Chapter Seventeen

The Santa Barbara Sanctuary for Freedom hosted daily social events for its members. On Mondays, one of the two college professors in residence offered lectures in the library’s small auditorium on a wide range of topics from art to history to philosophy. Tuesday was book club. Wednesday was movie night, dipping into the library’s huge selection of DVDs and Blu-ray discs. Thursday was poker night, with an assortment of board game options for those who didn’t want to play cards. Friday was a wine tasting, featuring previously expensive California wines. Sunday offered a nondenominational church service to discuss broad religious themes.

Saturday night, everyone’s favorite, was the potluck party.

Several ‘outers’, unchipped sanctuary residents who could blend anonymously into society, went on weekly visits to a distant grocery store. This store still stocked real food for the diminished numbers of people who continued to prefer true flavors over simulations. The outers filled shopping carts based on a list compiled by the sanctuary members and then each member prepared their food choices in the library’s small staff kitchen. In the evening, a large meal was laid out on long library tables. Alcohol flowed freely, pop songs played on a portable CD player, and sometimes people danced. On the first Saturday after Flynn’s joint-smoking crisis, his mom baked him hash brownies as a safer alternative, and a few others joined him in consuming the treat, bringing a new meaning to the word pot-luck.

Aaron loved the potluck parties. There was something about the rich tapestry of aromas and communal eating experience that triggered happy childhood memories of family get-togethers during the holidays. He and Clarissa drank too much, loosened up and fed off the collective energy in the room. Social gatherings had become rare in the Chip Era, but inside the sanctuary, they lived on with vigor and high spirits. As the party continued into the night, Clarissa would take command of the music selection, transitioning the soundtrack from disco to hard rock. Later, she would take command of Aaron, leading him into a dark and isolated corner of the library for lovemaking between the shelves.

It was in the middle of a potluck party, during a raucous game of charades, that the news arrived that Senator Sheridan had been shot.

The joyous mood immediately crashed. The music was shut down and everyone huddled in one of the library staff offices, where a small television streamed a live report.

The details were still being sorted out, but the shooting took place at a large anti-chip rally in Washington D.C. on Capitol Hill. Senator Sheridan was speaking to thousands of demonstrators when a shot rang out, striking him in the side, reaching his spine. An organized turnout by pro-chip advocates had infiltrated the crowd and mass chaos erupted after the gunfire. Riot police broke up the protest and Sheridan was rushed to the hospital, where doctors reported his condition as serious but stable.

No arrests had been made yet in connection with the shooting.

Washington officials believed it was the act of a lone, unhinged individual. Sheridan’s supporters jumped on a broader conspiracy theory that linked the assassination attempt to the current administration.

“Lone gunman, that’s bullshit!” said Clarissa, facing the TV with anger. “This was a deliberate hit, and it probably goes all the way to the White House.”

The mood in the sanctuary turned glum. Sheridan was seen as one of the few sources of hope in government for naturalists. He had bravely fought the chip mandate while most other politicians went silent. He was a unifying force for the realist movement that was otherwise powerless, a suppressed minority scattered across the country. The violent turn of events shook everyone in the library.

The next morning, the Santa Barbara Sanctuary held its council meeting in a small conference room. The council meetings were open to all residents of the sanctuary, and this one received nearly one hundred percent attendance.

The first item on the agenda: guns.

Aaron headed the Laws and Ordinances Committee and sat in one of seven chairs at the ten-foot-long table. He was joined by Sylvester, the head of budget; Annabelle, the director of social events; Miles, the technology guru; Peter, overseer of membership; Colette, manager of sanctuary property and operations; and Jacob, council president.

Aaron, working from prepared notes, made his case that the sanctuary’s anti-gun policy needed to be revisited in light of civil unrest and growing violence between chip proponents and opponents.

“I don’t think anyone here believes that the person who shot Senator Sheridan was acting on his own,” he said. “This entire rollout has been accompanied by threats, intimidation and violence. Look at how aggressively they pursued fifteen-year-old Flynn Beaman for going off the government radar. We can’t be naïve. We should be armed. This sanctuary could be raided tomorrow, and we could all be force-chipped, put in jail and placed under mind control.”

“You really think they’d do that?” asked Lorraine Beaman, sitting beside her son.

“Yes,” Clarissa said firmly, sitting behind her.

“As far as the feds are concerned, we’re committing treason,” Jacob said. “We’re organized, we’re defiant, we’re breaking the law and recruiting others to do the same. This isn’t a slap on the wrist. Do I need to remind everyone of what happened to the sanctuary in Santa Clarita?” When no one spoke up, he answered his own question. “They were raided, and no one has ever heard from them again.”

Ken Ashburn, a former UCLA professor, raised his hand from the rows of attendees in folding chairs. “So if we arm ourselves, where do we get these guns?”

Jacob turned to Peter Whitehead, who managed admissions and recruiting. Peter was a middle-aged man with a tired face and premature hair loss. “I have someone,” he said, and all eyes were on him. “We keep records of potential members to add to our ranks, and we do a lot of research and due diligence as part of our evaluation process. I’ve had someone on my list for some time, Max Ketchum, who lives up in the mountains, alone, no chip, and heavily armed. He collects guns. He’s an old timer, and the authorities have largely left him alone because he’s one person, probably in his seventies or eighties, and they figure he’s not worth the trouble and they’ll wait him out. I don’t know how successful our outreach would be, but if we could get him to join us, we could also inherit a considerable arsenal.”

“Instant arsenal,” Miles said. “I like the sound of that.”

“I do too. Given the events of yesterday in Washington, I think we should put it to a vote,” Aaron said.

“I agree with that,” said Jacob, and many others around the room nodded in approval.

“We weren’t going to have our next membership vote until the 20th, but we could expedite it,” Peter said. “I also have two other candidates at the top of the list, a couple here in Santa Barbara. The Worthingtons.”

Jacob looked at his fellow council members and then stared out into the rows of gathered attendees. “Unless someone objects, I think we could move to a membership vote today for both the Worthingtons and Max Ketchum. Do we feel the Worthingtons could offer the sanctuary immediate benefits?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “The Worthingtons bring a lot of connections. Sam and Beatrice Worthington, young couple, lots of money, inherited, the right political allies, but with a hitch. She doesn’t have the chip, and he does. He’s a recovering addict. He was hooked on chipfeeds, the hard stuff, Bliss, Dreamweave, 360 Cocktail, Celestial Knockout – she told her friends it was like living with a drug addict. She also alleges that he’s clean now, stays off the chip and is a strong anti-chip advocate because he’s experienced the dangers firsthand. So there’s some risk, but, again, they can bring a lot of money and influence into the organization.”

Sylvester, who managed the budget, spoke up from the table. “Our funds are dwindling all the time. We could really use a new influx of cash, to tell the truth.”

Jacob said, “Let’s move on this. I say we take it to a vote.”

The results were nearly unanimous. The Santa Barbara Sanctuary voted in three new members. Then they lifted the gun ban.

* * *

At the New Member Welcome Party, Max Ketchum and Sam and Beatrice Worthington formally joined the ranks of the Santa Barbara Sanctuary, meeting the full membership and mingling over drinks and food as a classical string quartet played on the antique CD player. People dressed up for the occasion, including Aaron and Clarissa. Aaron made a rare appearance in a sports jacket. Clarissa actually wore makeup, a skirt and heels, an unusual turn that made Aaron smirk. Clarissa immediately told him to shut up even though he hadn’t said anything.

Clarissa was younger than most of the other sanctuary women, and attractive, which engaged the seventy-eight-year-old Max Ketchum. He talked with the young couple for forty-five minutes, unleashing years of pent-up conversation.

At the start of recruiting Max for the sanctuary, the council members had doubts he would accept. There were concerns he would prefer to remain on his own in the mountains, living a private life. When first approached, Max was suspicious, even a little paranoid, and armed himself with two handguns when he came to see the library facility and visit with sanctuary members. His ornery defensiveness soon melted away and his true personality came to the surface: he was extremely chatty and craved companionship. His wife had died four years ago. His dog was dead. His son had fled to Europe at the beginning of the chip mandate. He was lonely.

At the welcome party, Max loved being the center of attention. He dressed up in an old suit, leaned on his cane and told stories about his life’s adventures, many of them improbable. He flirted with a widow in her seventies. He eagerly looked forward to joining the weekly poker nights and boasted about his gambling prowess. He talked excitedly about his massive gun collection, the right to bear arms, and the upcoming weapons training class he would be teaching.

Leaning on his cane, Max expressed to Aaron that he was particularly grateful to join a commune where they could work together to gather real food supplies. As it became more difficult for Max to leave his house, collecting groceries became an ordeal. He hated eating Body Fuel bars, which were cheap and plentiful but essentially tasteless without the accompanying chipfeeds.

Every so often during his lengthy monologues, Max would erupt into brief coughing spasms, followed by wheezing. He ultimately confessed to Aaron and Clarissa: “You want to know the biggest reason I’m moving in with you rather than staying at my house? I know I’m not long for this world. I don’t want to die alone and get eaten by coyotes.”

Aaron and Clarissa finally broke off their conversation with Max so they could also spend some time getting to know Sam and Beatrice Worthington. Max immediately found another ear to fill and relaunched his life story.

Sam and Beatrice were in their early forties, wealthy but weighed down by difficult years in their marriage that they discussed openly. The culprit was the chip.

“I despise the chip,” Sam said. “It nearly ruined my life. It’s funny – before the chip, I drank, I smoked some pot, I dabbled in other drugs. I was able to do it in moderation, so I never came close to being addicted to anything. Then the chip came along – and it made everything too easy, I guess.”

“I remember you telling me, ‘This is great, there’s no hangover’,” said Beatrice. “You could turn it on and off, go to work and not wreck your physical health.”

“Yeah, I used to play a lot of sports, so I was into staying in shape and all that.”

“The addiction comes fast and hard,” Clarissa said. “I watched it happen to my brother. We tried everything and we lost him. He lives in one of those tent communities in L.A., high all the time. It’s horrible.”

“The only way to really go cold turkey is to cut off from the signal,” Sam said. “That’s why this place is a godsend. You have this whole section under a shield – as long as I stay here, I’m clean.”

“That’s our brilliant scientist and technician, Miles,” said Aaron. “If it wasn’t for him, we couldn’t bring in anyone with the chip.”

“You’re not the only former addict staying here,” Clarissa said. “There are four others, and they have a support group. They meet three times a week. You should join them. They keep each other strong…and safe.”

“I’ll do that,” said Sam. “And anything you need – Beatrice and I are here to support the sanctuary. We have money – money we can access without a lot of monitoring.”

“We appreciate that,” Aaron said. “And I want to thank you for the workout room.”

The Worthingtons had paid for high-end fitness equipment – a treadmill, weights, exercise cycle – to create a gym in the former periodicals room, laying out rubber flooring and covering the windows with full-length mirrors.

“Hey, it’s the least we can do,” Sam said. “That’s my new high – exercise.”

Beatrice said, “Do you know there’s actually a chipfeed for exercise adrenaline? You get the rush without having to exert yourself. How crazy is that?”

“It’s fucked up,” said Clarissa. “I’m looking forward to using the treadmill. I stopped running outside because I was tired of always looking over my shoulder. I expected to see someone chasing me.”

* * *

Later that evening, as the Welcome Party started to wind down, Aaron took Clarissa by the hand and led her deep into the bookshelves.

“Mm, where are you taking me?” she said, tipsy with California wine.

“I need to show you something,” Aaron said, and the serious tone in his voice suggested this was not an invitation for impromptu sex. He brought her to section 973.7.

“The Civil War?” Clarissa said, looking at the spines on the books.

“I figured this section was as good as any – makes some sense, really.”

“For what?”

Aaron removed an extra-large volume on Gettysburg. “Can you see back there?”

Clarissa peered into the open space and said, “Oh God.”

Aaron replaced the book. “This whole row – behind the books – it’s where we’re keeping the guns. We’re going to announce it later this week, and I think we’re going to make it mandatory for everyone to attend Max’s weapon training.”

“You know how I feel about guns,” Clarissa said. “My dad had one.”

“I hate guns, too. But I also want protection. If somebody comes after us with aggression, we will fight back. There’s a lot of chaos out there right now. If they came after you, right now, to stick you with the chip, are you going to let them do it or are you going to fight?”

Clarissa said, without hesitation, “Fight. Fight all the way.”

“I’ve never fired a gun in my life,” said Aaron. “But I’m going to learn. You’re going to learn.”

“Who would have imagined that one day a library would become an armory?”

“Who would have imagined that one day people would be sticking computer chips in their heads for a Big Brother GPS system?”

“Let’s go back to the party,” Clarissa said, turning away from the guns. “I think I need some more wine.”