Eat Your Greens

By Stuart Carruthers

In a world ravaged by oil depletion, humanity relies on kelp as its primary source of sustenance and energy. But Max, a radical consumed by an inexplicable hatred, embarks on a destructive mission to eradicate all kelp. Interpol agent Jen, relentless and resourceful, becomes locked in a desperate chase across continents, from the desolate landscapes of Africa to the lush jungles of Borneo, determined to stop Max before he destroys the planet's fragile lifeline.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stuart Carruthers
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224597642

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Copyright © 2024 by Stuart Carruthers

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

1.Prologue

1. The Beginning

2.One [1]

2. Meet the gang

3.Two [2]

3. Borne-oh

4.Three [3]

4. The Raid

5.Four [4]

5. We're Soldiers Now

6.Five [5]

6. Kidnapped

7.Six [6]

7. The Sultan Awaits

8.Seven [7]

8. South Africa

9.Eight [8]

9. Demobbed

10.Nine [9]

10. The Long Way Round

11.Ten [10]

11. Hubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

12.Eleven [11]

12. The End of the Road

Prologue

The Beginning

W ee-aww, wee-aww, wee-aww … loudspeakers recently installed in the street began what would become their weekly refrain.

Get out of bed and get dressed, get out of bed and get dressed, get out of bed and get dressed…, broadcast this instruction for thirty minutes, starting at 5:30 in the morning.

The residents of the nondescript block of terraced houses, on an identikit road, somewhere in England’s West Midlands, finally did as instructed when they realised that the interminable sound didn't have a snooze button.

At 6 am, the orders changed.

Step outside, step outside, step outside…, this lasted for 10 minutes and everyone shuffled out in front of their buildings and into the cold, rain soaked air where they stood in silence, giving nods and groans to their neighbours.

Once again, the message switched:

Collect your rations, collect your rations, collect your rations…, the slow authoritarian voice commanded once more.

Everyone looked around, perplexed, unaware of what they needed to do next. Where should they go and what were these rations? Finally, those at the beginning began moving towards the huge steel cages, which had appeared overnight on a piece of wasteland at the end of the road. Inside one enclosure stood two armed soldiers and 2,000 shoe box sized tan-coloured cartons. Those at the start of the queue collected their parcels and went home to open them. The rest of the people slowly snaked their way forward. After opening each of the boxes, they discovered a stack of wrapped nutribars and a brief note.

Dear Citizen,

Your food is now provided by the state. To reduce obesity and prevent starvation, we have given you this box of 21 flavoured kelp bars. You should eat one each for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We have engineered them to provide you with the optimum amount of daily nutrition and ensure that you do not feel hungry for at least five hours.

Only have three per day. Every 7 days, you will receive another box. You will NOT receive any more until the 7th day. Failure to comply will cause you to be moved into the secure community cage until the next rations arrive.

Signed,

Your Government.

This is the world that I grew up in from the age of two. A country in which cooking and eating your own food was illegal and punishable by being locked in The Cage. I vaguely remember the day it happened, but not because of the events outlined above, but because of my mother’s reaction to them: she wept. When I got older, I realised why.

Come in now! It’s time for dinner, my mother called from our house up the street four years later.

Me and the other members of the Green Hand Gang were busy taunting the prisoners of The Cage as they lay on their canvas hammocks behind the thick steel rods of a gigantic cube. Despite being there for over half a decade, some people still hadn’t learned how to control themselves. As a gang, we mocked them. Standing outside the cage shouting abuse. Not just the kids, either. But deep down we were grateful we weren’t in there being given a single, naturally flavoured bar of seaweed per day until their release at the next weekly distribution of kelp. Children weren’t exempt from this punishment as long as a parent joined them.

Why do we have to sit down to eat these, mum? All my mates carry them in their pockets and have them wherever they want.

I don’t care what your friends do. Just because the government decided that we should consume nothing but seagrass doesn’t mean that we should behave like animals.

Having unwrapped the two dinner bars in the now mostly disused kitchen, she carved them into thin slices and presented them neatly on individual plates. We sat in silence as we ate the pieces of the soft green roast beef flavoured bar. With no knowledge of real food, these were all I’d grown up with and to me, they tasted normal. From the expression on my mum’s face, however, they were something she would never get used to.

At about this time our first replonator, and 20 litres of replenlon, arrived. The replonator looked like two washing machines stacked on top of each other and the instructions told us to put 500 millilitres of thick, green liquid into the large drawer on the front, select the item and its size using the dials, and press start. Oh, the fun we had when we got new clothes out of the lower cupboard. Over the next few hours, we replaced our threadbare items. We didn’t worry there were limited designs, nor that there was only one colour: green.

Finally, the town looked smart and tidy again, the Victorian-style street urchins disappeared, and out stepped a whole suburb of smart men and women, boys, and girls. Alright, so these were practical rather than fashionable clothes, but at least they were clean and hard-wearing, and if they got holes in, nobody cared. After all, the clothes were free and recyclable in the replonator.

But of course you always pay. In return for this free food and free clothing, we’d lost our liberty. The government knew what they were doing. One day, my mother came home crying.

The office was closed today, she announced over a dinner of lasagna bars. I have no more work. So now it’s just you and me, kiddo.

But mum, you said before that they hadn’t paid you for ages because they assumed that once we had our replonators and free food, they could keep all the money to themselves.

It was more than that. It was somewhere to go. Something to do. I enjoyed my job and the people. It was fun. Imagine if they closed your school.

I smiled at that prospect. What kid wouldn’t?

Luckily for our parents, education didn’t stop, but it did change. Primary school was much the same. We still did basic maths, English, geography, history, and sport, but secondary school changed drastically. At 11, they psychometrically tested us and, based on the results, streamed us into various jobs.. They trained some for the secret police, others mechanics, kelp farmers, bureaucrats, doctors, builders, factory workers and so on. I, like most people, would become a bureaucrat. But that’s ahead of where we are now.

It was at about this time that a new building began being rising from the dirt. They utilised large green blocks of replenlon and shanghaied every unemployed man and woman into building it. Within 3 months, it rose high above the surrounding area. A giant middle finger to everything around it. Little did we know at the time what it would become a symbol of.

The office opened to a huge fanfare. After years of decreasing activity and travel, this was a big event. The local dignitaries, yes, we still had them, would be situated halfway up. But at the top, overlooking the surrounding area, were snipers. Rumour said they had orders to shoot on sight, but despite the threat, we saw no one get harmed. They sent troublemakers to the cage to cool down for a few days.

This is the world that my son, Max, was born into.

One [1]

Meet the gang

W atch it, twerp, he mumbled into the collar of his jacket as a car sped through a grit-grey puddle and splashed the muddy water over him. As it seeped into the gap between his green socks and his green shoes, soaking the bottom of his green trousers, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

Can I help you, Max? I saw what happened. Damn, government ganboos think they run the country.

Technically they do, but thanks, Jen, I’m fine. Nothing that a new set of clothes won’t fix.

Are you heading to the office?

Yeah, another day at the finger. It’s hardly taxing work, but it stops me going out of my mind staring at my 4-walls.

You mean you don’t get a warm fuzzy feeling shipping more replenlon to the population of this administrative zone?

As she smiled, Max cheered up, and then he noticed something. Something prohibited. Something which shouldn’t even exist. Tucked behind her left ear, she’d placed a red carnation. It wasn't real. Roses stopped growing after introducing keul and the ban on pesticides. He beamed back. He liked her sense of humour and her sarcasm, but something didn’t feel right about her. Her wardrobe was unlike the other women he knew. Jennie wore designs that not only strayed from the usual, but threw away society’s rules. Max suspected she’d hacked her replonator. But that was illegal. People ended up in the cage for less and that was after the boot-boys got through with you. She was dangerous, so why did she enjoy spending time with him? Sure, he was young and, with his long black hair, brown eyes, and a dimple in his chin, he’d been told he was handsome. Although the closest he got to leading an exciting, risky life was a rare trip to London to ride along the tube lines.

He pondered this as they continued walking towards the building in silence.

Constructed from giant replenlon blocks, the 42 story edifice rose from the neighbouring buildings. A monstrous middle digit, flipping the bird to the surrounding area. This monument to government groupthink was indistinguishable from the one his father and his grandmother before him worked in. All new constructions were identical. Officially called the Local Authority Control Centre (LACC), its employees administered everything for the region. Unofficially, locals referred to it as the finger. The more power your department has over the populous, the higher up the building you are. The surveillance team was on the highest floor. Max and Jennie, as operatives in the replonator service desk division, taking orders for kuel and repair requests for replonator products, were near the base. Just above the delivery warehouse. They were jobs they’d trained to do since school.

On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in 8-hour shifts, Max answered calls from the public. By law, he was required to work at least 12 hours a week. But, by working 24, he stayed out of his nine square meter apartment and earned extra liquid. Later, he exchanged it for alcohol or saved it for larger items manufactured in the community’s replonator.

Do you want to go out tonight? Jennie asked Max when she next saw him during lunch.

Sorry, I’ve already got plans.

Oh, no problem, she said.

But how about tomorrow?

We’ll see,

As she walked away, she turned and smiled at him.

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Four hours later, Max sat on the edge of his bed, twisting an old valueless ten-pence piece between his fingers. Silently, he listened to the conversation between Siobhan, Marcus, Leo, and Angeline.

I am so sick of this food. There has to be more than this. I heard of a man who got so bored he killed his dog just to find something different to eat, said Leo. Taking his time, he unwrapped his third bar of green seaweed of the day.

Come on, Leo, that’s an urban myth. Nobody would do that. These are great. This week I had strawberry flavour for my dinner.

How do you know it was strawberry, Siobhan? Have you ever seen or tasted one? If we were told it was roast rabbit, we’d believe it.

It’s what it said, so on the packet. Why would they lie to us? Each Monday, we're given 21 different bars. These seasonings must come from somewhere. During the last 20-years, I don’t remember a single meal being the same.

They’re on a rotation..., said Marcus.

What’s that?

A while ago, I created a spreadsheet to track the flavours of the bars. There’s a pattern to it. It’s not an easy one to find. But it’s there. Every 64 days, you’ll see the reintroduction of types from the first week. Not in the same order, but they’re there. In the tenth week, they add two original recipes and the old ones are retired. Only to be reintroduced sometime later. That appears to be random.

And you’re only telling us now?

Sorry, Max, it didn’t seem relevant.

Ignore him. He’s grumpy because Jen won’t say if she’ll meet him or not.

So Marcus, how often have you seen new flavours in the last couple of years?

Entirely different? Five to ten. Not many. They probably think it’s enough to keep most folk happy. After all, we’re creatures of habit. You have to remember this is only my sample. I’m not sure if someone somewhere else is on another schedule. We know they trial new recipes in other regions because they’re traded. I’d like to find others who’ve also kept diaries to compare notes.

You’re such a geek, Marcus. Angelina smiled as she gave his shoulder a gentle punch. They kissed fleetingly and grinned inanely at each other.

Right, let’s get down to business before we lose these two for the night, said Max.

You’re just jealous. Let’s have a drink, said Leo.

They raised their green glasses and drank their green government issued distilled kelp drinks.

Order, order for the inaugural meeting of the Roses, said Angelina.

Wait, what? Roses? Why roses?

Because Max, they’re pretty to look at but covered in thorns. So watch how you handle them.

They’re also illegal, said Leo with a smile.

Max shrugged. They’d settled this on their own, without him, and he resolved not to mention it again.

Roses! they said in unison. Not wanting to disturb the neighbours through the paper-thin green walls, they whispered. If spoken too loud, neighbour’s ears would have pricked up, and reports written. Although the regime hadn’t forbidden people from expressing opinions or protesting, you could find yourself in the cage for a week, and that would mean no work and no extra kuel. And, for Max’s plans to succeed, he’d need as much kuel as he could get.

Two [2]

Borne-oh

M umi, mumi! Jamal, a dirty, tanned little urchin with a cheeky grin and dressed in nothing more than a piece of cloth around his waist, called for his mother. She was following behind, carrying a backpack of ten genetically altered Ginman ¹ saplings grown until they weighed about 2 kilos each and were about a meter high. It was quite a weight, but her shoulders were strong, and her legs had been taking her up these hills for almost thirty years.

When she reached Jamal, she saw before her a short, stocky man with a full head of black hair and a broad face of stubble lying in the fetal position. Caught in a humane orangutan trap used to relocate the simians before loggers felled the trees, he was asleep now. Using an aboriginal trick, the cage’s bars were coated in a secretion gathered from the sap layers of a native tree. The tree’s liquid seeped through the primate’s skin to knock them out for long enough to transport. The effect on a much smaller man was to anaesthetise them for at least eight hours.

Jamal, run down to the camp and get Bill.

The small boy picked up his bare feet and turned on his heels to rush back down the hill.

Now, mister, I assume you don’t speak Indonesian, so I’ll switch to English and tell you what has happened.

The man opened his eyes a little and looked through the gap at Lara.

"You’re sitting in an orangutan trap. We use them to move the apes around the forest whilst we harvest the wood. The heaviness you feel in your limbs comes from a muscle relaxant we coat the bars with. Don’t worry, it’ll wear off in the next three to four hours. Don’t fight it. Just close your eyelids