Hadrian's Rage by Patricia-Marie Budd Read Free Book Online Page B

list of hate crimes you shared with us on your last Salve! peaceful? Do you call the murder of a four-year-old boy loving? Do you call the numerous beatings of our heterosexual citizens humane?”
    “No, of course not, but—”
    “There you go, grabbing at your ear again. What does that mean anyway?”
    “No, hate crimes are not peaceful, but…heterosexuals shouldn’t flaunt themselves in public, giving our children the message that it is okay to be straight.”
    “It is okay.”
    “No, Mother, it isn’t—Mother, why did you sign the constitution? Why did you agree to its wording?”
    “I was outvoted. Oh, dear, you are going to pull that earlobe off if you’re not careful.”
    “And now—you are using the current political climate and your power as the last founding family member to—to—”
    “Just say what you have to say, dear.”
    “—to corrupt our constitution.”
    “The word corrupt does not fit this context. No, dear, not corrupt—amend.”
    “I’m sorry, Mother, but our time has run out. I hope you will join us again.”
    “That’s not very likely, is it? And dear, see a doctor about that ear. Oh, oh, oh, let me say it. I’ve always wanted to…
    Vale!”

A Detritus Fisherman’s Fiasco
    Although the role of a detritus fisherman is a dangerous one, it is deemed as critical to Hadrian’s existence as that of the military. Even so, it is a life seldom chosen out of want, or altruism; rather, such positions are filled out of desperation and need. Few willingly put their lives at daily risk, a risk, if statistics were ever revealed publically, that is actually greater than those known to the military. One need not fear having a bullet piercing his flesh; no, when one fishes out the refuse floating in the Bay, built up over centuries with human waste, one fears contamination. As well as radioactive materials, many dangerous chemicals and biohazards litter the world’s oceans, and much of that litter has found its way into Hudson Bay via its estuaries stretching down from the Arctic Ocean and east from the Atlantic. The average life expectancy of the detritus fisherman, colloquially referred to as “DF,” is said to be anywhere between forty-five and fifty years of age. The oldest known DF died at the ripe old age of fifty-eight. This is why over 90 percent of all DFs are from the re-ed class—that unwanted class of Hadrian citizens that has been discovered experimenting with heterosexual behavior before the age of twenty-one; that unwanted member of society that has required reeducation.
    The detritus fisherman is really nothing more than a glorified salvage-man, but no one working in this capacity feels any sense of glory in his or her work. It is simply a dangerous life, one compounded with difficult times and hard labor. Wolfgang Gaidosch, known by close friends as Wolf, is no stranger to hard times and backbreaking labor. Backing away from his post for a minute, Wolf presses his knuckles between his shoulder blades and cracks his back. Glancing about him circuitously to ensure no pier manager is looking his way, Wolf stealthily removes a half-smoked cigarette from his pocket and lights up quickly. After a few drags, he carefullyextinguishes it, hiding the remaining butt in his coverall pocket. He had been employed as a level one DF, first by Hunter Enterprises and now with Hadrian National, and never once has he been offered a promotion or even heard back from any of his applications. So much for fifteen years of service! Bitterness is a hard pill to swallow, and Wolf no longer even tries. He just chews on it and spits when his mouth gets that all too familiar foul metallic taste. Unfortunately, he has been doing this for quite some time. I’d change jobs , he muses, but to do what? This is the only low-end job out there that actually offers benefits thanks to Geoffrey Hunter’s intervention when the fisheries was still a family-owned company. And sadly, he