The Nobody People Bob Proehl (pocket ebook reader .txt) 📖

“Fancy word,” Hargrave says. He’s the kind of guy who got the shit kicked out of him at private school, then decided elites were scum. “How could I dehumanize you? You’re not human. You never get tired of telling us.” He sets his glass down. “I’ve heard our government has a device that can—” He makes a gesture like polishing a mirror that takes in Fahima’s entire body. “—shut all this down.”

Fahima flinches. She can feel Bishop’s eyes on her. “We have no such technology,” Lowery says, trying to reassure Fahima and Bishop. Bishop asks her the question in her head, but Fahima shuts him out.

“My employers may have…better sources of information than a junior senator,” Hargrave says. “But let me ask you, Miz Deeb. Have you ever tried not being a Resonant?”

Fahima drops her fork. “What the actual—”

“Now I’m being kind,” Hargrave says. “I could have insinuated that you have a disease and it would be foolish not to accept an available cure. But I’m using your words here. I’m talking in terms of ability. I’m an excellent singer, did you know? Almost went to Juilliard on a music scholarship.” He pronounces the school’s name to make his contempt for it clear. He sounds like a farmer calling in pigs. Jooooo-lliard. “But I don’t go around singing all the time. I don’t. Simple as that. So instead of floating in the sky, complaining you’re being dehumanized, have you considered keeping yourselves to yourselves? Maybe if you don’t bother us humans, we won’t bother you.”

“I don’t think anyone’s asking that,” Lowery says. “We want all Americans to be their best, true selves. Jeff, if you want to sing, there’s a piano in the next room. I’ve been known to tickle a little ivory myself.” Lowery twiddles his fingers in the air and laughs. No one joins him. “This nation is built on the talents of its citizens,” he continues. “That’s all these abilities are. Talents. Gifts. Like your singing voice, Jeff.” He crams some greens into his mouth, trying to affect informality. He points his fork at Hargrave. “I think you hit it on the head with that one.” Hargrave huffs, happy to be affirmed even if his point’s been missed.

“I can see that when it comes to philosophy,” Lowery continues, “we’re going to be…” He bumps his fists together. He nods as if this has deep meaning. “But I think there must be some common ground on a policy front. That’s where I live, at the level of policy. Let a man believe what he wants to believe. It’s the law that matters. And on that level, I think I have something.”

He pauses, waiting for them all to lean in. Despite herself, Fahima does, ready to be told a secret.

“Registration,” Lowery says.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” Fahima says.

“Miss Deeb, I feel where you’re coming from,” he says. He looks pained, gesturing at her with his thumb like he might press her nose playfully. “The movement to register Muslims in this country came at the end of a decade of profiling and Islamophobia.”

“You realize that shit’s not over?” she asks.

“A registry of Resonants could be created not out of public fear but for the public good. To demonstrate trust between our—” He fumbles for a word. Fahima can’t pick the right one either. Peoples? Nations? “—between you and the federal government,” says Lowery. “Kevin, I was thinking the other day about those kids you sent out to the great Pacific garbage patch.”

“Senator Lowery,” Bishop says, “this idea is not within the realm of things we’ve discussed.”

“Hear me out, Kevin,” Lowery says.

“We were talking about protections,” Bishop says. “About civil rights.”

“Let the man talk, Kevin,” says Hargrave. He’s grinning like the cat who ate the cream.

“Those kids,” Lowery says, shaking his head. “It was a miracle. A major environmental disaster. Insurmountable. The low-end estimate is it’s a patch of trash as big as the state of Texas. They cleaned it up in a day. One day. I speak on behalf of a grateful nation, a grateful world, and say that deserves recompense. But these kids, they’re not government employees. Government employees go through vetting. They have files. They’re in a database that indexes their talents. When a job opens up and someone in the database is suitable for it, well, we’ve got that information right there.”

“You want us conscripted?” says Bishop. “Our service for our freedom?”

“Conscription is a very negative way of looking at this,” Lowery says.

“Well, I think it’s a fine idea, James,” says Hargrave. “An excellent first step.”

“First step to putting us in camps,” Fahima says. “To mass deportation.”

“No one’s talking about camps, young lady,” Hargrave says. Fahima isn’t sure if she’d rather have him call her by her first name or young lady. “Regarding deportation, I do think the U.S. government should consider that this country overwhelmingly bears this burden. Why is this not a problem in France or Germany? Why should we be the only nation saddled with it?”

“We were born here,” Fahima says.

“Not all of you,” Hargrave says. “That school you run brings them in from all over the world.”

“See, I think that’s an opportunity,” says Lowery, turning to Fahima to make his case. “We’re the country that stands to reap the benefits of you.”

“And if we don’t want to be reaped?”

“Like you said, James,” Hargrave says. “We disagree on philosophical points. But as to policy, I think it’d make people sleep easier. This won’t surprise you, but a lot of my listeners are also gun enthusiasts.”

“Like the boy who opened fire on my students,” Bishop says.

Hargrave waves the accusation away. “When you say registration, they clutch their pearls. Same as Kevin and the young lady are doing. The gummint gonna come seize ma guns! But it doesn’t mean that at all.” The mocking tone he adopts and drops drives a fearful point home to Fahima. He doesn’t believe in shit. He’d throw them all on the fire to show he could do