CHAPTER IX - "FRAME UP"

A futuristic, horror, action/adventure mystery short story.

FRAME UP.
 
 
Ryan suddenly realized that he was scratching again. He stopped
and glanced down at his arm--the unsightly red patch had grown since
his friend Robbie had picked him up for work that morning. Apparently,
the itch was only in his mind. During his last evaluation, the
factory's employee counselor had assured him that the microchip under
his skin was the product of decades of careful study and long-term
trials. She had called his affliction "techno-psychosis." Ryan had
left the session wondering if that meant he was crazy.
 
"What's with the traffic this morning?" Ryan asked.
 
"I don't know." replied Robbie. He leaned sideways around the steering wheel
and craned his neck. "Looks like they're stopping everyone at the
gate. We are going to be late, at this pace."
 
Ryan frowned and ran his hand through his thinning hair. "So long
as it's their fault and not ours, I suppose."
 
By the time their car rolled up to the factory gate, Ryan and Robbie
were already an hour late for work. A man blocked their passage with a
red stop sign, while another approached from the side with a small
hand-held computer.
 
Robbie rolled down his window and asked, "What's the hold-up?"
 
"Clock-in readers ain't working," said the man with the computer.
"Have to do you manually. Need your identification numbers." He passed
the tiny computer through the window. Robbie removed a stylus from the
holster on its side, and started tapping at the number pad on the
screen. He hesitated when the man outside glanced at his watch.
 
"Hey now," said Robbie, "We were here on time . . . it's not our fault--"
 
"Oh, don't worry," the man interrupted. "You're not accountable for
technical problems. Late clock-ins won't be penalized today."
 
Ryan was scratching his arm again, and staring out his window at
the factory towers looming above. He watched exhaust billow out of the
refinement building, dark against the overcast morning sky, like a
giant finger reaching down from the clouds to touch the tip of the
smokestack.
 
"What's wrong with the readers?" Robbie asked as he finished entering the
last few digits.
 
"Don't know," the man sighed. He reached in, grabbed his computer,
stepped back, and started waving at the next car. "Management ain't
saying."
 
It was a couple minutes before Ryan snapped out of his reverie and
realized what had happened. "Aw hell!" he cried out. "Weren't you
thinking? We need to go back!"
 
Robbie shook his head. "Look, don't worry," he said. "Late-clockers won't
be penalized today, so just call your number in to management from
your office."
 
Ryan relaxed. Robbie was right.
 
"And quit scratching your arm!"
 
The employee counselor had referred Ryan to a psychiatrist, but he
didn't plan on going. She had assured him that techno-psychosis was
nothing to be ashamed of, and that there were a number of established
treatments and therapies, all of which were highly effective. But
Ryan didn't believe it was in his mind. His arm had itched for as
long as he could remember--before he even knew what an identification
chip was, or where it had been implanted in his arm as an infant. It
wasn't until junior high--almost twenty years ago--that he had learned
about the global identification initiative, and its many supposed
benefits to society.
 
He had been taught all about how, a mere two hundred years ago,
everyone had to carry around plastic identification and money cards;
there were no readers on store doors to scan your goods and
automatically charge payment--you had to manually pay someone before
you could leave. You needed physical keys or remote control devices to
get into your house, or to make your car start. If you wanted to know
what was inside your fridge, you had to open it and count everything
by hand. The examples went on and on. Most of his classmates were
incredulous that anyone could survive in such barbarous times, but
Ryan thought it sounded quaint. He would gladly do all those
things, especially if it meant his arm would stop itching.
 
"I wonder what all the cops are here for," Robbie mused as he pulled into
his parking stall. Ryan had noticed them too. They had passed half
a dozen police cars and twice as many officers on their way down
through the upper lots. "Good thing you hitched a ride with me
today--maybe they're here for you."
 
Ryan obliged Robbie with a dry chuckle as he stepped out of the car
and into the dimly-lit underground parking lot. They took an elevator
up to the factory warehouse in silence. Once there, Ryan smiled at
Robbie. "Thanks for the ride. See you at lunch?"
 
Robbie shrugged his agreement, and the two men parted ways. Ryan left
the warehouse and began crossing the grounds toward his office. His
arm burned all the way, but he resisted the temptation to scratch.
 
When he arrived outside the entrance to his office building, he
stopped to examine the clock-in readers standing sentinel on either
side. The tall metallic poles seemed somehow less imposing with their
uncharacteristically dark digital displays, which usually showed the
current time in bright amber digits. A man, who Ryan did not
recognize, came through the doors, noticed him staring, and flashed an
amused grin.
 
"The whole system's down," the man said. "You'll need to see a
security officer to get into your office."
 
Upon entering the building, Ryan found that the lobby's security
desk was flanked on one side by a winding line of dozens of his
coworkers, and on the other side by a bored-looking security guard
with weary eyes, who was checking each person's identification number
manually on a computer. Ryan sighed and resigned himself to
standing at the end of the line. After a couple minutes, he felt a
hand close on his arm, and a heard a voice whisper.
 
"Rye, come with me."
 
Ryan's heart skipped a beat as he turned his head to see who had
spoken. He relaxed when he saw who it was. "Brian, what is it?" he
said. "You're hurting my arm."
 
Brian was a computer programmer for the factory, and a good friend of
Ryan's. Usually, Brian was the type of person who was always
smiling, and whose presence tended to make everyone around him smile
as well.
 
Brian now seemed a different man. His trademark grin was gone, and the
flesh of his cheeks were unusually pale. He looked irritated and
fearful.
 
"You need to come with me," Brian whispered. "It's not safe out here."
 
"Safe?" asked Ryan. "What do you mean safe? Where are we going?"
 
"Just follow me," said Brian, with an urgency Ryan had never heard
in his voice before. He lead Ryan past staring faces toward the
elevators.
 
The security guard saw what was going on and stood up from his chair.
"Hey! Back in line! No unauthorized personnel is allowed past the
lobby," he said.
 
"He's with me, Stanson," said Brian. "He's helping get the readers
sorted out, we don't have time to wait." His expression tensed.
 
The security guard glared through narrowed eyes for a moment before
grumbling and sitting down to resume his duties.
 
Brian towed Ryan past the elevators and opened the door leading to
the stairwell. "The elevators are working," he explained, "but so are
the security cameras. We're better off on the stairs."
 
Once inside, Ryan shook his arm free of Brian's grasp. "Now hold
on," he said. "What is all this talk of being safe? Was that whole
scene really necessary?"
 
"No time," replied Brian. "They probably already know you're here
somewhere. They could fix the readers any minute . . . we need to keep
going. I'll explain once we're safe in the server room--there aren't
any readers or cameras in there; the radio waves interfere with the
circuitry."
 
Ryan lost count of how many flights of stairs they descended,
their footsteps echoing deafeningly off the concrete walls as he tried
to puzzle through Brian's words. Brian was usually so calm and
predictable; that was why Ryan liked him. There were never any
surprises with Brian . . . and yet here he was, flustered, scared, and
not making much sense.
 
The stairs finally ended in one of the underground hallways that
interlinked various buildings on the factory grounds. Ryan had
seen them before, briefly, during his orientation tour when he had
first been hired at the factory. He was not generally prone to
claustrophobia, but he had decided then to avoid the tunnels in an
effort to remain so. The ceiling was punctuated by evenly spaced
square florescent lighting panels, many of which flickered noisily,
protesting years of neglect. Only once on their way through the
maze-like passages did Brian pause, arm pressing Ryan against the
wall as he peered around a corner. The perceived danger had been
benign, however, and so they resumed their trek at a quickened pace.
 
When they reached the server room, Brian placed his hand on the door.
"It's all unlocked," he explained, "since the readers aren't working."
 
Ryan narrowed his eyes. "What do you know about this problem with
the readers?" he asked.
 
"Everything," replied Brian, as he pushed the door open. "I caused it."
 
Ryan had never been in the server room before; it was off-limits
to all except the select few employees, such as Brian, who required
access in order to perform their duties. He had imagined a large room,
walls lined with racks of sleek computer hardware with blinking
multi-colored lights, display screens with continuously scrolling
text, humming hard drives, and noisily blowing fans. He saw, instead,
a three-foot-tall featureless black box nestled in the corner of a
closet-sized room, attached, by means of a single cable running along
the floor, to a podium sporting a large display screen. Brian shut the
door.
 
Starting to shake, Ryan waited for Brian to elaborate.
 
"I used a jammer," explained Brian. "Sends out a continuous signal that
interferes with all the readers. They're likely to find it soon,
though. I'm surprised it's taken them so long already. It's probably
because they're also looking for you. They know you're on the grounds
by now, even without the automatic clock-in."
 
Ryan scratched his arm and sat down with his back slumped against
the door. "I didn't clock in at all," he said. "What do you mean,
they're looking for me?"
 
Brian's expression lightened. "That means they have no idea where you
are. That's good . . . their resources will be split up and spread out
-. . . this might be easier than I thought. Quickly, take off your
clothes."
 
Ryan's mouth opened silently and then shut. He tried again, this
time finding his voice. "Brian . . . who is looking for me? And why are
they looking for me? And why are you jamming all of the readers? And
why . . . why should I take off my clothes?"
 
Brian frowned. "I have some other clothes here for you." He produced a
neatly folded outfit, jeans, shirt, shoes, and undergarments, from
behind the podium. "And I'm jamming the readers because I think you're
innocent."
 
"Innocent . . .," said Ryan. "Innocent of what?"
 
"Murder."
 
Ryan opened and closed his mouth, again finding himself unable to
speak.
 
"Look, there was a memo," said Brian. "This morning . . . it went out
to management. I got a copy too. It says you killed someone, Rye.
Last night. It instructs everyone to give the police full cooperation
until you've been apprehended. It's an S.E.C. warrant."
 
"But . . . I didn't murder anyone!" cried Ryan. "S.E.C.? You must
have read the memo wrong. This is nonsense. Someone's having a laugh.
I should just go to the police and get this all straightened out." He
braced himself to stand up, but his arm was shaking too violently, so
he collapsed back into a sitting position.
 
"S.E.C., Rye. It was there in black and white. I didn't believe it
at first either--I actually laughed when I read your name . . . but it
all checks out. Here, look," said Brian. He spun around and danced his
fingers on the podium's computer display. "The memo and the warrant.
See for yourself."
 
Ryan braced himself again, stood up, and shuffled over to the
podium. Brian moved aside so he could see. The words rang in his head
as he read them. Ryan saw himself and his alleged victim--a young
bearded man--staring sullenly back from the photos on the warrant.
Brian was right. He was doomed.
 
"How can they have an S.E.C. against someone who's innocent?" Ryan
moaned.
 
"So, you deny the murder?" asked Brian.
 
"Of course I deny the murder!" shouted Ryan. "Why would I want to
murder anybody?"
 
Brian paused for a moment, then nodded. "I believe you," he said, "but
the police won't."
 
"They have to!" insisted Ryan.
 
"Ryan! It's an S.E.C. warrant! For murder!"
 
Ryan rubbed his temples. "There's obviously a mistake. Some error
in their evidence."
 
Brian shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. They have you,
Rye--that chip in your arm that you insist on scratching
incessantly--at a murder scene, with a murder weapon, with no possible
way to interpret the data that doesn't involve you committing the
murder." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Sufficient evidence to
convict."
 
"I know what S.E.C. means," Ryan snapped. "What do I do?"
 
Brian turned back to the display and ran his fingers over it again,
studying the output carefully. "The jammer's still working; they
haven't found it yet," he said. "Put those clothes on and get the hell
out of here. I'll plant your old stuff somewhere else before the
readers start working again to help throw them off the scent." He
produced a small piece of paper from his pocket. "Go to this address.
I have friends there who can help you."
 
Ryan took the paper and studied it suspiciously. "What kind of
friends do you have who could get me out of this?" he asked.
 
"Friends like me, Rye," Brian replied. "Friends who keep jammers and
untagged clothing handy; friends who realize how corrupt the whole
system is becoming. Not everybody is content to sit around while their
every little move is recorded and catalogued in some government
database. Who do you think has access to that data, Rye? Why do you
think your identification number showed up in all the right spots at
all the right times to create this S.E.C. warrant? We always thought
it would happen to one of us first, which is why I was prepared. But
you're it, Rye. Living proof that we can't trust the system any
more."
 
Ryan's mind was a blur as he changed into the new clothes; the
pants were too loose, so he pulled the belt extra tight. Brian made him
memorize the address on the paper, and then took it back, saying that
he would burn it later.
 
"So, that's it then?" said Ryan. "Simply evade the cops, escape
the factory, find your friends, and then what? What about my house? My
job? My cat? My life?"
 
"I'll care for your cat, Rye. You're in a lot of trouble. Go to my
friends. They're the only ones who can help you now. They know of
places you can go." Brian grimaced. "There is one other thing." He
reached into a pocket and produced what looked, to Ryan, like a
pair of sharpened pliers.
 
"Oh . . .," said Ryan, and looked at the red patch on his arm.
 
"Yeah . . .," said Brian.
 
At least now it wouldn't itch anymore.
 
Brian applied a dab of anesthetic jelly to numb the pain and began
extracting the identification chip. The blood wasn't nearly as bad as
Ryan had expected, and after Brian used a tiny tube of medical
sealant on the wound, he convinced himself that he wouldn't even scar.
Ryan had dreamed of digging the irritating microchip out of his
arm many nights, but never had he imagined the odd sense of loss he
felt as he watched Brian crush the tiny grey speck with the pliers.
After rolling up the tissue he had used to clear the blood, and
putting it in a bag with Ryan's clothes on the floor, Brian inched
the door open and peered down the hall.
 
"Looks clear," he said. "You should go. Once they get the readers back
up, things will return to normal fast. It'll be much harder for you to
slip out unnoticed."
 
"What about you?" asked Ryan. "It's your jammer they'll find . . .
and--"
 
"Don't worry about me, Rye," Brian cut in. "They can't trace the
jammer to anyone. And I'm not gonna rest until I figure out who did
this to you. You better get going."
 
Ryan didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He nodded and
stepped alone into the hall.
 
His heart pounded as he raced through the underground labyrinth,
praying that he wouldn't run in to anybody. When at last he found
himself with nowhere further to turn, he stepped through the door at
the end and was relieved to find himself in the underground parking
lot. He started walking past the empty cars toward the far elevator,
which would deposit him on the main level, next to the freeway.
 
Ryan's mind raced almost as quickly as his footsteps. How could he
have been so wrong about Brian? How could it be that a criminal had
hidden behind that jovial, grinning face for all this time?
_Criminal_, he thought. _Like me_. The punishment for deliberately
removing and destroying your identification chip was life
imprisonment. And then there was murder. Murder was worse. _Could I
have actually committed the murder, and repressed the memory?_ When he
arrived at the elevator, he realized he was scratching the spot on his
arm where the identification chip had been cut out.
 
"Maybe I am crazy," he mumbled. As he reached for the call button on
the wall, the elevator door suddenly opened and Ryan found himself
face to face with a police officer.
 
The officer's eyes widened, and he drew his gun. "Stop!" he said,
lifting his free arm to hold the elevator open. "Hands up, where I can
see them."
 
Ryan raised his arms in the air. _So this is it_, he thought. An
unexpected wave of relief washed over him. The whole prospect of
running from the law for the rest of his life had been unappealing.
After all, how bad could prison be? He had seen the inside of prisons
on television, and it never really looked so unbearable. He had often
heard it said that life inside prison was not terribly different from
life outside. His only regret was that now they would probably implant
a new identification chip--just when he had believed himself free of
the terrible itch.
 
"Ryan Roberts, you are under arrest," said the officer.
 
_Why is his voice trembling?_
 
"Turn around and put your hands on the hood of the car behind you."
 
Ryan studied the officer's expression, one of determination. But
his eyes betrayed something else . . ..
 
_Doubt?_
 
Ryan lowered his arms slightly. He felt a bead of sweat trickle
down his forehead and rest at his eyebrow. "Your gun," he said, "it
won't fire unless it can read that chip in your arm, will it?"
 
The officer's eyes darted briefly to the firearm in his hand, then
back to Ryan. "Turn around and put your hands on the car," he
slowly repeated.
 
_Surely, police weapons can't have the same restrictions as civilian
ones_, thought Ryan. _But then why does he look so uncertain
-. . ._.
 
"If you don't comply, I will be forced to--"
 
Ryan lunged at the officer, shoving him back against the rear wall
of the elevator with all the force he could muster. The officer
slumped and slid to the floor. The gun never fired. _They still
haven't found Brian's jammer_.
 
Ryan slid the unconscious officer out of the elevator and hit the
button for the main level. His stomach swam in his body during the
ascent, almost making him retch. He sighed with relief when the doors
slid open again and nobody was on the other side.
 
Twenty feet and a knee-high concrete divider was all that separated
Ryan from the sidewalk next to the freeway. He noted two police
officers standing amongst the parked cars at the other end of the lot.
_They won't recognize me from so far away_. He calmly made his way to
the barrier, hopped over, and briskly walked away from the factory.
 
#
 
Ryan was tense as the taxi rolled through the intersection he had
given as his destination and pulled to a stop next to the curb.
 
"I don't understand what's wrong with this thing," said the driver,
tapping a glowing screen next to the steering wheel. "The reader must
be broken; I'm going to have to call this in so headquarters can
charge you on their end. Can I get your identification number please?"
He pushed a button and a small keypad slid out of the dashboard. When
there was no answer, he turned around. The taxi's door was open.
Ryan was gone.
 
Ryan ducked into an alley and crouched in the shadows. The address
that Brian had given him was only a few blocks away, but he wanted to
make sure that the taxi had not been followed. He felt bad for the driver,
but there was nothing he could have done. He would never be able to
pay for anything again.
 
When he was certain that no one was following him, Ryan left the
alley and continued on to the address. It was an unassuming house,
single-story, with light beige stucco siding, red tile roofing, a
brown door, and large windows to either side with white curtains drawn
within. The lush green lawn was interrupted by a path of white gravel
leading from the sidewalk to the door, and overshadowed by the foliage
of a large weeping willow. When Ryan told the old woman who
answered the door that Brian had sent him, he was quickly ushered
inside.
 
The interior of the house was as unremarkable as the exterior. The
walls were white, the floor hardwood, and the furniture plain.
 
"It's a good thing you made it," the old woman told him, "your face is
all over the news." She had Ryan sit down on a couch in the living
room, and turned on the television.
 
"So, what happens now?" asked Ryan.
 
The old woman turned up the volume, ignoring Ryan's question.
Ryan followed her gaze, and was shocked to see Brian get handcuffed
and shoved into a police car.
 
"After police found and disabled the jammer," said the off-screen
anchorwoman, "a security reader in the factory's tunnels recorded this
man carrying a bag of clothes. The clothes all traced back to
purchases made by Ryan Roberts, the man who murdered Murry Mustard
late last night. Additional data, collected from traffic readers on
the road by Roberts's house, verified that they were in fact the clothes
that Roberts was wearing this morning. At this time, the police are not
saying whether this man is also responsible for the jammer that aided
Roberts's escape. Stay tuned for more updates on this story as it
progresses."
 
Ryan's heart sank. Despite recent events, he still couldn't help
but think of Brian as the always-smiling jubilant man he had known
since coming to the factory.
 
"It should have been me," Ryan said, dazed.
 
"He knew what he was getting into," said the old woman, though grief
showed in her eyes. "If he can be helped, he will be. It's you we need
worry about now."
 
"You would help a murderer?" Ryan asked.
 
The old woman smiled weakly. "If Brian sent you here, then murderer or
no, you'll get my help."
 
The next morning, the old woman opened the back door of her black
electric car and let Ryan get in. "Lie down and stay still." She
covered him with a blanket, and started driving. "Pray that we don't
run in to any checkpoints on the way out," she told him. "We don't
have to worry about the readers, though. The city's eyes have been
closed to you."
 
Ryan hadn't slept at all the night before. A thousand questions
cluttered his thoughts.
 
"How do you know Brian? How many others are there?" he asked, and
shifted himself so he could see the old woman's face in the rear view
mirror.
 
"It's hard to say how many for sure," the old lady replied. "It's
mostly independent groups working to help get people like you out of
the city."
 
"People like me?"
 
The old woman held her arm up so Ryan could see, and pointed to
the spot where her identification chip was implanted. "You're not the
only one who hates these things."
 
"And Brian?" asked Ryan.
 
"Just another soldier, like the rest of us."
 
The old woman reached out and turned on the car's radio. A man's voice
started blaring out of a tinny speaker at the rear of the car by
Ryan's head.
 
". . . are still searching for Roberts, who attacked an officer during
his escape from the factory. They still haven't released the name of
the man in custody responsible for the jammer, but it is believed that
he is tied to a network of domestic terrorists responisble for many
previous incidents throughout the city involving radio jammers. If
that's true, this is the first time the terrorists have been
implicated in a murder."
 
The old woman sighed. "They must have known he would help you."
 
Ryan wondered if she actually knew who "they" were, but she looked
so upset that he decided not to ask.
 
The report on the radio continued, and eventually segued into generic
propaganda, extolling the benefits of the government's global
identification initiative. Ryan had heard most of it a hundred
times before. His attention drifted to the sky outside the window, and
the white billowy clouds that drifted by. He wasn't sure how much time
had passed when his trance was interrupted.
 
"Out here's where you'll be taken to your new home," explained the old
woman.
 
Ryan was surprised by how calm he felt. It had been years since he
had last been outside the city. He sat up and stared out of his window
at the wheat fields rushing by, and the mountains in the distance. An
eagle circled high above them. He caught himself going to scratch his
arm, and stopped. It didn't itch anymore. He would have to break
himself of that habit.
 
After another hour of driving on the dirt road, they stopped next to
an ancient-looking muddy flatbed truck sitting off to the side.
Ryan got out of the car.
 
"There's your new ride," said the old woman, pointing across her seat
and past Ryan at the truck. "This is where we say goodbye."
 
"What will happen to Brian?" Ryan asked.
 
The old woman's expression hardened. "He'll be joining you soon, if we
have anything to say about it," she said.
 
Ryan watched the car's dust trail as it sped back the way they had
come. He walked around the truck to where two other men were waiting.
One was a short, portly man, maybe forty years old, with a cigarette
hanging loosely on his lips. Ryan's eyes widened. Smoking had been
illegal since before he was born, so he had never actually seen anyone
do it--except for in movies. The clothes the man wore looked strange,
too; they were rough at the edges, and worn.
 
Ryan turned his attention to the other man. There was something
startlingly familiar about him, but Ryan couldn't place where he
had seen him before. The man was young, clean-shaven, and wearing an
outfit similar to the one Brian had given Ryan to wear.
 
"I'm Francis," said the older man, drawing Ryan's attention. "I
don't need to know what brought you here, but before I bring you the
rest of the way, I got a few words to say." He cleared his throat and
flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette before continuing. "Life
in the mountains ain't easy. It's nothing like in the city. We raise
our own food, make our own clothes, build our own houses, enforce our
own laws. We have generators and enough guns and jammin' towers to
make sure our business stays our own. It'll take some gettin'
accustomed to, but it's better than the alternative. You two ready to
go?"
 
Ryan nodded. He would miss his cat, but little else. He was
surprised by the overwhelming sense of release that filled him as he
studied Francis's worn clothing, the beat up truck, the lonely dirt
road stretching off toward the mountains . . . and toward freedom.
Francis got into the cab of the truck. A sleeping chocolate lab
occupied the passenger's seat, so Ryan and the other man climbed
up on to opposite sides of the truck bed. The vehicle shuddered into
motion.
 
"So, why are you here?" asked Ryan, speaking loudly over the
sounds of the truck engine and the tires on the dirt road.
 
"I owed the wrong people a lot of money," replied the man. He looked
Ryan up and down. "I suppose it won't do no harm to tell you now,
seeing as how we're in the same boat. A police commissioner owed me a
favor. He arranged this for me . . . had my chip removed and got me
out of the city. I was waiting out here all night. I thought maybe I
got dropped off at the wrong spot, or maybe I was duped." He turned
his head to the mountains, then back to Ryan.
 
Suddenly, Ryan knew where he had seen this man before.
 
"What about you? How come you're here?" the man asked.
 
Ryan laughed. "You shaved your beard."
 
The man cocked his head, and ran his fingers over his smooth chin.
"How could you tell?"
 
"You had a beard in the photo on the warrant," explained Ryan.
 
"Warrant? I'm afraid I don't quite follow . . .."
 
"Never mind," said Ryan. He felt a little better for Brian, knowing
that the police commissioner who framed him was part of the network of
so-called domestic terrorists.
 
As the truck sped down the dirt road toward his new home in the
mountains, Ryan breathed the fresh air deeply, smiled, and for
once, didn't scratch his arm.