The Brave New World - 153 Sticks and Stones

Samir jerked in his seat, and darted a look at the window: the window pane had cracked in a starburst centered on where the stone struck the glass. It had been small stone, small enough to penetrate the protective grid of thick wire fastened on the outside, but had hit with sufficient force to break a hole in the window pane. The shouts outside immediately sounded louder and more menacing.

Samir turned away from the window, and looked at the Second Assistant to Deputy Governor of the Navi Mumbai district. The First Assistant was a small, roly-poly man with shining bald head. His face was half-obscured by a flamboyant mustache and enormous glasses with thick black plastic rims. In spite of the mustache, he didn’t look to be a particularly brave man. His posture suggested he was ready to dive under his desk.

“It was just a pebble from a slingshot,” Samir said reassuringly. The moment he finished speaking there was a loud thud as a big stone hit the wall of the building. The Second Assistant flinched, and exclaimed:

“Where is the police? Where is the army? Why isn’t anyone protecting us?”

Samir was diplomatically silent. The colonial office – located in a building which had been originally built as a school – was in fact protected by around a dozen security guards armed with batons and pepper spray. The guards had prudently chosen to retreat inside the building, but would no doubt act the moment anyone tried to force the door.

Sensing a lack of sympathy for his fears, the Second Assistant grunted and resumed laboriously filling out the large form laid out before him, copying the entries from an identical form that he’d already filled out. The form contained information about Samir’s license, and it was needed in triplicate: one for Samir, one for the local colonial office, and one for the office of the Governor of the Navi Mumbai district. There were no working copiers at the office, and no carbon paper: each form had be filled out manually.

It was a simple process, but it was made much longer by the clerk’s habit of of examining each new entry while frowning and sucking on his teeth. Samir sat patiently, congratulating himself on his foresight.

He had arrived at the colonial office the previous afternoon, bearing parcels of food which he used to bribe the office personnel to let him stay the night inside the building. He was determined to be the first in line when the office started issuing colonial licenses the next morning, and he knew a couple of the former classrooms had been converted into dormitories. Close to half the office staff ate and slept at their place of work following the nearly total breakdown of services in the city.

It didn’t work. There were at least a couple of hundred aspiring colonizers gathered outside who wanted licenses to trade colonial goods. The Deputy Governor was shouted down, and quickly retreated inside the building when the first stone hit the wall not far from his head. The forty lucky applicants that had been admitted into the office were processed by the Second, Third, and Fourth Assistant to the Deputy Governor responsible for the Karanja area, while the First Assistant strode importantly from room to room and desk to desk, checking on their work and uttering official-sounding grunts.

Samir tensed whenever the First Assistant entered the room he was in, and so did the Second Assistant working on Samir’s license. The First Assistant had a threatening presence, which was likely the reason for which he’d appointed as a First and not Second or Third Assistant.

Samir saw that the Second Assistant had completed filling out the final, third form, and was now busy reviewing it with a heavy frown. He took the risk of sliding his hand inside his shirt to scratch the itch left by the sticky tape he’d used to fasten plastic-wrapped bundles of banknotes to his body.

He’d been literally wearing money when he arrived at the colonial office the previous day; 360,000 rupees amounted to a lot of banknotes. It took the clerk in charge of receiving payments over ten minutes to count them all, and write out a receipt that Samir handed to the Second Assistant along with his application for a colonizer’s license.

He’d felt great joy when the Second Assistant began filling out the first form. It had been a long and difficult journey to get to this point. The last few days had been hellishly busy: both Samir and Rani had made several trips to the market every day, carrying sacks of food and returning with wads of money from its sale. Kulaba, their settlement in the New World, was almost completely cleaned out of food even though its entire population had been busy fishing, gathering, and hunting week after week.

In the end, it was Neil – the new recruit – that saved the day. He managed to kill two antelopes and it was their meat, hurriedly smoked before being sent back home, that enabled Samir to purchase his license along with eight extra implant kits. He thought of the night when the glowing cube first appeared in the field outside his house: it seemed all that had taken place an eternity earlier.

What a trip it had been! What an incredible journey! From a poor clerk living illegally in an abandoned house to a property owner, and a licensed colonizer! And everything in the space of just three months!

The Second Assistant across the desk made a particularly loud sucking noise, startling Samir out of his reverie. He stacked the three filled-out forms on top of each other, and after a moment’s reflection pushed them towards Samir.

“Sign each of these at the bottom,” he said sternly, pointing to the spot. A sudden roar from the crowd outside made his hand tremble, and he withdrew it hastily. Samir signed the three forms and pushed them back towards the clerk, who rose heavily from his chair and said:

“I’m taking them to the Deputy Governor for his signature. Wait here.”

Samir waited. There was a roar from the crowd outside, and the sound of a big engine. He rose and cautiously approached the broken window. Keeping to its side, he peered out.

An army truck was slowly pushing into the mob, dispersing them to the sides. An officer wearing a red beret was standing behind the machine gun mounted on the driver’s cab. He was holding a megaphone in his hand, and as Samir looked on he raised it to his mouth. The crowd fell silent.

Behind Samir’s back, the door to the room opened with a protesting squeal from its dry hinges.

“What are you doing at that window? Are you mad?” exclaimed the Second Assistant. Samir turned round, and said:

“It’s all right. The army is here. Listen.” They both stood still and listened to the officer on the truck order the crowd to disperse. Colonial license applicants were to line up in an orderly fashion at the entrance. Anyone disobeying those instructions would be arrested. Any violence would be answered with violence, much stronger violence.

The muttering that rose from the crowd after these last words was cut short by a burst of machine gun fire. Samir risked a quick peek outside, his eyes wide with apprehension.

A wisp of smoke was curling from the gun’s barrel: it was pointed at the sky, everything was all right. The protesters had instantly become very well-behaved: a neat line was quickly forming at the entrance to the colonial office. Soldiers that had jumped out of the rear of the truck walked into view, holding their assault rifles at the ready.

Samir looked at the Second Assistant and said:

“He was just shooting into the air. It’s all right.”

The Second Assistant beamed at Samir. He walked up to his desk and put a single form into a plastic sleeve of the sort used in document binders. He held it out to Samir, and said:

“This is your copy of the license. Please take good care of it. Take it to the registry, and show it there to receive your implant kits and hiber beds and a documentation scroll. I wish you very good luck in your colonization effort on behalf of the Governor of the Navi Mumbai district.”

“What about the mint papers?” asked Samir. “I was told I would receive a registered mint owner certificate along with the license.”

“You’ve registered a mint?”

“Yes.”

“Here, in this office?”

“No, at the town hall.”

“Then you must go to the town hall.”

“But they told me I would get it here.”

“They told you wrong,” the Second Assistant said, frowning dangerously.

“But – ”

“Did you pay the registration fee?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have the receipt for that payment?”

“Yes.”

“Then they cannot refuse to issue you with a certificate. You must go to the town hall. Now you must excuse me. I have many applicants waiting.”

“Goodbye, and thank you for all your help.”

“Goodbye.”

Things went fast at the registry. He showed his license, and was given ten implant kits along with two hiber beds and a documentation scroll. He put everything in his backpack, and went to collect his bicycle. He’d left it behind the building, in the enclosed courtyard where the office staff left their own vehicles.

The two security guards by the double sheet metal gate opened it just wide enough for him to pass through. He wheeled his bicycle out into street, taking in the scene. Many of the faces in the lineup at the entrance turned his way; many eyes looked enviously at the bulging backpack strapped to his back. He was safe, there were soldiers stationed at intervals along the street. But there wouldn’t be any further on, and he had to cycle over four kilometers to get home.

As he mounted his bike, Samir regretted he hadn’t brought anyone with him. But it really hadn’t been an option: everyone was too busy with food, producing it in the New World and sending it home. Sergeant Varma would be arriving the very next day, bringing seven of his men with him. Then there was the clerk at the town hall that had helped Samir acquire the rights to the house, and Paul Leduc, owner of the supermarket – they’d both been promised regular deliveries of food.

And that wasn’t all. Samir also had to feed the builders Leduc had sent to work on his house, Madan and Kali, the four kids he’d recruited as colonists. Most importantly, he had to feed Rani, and himself… It really added up to a lot of food.

No, he really couldn’t have taken anyone with him. Eighteen hours amounted to a full week in the New World, a hundred hours that could be spent fishing or hunting.

He would just have to pedal hard and go as fast as he could on his bike, and hope no one guessed the contents of his backpack. And if worst came to worst, he’d have to make good use of the sturdy stick he’d taped to the top of the bike frame.

Muttering a private prayer he stood on the pedals and took off, splashing through the small puddles scattered on the road.

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