Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Read online

  The winches inside the building whirred to life, signaling a successful launch. Peering over the crashing surf, Flagg caught a shrouded glimpse of the boats speeding away. It was out of his hands now.

  Flagg took a deep breath of the ocean air, shaking his head. He’d trade the smell of decaying sea life any day for clean, pine-scented mountain air. He really didn’t get what people saw in this state.

  CHAPTER 4

  Nathan Fisher inhaled the scent of brewing coffee and rubbed his face, turning his head toward the fifty-inch flat-screen television mounted to the bedroom wall. The unit displayed the time in a muted-green color barely distinguishable from the rest of the screen. Three minutes before his alarm. Shit. He could have used the extra three minutes.

  A problem with the desalination system had kept him up long past his normal bedtime hour. Four hours of sleep. Four hours short of what he typically needed to feel human. Careful not to wake his wife, Nathan slid out of the blankets, placing his bare feet on the cool laminate floor and rising to his feet.

  “Be careful out there,” Keira whispered, poking her head out of the covers.

  He leaned over his side of the bed and softly kissed her lips. “Every time is the same,” he said. “A few cars on the road. A checkpoint after the interstate exit in Del Mar. The same dogs barking near the beach. There and back in ninety-three minutes, if I don’t stop for coffee.”

  “I already smell coffee,” she grumbled.

  “I thought I’d treat us to Starbucks,” said Nathan. “Always tastes better on the outside. The stuff in the kitchen should hold you over until I get back.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Did you get the pump working?”

  “Yeah, but the entire setup is showing signs of age. I don’t know how many more times I can take the pump apart and put it back together without breaking something I can’t fix. Some of the parts look rough.”

  “It’s been more of a luxury than a necessity. We’ll be fine. We’ve never relied on it. Make sure to grab us something sweet at the coffee shop,” she said, pulling the blanket up to her eyes. “And be careful.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, kissing her forehead.

  In the hallway outside of their bedroom, he paused at his son’s open doorway. The room was pitch-black beyond the softly illuminated walls triggered by his presence. He concentrated on the room’s silence, listening for the nearly imperceptible sounds of his son’s breath—a habit Nathan had never broken since Matt was an infant. A parent’s baseless paranoia that a child might fall asleep and never wake up.

  The light vanished, his fleeting moment of stillness deactivating the glow. Ridiculous. At this rate, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were a year or two away from seeing battery-operated light bulbs—100 percent grid-energy efficient! That was the mentality now. Keep it off the grid, no matter how ridiculous the idea, and there was no shortage of asinine ideas.

  The night-light was just one of several hundred daily reminders showcasing the unintended, overreaching effects of the California Resources Protection Act. What started out as a well-intentioned effort to regulate and enforce the efficient use of key natural resources quickly devolved into a quasi–Big Brother state for residents. Nearly every aspect of modern life required the use of the state’s natural resources in some way. A stark wakeup call for a population with a long history of ignoring Mother Nature’s perils. Massive cities built on active fault lines. New developments constructed around hills and canyons hit year after year by wildfires. Houses built at the bottom of mudslide-prone slopes. A water-distribution infrastructure designed around century-old population figures.

  But who was he to point a finger? Nathan was one of the more than forty-seven million people who continued to cling to the California dream—twenty years into the worst drought in recorded history. Even worse, he chose to move here knowing exactly what he was getting into. On the surface, it was a logical move for a water-reclamation engineer schooled at the University of California–Davis in the art of turning toilet water into drinking water, but in reality, it was a practical, well-calculated move, based on several years of observations across the United States.

  While most of the country poked fun at the thought of Californians swiping their California Resource (CALRES) cards to buy groceries, gasoline, and lattes, or laughed at the notion that nearly every Californian drank recycled toilet water, they tended to conveniently forget a few sobering statistics that Nathan had made it his business to watch closely.

  Like the fact that while more than half the population of the New Dust Bowl region had relocated to the nation’s largest cities outside California, the state’s domestic immigration reform and strict border-closure policies had prevented the overwhelming population flood experienced by the rest of the country. Close to eleven million domestic refugees had fled the states hit hardest by the drought and sandstorms, mostly migrating east to compete with several million displaced illegal immigrants for the few jobs the nation’s struggling economy could support.

  Meanwhile, California’s gross state product topped $5.9 trillion, growing in the double digits for more than a decade, while most states saw a decline. Despite the drought, California thrived economically, an observation that wasn’t lost on Nathan when he received multiple job offers after resigning from the Tucson Water Authority. Things were under control in California. Swiping a state-issued card to buy food and gas for the rest of your life seemed like a small trade-off for the security California seemed capable of providing.

  Seemed. He had a contingency plan in case the situation imploded, which was part of why he was up at four in the morning.

  He turned into the bathroom, the lights activating upon entry, and relieved himself. He closed the self-sealing toilet-seat lid when he was finished, pressing the “Liquid Recycle” button and eliciting a high-pressure hissing sound. Success. His fluids, along with a modest amount of water, had been evacuated into a small tank, the odor neutralized with an eco-friendly chemical agent. The liquid would be held for the next flush, eventually accumulating sufficiently in the recycle tank to handle one of life’s more solid bathroom moments. A green light on top of the toilet announced its readiness to receive.

  Nathan turned to the sink embedded in a marble countertop and waved his hands under the brushed-silver faucet. Cold water mixed with an undetectable quantity of antimicrobial soap sprayed onto his hands, filling the bottom of the sink before stopping. As he held his hands in place, the water instantly drained from the sink and was sprayed over his hands. The cycle could repeat endlessly if the manufacturers hadn’t programmed a four-cycle limit to save electricity. Newer models offered three cycles of reused water. Reminder number three, and he hadn’t walked more than twenty feet. Time to stop counting.

  Lights followed him through the house, into the kitchen, where he pressed a button to override the motion sensors. Coffee was ready. The car was loaded. And he was three minutes ahead of schedule, giving him plenty of time to enjoy his coffee and catch some news before shuffling out. He swiped his phone from the kitchen island and selected the home-control application.

  “Kitchen television. On,” he said softly.

  The monitor mounted above a low row of cabinets came to life, displaying a local news feed, which he ignored while fixing his coffee. He took a long sip of smooth espresso roast and turned to take a seat, his eyes catching the news banner at the bottom of the screen.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered, processing the banner.

  Breaking News: California Congresswoman Elisa Almeda (R) assassinated in front of Georgetown residence.

  “Volume. Medium,” he spoke, slowly taking a seat while the broadcast came to life.

  “… amid rampant speculation that the attack was sponsored by antisecessionist interests in Washington, DC. The attack, which occurred at ten forty-three eastern standard time, came on the heels of a high-stakes dinner meeting with Allen Rushby and Candice Montgomery, House representatives from Kansas with close ties to the
One Nation Coalition. Anonymous sources claim that Congresswoman Almeda had been under constant pressure to support the ONC’s stance upon her return to California. Officials from both congressional offices were unavailable for comment.”

  “Kitchen television. Off,” he said, placing the coffee mug on the island.

  Ten forty-five eastern standard time? Major news outlets probably had the story within the hour, which meant every Californian watching television or surfing the Internet last night knew about Almeda’s assassination. The entire state could have descended into chaos while Nathan tinkered with a positive displacement pump in his garage. He thought about stepping out of his front door to see if downtown Mira Mesa was burning, but dismissed the idea. The early morning was quiet. No sirens. No angry voices. No different from when he stepped onto the patio last night to breathe in the crisp ocean air before going to bed. Not like the last time the secession debate gained momentum. They’d spent three long days waiting for the fires and riots to subside, wishing they’d moved to Michigan.

  Still, Almeda’s murder was bad news all around. She’d straddled the fence far too long, giving hope to the California Liberation Movement and scaring the shit out of the big-money folks who stood to lose a ton of money if California divorced the United States. Someone obviously got tired of waiting for her to take sides—setting a very dangerous precedent. Without a doubt, this wouldn’t be the last desperate act to emerge from this political conflict.

  The CLM had grown bolder over the past few years, attracting attention and gaining momentum through savvy media campaigns, attention-grabbing protests, and effective political lobbying. Like the One Nation Coalition, they appeared to have deep pockets, which some had suggested might be filled by foreign investors. Mexico’s president had openly suggested that she would welcome a trade alliance, free of Washington interference.

  Nathan sniffed at his coffee, no longer interested in drinking it. The whole issue soured him. He’d grown so tired of the endless ebb and tide of political arguing that he wasn’t convinced California would be better off either way. One thing was for certain, though—if the conflict between the two factions intensified, living in California would become increasingly difficult, possibly dangerous. If he could cast the deciding vote today, he’d keep the status quo. The last thing he wanted for his family was the fear and uncertainty of a civil war, regardless of what either side promised.

  Nathan glanced at the blank television screen, considering the immediate implications of Almeda’s murder. Maybe today wasn’t the best time to be hanging out too close to the Del Mar desalination center in the early-morning hours. They might be on alert and have extra security patrols combing the nearby neighborhoods.

  Now he was just being paranoid. He’d never seen that before, even when the facility was overtly threatened by eco-terrorists.

  Letting go of the warm mug, he stood on hesitant legs and considered waking Keira. No. She’d talk him out of making the trip, and he needed to go now, before Californians took the secession debate to the streets. If things got ugly, the San Diego County PD wouldn’t hesitate to impose stricter restrictions on travel outside of approved residential zones. He wanted to top off their water supply before that happened.

  CHAPTER 5

  Nathan drove across Vista Sorrento Parkway, steering his car through an empty, unlit intersection onto the northbound ramp for Interstate 805. The moment his vehicle crossed the four-lane parkway, a soothing female voice filled the passenger cabin, accompanied by a visual alert on his windshield Heads-Up Display (HUD).

  “You have exited Residential District Forty-Two.”

  “Thank you,” he said flatly, continuing down the on-ramp.

  “You’re welcome,” said the voice. “I noticed you are not taking one of several authorized routes to your work address of record. Is this trip official San Diego County Water Authority business?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “Very well. The time spent out of your residential district will be recorded. Thank you.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” said Nathan, merging onto the empty interstate.

  In the distance, thinly spaced high mast lights activated sequentially, illuminating the northbound highway lanes as far as he could see. In his rearview mirror, darkness chased his car, as the interstate’s digital processors raced to optimize the lighting needs of the highway based on a single automobile. From the road, it was both impressive and intimidating to think that a fixed interval of light followed your car. From above, in the sparsely traveled morning hours, it was nothing less than spectacular. Each car a beam of light threading the California highway system like electrical impulses. Each car tracked by GPS.

  San Diego County was one of the first in the state to implement EcoTrak, a mandatory, vehicle-based “position management” system designed to encourage fuel conservation and support local business growth. Each family, based on the number of drivers, was given a fixed amount of time to spend out of their residential zone, with travel related to employment exempted.

  In reality, the time limits were far less restrictive than they sounded, allowing citizens to enjoy a full day out of their zone every two weeks. With carryover hours permitted each month, it was easy to register and schedule an overnight trip within fuel ranges, or you could pay an exorbitant fee to add gasoline to your allotment. Modest fines were issued as an enforcement mechanism, and the incessant reminders helped modify the behavior of citizens.

  “Merging onto Interstate 5. Three hundred and thirty-seven out-of-zone minutes remaining,” he said out loud, beating the onboard computer system to the announcement.

  “Correct. Thank you, Mr. Fisher,” said the very polite voice.

  Of course, EcoTrak had more insidious applications. With all its data managed by the county’s Mobile Tracking Division, the police department had real-time access to nearly every citizen’s movement. Like any system, there were loopholes—none of which you wanted to get caught exploiting. EcoTrak implementation was not optional. The typical price for noncompliance was a loss of civic privileges, which could result in being exiled from the state, unless the offender was willing to become a laborer in one of the agricultural zones. There was no shortage of those jobs. Mass deportations of Mexican migrant workers in the wake of the California Immigration Initiative ensured that these jobs went to American migrants seeking seasonal work from other states.

  The Del Mar Heights exit appeared shortly after the I-5 merge, depositing Nathan’s vehicle in front of a San Diego County PD checkpoint. Figured. As he eased the car down the ramp, powerful pole-mounted LED lights blazed to life, illuminating the mobile barriers placed to funnel traffic toward the police officers. His windshield adjusted, deeply tinting the interactive glass to a point where he could barely see.

  “Disable window tinting. Safety override seven three nine nine,” he said, giving the code that would prevent the car’s onboard artificial intelligence processors from trying to talk him out of the decision.

  The windows cleared, causing Nathan to squint and turn his head as he rolled up to three body armor–encased police officers. A fourth officer peered around the back corner of a tactical vehicle positioned at the bottom of the ramp, the outline of the officer’s helmet-mounted night-vision goggles visible behind the black SUV.

  His car spoke. “Your vehicle’s camera feed has been temporarily disabled. Recording an ongoing public safety operation is not permitted by San Diego County—”

  “Silent mode, please,” Nathan said, uninterested in hearing the police department’s broadcasted propaganda.

  Police checkpoints typically utilized a selective proximity jammer to hijack a vehicle’s wirelessly transmitted, 360-degree camera coverage, and force their own messages through the system. The police had even legally “tapped” people’s car cameras, using a loose interpretation of surveillance warrant verbiage. All part of the surveillance state, which, in this case, state consumers had imposed upon themselves. Camera systems came
as standard equipment on most vehicles sold in major California markets, by popular demand. Careful what you ask for.

  Nathan nodded rapidly when the lead officer held out a gloved hand, motioning for him to stop. Once Nathan shifted the transmission into park and placed his hands at the ten and two o’clock positions on the steering wheel, the two additional officers crossed in front of his vehicle. They approached the passenger side, probing the interior of his car with excessively bright handheld flashlights. He restrained himself from covering his eyes when the beams crossed his face, not wanting to make any sudden moves.

  The lead officer approached, shining a flashlight into the rear driver’s-side seat before tapping on his window. Nathan obliged by fully lowering the window, a prerequisite for the stop.

  “Good evening, Officer,” said Nathan, making deliberate eye contact.

  “Good morning,” corrected the officer, continuing to search beyond him. “Do you mind popping the trunk?”

  With three heavily armed officers surrounding his vehicle at four in the morning on a deserted off-ramp, he decided the better course of action was to acquiesce to the Fourth Amendment violation. He had nothing to hide.

  “Sure,” he said, slowly moving his left hand to trigger the trunk release.

  “Thank you,” said the officer, imperceptibly nodding over the car at one of his checkpoint partners, then turning back to Nathan. “Kind of early for a personal trip, Mr. Fisher.”

  His identity had been confirmed within milliseconds of arriving at the checkpoint. Cameras attached to the mobile light poles had scanned his face, matching the image to vehicle-registration information transmitted by the radio frequency identification system embedded in his car. A quick search of the database for authorized drivers instantly determined if officers needed to make a deeper inquiry about the person driving the vehicle.

  “Trust me, I don’t relish getting up this early. I collect seawater samples at the beach,” said Nathan, not intending to expand the description of his weekly morning trips.