Fiction Short Story - Contemporary Thriller
TO BLEND A GYPSY
By Anne Sindalaar
Copyright 2018
SYNOPSIS
Fifteen years from now, in the shocking wake of the Third World War remote nations
like Australia and New Zealand, which have survived widespread global oblivion, are
forced to restructure their society to deal with an economy no longer dictated by the big
oil nationals. A reversion to subsistence survival sees a strong resurgence in farming,
cropping and manufacturing in a society that has been forced to embrace alternative
fuels and self-funded progress.
From the shattered remnants of the old world order grows a renewed hope for a
thriving future, yet there is a price that the people must pay for this new age. In the
effort to regain prosperity while providing security, the government imposed harsh new
measures on the multi-culturally diverse citizens.
In this tale we learn of one young Australian woman’s struggle to regain civil liberties
that have been denied her generation.
To Blend A Gypsy
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TO BLEND A GYPSY
Mariah tried to hurry but her trembling fingers made the task harder. With a grimace
she cursed the buckle on her backpack. “Open, damn you!”
The dark eyes of her gypsy heritage flashed with a mixture of frustration and
anxiety. She pushed back curling strands of wayward hair from her face and wiped away
the tiny beads of sweat forming on her brow as she struggled with the task. When the
buckle gave and access was granted, Mariah hastened to gather up a few of her most
cherished belongings. She began sorting what she could and could not take. A backpack
and another small bag was all she could carry on a bicycle.
They would be here for her soon. She had to be gone before that fateful knock
fell upon her door.
The Blenders. She had received notification at work today that her “Blending”
had been brought forward and she was expected at the Prep facility immediately. They
never gave you much warning, too many people tried to escape if they had the chance.
Her notice said to expect them at her “place of residence”, after work. They would wait
while she packed then escort her to the government vehicle waiting outside her unit,
then whisk her away to impoundment at the nation’s institution dedicated to cultural
blending.
A few months ago they had introduced her to the man who had been selected by
a Federal computer as suitable to be her husband. A pleasant young Australian-born
man, of Greek immigrant parents. He had been polite when they met but Mariah
suspected that he too loathed the idea that they would be paired off by the Cultural
Blending Act and be expected to produce mixed-race children to populate the country.
The department of Cultural Blending impounded the female party of a pending
blended marriage in order to prepare her for her new role as a married citizen. They
“prepped” her with hormones for two weeks prior to the ceremony to aid conception as
soon after the marriage as possible. The department had ruled that a new nuclear family
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would be more cohesive than two strangers forced to cohabit together as man and wife
in an arranged marriage so an immediate pregnancy was optimal.
Mariah contemplated the cause of this system of cultural manipulation. Many
believed that it seriously contravened every aspect of civil liberty. And yet, amazingly,
the majority had voted it into law. She knew that it had been a knee-jerk reaction to the
Third World War.
A seething hotbed of unrest, in 2021 Middle Eastern hostilities had kindled a
conflict of devastating proportions, unleashing atomic war on the United States, Israel,
Europe, China and the Soviet Union plus any neighboring countries within missile range.
The response was retaliation on an unimaginable scale and it was all over very
quickly. The Pacific region had escaped most of the missile exchange, but vast areas of
the northern hemisphere had been laid to waste. The human toll had been unthinkable.
World trade ground to a halt and Australia found herself cut off and on her own, facing
new and pressing agendas including how to survive without oil imports and trade with
the rest of the world.
Fervent new political parties dominated the shocked nation, promising to solve
the new crises facing the country. “Cultural Blending” was among the dominant
platforms, with Wendel Cates and the New Age party promising to prevent any risk of
further hostility fuelled by cultural hatred.
Australia was multicultural, peopled by ethnic groups that had migrated from
those very countries that had ignited the third world war. Terrified that extremist
elements would devastate their own society, laws were quickly passed aiming to
remove this threat to Australia’s peace and security for once and for all. Starting
immediately, no marriages between persons of the same cultural background would be
permitted. All young citizens would be matched and married by the government’s newly
created “Blending Bureau”. Once their education was completed, citizens were paired
off with a member of a different cultural background and legally married.
Mariah picked up a framed photograph of happier times. Her family beamed out
at her, all broad smiles and flashing teeth. Mama, younger brother, Galen, Grandmama
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and cousin Jose, with one brown arm thrown companionably across Mariah’s shoulders.
Sadly, Papa wasn’t in the shot for he had been holding the camera that day. Her gaze
rested on the mischievous grin of her brother. They looked alike, both inheriting their
mother’s wide green eyes, generous mouth and wavy, chestnut-colored hair. Galen had
ended up with their father’s vigorous, dark eyebrows, but she had fortunately got her
Mama’s finely arched eyebrows. She sighed and swiped away tears on her cheeks with
the back of her hand. She would never see them again.
Stuffing the photograph into her bag, Mariah turned her attention to her tiny
bathroom. Swiftly she gathered up and packed the minimal necessities. Bring as little as
possible, Cesar had cautioned. She had to travel light, but it was hard making split
second decisions on what to take.
She packed the basics then gathered up her entire supply of precious birthcontrol pills. She had gotten these on the black market, just like her friends had been
forced to do. Women were not permitted to have babies with anyone other than the
partner chosen for them to blend with, to ensure that all births were mixed-race.
Unsanctioned pregnancies discovered outside this structure were terminated if early,
and the babies confiscated if it was too late for abortion. The State adopted these
babies to childless couples of different ethnicities to further the goal of cultural mixing.
With immigration no longer a source of new citizens for Australia since the Third
World War, the negative population growth present at the turn of the century now
became a very real issue. The New Age party had addressed this crisis by ruling that,
after blending, the new couples were expected to produce a family as soon as possible.
The National Health system denied any woman access to birth control medication until
she had successfully delivered three living children. Unmarried women, therefore, had
strictly limited access to birth control. Naturally, people being people, a thriving black
market in fertility reduction flourished.
Mariah knew that her Mama’s sister, for example, had experienced an early
menopause, which had created a small windfall for Aunt Eliza. She did not reveal her
condition to her doctor, but continued to renew her prescriptions for the pill over many
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years. Useless to her, she sold the pills at shocking mark-ups to young women, like
Mariah, needing their protection.
It had become critical for Mariah to avail herself of black-market birth control
pills over a year ago, when she met Cesar. Well, she had not actually met him for the
first time, since she had known him from childhood. His family was also a member of
the Romany community and he had grown up in her neighborhood. Although two or
three years older than Mariah, he had been a good friend to her and Galen and they
had always enjoyed each other’s company until he left to attend university while she
was still at high-school.
Early last year they had bumped into each other again at a Romany community
funeral, and it was as if a light had snapped on and Mariah saw him in a whole new way.
The attraction was strongly mutual and they soon became secret lovers. Fortunately
Cesar was still unmarried, since the Cultural Blending Act allowed university students to
complete their tertiary studies before burdening them with a family.
Mariah knew she had to keep moving. Time was very short. An assortment of
underwear and light clothing went into the bag, along with a tracksuit for cooler
weather. Socks and boots followed, and a warm jacket. No room for glamourous or
fashionable items. The bag was overfull and she struggled to close it.
The sound of a car door slamming reverberated ominously in the street two
levels below. Above the backdrop of regular neighborhood street sounds, she heard
loud voices. Mariah hastened to the window.
Humming at the kerb outside the apartments where she lived, Mariah spied a
long, black Elektro-Kar. On the sidewalk beside it was gathered an official-looking group
of people, three wearing suits, one of them carried a briefcase, and two security guards.
There was an insignia on the side of the car but Mariah could not make it out clearly
from this angle. Yet, she knew what it was. The Department of Blending’s logo.
They were here. Time to go.
Hastily, Mariah cast about her apartment once more to see if she had missed
anything precious. No. All packed. She took up her bag and donned the backpack before
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fleeing out into the hallway and down the rear fire escape which took her to an alley
way running between her building and the one next door. Her blue bicycle was leaning
against the alley wall and she roped her bag behind the seat and knelt down beside it.
With shaking fingers, Mariah tried to dial the security code on the bike lock, but
her frenzied mind had gone blank.
“The code! Dammit, the code!” she muttered, biting back a sob.
“Hey! You!” she heard behind her.
Glancing over her shoulder, Mariah was shocked to see one of the department’s
security guards at the alley entrance. A bold department emblem was embroidered on
his chest pocket. He advanced into the alley, repeatedly calling her to report to the
waiting vehicle.
“Oh, stupid! Stupid!” Mariah derided herself, when she remembered the code.
Of course, it was 1120, the twenty for her current age and the 11 for the year of her
birth. With a half-crazed giggle she realized that the code would be inaccurate in
another two months, when she turned twenty-one. Swiftly she pulled the chain free and
dropped it onto the paving. She would not be needing it once she reached the harbor.
Hopefully, this would be her bike’s last journey with her as its rider.
The guard was coming uncomfortably close, and Mariah burst into action.
Mounting the bike, she sped away out the far end of the alley and down the hill, with
the futile shouts of the infuriated security guard rapidly fading behind her.
Mariah peddled strongly, heading out on the main road that led east to the Manly boat
harbor. She joined other cyclists, most of them wending their way home from work.
Keeping amongst other cyclists, she hoped to appear inconspicuous in case police
patrols had been alerted. You often heard a beat up in the news about how the police
had rounded up yet another blending escapee. Probably to deter others from trying,
Mariah thought.
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The cyclists shared the road with some bio-cars and a smattering of electric cars,
but most of the motor vehicles consisted of gas-fuelled buses and electric trams.
Citizens rarely owned cars themselves, most choosing to use public transport in city
areas, or bicycles. Since the demise of the oil-based vehicle, people tended to work
close to where they dwelt. Many had left the cities for rural areas where a rebirth of
farming and cropping provided a host of new job opportunities.
Solar street lamps now lit the way, and the fledgling night took on a life of its
own. Despite her anxiety, Mariah was comforted by the familiar sounds of the suburbs
settling into yet another evening, just like any other. She had to keep telling herself that
this was the last time she would be able to enjoy the sights and sounds of the city of her
birth, for tomorrow she would be on her way to New Zealand.
It had been Cesar’s idea. He had sailing friends, members of the yacht club. They
knew some people. For a considerable sum of money one could be smuggled out of the
country. Australia now traded heavily with its nearest neighbor, New Zealand. Being
remote like Australia, New Zealand had also been spared the devastation of the world
war. Consequently, there was plenty of sea-going traffic between the two countries.
New Zealand had responded to the post-war oil crisis in their own way. The
country had been much further along the path of alternative fuels than Australia at the
time of the war, and the loss of oil imports had a minimal effect. In response to a loss in
international trade, a subsistence farming culture rapidly blossomed with the country
returning to its rural roots even faster than Australia. Bartering at local markets became
the main small-town commerce and horse-drawn carriages even made a re-appearance
in local areas, carting produce to market. But the greatest difference between the two
countries lay in the arena of civil liberties. The Kiwis had not adopted Australia’s harsh
stance on multiculturalism.
In New Zealand Mariah would be free to marry anyone she wanted.
Cesar had made the arrangements and laid out the plan a couple of months ago,
when she was first notified of her blending match. She had a modest trust fund, an
inheritance from her grandfather, who had died when she was sixteen. She had not
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been able to touch it until she turned twenty. Just as well, because now it had become
her escape fund.
Mariah picked up the pace. It would be a long ride, but she was young and fit
and had all night. Cesar had told her that the yacht would not be leaving until high tide,
at dawn the next morning. It was all the time she needed.
Now she was travelling alongside a park. At the square in the park she noticed
placards trampled on the ground and a couple of banners half torn down. She
recognized this as the scene of a rally featured in the news last night. There had been
demonstrations which had become violent when the police moved in, and there had
been arrests.
When the Blending Act became law, there had been a strong back-lash from the
gay rights movement. Understandably, they objected to being forced into heterosexual
marriages. Constant lobbying was bringing about modifications to the Act, which would
allow for gay and lesbian citizens to become exempt from the law. Naturally there was a
catch to the victory. All homosexual citizens applying for exemption would have to
submit themselves to sterilization, to ensure that no “accidental” unsanctioned
pregnancies could occur.
It was this latest development that had sparked yesterdays rally. Women’s rights
movements picked up on the loophole and had been lobbying vigorously along the same
lines. If it was okay for the gay community to be exempt so long as they agreed to be
sterilized, why couldn’t heterosexuals also apply for exemption from Blending if they
too agreed to be sterilized.
The government’s stance, however, was that the nation’s population was in
decline and productive marriages were vital to ensure growth and progress. They
argued that the LGBT community was already an insignificant source of births and their
loss to the population growth cause would barely be noticed. The sterility clause was
mainly in place to prevent large numbers of heterosexuals pretending to be gay to gain
exemption from blending, since most people valued their fertility and would accept
blending if it ensured their ability to have children.
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Mariah shook her head. The upshot of all this would be gay people having to
undergo stringent, even draconian, scrutiny to qualify for sterilization and exemption
from blending. Where would the madness end, she wondered.
The number of other cyclists to ride with was dwindling and Mariah was
beginning to travel alone for long stretches. She felt her anxiety level rising. She would
stand out as suspicious if a police patrol spied her. To avoid the risk of being questioned,
she kept to side streets wherever possible.
Mariah paused for a rest. Her breathing was even and despite her anxiety her
heart-beat was comfortingly regular and strong. Evenso, she was becoming weary and
wished she had snatched a chance to eat something before fleeing, to help keep up her
energy.
“Back to it, old girl,” she told herself, as she mounted the bike and headed east
for the final haul. She would soon reach the harbor and sanctuary. Cesar would be
waiting for her on a boat called the “Esmeralda”. He had arranged for them to work as
deck-hands on the crossing to New Zealand. That was part of the deal. That and twenty
five thousand dollars each. Fortunately she had sufficient funds in her account, with
over forty thousand dollars from her inheritance plus interest. Cesar needed eight
thousand of that, for as a student he had not been able to save enough to pay for his
crossing on his own.
Cesar. Mariah’s thoughts dwelt on her man, as she peddled ceaselessly, closing
the distance between them. He was a gentle, large-built man sporting the heavy, dark
features typical of their gypsy forbears. She loved his liquid brown eyes and the thick
mane of his hair. They were perfectly suited, she thought, same cheerful outlook, similar
values and ideals and they shared a wicked sense of humor, which Mariah believed was
a vital ingredient in any lasting relationship.
She was travelling alongside another community park and playground, all dark
and mysterious depths in the gloom. Tall tree-shadows writhed above her in the evening
breeze. A low timber post guard-rail ran alongside the pavement to keep vehicles off the
play areas. Every few meters gaps had been left to enable foot traffic to enter the park.
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A choke of fear closed Mariah’s throat when a spotlight beamed across her back
from behind. It threw grotesque shadows in front of her.
“Stop, cyclist. Pull over to the kerb!” boomed a mega-phone distorted voice.
Snapping a glance back over her shoulder, Mariah saw what she already knew
was there. A police patrol vehicle, narrowing the distance between them.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Mariah veered left, mounted the pavement and
crossed into the park between one of the openings in the timber fencing. Swiftly, she
pedaled into the embrace of the park, hugging the shadows. Glancing back over her
shoulder again, she saw the patrol car still at the street. It could only enter the park at
the end, where vehicles had access to a carpark. Elated, Mariah charged onward,
crossing the park and re-emerging onto a road on the far side. She had shaken pursuit –
or had she?
To her horror, Mariah detected the distinctive, whooshing sound of a hoverpatrol unit. These fiends were the latest additions to the police force’s arsenal. Mariah
had seen an article about them when they were being first trialed. They were essentially
urban hover-craft, which enabled police pursuits to be conducted over off-road terrain
that normal vehicles could not cover. The police patrol had called for reinforcements, or
were they already out searching for her?
The hover patrol soon had her in their searchlight beam once more. Jinking and
turning, she fled across deserted back yards, keeping to no particular direction. She
thought she had shaken her pursuers when they hove into view once again at the far
end of the small suburban street she was speeding down. Then she remembered. They
carried heat-sensing devices, similar to the army, which could detect a person’s body
heat so they could be tracked and located even in the dark. Ducking into parks would
not save her now!
Mariah dropped her bike behind a bush and sprinted across a few more
properties, turning in random directions every few minutes. She spied a caravan in a
carport. She dropped to the ground and rolled beneath it.
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For a few moments, all was quiet save her own heavy breathing. Then she could
hear the roar of the hover patrol in the distance as it approached the homes in the
street where she was hiding. The ghastly sound of it loomed louder and louder, until it
passed directly over the house where she sheltered. There was no hesitation as the
patrol continued onwards, passing further and further beyond her position.
Mariah lay still, hugging the shadowy protection afforded by the caravan. She
could hear doors and windows opening, as residents, disturbed by the hair-raising roar
of the hover patrol, came out to see what was happening. Slowly the voices receded as
the good citizens of Manly once more retired to their TV programs or their beds. Yet,
still she remained huddled in the embrace of the caravan’s shadows. Taking the time to
catch her breath, Mariah was amazed to realize how deep her fright had been. She
realized she had been trembling, but that was subsiding, now.
The dank smells of the ground and the cobwebs beneath the caravan finally
registered and Mariah fought a compulsion to scramble out from under the caravan and
dust herself off. She forced herself to remain put for several more minutes. When she
could not detect any further sounds of pursuit she prepared to crawl out from under her
haven.
“Ahhh! Omigod!” she gasped, as something furry brushed her leg. Catapulting
out from under the caravan, while cursing in a very unladylike manner, Mariah spun to
see what had attacked her, before giggling out loud when a startled cat emerged from
under the caravan and took off like a missile across the back yard.
Remembering to keep quiet, Mariah hurried back to the bush where she had
dumped her bicycle, retrieved it and sped once more in the easterly direction that
would take her to the “Esmeralda” and Cesar’s waiting arms.
The last couple of kilometers seemed to take forever. Jumpy at every sound,
Mariah ate up the last stretch, tired and fearful, but determined to reach her goal. The
strengthening salty tang of sea-air lent encouragement, urging her onward.
Mariah was careful to avoid detection, even when she arrived at the boat
harbor. She ditched her bike and stole softly down to the pier. There were plenty of
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expensive yachts bobbing quietly at their moors but the place seemed empty of life. This
suited Mariah, she did not need any prying eyes. But which one was the “Esmeralda”?
Lamplight could be detected glowing from several of the yachts and Mariah
carefully checked out each one.
“Over here,” she heard, in a harsh whisper behind her.
She spun on her heels and spied a welcome sight.
“Cesar!” she cried and flew into his arms. She held tight to him, never wanting to
let go. To her surprise, she was sobbing.
“What is it, Bella?” he asked, using his pet name for her.
“Oh. Uh, it’s okay.” Mariah smiled and wiped at her tears.
Cesar took up her hand and kissed it, then brushed her lips with a tender kiss full
of promise. “Come.” He gestured toward a nearby yacht, tall and proud, sporting green
and white sails and smart, shiny trim. The “Esmeralda”.
Together they climbed aboard and went below deck, where Mariah was able to
tell him her adventures in between sips of hot coffee. Cesar gave her a bowl of sea-food
pasta and some bread.
“What happens now?” Mariah asked, feeling unbearably tired.
“You sleep. Before dawn the captain will be boarding. He will need you to
transfer your funds into his account. He has a lap-top you can use. I have already paid
my share, less the eight thousand. I will pay that back, too, you know. I can get work at
an engineering firm in New Zealand and finish off my degree there.”
Mariah nodded. She planned to get work as soon as possible, too, hopefully as a
dental assistant again. And she had ambitions to train as a dental nurse. She followed
Cesar wearily below deck and collapsed gratefully into a bunk in the forward cabin.
The coastline of a distant land had come into focus on the horizon. New Zealand.
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Mariah smiled and squeezed Cesar’s hand tight. They had been standing
shoulder to shoulder at the railing, eager to catch the first glimpse of their destination.
Their freedom. Their future.
She turned to him and they kissed, then laughed their delight. They had eluded
discovery during the crossing, posing as deck-hands when the Australian customs crew
had pulled alongside, boarded and inspected the captain’s cargo and documentation.
They had not even been spoken to by the officers, who performed their duty, stamped
the ship’s documents and departed.
After Mariah’s frightening escape and desperate bike ride, the customs
inspectors and some rough seas did not even faze her.
She realized that her gypsy forbears must have endured the same hurdles when
they trekked across Europe, unwanted by every nation, before braving the new world of
Australia as immigrants three generations ago.
She hoped that the restless blood of her ancestors would allow her to settle for
once and for all in this new land of opportunity. New Zealand.
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