Doug Larsen - The Alicia Revolution

Illustration by Darryl Ellott

I left the United States about two steps ahead of my creditors, and one step behind financial ruin. I gazed around the grimy, rundown airport in the capital city of Thusbammanna, and wasn’t sure if I had come out ahead in the deal.

I made it through immigration with no problem. The passport official gave me a funny look, but I ignored it. American tourists probably attract a lot of curiosity in these tattered Third World countries.

The luggage rack was about ten feet away, but that didn’t mean that my bags appeared quickly. It took twenty minutes or more, which is ridiculous, considering my plane was the only one that had arrived. I grabbed my bags in pure exasperation, and turned to find customs and the car rental counters. I almost ran into a uniformed official.

“Excuse me,” I said, and started to go around him. He moved to block me, and I saw two burly guards behind him. Uh-oh.

“What’s going on?” I asked apprehensively.

“You are Jane Anderson?” the officer asked.

“Yes. What’s going on?”

“I am an agent of the Thusbammannan security forces,” he said. “Please be kind enough to follow me.”

“What’s going on?” I parroted stupidly, but followed him.

He led me to a private room, and sat me in a chair. He sat down facing me, and consulted a computer printout of some kind.

“You are Jane Anderson?” he asked again.

“Yes, I am. Will you tell me why you’re interfering with me?”

“Are you familiar with a man named Kenneth Anderson?” the man pressed on.

Oh, my God. None of us had had any idea things would have gone this high. I blessed my dad for his almost offhand warning. “Don’t admit to knowing me, Jane,” he’d said. “There’s an off-chance they’ll remember me.” An off-chance, he’d said! After ten years, it had only taken the police twenty minutes to red-flag my passport! “No,” I said coldly, lying through my teeth. “Why do you ask?”

“He has been identified as a subversive force by the government of Thusbammanna. He has been declared persona non grata in this country. This designation includes any of his associates or relatives.”

“How does that apply to me? I don’t know the man.”

The official consulted the printout. “You have the same last name,” he informed me. “You are from the same state in America. You are of the appropriate age to be his daughter.”

The Thusbammannan security forces certainly had their act together. But I had rehearsed this. I waved my left hand, showing my wedding ring. “I’m married,” I said simply, and added another lie. “My maiden name is Johnson.” I hoped that Thusbammannans weren’t familiar with the growing American trend of married women keeping their maiden names. “And in my state, there are several million people named Anderson. It’s not exactly unique.”

“May I ask why you are visiting our country?”

“I’m a tourist,” I lied again. “What’s the problem? I thought you were trying to attract tourism.”

The official stared at me for a moment, and then a door opened and another man came into the room through a door that had a mirror near it. The official looked at him, and the man nodded slightly. The official turned back to me, and broke into a wide smile.

“My apologies for the inconvenience,” he said warmly. “We are delighted that you have decided to visit us. This man whom we have mentioned was a dangerous man, and we were thinking only of your safety.”

My dad was about the most mild-mannered man alive, but he always seemed to get a kick out of having scared this government silly. I smiled at the memory, and the official mistook it for friendliness.

“Allow me to assist you to your destination to compensate for the inconvenience,” he urged.

“Thanks, but I just need to rent a car.”

“Pah! Come with me, and I will assure you of the finest car, and ensure that you do not have to wait in line!”

Now the official was all warmth and friendliness, and he made good on his promise. In no time at all, I had a rental car—a full-sized American model, at the subcompact rate. I wasn’t proud—I took it, and was glad.

The official loaded my luggage into the trunk, and held the door open for me. “Observe the excellent facilities we offer tourists to our country!” the official exclaimed, indicating the little touch screen mounted in the dash. “A directional computer, very easy to use! You simply program your intended destination, and the computer will give you directions on how to reach it. If there is traffic congestion, the computer will offer directions on how to avoid it. If you are intending to reach a hotel, the computer can easily reserve a room for you as you drive. May I demonstrate how it works?”

“Thanks, but I’m familiar with them,” I said politely. We’d had them in my state for over five years, and I was so used to them that they were about as remarkable as air conditioning. I endured his warm farewells, and drove off. I had the computer programmed to direct me to a hotel my dad had recommended, and had it reserve a room for me before I even left the parking lot.

It was quite strange using the computer direction system. I was so familiar with my city that I rarely used it, except to check on rush-hour traffic. But in a strange city, clogged with cars, it was very useful—especially since the synthesized voice was in English. “Turn left here,” it instructed me. “Proceed on this road for three kilometers.” I obeyed, watching my odometer. Right before it showed that three kilometers had passed, the voice said, “Turn right at the next corner.”

Since I only had occasion to drive in my own city, I never had the chance to give the computer-aided driving system a full test. I was impressed with how thorough it was, even though I could tell it was a relatively old software release. The new systems would have made sure I was in the right lane before telling me to turn right.

Thusbammanna, I observed, was a country that was still wallowing in abject poverty. Slums were everywhere, although once in awhile I drove past an enormous estate, complete with an iron fence surrounding it. People were engaged in the most menial jobs you could imagine. The only thing that didn’t match was the large number of later-model American cars. Compared to the human suffering that was apparent everywhere, the cars struck a discordant note.

I wondered bitterly about the priorities of a corrupt government that would spend money on a computer-aided driving system while its people were so poor. As if tourists would want to come to this run-down country! But then, my dad had come here ten years before, to help them grow chrysanthemums, of all things, while the people starved. The flowers generated hard currency. And crops only fed the people, which was real low on this country’s priority list. I supposed their effort into tourism was based on the same philosophy.

“Bastards,” I said out loud. This country was not a good place to come if you were already filled with bitterness, because the plight of its people would only add more.

I checked into the hotel, and went up to my room. It was new and modem; part of Thusbammanna’s effort to attract tourists and their hard currency, if my dad was right. I flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Why had I come to Thusbammanna in the first place?

I had no good reason. I only knew that this was the place my dad, Ken Anderson, had come as a volunteer. He had gotten involved in a project to help the starving people of Thusbammanna develop a method of growing food without farms. The project had been successful, and had gotten him expelled from the country. He’d code-named it the Alicia Project, after my mom, who had died just before Dad came here. Her death just about killed him, and his stay in Thusbammanna had brought him back to life.