FounderLand
By Michael A. Richards
CHARLES LOWELL stood among a throng of silently anxious Companions inside the yellow and red lines of the designation area on Upper Seventh Avenue, the busiest crossing in FounderCity. Awaiting the permission signal, he jostled for advantage at the front of the throng. Few minutes remained to reach his dutysite before the advent of begintime and to avoid earning a Late Arrival at Work Penalty with its corresponding Twograde Offense of Mental Treason. Exiting a designation area before the arrival of the permission signal, however, would earn a Twograde Offense of Physical Treason.
Despite the crisp Tenmonth temperatures, sweat beaded on Lowell’s brow, and he dabbed it with a thin cloth square. To guard his memories of the morning from TheFounder, the absolute leader of FounderLand who read the minds of all Companions, he attempted to cloak his thoughts, but a cold anxiety shattered his concentration. Desperate to conceal his recent offenses, he remembered the stratagem of his grandfather, David Lowell. He closed his eyes to imagine the Devices, radios with all-hearing microphones and monitors with all-seeing lenses affixed in each room of every building. The Diktats, the rules that governed the lives of all Companions, mandated their presence.
The vision of a monitor bellowing into his right ear and a radio blaring into his left ear fractured his thoughts. Still, the effort proved a poor proxy for cloaking, and more sweat beaded on his brow. Dabbing the cloth square faster, he saw that Companions stared at him. He worried they would denounce his distress to DELORD, the Department of Law and Order. He feared the outdoor cameras and microphones noted his suspicious behavior and dispatched an Arrestor and Keepers of the Forgiveness Brigades to seize him.
He dreaded not only Arrestors and Keepers but also the Surveyors of the Awareness Brigades who monitored Companions for exhibiting insufficient displays of fervor toward TheFounder. He feared the Reporters who denounced students and academics. He dreaded the Absolute Terror, the speaking of profane words or harboring of corrupt thoughts, awake or asleep, that earned a Fourgrade Offense of Mental Treason and led to an interrogation cell deep within the Tower, the obsidian ziggurat that rose like a grim portent from the highest knoll in the Reserve, the wooded park in the midst of FounderCity. Crossed Swords inlaid with brilliant rubies crowned the ziggurat. Above all, he feared TheFounder, although he boldly displayed his fealty multiple times each day. At that moment, he feared the two items inside the pocket of his suit jacket, the white fivepiece and the chestnut bag. He believed they carried a message from the Sons and Daughters of Return, the outlawed evolutionary group dedicated to toppling TheFounder.
The permission signal arrived. Lowell hurried across the avenue, careful to remain inside the yellow and red lines, as straying beyond them earned a Twograde Offense of Physical Treason. He reached the opposite sidewalk, shoved the cloth square into his pocket, and broke from the throng of Companions. Before him stood Elite Mansion Number Two and Privileged Mansion Number Seven. Beyond the mansions, loomed the Main Building of the Institute for Commoners, faced with brown tile and fronted by a gray cement veranda. Academic offices and administrative units, including the Division of Future Studies where Lowell served as Onelevel Academic and Chair, populated the building.
A Commoner of thirty-three seasons, Lowell stood an inch shy of six feet and weighed a tad over eleven and a half stone. His shoulders were straight, chest smooth, and hips slim. His eyes were green, lips thin, nose strong, and cheeks freckled. A jagged scar traveled from his upper lip across his cheek to his jawline, a reminder of a boyhood accident. Like most Commoners, he smiled rarely, loath to show his irregular teeth. He dressed in the blue suit, white shirt, blue tie, and black shoes of a Onelevel Academic. He wore neither moustache nor beard, and he brushed his brown hair atop his ears, as required by the Diktats.
He had received the Onedegree in Applied Relevancy from the Institute for his research on General Relevancy, the Twodegree for his arguments on Specific Relevancy, and the Threedegree for his insights into Theoretical Relevancy. Only TheFounder, the creator of the field of Applied Relevancy, possessed a deeper understanding of the complexities of the science. In acknowledgement of his expertise, the Department of Health, Medicine, and Labor awarded him Employment for life at the Division of Future Studies. He accepted the position, as refusing a DOHEML award
earned a Fourgrade Offense of Mental Treason, and soon became the youngest Onelevel Academic and Chair in the Institute.
Beyond his academic achievements, Lowell owned three piecematch honors. The previous Twelvemonth, he had won his ninth consecutive Piecematch Society Championship, more than any other player, capturing his opponent’s onepiece in less than a dozen moves. He was the fourth and youngest player, and the first Commoner, to earn the title of Piecematch Hero. He was also the only player to receive the rank of Piecematch Master, a single station beneath the echelon of Piecematch Apogee held by TheFounder, the creator of the strategy game.
He mounted the steps of the Main Building and hurried across the veranda toward a pair of bronze doors bearing images of TheFounder as the Educator of Companions. Stopping before the doors, he glanced at the facade above the entrance and spoke aloud the Code of Trust chiseled into the brown tile.
TheFounder Sees All
TheFounder Hears All
TheFounder Knows All
TheFounder Is All
He bowed his head before pulling open the doors and stepping into an expansive lobby illuminated by the weak light of ceiling tubes and packed with the microphones and cameras of DELORD. At the rear of the lobby, scores of students gathered before a raised platform. Posters of TheFounder hung along the walls from the ceiling to the floor, his sharp blue eyes surveying the open space. Interspersed with the posters dangled ruby and gold ensigns promoting COSFOS, Commoner Students for TheFounder Society, and stating its motto, Forward Into The Future With TheFounder. Atop the platform stood a striking young woman wearing ruby pants, a gold shirt, and brown boots, the uniform of the student group. A round pin of five stars above her left breast designated her as Commoner Number One, the leader of COSFOS. A tag above the swell of her right breast offered her name, Rebecca Miller.
She styled her auburn hair in a severe bob. Slivered eyebrows accented her wide brown eyes. Pressed close to her skull, her small, sleek ears lacked jewelry. Her complexion was pale and smooth, her cheekbones were prominent, and her nose was strong. Plump lips softened the outline of her firm jaw. Her neck was long, her breasts full, and her muscles taut. Her legs ended at a high waist. She wore no makeup, but her fingernails proudly displayed the ruby and gold colors of COSFOS.
In a husky voice, she declared, “Companion students! Show your fealty to TheFounder! March tomorrow with COSFOS! March tomorrow with me!”
Studying for his Onedegree at the Institute, Lowell had also worn the round pin of five stars. He believed that Commoner Number One must extol academic excellence but considered Miller, a Fourclass enrolled in his weekly Honors Seminar, a mediocre student unworthy of the position. Still shaken by the events of the morning, he desperately wanted to avoid her and the other students, and he walked quickly toward the stairwell that led to his third-floor office.
Miller continued, “Companion Students! Tomorrow is Twoday! Tomorrow is our day! At twelvehour, carry your ensigns and wave your flags! We’ll march as one! We’ll march to prove our fealty to TheFounder! We’ll march to prove our fealty to FounderLand! We’ll march to defend TheFounder!”
Turning from the collected students, she called in her strong voice to Lowell, her words reaching him before he arrived at the stairwell. “Companion Academic! A moment!”
The prior week, Lowell had summoned Miller to his office to discuss the failings of her recent essay submission. He didn’t fancy to cause harm to her. Her beauty dazzled him, and his desire to makesex her was stronger than his contempt for her academic defects. He had awaited her arrival anxiously, and when she appeared at his door, he stood and quickly beckoned her forward. She stepped into his office, her proximity dizzied him, and he struggled to breathe.
Sharp in her COSFOS uniform, Miller pressed her fist onto her chest in salute. Offering her required greeting, she stated, “May TheFounder Protect You.”
Lowell pressed his own fist against his chest and loudly provided the mandatory reply. “May TheFounder Sustain You.”
Pointing to the wall, Miller announced, “Companion Academic, it’s my duty to inform you that you’ve failed to correctly hang the photograph of TheFounder. It’s very crooked, as is the plaque below.”
In the official photograph of TheFounder displayed throughout FounderLand, a shock of brilliant copper hair crowned the head, and a curled copper lock lay upon the brow. The blue eyes were resolute. The firm lips, strong nose, and handsome ears were perfectly proportioned. The chiseled jaw displayed resolve. The teeth were perfect, and the smile blazed white. The Diktats stated that the photograph, three feet square and framed in burled wood, must hang high on the most prominent wall in each room of every flat and office, school and institute, store and cafe. Beneath each photograph, a plaque proclaimed the Code of Trust. Displaying an image of anyone else, including sketches of family, earned a Fourgrade Offense of Physical Treason, as did a framed photograph or plaque improperly displayed.
Lowell stepped behind her, angered by her temerity. “I don’t agree. They’re perfect.”
Michael A. Richards is a highly decorated former Foreign Service Officer. A veteran of military and diplomatic engagements in Africa, Asia, Europe, and the Middle East, he based FounderLand upon his observations of the fragility of democracy and his encounters with the iron heel of tyranny. He served in Baghdad, Lagos, Moscow, Ramallah, and other hubs of repression, as well as in Washington. He now lives on the south shore of Oahu.
