook, but he didn’t want to have to do that— it wasn’t a sure thing. His telescoping rod with hook wouldn’t work because this tunnel was so deep the rod wouldn’t be long enough to reach the floor of the upper tunnel from the floor of the lower tunnel.

When almost to the floor of the tunnel he heard other sounds besides trickling water, sounds he hated—rats and a lot of them. From the squealing they were startled by him and his light and would be running away from him faster than he was descending, but the biggest problem with the rats was that the snakes fed on them and they didn’t always move away so swiftly. Where there were rats there were snakes and as much as he hated the rats, he hated the snakes more. To Joe’s way of thinking the only good snake was a dead snake, but he had no weapon, other than his hand tools and they were for mining, not killing.

He stood on the last rung for several minutes and shined his light around on the floor of the tunnel hoping to see any snakes, or scare them away, before he dropped to the floor, which was still four or five feet more from the last rung. The rats were all gone and after a few minutes he didn’t see any snakes so he held his breath and dropped to the floor—nothing. However, he didn’t dawdle in one place too long, he shined his light around all over the floor and the walls quickly and stamped his feet, yelling, Heh, heh, heh, yah, yah, yah. He was hoping to scare away any rats or snakes left in the area. His voice echoed ominously in the close confines of the tunnel making him feel even more alone—and deeper. He didn’t see any movement so he cautiously moved down to his right and after only about 20 steps discovered the tunnel ended—nothing. All that work for nothing, he thought. Unless there is more tunnel to the left of the manhole.

But there wasn’t. He was willing to bet that they had started to dig a tunnel here centuries ago for some purpose, but the water was too much back then. Now it was drier down below—still wet enough, but a few centuries ago it would probably had been filling up faster than they could pump it out so they had abandoned it and sealed the ends. He had seen it before down this deep, but then where had the rats gone and snakes—or better yet come from?

He felt he must be missing something, because there had been a lot of rats down here just minutes ago, maybe no snakes, but rats for sure. So where did they go? He carefully studied the end of the tunnel, but it was clearly sealed. He went back to the other end, and it was the same story there. Rats didn’t climb ladders so they hadn’t passed him on his ladder as if he wouldn’t have noticed.

There was a center channel full of water that passed under each wall at the end of the tunnel, but it was full and he didn’t figure rats would dive under the wall in that water to get to the other side. Besides the other side might be a foot or two distant, maybe more, if there even was another side. No, he didn’t figure the rats went that way.

It smells like death down here, he thought. Then he saw it, just the tip, but enough for him to know why the rats weren’t hanging around down here and why it smelled like something dead. An alligator’s tail as it disappeared under the wall inside the narrow channel of water. It was going away from him, and he was glad of that. He had no weapons to use against the likes of an alligator. Must have startled it, he decided, lucky for me it wasn’t hungry.

He shined his light all along the walls and the floor looking for some escape route and then he saw a small hole in the wall at floor level about halfway between the tunnel ends and nearer his ladder than either end. He knelt down and examined it. He didn’t hear any sounds coming from the hole, but it was the only explanation and raised one more question. Where did it go and what was on the other side, if anything?

He took his hand pick with two and half pound head on it from a loop on his tool belt and tapped on the wall above the hole. It sounded solid, but when he tapped farther from the hole it sounded even solider. There seemed to be about a four-foot area from the floor up and to each side of the hole that was less dense than the rest of the tunnel wall. His heart rate increased slightly, and his mouth was dry with anticipation. This could be a big strike. If there was another tunnel on the other side of the wall that had been sealed up centuries ago it could be full of a lot of valuable metal and it was unlikely that it had been mined or it wouldn’t still be sealed. Unless there is access from the other side, he told himself and his heart sank a little to think it might have been mined already.

With his hand pick he began chipping away at what he figured to be the center of the sealed off tunnel. Flakes came off with each swing, larger and larger as time went by. It was relatively soft material and he now suspected the tunnel had been sealed more recently than several centuries, because the material was different than he usually encountered down in the tunnels. It was softer and had less aggregate in it. As he chipped away at the wall, he kept glancing around furtively in case that alligator or another decided to investigate. If that happened Joe wanted to be on his way to the ladder, not some alligator’s lunch. Not 30 minutes after his first swing the pick broke through the wall and a few hard swings with the blunt hammer end caused a large portion of the wall to cave-in and they were on him in seconds.

He had found the rats. They swarmed him and squealed as they slid by him and over him, around his face, over his chest, and under his arms. Involuntarily he grunted, threw himself backward and rolled to the side. Quivering, he adjusted his light, shined it back up toward his ladder and saw a mass of eyes huddled in one end of the tunnel, moving like a blob of dancing lights. He shuddered involuntarily and swung his light quickly back to the hole he had just broken through to make sure no more rats were coming and that no snakes were about. He shined the light around in the hole and could make out a small room on the other side of the wall that he guessed to be 20 feet square, but no larger and no tunnel appeared to lead out of it. It was empty, no metal—and his heart sank, but there was something. In the center of the room there looked to be a small concrete box about one foot square and one foot high or maybe it was just a square stone. He smashed in more of the wall and squirmed through.

I’ll take a quick look around and at that box, if that’s what it is, and then I’m out of this stinking rat-infested hole, he decided.

It did look like a box once he got closer, but a strange looking thing. No hinges of any kind, however, there did seem to be a lid, because he could see a line around the edges about two inches from the top and the line was filled with a wax or a putty of some sort. He took out a flat head screwdriver and cut along the line, then with the screwdriver he pried up on the lid and it moved. After a few minutes he was able to lift the lid off and inside, much to his dismay, was a folded paper. When he unfolded it, it was about eight inches by ten and contained writing. He had never held a paper writing before. Writing, at least on paper, had not been used for centuries so far as he knew.

Joe stuffed the paper in his pocket, shined the light in the box to make sure there was no metal to be had, and then around the little room for the same purpose, but saw nothing. It was time to get out before the rats decided to come back, or worse, the alligator. He still wondered how they got down to and out of this tunnel and room. There was no way they lived in here, but he wasn’t inclined to waste any more time in this dank, dark place. There is probably a drain in the floor somewhere or a crevice made over the centuries by running water and they use it as a rat highway, he thought, I’m getting out of here.

~*~

It took Joe a good 30 minutes to climb his way back to the surface of the old alley. The storm was over and it was a little cooler now. After resting for a few minutes and drinking in some of the cool early evening air, he started dealing with his disappointment. When he had found that sealed off chamber, he was hoping against hope that he had struck something big, but it hadn’t turned out that way. His last hope had been that there might be something valuable in the concrete box and even that hope had been dashed. Now as he stared at the unfolded paper in the fading light he realized that he not only had a worthless piece of paper, but even the writing on it was not discernible, at least not by him. It was handwritten or drawn in some manner he had never seen before. The paper was taken up almost entirely by lines of continuous uneven markings with spaces between the markings at odd intervals. At first he thought it was a writing, but now he wasn’t so sure. It was no writing he had ever seen. He said to himself, a few years ago at the museum of antiquity there were some papers with writing on them on display in glass cases, but they were printed and I could read them, this is something else. It must be some kind of writing, but I wonder if there is anyone who can read it and if they can, will what it says be any good to me? Unless it tells me where a room full of metal might be it isn’t worth anything. Why would someone go to all the trouble of putting this paper in a sealed concrete box and then sealing it off in a chamber, not likely to ever be found again?

He stuck the paper back in his pocket and after shouldering his pack, he lugged his tools, ladder, light, and the few pounds of metal he had found, out to the main street and his PAV. Just as he passed the corner of a building he heard from his right, Been under the city again, Joe.

Joe turned to see a surveillance robot hovering just off the ground, its air jets almost silent except for a faint hiss. It was studying him out of the center-most camera, one of a thousand placed all around its two-foot high one-foot-wide cylindrical body. He studied the robot’s Ident number, but didn’t need to read it to identify this particular surbot. This one had a green milky-colored lens on one of his front cameras from what Joe knew had been a mistaken drone laser strike some years ago and for some reason the lens was never repaired. The green milky-colored lens made this surbot stand out from across the street. Finally Joe replied, Surbot Q 3017, what are you doing on this side of the river? I thought you were assigned to the east side.

Special duty, Joe, the hollow voice of the surbot replied and continued, some divisive thoughts have been received in this area lately so they beefed up surveillance.

Rough area west of the river. More tornadoes and lightning here than closer to the ocean. Might get tossed out into the bay or have a lightning bolt fry your silicone chips if you aren’t careful.

They’d fix me in short order, I’m not scared, Joe.

That’s because you’re just a robot and you only have the feelings they give you. You’re not even good scrap metal...all plastic and composites, Joe taunted, he disliked the surbots who roamed the streets at all hours of the day and night spying on everyone and everything.

How about I turn you in for divisive thoughts? the surbot replied.

Joe looked at the top of the surbot to see if his recording/transmission light was illuminated—it wasn’t, so he said quickly, How about I stick a high-voltage trimithium battery in your RMD port and cook your chips?

The surbot backed off a few feet and said, Take it easy, Joe.

The surbot’s recording/transmission light came on as it backed away, spun around, and Joe heard the sound of its air jets increase as it accelerated down the sidewalk dodging several people on air rocket propelled pedi-mobiles.

He stood across the street from his personal automated vehicle and watched other PAVs pass rapidly by him. Accidents were almost a thing of the past with the anti-collision devices mandated on every vehicle and the mass transit vehicles staying fifty feet above street level. When there seemed to be a reduction in the volume of traffic he crossed the street, heard an electronic squawk, and watched as the PAV opened the operator side door as soon as it picked up his signal. He could and should have used the crosswalk to stop traffic, but he was beat, the surbot was long gone, and he kept his face down to avoid recognition by any of the 50 cameras covering the immediate area. He doubted they cared about him crossing the street in the middle of the block, but he liked to be careful. He tossed everything in the front passenger seat, climbed into the operator’s seat, and slid a small plastic card into the center of the dashboard. The computer screen flashed and lit up displaying various shapes in various colors. Then a pleasant-sounding female voice said, Active.

Home, he said simply, leaned his head back against the headrest, and closed his eyes to rest while the vehicle accelerated and made a sharp left-hand turn. While the PAV took him home, he contemplated the paper again. Something about it was drawing him to it. He had always liked a good puzzle and the markings on the paper were calling to him to discover their meaning.

With his head back and his eyes closed he began to scan his data banks to come up with something that would help him decipher the code on the paper. He was sure it must be some kind of code or that it was written in a language and style of unknown origin.

Like everyone else born in the last several centuries and possibly even before that, Joe had a chip implanted in his brain at birth. That chip interfaced with his brain and wirelessly to his computer or any computer that was compatible with it, or him, depending upon how you looked at things. The chip interacted with his brain in such a manner that it literally projected images in his mind’s eye. The chip allowed a person to interface with a computer, search its database and any database it was connected to, then display the results in the brain as if on a screen, and not just as an abstract thought, they could be perceived by the optic nerve, thus the eye. Those images could also be sent wirelessly by the chip to any other chip or one of many other forms of digital media storage depending upon how the person wanted the data stored. Paper and ink never came into the equation, and hadn’t for centuries so far as Joe knew, which is why he had never seen a writing on paper outside of a museum—ever. But he had one now. What do I do with it and why should I care? Maybe I should donate the stupid thing to the museum. He had a nagging feeling that this paper meant trouble for him.

~*~

Nothing came of his database search and once home he tossed the paper on a little desk and went into the living room to relax while he waited for his supper to arrive. On the way home, while scanning databases, he had messaged a local food service. He let his eyes wander across the little apartment and although it wasn’t much, it was his and he was satisfied—for the most part. Joe didn’t make a fortune mining for old metal in the tunnels and subways, but he made enough to buy some extras he would have had to do without otherwise, some months better than others. A lot of his success was on account of his study of any historical record he could find regarding the construction of the city—underground, that is. He couldn’t care less about what was above ground, all that territory had been thoroughly gone through centuries ago and there was nothing left for him that wasn’t already reclaimed by someone else.

He spent hours upon hours studying any old map or diagram he could find of the old utility tunnels and subways of the city and some other cities, especially the big ones. He had spent several months a few years ago taking a class on ancient history in the hopes of finding more leads to not only tunnels and subways, but where maps and diagrams might be found. They weren’t maps in the sense that they were drawn on paper, that had ceased long ago, but there were some of the old maps scanned into digital form and those were most useful, if not very legible. What Joe did wasn’t so special, almost anyone could do it if they wanted, but it didn’t pay all that much and it was hard, dangerous work that most people would just as soon avoid. In this day and age, you really didn’t have to work, the government supplied everything to sustain a person, but if you wanted a little freedom of choice and more than the run-of-the-mill government sustenance you worked at something. Joe chose reclaiming.

Then it hit him. Of course! Professor Manning. Those months he had spent in that class were all spent listening to Professor Peter Manning, an expert on ancient history and antiquity. If anyone knew of someone who could read the script on his paper it would be Peter Manning.

He messaged him while letting his eyes wander along the one wall containing a huge digital screen that displayed the message being composed in his mind’s eye. When he had finished, the message was stored in his home database and as soon as it was sent he said, Power off.

He saw the triple ‘S’ government logo flash on the center of the screen and a list of the week’s activities at the Unification Center popped up. Then the announcement, Don’t forget to attend Sunday services at your local Unification Center. Get your bonus Dimones if you arrive early. This week’s services include a simulcast performance by the band ‘Nightmares’. See you there.

The screen went back to the triple ‘S’ logo, which was merely three capital ‘S’s forming a pyramid, two at the bottom and one at the top in white with a bold, black border forming a circle around the S’s. It was everywhere, on everything owned, or controlled by the government, and that was everything—everywhere. Joe didn’t know what the logo meant or literally stood for, nor did anyone else he knew, it was just the government logo and somewhere over the centuries the meaning of the three ‘S’s had been lost or forgotten. Now it was just one more part of life in the modern age. After the standard propaganda message had finished there was a delay of a few seconds and the screen went blank again and finally powered off.

He didn’t expect a rapid response to his message since he doubted Professor Manning remembered him out of the thousands of people he had lectured over the years, but he thought the bit about the ancient script might at least interest him enough to respond eventually—it had to be pretty rare. Possibly, he thought, it might be worth some Dimones to someone. At that his spirits rose. Maybe the day wouldn’t turn out to be total waste after all.

A bell clanged letting him know that a delivery had been dropped off by a package shuttle drone. He crossed the living area and pressed a button in the far wall. A second later he heard the hiss of air in the delivery tube and then a small door in the wall popped open and he reached in the tube to grab his food packet.

~*~

Just as he finished his supper and stepped back inside his unit from out on his third-floor balcony, the digital screen emitted a soft chime, displayed the government logo, and then a message from Professor Manning. He didn’t need the screen to see the message, it was internally displayed via his implanted chip, but he preferred the screen. Ever since he had taken that nasty fall a few years ago and banged his head pretty good, using his implanted chip too much gave him a headache. He knew he should go to the Unification Center and see a medical staffer about it, but he no longer went to the Center and the occasional headache didn’t bother him all that much. The message read:

"Sorry that I do not have any independent recollection of you, Mr. Borders, but I’m sure you understand I’ve had so many students over the years that it is almost impossible to keep them straight. However, I have retrieved your photo and information from my class database, so I am familiar with you in an impersonal sense. I am intrigued by your discovery. I would be happy to have a look at it, to see what I can do to help you with it. I’m available in the morning at 9:00. If that is convenient for you please stop by with your find.

Peter Manning, Professor and Director of Antiquity, District of NAM"

Tomorrow morning! That’s quick, maybe this thing is worth something, he thought.

Chapter Two

Joe got to the professor’s unit early the next morning. He hoped not too early, but he had work to do. Last night he had run across a new set of lateral utility tunnels while searching an old power company database and he wanted to get an early start. Sometimes it took all day just to find the entrance to a new tunnel system. Most of the old manholes had been covered with new material after the metal cover had been salvaged by government reclaimers and that new synthetic composite could be made to look just like the surrounding pavement.

Joe easily found Professor Manning’s living unit, or rather his PAV found it for him. All he had to do was walk up the two flights of stairs. He could have taken the air lift tube, but he was used to walking. At the top of the stairs he passed his right hand over the alert eye beside the door. It was a moment before it was answered.

Yes, came a hollow sounding voice.

Joe Borders to see Professor Peter Manning, he said.

Oh, sure come in, the voice responded as Joe heard the door release click and saw the door slide to the side into the open position with a hiss of released air pressure. A tall man with a full head of closely cropped white hair and a short salt and pepper beard and mustache, also closely cropped, stood in front of the door. Joe remembered him from the university and always thought he looked older than he probably was. Must be the beard and white hair, he thought. Joe figured him to be about 100 or a little more, but he looked in good shape and probably tipped the scales at around 170 pounds.

You surprised me, Manning said.

It’s nine, you said nine, right?

Yes, of course, Manning said with a look of deep concentration on his face, or so Joe thought.

Come in and have a seat, please.

You look well, Joe said for lack of anything better to say, as he heard the hiss of air pressure again and the door closed automatically behind him. He felt a little out of his comfort zone in the presence of Professor Manning. It was one thing to interact with someone in a classroom, but to be in the same room with him, alone, was different. Joe didn’t feel like he was smart enough to hold a very long conversation with a professor of antiquity.

Do you have this mysterious paper with you? Manning said after they were seated in the living room area and then continued, of course you do, that was your reason for coming.

Joe took the folded paper carefully out of his pocket and handed it to the professor, saying, Not sure it will be all that mysterious to you, but it certainly means nothing to me.

Why do you care what it says then, if it says anything?

I’m a hunter, mostly I hunt for metal and other materials not already reclaimed by the government and I guess I’m a bit of an optimist. I’m always hoping to make that big find and get rich.

Rich! What good is that? The government provides all we need; everyone should be content.

There are always those little extras though that one can get if he has the extra Dimones. You know those things we don’t need, but want and that make life more enjoyable.

Manning chuckled and said, You young people are all alike, always wanting more than the government provides. Go to the Unification Center if you want enjoyment. They have it all, women, wine, song, sports, gyms, drugs, any form of entertainment or relaxation, everything is there that you could possibly want and it’s all free.

Not my idea of enjoyment, sorry. I don’t go to the Center anymore, haven’t for years now.

Joe saw that look of deep concentration or thought on the professor’s face again, this time he was sure and wished he could take that statement back.

Manning finally responded, Everyone goes to the Center. Surely you go on Sunday?

He had already said too much so he figured a little more wouldn’t matter and he replied, No, not for years anyway.

But it is required, Manning said, adamantly now.

No one bothers me about, not for years anyway.

Joe was beginning to regret coming here when he saw that look on the professor’s face. He was thinking maybe he should leave and take his paper elsewhere, or nowhere. After all, Manning was a government employee, but then almost everyone was in one way or another. Joe wasn’t in the strict sense, but he did his part. He wasn’t a five-hour a day worker like everyone else, but he contracted for the government. Everyone did something or you didn’t get your living unit and monthly allotments of food, recreation, and Dimones deposited in your digital