It was a tough read, drier than a philosophy text.

How is our society prisonlike? It’s dedicated to concealing things, hiding things, an imprisoning people not in jail cells but something far more powerful. The government–state, local, and federal–collects information on us all the time. Fingerprints, police records, Social Security information, forwarding addresses. The private sector does too, through the internet and retail stores. They see which websites you visit so that they can target you with ads, and see what products you buy at the register thanks to barcode scanners so they know how effective those ads are.

Basically, there’s a lot of information out there about you and me–information that we have no access to. Imagine a person who wanted to collect all his information. They barge into the county court house and steals their file; they goes to their internet service provider and download their information off the servers.

What happens to this person? They’re thrown in jail, of course. After all, they’re guilty of breaking and entering, going where they’re not supposed to go and taking what they’re not supposed to take. Never mind that the information belonged to them originally, or that it was collected without their consent.

But the funny thing is, even though many people know about the information people gather about us, no one tries to retrieve it. Even in the digital age, when accessing it could be as simple as guessing a password, no one tries. Why? Because the people in power have done their best to make our society do most of their job.

If a policeman had to follow you around everywhere to make sure you didn’t do anything wrong, that would be a tremendous strain on the government. Far better to make society itself act as the policeman. After all, who would want to steal their personal data? It’s not important, after all–just silly little things. Who would want to commit a crime? You’ll just go to jail and people will look down on you. Some people do these things anyway, of course, but there are few enough that they’re easily locked away.

If our society said information access was a fundamental human right, people would be more likely to disobey the people in power, who tell us that some things must remain “secret.” People would break the rules, and eventually break the people that made the rules too. Everyone has the right of access to any information held by the state or by private companies. Everyone has the right of access to any information that is held by another person and that is required for the exercise or protection of any rights.

These are fundamental, undeniable rights of humankind. But the people in power would say they’re not, and they’d say we’re silly for thinking so. But the reality is that they would soon fall from power if information were free, as it ought to be. Those in power remain in power because of the oppressive society they and those before them helped create. Freeing information–all information–from their grasp is the first step toward making things better. Without information, there is only nothing.

The wind was still howling, but at least the rain was beginning to taper off. It tore through Eric Doyle’s tattered green vest, casting billowing waves through it. He was tempted to discard it, but the pockets were weighed down with ammunition.

Eric pulled a round out of his pocket and looked at it. The .22 cartridge looked ridiculously small and weak cupped in his palm; it would only emit a weak crack as it left the barrel of his tiny varmint rifle. The shotguns, on the other hand, would let out a thunderous roar as they turned his chest into a pink swamp.

He shuddered at the thought. Eric had seen such nasty wounds already that night, and as he crouched in the shade of one of the roof air conditioners with a ridiculous pop gun in his hands, he was all but sure that was how it would end.

Noises up ahead. Beams of light slicing through the darkness. Eric switched his own light off, and closed the bolt on his gun. If he could get a clean shot off, maybe the rain would disguise the noise it made. Maybe, by some miracle, he could get all three of them, or at least signal the chopper when it arrived…maybe there was some hope, if not for Eric, then for the people trapped inside.

“Got it,” he heard a voice say. Something heavy struck the ground, audible even through the gale.

Eric chambered a round in his rifle and took a deep breath. Just like at scout camp, with the calm summer air replaced by high winds and torrential rain. And a flesh-and-blood target to boot.

The unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped shattered his concentration. Something jammed into the small of Eric’s back, and hot breath was suddenly in his ear.

“Drop it.”

Eric’s rifle splashed to the ground.

“Listen…” Eric whispered.

“Too late now,” the voice hissed.

The deafening roar of a shotgun blast tore apart the world.

This post is part of the October Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s theme is masquerades.

The Prosperity Masquerade was the social event of the early autumn season, and invitation in hand Virginia was going to make her presence known, wearing the family’s hand-me down costume as befit any son or daughter of Marshals Vincent and Patricia MacNeil. Prosperity Ranger or not.

When she arrived, whispers ran throughout the crowd, about the scandal of an ex-Ranger appearing at a Prosperity Masquerade and young master Sullivan’s motives for the invitation. Partly out of a mean-spirited desire to see how far those flames could be fanned and partly out of a need to express her gratitude in person, Virginia sought her host out, given a wide berth by everyone that recognized her.

Jacob stood at the center of the crowd, visibly ill at ease. He was dressed as a motley jester–the very costume two generations of Sullivans had worn before him–but the front hung open, revealing the young man’s mud-spattered Ranger uniform and gun belt, and the three-pronged hat was in his hands rather than on his head. Virginia was drawn closer to Jacob as revelers moved about him like river waves, and moments later they were face to face.

“Virginia…I was hoping you might come,” Jacob said when he spied her.

At a loss for how to respond, Virginia bit her lip. “How have you been?”

“Nothing’s been right since…then,” Jacob muttered. “Nightmares, rumors, the Ide on the warpath after all they did for me…everything’s unraveling.”

“What do you mean?

“I…I can’t explain it,” said Jacob. He waved Virginia away. “I need to get out of here. I’m suffocating. Please, enjoy the ball.” Before she could protest, he had slipped away, shedding his costume piece by piece and leaving each on the floor as he went.

“What are you doing here, MacNeil?” someone barked. It was Ellen Strasser, resplendent in a dress of eastern silk and wearing a Venetian mask. “Only Prosperity Rangers and their invited guests are allowed to attend! ‘Washout’ doesn’t qualify.”

“Jacob invited me,” Virginia said, spinning her invitation between two fingers. “If you’ve got a problem, take it up with him.”

Suddenly Virginia was up against the wall with Strasser’s arm across her throat. “Don’t you even think of dragging the young Mr. Sullivan’s name through the mud with your presence here,” Strasser hissed. “Isn’t almost getting him killed enough?”

“It got me an invitation,” Virginia said. “Maybe you should try almost getting Jacob killed next time. Then you can be his guest instead of just being here because you’re a Ranger.”

Strasser drew a derringer from her bustle. “Invitation or no, you are leaving. Now.”

The widow Sullivan appeared behind them, dressed all in white and speckled with crepe paper snowflakes. “Is there a problem here, Strasser? As a Ranger you ought to know that firearms are prohibited at town events.” A Colt Army glistened in the holster at her side.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post an entry of their own about masquerades:
Auburn Assassin (direct link to the relevant post)
Hillary Jacques (direct link to the relevant post)
Aimee Laine (direct link to the relevant post)
Ralph Pines (direct link to the relevant post)
Veinglory (direct link to the relevant post)
Laffarsmith (direct link to the relevant post)
PASeaholtz (direct link to the relevant post)
Madelein.Eirwen (direct link to the relevant post)
Amy Doodle (direct link to the relevant post)
CScottMorris (direct link to the relevant post)
FreshHell (direct link to the relevant post)
IrishAnnie (direct link to the relevant post)
Lilain (direct link to the relevant post)
Dolores Haze (direct link to the relevant post)
Aidan Watson-Morris (direct link to the relevant post)
Aheila (direct link to the relevant post)
WildScribe (direct link to the relevant post)
Hayley Lavik (direct link to the relevant post)
Semmie (direct link to the relevant post)
Bettedra (direct link to the relevant post)

The last acting job Lydia had gotten wasn’t even worthy of the title; it was more of a thinly veiled con. They’d thrown her in a dress and heels next to a guy in a suit on a newsroom set and had them do a fake story, complete with cutting to a “reporter in the field” one set over. The whole production was designed to look like a regional newscast, complete with realistic if generic logos and animations added in postproduction.

Some company out of Encino arranged the whole deal; they were willing to pay good–well, modest–money to put Lydia’s “newscast” in pop-up ads. People with low IQ’s or short attention spans might mistake it for the real thing and try out the product extolled in the spot. Lydia had to memorize a dozen lines about how recession-addled people were paying to bid on so-called penny auctions and at 75¢per bid wound up walking away with an iPod or something at 80% off the asking price.

Austin’s company had handled some of the postproduction work, and Lydia had watched him whip up a faux “Channel 9 News” screen tag after the shoot. Lydia had been toying with the idea of rolling a little of her paycheck into the auctions she was shilling.

“Don’t,” Austin said. “It’s the nearest thing to absolute evil I’ve ever seen in a business plan.”

“Why?” Lydia asked, watching the screen dance with colorful counterfeit news branding. “If you have to pay to bid, it means fewer bidders and it’s in everyone’s best interest to see the auction end quick and cheap.”

“It’s a brinksmanship game that preys and the darkest angels of human nature,” Austin said. He took a sip from his coffee while running the mouse with two fingers. “Once someone pays money to bid they’re invested in the outcome, which means they’ll bid long past the point of profitability. You might lose $700 before winning an iPod, which you still have to pay for and which they just buy from Amazon and ship to you.”

“I think I could beat the system,” said Lydia.

“So does everyone else. And as long as you just take the money for their stupid commercials and run, you will.”

But Harrington wasn’t a doctor, or a nurse, or a paramedic, or even pre-med. She simply wore scrubs in public.

There were plenty of reasons to do so, at least there were according to her. Scrubs were extraordinarily cheap; the patterns were carried in most sewing stores and convincing-looking fabric could be had for 10¢. They were appropriate, or at least accepted, in a wide variety of contexts. The local climate was such that their thinness wasn’t an issue.

Harrington wouldn’t have admitted it, but she also thrilled to the response scrubs got from people. Attired in scrubs, one would always find the checkout line a little faster, other drivers more forgiving, and pedestrians more willing to smile. If pressed Harrington would admit that she wasn’t any kind of medical person, but people seldom pressed.

And that was that, until the accident outside of Metromart on June 15th.

Benedict was seated on an ammo crate, feet up. The tropical sun reflected off his Ray-Bans and the foil highlights on the Metallica shirt that peeked out from under his body armor.

“I don’t get it. The sunglasses, the t-shirt, the sneakers,” Cameron said. “You’re a professional. Why don’t you dress like one?”

“Does it really matter what I wear as long as they’re dead?” said Benedict. Seeing that wasn’t going to satisfy Cameron, he continued. “There are exactly two kinds of fighters out there. Those that’re intimidated by a uniform, and those that aren’t.”

“I…don’t follow.” Cameron said.

“I’m not here to intimidate anyone. You want to pay me for intimidation, fine. I’ll pour myself into a uniform, but it won’t come cheap. Otherwise, it’s better for my peace of mind and your bottom line if you let me dress however I please.” The sneer on Benedict’s face said that he’d given that speech before, and enjoyed it.

Cameron swallowed. “Point taken.”

“You think Lassiter’s out there wearing some itchy uniform instead of fighting comfortably?” Benedict said. He picked up a nearby magazine and began filling it with 9mm rounds. “Not bloody likely.”

Solveig delighted in being unconventional, to the point that even her unconventionality defied convention. All the other unconventionalists on the Telthusbakken (and there were many that held themselves to be so) tended to behave in similar ways. They’d attend rallies for the same unpopular causes, wear the same unpopular clothing, indulge in the same trite ‘scandalous’ behavior. Solveig saw this as a roundabout way of the other girls calling attention to themselves and seeking to interest boys (and for more than one of the Telthusbakken girls it was probably an accurate impression).

But underneath it all they still conformed to the same rules and conventions that everyone else did. Solveig took particular delight in uncovering those mundane conventions and flouting them in subtle yet meaningful ways. Nothing ostentatious–to get too carried away was to become one of the others–but always very deliberate.

People drove on the right, and so tended to walk on the right. Solveig walked on the left, and forced people to detour around her.

People faced forward in elevators. Solveig faced the back to the great consternation of all persons boarding, riding, or disembarking.

People paid with debit cards, credit, or large bills. Solveig paid with 50 øre coins.

I found Julian right where I thought he’d be: at the heart of the facility.

He’d couldn’t’ve been there a few moments, but the bastard had set up a small mirror to watch his back, in case Castiglio and Kearns failed. I didn’t see the thing until it was almost too late; two rounds from Julian’s pistol shattered the concrete where my head had been moments ago.

Luckily I’d drawn back. I’ve learned to be cautious when things seem too easy.

“Is that all you’ve got for me, Julian?” I shouted around the corner. “Not even a hello?”

“I gave you two of them,” he retorted. “You always were too self-centered, Max. It’s all about you. What did you expect me to do, give a speech?”

I eased my way toward a side hall, painfully aware of how unarmed and vulnerable I was. “I thought after all we’d been through you’d at least want to put a proper ending to it.”

“You’ve got guts, Max. I could’ve used somebody like you. Herringbone, he never saw the potential, but I did. If you’d been a little smarter we could have avoided all this.”

I silently unhooked a fire extinguisher from the wall. “Maybe we still can. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“I think things are pretty well set on their course by now,” Julian said. “And I sure as hell am not going to listen to you when you try to get me reminiscing for tactical advantage. You leave now, maybe there’s still a chance, but if we come face to face the last thing you’re gonna see is me smiling.”

“He’s through here, Comrade General.”

The adjutant led Santos through the Ministry of State Security annex toward the interrogation rooms. The demanding affairs of state precluded the general’s direct participation in most security affairs, of course, but he enjoyed keeping his hand in the game. After all, he’d made his bones working state security for the late President Barranca before transferring to a combat command, and during his tenure he’d maintained some of the best numbers of the MSS interrogators.

The gentleman–Santos refused to be told the prisoner’s name until it was voluntarily given up–was in Annex C, designated for the most severe offenders. Unlike his predecessor, who had favored mossy ex-monastic cells in the Punto de los Delfines, Santos insisted on a clean, almost clinical atmosphere; the air of civilization such a place projected helped undermine foreigners’ perception of the general’s beloved country as a place of savages.

“Let me tell you something,” Santos said, walking a slow circle around the prisoner, who was bound to a chair and visibly bruised. “Every man is the hero of his own story. Every man, when he is met with adversity, expects a fairytale ending as in the movies.”

The man made no reply, staring at the floor.

“But this is real life, my friend, and there is no last-minute reprieve. There is no cavalry. One way or another, your story ends here, with me. It is up to you to write this ending.”

Santos gestured to his adjutant, who handed the general his pistol–a Beretta he’d received upon commissioning, now loaded with blanks. “Will the ending relate that you were killed, unloved and unmourned, in Annex C of the Ministry for State Security? Or, perhaps, will it record that you aided a noble cause in your final moments?”

The general held the pistol a foot from the prisoner’s head–not close enough to kill, but enough to cause severe pain and burning from the force of the blank. “The time is now.”

Our neighborhood was in the oldest part of our town, with houses nearing or over the century mark. We’d been the first new family to move in for years, and once we kids arrived, we found a willing audience in the many elderly widows next door. They tended to enjoy our antics, and kept large dishes bright with gumdrops on their tables for when we visited.

One by one, as the years went by, they all passed away. New families moved in and the old houses were painted and refinished. The house on one corner had its beautiful stand of pine trees cut down while a bevy of modern garages went up in backyards previously left fallow.

In the end, there was only one home left with its original coat of paint and owner, on the far corner of the block.

The end came suddenly, without the lengthy buildup of an illness. While my mother was out of town, the old lady died peacefully, napping in the chair in her living room. The housekeeper found her the next day.

There was no way for my mother to make it home in time to see her friend off, so it fell to our family to go in her stead. It was the first funeral we had attended in years, perhaps the first since I’d gained a more mature understanding of death. The waxy figure barely resembled the woman I’d known.

We met—for the first time, at least that I could remember—her son and daughter, and their children. The son is an overweight man with a tussled comb-over who mumbles a few words before taking a seat. The daughter was much more vibrant, dark-haired and slim.

“We’re really sorry our mother couldn’t come,” I said. “They’d been spending a lot of time together.”

“Oh really?” the daughter said. “What did they do?”

“Just talked, mostly,” I said. “They visited a lot, sometimes did a little cooking together. I think she saw your mother as sort a maternal figure.” I see that as the greatest compliment someone can give; surrogate or not, those relationships are worth a lot.

It makes the daughter uncomfortable. “No, I just think they were friends. Very good friends,” she said, shortly before excusing herself. It’s clear she was uncomfortable with the idea of her mother seeing anyone but her as a daughter figure.

Maybe it was telling that the first time they’d visited in years was to attend the funeral.