The Occupation of Emerald City: The Worker Read Free Page A

hairs on my chest, arms and legs.
    The air warms again. It reaches a level of comfort and
continues well beyond, so hot and so dry that I feel like I’m suffocating. Then
the air changes its mind again. The sweat along the back of my neck cools
before sliding down my spine.
    I scream. My chest is tight.
    It continues again and again, a circular seasonal change of
summer and winter. Every second feels like my breaking point and when the door
finally opens, I stumble out, falling to the tile floor, and feel two hands
press hard on my back to keep me pinned.
    “Look at his back,” a voice says. “Look how hairy it is.” I
feel the soldier get closer until I can feel his warm breath on my sweaty neck.
“You’re fucking disgusting, terrorist.”
    They put a hood on my head and drag me into another room.
They drop me to my knees and pull off the hood. The same man sits behind the
same metallic table, drumming his fingers on a pad of white paper. A stack of
files and a thin green book sit next to the pad of paper.
    “Please,” I say. “Let me prove who I am.”
    “I know who you are.”
    “You’re violating laws,” I tell him. “International laws.”
    The interrogator holds up a piece of paper. “See this? This
is a set of rules that I’m allowed to follow. These are your country’s rules
for terrorists. You do not get a lawyer unless I say so. You do not get a trial
unless I say so. You do not get food unless I say so.” He reaches under the stack of papers and pulls out a thin,
gray book with no words written on the cover. “Hey. Look here. This is your
country’s interrogation manual. This is where we’re getting all of our ideas.”
    “Please.” I can’t help but break down in tears. “It’s not my
government.”
    “Of course it’s your government,” the man says
matter-of-factly. “You live in this country, this is your government. Unity,
right? That’s your country’s motto.” He scratches his chin, licking his lips.
He looks content, like he’s just eaten a big meal. He leans back in his chair
and stares at me. Daring me.
    There’s no good answer, I know that. He thinks I’m some sort
of nationalist, or he’s got me confused with someone else.
    “You can avoid all of this if you simply confess and provide
me with information,” the interrogator says with more sympathy in his voice
now.
    “I don’t have any information,” I say. I fight the urge to
tell him to visit our official Web site—WelcomeToEmeraldCity.com. If he
did some research, he could probably find the email I sent the government,
complaining about the Web site’s inability to process a simple parking ticket
payment. There’s proof of my existence outside of this place. There’s proof of
a boring life dedicated to a boring job.
    “Where were you when the Coalition invaded?”
    “At work.” I can remember sitting in the coffee shop near my
condo, reading the paper at a table by the windows and drinking my
vanilla-flavored latte. The newspaper’s tech section had alengthy piece on new carbon-capture tests in coal
power plants.
    I hadn’t thought anything of the news report. The TV hanging
over the front counter was always tuned to one of the news networks that always
made a big deal out of nothing. The more they could sensationalize, the more
panicked viewers they drew in.
    So I let it slip in one ear and out the other. It was
impossible to live in Emerald City without finding a way to drown out all of
the political white noise. I finished my latte, glanced once at the TV to see a
foreign minister addressing the cameras, then left for work to arrive promptly
at 4:50 p.m., ten minutes early.
    Four hours later, the sky lit up.
    “We’ve spoken with your parents,” the interrogator says,
leaning back. “They say you were disgruntled with your job. You’ve been drawn
to anarchy before.”
    “No.” He’s lying. He has to be lying now.
    “You wanted to wreak havoc, or die trying. So you planned to
destroy the