The Religious Society of Pirates

The group of teens walking behind me think that they are being sneaky. They think that I can’t hear them talking about me. They have been following me for several blocks now. I caught their attention at Nothing to See Here, the coffee shop I frequent on my way to meeting for worship. They were thumbing their noses at society by being at the little underground coffee shop. It’s the only shop left in town that doesn’t require a Blink-to-Pay lens, an EyeDesire, or any of the other Vision-to-Purchase implants to pay and therefore doesn’t turn me away at the door. The teens’ little act of deviance by being there must have made them feel bold enough to follow me. I wonder if they’ll be thrilled or horrified when they find out where I’m going.

“You ask her.”

“No! You ask her!”

“Scared to?” The sneer with which this is said practically hits me in the back. The attitude on this one. They think they are quite the tough cookie. I’m sure it would break their heart to know I just called them “a cookie” in my head.

“I’ll ask her.”

“Bet you won’t!”

“Bet I will!”

“Guys, let’s just go back. I don’t think we should be—”

“Shut up!”

“Do it! Do it!” It’s the sneering cookie, again.

“Yeah! Do it!” I say spinning on my heel to face them. A half dozen young faces all freeze in horror. The thing they’ve been following can talk. It’s such a shock to them that another person is actually human. I decide to play along as though I don’t already know what it is they are going to ask me. At least it won’t be some stupid question about oatmeal anymore. I wish life was still that simple though.

“What is it you want to ask me?”

They don’t jump at the opportunity. Suddenly everything around us is much more interesting than I am. I can wait. I sip my coffee.

“It’s, um . . .” The one who wanted to go back speaks up first. “I’ve, we’ve, never seen anyone wearing . . .” She gestures with her finger, drawing a circle around her eye.

“My blacked-out monocle,” I say for her. The group nods back.

“We’ve heard about them. My dads say that people who wear the patch disappear.” She seems genuinely concerned.

“My parents said if they ever caught me with one they’d disown me. They don’t want a son who’d bring the Corp Cops to their door—”

A smaller boy shoves this one, the tallest of the group, a playful shove that is too hard. “I’m not afraid of any mega corp goons. My brother says anyone who’d wear a patch is an idiot and a loser.”

“Okay,” I shrug, “if that’s how you feel about it. I’ll be back on my way.” I turn and resume my course down the street.

“You wrecked it!” It’s Tough Cookie again. “Hey! Hey! Wait!” They chase after me and now instead of following they all swarm about me. I’m not so scary after all, it would seem. Either that or their curiosity is getting the best of them.

“Did it hurt getting your implant out?” The girl winces at the thought.

“I still have it. The monocle just covers it. Some people do opt to have their eye removed though. You can’t remove the implant itself.”

“Can we touch it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I just gotta know,” Tough Cookie asks, “are you one of them Pirates?”

“That’s what they’re calling us these days, isn’t it?”

“These days?” They look confused. Ah, to be young and only aware of your own moment.

“In the past, we had other names. Believe it or not, we used to be called Friends.”

“Friends with who?”

“The Light.”

“That’s stupid. Why would you wear the patch if you’re a friend with light?” says the one with the older brother who thinks I’m a loser.

“That’s a good question,” I smile. “I’m going somewhere where you can learn to answer that question for yourself. That is if you are brave enough to follow me.”

I must not be too much of a loser because they are all still walking with me. Or maybe they really aren’t afraid of the private police the mega corporations hire to “keep subscriptions up,” as they like to call it. Naïve bravery, if that is the case. Our meeting has lost members that way. Each time the official record said that they re-upped subscriptions and joined HiveMind Social’s VR city, we all knew what that actually meant. We know the truth. Our minute book tells a different story. We say it quietly amongst ourselves for now. Someday we’ll be able to say it loudly. They’ve been sold. Their very thoughts and whims are being mined and sold. They can’t take the helmets off. They can’t go home.

The kids keep up a steady stream of questions for me and insults for each other.

Do Pirates really just get stuff and then give it away? Isn’t that stealing from the corps? I try to answer them as simply as possible, mostly yes and no. I’d like to give them better answers but my attention is being drawn elsewhere. Tough Cookie is incredulous at my answers. He tells me that Pirateism is an affront to The Creator. Equality and caring for one’s community are wrong because if Creator wanted those things, it wouldn’t take humans to make it happen. New Abundance theology oozes out of him. It seems to me that he’s trying to convince himself by convincing me. I understand. Working out a personal philosophy is hard. I had to do it once, too. I let him talk. I listen and my clear eye searches the street. A block or two back I had noticed that the unhoused man I usually see on my weekly walks to meeting was conspicuously absent. There is no trace of him. What there is a trace of is a dark cargo van that has been staying a block’s length behind us and matching our pace. The meetinghouse isn’t far at this point. It is unlikely that the Corp Cops would follow us inside. We just have to get there before they get to us.

I pick up my speed. I’m not quite jogging. The tallest boy starts prancing along beside me.

“So where are you goin’ anyway?”

“Not much farther. I’m on my way to meeting for worship.”

“Pirate duty,” he smirks. “So where is your pirate ship?”

“Just up ahead. The plain brick building with the cream-colored doors.”

“I know where that is! Beat you there!” he crows. He’s off like a shot, and before I can stop them, the whole gang is racing one another, pulling me along in their tide. Running feet are all the provocation our stalkers need to pounce on their prey. Tires screech as the cargo van slams to a stop blocking our path. Two men dressed for battle hop out.

“Good morning,” I say, trying not to sound out of breath. This is bad. So very bad.

“Well, good morning to you, too. And where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Nowhere in particular.” I’m not sure why I think they’ll believe that, as if it is totally normal for a middle-aged woman with a black monocle to be running along a street with a gaggle of teens in tow.

“Not running toward anything. So they must be running away from something, eh?” This one slaps the other on the back like this is funny.

“Sure looks like running away to me,” his partner agrees.

The kids are all silent. The energy coming off of them is electric though. It could not be more plainly written all over their faces. They’ve been caught . . . for something. Mere moments ago they weren’t afraid, but now all of their bravado is gone.

“UP AGAINST THE WALL!”

The men don’t even have to put their hands on them. The kids all jump to obey, terrified. 

“Someone or someones,” the cops smile a sick grin at each and every face, “has defaced all—all—of the EyeDesire experience ad boards in this area. We got a very reliable source who says it was a bunch of rowdy kids. A bunch of kids who apparently need to go to a better school to learn how to behave.”

Defacing ad boards. These kids are in deep. Those boards are in high-traffic areas so that they can show the most amount of people exactly what products the corps wants them to buy. All a passerby has to do is blink twice at the screen to complete a transaction, and the item will be in their possession by the time they get home. The revenue from these ads is astounding. They are all over. Avoiding them is why my own paths are so long and twisting. The Corps Cops will never let this slide, not even for a bribe.

“Now we’re going to search each pocket and—”

Tough Cookie is trembling. Conflicted boy. Even with all the talk he had about Abundance, I’m sure the evidence is on him.

“It was me,” I interrupt. The goons stop manhandling the kids to stare at me.

“Obviously, it was me.” I tap my blacked-out eye. “These kids were trying to bring me in. They didn’t do anything.” I don’t get to say anything else. A punch lands hard in my stomach. Coffee comes up my throat. Blows rain down on my face knocking me to the ground. Steel-toes stomp on me. I gasp and manage a hoarse, “Run.” And run they do, like terrified rabbits. The men don’t know which way or which one to go after first. I hear shouting and feet running. I’m laying on the pavement. My clear eye is swelling.

The street is silent, and I am alone. Then I feel arms come up around me, and I’m lifted. This is it for me, I suppose. It feels like an eternity passes as I’m carried. I’m shocked that the cops would be so gentle with me to toss me in their van. I didn’t think it was that far away from us, and I wonder if somehow they knocked me down the street while pummeling me. It feels like we go up a few stairs. That doesn’t make sense to me. I hear a pounding. Someone is knocking on a door. Or maybe my head is exploding.

A gasp. “What’s happened?” It’s a voice I know well, our meeting clerk.

“I can explain,” another voice I’m starting to know: Tough Cookie.

“Who are you?” the clerk asks, ushering us to safety inside the door.

“A friend.”