The Belinda Triangle

  Opening Chapter of The Belinda Triangle

  Dick Hoffman

  Published by TrueHoff Books, 2018.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Opening Chapter of The Belinda Triangle

  Saturday 21 June 2031, SE Colorado, Fair Skies

  About the Author

  Opening Chapter of The Belinda Triangle

  The Story:

  In 2031, the Statue of Liberty lifts her lamp beside the Exit door. When Doyle Beckett and pregnant wife Geneva Rose are both forced out of their jobs, he has no choice but to accept work on a cruise ship full of passengers who aren't coming back. He has no idea he will be leaving his wife and unborn child at the mercy of a renegade militia. And he has no clue how to deal with the dilemma of passenger Belinda, a renegade of a different sort—but just as dangerous. “An ambitious tale about a mysterious cruise . . . Hoffman’s narrative ingenuity is impressive . . .” — Kirkus Reviews.

  Dedication

  To Virginia Hazel (Ginny) Trueman,

  woman extraordinaire,

  queen of my heart.

  —D. H.

  Copyright © 2016 by George Richard (Dick) Hoffman.

  All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

  Saturday 21 June 2031, SE Colorado, Fair Skies

  Beckett raised the blinds to the top of the window for what could be his last view of the meadow. Down by the road stood a guardhouse surrounded by razor wire and topped by a gun turret, but he focused on the wild flowers extending to the foothills of the Rockies.

  The students behind him rustled at their desks, no doubt concerned at this uncharacteristic disregard of the regulations. Some probably wondered if they should report him to the dean for reckless endangerment. He turned to face them, a clean and well-behaved group. “Any other questions about CW2?” He hated the acronym, but it fit the language of his audience.

  They squirmed in their seats, shielding their eyes from the late afternoon sun or glancing at the clock at the back of the room. They’d been juniors in high school when the so-called Second Civil War erupted two years ago and had readily adapted to the changes that came with what the media liked to call Re-Reconstruction. Now though, after being in freshman college classes six days a week for ten months, they were ready to be unleashed. He shared the feeling though he could not afford to acknowledge it.

  In the front row Miss Cates pointed to the summer reading list on the screen. “That one, ‘The Great Riots: Our Uncivil War’?” The boy behind her rolled his eyes in boredom. “You wrote that?”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you, my father wrote that. We have the same initials.” True, Beckett had completed the book after his father’s death, but all the royalties went to the estate, then to the hospitals and doctors. He started to point out the difference between a history teacher and a historian, but let it go for now. His father was the latter, and that book was his twelfth and last. Beckett was still undecided about his first. “Any other questions?”

  The wall screen signaled the end of the hour with the six musical notes that opened the original national anthem. As the students rose from their desks, placing hands over hearts, he led them in the required end-of-school-year New Pledge of Allegiance: “. . . with liberty, justice and prosperity for all. You’re either with us or against us. Amen.”

  He glided over the words as if they were only minor technical adjustments to the previous version. As if they even made sense. His students apparently heard nothing wrong; they seemed to like it better than the old one.

  As the innocents shuffled past him, tapping their wrist screens awake, he raised his voice. “Have a great summer, everyone!”

  Miss Cates approached him. A lovely girl, freckle-faced, the one who always gave the others a chance to answer before she came to the rescue. She smoothed her plaid skirt, the college uniform copied from styles of almost a century before. Take away the screens and a visitor from the 1950s would feel right at home with the clothes and the throwback flag above the door. “What will you be teaching in the fall, Professor?”

  “I haven’t decided.” There was no point in deciding until he was sure his contract would be renewed, but he wouldn’t bother her with that detail. He sat on his desk at an angle open to the security camera on the far wall, his arms folded in the recommended posture for interactions with the opposite sex. “I’m leaning toward How Peace Finally Came to the Middle East. What do you think?”

  “Oh, that would be fantastic!”

  As in unbelievable, yes; he could not agree more. Especially since it came without a trace of honor.

  “But . . .” Her brow wrinkled. “There are rumors . . .”

  “There will always be rumors.” He gave an exaggerated shrug, smiling as best he could. “Don’t waste your time with them.” He liked her because she was one of the few who seemed to care, not just about her grades, but about the world she was inheriting.

  Over her head, he watched Dean Yordy enter the room and was glad he had stifled the impulse to put a fatherly hand on her shoulder, though he was not quite old enough to be her father. “Enjoy your summer, Miss Cates.”

  Dean Yordy nodded at her as he maneuvered his motorized wheelchair to the window to close the blinds. He glanced back to make sure all the students had left. “Can’t be too careful these days, Doyle.”

  Beckett turned off the wall screen and began clearing out his desk. He held his breath but tried to sound nonchalant as he asked, “Any news?”

  “Sorry, the bastards won’t budge.” He winced, as if recalling a severe physical injury. “As a matter of fact, they chastised me for bringing up your case again.”

  Beckett had known the odds were against him, so he was not surprised. Still, the reality of the decision felt like a slap in the face. Other feelings also welled up, but he kept those in check for now. He scooted a chair out of the Dean’s path. “I appreciate your efforts.”

  “I even reminded them of our policy of Affirmative Action for Caucasians, but it’s strictly a budget decision. Attendance is dropping every semester, and faculty has to follow suit, even if your ratings are higher than most staff with longer tenures.”

  “I know. Last in, first out.” But knowing didn’t help. In fact it accentuated the helplessness.

  “It’s that damn Financial Viability Act.” Yordy shook his head.

  Beckett used his handkerchief to dust off his wife’s framed photograph before placing it in his briefcase. “I hate to say it, but if I’d had any idea it might actually pass into law, I might never have borrowed the money to get my doctorate.” Not to mention what it cost Gen to get her M.D. She had been so right to put off having children until their loans could be paid off. As hurt as he felt hearing the decision, he hurt even more at the prospect of telling her. She would be furious. At Yordy, the board, the entire University of Southern Colorado, the town, the state, the country.

  “They should have called it the Pure Stupidity Act—and they’re going to suffer serious backlash at the next election!”

  Beckett hoped that was correct, but given how few people qualified to vote these days, he doubted it.

  Yordy carried on. “Grand Compromise, my ass! They should have called it the Grand Disaster! They should have . . .” His shoulders slumped and he gestured at the empty desks. “I worry about these kids. They’re so regulated . . . so by-the-book—and they think their lives are normal. How are they ever going to create the breakthroughs this country needs?”

  Beckett waited
for the dean to wax nostalgic about the torn jeans, tattoos, and nose rings of his youth. The two-day weekends.

  “Sorry, I get carried away sometimes.” Yordy took a deep breath. “What’s next? Any interviews lined up?”

  “Every history department I’ve contacted is in the same downsizing mode. But thank you for the great letter of recommendation.”

  “Surely there’s some opening out there.”

  “I’ll keep searching.” Beckett kept his tone upbeat. “Gen’s salary at the clinic will carry us awhile.” He refrained from expressing glee that there was no shortage of sick kids out there. “Still, I may have to find a summer job I can hold indefinitely.” Otherwise they’d soon be paying interest on interest.

  “How about tutoring?”

  “There’s not much demand for that lately. But I have received a couple of temp offers that might work out.”

  “Like what?”

  “One in hospital administration, one in prison administration.”

  Yordy frowned. “Nothing more . . . suitable?”

  Beckett hesitated. “Well, there’s an offer to conduct lectures on a cruise ship, but . . .”

  “That might not be so bad, as a strictly temporary thing, of course.” He rocked his head side to side as if weighing the idea. “What do they pay?”

  “They pay in debt forgiveness vouchers, plus room and meals onboard.”

  “Perfect!” Yordy beamed, then raised his eyebrows. “But I’m surprised they need such a great incentive.” Now he turned pale. “Wait . . . you don’t mean . . . ?”

  “The TLC program, yes.”

  “My God!”

  Beckett rushed to explain. “They sent me an application, unsolicited, last year. My guess is they targeted professionals with low FVA scores due to high student debt.”

  Yordy gripped the armrests of his wheelchair, staring at him.

  “You can imagine how appalled Gen was.” He forced a smile at the memory. “I started to throw it away, then decided to use it as a teaching tool. My students got into heated arguments about it, so it was useful from that perspective.”

  “But . . . you said they extended . . .” The dean’s voice had turned cold.

  “I kept the application as something I would look back on one day as a historical artifact. You know, of the absurd, often self-contradictory policies of the Coalition. Then I thought I should fill it out, send it in, and collect more artifacts throughout the process.” He hoped he didn’t sound too defensive.

  “So now you have an offer to . . . to . . .” Yordy sputtered, his face red.

  Beckett wished he hadn’t mentioned it. Now he needed to say something to keep the man from bursting a blood vessel. “Of course, I’d never accept.”

  “It’s preposterous! Obscene!” Yordy turned and glared at the new/old flag with its six rows of eight stars each. “What in God’s name have we become?”

  THE BOY WOULD NOT LET go of his mother’s hand, so Dr. Geneva Rose Beckett got down on her knees. At eye level, she told him to open wide and stick out his tongue. He frowned, then his mother translated, and he complied with bewilderment in his eyes. Geneva held down his tongue with a wooden depressor while shining a tiny flashlight around the interior of his mouth. “Now do this,” she said, lifting her own tongue above her upper lip. Grinning, he imitated her as she inspected the underside.

  Still on her knees, she tapped at her wrist screen. “The medicine will be ready at the dispensary in a few minutes. Be sure he drinks lots of water with it. Clean water. No school and no fútbol for three days, understand?”

  The mother’s dark eyes squinted. “How much the medicine?” Her free hand rested on her growing belly.

  “Whatever you can pay, okay?”

  “Maybe a hundred dólares?”

  “If that’s all you can afford.” It might cover the cost of the packaging at least.

  The woman pulled the boy’s arm and turned to go as Elsa, the clinic manager, walked in. Geneva stood up, lost her balance, and fell against the examining table, knocking over her medical kit and scattering its contents across the floor.

  Elsa dropped her clipboard computer and helped Geneva slide gently to a sitting position on the linoleum. Mother and child stood transfixed, impassive. “Go on.” Elsa waved at them. “It’s all right. Go.”

  Eyes blurred, Geneva watched them leave. Apparently the scene was not that unusual for them. So it’s for real, she thought. She started to rise, but Elsa pressed down on her shoulder. “Sit still. I’ll get Doctor Morales.”

  “Don’t bother, I’m fine.” Or she would be fine. She could not afford not to be fine. She just needed to wait a minute for her eyes to clear.

  BECKETT’S SEAT ON THE last row of the electric minibus faced backward to allow him to watch for suspicious vehicles trailing behind. The AK-57 mounted above the rear window reminded him not to allow his gaze to wander off to the mountains. He had never actually fired one, but he had passed the mandatory online virtual training session two years before and was pretty sure he could operate it if he had to. An identical weapon hung within reach of the co-driver up front, though if the auto-drive system failed at the wrong time, he would be too busy to use it. So far, the anti-reconstruction militias were not as active in southern Colorado as they were up north, but Dean Yordy was right. One could not be too careful these days.

  He had never been downsized before, unlike most of his friends, whom he had always consoled and encouraged afterward. Naively so, with no comprehension of the accompanying embarrassment and shame. Unjustified and unreasonable feelings, to be sure, but there they were. And fear—now that the membrane of stability had been torn—of more unknowns to come.

  When the minibus reached the gated entrance to Celestial Estates without incident, he relinquished his lookout duty to a professor of Nanotech Engineering, who wished him well at his next job, whatever it turned out to be.

  Beckett waved at Juanito in the small but elaborate guardhouse. Except that it was just one story, its design mimicked the houses in the development, with brick siding, extensive ornamentation, and a steep roof. He trudged past the two-and-a-half-story homes built for those who had “made it” before the last crash. There were only twenty in this once-exclusive development, and all were now multi-family dwellings.

  At the house he and Geneva shared with four other couples, three with children, he unlocked the gate at the front walk, then the one at the front porch, then the front door. Each one set off a buzzer inside the house, allowing whoever was home to glance out the barred windows to see who was coming. He waved at the handful of residents in the den watching a report about the upcoming cruise, climbed the curved staircase, waved at the children playing in the second-floor game room, then continued up to the attic suite he shared with Geneva.

  It had sloped ceilings, but it was roomy enough. They had learned to overlook the worn carpet, scuffed paint, a one-inch crack at the bathroom doorframe, and another in the shower wall, covered with gray duct tape.

  She sat on the floor in the lotus position, eyes closed, hands clasped together at her forehead, a practice learned from her Indian mother. The sound of some Chinese plucked-string instrument rose from the wrist screen on the floor beside her, no doubt a musical tribute to her father.

  Her beauty stunned him, as it invariably did when they met again after several hours apart. As if his mind could not comprehend such beauty and would not allow his memory to retain it. Just being able to watch her breathe, her olive skin practically glowing there in the light slanting through the western window, almost made up for today’s disappointment.

  On second thought, what was she doing here? She almost never beat him home; her patients usually kept her busy until just before curfew. He quietly placed his keys on the night stand, his briefcase on the carpet, then lay back on the bed wondering two things at once: First, if there had been another power blackout in that low-priority section of town where the clinic was located. Second, how best to deliver his
news without infecting her with his pessimism and ruining whatever benefit her meditation provided. As he was about to doze off, he felt her body lower onto his and sniffed her strawberry-scented hair.

  They embraced each other without words for several minutes. Her weight on his chest, however light, was a welcome physical distraction from the abstract weight swirling inside his head. He tried hard to enjoy the moment without worrying about the looming conversation. When that failed, he opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

  “Do you feel me?” she whispered.

  “I most certainly do, and you should be feeling me about now.”

  “I mean, do you feel her or him?”

  “What? Who?”

  She rolled over and lay on her back, then took his hand and placed it on her belly. “There.”

  “Hey, I’ve got a bigger pooch than that.” Then his hand—and his mind—trembled. He sat up. “Are you kidding me?”

  She giggled. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

  “But—but—”

  “Remember last month, the news about the defective batch of pills in Florida?”

  He calmed his hand by leaning on it, but his mind would not cease its whirling. “They insisted it was an ‘isolated incident’!”

  She shrugged. “Apparently they insisted too soon. Chicago reported another bad batch today, and I suppose Denver will be on the news tomorrow, if not tonight.”

  He closed his eyes—which didn’t help—then popped them open. “Are you okay? Did you come home early because you felt sick? Have you been hiding morning sickness from me? Why are you so calm?”

  She sat up. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t be sure, then this afternoon I had a dizzy spell. Elsa told Doctor Morales, and he sent me home because he couldn’t risk violating that stupid law!”

  He groaned. “Why now?”

  “I don’t know who’s going to take care of my kids. Several of them don’t seem to like him at all. And neither do their mothers.”