The old man had begun to care less and less about the wall, party politics, and life in general since the project was awarded to this rival company several months prior.
As he slipped his arm through his jacket and over his shoulder his mind rested again on losing the contract, the doctor took it personally. He cared about the money and prestige more than the result. He had realized that, he'd known the compounds Ibone Chemicals had used in the operation were not as good as his were, but he did not offer to share technology; he wanted money and was bitter at not being awarded. He could reach no accord.
He was an old man; getting slower in his years. He had troubling putting on his clothes; at 86 years of age he had lived long enough. He'd done enough. I don't care anymore. He said under his breath as a young woman raced down the corridor, over-taking his small steps. Papers fluttered in her hands. Don't care, no need. He thought as he watched the woman from behind. He hoped that she would fall. She didn't and he turned around and began thinking to himself: I have nothing against the slum people. They have done nothing to me, I've met one in my life and I shot and killed him because he approached me. The old man was moving slowly down the corridor of the news station, consumed with his own thoughts, lost in them. I shot in fright, if I saw that man today I would walk right past him, just as likely to slug him in the gut as I would one of my own employees. I don't care, I don't care about that damn wall and that damn curtain we stretched above it. It was an operation, like a circus tent, the wall was already built, all we needed to do was raise the tower in the middle, and we did that with helicopters and snipers, taking out any would be spoiler of the project, then the huge curtain, the synthetic plastic would let light out to reduce greenhouse affects, but keep in the million dollar chemical compound that would destroy the female eggs. Our company had a formula that would destroy the prostate gland and the ovary lining and the eggs. Ours was powerful. The government became too moderate, some think the elections were rigged by nations from the south. I don't care anymore. We're all garbage. I lied to myself for 45 years. Lied to myself that annihilating the slum regions would proliferate our state, allow our race to reach its full potential. We've dwindled though, we've spent all our mind's energy on ways to annihilate the Slum Region and we've got nothing to show for it. We're a race of terrified souls. We're pathetic, I'm pathetic. Weeding the Slums is not a crime, if you see a Slum man or woman or child walking the streets anywhere on our soil it's expected you shoot them. There is no punishment. But our people are scared of them. Mostly they run and call the authorities. The sightings have slowed since the wall was erected, but Slums still get over. They're a stronger race, like roaches. We should have ignored them as they scattered in the wake of our feet. They'll survive, uncivilized, full of myth and fright. We're weak; the south has already destroyed us economically, each year our money slides in worth. We're upon the edge of collapse. We've already been infiltrated politically.
Soon the we I'm including myself in will be different. We're changing as a race and as a state, the only choice is if we choose to do so peacefully or if we decide to do so violently. I'm a vestigial member of this changing society. I'm retarding its progress by instilling fear in the public with those interviews. I don't believe it anymore, I'm too old to believe such beautiful lies. The root of all your problems are these people. Not anymore, the problem with me is my liver, and my lungs. I've got real problems now; the utopia promised for me is beyond reach.
These were the thoughts that consumed the old man in the recent days. He had ceased virtually all his research on the curtain project and walked the streets and his office visibly as a man possessed with trouble. His wife and his co-workers thought it only because of losing the project to Ibone.
The old man emerged from the building and raised his head to look around. He was sad. His state made him sad. He could smell the faint sulfur in the air and knew that soldiers were positioned in pairs every 50 yards or so, hidden on rooftops or in buildings. He knew that the army was the biggest employer in the state. He had been a member before the major loss against the south 60 some years ago, about 20 years before the 87 Solution. He'd remained far from the front lines as he proved himself too valuable to die. So instead he was given the responsibility over his comrades; it was his job to decide how best to spend their precious lives. At the time he felt slightly guilty. But he rationalized it. He had no control of these decisions that were made years before him. It was only his job and his duty. Dissent would only mean someone else would be all too willing to do it.
It was all meaningless now. He walked and saw the giant wall in the distance, 60 feet high, guards stationed all around. Sometimes picking off a Slum on the other side. Just for sport. They would writhe and yelp, but no one cared, it was futile and they knew it. There was no opposition. It was our state against our fear. He thought. It all belonged to us, and this is beginning to change, beginning to not concern me.
He began to walk south. It didn't matter to him. He didn't care. Anywhere was just as good as everywhere else. He felt his possession of things slowly fading. His identity was changing and he couldn't change with it. Death no longer frightened him. He figured it would be a relief from the pain of his physical body.
He was the only one on the street, the beautiful ancient cobbled street that should have been bustling with markets. There were no people selling fruits and vegetables, meat and fish -no one went to the ocean anymore, it was too dangerous and polluted. There should be children dashing in front of him, bursting with the innocence of youth. That too, was polluted and there was nothing but the somber doctor and the dismal street. He walked on, exhausted. He no longer wanted anything. He once wanted the complete death of every Slum. But now it was different. He was always told that: they were the ones that demanded the tax money for defense, they were the ones that caused hardship when traveling, they were the ones that murdered for hatred of freedom, they were the enemies. And the they had changed to him. Changed to his people, his state. His people were en route to suicide, to self destruction; perhaps the one fate that all humanity will share. But who cares, I'm gone. Too old and battered, he thought.
But care or not, he thought, significant damage had been done to those people, those Slums. This curtain ordeal was extraordinary in magnitude; his state had poisoned an entire race of people, secured their block of land with walls and synthetics and dumped toxins in the air for them to breathe for a few weeks. If they hadn't been ordained to suffer before, they were now -now it was chemical, genetic. They had biologically altered their race. And it would have ended sooner if it had been in the hands of Doctor Ravj. His chemical agent would have poisoned the living and prevented the future.
The doctor made his way to the side of the street and to a bench and sat down. He leaned his head back and sighed. The sound of an oncoming car became audible and the doctor thought of the sound waves travelling outward from the source and reaching his ear. He thought about the knowledge he knew and the result that happens anyway, and what difference it makes that he knows. No difference, he thought. A honk sounded and he looked up to view a taxi slowing down. He waved it on with his hand and leaned back again and sighed.
History, he thought. How would it judge him? Poorly, he knew that, he would be remembered though. But what does that matter to him? He would be read about in books for years, a minor actor in this major ordeal. They would site his accomplishments and label him a minor player in what is now called a "security measure" but will soon be called genocide. He was almost dead and his life was quickly losing the last tethers which held him down; he was losing control. His actions were being judged and scrutinized by scientists and scholars; it was out of his hands; his character was no longer his to mold. There was nothing that he could do to rectify anything for his name in history; his legacy was set. And it was just a name. Not his name, just some name. He was almost gone and nameless. To release his authorship on the name that he fell into. It was no longer his and never was. It was history's name. It was its possession.
"Dr. Ravj?" a young voice echoed through his head, jerking him from his transcend. He looked up and saw a young private wearing a small gas mask. He couldn't have been over 20 years old, clean face, no wrinkles, no liver spots, clear eyes. He was a youth, burdened with 30 pounds of necessities on his person. He carried an enormous black assault rifle. He was a youth burdened with the state he fell into. He was living out the doctor's result. The doctor felt pity for him. He knew this poor child was to become nothing, he was going to contribute to the nothing they had all built up. Would this soldier be written about other then the mention of the state or of the army? Would as many books be written about him as would be about the doctor, who, because of numerous tv interviews had made himself into a minor celebrity. He shook his head and answered the soldier-boy. "Sir, you can't be on the street today, the department deemed it unsafe." The soldier-boy said. The doctor had forgotten. The department of health had set a curfew on the city; they were to remain indoors as much as possible to avoid possible contamination from the curtain project. The doctor smiled as he remembered. The boy said, "come sir, I'll walk you to a taxi." He extended his hand and helped the old doctor to his feet.
