Minimum Wage
By William Bott
Copyright 2012 by William Bott
Cover art courtesy of Jochem van Wetten at www.jochemvanwetten.nl
Cover design by William Bott
Table of Contents
Section 1: The Spark
Section 2: Soran
Section 3: Barrea
Section 4: Mitton
Section 5: Reflection
Section 6: Tarpan’s Return
About the Author
* * *
The Spark
Tarpan leaned back in his plush executive chair and interlaced his fingers, peering out over the lush landscape of Earth's moon. The photographs in the historical records did it no justice. Gone were the gray, dusty craters, the rubble of past meteorites. Now, the moon was a beautiful home, full of vitality. Tarpan relaxed and placed his hands behind his head, defocusing his eyes as his mind wandered.
His terminal emitted a high-pitched beep, indicating an official news update. Tarpan tapped the screen with an outstretched finger and perused the headline: “December 15, 2823CE – Minor Slave Revolt Put Down in the Vega Quadrant.” He didn’t bother to read the body of text – it was a typical news day.
Tarpan surveyed the room, which had been meticulously cleaned only hours before. He summoned a team of cleaners with the press of a small, blue button beneath the edge of the terminal’s display. Three women entered wordlessly and promptly began dusting the shelves and furniture. “See that my desk is properly organized before you leave,” Tarpan instructed, to which the nearest servant curtsied before resuming her task.
His mind began to wander again, and Tarpan recalled the chain of events that culminated in his having this position: the fourth world war on Earth, famine, disease, environmental disasters, and power struggles within the superpower governments. So, the doomsayers had been partially correct, after all, Tarpan mused.
Mankind was no longer able to survive on Earth and it needed a solution – fast. Tokyo-based Yokohati Labs pushed for colonization of Earth’s moon. Within two years, they rolled out CHARM – Colonization, Habitation, And Relocation Mechanisms. These drones were sent to the moon to build domes in which humans could live. Through a quirk in their programming, the drones learned and adapted the moon to support humankind – too well. They created an atmosphere capable of supporting man, bodies of water, and even animal life, rendering the domes unnecessary! In fact, Tarpan realized, the only shortcoming those drones had had was the need to manually recharge their power supplies.
Soran
Tarpan’s father, Soran, entered the room with a flourish. “When are we going to eat?” Tarpan asked Soran, as the former patted his stomach.
“Not right now,” Soran replied. “The chef will serve dinner in two hours.”
Tarpan was very intelligent for an eight-year-old, but his curiosity made evident his youth. Although Tarpan frequently watched documentaries on his holographic projector, he found endless questions, but his father was only too happy to oblige him. Occasionally, Tarpan would utilize his terminal or the centralized databank at the Sector Library.
The child grew restless and stood abruptly. “Very well, father. I am going for a walk,” Tarpan said, deferentially.
“Be careful,” Soran cautioned. “Return home in time for your dinner.” Tarpan nodded silently.
Tarpan approached the wide, metal door leading outside, avoiding the maids, who were still scrubbing all the room’s surfaces with cloths and pads. He pressed his palm against the black plate on the wall adjacent to the door, revealing a familiar scene: rows of crops, blocks of houses, spacecraft shuttling constantly around the sky, and legions of men working the fields and erecting new structures. Tarpan glided out into the countryside and enjoyed the clear weather. He felt the warmth of the sun’s energetic rays as they traveled millions of miles for his personal use. Tarpan briefly surveyed the men who were tending to gardens and livestock. They worked endlessly, and it had been that way since before Tarpan’s grandfather’s grandfather arrived in the world.
Barrea
The child strolled through plots teeming with juicy, red tomatoes and ripe, green bell peppers as he made his way to the B-17 Sector Library. He passed through a shiny set of metallic double-doors that swung inward to admit him, and then he wound his way through dozens of kiosks that were in use to locate an open one. Books had become obsolete centuries ago. They were displaced by open-access data terminals that were linked to a number of databanks and were fully searchable and easily browsed.
Just as Tarpan connected his uplink to the server, his life-long friend Barrea joined him, beaming. She was just a smidgen shorter than Tarpan and nearly as intelligent. The newcomer activated her own wireless uplink, and then turned to face Tarpan as she leaned against the glass partition.
“How have you been?” Barrea inquired, eagerly.
“I have been fine, Barrea. Did you sleep well last night?” Tarpan asked.
“Yes, as always, thanks.”
While their uplinks downloaded and installed the latest database updates, the pair turned toward a nearby spherical holographic projector. The holographic projector was the newest and most advanced incarnation of a device that Soran had explained was once referred to as a “television.”
“What program do you want to watch?” Barrea asked Tarpan, motioning toward the sphere.
“The usual. A historical documentary,” Tarpan answered, flashing a grin.
Documentaries were the most popular programs on the library’s projectors. Barrea waved three slender fingers and “The Earth Chronicles” began to play in the section of the sphere facing the two children.
The children watched the program and made small talk for several minutes. Tarpan fidgeted worriedly, and it soon became apparent to Barrea that her playmate had something on his mind.
“Do you ever wonder about the welfare of our workers?” he blurted out.
Barrea paused at the abrupt change of topic before replying. “What about them?”
“The fact that they work constantly and have no free time to themselves. They cannot join us here, travel, or play games.”
Barrea pondered this and said, “But we feed them and give them tubes to sleep in. Don’t you think that occupies their inferior minds?”
Tarpan shook his head emphatically. “I know they aren’t happy. I see it in their eyes and the way some of them stare wistfully at us as they work. It makes me uncomfortable.”
Barrea just shrugged at this. She didn’t have a conscience and therefore possessed an alternate point of view. Tarpan started to argue the point, but thought better of it and dropped the dispute, electing instead to enjoy his friend’s company.
Mitton
Twenty minutes later, database updated and in hand, Tarpan bade farewell to Barrea and departed for Mitton’s domicile. Tarpan breezed through the flower-filled meadows that lay between the Sector Library and his mentor’s dwelling. Generally, their lively debates centered on quantum theory or history, but today’s topic would be philosophy. Tarpan respected Mitton immensely, despite the latter’s somewhat diminished stature. Tarpan reached the ancient brownstone building belonging to Mitton and entered without knocking – standard mentor-protégé protocol.
“Greetings!” intoned the elder, turning to welcome Tarpan’s unexpected arrival.
“Hello, Mitton. How are you on this sunny day?”
“I am fine, though I fear my age is getting to me,” he joked. “How about yourself?”
“Fine, as always, my teacher. However, I do have something to discuss,” Tarpan confessed, taking a seat across the wooden table from Mitton.
“What is it?” Mitton asked, sympathetically tilting hi
s head.
Tarpan folded his hands on the smooth surface of the lacquered wooden table, gazing over Mitton’s shoulder at the six men and two women toiling in his mentor’s expansive garden. “That,” Tarpan said, pointing at the slaves.
Mitton turned his gaze to the scene outside his window, and then refocused on Tarpan. “What’s wrong with that?”
“They toil incessantly and receive no reward except a tube, food, and clothing. It seems…wrong to me,” Tarpan admitted, shifting uneasily in his chair.
Mitton sighed and leaned over, placing a hand on his pupil’s shoulder. “I understand how you feel. I am not without a conscience. But if we do the menial tasks, we cannot solve the riddles of the cosmos. They,” Mitton gestured at the laborers, “cannot unravel the enigmas of the ages, so it is our privilege, and our responsibility. They contribute nobly by freeing up our minds.”
“Shouldn’t they have a choice in the matter?” Tarpan pressed.
“We could ask them,” his mentor conceded, “but what would happen if they were to refuse to work? We’d be stuck worse off than we are now. There’s no easy, clear-cut solution. That’s the dilemma.” Mitton shrugged.
The student considered his teacher’s lesson, and then nodded thoughtfully. “I will take your words to heart. Would you like to join me in a trip to the river?” he asked Mitton.
“Thank you, but I need to work on my formula. I expect a major breakthrough any day now. Take care of yourself, kiddo,” Mitton smiled, waving at Tarpan.
Tarpan stood and departed, passing through Mitton’s garden. A pair of the gardeners looked up enviously as he passed them, though most of the slaves continued unabated. Tarpan strode through a small orchard, where he observed young children gathering apples from the trees, instead of frolicking and enjoying the gorgeous day. The children appeared to Tarpan to be quite displeased with their situation.
Reflection
Tarpan felt sharp pangs of guilt due to the inequalities of the system, and waves of relief washed over him as he exited the orchard and approached the river, whose cool, clear water flowed smoothly south to the local reservoir. Tarpan sat down in the grass on the riverbank and pulled his knees close to his chest. His eyes locked onto the water, washing his worries and cares away in tranquility and contentment. He noted a leaf flowing downstream and a fish circling beneath the surface. Tarpan did not feel contempt for “lower life forms” and those that others deemed “unworthy.” He wondered what the fish felt as it sojourned for food and a habitat. The fish had to be content; it had no real labor, no mysteries to figure out – just a simple existence. Was it happier than Tarpan, or was the fish simply oblivious to the concept? Tarpan pondered this as he lay down and stared off into the inky vastness of space.
After much reflection and soul-searching, Tarpan rose and brushed himself off. He felt energized, and Soran would be expecting him to return soon for dinner. He crossed through the orchard and farms once more, and the slaves were still hard at work. Tarpan passed closely by a group of construction workers, sweating in the sun while raising one wall of a new home. The workers ignored Tarpan and grunted with the effort they exerted.
Tarpan’s Return
When Tarpan finally arrived at home, the door slid aside and Soran welcome his son home with open arms.
“Well, did you have fun while you were out?” Soran smiled at his son.
“Yes. I talked to Barrea and Mitton, visited the library, and saw trees, plants, and the river.” Tarpan paused nervously before continuing. “May I ask you something, father?” Tarpan ventured cautiously.
“Of course!” Soran said, nodding. He waved a hand, motioning for Tarpan to continue.
Tarpan blinked twice. “Don’t you think it’s wrong to have slaves doing all our work for us, with nothing to show for it? They can’t be happy like this.”
Soran whirled around suddenly, as though Tarpan had slapped him, and pointed outside. “Those people,” he boomed, “are beneath us, and suited only to physical labor. Their pitiful brains can’t compare to our superior intellect. They were killing each other, succumbing to diseases, drought, hunger. We brought them to a better world!”
Tarpan bowed his head, acknowledging his father’s words, and hesitated before replying. “But, father, we don’t give them anything for their constant labors! We have everything and they cannot even have a home of their own. They live fifty to a residence in small, metal tubes! How can that be fair?” Tarpan cried out in anguish.
“We give them food! We give them shelter! They don’t have to fight wars or fear untimely death from poisons and drugs. They don’t have to think, to reason! All we require of them is simple work. And we give them what they need to survive. Isn’t that enough?” Soran challenged.
“But…maybe they WANT to think for themselves. Perhaps they like it,” Tarpan countered sullenly, head still lowered.
Soran raised a hand and laughed heartily. “That’s absurd. They don’t want that responsibility! That responsibility, and their abuse of it and its accompanying power, caused numerous world wars, genocide, nuclear pollution, and destruction on a planetary scale. In fact, they don’t DESERVE to think for themselves!” he snarled.
Tarpan sadly turned away. “I guess you are right, after all, father,” he conceded quietly, plugging his reserve battery into the wall-mounted charger. He sighed, placed his head on his arms, and stared out the window at the world beyond.
# # #
About the author:
William Bott grew up on the East Coast, before relocating to the Midwest. He is a relatively new author, having begun publishing his own work in early 2012. He enjoys reading, writing, games, and competition. E-mail him at
[email protected].