The Golden Locket

The Golden Locket by Jeff Naparstek

The timing was impeccable. The year was Twenty-Two Fifty Six. The Third Great Depression in less than three hundred years had devastated the economy. The government offered to "help" families with their financial struggle. The price of gold had plummeted to forty-two dollars an ounce. The Senate approved a stabilizing cap of one hundred dollars an ounce for anything purer than eighteen karats.

It appeared innocent enough. At first, the government offered to buy everyone's gold. Commercials and newspaper ads all aimed at "helping families" flooded the airwaves.

People responded in droves as sentimentality had long since fallen out of fashion in return for financial survival. It was the most successful marketing campaign since the privatization of water nearly a hundred years before.

Securing gold for government's production of "the chip" was a main priority. The government claimed it was for a device that touted global security in an already aggressive and unstable world. Installation of the chip in countless locations around the globe would monitor any aberrations in weapons production.

But its true purpose was more insidious. It would monitor nearly every aspect of private citizens, their whereabouts, their habits, all under the guise of security.

Three months later, after a joint session of Congress, it outlawed any private ownership of the element. The one hundred dollars an ounce offer was conveniently rescinded and any gold found in private homes would be confiscated. The government authorized surprise searches of private residences, safe deposit boxes and any other places people might hide the newly established contraband. But the ACLU was able to curtail more than one search per family, citing that it would constitute harassment.

Of course, there were holdouts. "Old schoolers" who would hold on to their family heirlooms no matter what the government did. And there were always creative places to hide their stuff.

A new wave of hackers was already cropping up to scramble the information retrieved by the government. In every society, just as in the body, there will always be a faction to strive for homeostasis.

Tamara was given the heart-shaped pendant ten years prior by her paternal grandmother Sadelle. It was a locket passed down from Sadelle's grandmother's grandmother. At least six generations ago - nearly a hundred fifty years. Inside the locket was another keepsake. A tiny tuft of hair of one of her ancestors, Martin Rubinstein. He was responsible for negotiating the peace that ended the Fourth Great War. Many viewed Rubinstein's treaty as the single greatest accomplishment in stopping the human race from annihilating itself.

Tamara worked at the genetic research facility just outside Norfolk, Virginia. She was at the top of her class in Genetics at Columbia. Her research helped save twelve species from extinction. Her thesis was about the reanimation of dormant DNA.

She carefully opened the locket and gazed at its contents. The DNA of Martin Rubinstein. Resurrecting a person like that would be a boon to the planet on a par with DaVinci, Einstein, Newton or Tesla. But it would take her fifteen years of nature and nurture to even attempt it. There'd be so many variables. Her knowledge of Martin's childhood was sketchy at best. But a great mind is still a great mind. He would excel in any direction he chose.

Tamara could create a viable gestational cell cluster from the DNA, but she'd need a little help implanting it in her uterus.

Betsy McKinney was her closest friend at Columbia. They'd do all-nighters cramming for their Organic Chem exams while binging on munchies thanks to Betsy's "mini spliffs". Betsy continued on to Med School at NYU and established a successful gynecological practice in New York's West Village. And Betsy was trustworthy.

In the lab, Tamara prepared a series of Petri dishes and a glucose-based nutrient solution for the cells, all heated to exactly ninety-eight degrees. By infusing the solution with various combinations of amino acids and exposing the hair cells to it, she created a primordial slurry of Martin Rubinstein, soon to be capable of implantation. And in nine months, Voila!

Martin was an easy baby. During the first six months, it was one feeding a night and right back to sleep. Then came solid food and the odious diapers. But Martin was still a happy baby. Why shouldn't he be? A great meal plan, laundry service, fun and games.

Tamara home schooled him and taught him about the well-hidden truths about history. At five, he loved Geometry. By six, he devoured Algebra. When he was

seven, he'd already surpassed Tamara's Math capabilities. She enrolled him in the Mathematics Institute. Young Martin was an expert in Calculus in under a year.

Tamara could still exercise her maternal instinct despite the fact she never found suitable husband material. Any potentials had great hiding places. But to be fair, so did she. She sequestered herself in the lab for weeks on end when engaged in a project which only exacerbated any prospects for a change in her relationship status.

As Martin grew, Tamara's need for spousal companionship diminished. Martin was a handful. A brilliant handful. Questioning everything. Accepting nothing at face value. His powers of reason were boundless as they were in his prior incarnation.

He was especially fascinated with electrical engineering. At fifteen, he was sketching plans for a high-speed rail system that would double the speed of the Chinese version at nearly Mach 1.

Martin couldn't understand the concept of inordinate greed, whether from corporations or wealthy industrialists. How could anyone need billions of dollars for their own personal use and still bear witness to the rampant poverty and disease around the globe?

By age seventeen, he was petitioning government officials to revamp the tax structure to make it more equitable for ninety-nine and a half percent of Americans. His essay, The Stupidity of War severely chastised politicians and war mongers as criminals against humanity.

Tamara imbued Martin with a progressivism of thought from birth and made him street smart enough to layer his identity.

But whether corrupt or not, money is still power. It can be used for programs that benefit society or as a means of smearing and denigrating those who wish to expose the corruption.

The voice of corruption is loud and pervasive. Martin was underground and was savvy enough to disguise his locations. But corruption is unrelenting. And the corrupt never want to lose their power. At any cost. When smearing and lawsuits are no longer effective in silencing their enemies, the corrupt move to more nefarious means.

A billion dollar contract was placed on Martin's head with million dollar rewards for any snippet of information leading to his whereabouts.

Tamara and Martin had long since changed their appearance and identity to stay alive. Only an intimate handful would know where either of them were at any point in time. Corruption also manages to get the law on their side. Strange how that works. Truth and justice only seem to exist in the movies. The truth is silenced or discredited and its purveyors are besmirched and denigrated.

The consensus among their pursuers was universal. "Sooner or later, they have to come up for air." With an army of detectives and private investigators at their disposal, the political machine located Tamara and Martin at a small, out-of-the-way motel in San Mateo.

At twenty minutes to seven on a brisk September morning, a SWAT team arrived. Two black pickup trucks with rocket launchers were in their arsenal. Without any warning, the two rocket launchers fired a barrage at the motel. The attack lasted twenty-two seconds. The explosions had the entire structure engulfed in flames. Marksmen stood by for anyone attempting to escape. No one did. They hadn't fired a single shot. Thirty seconds later, the SWAT team pulled out.

Later that day, the media reported the motel fire resulted from a leaking gas pipe. No mention was made of Tamara or Martin, only that nineteen people had perished.

Martin Rubinstein was not without his network of information. He and Tamara heard about the impending attack and left the motel three hours prior.

Memorials and vigils were held by Martin's followers as it was assumed that he and Tamara were killed in the attack. Laying low would be their greatest asset as it also led the political machine to believe that he was no longer a threat.

One year later, on the anniversary of the motel attack, a video surfaced with Martin naming all who he'd found were associated with the attack. Senators, representatives, corporate heads, police personnel, and local legislators were in the litany.

Martin's "army" was now a formidable force to be reckoned with. No longer did they sit by and wring their hands waiting for their do-nothing politicians to act. They took matters into their own hands. But they couldn't have accomplished it without the help of the legislators and police who were on their side.

The evidence against the corrupt machine was impressive and irrefutable. E-mails, memos, bank records showing payoffs, offshore and foreign accounts, a serious paper trail.

Society could finally begin to heal. Martin and Tamara drove down Pacific Coast Highway to see some family in Los Angeles. Tamara leaned over and gave her son a peck. "I'm very proud of you, Martin."

"Thanks, Ma."

Tamara sat back in the seat and fondled the heart-shaped necklace around her neck.