Egregoros

The Last Soy Latte

By Whitney Hall

Daenerys stood with her hand on the inside knob of her apartment door. Face mask? Check. Book bag? Check. Bunker Bootz? Check. Her choice of foot protection this day was lavender, selected from an array of fashionable colors and patterns found on the hazmat preparedness aisle at Target. She had been in more of a marigold mood, but decided indulging her own fashion whims was less important than showing solidarity with her LGBTPSQ allies who (unbelievably, in the year 2049!) were still forced to pay for their own in-vitro fertilization, embryo rectification, and species or gender transition procedures in some Unity Regions. Smart phone? Check. Daenerys (of course) had an identification chip implanted in her hand, but had not yet been able to afford the implantable smart-screen stamp, so she still had to carry her exsomatic device for some purposes.

Trudging down four flights of stairs in her heavy, acid-resistant boots, Daenerys’ mind was as blank as the pale, yellowing walls of the stairwell. After leaning her full weight against the thick metal door to open it toward the street, her senses were overwhelmed with smells and sounds. Sewage, chemical runoff, and food waste stench emanated from the sludge on the street, dulled but not completely blocked by her snug mask. Sounds from diesel engines and honking horns painfully penetrated her ears. If only the anti-progressives had listened to reason in the pre-Unity era, and passed the Green New Deal before it was too late! But the dominant Pallid regime had implemented short-sighted, selfish, and capitalistic policies, and subsequent generations were forced to live with the resulting contamination.

Historically, Pallid culture had done so much damage. Cringing with shame, Daenerys felt the weight of the collective crimes of which her skin was emblematic. She had learned at Amazon Unity Region University that the guilt she bore was embedded in her DNA and that there was no available gene therapy to correct it. Though her debt to the Melaninated could never be fully paid, she was obligated by morality and by law to make every possible effort to mitigate the damage. Of course, she would have been happy to undertake the pallotype suppression exercises even without the threat of being fined or jailed. It was the right thing to do. And the medley of African, Indian, and Asian music that was softly playing at all times in her dwelling unit was actually kind of nice. If it kept her brain from falling into pallotypical mental patterns, which as a Pallid she would always be prone to do, well, that was a just a bonus. The small electric jolt that emanated from her implanted ID chip when Daenerys used archaic, pallocentric language (like referring to Unity Regions as “states,” a common habit of Allies who were old enough to remember life pre-Unity) had been far less pleasant, but by now she had mostly purged herself of the forbidden terms, so it was no issue.

The reparative equalization fees were another contribution Daenerys was happy to make. As the first head of the Department of Reparations, Secretary Ocasio-Cortez, had explained many years ago, Pallid slaveowners had kept one hundred percent of the product of Melaninated slaves’ labor, so allowing Pallids to keep twenty percent of their own earned income was comparatively generous. Considering how difficult it was for Daenerys to manage on twenty percent of her own earned income, she felt immensely grateful for the mercy displayed toward her by the Melaninated.

[continues]

As she trudged through the filthy streets toward her Team Labor Assignment, Daenerys’ attention was absorbed by the Ally speaking on the massive Unity News Network screen that hovered above the street. It was wonderful that the Unity Regions’ Central Authority had decided to place these screens in public venues in all the Unity Regions to make sure that everyone could be equally well-informed. Even though access to live-streaming had been declared a human right by the Continental Equity Council in 2032, there were still some Allies who lived only on their Universal Basic Income which was insufficient to pay for the cost of having the video feed delivered to their dwelling units. Daenerys sighed with resignation. So much work remained to be done.

The Unity News Network speaker, Kardashia Kumar, was a female-presenting Ally with sepia-toned skin who was wearing a bright red skirt suit. Xer lips were boldly hued with matching red lipstick. In a chipper tone, Kardashia delivered news that Central Authority Leader Jayden Jiminez had decided was most important for Allies to know that day.

As she plodded through the streets, Daenerys watched Kardashia calmly inform viewers that Netflix Unity Region Team Leader Malia Obama had been under fire since hacked photos emerged of her wearing a vintage, pre-Unity “Pride” t-shirt. An apologetic Obama defended her display of the pedophile-phobic-and transspecies-exclusive image, emphasizing that she felt the archaic symbol embodied her family’s heritage of promoting what, in less enlightened times, had been viewed as progress, and was not, as critics claimed, a promotion of hatred toward marginalized Ally groups.

Next, UNN Arts correspondent Ming-na Ogumbawa excitedly announced that the K-Pop band P#ndaz00a was set to receive the best song award of the year, marking the first time such an honor had been granted to a trans-species trio. The award would be presented by music legend Ivy Blue Carter at the Cardi B Center for Fine Arts in Detroit, capital city of the Proctor and Gamble Region.

Male-presenting ally Vladmir Al-Hazmi reported from the northwest that an angry, armed Melaninated Ally group continued to occupy a food distribution hub in the Walmart Unity Region. Ally Group leader Tyrone Randhawa was claiming that Team Lead Gunter Chen failed to provide adequate food rations to Melaninated dwelling compounds, while Chen blamed regional leaders for allowing the Unity Agriculture Authority’s armored food trucks to be seized by local gang members.

[continues]

Blue Skies

By Paleface

The old man sat at the same park bench he always used, his angular Germanic features still strong even through the mottled and sagging skin and his bright topaz eyes that shone even in the meager pre-dawn light contrasting deeply with his heavy poncho of raw wool and the steaming mate in his hand.

“Good morning!”

He always greeted Jones as he walked by on his way to the airbase, the heavily accented English now sounding perfectly familiar.

“Morning, Karl. The sky is almost blue today, isn’t it?”

He nodded in the direction of the band of light growing toward the east.

“That it is, Colonel Jones, that it is.”

Words they traded almost every day as encouragement, understanding how false they were. The reddish fog did seem a little milder that day, though Jones knew it had to be an illusion. It had only ever gotten worse since the smoke had arrived. The pale fragments of the moon crossed the sky like a rose-tinted ribbon as permanent reminder.

“I hear that today is the day, Colonel.”

“That it is, Karl, that it is.”

“Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to get back to my wheat fields, then.”

Little had grown in those latitudes for decades, ever since shortly after the impact. Though to the eyes the change seemed slight, the colder weather and diminished sunlight were enough to doom most crops even when no errant clouds of red smoke swept past like an ethereal plague of locusts consuming everything in their path. Karl, Jones knew, still kept his fields tilled and ready for sowing.

“Maybe.”

[continues]

Jones wasn’t very optimistic, and he knew that Karl wasn’t either. Little of what they had tried so far had managed to slow down the advance of the smoke, much less reverse it. But nothing had been as extreme as what they were about to try.

“You should have left with the rest, you know.”

The town had been emptied of its regular denizens months ago—the smoke was getting too close. In the last night it had gotten perilously closer.

“I have had my amargo in the morning here in this bench since I was a child and the sky was blue, Colonel, and it’s not a cursed cloud that will make me leave.”

By amargo he meant the infusion of ground up green leaves that he drank from a calabash gourd, a custom that seemed to take hold of everyone who moved to that part of the country. Some of his colleagues were still astounded that Jones had refused to even try it.

“I know, Karl, but I still worry.”

“You don’t have to, Colonel Jones. Good luck today, I’ll say a prayer for you.”

Karl, Jones knew, was a Catholic, which to him sounded strange. He was used to associating Germans with Protestantism, but he still didn’t know much about the history of those Germans who had colonized the south of Brazil centuries before. Maybe they had been Catholics all along, maybe they converted in the predominantly Catholic country. He had the feeling that this would be his last chance to ask. He didn’t.

“Thanks, Karl, we’ll need all the prayer we can get.”

[continues]

Jones nodded and walked off, toward the gates of the launch base that had been grafted into the small town. The round-topped mountains there were of a hard blue basalt covered in deep layers of rich topsoil. They were also old as the ages, and no seismic activity had been detected there ever since people started watching for such things. That made the place, according to those in charge, perfect for an underground launch base. It had seemed to Jones an excess in caution at first, but now he knew better.

He reached the main gate, little more than a block beyond the small park, and was quickly waved through to the elevator bunker. With a quick pause for a last look at the lightening sky, he stepped in and immediately felt the floor dropping from under his feet. The trip down took little over a minute and the capsule dropped him off a few paces from the briefing room.

Most of the other pilots were already there, filling the rows of seats in the small arena. A large screen behind the stage showed a three-dimensional schematic of the Earth, centered on the south pole. Red covered everything up to around the thirty-fifth parallel, following an irregular border. It struck him as dangerously close.

General Matthias was at the podium. The last pilots walked in right behind Jones.

“Good morning, gentlemen. As you can see,” he tapped the thick line that marked the edge of the cloud on the screen, “the red smoke expanded another few hundreds of kilometers since last night, continuing the surge that started five days ago.”

The pilots, seasoned and trained as they were, took in a collective breath. Officially everything to their south had been evacuated, but they knew many people had refused or been unable to leave. Their own town was supposed to hold only military personnel, yet many of the locals—like Karl—remained.

[continues]

“Yesterday’s assessment holds. Intelligence thinks it has finally completed whatever it is it was doing in Antarctica and decided it’s time to advance. Today’s mission is confirmed, standard profile. I don’t think we need to go over it again. Any questions?”

No one said a word.

“Launch is in half an hour, so get ready.”

They all stood up and began to walk out of the briefing room in silence.

“Good luck up there.”

The General’s voice didn’t carry much optimism. Jones had expected some banter, a little bragging or friendly jabs when the time for the live mission finally arrived, but he had nothing. They knew it wasn’t going to be that simple—they had studied in detail the footage and telemetry from all the lost drones, satellites, and the one manned mission that had been sent to try to spy what was happening over Dome Argus. No one felt like joking.

His passage through the prep room was quick and silent, the only words he exchanged with the orderlies who helped him don his flight suit were the confirmations required by the safety checklist. On his way out, as they wished him good luck, he merely nodded. Pilots exchanged salutes as they boarded the carts that would take them to their launch tubes, and were gone. Jones hummed an old song as he sped through the tunnel, reviewing the mission specs in his mind.

At the end of the tunnel he stepped off the cart, and the support team helped him climb into the cockpit. The visible section of his sub-orbital bomber looked like a winged flat chisel standing on its handle, sleek and angular, the matte black paint absorbing even the copious power of the floodlights. Most of it was hidden beneath the blast doors that at the moment acted as a floor, a massive rocket that would catapult him to the edges of the atmosphere in a little more than a minute.

“Let’s go over the pre-launch checklist.”

[continues]

Jones followed the checklist mechanically, his mind wandering through a past that he could scarcely convince himself had existed. He was too young to have seen blue skies and the idea still felt unreal to him. When he was born the moon had already disintegrated—an explosion in slow motion watched by an almost catatonic mankind.

The smoke had arrived soon after that, with the impact of lunar fragments that had killed millions. For a few months large red clouds had roamed the Earth, destroying crops and forests, killing animals and men, corroding machines and buildings wherever they passed. Panic killed millions more, but true horror only dawned when the clouds began to move against all winds and coalesce in the South Pole—when it had become impossible to deny its intelligence. That had been his world. His memories of it all as a child were of missing a moon and sky he had never seen.

“All set, Colonel, launch is in ten minutes. Good luck, hit that thing hard for us.”

The leader of the support team gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“Will do, Sergeant, we’ll hit it right in the mouth. With a nuke.”

The Sergeant laughed, saluted, and was off, the armored hatch that sealed off the tunnel through which they all had arrived closing swiftly behind him just as the immense blast doors that formed the floor began to slide apart. Ahead of him the tunnel continued for what seemed like miles, faint stars glittering in the maroon circle of sky at its end. Straining to look backwards he could glimpse the missile that would shoot him away, sinister in the dim light of the silo, the shaft of a gargantuan arrow with his bomber acting as a nuclear arrowhead.

He tried to smile, feeling that a little of the Sergeant’s enthusiasm had seeped into him.

“Five minutes to go, global synchronization confirmed.” The voice had come from mission control. The countdown continued on the center screen on his console—similar numbers would be flashing through forty-nine other cockpits on this base and fifty more in Australia. He willed it to go faster, a flash of eagerness to see himself rid of all the rock and metal that buried him briefly overcoming the sullen moodiness that appeared to have hit almost everyone in the base. The numbers dwindled.

“Thirty seconds.”

[continues]

The light coming from the bottom of the well grew brighter—the ignition flame had activated. He didn’t even pay attention to the final countdown, just felt a sudden pressure as he sank into his seat, saw the circle of sky growing rapidly as flames shot past the canopy and suddenly he was out and rising. The sky grew blacker and the stars brighter as reports from the command center streamed in through the radio. A clang, and the rocket was gone, his bird was free just as the day’s first rays of sunlight reached him.

Argentina rushed past below him, titanic clouds of dense smoke streaking the surface, now like the Earth’s own bleeding wounds, now like the tentacles of a lovecraftian beast gripping the world. They grew larger and more numerous as he sped toward the ever-shifting horizon, a crimson glow rising above the limb of the planet. Jones could now make out what looked like a violent sandstorm from which the glow emanated.

“Your distraction is arriving, boys, prepare to engage boosters.”

Jones checked his main screen, where myriad arrows converged on the south pole—one large group arrayed from the South American side, a mirror image of that from the Australian side, and several smaller formations coming in from above on all sides, well ahead of the bomber waves. The largest live ICBM launch in history, and it was the distraction.

He checked the position of the closest missile swarm and searched for it in the sky. His visor quickly highlighted them, up and to his left, moving in considerably faster than he was.

“They’ll cross the estimated reaction threshold in five seconds.”

Right on cue the cloud woke up. The scarlet sandstorm wall receded as if taking a breath, and a red colonnade rose at impossible speeds, sprouting branches as it grew—a forest of dead trees, many-fingered skeletal hands reaching for the incoming missiles, their long shadows reaching far to the west.

The first blinked out, then the second, then they started vanishing too fast for Jones to tell the order. Two managed to get through, though, and split into twenty independent warheads, their limited evasion systems doing what they could to throw them into diverging arcs. New branches of red smoke coalesced around the nearest pillar to intercept those, but he had no time to follow the action above: the signal arrived and he flipped the switch that would activate the booster rockets built into his bomber.

Suddenly crushed against the back of his seat, Jones focused on the sight ahead. The red sandstorm had done much more than recede: entire canyons had opened through it as it rose to fight the incoming nuclear bombardment.

[continues]

‘Rithm

By Charles Westgate

"Suspect mebbe armed, potenchully daynjerous." The cochlear implant relayed the Bureau's message.

Roddy reflexively pressed his hand to his ear. "Excuse me? Niqua, please repeat." As yet, he was unaccustomed to the enhanced realism update to the diction of his A.I. assistant.

"He got a gun," Niqua clarified. "Mebbe," she added. "Yoo def?"

"N-no, I'm not deaf," assured Roddy. He pulled up the collar of his trench coat against the night breeze and the hum of the levitrain. "There's just too much noise out here."

"A'ight, so I'mma gon' yell now."

"Niqua, silent mode," he pleaded.

"Nuh-uh!"

Roddy held back a sigh, fearing that any sign of frustration would only worsen his treatment. Instead, he turned his attention to the infovid on the door before him, featuring a smiling couple with grotesque faces discussing Super Helpful Assistant Niqua. It ended with the NIQUA logo and motto—"NIQUA's got 'rithm!"—at which time the magnetic lock released, permitting Roddy access to the levitrain's next car. There, he was met with a crowd of crying passengers. In an attempt to match their mood, he sniffled, but the stench made him cough instead. So he just wiped his dry eyes and made a faint sobbing sound.

The usual words were exchanged, some under hushed breath, others loudly. "Did you hear?" "Isn't it terrible?" "Tragic!"

Roddy nodded along, murmuring, "Tragic, so tragic" to no one in particular as he passed through toward the next car. Here and there, people were ingesting approved mood managers like Mirth-Now and Sad-Away, to no avail.

Due to a persistent brownout in the centropolitan power system, the levitrain provided energy to essential functions only, including holographic infovids for NIQUA's various biotech subsidiaries. These illuminated the passengers' tear-filled faces for Roddy's scrutiny. He casually searched for his target, notorious unregistered hacker Xypher Jones, wanted for violating the Terms of Service.

On account of the serious nature of his work as a Bureau Investigator, Roddy lacked the typical subdermal hormone regulator and social infochip of the weeping crowd. His information came not from the official public grid, but the Bureau itself. With a whisper, he asked Niqua what had happened, and she screamed in his ear that another pod tower had collapsed, this time in Happy Sunshine District 7. Thousands of tenants had died, with untold numbers still missing in the rubble. The District Manager responded by crying publicly, and announcing a search and rescue committee to formulate proposals for a possible search and rescue in the future. Roddy surmised that the committee's first decision was to request activation of Sad hormones.

The infovid on the next door featured a crying couple with grotesque faces discussing the recent tragedy and how NIQUA is here to help. The company logo was accompanied by a somber bass tone, not the usual upbeat xylophone jingle, followed by the text, "In these trying times, NIQUA's got 'rithm."

[continues]

As a suicide prevention hotline number flashed on the screen, the door unlocked and Roddy entered the next passenger car, finding a man sitting alone, his face dry.

Roddy walked up to him and asked cheerfully, "Did you hear the news?"

The man hesitated, then responded, "Oh yes, wonderful, so wonderful."

Roddy frowned: "Thousands died."

"I mean, ah, isn't it terrible?"

In a flash, the suspect was in a headlock, offering a string of muffled excuses why he shouldn't be. "M-my infochip is broken," he stuttered. "I'm on my way to have it fixed, honest. My emotions are regulated. See? I'm crying. I'm crying!"

"You're unplugged, Xypher," said Roddy. He tightened his hold. "And just by being on a levitrain, you've violated the Terms. You're under arrest."

Niqua yelled a shrill reminder in Roddy's ear: "Suspect mebbe armed! Potenchully daynjerous!" This time, he understood. When the Bureau said "potentially dangerous," it meant to be forceful. Roddy kicked Xypher's legs out from under him, and the two men fell together.

Once on top, Roddy reached under his coat for the taser on his belt. As Xypher felt a cold device jab his gut, he presented his palms and froze. "L-listen," he said. "I got data."

"Save it for later," said Roddy. "I'm taking you in." With his free hand, he reached around for his handcuffs.

"No, they'll kill me. The data is too hot. Don't you want to know why the pod towers keep collapsing? It's no accident."

Roddy shook his head, annoyed. He couldn't find his handcuffs.

"And the gas leaks," said Xypher. "The electrical fires. The contaminated water poisoning entire districts. It's only supposed to look like failing infrastructure. But it's not. Not entirely, anyway. Want to know why?"

"This is stupid," said Roddy. Where were those handcuffs?

Xypher went on: "Want to know why the deodorant shipments keep getting lost? Why everyone has been at each other's throats because they can't stand the smell? Why—" he paused. "Why you wake up sad?"

"How did you… shut up!" Roddy's free hand sought Xypher's neck.

"You secretly want a hormone regulator like the others, one that you can control. You're numb to the pills. But that's not the answer." Xypher put a hand on the white knuckles seizing his collar. "Look, I was just like you. I know people who can help. And we need more—" He stopped, his eyes fixated on the slight surgical scar near Roddy's ear covering the NIQUA implant.

All that could be heard then was the low, consistent hum of the levitrain's electromagnetic undercarriage, the whoosh of a passing infovid billboard, and its fleeting voice—"Niqua's got 'rithm!" Roddy's grip on Xypher had loosened.

[continues]

Xypher continued, "But I can't say more right now. Not with that… thing in your ear. We have to get somewhere safe, and—"

"No," interrupted Roddy. "I'm taking you in. That's that." What little patience he had was spent. "Any more out of you, and you're tased. Don't blame me if your bowels can't handle the shock."

"You gotta listen to me."

"Tell it to the judge." Convinced that this line sounded sufficiently cool, even cinematic, Roddy pulled the trigger and the suspect vaporized. He looked at the vaporizer in his hand. He could have sworn he'd pulled his taser.

* * *

"A promotion?" Roddy was surprised.

"Bureau Inspector," repeated the District Chief, shaking Roddy's hand. "Bureau Inspector Roderigo Hernando Cortex." He smiled, satisfied with the sound of it. "Congratulations, Cortex. First Hispanic Inspector in the whole district. Even though the district was carved out just this year. Still. Quite historic." He handed Roddy a new badge.

Roddy opened his mouth to note that he was a full-blooded Spaniard, but instead he just smiled and nodded. The chief sat down and began arranging manila folders at right angles on his desk. Roddy supposed that a grateful remark was expected. "I'm honored," he said, "that you chose me."

"Hmm? Oh, NIQUA chose you based on seniority," replied the chief, gesturing flippantly toward his computer monitor. "You know that each District Office is required to have at least one Bureau Inspector. But Inspector O'Malley disappeared last month. And, well, Inspector Ugubwe lost his battle with cancer last night, in that massive gas explosion."

"Tragic," said Roddy.

"Yes, tragic." They were silent for a moment. "So anyway," his boss went on, "no more of these petty unplugger cases for you. That's kid stuff. We want you to work on domestic terrorism. See what you can do with this." The chief danced a finger back and forth over his folders, picked one, and slid it forward. Roddy took it up and flipped through the contents as he turned away. He stopped.

"Sir?" he asked.

"Yes, Inspector Cortex?" The Chief smiled again, forming his fingers into an expectant pyramid.

Roddy looked up from the folder. "The infovids say that the pod tower in Rainbow Unicorn District 3 imploded due to malfunctions in its aging anti-earthquake systems. Had to do with the, um, polarity of the underground super magnets. Or something."

"Yes?"

"But this file suggests that the likely culprit was a supremacist terror cell—possibly White Lightning, or Der Mond."

"Der M—" the chief scoffed. "You know, it's always a terror cell, officially. And, officially, everyone is supposed to be mad at the terror cell. But the near-constant activation of Mad hormones required by this string of incidents would only contribute more to the, ah," he searched for a word, "strife already swamping the heavily rediversified districts. So the infovids call them accidents, and NIQUA Central pumps out Sad hormones instead." He returned to rearranging his desk.

Roddy stood for a moment, processing the information. "So you want me to find out who did it?"

[continues]

"What? No," the chief chuckled. "No!" He laughed harder. Then he realized. "Of course. This is your first day as Inspector. You wouldn't know." He leaned back in his chair. "The collapse was indeed an accident, just like all the others. Tragedies, really." He paused for an obligatory moment of silence. "Your job is to find the undesirables who think it was on purpose, who want to join the group responsible. Real lowlifes, these guys."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Also, we have a quota from the Administration. So try to get a lot of them, Inspector."

Back at his own desk, Roddy felt the weight of his promotion. He had heard about the duties of an Inspector, and how one typically prepared for them with a great deal of field training under experienced officers. But his seniors had vanished mysteriously, like O'Malley, or were confirmed dead in recent accidents. "Tragedies, really," Roddy told himself.

Who would think that the accidents weren't actually accidents? Xypher's face flashed in his mind: "But I can't say more right now. Not with that… thing in your ear." Xypher had removed something from his front shirt pocket and placed it in Roddy's hand. Remembering this, Roddy reached into his own pocket and pulled out Xypher's strange present, a complimentary mood manager. It was an individually packaged pill, the sort left on a hotel bed, or handed out to preschoolers.

Out of habit, Roddy unwrapped the pill and tossed it in his mouth. It was actually a breath mint. He glanced at the packaging, upon which was printed the address of a business, BAR BELL, located in Smile Funtime District 8.

"Niqua," Roddy said.

"Mm-HMM?" she chimed.

"Ready an unmarked Bureau car," he said, putting on his coat. "I'm on my way."

"A'ight."

Roddy took the nearest pneumatic tube and was deposited in a work vehicle, nauseous.

Several hours later, the electronic chauffeur system guided the car along its programmed route. Dark, empty factories and warehouses lined the way, silent witnesses to the once active industrial sector on the outskirts of the tiered centropolis.

Roddy picked up the last of the documents that he had brought to consult as he rode along. He was particularly curious about the recent history of each pod tower prior to its sudden destruction.

Official records were of no use: Inspection and maintenance reports were routinely fabricated, as property managers paid off the bureaucrats tasked with approving and filing them. Roddy relied instead on unexpurgated social media postings on the public grid, without NIQUA Central's automated removals and emendations.

[continues]

A Sight To See

By George Perry

A scuffling noise and the sound of arguing voices were what woke John Dennison for the first time. He awoke carefully, opening his eyes first without moving anything but his eyelids. One voice was hushed and anxious, one voice angry and getting louder. After a few moments he recognized the angry voice as Guillermo’s. Good guy. A little wrecked on whatever he was always huffing, but he worked clean up in a restaurant and he was good about sharing food with the others.

“Who’s there, Guillermo?’

“Some stinking ladron trying to get into my stuff, man.”

Whoever the thief was, he ran at the sound of the second voice. The guard for the sleeping area was alerted now, though, and there was a violent moment of action near the entrance. Nothing to get up for.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, looks like everything’s here. Thanks, man. I guess he thought I was more out of it than I am.”

John drifted back to sleep easily enough and only woke again an hour before dawn when his bladder required it of him. He jumped off the shelf and went back to the toilet pits, placed close to the end of the cutting that was filled and blocked by rubble. Back at his place he heated up a pan, and made a quick breakfast of tortillas and cheese. He cooked on a little chip stove, just a can with holes around the bottom and a tiny computer fan that ran off a battery underneath. It would burn anything that would fit in it and it made quick cooking easy.

Done with his meal, he wiped everything off and put it away in one box, rolled up his blanket and put it back into its box. A few small boxes and a three-by-eight-foot shelf hanging on steel brackets was his home now. The shelf was set with a number of others in the old, pale gray concrete of the retaining wall of an abandoned railroad bed. The place had been half-trenched and half tunneled through downtown El Paso many years ago. It was a surprisingly good shelter in almost any weather. Not much, he thought, but its home.

He walked west toward the rubble ramp out of the area, smelling the smoke and garbage in the air, the stink that would be thinned by the heat and wind later in the day. He stopped to pay his daily rent to the guards who saw to the keeping of the place. One man gestured toward a pile of small items.

“Any of this yours?”

He thought of claiming a can of food that he saw in the pile, but all that was visible was the top. There would be no real answer when he was asked to identify what was in the can, so he stayed quiet and shook his head.

“Ask Guillermo… the curly-headed guy. Someone was getting into his stuff earlier.”

“Yeah, not sure how he got in here. Mighta slid down the wall on an old piece of wire or something. Who knows? Nobody trickier than a hungry thief.”

John didn’t ask what happened to the thief and the guard didn’t volunteer the information. Probably a good “don’t come back” type of beating. He filled his olla with water and took it back to his shelf. The clay jar would pass a little water through its walls during the day and stay half way cool from the sweating action. A final check of his area and he was ready to start out for the day.

As he left the ramp at street level, the blast from a mosque’s loudspeakers made him jump nervously. Geez, I’ll never get used to those guys. It was the first call, half an hour to dawn. Inventing loudspeakers must have changed those people’s world. He shook his head with exasperation, then turned north and headed up the long slope of the mountain’s foot that came into the middle of the city. Halfway up, he turned left, toward the east and the brightening sky. In about a mile the jobsite appeared as he rounded a corner.

The site was already active with crews getting ahead of the day’s sun and heat. He fell in with the team he normally worked with and began the tasks of tearing down an abandoned strip mall, cleaning and recovering the materials, and hauling the stuff over to the side of the job where a new, enclosed market was being built.

The crew broke for lunch after seven tedious hours of pulling wire out of conduits, chipping mortar off bricks and blocks, and pulling nails out of boards and studs. It made sense to keep after the job steadily through the cooler hours of the morning, then take a break and put in a few easier hours before calling it time for the day.

The lunch was part of the pay arrangement, a generous supply of bread and sausages of poor quality. “Food’s lousy,” someone said, “but there’s plenty of it.” Half the crew laughed a little at the old joke. Other half don’t speak enough English, John thought.

It started a little while after lunch with quickly raised voices. Second time today, he thought. The crew boss, not a well-liked man, had gotten into an argument with a tall man in a turban about pay. John had seen the foreign man working for the last several weeks, but hadn’t been working with him. Despite his foreign appearance, the turbaned man spoke English pretty well.

“Last week my pay is two hours short, same thing the week before. I unnerstan’ numbers. You get the money and put some in your pocket. You cheat me because you think I not unnerstan’. I unnerstan’ very well the way it is!”

“It’s payroll’s mistake, if it is a mistake. It’s the same start time for everybody. You get here at 6:30, that’s fine, but work starts at 7:00. You here early, it doesn’t matter. I think that’s your problem right there. Being here isn’t the same as working.”

“I know very well how it is working. Other mens are working same hours, getting more time on pay. Nobody that stupid. You be paying me right. I want my moneys.”

“Or what, towelhead? Or what? You don’t like your pay, fine, there’s plenty of guys not so fussy, huh? They’ll be happy to take your spot.”

John knew that it was true. It had taken him two weeks of showing up every morning and asking for work to get onto this crew. That got him out of the storm drain and paid for a shelf in the rail cutting.

The tall man started to say something angry and continue the argument, but he suddenly stopped and drew himself up straight. “Sure, boss, but you see, if you don’t pay me, how I’m gonna pay your mama?”

And so the fight broke out as they usually did—with yelling and pushing and wild swinging. Half the men jumped in on one side or the other, or just started fighting because they wanted to. A Guatemalan worker swung at John for no reason that he could see and he skinned his knuckles knocking the Tico backward so that he tripped into a pile of bricks.

The brawl ended as quickly as it started, with the blast of a siren signaling the appearance of a police truck carrying a squad of head crackers. Within a few minutes, the whole crew was in flex cuffs except for the turbaned man, who lay by a pile of boards with a broken head.

* * *

Over the days that followed, it somehow became a brick in John’s young hand that had done the fatal deed. His court lawyer, a Mr. Tartoff, was of little help.

“Okay, Mr. Dennison, I’ve reviewed the statements in this summary by the prosecution. Take some time and read over the material if…if you like.”

You meant to say, if I can read, John thought. Six minutes later he looked up after reading through the document twice. Mr. Tartoff was involved in some exchange of messages on his phone. I’ve never been able to afford one of those in my life.

“Ah, any questions? I’m afraid that it looks like a pretty obvious case against you.”

“Well, I didn’t do this, though! Nothing like this!”

“Your bloody, swollen knuckles?”

“I punched Javier after he hit me first.”

“Ah, let’s see the witness list. No, no Javier at the scene.”

“Maybe he ran away. Maybe Javier isn’t the name he gave the police.”

“Maybe. Can you afford a detective to find out?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay. Well then, there’s your fingerprints on the bloody brick next to Mr. Tarshin.”

“So what, we’re all cleaning and moving and stacking bricks all day. It’s what we do. Were there other prints on the brick?”

“No, Mr. Jenson, only yours, I’m afraid.”

“It’s Dennison. Maybe it was someone else wearing work gloves.”

“Maybe so, sure.”

“Why don’t you ask the crew boss? Lindmann? He was the one that was having the argument with Tarshin in the first place?”

“According to this statement, he was off site getting something to eat when the fight happened.”

“Oh, so he wasn’t even there? That’s amazing, since he started the whole fight in the first place.”

“There’s no statement that puts him at the scene. And he’s got a receipt from a store timestamped about the time of the fight.”

“I can’t believe this. Everybody can’t be lying.”

“First experience with the legal system, Mr. Dennison?”

“Pretty much.”

“This is going to sound cold, but I think that you’re a good guy. Maybe you cracked somebody’s head in during a fight, maybe not. Maybe the builder’s company is setting you up to keep their foreman out of jail. Who knows? Basic fact, unless you can afford a lot more help than I can give you, you’re likely to be going inside for this. Five to ten years for manslaughter. That’s really about the size of it all.”

* * *

“Mr. Tartoff, please remind your client of how courtrooms work….”

“How they work?” John shouted, “What’s working here?”

He lowered his voice to a normal tone. “I mean, come on sir! No one saw me do this because I didn’t do it. I didn’t even knock anyone out, let alone kill someone.”

The judge raised his voice in return. “The physical evidence entirely points to you. You’re blaming a foreman who the police do not place at the scene and who has a good alibi of being at a market down the road. You won’t be the first worker to have a problem with his boss. Maybe you should have bashed his head in instead of Mr. Tarshin’s.

I hereby impose upon you the maximum sentence of ten years for manslaughter, due to your difficult attitude. Sentence to be served at the Palmer Resource Center. Dismissed, next case bailiff.”

[continues]

“Okay, two pair coveralls, black—sorta, tall medium. One pair boots, size nine. Four each socks and undergarments. One thermal coat, one thermal hat, one pair thermal over boots—all black. One pair gloves and one pair over gloves, thermal. Oh, and goggles, one set. There ya go, cowboy.”

The woman at the processing room was oddly cheerful, John thought, for someone whose job was to send people on from jail further into the prison system. Maybe she had the satisfaction of cutting people loose to go back to their lives, too. He stared at the clothing.

“Is it cold, where I’m going?” He gestured at the thick pile.

“Heavens yes, young man. Don’t you know? Palmer Resource Facility is what it says here. Hmm, yes, that’s slap in the coldest place that there is, Antarctica.”

“I’ve heard the name. South end of the world, I guess. But doesn’t it get warmer as you go farther south?”

“Honey, you go that far south, you at the other end!”

“Oh. Think it’ll be okay?”

“Look, young man. It’s ugly, that’s why it’s punishment. Nobody says ‘oh, this is a nice prison you got here’, right? I know you’re having some of the worst days of your life right now, maybe. But you’ll get used to it and learn to get along. When the judge gave you your time, for you it was like getting punched so hard. For him it was just another case to decide before his next break time. It’s big to you, but it’s just another day on the job for us in the system. And now you gonna be in the system, too.”

“Alright, best of luck to you. Anybody else out there? I’m goin’ on break, Ramon.”

John was led out, arms full with his bag of clothing, and an unmarked van carried him north along with another prisoner, a man who stared silently at the floor. He slept for a few minutes and awakened when the van stopped to pass through the gates into the White Sands Federal Reserve.

Soon enough the van stopped at a warehouse where the two prisoners were unloaded. They walked into a side door that faced toward a broad airfield, dry and dusty with the mountains rising not too far to the east. The building was mostly empty, just a large concrete-floored room with dust bunnies along the wall and a random-seeming assortment of trash scattered around—broken pallets, empty bottles, scraps of cardboard. Several dozen other men in convict’s clothing were already there, lying on the floor, propped against the walls, or pacing restlessly.

“Where ya from, kid?”

“El Paso.”

“Oh, just down the road. Why you here?”

“Manslaughter, they say.”

“Well, that’s a good one. You must have pissed off the judge somehow, getting Palmer for manslaughter.”

“Don’t know, maybe. Is it bad?”

“Viking’s idea of hell. Snow, ice, freeze to death in an hour outside. We won’t really see it though. Underground we’ll go, straight to the mines. No sunlight there. Be the last stop for us, I imagine. Don’t see us getting out of there. Be breakin’ rock ‘til we’re dead.”

“Or your sentence is up, right?”

“Think they’ll let you go then? To go where and do what? They’ll just find something else to keep you for. Is easier and cheaper to keep their livestock in the system than to bring in new ones they have to chase down. One way trip, I’m guessing.”

“How would you know, first of all? And second, you sound like a quitter.”

“Oooh, a quitter. Haven’t been called that in a while. See ya down there sometime, boy. We’ll see about the ‘quitter’ thing, huh?”

Most of the men stayed to themselves, scattered along the walls. Eventually John found a spot to pillow himself on his clothing bag and fell asleep as well.

They were all awakened in the morning by a crew that came in and set up tables, then passed out weak coffee and some bread. Paperwork folders were passed through and processed, issued clothing was checked, and finally each man was given an injection.

“What’s this for?”

“So you’ll sleep on the flight, it’ll be a long one. Better go potty now so you don’t wake up with wet britches.”

At the door of the building, the men were handcuffed and a cable was run through their cuffs to connect them in a staggered line. They walked more or less clumsily, carrying their clothing bags in front of them so that the bags keep bumping into their legs as they walked. They were led out in a wobbly line formation to the rear ramp of an aircraft. The blast of heat and stink of fuel as they passed behind the engines startled John. He’d always visualized the airplanes he saw in the sky as being clean and cold and pure. Is it better that it’s a stinky machine that I could maybe understand or better if it’s some mysterious device of another world? Considering this question, he carefully stepped up onto the ramp and into the aircraft. Behind him, someone paying less attention tripped on the ramp and dragged three other convicts over when he fell down. The matter was sorted out with a lot of cursing and grumbling and awkward floundering around with everyone’s hands cuffed.

John halfway recognized that he was dwelling on nonsensical thoughts to keep his mind occupied and distracted from the fact that he would be going up into the air in a few minutes to travel to the other end of the world and probably die there someday. Something about the reality of it all settled into his mind as he stood on the metal deck of the plane, feeling the vibration of the engines.

He looked around—large welded wire end walls in the cargo bay, bare metal floor, ceiling covered with some drab quilted material that covered much of the walls as well. Other areas had mounted equipment and metal lines of mysterious purpose, with a number of stickers and decals showing printed warnings and instructions. A crewman passed among the passengers, removing their handcuffs as another crewman gave them each a belt with a long strap and a clasp on it. He didn’t speak, but mimed putting on the belt, then clipping the clasp into one of the tiedown rings that were in rows on the deck.

The rear ramp closed behind them with a heavy thump and the doors in the cage walls were locked. The transportees settled themselves in, some clipping in, others ignoring the precaution and sprawling on their clothing bundles. “This is to keep you from sliding around if something happens in the air,” an unseen man said.

“What could happen in the air?” someone asked what many were thinking.

“Turbulence—winds and disruption in the air outside the plane. We’ll be flying over mountains and oceans, no telling what the weather will be.”

“Mountains and oceans? Geez, what makes us so special? We don’t got coal mines anywhere to put us in?”

“I’ll tell you what’s so special. Look around, we’re all big, strong, mostly young. Screened for fitness. The mines in Antarctica are for rare earth minerals. Systems can’t run without the batteries; the good batteries need special materials to make them. They’re not flying the average guy all the way to Antarctica to do this mining. Good side is they’ll probably take decent care of us. Bad news is, its probably a one-way deal.”

Another voice, as the engines begin roaring louder and the aircraft starts rolling along the pavement. “Maybe it’s okay. How bad can this place be? Where is it anyway?”

“You kidding?! It’s the coldest place in the world. Ever heard of the South Pole?”

“Okay, but it’s warmer down south, everybody knows that.”

“Look you go south from here—New Mexico—where are you?”

“Duh, Old Mexico. Where it’s warmer, just like I said.”

“Sure. And what’s south of Mexico?”

“Belize, Panama..like that, I guess.”

“Good, then what?”

“What is this, school? It’s like Columbia, Peru, I don’t know—Brazil. They’re all hot places, too.”

“Right, except in the mountains, but mostly hot. What’s south of there?”

“Well, I don’t know. Is there anything south of there?”

“It’s called the Southern Cone, the end of South America. Argentina, Chile, like that. If you go another five hundred miles south, you’re finally in Antarctica. It’s cold down there like it’s cold in Alaska or Siberia. Ice and snow, windy, some bare ground and mountains. Volcanoes, even.”

“Seen video of volcanoes, that would be fantastic to see!”

The airplane stopped rolling then, but the engines spun even louder and the craft trembled, then suddenly released, rolled away faster and faster, then lifted sharply into the air and flew at a steep angle as it climbed.

“Going the straightest way,” someone said. “It’s easy when passenger comfort doesn’t matter.”

Quickly enough, the novelty of being in a flying cage wore off, the drugs took effect, and John fell asleep along with the rest of the convicts.

He awoke hours later with a rusty mouth and a full bladder, with others waking up around him and some already moving about. After a bit he realized that the aircraft was descending and that his ears hurt.

“Swallow, guys,” someone nearby said. “Or yawn. That fixes your ears.”

“Are we there,” John asked of no one in particular.

“Last stop,” a guard said from the front side of the cage. “We’re in Chile, getting fuel and more cargo. Listen up, everyone, you’ve got time here to clean up, use the bathroom. We’re going to eat, refuel the plane, load some boxes—and yes, you’re going to help. Then we’ll finish the trip and get there a few hours after dark. Clear?”

There were loud mechanical noises outside the plane, from the wings and then from underneath, a feeling of slowing and settling, a heavy bump and they were rolling along the ground. After a few minutes they were stopped, and eventually the ramp dropped and they were allowed off in a disorderly file without handcuffs or other restraint. No one even seemed to be watching them.

[continues]

The Iron Soldiers, Part II: Resurrection and Catastrophe

By Hektor Troy

The last era began its final days with the recovery of the lost ship of the Iron Soldiers. The Resurrection of the Heroes! The politicians publicized the ship’s unlikely recovery to inflate and feed on popular feelings. Outside of time for three generations, frozen alive, adrift in space, miraculously restored to life through some fantastical effort of the unimaginably rich—who could have time for such things? In the era before the Great Catastrophe, the wealthy had leisure to chase their illusions and neglect their duties.

The Iron Soldiers awoke in the world they had made for their heirs. It was not to be seen by them—not in any natural lifetime. Though the far-drive on their stolen craft stalled or malfunctioned somehow, their stasis pods held active. With their aging stopped by the stasis pods, their craft meandered the cold, black expanse of nothing. On their return, they would see what their grand victory in the First Interstellar War had wrought and what luxury does to a conquering people.

Gather around. Close your eyes. Imagine the past. I tell the story as best as any man can. The era of the Iron Soldiers ended long ago. The time of the Interstellar Empire is long gone. To the ordinary men of our tribe, only crumbling bones and twisted ruins remain to be seen. The twinkling light in the dark sky of night, maybe those are the remains of the interstellar colonies. The true tale may never be known. Here is the likely way it happened…

A piercing light, bright and stabbing: before the Iron Soldiers could even awaken to recollect that they were men alive, their eyes took painful notice of the stimulus. That is the effect of lying in the cold, dark sleep of a stasis pod for seventy, eighty, ninety years or more—about the length of time the Iron Soldiers wandered the universe in their aimless craft. They had plotted a course for their central capital of Allied Borea, but the ship’s far-drive did not engage. Perhaps it sustained damage as they fled the distant enemy colony somewhere in the Interstellar Universe. Perhaps they failed to program the foreign ship properly. Some details we will never know. We do know the men of Allied Borea, victorious in the First Interstellar War over the World of Hindia, virtually deified the brave soldiers whose daring raid enabled their final conquest. In time, some Boreans held faith that their heroes still traversed the stars and they set out to find them. When they succeeded—beyond all reason finding the ship of their lost demi-gods intact—they resurrected their heroes from their frozen forms in the long-functioning stasis pods. That bright, shining light burned consciousness into long-dormant minds of the Iron Soliders of Borea.

Held in a stasis condition so long, merely waking to find their limbs slow and weak would be an odd case of good fortune. Stasis pods were not meant to hold a man for generations, but only a few decades at most. The Iron Soldiers, the heroes of Allied Borea, went into their pods in a time of war. They expected to wake up in a time of war. And so when they awakened in their hospital beds, they would have seen the faces of their enemies in those who cared for them. They could not have known that war was long-ended and the enemies were no more. Many things had changed over their time among the stars.

The shrieking light fades into color and shape. The Iron Soldiers see before them faces of Noirese, Meckan, and Huitzeli nurses caring for them instead of their own Boreans. I can imagine what the ranks would think: captured by the enemy. What other conclusion could the men draw? Of course, the old soldiers did not yet know they returned to life at the apex of the Imperial Integration. Can you imagine, throwing your mind to those mythic times, to see how it happened?

The Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers could barely raise his unrestrained limbs to fight or flee. The wonder of stasis pods, those extraordinary devices which prevented both aging and atrophy during interstellar travel by far-drive, had its limits. The lost technology of the ancients is not magic—only wondrous to us for our ignorance of it. If he had his full strength, he may have attacked the strange faces above his bed, unknowing that they nursed him and his Iron Soldiers to health. Certainly, it was to the immediate good fortune of the nurses that the Great Colonel had no strength for a fight, though we know all their fates ultimately were sealed.

Before long, the resurrected heroes would be visited by dignitaries. Politicians, oligarchs, and media advertisers would seize upon their resurrection. Historic events draw the parasites of luxurious times. The politicians would use the image of the Iron Soldiers to increase their popularity. The oligarchs conspired to use their image to sell more this and that. The media advertisers served as their lackeys, contriving deception in service to their masters. I only wonder how quickly the Iron Soldiers came to realize their world had ended and a new world begun. But one never hurries to understand the worst.

What odd changes to discover, that your deeds had resulted in total victory three generations earlier! Humble soldiers cannot comprehend this in an instant. The Iron Soldiers entered their stasis pods in full knowledge of the success of their mission, but they could not know what the Allied Boreans would do with it. They woke to find their greatest hopes had been realized: total victory, all stemming from their deeds. Ah, but what can a people do with victory? Allied Borea had defeated its Hindian rival. Every interstellar colony fell to it. The great capital of the Allied Boreans became the political and trade center of the universe. Wealth freely flowed to all classes of Boreans. To the rich, victory brings the easiest increase of wealth. Opportunity abounds for the middle classes as well. Many left their homeland to assume positions of imperial administration over the conquered World of Hindia. Even idle Boreans found work in the newly controlled colonies taken from the defeated Hindians. The conquerors were conquered by their victory!

I am sure the politicians explained it differently to the Iron Soldiers. Recovering their strength, the Soldiers met with the high and low administrators of the TransGlobal Borean Alliance and representatives of the Trans-stellar Governors. They knew their mission had been a success; the politicians told them the tale that sounded more like mythology than an after-action report. Three generations later, the deed had become history and history became a tale. We know as well as anyone that they infiltrated and destroyed the interstellar macroporter station in the Hindian capital. The universal empire of the World of Hindia ceased to be. Its interstellar colonies were severed from communication in a brilliant strike of sabotage. Communication could only have been re-established by sending new porters to each colony by far-drive, a process that would take years and be subject to Borean attack. Beyond the home shield which protected the great capital and its central porter station—linking all colonies to the great capital, the war had favored the attackers. But the option to continue the war was a dead start. The great capital of Hindia did not have the resources to reconnect and resupply its colonies, who likewise would suffer from being cut off. The war was over and the eloites of Borea knew it as much as the high caste of the Hindians.

A Borean diplomat offered the high caste of Hindia a peace treaty: accept Borean rule or continue the war without its colonies. The choice was no choice, as the high caste of the World of Hindia well knew. The great capital of their vast World needed supplies from its colonies—even basic necessities such as food itself. Nor could the colonies survive without connection to the great capital. The Hindian high caste yielded its power to Allied Borea, powering down their defense shields and turning over their border controls to the armed might of the Borean Thuraphulanx. In exchange, Allied Borea supplied basic necessities to their new subjects and dispatched porters to the Hindian colonies across the stars. After some years of isolation, they did not expect to find many colonists remaining. Famine, plague, and strife had ruined those colonies cut off from their great capital. But these depopulations would allow them to send their own troublesome domestics to fill those newly acquired colonies. Such was government in the days of the interstellar empires.

Final victory saw a massive celebration for all Boreans; defeat was utter sadness for Hindians. Over time, the Boreans would build monuments to their triumph and the Hindians would curse the high caste who failed. But ordinary life moved forward for those beneath the rulers. Likewise, politics resumed in the new universal capital at Borea. The Borean eloites returned to their plotting and scheming against each other: what else would they do with their victory?

[continues]

Immediately, they rebuilt the engines of trade and wealth. In the capital of Allied Borea, the ruling eloites ordered the construction of a new porter station to link the Interstellar Colonies to the capital. More trade, more taxes, more patronage—more power for the eloites to disburse to favorites. After some years passed, porter contact had been re-established with all the former colonies of Hindia. Populations of laborers took root to replace the colonists who had perished during their separation from their former home capital. Wealth and opportunity flowed through Borea. The Allied Boreans of all classes prospered. The laboring classes found work in the new colonies. The middle classes replaced the Hindian trade managers. The eloites swam in the riches of the great capital. Allied Borea renamed itself The TransGlobal Borean Alliance to reflect its absorption of the vast World of Hindia. Governors were dispatched to the newly acquired interstellar colonies to unite the interstellar empire. A vast bureaucracy manifested to consume the largess of victory. Opportunity is indeed a boon to a people, but luxury corrodes virtue.

Hearing all this of the past, the Iron Soldiers absorbed the fateful information. Travelling in the capital, they beheld the consequences of their victory with their own eyes. The prosperity that had arisen in that first generation had not lasted. The decadence of the great capital told its own story. The greed of man finds no satisfaction in wealth.

The Iron Soldiers could barely recall their first introduction to the strange times they had awakened to. The haze of their long-sleep in stasis faded slowly. The politicians’ tales of grandeur reverberated but rang false to the reality they observed. Only when they had recovered their senses fully did they begin to absorb the full truth of the times. After the politicians had paid their visitation, the Iron Soldiers found themselves meeting with the most prestigious historians of the University of TransGlobal Borea who were to explain in detail all they had missed over the last three generations. It must have been a boring and pedantic occasion. Afterward, the Iron Soldiers accompanied lesser scholars and students to eat and drink and talk more freely. The older academics serve the powers who place them; the younger, still seeking their place, speak more freely and wildly, looking to impress those who might elevate them. And so the Iron Soldiers learned more of how their world had changed. Indeed, of how their mission had changed it.

With a few notable changes, many names of things remained the same over the generations. The High Councilor remained the leading figure in the Borean government. The Grand Senate appointed that officer, as always. But all things grow and adapt over time. The High Councilor appointed governors over the colonies, a change since the natural days of the Iron Soldiers. These agents served at the pleasure of the High Councillor, hired and fired at his whim. It is a system designed for corruption rather than responsibility. The Iron Soldiers winced at the alterations of a once-accountable government.

Absorbing the World of Hindia into Allied Borea proved to be impossible. The smaller animal ate a larger meal it could not digest. The first generation tried to do so, but only succeeded at antagonizing the conquered. By the second generation after victory, the restive people of the colonies sought advantage over their trans-stellar governors, who in turn appealed to the Borean eloites at the great capital. Unrest is a constant factor in empires. No one wants to be ruled by a foreign, distant eloite.

The academics explained how a few technological improvements added to the unrest and had instigated the reforms of the second generation. The macroporters which allowed for instant interstellar transport and communication had doubled in size. Officially touted as the interstellar fullporter, everyone still called the new device a porter. These larger porters enabled transport vehicles to double in size and carrying capacity. These technological improvements reduced the necessary workforce. New vehicles carried twice as much cargo, which meant only half as many skilled drivers were required to meet the old quotas. It seems, however, that the need for unskilled loaders increased. And so skilled drivers found themselves unneeded and the unskilled laborers of Borea competed with the vast number of Hindians for their old jobs. The academics quarreled and bickered over this, though. Some insisted technological progress produced a wealthier, more productive, more efficient society. In a word, they said the progress made everyone happier. It was a false word. The Iron Soldiers must have grown weary listening to their obscure arguments over maximization of efficiency and reduction of costs, and how such advances enabled the former transport drivers to work in other fields. These high-flown descriptions—who can listen to such false, obtuse nonsense when the sights all around contradict it? The other academics insisted the so-called technological progress resulted only in a mass of unemployed laborers and colonists. Who truly understands the logic of economics in a Trans-stellar Empire? The Iron Soldiers cared little for the debate, but focused on the indisputable conclusion: living human beings had lost their jobs and functions in the interstellar colonial system. Naturally, the laborers had rebelled.

The older academics had talked in high jargon of how the TransGlobal Borean Alliance made new work-projects, paid stipends to unemployed laborers, and otherwise found ways to integrate the mass of persons with no function into the interstellar economy. The younger spoke more bluntly. In the second generation, the Borean eloite offered admission of non-Boreans into their circle. Hindians, Ocealhms, Meckans, Huitzlis, and even Noirese took positions of power over colonies. The Borean eloite devised what they thought was a clever plan. They did not put an eloite with a like population. They put Meckans over the Huitzils. They put Huitzils over the Ocealms. They put Hindians over Boreans. Colony by colony, a new eloite ruled over a people sharing nothing in common with them. It was then that the High Councilor assumed power over appointment of these officials. The Senatates of the Grand Senate, though viciously disputing with each other in public, privately grew wealthy together drinking from the same fountain. Wealth flowed across the Trans-stellar Empire to the Borean capital—wealth enough to quell rebellions and foster a cryptic cooperation among the diverse eloites of the TransGlobal Borean Alliance.

The Iron Soldiers had lived in a time of relative austerity. They were disciplined, courageous, and loyal to the Allied Borea of their youth—a land which no longer existed, a people which no longer existed. The Boreans had branched out to rule their trans-stellar empire. They had become like those they governed in order to govern over foreigners. The wealth likewise altered them. Discipline had disintegrated like metal in acid, bubbling away into gas and crust. And what of courage? How can men grow courageous when there is no enemy? The great capital had no enemies after the victory of the First Interstellar War, only subject colonies across the stars and subject peoples in the great capital. Yet, the Thuraphulanx still existed. It was trained to guard the central porter station, as always, but it had no foreign enemies and no wars to prepare for. Even its weaponry had barely changed over the generations. Still equipped with a pulse cannon, the individual thuraphulankees seemed like a deteriorated copy of a once-great original. The Thuraphulanx functioned only to control the flow of transport through the porters, to prevent any unauthorized use of the capital’s porters, and to symbolically represent the force of the Grand Senate and High Councillor. Bureaucratic tasks and ceremonial functions do not prepare a guard for violence or war. No courage was needed to wear the uniform of a thuraphulankees after the Iron Soldiers secured victory in the last war between the great capitals of that era. And so courage too dissolved from the once-mighty Thuraphulanx. The pageantry remained. The pay increased. But the absence of a martial mission reduced the soldiery to routine policemen, subject to a tangled bureaucracy of scheduled transportation.

Some of the young academics grew bold in their telling of the past, revealing the corruption of Borea over the three generations since the Iron Soldiers scored their victory and slept in stasis—the Three Degenerations they called them.

First was the Borean eloite drowning in wealth, then was the non-Borean eloite and trans-stellar colonists siphoning their cut of imperial largesse, then came the final degeneration of the Borean people themselves. In the third generation, TransGlobal Borea passed certain technologies into the public to ensure their cooperation and pacification. The main device was the SelfScreen. Through it, the TransGlobal Borean Alliance ran all governmental information, well-being & health programs, and entertainment operations. The SelfScreen looked simple enough—it was a fancy helmet to the Iron Soldiers. Anyone in history would recognize it as a helmet that covered the whole head and face of the wearer. Some in history might wonder how such a person could see while wearing the thing or if it was not dangerous to put something as fragile as glass in front of one’s face. Even the Iron Soldiers could not have guessed at the advanced technology of the SelfScreen. In our days, we would burn alive the man who devised it.

[continues]

For one thing, the SelfScreen allowed the wearer to watch any and all media. It was a view-screen in front of their face. For another thing, it allowed for person-to-person communication with other SelfScreens. Governmental agencies could also interrupt a SelfScreen to message the people. Also, the devices also became the channel for people to communicate with government, where possible. In short, the SelfScreen became universal because it was necessary to function in the great capital of the TransGlobal Borean Alliance. Everything from personal entertainment to mundane communications to the purchase of consumption-products to bureaucratic registrations operated through the ubiquitous and necessary SelfScreen.

Some even wore the SelfScreen for health advantages. The rapid integration of Hindian colonists into Borea in the first degeneration saw the outbreak of minor plagues. The academics disputed how serious the diseases were and how far they spread, but even the old Iron Soldiers could understand that the rapid communication of diseases is a consequence of the instant transportation of peoples across the vast great capital and trans-stellar empire. By the third degeneration, the SelfScreen included an anti-pathogen filtration mechanism to reduce the chances of catching an illness while in public. If some people doubted the utility, others wore the device to reduce the effects of pollution purportedly introduced into Borea by the constant travels of interstellar commerce. The great capitals long ago had sent heavy industries to the interstellar colonies exactly to banish pollution from their world. The wellness filter on the SelfScreen sold widely. It is easy to sell promises of security to a hyper-sensitive, weak-willed public. The academics explained to the Iron Soldiers more than one reason for the people to adopt the new technology. As always, an effective government will pave many roads that all lead to their desired destination.

As the Iron Soldiers recovered their strength, the High Councillor arranged for their long-postponed victory parade. Understandably, the people of the great capital of Borea idolized the Iron Soldiers. The heroes of history had manifested from the great nothing of empty space. The dead took on living flesh. They wore the uniform of the past days of rising glory. Few remained alive who could recollect those times, and those who did retained only a childish memory of flashing images and powerful emotions. By the third degeneration, media constructions determined most people’s understanding of the past. The High Councillor perceived the opportunity. He understood the political necessity of identifying himself with the Iron Soldiers for reasons of popularity. Though he instinctively feared these resurrected relics of a bygone age, he also understood their symbolic importance and real utility. The people needed their show, and the High Councillor needed to be the central star around which the Iron Soldiers revolved. Such is politics in any time and place.

The Iron Soldiers waited for their appointed day to be introduced to the throngs of cheering Boreans in the wide causeway of the great capital. In the meantime, they saw bits and pieces of the world they had created. Little things irritated them, as is always the case when the old meet the young. Changes in fashion, new phrases for common sayings, quiet places grown loud, popular diversions out of style—time changes everything and wealth buys many vices. In a natural lifetime, these changes develop slowly and organically. But instead of the deliberate motions of organic evolution, the Iron Soldiers endured an instant transformation of their world. Even mundane alterations made their heads spin. Though they could not fail to observe the greater differences—the SelfScreens and the foreign nurses—they also could not comprehend them. What world had resurrected them from the dead? It was at the grand parade when the spell of confusion lifted and the Iron Soldiers saw and comprehended the dreadful world they had made.

In our times, we do not have the parades of old. We do not have the long boulevards and tall buildings of the long ancient past. The great capital of Borea had streets that stretched to the horizon. It had towers that reached to the skies. A mass of people could crowd those streets. More watched from windows in the towers. In times long gone, a parade celebrated those who performed some great triumph, but all enjoyed the grand occasion. In those times, the people roared and shook the very streets, towers, and skies above to show their love for the Iron Soldiers. But the old Soldiers saw into the illusion—which is to see through it. They fought for Allied Borea, their country in their time. They heard the cheers of the TransGlobal Borean Alliance, an empire won by their efforts, but not a thing of their own kind.

Slowly traversing the long boulevard, the Iron Soldiers witnessed the full change of the three degenerations before them. The people were not their people. The customs were not their customs. The symbols, the stylings, the greetings even—everything had changed for the worse. The behavior of the people would have received a lashing in the time of Iron Soldiers—unnatural, undisciplined, unseemly. The fete disgusted the Iron Soldiers. The people had devolved into a licentious mass of individuals who shared nothing in common but the base indulgence of immoderate lusts under the aegis of a gross, lascivious culture unworthy of Boreans. Out of civilization had grown a new and repellent barbarism that wore the wealth acquired only by the discipline and sacrifice of the Iron Soldiers.

The politicians sneered through their smiles at the crowd, understanding the mockery of civilization their world had become. Why would they protest or object? They fostered the decay and grew wealthy and powerful through it. Holding contempt for the population, they lied and manipulated them daily. The people had become as poorly disciplined pets and the politicians as gross, cowardly owners. The Iron Soldiers intuited much from their observations. The wild academic talk of the Three Degenerations resonated with the sights they beheld at the grand parade.

Legend has it that the Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers gave a speech to the crowd, to the politicians, and to all of TransGlobal Borea at the end of the parade route. The politicians spoke first, with the High Councillor himself heaping praise on the deeds of the resurrected warriors. At last, the Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers addressed all. He lectured them on their ignorance. He chastised them for their lack of virtue. He scorned them for their celebration of the unnatural. He reprimanded their viciousness and weakness. He spoke with the stern voice of command and authority that most people had not heard in their lifetime. Only the elderly could recall that voice, faintly, from the distant times of their youth. The Great Colonel, the leader of the Iron Soldiers, justly rebuked the children of degeneration and called them to order. Astounded, the politicians froze in the moment. Only the High Councilor retained his instinctive wits. The people initially could not understand the Great Colonel’s speech and took his words as a jest. Slowly did they grow to understand his meaning. Offended, the people rioted as the politicians desperately issued a call for calm through the SelfScreens. Everyone panicked but the Iron Soldiers and the High Councillor.

The Three Degenerations produced politicians in the vein of the High Councillor, though he surpassed all others in their essential qualities. He rose to power telling everyone what they wanted to hear or what they needed to hear—exactly whatever would bend them to his will. Flattery and praise, threats and abuse, even pieces of the truth: the High Councillor possessed all words and manners of speaking them. Honeyed phrases and acerbic vituperation, secret knowledge shared to initiates, a silver tongue to charm the snakes of the Grand Senate: the High Councillor ruled others by his words. He also spent the wealth of the empire to buy the goodwill of his audiences. Silver words and silver coins kept a decaying empire in his power.

In the days following the parade and rebuke, the media agents of the High Councillor broadcast his artful messages to the people of the great capital. Overall, the people heard stories of contempt aimed at the Iron Soldiers and prideful reassurances of their own worth. “The Iron Soldiers are relics of a dark past. They are hateful, violent, and ignorant of fine, modern ways.” The media agents used many words which would have little meaning to the Iron Soldiers or to us today, we who live long after their rotten world ended. The power of false words is always ephemeral. But in those times of degeneration, false words held great power to ruin the public reputation of men and to stir the barbaric souls of the people to action. “The Great Colonel’s speech is offensive, tribist, and anthrophobic.” Never mind what they meant by such preposterous words. The power of the accusation created a frenzy of emotion to whip the people of the great capital into an irrational antipathy against the Iron Soldiers. The High Councillor understood that he could blame and exile the Iron Soldiers for their honesty which threatened his hold over the Trans-Global Borean Alliance.

[continues]

In truth, the High Councillor barely needed his careful effort. The shock of the Great Colonel’s speech reverberated through the degenerated people of the great capital. No one had dared rebuke them for their vices. No one had called their treasured luxuries “decadence.” No one called their prideful vanity “weakness.” No one had called their progress “degeneration.” No one said such things aloud. No one, that is, until the Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers did. The degenerated people withered at the burning, crushing truth. They grew ill and suffered from their experience. So quickly did the Iron Soldiers change in the eyes of the public, from resurrected heroes to immanent villains, that the High Councillor was compelled to act against them. If High Councillor did not avenge the sore and inflamed public, they would take their wrath out on him.

And so the media campaign blitzed the once-esteemed icons. Some messages mocked them. Foolish actors marched in derisive imitation of the Iron Soldiers’ orderly step. They sarcastically saluted each other. They ridiculed the discipline of the past to insult and belittle the Iron Soldiers.

Some messages accused the Iron Soldiers of insanity and irrelevance. “What can we expect of them? They are ancient. They should be dead. The long stasis probably caused brain damage. They ought to be in a Borean Wellness Institution for total-care rather than talking in public.”

Some messages reveled in taking priggish offense at the Great Colonel’s speech. “How dare those old fossils criticize us! Who are they to judge? What terrible deeds did they commit in their awful wars? They should be tried as war criminals and caged like the troglodytes they are!” The masters of communication crafted their message to reinforce the vicious minds of the degenerated people. The SelfScreens relayed the content to all. If anyone wanted to escape the propaganda, no one could.

The agents of the High Councillor fed all these attitudes to the thoughtlessly consuming eyes of the degenerated people. He had a grave foreboding about the Iron Soldiers from the first news of their resurrection and now felt smug in his instincts. They were men outside of his time and beyond his control. The High Councillor was cunning enough to know he could not rule over them as others, and as such they presented an odd threat. Initially, he hoped to hide them away after their necessary display at the grand parade. The Great Colonel’s terrible rebuke now offered an easy path to banish them from the great capital forever.

“Exit! Exit! Exit!” the crowds of degenerate people cried at the High Councillor and Senatates as they prepared to convene a trial of inquiry. The people lined the walkway to the sacred dome where the Borean Grand Senate had met since the days of the long-ancient republic, far before the First Interstellar War and the rise of the TransGlobal Borean Alliance. The spoiled people could not bear the insult offered by the Great Colonel. The High Councillor’s propaganda had ensured their inflamed pride would not yield. Now he led the government to take action against the resurrected heroes. The accusation was clear and the punishment well-known: exit. The Iron Soldiers would be escorted through a porter and sent to a distant colony, never to return to the great capital of Borea again. The solemn process inside the halls of the dome was a procedure rather than a substantial trial: The accusation declared, the evidence obvious, the conviction foregone. The Senate unanimously agreed to exit the Iron Soldiers forever.

Normally, the central porter station is off-limits to the people of the capital. It is reserved access for trade directors, transport laborers, and the Thuraphulanx guardians. For the occasion of the exit of the Iron Soldiers, the High Councillor had picked special guests from among the most rude and boisterous of people. He wanted the Iron Soldiers to exit under conditions of ignominy, to show to all how hated and reviled they were. The Iron Soldiers had acceded to the judgment. The whole affair filled them with revulsion. The great capital disgusted them. The people disgusted them. They no longer considered them true Boreans. They had lost all feelings of kinship with their degenerated heirs. As they marched inside twin columns of thuraphulankees, the Iron Soldiers recognized even the degeneracy of the soldiers who escorted them to their banishment. These would not have lasted long in the First Interstellar War.

The wild degenerates invited by the High Councillor fulfilled his scheme. They howled and jeered at the Iron Soldiers from behind barricades and marching thuraphulankees. They hurled abuse and detritus at those who had justly rebuked them. They taunted the convicted Iron Soldiers and celebrated as if they had won a great victory over a terrible enemy. The media agents captured the political carnage and fed the images to everyone in the great capital through their SelfScreens. The scene pleased the High Councillor. Vanishing through the porter one by one, the Iron Soldiers disappeared into the trans-stellar empire. He considered the affair concluded. Anyone traveling through the porters to the great capital would be screened by the Thuraphulanx. Anyone who tried to fight would be killed one by one, as travel by porter allows. Nor did he suspect the Iron Soldiers would find any help in the distant colony to which they had been exited. Though a far-seeing man, the High Councillor allowed his own shame and sense of inferiority to those heroes blind his oft-acute judgment. In this case, he knew he had entered combat against men better than himself—against men good in themselves. They were unlike the villains he had always bested. These unusual circumstances warped his usually keen foresight.

One by one, the Iron Soldiers emerged through the porter at Chihoda Hua. Their exit landed them in a desolate colony founded three generations ago by refugees from the great capital of the World of Hindia. The descendants of those defeated by the Iron Soldiers did not greet their ancient enemies. They only stared with the tight face of ancient hatred. The High Councillor expected the Chihoda Hua colonists to kill or shun the Iron Soldiers. We will never know what words or deeds the Great Colonel did to win the favor of the Hindians at Chihoda Hua. But we do know that the old enemies came to trust the Iron Soldiers enough to show them their secret means of traveling to other colonies.

Corruption and crookedness was rife throughout the Trans-stellar Empire. The Trans-stellar Governors tolerated it and engaged in it. They even reported it to the High Councillor, who had many informants across the stars. Many people will say many things if they receive payment for their words. The High Councillor himself understood the necessity of corruption and took advantage of it. In one particular aspect, this corruption offered an escape opportunity to the Iron Soldiers. Though all porters in the Trans-stellar Empire were to lead to the great capital of Borea, many others had been put into surreptitious service. Covertly and corruptly, colonies had established contact with each other by porter to circumvent the trade representatives and tax collectors at the great capital of Borea. The Trans-stellar Governors knew this and exacted their price to look the other way. No one can keep a widespread practice secret for long in an empire, so the governors had also told the High Councillor and offered a tribute payment to protect the well-known secret from official revelation and sanction. Small amounts of contraband trade flourished from colony to colony. To keep their hidden market, colonial peoples bribed their governors, who bribed the High Councillor. Such is government in an empire.

[continues]

We know that the Chihoda Hua colonists told the Iron Soldiers of this secret route to other colonies. From Chihoda Hua, they traveled to the colony of Dalniy Ugol. From Dalniy Ugol, they ventured to Antima Cauki. They travelled from colony to colony, raising the prospect of rebellion wherever they could find a population dissatisfied with their subordination to the TransGlobal Borean Alliance and their impoverishment at its hands. Resentment fed their successful diplomacy. The Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers played the statesman with unparalleled expertise. Some colonies had no desire to attack the great capital. Happy in their position, the Great Colonel simply negotiated transport to the next colony. He never let the colonial representatives know the size or scope of the plan and he acted fast. From colony to colony, he assayed his counterpart and acted decisively. Rumor and spies would undoubtedly bring word of his travels to the High Councillor sooner or later. Wherever he found a restive population, he offered the colonists an opportunity to exact revenge and quickly built his ready forces of marauders.

The Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers formed two plans in his mind. He told only one to his Iron Soldiers and colonist-confederates. The plan as told was another suicide mission for the Iron Soldiers. Using the credentials of Chihoda Hua laborers, they would enter the central porter station at the great capital of Borea. In the First Interstellar War, the Iron Soldiers had done this to destroy the central porter station in the capital of the World of Hindia. This time, they would have to fight the Borean Thuraphulanx for control of the porters. They sought not to sever the great capital from its colonies, but to seize control to allow for unencumbered transport of colonists to the great capital. The colonies intended to plunder and punish those who sent them to the far corners of the universe and exploited their labors. The Iron Soldiers promised to give them the opportunity.

The Iron Soldiers believed the raid was their justified revenge on the degenerate people of the great capital. They thought it might teach them the error of their ways and serve as a warning to change their course. But the Great Colonel held no such illusions or intentions. He understood what course he set upon. He briefed his loyal soldiers of the plan. They would steal into the central porter station of the great capital, just as they had against the World of Hindia so long ago. They would fight the unsuspecting guards, wrestling their weapons away from them. They would suffer casualties, undoubtedly. But they would take the station and seize the control authority. From the controls, the Iron Soldiers would allow a few allies to enter the capital and cause havoc. With a small riot to occupy the attention of the local thuraphulankees, the Iron Soldiers would be safe in their place for a time. They could threaten to unleash more chaos as they dictated terms to the High Councillor. They would have their revenge by humiliating the political leadership which had cast them out of their homeland.

But the Great Colonel held secret his true mission. This attack would be no mere raid to humiliate the High Councillor or the pompous Senatates. The Great Colonel intended to hold the porters open from colonies across the Trans-stellar universe. A seething mass of furious colonists would storm and burn the great capital. No Thuraphulanx could stop the numbers the Great Colonel planned to release. The raid would increase to invasion, to cataclysm. The Great Colonel presented the brief moment of plunder as a screen for his larger plan. Initially, the invaders would have to face the nearby Thuraphulax mustered outside the central porter station. But if they could overcome those, the colonists would find little resistance from the weak, degenerate population. Nor did the Great Colonel expect the corrupt, demoralized Thuraphulanx to put up much of a fight. On the contrary, he expected them to be overwhelmed and run for their lives. The people and government of the great capital would dissolve into isolated pockets of individuals, helpless against never-ending waves of violence at the hands of vengeful colonists. He even thought it likely that the colonists would fight each other as well, for all had degenerated in the Trans-stellar universe. The carnage would not end until the wealth and prosperity of TransGlobal Borea had been annihilated. This was the Great Colonel’s hidden aim.

And so it happened, by the Great Colonel’s plan or close enough to it. Why do you think we find so many bones and ruins beneath the dirt under our feet? Why do we find twisted metal, charred remains, and broken landscapes strewn across our world? The terrible revenge of the Iron Soldiers brought the last age to its end. They stole through the porter of Chihoda Hua back into Borea. Each disguised Iron Soldier targeted a thuraphulankees and overpowered their weak and surprised opponent. Taking the pulse cannons of their defeated enemy, they fought onward to gain complete control of the porter station of the great capital. Sending messengers to the prepared colonies, they signaled their confederates that they succeeded in eliminating the immediate guard of Thuraphulanx. With the marauders ready, the raid commenced. Bands of colonists poured through the undefended gates of their porters, lusting for violence and plunder against the decadent people of the Borean capital. The Iron Soldiers held the porters open for who knows how long. They used the moment of carnage to open discussions with the High Councillor as to terms of his humiliation. But the Great Colonel ensured that no agreement was sealed with the High Councillor. Stalling negotiations, the Great Colonel allowed messengers loaded with plunder to return to their colonies to call for reinforcements. The victorious colonists showed the wealth they had seized in the brief raid. The display of a shining victory and sparkling wealth instigated a wave of colonists to follow their kindred raiders through the porters and into the great capital of Borea. Did the Iron Soldiers understand what their Great Colonel had done? Did they come to agree with him or did they turn against him? We do not know. We will never know. We only know that the invasion turned into a tide of fire, blood, and death.

The end of an era is always fire, blood, and death.

* * *

Dreaming of Dawn

By turn_coat

Storm winds left traces of bittersweet ichor dripping from where window panes hadn’t been properly battened into position. Martin took a deep breath and watched huddled forms of hooded figures walking along causeways beneath the tall glass of his lab. He looked to his colleague and spoke as a gust of nascent wind-borne corruption smeared itself against the glass. “The storms are only going to get worse, the people out there will only grow fewer and further between.”

Constantine shook her head, “I can’t for a moment accept your assertion that this is in any way an ethical response.”

Martin sighed. “Do you have a better alternative? Further development requires sponsorship and fiscal support. The power lines have to be repaired, the techs have to be paid, and no one wants to try and scrape a living out of that cold soil.”

Constantine turned and looked at the enormous tanks and contraptions littering the laboratory. “I still don’t think it’s right. Aren’t you worried about some legislation or… something? Do you think your myriad of grand children will exalt you as a hero for this?”

“They’ll be alive, they’ll have their own problems to cope with. At least we’ll have a next generation. Besides, who would step in? It’s not like any government, even local, would act without approval from one of our operations officers.” Martin put a hand on Constantine's shoulder, turning her away from the window. “The problem isn’t out there, it’s in here. Those survivors out there aren’t our people. Honestly, they really never were. How many of us are actually active and productive these days? Five hundred thousand, maybe less? Imagine what a million dedicated workers could do to rebuild, imagine what forty million could do. Brilliant people who weren’t subject to those external stressors in their youth, a hundred million of our people. That’s what it is, we saw the decline in our younger days first occur slowly, then quickly. It has to do with basic biological function: when stressors are high, populations shrink, and we’ve been doing a damn good job keeping stress high in our population for a long, long time. You’ve got two or three generations now each with a lower standard of living than their parents had, each trying to scrape by. Even the migrant population numbers fell off years ago. Civilizations require people, millions of people, highly specialized people.”

Constantine shook her head, “I can’t believe I’m considering agreeing with you.”

Martin ran several fingers through his thinning hair, “I already have approval from the board.”

“Of course you do. You wouldn’t have brought it up if there was anything I could do to stop you.”

* * *

The brine-storm was getting worse and the windows of his glorified hovel were only scarcely effective at keeping the corruption out. Nël rummaged through his barren fridge, before eventually giving up. The harsh air whistling through the cracks of his window prompted him to use one of his last rolls of tape to place a new layer at the base of the pane where it intersected the ancient wood. The whole building had been slowly inculcated by heady ichor like a discoloring cathedral of wax. The overhead light in his one room apartment flickered for a moment as distant electrical lines distended in the storm.

Despite the irritation in his stomach, he couldn’t help but admire the storm that had drawn him from sleep like a drowning man gasping for consciousness. The brine-storms were a time of both opportunity and danger, and for the same reasons: patrol drones of the capital police couldn’t operate in the harsh conditions. Not only did the aerosol coat their props, it also halted all wireless transmissions. Something in the brine absorbed and scattered signals, even hardline connections were hampered during storms like this.

Nël brushed his teeth with acrid tasting water and wiped his face. As he stretched sore muscles he glanced at his router and attached a loose cable in the wall. “Piece’o shit,” he grumbled as the little light indicating a network connection stubbornly blinked a sickly red. No more talking online, at least not until the storm passed. Outside his window, he could see a few hooded figures moving between buildings whilst trying to avoid the wind, not that it did them much good. Even a light wind was enough to knock those tiny toxic droplets into the eyes and lungs.

Between the total shut down of digital communications and his aching belly, Nël decided it was a good time to visit Mac’s. He could grab some food, and maybe see some old friends. Staying at home there was nothing to do but read some water stained books, and he wasn’t much one for reading. Nah, he’d much rather be chatting with some of his idiot friends online, or failing that, making plans with his other idiot friends at Mac’s. Besides, Mac’s had a better digital connection. From there he’d at least be able to look up how long this storm would last, maybe make other plans to take advantage of it if the storm was a long one. Having set his plans, Nël donned a heavy oiled canvas jacket and flipped the hood over his head. The canvas cloak had been a gift from his late mother when the storms had begun nearly a decade back… when times were still good, or at least better than they were now. It sat squarely on his shoulders with a wide mantle that helped separate the interior from the corrupting winds of the storm. The jacket also helped prevent the drones from seeing the little revolver he carried in an old holster near the small of his back.

Nël didn’t have a lot of positive memories of blue skies to look back on, fewer now. When his mother had died, she’d left him her home in the country, but those memories were colored by the fact that he’d been forced to sell the land just to pay for the estate taxes that had been levied against it. His one chance to move into the interior up in smoke like a burnt book because some one wanted an upgraded community server farm or city park. When Nël stepped through the red rusted door of his building, there was nothing to defend his face from the eye-watering storm but a simple bandana and a pair of glasses.

* * *

Buildings of the city rose like monuments to a time long gone appearing through the haze on either side of the street. Nël had grown up here, but sometimes even he found himself lost during storms; forced to resort to reading nearby street signs. It felt dead or overgrown, each of these gigantic structures of concrete and steel and glass discolored by dripping layers of ichor coating their outsides and slowly becoming embedded deep in the structure until it became difficult to tell where the waxy froth ended and the structural components began. It had been like this most of the last decade, the population mostly evaporating into one-room apartments or moving far inland. He’d never become used to it. Cars were a rare sight in the storm as the stuff coated cameras and windshields alike. Only a few drivers these days could afford that special anti-stick coating that sloughed off the corrupting ichor gel like oil would water. Nël listened to music while he walked through the wind blown mist, his eyes and lungs burning with every step. A quarter mile wasn’t that far in clear weather, but it was about the limit of the distance he was willing to walk during a storm. By the time he arrived at Mac’s, Nël could taste a bit of blood trickling down the back of his throat, and his eyes were bloodshot. He absently wondered if the putrid storms were the reason he’d stopped seeing cockroaches in any of the buildings he’d lived in over the last few years.

Mac’s was in a basement, and unlike the rest of the structure, well kept and with double-doors to keep out the worst of the storm. Nël passed a few vehicles and one large van before descending the windy old wood stair and entering. Lights here flickered the same as at home, but the company was better, and it was with relief that he once again breathed clear air. Nël immediately noticed the smell of fried food. Just over a dozen people were inside, many of them sticky and forlorn just like him. Groups of people congregated around a few different tables and the bar itself. Battery powered lanterns in the center of each table created hazy shadows against the ancient looking brick walls.

“Walked ‘ere again?” Marcine asked as she watched Nël hang his jacket and remove his completely ruined bandana. Marcine had been here since before Nël had begun frequenting the place. She was a scrappy old woman who, despite her small stature, commanded respect from the regulars. He knew she had some relation to Mac, but couldn’t remember what it was, maybe a cousin?

“Yea, I walked ‘ere,” responded Nël. “I’m not ‘bout to try driving in that mess. Every week they seem to get worse. Y’know how long this one’ll be?”

Marcine shrugged, “Kelly knows, think e’s planning something over there.” She gestured to a table set against one of the walls where a number of Nël’s acquaintances sat in conversation.

Nël waved to the small group. “Guess I’ll ask ‘em then.”

“You ordering a drink?” asked Marcine as Nël was about to walk off into the bar.

Nël sighed, “Yeah, and food too. I ‘aven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Ye can pay for it…?” Marcine asked.

Nël nodded, “I should be set for the rest of the month. Not like I’m trying to support a family.”

Marcine shook her head, “don’t think no one is in a place like this.”

After receiving a mug and a fried chunk of meat and potatoes, thereby ensuring the continued operation of the tavern, Nël walked across the stained floor to where a few of his friends sat. Kelly, Monte, and some girl that Nël didn’t recognize, were conversing in quiet tones. “Planning to get into trouble without me?” asked Nël.

[continues]

“You weren’t ‘ere,” responded Kelly with a smile. “Good to ‘ave you though. Hardline says that the storm might last until tomorrow night. Makes for a good opportunity.”

“They’re gett’n longer,” said Monte. “Longer’n more frequent.”

“There’s no changing that,” said the new girl.

Nël eyed her. She didn’t look like she was from this part of the town, no stains on her skin and clothes that came off as just a little bit too nice and cosmopolitan. “Where’s you from?” he asked.

“Ay!” said Kelly, “she’s the one what got us this project we’re working on. So you be nice.”

“I’m from Metropol,” said the girl, “my name is Alescia.”

“O‘course you are,” said Nël acidly. “Come to stomp on the rest of us, or are you content to just sit here and drink like you belong ‘ere?”

“I mean, we’re all just people doing the best we can, right?”

“Best we can do is survive, best you do is make it harder for us. First yer votes went and destroyed where you come from then you come here destroyed our homes too?” asked Nël.

“We’re not all like that,” said Alescia defensively. “Some have left because—”

“Even if you didn’t vote for it, you did nothing to stop it. Just run away from your problems then arrive somewhere new like locusts because your shining city didn’t work out. Ye destroy the place you lived in, then you come here to destroy what little is left of ours.”

“This place ‘aint so nice either,” said Monte.

“It didn’t used to be like this, used to be able to afford a decent place to live. Used to be able to inherit the family farm without paying an arm an’ a leg in taxes,” Nël countered. “Idiots what like in Metropol destroyed what was built over generations because they wanted to be nice and take in the needy. Where did that take you? Here. To what’s left of our city while your old stronghold rots away. It was twits like here that brought the police drones because they were terrified of having to defend themselves. Now every move you make is watched by some algorithm while the place they used to live in has a tenth the population it once did, damn well would have done the same to us if these storms hadn’t started and driven out all those oversensitive self-righteous useless twats. Those police drones didn’t do so well in the brine out here did they?”

Kelly slammed his hand down on the table. “Nël, enough. Either you shut your trap and deal with it, or get out. We got a job to do. She had some useful notes on one of those warehouses from the Hersching site. They moved a good rock of gear in and out of it, might be our chance to find some high value goods before they’re placed under proper lock and key again. What do you think?”

“The Hersching site?” asked Nël. He looked at Alescia again, with her flowery clothes and cosmopolitan name. “What’s in it for you?”

“I was fired a few weeks ago. I still know the way in and they won’t update their security codes until the end of the month. It’s either that or live on the street, and all their external surveillance stops working in a storm. I get a cut of what we find. I think they have proper radios, cellphones, maybe even weapons or ammunition or masks. All that will fetch at least a months rent out here in the—” she stopped herself before completing the sentence and looked at Nël.

“The badlands,” Nël finished. “Unlike Metropol, we ‘ave no reason to be ashamed of who we are.”

“Her and I go way back. You can complain all day,” said Monte, “once we’re done. Right now, look.”

Nël looked as Kelly scooted his digital tablet over so that Nël could see it. Nël glanced over the device and then looked back at Alescia. “A building layout? And why should I trust you?” Nël pawed at the tablet display a little to get a good view of the structure.

Alescia nodded. “I worked in the Westend labs before they laid me off. Me and Montague grew up together, he can back me. We were cousins.”

Nël looked over at Monte who nodded his heavy jaw. “That’s why you’re ‘ere then? Need help salvaging one of the Hersching corporate sites?”

“It’s not fully abandoned,” corrected Alescia. “After some conversion to storage, this westside warehouse has been pretty much ignored for months now. Not much security inside or out, but you’ll find plenty of salvageable equipment inside.”

“Y’know what it’s like on a salvage run?” asked Nël.

Alescia shook her head.

“You’re talking about long hikes in the storm. Once the weather cleared unexpectedly and I had to spend an entire day laying face down in a ditch so I wouldn’t get caught. They think we’re just petty criminals, they couldn’t give two shits if we can get enough to eat or not. They thought they’d just give us a roof over our ‘eads and that’d be enough. That we would never want for anything. ‘Course then the storms started, and now everything gone to shit. We’re not animals,” Nël said angrily. “We can’t be kept as pets.”

Alescia didn’t say anything, it was hard to read her expression in the dim light, but Nël thought he could see a hint of pain there. Good.

The following hour was spent making plans as the wind lightened outside. Of course that didn’t reduce by one iota the rate that ichor accumulated on the outside of the high windows. The airborne malaise stuck to it like warm wax and slowly dripped down leaving stained trails. Monte’s van could take them to the edge of the industrial district where they could conceal it in an abandoned garage. From there they’d be on foot to try and rescue any valuables they could find. Mac’s front was the tavern, but he was also a friend that could help them turn over any illicit equipment they found. What few taverns like his remained were all closely tied to the underground economy.

Of the old sites in the city, most had been picked clean in the last year or two. A fresh poorly guarded warehouse though? That would be like the good old days, back when Nël was practically swimming in cash compared to now. He used to be able to walk into the tavern with a girl on each arm; of course eventually the big corporate heads got wise and moved their warehouses away from the coast. The girls and money quickly followed. Of the original population, scarce few remained out here in the shells of cities, too stubborn or too poor to leave. Nothing left now but lost souls like him and Monte, and the freelancer gangs between cities. Every one of any class had gone up onto the mountains to escape the acidic storms welling up from the sea and slammed shut the tolerant and accepting doors behind them. Nël wondered how they’d weather the ever-worsening storms and wondered what would become of them all. It didn’t matter, there was a payday on the table, worry about the here and now.

A raised voice at the door of the tavern roused the four of them. A pair of men in ichor-stained jumpsuits entered the establishment and removed a pair of respirators. Security forces, the pair of law men could be after just about anyone in there for any myriad of reasons. “Hell,” said Nël, glancing at the three sitting with him. “Y’think they’re after us?”

Monte shrugged nonchalantly, but carefully moved his heavy frame to the edge of his seat while Kelly lithely did the same. Alescia withdrew the tablet from the table and sealed it inside a plastic case on the off chance they’d have to make a sudden egress from the establishment. The two security officers walked into the room as nearly all of the dozen or so inhabitants halted their conversations and watched, wondering who it was that had gotten caught with their face on camera.

The two security men walked up behind a scrawny fellow who was sitting at the table next to Nël’s coterie. The entire room silently observed as the man glanced between the security officers and the door.

“Don’t try it,” said an officer gruffly.

That’s all he managed to get out before pandemonium erupted in the Tavern.

* * *

“How mad do you think Marcine and Mac will be?” asked Monte as he drove the heavy van down narrow roads between buildings that looked like decaying sculptures slowly sinking back into the earth.

“Well, he won’t be mad at us,” said Kelly. “We had nothing to do with it.”

“… this time,” mumbled Nël. “Who the hell hides a flashbang in their pocket?”

“Apparently Tom does,” said Monte.

“Did you see if he got away?”

Alescia looked up from the digital tablet she was holding in the back of the van, “I didn’t, did any of you?”

Kelly shook his head. “Don’t think he did.”

“Fuckin’ idiot.”

Nël was sitting in the passenger seat, his eyes still watering, first from the explosive flash in the Tavern, and now from the heady ichor fumes spilling out of the broken air vent of the van. Him and every one else had scattered once the fight began. Nël was just happy that they hadn’t been the target of the investigation. Whatever trouble Tom was in, it wasn’t their business, and if they caught him, he’d end up in the penitentiary as a corporate terrorist for a long god damn time.

Monte’s normal rugged look was even worse for wear as he’d caught a punch in the nose as smoke and light filled room. A little blood dripped down from a cracked lip into the stubble on his chin.

“Laws are just for when the sky is clear,” said Nël to no one in particular.

“That’s what they say.”

“Wait we’re doing this now? Don’t you need to prepare, get equipment?” asked Alescia. “What about the brawl?”

“Got ‘erything we need’s in the van. Anyway, a brawl’s the perfect time to go,” said Kelly. “If the capital police are all called because one of their guys got wounded, it’ll eat up half the officers in the city sorting that mess out. They won’t be done finishing paperwork for hours. Heck, the remnants of the city police might even show up to a crowd that big, what little remains of them.”

[continues]

Nël kept his eyes on the road as the old vehicle clanked and rumbled around him. He was in a particularly sour mood given that he’d only had the opportunity to finish eating about half of the food he’d paid for. Hot meals weren’t cheap these days as government relief packages grew fewer and further between. Stupid useless capital government, all they were good for was guarding warehouses of their goods. When he’d been a child whole ships the size of skyscrapers had carried trade goods daily and now he hadn’t seen one in months. Nël wondered if they’d found some other method of transporting the stuff, or if they just gave up on long distance trade. Didn’t really matter, he was sure he could find out if he cared to look it up. But he didn’t. This was his home now, for good or ill, mostly ill.

What would have been a twenty minute ride in fair weather was nearly an hour in the storm. They had to stop a few times to clear the windshield and check the street signs to make sure they were where they thought they were. On the occasion Monte would utter empty promises to his old engine to get it fixed soon as the parts were available. While traveling, they only passed eight other cars, and two of those had been security vehicles heading for Mac’s. Alescia seemed to grow progressively more nervous during the ride, made sense, thought Nël: this was her first time. For the rest of them though, they’d been living this life so long that they were almost following a routine. What had started as a few crimes of opportunity became a method of survival when the life of the city was slowly bled white by the cancerous mists and storms.

“I think… yeah, that’s it. I found this place on street view a while back, and it was a bit run down even back when the pictures were taken. What do you think?” asked Kelly as the van approached a shelled out husk of an old garage.

Most of the buildings collected a sheen of ichor over time, but generally it dripped down the windows and inculcated the wood and stone, unlikely to have permeated within. This building looked like it was made of the stuff, a pitted pustule that was never touched by human craftsmen, instead having grown out of the dreary storm winds like some malignant tumor. All the rough edges had been rounded by layer upon layer of waxy sheen. A dim streetlight, itself half obscured in the fog, flickered in front of the structure.

“That big door is just barely hanging on,” Nël observed. “Knock it open ‘n we’ll have a good spot to put the van. What’s the backside like?”

“Same as th’front, I think,” said Kelly. “Big door in the back, half crusted over. See that fence line there? That’s the normal security line, during a storm this’s about as empty as it gets. From here it’s less than a half mile inside their wire to the warehouse.”

Nël looked at Alescia and Monte before turning around to talk. “Listen, new girl, Alescia, this life is rough. I don’t know what business you got hammered by to end up with your cute ass dropped by the oligarchs, sure sucks when you have to work for your supper don’t it? Places like this ‘s mostly abandoned, but not always. You do what we say, when we say it. You don’t ask how, or why. You shut your mouth and do as you’re told, and you won’t end up in a penitentiary or labor camp for the rest of your days. It’s dirty work, you’re gonna bleed, and if you complain, we’ll leave your ass out there. The outsides are abandoned in storms, but there’s drones and security trips all over in the wire. That’s why we don’t go in unarmed. Some cagey catches us or some ticker tags us, and we’re done. So you do as you’re told. ‘Aight?”

Alescia briefly glanced around the interior of the van and swallowed before nodding. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

“Good,” said Nël, “now let’s kick down that door.”

It took only a few minutes for them to wedge a crowbar into a crack in the decaying metal and force it open enough to climb through and unlock it properly. Then Monte pulled the van inside and shut off the lights. After slamming the big garage door shut, the lot of them were left in darkness with only the rumble of corrupting wind outside.

“Won’t they see tracks that some one pulled in here?” asked Alescia.

“Only if they’re lookin in the next fifteen or so,” responded Kelly as he groped around for a flashlight. “Storms out here on the coasts aren’t like those little ones you’ve seen in the continent, love. They’ll wipe clean all trace of passage right quick.”

Nël squinted as Kelly switched on a flashlight. “We gonna have enough room in here to put together the wagon?” he asked.

Monte shrugged, and opened the rear doors of the van and pulled out four inflated wheels.

“See here, Alescia,” said Nël. “When we head out we try to nab all we can get our hands on, but it’s a long walk. Can’t follow the paths neither. Would be nice if security was so lax we could drive up, but we can’t. So we—”

Kelly and Monte began arguing over the wagon setup. Nël rolled his eyes. “Just… hang on. You need me to hold the light? Alescia, go hold the light for ‘em. I’m gonna pull the packs out. Anyway, going out there is easy, gett’n back with the loot’s the hard part.”

Alescia nodded and took hold of Kelly’s flashlight.

“I don’t think there’s windows in here,” said Kelly, “but if there are keep the light away from them.”

“How long ago y’think this place was abandoned?” asked Nël.

“Well, it was run down when I found it on street view, so quite a while. Maybe three or four years? Most of the buildings out here ‘re abandoned, every one concentrates into the city core because the storms make driving so damn hard.”

“Yeah, figure so,” said Nël. He looked at graffiti on the walls. It was unsteadily illuminated by Alescia as she attempted to hold the light on where Monte and Kelly were fiddling with the cart frame and attaching the wheels.

“Dammit!” exclaimed Kelly as he was knocked into a chunk of the wall which promptly cracked and fell to the ground.

“The hell’s that?” asked Nël, looking at the newly revealed crevice.”

“I dunno,” replied Kelly, “why don’t you have a look while we get this damn pin in place?”

The grotto only extended a few feet into a rear-facing false-wall. It looked like some sort of closet or other room. It wasn’t until Nël located a door to the outside of the garage that he realized he must be standing in some sort of gardening shed or something. The outer door had been so thoroughly covered by years of ichor resin that it hadn’t even been visible from outside. It was while he was thinking about what else might have gotten lost in the city, buried under countless layers of profane matter that he noticed a number of old gardening implements stacked in the dimly lit back corner.

“Ay, Alescia, hand me the light for a minute,” shouted Nël.

“Don’t you dare!” said Kelly, “we’ve nearly got it done.”

“Jus’ shine ‘er in here a second.”

After some more cajoling, Nël finally got some light to see by. “Holy shit guys! Ye see that?!”

“What, Where?” asked Kelly, poking his head in the alcove. “Holy shit, are those proper masks?”

“Looks like,” said Nël. “Couple of filters. Too. Hell yes. This’ll make life easier. I think these are the old K-25s from when those were still in production.”

Monte grunted approval to the group. “How many?”

“Looks like two, ‘nuff for a few of us anyway, an’ filters too. This is going to hurt a lot less than last time,” said Nël. “You remember on the way back you started throwing up?”

Kelly glanced at Alescia and then unconvincingly shook his head, denying the claim.

“Like hell man,” said Nël, “even I nearly puked, I was coughing up blood for a few days after our last run, eyes was all bleary too.”

“That storm was awful, don’t know what the hell’s in the air make it that rough on the eyes,” said Kelly, changing the subject.

“Don’t matter to me now,” said Nël. “We got us something worth wearing for the first time in months. This one’ll be a cakewalk. Just like those security guys have.”

There was some disagreement over who would get the K-25s they’d just located. Alescia made the discussion easier by revealing that she had a modern respirator of her own sitting in her heavily stretched backpack. Eventually it was decided that, since Monte had actual goggles, that Kelly and Nël would wear the outdated K-25s as they were the ones expected to do the heavy lifting.

* * *

The K-25 masks were a little bulky as far as respirators went, but they covered the entire face, eyes included, though the gunk from the storm still stuck to the glass goggles here and there. Nël had to keep pulling out an old piece of cloth to regularly wipe clean his vision in the storm. The respirators made the walk more pleasant than Nël had experienced in a year. Heck, this was probably the first time he’d breathed clean air in longer than that. Some family had probably put those in the back of the garden shed and forgotten them when they’d left after the storms had gone from a freak rarity to a regular occurrence.

In the hazy wind, the four of them looked like strange inhuman apparitions. Most of the land was barren, some long forgotten construction project of steel and concrete abandoned ages ago. Kelly had told Nël that the project was going to be some big research site for Hersching before they’d decided to relocate it inland five years ago. Amazing how much info Monte could pull off the internet, even with the decayed state of the city. Monte had clearly been working on this raid for a little while. Nël and Kelly were just the muscle, and they both knew it. The wagon had a harness on the front that could be pulled by two people. Nël had the thing attached to his waist while Kelly stood behind to help push when it got caught in mud or nearly tipped over by the wind. Monte and Alescia took point, with Monte keeping an eye out for any potential trouble holding an illegal short barreled rifle.

[continues]

A Good Gig Ruined

By Clayton Barnett

Leslie Hartmann continued to listen to Moriaraty’s seemingly endless list of complaints while he ate his breakfast. The Merton Tavern, just on the northern edge of Bardstown, Kentucky, had become their unofficial headquarters over the past several months; a development that suited both the town and Leslie and his men.

“…and how am I supposed to change over the engines of the Dragoons when I don’t even have enough parts…” Leslie let him carry on, content in the knowledge that once he was through, he’d be back in the machine shop doing what was necessary. He just needed to vent first. Without interrupting, Sue from Communications, upstairs, handed him a paper. He thanked her with a glance over his coffee.

‘Scouts to the SE report armored column coming up US 62; appear to be escorting cargo.’ Appears, he thought. Still: threat versus intention; he held up his hand to Moriaraty while taking out his small two-way radio.

“Mobilize C Company. We’ll be going to checkpoint four; I’ll be there in five minutes.” He looked at his chief mechanic. “Sorry, Moriaraty, business. We’ll talk more later.”

They stood. His mechanic grumbled as he left. Leslie put on his sunglasses against the bright morning light of another pleasant fall day. He could already hear the engines turning over at their depot. Good. Ten minutes was the official mobilization time, but he expected five. Weaving through the armored vehicles, he acknowledged the salutes of his men. With a wave to the driver of his scout car, Jock Stenson, he climbed aboard and put on his headset.

“All good?” he asked. Seven replies. “Let’s move out.”

His car led the others around the town and onto the Bluegrass Parkway. While there was no natural chokepoint between Bardstown and E-town, there was at least a narrows where they’d be meeting their infantry platoon.

As they rolled along, he again considered how fortunate he had been. When the US economy collapsed almost overnight—after the Chinese, Russians and others starting using their own gold-backed currency—he and his men were first ordered from their base at Fort Knox to try to maintain order in nearby Louisville. After only a week of that, more and more of the Sixteenth Cavalry took casualties from hostile civilians in the city. With no pay being issued, more and more simply deserted. And then when his troop was ordered to fire on unarmed civilians….

He shook his head then keyed his mic and brought the others up to speed on what this mission was. Hopefully, it was just what the message said: a defended convoy. Anyone with money or power didn’t move without armed force these days. But it could also be a feint, to raid and pillage on their way. So far, they’d been lucky: the sight of armored fighting vehicles like this tended to focus others’ attention.

Coming up to the checkpoint, he turned and waved. No need to use the radio when someone else might hear them. The other AFVs turned off the highway to their established positions. Jock brought them hull down just where the road turned around a large hill. He saw Lt. Brown of the infantry give a wave and thumbs up to his right before returning to his concealment. They waited.

They didn’t wait long. He heard their engines, still some way off. He made a call on the common radio channel.

“To the column coming up the Bluegrass Highway from E-town:please state your intentions prior to approaching Bardstown.”

They were good: his ears picked up the sudden lessening of their motors. They were slowing down, if not stopping.

“This is escort leader Fricker. With whom am I speaking?”

Fricker?

“This is Leslie Hartmann. Is that you, Adam?” A laugh.

“I thought that was you, Les! So, you, too, have survived!”

“So far,” Leslie replied. “Forgive my asking, but are you really acting as escort?” A lot of old friendships went with the Breakup.

“Yep.” Fricker seemed to not take offense. “It’s been keeping food on our plates for some months now. How about you?”

Leslie switched frequencies and briefed his men, then returned to Fricker.

“Some of us holed up around Bardstown. They’ve not kicked us out yet. Why don’t you proceed on, slow? I’ll meet you.”

“Sound good. See you in a bit.”

This was the tricky part: was either of them lying? It might seem rude, but he wasn’t moving until he got a look at them. It was only a few minutes when their lead vehicle came around the bend. Through his field glasses he could see Fricker perched atop his Commando Scout armored car. After him came two hummers with M2s.

“Move out, slow.” He called to Jock. They pulled onto the highway and stopped about fifty feet later. Leslie saw more vehicles coming: transports, both military and civilian. Fricker pulled aside and stopped. They both dismounted.

“How many are covering us?” Fricker asked as they shook hands.

“Enough,” Leslie said with a smile. “Will you be stopping in town? I can arrange…” The other man shook his head. “It’s still early. We hope to be in Danville by dusk.” “Okay; we won’t hinder you. Let’s remount and we’ll use the radio.”

“’Preciate it.” They remounted. Jock turned them around and they moved out in tandem. Leslie radioed his thanks to Brown and told the rest of his troop to come up behind Fricker’s column, which still stretched around the curve.

“Lord, just how many are you?” asked Leslie.

“Excluding mine, sixteen. They wanted to bring more, but I wasn’t comfortable with that,” Fricker radioed back.

As they sped up to thirty-five miles per hour, Leslie asked, “Who’s ‘they,’ if you don’t mind me prying?”

“It’s not for me to…hang on.” He saw Fricker still talking, so obviously he’d been called from somewhere in his entourage. No, he wasn’t just talking, he was arguing. Leslie saw him pound the top of his AFV. Fricker looked over.

“Change of plans,” he said with anger in his voice. “My employer—my civilian employer—has asked that we overnight in Bardstown. Does your offer still stand?”

Leslie had to smile at the ‘civilian’ comment. “Sure does. Do we need to put you up, or…?” He saw Fricker shake his head. “Nope. Just give us a bivouac and we’re good.”

Leslie thought about that. Don’t particularly want them in town…and he did say they’re headed toward Danville. Ah.

“Only the best for you, Adam!” he radioed. “I’ll take you to the Country Club south of town. Hope you brought your clubs!”

Fricker laughed back at him. “Damn! I left them in my other tank!”

By noon Fricker’s force had established their laager at the unused golf course: transports in the middle, with his vehicles around them, pointed out. Leslie had already sent C Company home. He’d called ahead to have an unarmed hummer waiting for him. Fricker wandered over with an obvious civilian trailing after him.

“Quick setup,” Leslie said, indicating the laager. “You have good men.”

“Thanks, yeah.” Fricker had a hint of a smile. “The ones that suck don’t stay long. Oh, let me introduce my current employer: Mister John Carell.”

Leslie shook his hand. “I’m Leslie Hartmann. A pleasure.”

Carell’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. A few inches shorter than Leslie and perhaps in his late thirties, he gave off a look of sloth, but his eyes were everywhere. He was clad in jeans, polo shirt, and light jacket. And a semi-automatic in a holster.

“It is, indeed,” he replied. “Is this town under your control?”

“That’s a laugh. If you knew about military men, the last thing we want is control over civilians!”

“Really? How interesting.” Carell looked at Fricker and Leslie. “How about lunch? My treat.”

Fricker shrugged. Since Carell was the one who stopped them, he wanted to talk for a reason.

“Thanks,” Leslie replied, gesturing at his hummer. “Let’s go.”

Some minutes later saw them in front of the old Talbott Tavern. Open since the Revolutionary War, even the Breakup didn’t seem to faze it. Looking about before they went in, Carell said, “You have no electric power here.”

“Who does?”asked Leslie. They did have a series of generators they used when needed, but he didn’t need to know that.

“But,” Carell continued, sniffing the air, “you’re burning alcohol in generators for some power. Makes sense, what with all the distilleries around here.”

Leslie and Fricker exchanged a glance as they went in.

Over lunch, Leslie learned that they were on their way from Paducah to Knoxville. Neither of them said what they were carrying, and Leslie didn’t ask.

“Wouldn’t the southern route have been faster?” He did ask at one point. Fricker shook his head.

“You may not have heard: Nashville burned, and what’s left are heavily armed gangs.” “No, I’d not heard.” Life was amazingly local after the Breakup.

Following lunch, Carell ordered a round of bourbons. “Any meeting that doesn’t begin with a drink is inherently hostile,” he explained.

“So,” Leslie asked slowly, “we’re having a meeting? You called a halt to your own convoy just to chat?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Carell said easily. “If I may ask, Mister Hartmann, what are the long-term goals for you and your men?”

Leslie stared at him. “In case you’ve not noticed, just staying alive as our country falls apart is something of a concern right now!”

[continues]

Carell did not allow himself to be provoked. “Surely. In the short term. That’s why I asked about the long term. I heard what you said about controlling civilians, and I understand. Once your fuel runs out, whether diesel or alcohol, you’re no different than anyone else here.”

He gestured about.

“What then, Mister Hartmann?” he asked, finishing his bourbon. “The question stands: what are you and your men going to do in the long term?”

Leslie paused to stare into his glass. It was not something he’d not considered before, but was something he’d rather deliberately chosen to not think about.

It was said that any city was three meals away from a riot. When the economy collapsed overnight, that was proven everywhere in the United States at once. The death toll was well into the millions: first by rioting, then killing, then starving. After Louisville, when he and the others mutinied and left, some wanted to use their AFVs to set up their own fiefdom. Leslie and those like him mutinied from the mutineers. Weeks later, they found themselves here. First, by just passing through, but then they were persuaded by the Mayor to stay on as a security force.

He took a last drink. But then what? Electric power was spotty; how much could the distilleries produce by burning wood or coal? When their value as security was gone, they were excess mouths to feed. Outsider excess mouths.

“I suppose we could settle down here,” he began. “There’s still plenty of unused land—” “As peasants.” Carell cut in.

“Excuse me?”

“Peasants. Sooner or later someone stronger will move to exert their authority over this area. When that comes, at best you’re a peasant; at worse, slaves. And remember this!”

Carell leaned forward, looking directly at Leslie’s eyes. “Once, we controlled the lightning!”

Leslie couldn’t suppress a shudder. That was true: the greatest, most technological civilization on Earth… and all he could think of was what field he might be plowing next spring.

Carell leaned back in his chair. “Things are going to be much, much worse, and sooner than you might guess. Winter will kill several million more. Outbreaks will start, and once the medicines on the shelves are gone, a few million more.”

“And you’ve a solution to all that?” Leslie asked sarcastically. “We think so.”

What?! Leslie looked to Fricker.

“Adam,” he asked, “how is it you ended up with this madman?” Fricker sighed. “Is there anything he’s said, Leslie, that’s wrong?” Leslie looked away.

“Yeah,” Fricker continued. “I got this speech two months ago. Like you, we had a good gig set up for ourselves around Bowling Green. Not quite as nice as you, but still….”

He paused and started again. “I’d been thinking about things like this when Carell and some of his people came through town. I think what he’s saying is right.”

“So, after this cargo run, you’re doing what?” Leslie asked. “I’ll be staying on in the Knoxville area.”

“Why? Doing what?”

“Rebuilding modern, technological Western civilization.” Carell cut in. “How?” Leslie demanded.

“Nuclear power.”

* * *

Leslie returned those two to their laager. Back at his depot, he parked and looked about. Twelve months…maybe only six, and all this will be gone. He entered the Merton Tavern and went upstairs.

“Sue? If you’d be so kind, please let the troop know that I need to address everyone tomorrow at oh-seven hundred.” Leslie said to his comm officer.

He looked awful. She wondered what happened. “Yes, sir.” Still, she asked, “Are you all right?”

He shook his head. “I thought I was; now, not so much. Thanks.”

He slept very little that night. Fortunately, the dawn saw another pleasant day. Easier to give his little speech outside.

As he’d done in the past when he needed to talk to everyone, he climbed onto the hood of the scout car. They all depended on one another to stay alive; this time was no different. He thought for just a moment about what Carell had said at lunch: ‘We controlled the lightning!’

“I had an interesting conversation yesterday,” he said, pitching his voice to carry, “and I wanted all of you to know, so we can get this sorted together….”

The next ten minutes were largely a recapitulation of what Carell had said. At the end, he concluded, “I know what some of you have already taken some locals as spouses, and I’m not forcing anyone to go. But I am going, and I will lead any who come with me. Thank you for your attention.”

He was surprised when the entire troop snapped to attention and saluted. They had become rather informal since they settled in at Bardstown. He returned their salute and jumped off the scout car, walking away from them, back toward the tavern. Let them talk it out without me hanging over them, he thought.

“Not bad. Wonder what the result will be.”

Carell sat on a bench just outside Merton’s main entrance. With him was one of the most beautiful woman Leslie had ever seen. Long, ice-white hair, even her eyebrows were almost invisible. Round face with a snub nose above a full, sensual mouth. Leslie tried very hard not to let his eyes wander, but in his peripheral vision, the rest of her was just as good. When they stood, she was taller than Carell. Just my height, he thought wryly.

“Mister Hartmann, this is my wife, Anna.”

Well, damn.

“A pleasure, Mrs. Carell.” he said amiably. She smiled as she shook his hand. Even her teeth are perfect, he noted.

“Mine as well,” she said. “It seems my John has stirred things up here?”

She was able to draw a smile out of him. Leslie shifted his eyes to Carell. Safer. “Yeah,” he said. “It wasn’t anything new; just things no one wanted to think about.”

She laughed easily. “Being part of the Remnant isn’t easy, Mister Hartmann. But saving the world never is!” She turned to her husband.

“I’ll be going back now.” They embraced. “See you at home!”

With a wave to Leslie, she walked to one of Fricker’s hummers and drove off. “Home?” Leslie asked.

“Oak Ridge. She’s taking over the Paducah convoy.”

“What?! A woman… like her… cross-country? Are you insane?” Leslie shouted.

“Well, Fricker is in tactical command,” he grinned at Leslie, “but she can full well take care of herself.”

“So, what are you doing?” He was starting to find Carell’s sense of humor irritating. “Hiring you, and however many decide to stay with you.”

Huh?

“For what?”

“There’s something in central Ohio that we want.” He pointed at the Dragoon AFVs in the depot. “Those will help me say ‘please’ when I get there.”

“Central Ohio?! I can’t even imagine the staff work that will have to go into—”

“I can. I’ve done this twice before, Mister Hartmann.” He regarded Leslie. “You must have a talent for it, having gotten your people here securely. I’ll just add what I know to your skill-set.”

Lord, but his self-confidence is as irritating as his humor. But Leslie’s mind was already working.

“Cincinnati is going to be the main problem,” he said out loud, but to himself. “Whether it’s a handful of vehicles or the entire troop… we’ll have to find some other way across the Ohio River…”

He came back to himself to see Carell grinning at him. He walked past him toward the tavern.

“Come on. This won’t plan itself.”

* * *

In two days, Leslie knew who was staying and who was going. That gave him sixteen AFVs and nine support units, including two tankers.

Two weeks later, the plans were complete. Very open-ended: there was no way to know what they might run into. Some of the contingencies Carell wanted him to consider seemed ludicrous, but he had just stared at Leslie when questioned.

“It’s already happened to me. This one,” he said, tapping a bullet point on the page, “twice.”

Their only major disagreement was the main route. Leslie favored crossing the river at Madison, north into Indiana, and turning east when they got to I-70.

“That puts on the wrong side of Columbus,” Carell had countered. “And what little intel we have all points to that city being a hellhole right now. How about we go through Kentucky, north, here at Portsmouth. Up old US 23, then we swing wide east to outside New Albany.”

While Leslie hadn’t been told their exact destination, he did know it was between Columbus and a little city called Newark.

“That’s a lot of hill-country through Kentucky,” he countered. “Ambushes.” Carell’s eyes took on a hard look.

“I’d rather ambushes by a few dozen than a human-wave in Dayton by a few thousand.” Recalling his last assignment as an NCO in Louisville, Leslie relented.

Hartmann and his forces pulled onto the Bluegrass Parkway on the fifth of October, headed east. It must take a special kind of crazy to want to save the world, he thought as his column picked up speed. From his perch on his scout car, he pivoted around to see the rest. Carell, on the Dragoon directly behind him, waved. A contagious form of crazy.

\ * **

Leslie sat on the crest of the small hill next to Carell. A light rain fell from the gray sky. Better than snow, he thought. They’d made better time than he had anticipated: most of the people they had encountered in the rural areas were just happy that they weren’t raiders. And that they weren’t stopping; food was still scarce. He looked through his field glasses again at the compound before them.

“Doesn’t look like much,” he said. Carell grunted.

“It was never meant to. Who wants a prototype reactor in their county, no matter how small?” He shook his head. “Between the NIMBYs and the eco-freaks, I was surprised it got built two years ago, but they needed the jobs.”

Looking at it more, Leslie noted, “The perimeter fence seems intact. You really think what that farmer told us yesterday was true?” Another grunt.

[continues]

“That this whole area is radioactive? Your people have detected nothing, though.” He stood. “If I was an enterprising chap that wanted to hole up some safe place, I’d want stories like that circulating, too.”

Leslie glanced at his watch: 0930 on Tuesday, the sixteenth. I wonder if that’s auspicious or not, he thought.

“So, we just stroll in, or should I shell it from here?” Carell turned, surprised.

“Would you? I’d love to watch that!” Damn. Leslie forgot for a moment that his employer was crazy. He raised his radio.

“Mitch? Hartmann. We’re headed to the main gate.” “Copy that,” his second in command replied.

“Let’s see who’s home.” They started walking down the slight incline of the hill.

Hanging from the chained and padlocked fence was a handmade sign: ‘Danger! Radiation everywhere! If you stay here you will die!’ Leslie glanced again at the detector on his belt. Nothing.

“If there’s this sign, why a padlock? They didn’t think that all the way through,” Carell noted. Crazy, but astute. He took the bolt cutters from Leslie’s rucksack. With a clatter, they pushed the gate open enough for them both to pass through. Leslie’s eyes kept snapping from window to window, waiting for a shot.

Carell went into the compound about ten feet and stopped. The buildings were fairly identical: about two stories high and fifty by fifty yards wide.

“The prototype was in building four,” Carell said. “We’ll need some of the controls from there and also the fixtures in building two.”

“If, that is, anything is still here,” Leslie said, coming up next to him, hand on his radio.

“I think your mechanic’s starting to wear off on you. Always with the negative waves, Mister Hartmann! Ah, there’s building two, let’s take a look.”

A large sign with the number two painted in blue over a yellow background hung over a door to their right. Carell twisted the handle and went in. Crates had been pushed to form a corridor about twenty feet long. Absolutely perfect for an ambush. Carell stopped after a few steps.

“Good morning!” he called. “We are neither thieves nor marauders. We are just here to retrieve some equipment! We are even prepared to pay for it.” Was he talking to the empty air, or would whoever was there take the bait?

“You may not be thieves, but you are trespassers. Hands up, please.” That answered that.

Right before he raised his hand, Leslie clicked his radio twice.

“Sorry about your chain. We’ll replace it for you. I’m John Carell, this is my hired help, Leslie Hartmann.” Leslie stared at the back of Carell’s head. Really? “And your name would be…?”

There was a pause, “I’m Steve Cummings. Come on forward. Slowly.”

At the end of the crate tunnel, they saw a bear of a man; balding, but with a large beard. He wore a camouflage jacket over his overalls. The trench gun in his hand was pointed just away from them. Typically, Carell walked right to him and extended his hand. Cummings stared at it.

“You do know there are others covering you two?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Carell replied. “But there’s no reason to not be civil, is there?”

Cummings slowly shifted his large shotgun and shook Carell’s hand, followed by the same for Leslie. Now out of the tunnel, Leslie could see that the entire building was a large open space. The left, or north, side was mostly a machine shop. Opposite that were stacks of electronics. He also noted the bedding and personal effects in a corner on the electronics side. Squatters.

“Dad!” There was a young woman’s voice from behind and above them. Turning, he saw a girl—late teens—with a rifle, looking out the windows from her perch on more crates.

“A bunch of tanks and stuff just came over the hill!” She looked out the other windows. “I think they’re all around us!”

Now the trench gun was pointed.

“Just retrieving some equipment, huh?”

“I never said we were alone,” Carell said easily. “And how did you think we were going to transport what we want?”

Cummings eyes remained cold and impassive. “But, tanks?”

“Armored fighting vehicles and scout cars, actually,” Leslie said. “Your sharp-eyed daughter mistook my Dragoons for tanks. You will please note that they’re staying put. Unless they don’t hear from me in about three minutes.”

Still staring at them, Cumming called out, “Laurie! How many do you count?”

“Uh,” she replied. “Seven that I can see. If they’re all around us, I guess that many more I can’t.”

“What I said is true, Mister Cummings,” Carell said softly. “We’re just here for some equipment. We load, we leave. You’ll never see us again.”

The shotgun’s nose went down. Better.

“Call your men, Mister…Hartmann, was it?” Then, louder. “Clay! Keep them covered while I tell the others.” So, at least one more in this building.

As Leslie raised his radio, Cummings withdrew a few paces and spoke in a low voice into a walkie-talkie. I wonder how many are in these buildings? Carell pulled a thermos from his backpack and gestured at a nearby table. Cummings nodded. The girl stayed where she was and there was no sign of ‘Clay.’ These are careful people.

“If you’ve a cup…?” Carell asked. Cummings pulled one from a nearby shelf.

“Honest to God coffee,” he said. “It’s been months! Oh. Here.” He passed them some jerky. Venison, Leslie thought.

“Are you familiar with this facility that you, your family, and friends, are calling home?” Carell asked.

“A little. Some kind of experimental nuclear reactor, but really small.” Carell nodded. “This was to be a proof of concept; not designed for large power output. It was just about

live when everything went to hell. I’d hoped that the facility was still intact.” He nodded over his coffee. “Thank you for that.”

Cummings shrugged. “We just live here. If I could have sold all this stuff,” he gestured about, “I would have.”

“Perfectly understandable. Family comes first.” Surprised, Cummings nodded at Carell.

“So, you don’t mind me taking what I want?”

“No….” he said slowly. “But you did mention being willing to pay…?” Carell smiled thinly.

“I will not pay you for property that’s not yours.” Don’t blow this, you idiot, Leslie thought. “However, I am more than happy to compensate you for your time. And the chain. More than happy.”

“Sounds all right to me.” Cummings said. “Help yourselves.” That drew a sound from above. The girl snorted.

“Callie’s gonna be pissed to hear that!”

* * *

The three men walked toward the fourth building. Leslie had radioed for the transport trucks to start in, covered by two scout cars. The other units stayed where they were; some pointed in, some out.

“…when the mobs stopped killing each other in Columbus,” Cummings was saying, “they started moving out into the suburban, then rural areas. Like a bunch of damned locusts. Burning everything they couldn’t take or eat. The farms along our stretch of road had about a day’s warning before they came down our valley. It was something of a fighting retreat until Bob Parks remembered this place.”

“And it’s you and the others that spread the rumors about contamination?” Leslie asked.

“Yeah.” Cummings smiled for the first time. “My wife’s idea, actually.” “A good one,” he said. “Always better to attack the mind than the body.”

Carell opened the door to building four. Unlike the other, this had fewer skylights. Beyond the small open office area just at the door, it was dark. A gas lantern stood on the corner of one of the desks.

“From a comment like that and all that hardware outside, I’m guessing you’re military?” Cummings asked. Carell lit the lantern and said he was going to take a look around.

“Careful,” Cummings said before he passed through a door labeled ‘No Admittance!’ with radiation trefoils on it. “There’s junk everywhere in there.”

“Perfect!” Carell smiled. Crazy.

“To answer your question, yes,” Leslie said. Let his crazy boss stumble around in the dark next to a reactor. “We were in the Sixteenth Cavalry, at Fort Knox. When everything began breaking down, we sort of struck off on our own.”

Cumming nodded. He didn’t seem to hold that against him. “And now?”

“We did have a nice arrangement at Bardstown, Kentucky,” Leslie continued. “Until that fellow in there came along and shook us up. Now we’re here to move him and his stuff to… wherever he wants us to.”

“What did he do to—”

There was a crash of metal. Carell shouted, “What the HELL have you done! Uff!” Another crash.

Leslie was through the door in an instant. His small flashlight from his pocket in his left hand, his pistol in his right. He could just faintly see light ahead.

“Carell! Are you okay?” Nothing. Then: “No.”

Around one pile and another, Leslie came around a huge pump to see Carell against a control panel with his hands up. The lithe figure in front of him held a long black dagger to his throat. He raised his pistol.

“I’m right behind you with a pistol. Lower your knife and live,” Leslie called. No one moved. He heard Cummings come up behind him.

“Put it down, Callie,” he said.

The blade came down slowly. Leslie now realized she was a girl. She turned, squinting her Oriental eyes into his flashlight. Her round face betrayed none of her thoughts.

With her knife still out, she looked to Cummings.

“Who are these guys, and what do they want with Pookie?”

What?

* * *

Leslie, Cummings, and the girl stood in the brighter office area. Carell continued his assessment. Her knife was back in its sheath at her waist, on a tool belt that divided her overalls. Her hands were dirty, but not greasy. Her long hair, brown as to be almost black, was pulled back with a band. She must have been about five foot six, or thereabouts. Thin, but who wasn’t these days, yet in surprisingly good shape. Nineteen or twenty, he guessed. Cute, too, he thought.

[continues]

“Sorry about the misunderstanding…” Cummings was saying.

“Some guy starts yelling and grabs me in a dark room, what else am I going to do?” she said flatly. She has a point.

“On behalf of my employer, I apologize for that, miss.” Leslie said. “He can be bit, er, absorbed in his work.”

She scowled, her brows knitting together.

“His work?” She looked again toward Cummings. “Who are these people?”

Just then they heard the rumble of the motors. Going outside, they saw the transports entering the compound. One scout car led them. The other parked at the gate. The light rain was now little more than a mist. Now her face showed shock.

“You… you’re taking Pookie!” That’s twice now….

“I’m sorry,” Leslie said. “Pookie?”

Cummings had to laugh at that. “It’s what she’s taken to calling the reactor. She dotes on it.”

“But why that name?”

Her face fell back to its reserved blank look. “Because it’s cute.”

Carell took that moment to step out and join them. He looked bewildered.

“Who… how did…? He stopped and started over. “That thing is further on than I was told! Who’s been doing that?”

Cummings looked puzzled. “So far as I know, Callie’s the only one that ever comes to this building.”

Carell stared at the girl.

“You. You did all that?” She held his look and shrugged. “What’s up?” Leslie asked. Carell shook his head.

“It’s almost ready to be activated.” He pointed. “She somehow finished prepping it. I’ve got to have her!”

Her hand went right to her knife. “Like hell, pervert.”

Leslie had to laugh at that. “It’s okay, miss! He doesn’t mean that in the way you’re thinking.” At least he better not. He looked to Carell. “You said ‘almost ready.’ What does that mean?”

“It can’t start itself. It needs power to get the pumps started and the control systems up.” He raised his hands. “After that, it’s self-sustaining.”

“How much power?” Carell considered that. Ah. He saw what Leslie was getting at. “One of your Dragoons should do it. This unit just isn’t that large.”

He smiled. “And there’d be a colony of the modern world right here. If,” he looked significantly at Cummings, “there are people willing to defend it.”

“You mean that you can get that thing running,” Cummings asked, “giving us electric power?”

“Enough for a village of about five hundred, yes.” Carell was thinking now. “I’ll have to train you as quickly as I can; I want to be out of here before it starts snowing….” He looked at Callie.

“She could probably run it, but I want her with us.” There went her eyebrows again.

“The young lady is staying wherever she wants, Carell,” Leslie said. He looked at Cummings. “Time is short; we can do this now and leave in a month, or retrieve what we came here for and be gone tomorrow. Your call, but we need an answer by nightfall.”

Cummings pulled at his beard. “I… I’ll get everyone together. Yes. Excuse me.” He pulled out his walkie-talkie as he moved off. Leslie went to the transport and told the men to get with Carell and start loading. Turning, he was surprised to see that the girl, Callie, had followed him.

“Who are you people?” she asked.

“Me? I’m just the hired hand to get him,” he waved in Carell’s direction, “where he needs to be.” She blinked as she took that in.

“So, who’s he?”“I don’t know, exactly. But it seems he and some like him are trying to re-boot modern civilization.” He paused. “And I meant what I said: we’ll not force you to go anywhere. You can stay here with, ah, Pookie, and the rest of your family—”

She stopped him with a sharp look. “My family abandoned me. I was staying with my friend Laurie when everything fell apart. The Cummings have been taking care of me.” She looked at the ground. “I guess I don’t belong anywhere.”

He sighed. The Breakup claims another victim.

“Hey,” he said. “Let’s start over. I’m Leslie Hartmann.” He held out his hand. “Better than you pointing a gun at me with it,” she said, taking it.

“I’m Callie Barrett.”

* * *

They stayed a month.

There turned out to be six families living at the compound. Leslie and his men set about training them as best they could while Callie instructed Carell as to the changes she’d made. When he’d asked, she said that she’d always been good at math and had a knack for puzzles. ‘Pookie’ was a combination of the two.

Leslie also suspected it was a way to keep herself occupied and not thinking about what might happen next.

After two weeks, they started the reactor. It was Carell’s show at that point: first getting it up, running, and stable; then, training a cadre to keep it up, running, and stable. That had left both Leslie and Callie with time on their hands. Time that they seemed to spend more and more with one another.

As the day of departure grew nearer—and Carell increasingly concerned about the weather—some of Leslie’s men from central Ohio asked if they could stay. With an armored car. Thinking about that, Leslie knew he’d still have enough strength to get them to Knoxville, and leaving such behind would be a huge deterrent to wreckers and raiders. Cummings was overjoyed at the news.

On Thanksgiving Day, they loaded the last of their gear and went to their vehicles. Just at his scout car, Leslie saw Callie come out of building two, with a bag over each shoulder. She walked across the muddy ground to him.

“I’m coming with you,” she stated in her steady, quiet voice.

“Excellent!” Carell called. “You’ll be a great addition! I’ll make room in my hummer—”

There go her eyebrows again, thought Leslie.

“Not you, pervert!” She took one more step, not quite touching him.

“I’m coming with you,” she whispered.

* * *

Sun Bright

By Jack Carter

The black shapes raced after him, shadows consuming everything behind them as he ran towards the door at the end. He opened it in a rush, panting, and the blinding light that poured in was so powerful that it threw him backwards.

Robert woke up shuddering. Again the same nightmare. He waited for his eyes to adjust and slid his legs over his bunk, checking the slide-bolts on the door and window. His knee ached, the old injury plaguing him, a reminder to always be wary. The small precautions were a necessity he couldn't afford to ignore. Everything since his exile became a matter of survival, even a trivial slip could cost him his life.

It amazed him how quickly he'd adapted to his new circumstances. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he relaxed a little and switched on the table lamp. Nothing happened. Foxwood had become an increasingly dangerous place for lateblood exiles like him, especially since the Abbott Laws had been recently amended. It was time to move on.

He checked the time: five thirty in the morning, so it was probably still just the regular rolling blackouts. It reminded him to check his power pack supply, but first he decided to use a bit of his remaining battery charge to check his messages and trawl for news on the net, so he keyed in a stolen security code. Finding a bit of truth was getting harder every day as his isolation turned his knowledge of exile code phrases staler every day. Maybe that’s why his queries—posted in code on public groups—went unanswered again.

The ongoing search for his parents had so far been fruitless. He was approaching his sixth year in exile with no idea if they were still alive. All he could do was continue to search, and ask. Separation of exiles from their old life was common government practice designed to demoralize the indigenous people even further, and it worked. Attempting to openly contact loved ones came at a massive penalty.

He switched to the local news. CitiSafe, busy bees that they were when motivated, had already cleared three exile zones—one of which right on the outskirts of Foxwood. No details other than the number of arrests were given, but he wasn’t surprised, they never mentioned the dead and maimed on the news unless they were from the government or their lackeys. He was sure that those arrested were already being “interrogated”, and he shuddered at the memory of his own run in with the red-jacketed thugs.

The national news kicked in over his local feed before he could even finish reading the article, as they were wont to do, and the headline covered the entire screen:

ROGUE LATEBLOODS THE NEWEST THREAT TO BLAIR

Prime minister Blair promised rogue latebloods responsible for violent raids on government warehouses and other supply stations would meet the full force of law.

Robert scoffed. Nothing new there, they were a favourite bogeyman. He skimmed over the article anyway, skipping the supposed footage of lateblood violence. The last paragraph had “tips” for colonisers that boiled down to “conform and follow every order from your betters”. Very helpful. He closed the comm unit down and turned his attention to his supplies. He needed a desperate restock, which meant making the circuit of official kiosks, where he knew he wouldn’t find much, and then trying the clandestine markets.

He wrote down his list, knowing he’d be lucky if he managed to find at least half of what he needed. He quickly washed, dressed, fastened his concealed armour—perfectly legal back when he had purchased it, but not anymore—and belt. He risked the labor camps if he was caught wearing it, but figured that any CitiSafe thug who got close enough to notice would have taken an interest in him anyway, so it ultimately didn’t matter; better to be able to shrug off a lowlife’s shank. Putting on his coat and backpack, he grabbed his hiking stick and walked out the door.

It was seven in the morning and other exiles were already taking advantage of their day. There were only a few hours in which to conduct business: at mid-day everything shut down, including the official armoured kiosks, no exceptions. Even though this was a mostly lateblood zone it wasn’t safe, especially after the latest update to the Abbott Laws. More criminals from other areas would have poured in knowing that CitiSafe would look even harder the other way, more people would be willing to snitch hoping for a reward.

Robert couldn't blame the desperate for taking blood coin, but there were other ways to make a living. Someone had to keep the infrastructure running, after all, and it certainly wouldn’t be Blair’s thugs or their diversity activist minions.

A clear day turned to gunmetal grey as Robert approached the kiosk. The man behind the bulletproof window watched Robert with a suspicious eye—he wore the armband of Blair's party, a fist holding a silver claymore against a field of black and red. Robert couldn’t help but cringe a little at the sight. He begrudged spending his credits here, but if his money never went through the official channels the authorities would soon investigate.

Robert showed the man his identification card. The attendant took the biometric card between his thumb and forefinger as though he suspected it disease ridden. It took a second for the computer to confirm the identification card was genuine.

“Two power packs please,” Robert said as the card was scanned.

The attendant took the items from a hidden shelf and wordlessly dropped them on the counter top. He scanned the card again, this time tapping the key pad to deduct payment. Robert took the power packs and his card, slipping them into his pocket. He thanked the attendant and as he made his way to the Poseidon Line Cafe he became aware of a man, hood pulled down to obscure his face, following him, trying hard to appear as if he were casually loitering. Robert increased his pace, intending to use the back of the cafe to escape. The man, quicker than Robert anticipated, closed the gap, reached out his hand and gripped Robert's left shoulder. Robert pivoted away to the right, sideswiped his hiking stick at the man's ankle, and brought him to the ground. He pressed the hiking stick to the back of the man's neck as people pretending not to notice the altercation hurried by. The man struggled to get up, and Robert increased the pressure.

"Wrong day for your kind of business, friend, " Robert hissed.

"S-s-sun," the man stuttered then gulped air and said, "sun… bright."

Robert narrowed his eyes, "where did you hear those words?"

The man coughing and gasping finally managed, "your dad."

"My… Where is he, what have you done?"

"Nothing, he sent me to fetch you. It's me, Henry."

Robert removed the stick from the man's neck. Henry rolled onto his back and removed his hood.

"Bloody hell, you idiot, why didn't you just call out!?"

"I'm supposed to be doing this on the quiet," he said grimacing as he rubbed at his ankle.

"How did that work out for you?"

"Ha, bloody, ha!" Henry said struggling to regain his composure.

"Where's my dad, is he all right? What's going on?"

Henry's face flushed red and Robert could see a bruise forming on his chin. Robert helped his friend to his feet, and Henry winced as he put all his weight on his own legs. He wiped away a trickle of blood from his chin with his sleeve.

"I'll explain everything but we need to go now,” he said. "Damn, that hurt, Robert. Come on, follow me."

"Sorry, I thought you were trying to mug me."

Henry waved away the apology. "Never mind all that, let's keep moving."

Robert followed Henry past the café. They turned right, into an alleyway between two houses which backed onto a pair of disused derelict backyards. Henry ducked into one of the yards and into the house it belonged to. He walked through the gap where a door used to be, to a kitchen void of any fixtures or fittings, which in turn led to a spacious hallway and a staircase missing its banister. Henry opened the front door—the husk of Johnson Memorial Park was directly in front of them, across from the empty street, where a battered old van awaited. Henry opened the side door and stepped in, followed by Robert, who closed the door behind him.

"Don't worry too much if we're stopped, there's a couple of new id's in the glove box. I'll be taking mostly back routes so we shouldn't have that kind of trouble," Henry said. "Better to have it and all that."

As they drove away, Robert wondered what the decaying and pockmarked houses of the once affluent neighborhood would have looked like when they were new—when the world hadn't imploded into an upside down twisted caricature.

"You've kept watch on the message boards and news, right?" Henry asked.

"Yes, every day," Robert said.

"Well you know about the Abbott Laws update?"

"Yes, I know it's to win votes, as if Blair needs to worry about that!"

"Exactly. But this year he's taken with him a larger entourage than normal. He's trying to step up trade with the European Federation,” Henry explained. “He thinks it will be his way back into the EF. So he's taken a lot of CitiSafe security with him as well as ministers and their families, to parade the kind of support he claims he has. It's the usual circus, just bigger. In the meantime the change in the Abbott Laws means we have the best chance to move as many exiles to safety as we can.”

“CitiSafe is a massive force.”

Henry shrugged. "They’ll be spread too thin. They're going to rely on the activist nutters from Never Again and Voice One, plus some criminal gangs, to clear the exile zones. These scumbags are in for a surprise, let me tell you." Henry's smile widened, "we're finally ready! We have our guys already inside just waiting to evacuate people."

"So that's why you were in Foxwood?"

"Yep."

[continues]

"That's a big operation," Robert said. “That's why the big silence all these years too."

"Yep, well that and we had to flush out the rats. Everybody is ready. We might not get a better chance.”

"Hang on how does the law change help?"

"Blair believes the threat of his proxy army, his mobs, are enough to make people compliant. He thinks it'll be another Cold October. Not this time around! We have the numbers, more than enough to do the job," Henry said.

Robert wondered if that could be true. The surprise raids on ordinary people back in October of 22 caught the public unawares. Albion Patriots did their best to get the warning out, but most of the public refused to even acknowledge them. Facts didn’t matter, the population was too comfortable with the regime and wouldn't even entertain the notion that organisations like New Action Pride harbored such extreme hatred that so easily turned to violence.

In the end, these types remained ignorant to their last breath, killed in their homes or dragged out into the street to a waiting, baying, bloodthirsty mob. Few escaped the coordinated attacks. Running battles were fought in the street by those whose spirit wasn't yet totally broken, but these people, having denied it to the last moment, found themselves in a sudden nightmare they weren't prepared for.

In the aftermath, reports of hundreds of deaths circulated for a while, but were soon snuffed out. The true cost of orchestrated activist violence numbered in the thousands of lives and millions in old coin, but officialdom never admitted to those numbers. The establishment made a big noise about investigations, but of course, nothing came of them.

Throughout the rest of that year and beyond the Cold October massacre became another lie used as a cosh to browbeat the indigenous peoples into compliance. It was used as propaganda by the Blair regime at every opportunity, the narrative swiftly re-written to flip the sides and used as a reminder to all that “White supremacy” was the true terror and could not be tolerated.

It seemed as though the drive was endless. Robert figured they'd been on the road for a good few hours when Henry turned into the shell of an old apartment block. "Here we are," he said.

"Where’s ‘here’?" Robert said.

"Home sweet hideaway." Henry beamed. He jumped out of the van.

"Follow me," Henry said and led the way to the rear of the building.

“Bramble, grass, trees and mud,” Robert said looking around him. “What am I supposed to be looking at?"

Henry grinned. “Step back a couple of paces,” he said, then crouched and tugged at a patch of grass. He rolled the grass as though it was a rug in a living room to reveal an iron grid.

"Clever eh?" Henry said. "Indistinguishable from the real thing."

He inserted a barrel shaped key into a recessed lock and lifted the grate revealing a stairwell. “Home sweet safehouse. Go down these stairs, press the panel in front of you and I'll join you in a minute.”

Robert followed the instructions while Henry put the camouflage back in place and locked the grate behind them. The panel on the wall opened up to a well lit but plain concreted area. It looked like the sort of car park you’d find underneath a hotel.

"This place is quite brilliant,” Henry declared pressing another panel which locked the formidable looking doors behind them.

"People live in these?" The large space held solid-looking structures, arranged on either side in groups of five.

"These are a job lot of bunkers made from moulds of reinforced steel. You wouldn't know it though. They are ready and waiting for soon to be former exiles."

"A lot better than some run down, half-demolished house, that's for sure," Robert said.

"We'll be able to keep our people a lot safer than we ever could above ground," Henry said. "Here we have food, water, gardens of a fashion and supplies. Which reminds me," he said grinning, "those banquets our friend Blair puts on while most of his own people starve, well most of the produce is bought from us. He doesn't know that, obviously."

"You're joking?"

"Nope. The dopey bastards help us a lot in their own way," Henry chuckled. "Come on, through these doors is where the magic happens." He threw open another set of doors.

This area was sectioned off in prefabricated oblong units. Robert recognised the structures from building sites. There was a sort of organised rush about the place, a bit like a factory floor.

"This is the beating heart, " Henry said. "Here we collate information, distribute it and send it out into the world. We also host datacasts—which are new for us, still testing that out."

"This is amazing!"

"We also have engineers and designers, mechanics, tech heads, you name it. There's a manufacturing station for spares, tools and other parts we need as well as a trade goods department. It's how we finance ourselves."

"You get all your funding from this type of work?" Robert asked.

"Yes, mostly through our own networks. And the food, of course."

"In all the years I've known you, you didn't mention this."

"I didn't know about this until last year," Henry said. "Then a few months ago after Blair announced his plans for re-election I was put in charge of this place."

"You run all this?"

"Well, try not to look too surprised."

"So, what about everyone else, the old guard, are they in other safehouses?"

"Chapter leaders are in the exile zones."

"All of them?"

"Yes, as far as I know. Let’s get to my office."

Henry's office was another converted cabin. Boxes and stacks of various supplies—on shelves and piled where space could be found—made it look more like a stock room. Robert took off his pack and joined Henry at his desk. "There's a few things you need to know."

"Just tell me what is going on."

“After you were all exiled there was a big restructure in the A.P. chapters. They found out that reclamation of property was targeted at our members, especially those they suspected of being chapter leaders. That’s why you lost your home.”

"They're heads of chapter?"

"They have been since before we were born," Henry said.

Robert scratched his head, "all this time."

"Your parents eventually met up again. They were a big part of the reason why this new plan was put together, but they knew it would be a slow process. Remember I spoke about flushing rats out?"

"Yes."

"A few members of the patriots turned out to be pets of West Watch."

"How the hell did that happen?"

"These people weren't the usual grasses, they all had authentic documents."

"Then what?"

"A bunch of our people were arrested and you know how that goes. Codes were changed, old passphrases abandoned. Online chatter died down as it became too dangerous. That’s the reason why no one contacted you before now."

"I wondered what was going on. Where are my parents now?"

"In another exile zone, ready to evacuate people," Henry said.

"Along with all the old guard, leaving a new guard in their stead."

"Exactly," Henry said. "Your father will have to fill you in on their reasons when you speak to him."

"So, why am I here? Why not get me out the same way as the other exiles?"

"That was a request from your parents."

His parents were alive! After all these years searching, his parents were alive! He should be more joyful than he felt, but all he could do was think back to the day he and his family were exiled, when his father refused to hand over their home to the state. He knew even then that they had contacts in the Albion Patriots, and resented a little that nothing was done to help them. Now he knew that they were working to save much more than one home. Now it made sense.

"Robert, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Robert said.

"I know this is a lot to take in," Henry said.

"It’s just that today didn’t turn out as I expected at all," Robert said after a long pause.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts and send someone to fetch you later. For now you can go for a wander or I can get you some food if you're hungry."

"Thank you, but not yet. I'd like to sit here for awhile."

"Right then, I'll see you again soon." Henry left his friend with his thoughts. The best he had hoped for this day was to get as far away from Foxwood as possible, and now he had no other thoughts but wanting to speak to his parents. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the day wash over him. He lay down on the floor, resting his head on his pack. So much he didn't know and so much more he wanted to know… eventually Robert closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

* * *

"Finally, the evacuees will be assessed tomorrow for any injuries or illnesses but for now we need to make them comfortable," Henry said. The final meeting before the evacuations was just a refresher for all concerned, little more than a formality as he knew every one was ready for their assigned tasks, but it never hurt to clarify things.

"Is there anything else?"

Head of admin raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"You've got something on your chin."

"Bloody comedian," Henry said. "Now if there's really nothing else?" There was no other business. "Right well good luck everyone."

The assembled filed out of the meeting room just as a man of a permanently hurried demeanour, which wasn't helped by a shock of unruly hair, knocked on the open door.

"Drust needs you in the comms room," the man said.

"Thanks Cosgrove, just a second," Henry said, placing his notes in the desk drawer.

"It's urgent," Cosgrove said. "CitiSafe have already made a move."

"What the hell?"

"After the Bridge North and Derby Moor evacuations began CitiSafe got wind of it."

"Right let's see what else is going on."

Henry walked through the comms room to the coordinator's station. The atmosphere was one of rushed activity as information was collated and exchanged.

[continues]

"All teams be alert red and black active, I repeat, red and black active, advise extra caution." Drust closed down the radio and read a fresh report.

"Good news," he said to no one in particular. "Who's tracking red and black?"

"I am."

"Any word on their strength, Charlie?"

"So far resources have been deployed to Bridge North, Derby Moor, Foxwood, South Hill and New River Dock," Charlie replied.

"They're too late for three of those which is good for us. Charlie, get a couple of van drivers together, make sure they have solid identities. I’ll give you the routes to be taken in a minute," Drust said. He'd just seen Henry walk in.

"What's the news?"

"I'm organising decoy units, red and black are wasting a lot of resources. So far we have eight units on their way back here but we've not heard from Snowbird," Drust said.

"Last check-in?" Henry asked.

"That would be," Drust checked a call list running a finger by each time record, "an hour ago."

"See if you can raise them now, will you?"

"Snowbird One, Guardian Three calling, Snowbird do you receive?"

Static hissed and crackled back. "Snowbird One, do you read?" Drust shook his head.

"Foxguard and Drummer were with them," he said. "Hang on. Drummer, this is Guardian calling, do you receive?"

"Drummer here Guardian."

"Who is with you? Over?"

"Foxguard, we've just left position on way home."

"Something's not right here," Drust said to Henry.

"Drummer, any Snowbird activity?"

"Snowbird following."

Henry clapped his hands. "Thank heavens."

"Confirm visual Drummer."

"Snowbird not in sight Guardian."

Henry's face fell.

"Drummer, stand by." Drust scratched his head. "That's torn it."

Henry thought for a moment. He did some quick calculations in his head. "Drust, ask Drummer and Foxguard to double up the evacuees, and take a van back to Snowbird's position."

Drust relayed this information. Henry knew at this stage his idea would be either a rescue or a recovery. He had to chance it. Now all he had to do was break the news to Robert.

"Now let's get Snowbird on the radio."

"We're trying to establish contact now but the signal is weak," Drust said. "Charlie, any luck?"

"Faint signal and static is all I'm getting for now," Charlie said.

"Keep at it, they may just be keeping radio silence," Drust said.

"There's something I need to do. Drust, let me know of any changes."

"Of course."

* * *

It took Robert a bit of a moment to realise where he was. He sat up and rubbed his neck. He felt better after his nap and surprisingly hungry.

"I was just about to wake you," Henry said.

"Is it time?"

Henry switched on the desk lamp. Robert blinked away the sudden light.

"Robert, change of plan," Henry said. "So far we haven't been able to raise your parents on the radio. They checked in just over an hour ago now."

Robert didn't say anything at first. He didn't want to know anything further. "Okay," he said at last.

"We've sent a team back to their position but I must tell you…."

"No," Robert said, "you don't have to tell me to prepare for the worst. I did that years ago." There was nothing Henry could say to that.

"Before we were exiled I didn't have the slightest idea of what was going on, you know? I just got on with school and listened to radio shows and read books and comics. Bloody hell I'd read those things like they were going out of business. One of my favourite stories was about this superhero. He'd rescue people from burning buildings and fight crime. The Saviour. He was brilliant. One day I asked my dad if we were bad people but he didn't know what I meant. Of course, what my seven year old brain was trying to get at was why The Saviour only fought White villains."

Henry nodded.

“My dad just said: we’re not bad, we’re sun bright.”

* * *

"Drummer to Guardian do you read?"

Drust put on a headset. "Reading you, over.”

"Have Snowbird One stand by."

"Standing by Drummer," Drust said.

"Guardian this is Snowbird one."

"Good to hear from you, what's the situation?" Drust mouthed for Cosgrove to fetch Henry. "We were right behind Drummer and Foxguard when our engine failed and we couldn't follow. We had a family with us, the last ones here, they're now with Foxguard, safe and sound."

"Understood Snowbird One we'll have you both out of there now, well done," Drust said.

"Is your position safe? We can send help."

"It's safe enough for the time being but we won't be here for long. No help needed, do you read?"

Drust read very well. This would soon be a recovery. "Understood, stand by."

Cosgrove returned with Henry and Robert. It was clear by their expressions they were up to speed on the situation. Drust handed Henry a headset.

"Snowbird One, Guardian three, do you receive?"

After a few seconds of static the reply came through.

"Snowbird receiving." Sean Duncan sounded tired. "You have my boy there too?" Static crackled and the signal faded a little.

"Yes, I have Snowbird Three," Henry said. "Here he is now."

Robert took the headset. "Hello dad," he said.

"Son, it's good to hear you. Henry did a great job. He told you everything?"

"Good to hear you too. Yes, everything, he's in charge of this chapter now," Robert said. He did his best to sound upbeat.

"I just let him think he's in charge, but don't tell him that." Sean chuckled.

"Dad, is mum there?"

"She's… on watch but she loves you son, we both do."

"Love you too," Robert said.

"Listen, today didn't go exactly as I wanted it to, sorry we couldn't contact you earlier."

"Don’t worry dad. I know."

“There's something I want you to do for me, son. It's very important."

"Anything."

"We're breaking ground to a fresh path for all of us. We're going to reclaim our home. You are all going to need each other even more especially now. It's going to take time. Henry runs a great team, but he'll need your help. You've both got a long way to go, I need you to help him."

"I'll help him, dad," Robert said.

It's going to take a while and it's not going to be easy, but remember, every patriot out there is sun bright. They're the light in the darkness for us all. Remember: we stand together and we win.”

“I’ll remember,” Robert replied. He only heard static back.

* * *

Perhaps nightmares aren't shadows that chase you while you sleep. Perhaps nightmares show you hope jumbled inside a discordant time frame. Sun bright. Those two words seemed small, but they stood for so much, thought Robert as he stood by the window. The manicured lawn outside was a deep, healthy green. A cool breeze reminded him of a summer at the park with his parents. I thought that those were the days, he mused, but today is better.

"Robert, are you alright?" The young woman looked a little concerned.

"Oh yes, I'm good," he said. "Now where was I?"

"You were talking to your daddy on the efones," a voice said.

"Oh yes," Robert said smiling, "but they're pronounced ear phones young man."

Miss Saxon's Class giggled.

"Yes, it's a funny word isn't it? Now are there any questions?"

A child with bright green eyes and hair like straw put her hand up as high as she could.

"Yes little 'un?" Robert asked.

"Did we win?" the little girl asked.

"Win?" Robert looked over the classroom. The fair, bright faces, the soft flowing hair, the shining young eyes. It was a classroom full of the children of his people, of the people of his isles. After the long years, the blood spilled, the sacrifice and hardship… Robert’s smile broadened as he answered.

"Yes, I think so."

* * *

Blink of an Eye

By Paleface

I was playing an online game when it happened. The other players just stopped, and a lot of incoherent screaming came through the voice chat. At first I thought it was some kind of prank, but when I removed my noise cancellation headphones it was clear that it was much worse than that: the same screaming was coming from outside.

Someone started scratching at my front door. I tiptoed toward it and checked through the peephole: it was a woman with a face so wildly contorted that it took me a few seconds to recognize her as the neighbor from down the hall. The door was safely closed and it didn’t look like she would have the strength to do anything but scratch it, so I checked the window.

The view out from the 11th floor was of total chaos. People ran around in random patterns, twitching, screaming. Almost out of my sight beyond the nearest street corner, two men were fighting as if drunk. An old car had broken through a wall on one of the buildings across the street, and I could see the driver slumped over the steering wheel. They all had the same contorted expression, though, the same mix of surprise and rage stuck on their faces like masks. Everyone had gone mad.

I went over my contact list and didn’t get a single answer. Live broadcasts on the television were either devoid of people or showed similar scenes to what I could see from my window. The scratching at my door had stopped, but I wasn’t about to open it just to be overrun by a horde of crazies; I had watched too many zombie movies for that, so I decided that discretion can really be the best part of valor and waited.

At night the pandemonium died down a little and the crazies moved a little less randomly. Only blood remained where the fight had happened earlier, but the driver was still just as dead across the street. A little after midnight I saw the first sign that their brains hadn’t just suddenly rotted: two adults herded, with some difficulty, a group of children who also seemed to have been afflicted. They continued down the street until they were out of sight.

With my interest finally piqued beyond what prudence could contain, I decided it was time to go have a look. Just in case the movies had been right all along I wore a few extra layers of clothing underneath my jeans and leather jacket to provide some padding, gloves, my old barbecue knife and, lacking a bat or golf club, the handle of the only broom I had in my apartment before going for the door. Wishing I had not gotten rid of my motorcycle helmet when I had sold the bike a few years earlier I decided to go with an old baseball cap.

Not the best attire for a hot summer night, let me tell you.

Making sure no one lurked just outside my door using the peephole I opened it as silently as I could. The hall was empty, but a few doors were ajar and muffled banging came from behind one of the still closed ones. The elevator still looked operational, and, thinking that the crazies would more easily use the stairs than the lift, I called it.

I expected it to arrive full of enraged zombies, but it was empty. When it reached the ground floor I pressed myself against the walls as the doors opened and checked the corridor; it was also empty. It looked like they all had somewhere to be. I left the building with no less caution, seeing a few of them shambling downhill half a block away, moving away from me. I followed.

They moved precariously but with certain destination, making the same corners and keeping fairly close to each other. None noticed me, but I wasn’t at my calmest. A few blocks later they were joined by another group, and then another. I kept my distance, constantly checking behind me for more of them, but none followed.

They converged on a small park with a football court, where a crowd of crazies had already gathered. I quickly realized that something was happening in the middle of a mass of people—there was a lot of movement and screaming going on—but I couldn’t see anything past the first few layers. The only building where I could get a line of sight into that human anthill was across the park, so I started to make my way around, keeping behind cars or any other obstacles as much as I could. I was just a few meters away from the door when another one of the crazies walked out of the alleyway I had just crossed and started braying.

I bolted for the door, praying that it would be unlocked. It was. He ran after me, still shouting like a damned donkey, but I managed to slam the door on his face. A few seconds later several of his friends had joined him in scratching and slamming their fists and heads at the door; finding no way to lock it I used the broom handle to jam it in place, hoping it would hold at least for a little while as I sped up the stairs.

It held for more than long enough—not more than a minute after I ran off they just lost interest, milled about a little, then turned to join the rest of the crowd. I saw this from the balcony of a third-floor apartment which by luck, or by their desire to all join the others, had been empty. Now I could see the middle of the football court, where a clearing had formed within the mob.

A few were eating, but what, I could not tell. They would shove each other and cajole over a piece of food, then tear into it ravenously. Others were building a sort of sculpture, or maybe an altar, and it looked like it was made of body parts. A group to the side formed a small pen, where a few children were held.

“Damn.”

There was nothing I could do, though. Even if I could save them, the children—mad as the rest—would probably just attack me, so I watched. The whole night they worked on their grotesque altar, bringing in construction debris, dead animals, even electronics to add to the blood-soaked pile. At one point it seemed as if they didn’t know what to do next when suddenly a group turned in unison and fell upon a woman who had earlier been helping them. She didn’t react. When the insane scrum ended she had been torn limb from limb and become the latest addition to their art project.

I had to hold back a sudden urge to retch, which reminded me that I had an empty stomach. I had watched enough of that anyway. Going over the contents of the fridge in the apartment I had invaded it came to me that power wouldn’t likely last much longer, and I’d better prepare. Trying not to think too much about everything I had seen that night I made my way back to my apartment. The streets were even emptier now—only once I saw a gaggle of them moving along a parallel street one block away from me.

Back in my building, I decided to check the neighbor’s apartments. Most had their doors ajar and were empty of people. A few apartments on the other floors were still locked, but silent—they had probably been empty when it happened. The last unit to the left of my own door still had muffled banging noises emanating from it, but I thought better not to try to investigate it for now. The neighbor who had scratched at my door earlier had a large pickup truck, so I pocketed the keys. I doubted she would mind. Double checking that every entrance to the building—and the door to my apartment—was locked and barred, I went to sleep.

* * *

I started the next day trying to find any sign that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t gone insane, with no luck. Taking the pick-up truck I first drove to the nearest gas station and topped up, then went to the nearest police station. Though it was close enough to the park from the previous day to have a few groups of them wandering around, the station itself seemed empty, so I started searching for weapons and ammo. I had found several handguns and more ammo than I could carry for them, and was in the process of breaking into their rifle locker, when the door I had just walked in through burst open and one of them came running right at me.

I was caught off-guard messing with a crowbar firmly lodged into the side of the locker door, so my automatic reaction was to put my hands up to protect myself, and the damned thing bit me. That was becoming too much. I kicked it back and finished the poor guy off with the crowbar, checking the precinct for more of them. It was empty.

“Just my luck.”

Abandoning the plan to go after food that day, I gathered all the guns, a pair of rifles, the ammo, and went back home. I slathered plenty of iodine on the wound, wrapped a bandage around it, and took a sleeping pill. If I was going to turn into one of them as well, I’d rather not be awake to realize it.

* * *

When I woke up—not a zombie—it was already dark again. My wrist ached, but it didn’t feel infected. I decided to check the noises down the hall. I forced the door open with the crowbar I had brought back from the police station, ready to go to the gun in my pocket if anyone came rushing out. No one did. Inside everything was quiet, apart from the sound of heavy breathing coming from the bathroom. The door was locked, but I could see that there was no key in the lock—my neighbor had probably been inside with the door locked when it happened, knocked the key off, and didn’t have the intelligence to pick it up and open the door nor the strength to kick it down.

I forced the door open as cautiously as before, but again it wasn’t needed. She was slumped on the floor, barely moving, exhaustion showing through the rictus that dominated her face. I picked her up from the floor and carried her to her bed, tying one of her hands to the bedpost and bringing some water and a few slices of bread from her own table. She tore into the bread with abandon, but had no idea how to use the water bottle. I brought a bowl full of water from the tap and she drank it all in a few gulps.

A few seconds later she lunged violently toward me, but the rope held. So they didn’t gain any superhuman strength or anything; they had all just gone completely cuckoo all at once.

“What a relief.”

[continues]

I couldn’t just kill her, so I brought more water and left her there, locking the bedroom from the outside and barring the apartment door. Maybe later I would be able to figure out something. I went out for food.

* * *

The next day, with everything still the same, I decided that just gathering food and weapons and surviving wasn’t going to be enough. Shit like that didn’t just happen, something had to be behind it. I drove around the city, looking for concentrations of them. I found several and they always followed the same pattern: huge crowd, some fighting, big bloody monument being built. They weren’t just random piles of detritus and gore, though, all of them had a similar shape. At some of them they had started a fire under the sculpture, among the crude pillars that suspended it.

I didn’t find a single person who wasn’t affected. I checked malls, police stations, some apartment buildings. I drove out of the city, checking a few smaller towns nearby, and it was all the same. Later that day I dropped by the cemetery where my parents were buried and was glad to find everything intact; at least it hadn’t gotten that outlandish.

Later, at my apartment, I tried to search online for images that looked like the sculpture slash altar that they were building, but even though power was still fine and I still had running water, the internet was already down. I still had a signal on my phone, but got no internet connectivity through it either. So much for that.

I went to check on my neighbor. She was still there, curled against the wall, hand still firmly tied. I brought her more water and food and sat there, at a safe distance, just watching, despite the worsening stench. This time she ate and drank more slowly, and she didn’t try to attack me.

I was getting up to leave when she looked at me, her face a lot more relaxed, and spoke.

“So it seems that I have missed one.”

Her voice was slow and broken, as if she was trying to do throat singing and failing. She looked me straight in the eyes; I was taken aback, but, determined not to show it, I sat back down, stared back, and waited a few moments before replying. I wanted to keep my voice level.

“Who are you?”

She turned her head mechanically to one side, then the other, studying me and then the rest of the room.

“Hmm, where is this?”

I leaned forward a little on my chair and repeated my question.

“Who are you?”

She slowly got up at the side of the bed, eyed the knot keeping her left hand in place, then continued to look around.

“Yes, she remembers. I think I know where we are.”

I got up as well, walked around the bed and looked down into her eyes.

“Who are you?”

She laughed, looked away and started to undo the knot with her right hand. I took hold of it—it was filthy—and jerked it hard. She looked at me again.

“Oh, you probably know who I am, you just didn’t recognize me yet.”

She tried to free her hand, I held it fast.

“I’m sure you even have a book that goes on a little about me. It’s not very flattering, though.”

She started to try to kick and bite, and I decided in turn that I had had enough. I knocked her out with a crowbar to the side of the head and went back to my apartment. A book? I checked my bookshelf. A lot of computer science stuff, that was right out. Some sci-fi, some fantasy. No, that would be too crazy. Or would it? I was picking one of those up when I noticed, at the back of the shelf, my mother’s old Bible.

“God dammit.”

That thing probably thought it was one of the old biblical demons. I made the sign of the cross, feeling a sudden urge to regain my lost religion. I looked again at the pictures I had taken of their altars, and though raw and distorted, they did resemble a humanoid with the head of a bull. One even had a star drawn in blood with an eye—a real eye, plucked from some person—at its center. The fire and the children immediately made sense.

I had started to flip through the Bible to see if it would be of any practical help when the shouting started outside. I immediately turned off the lights, ran to another apartment and peeked out. A mob of crazies had gathered outside and some were already banging at the front door. So much for slowly working it out from the relative comfort of my home.

I put on my jacket, stuffed some food and the ammo I had brought up to the apartment into a backpack, my laptop and a change of clothes into another, and raced down the stairs to the garage. I made into the truck before they could break through the main entrance to the building, but some were already banging at the garage doors. I pressed the remote button, watched a few of them be dragged up with the gate, and sped out.

For a moment it felt as if I’d lose too much momentum and get stuck in a mire of crushed bodies, but then I was past them and free. Through the mirror I could see them giving chase, but soon they were hopelessly behind. I followed a zig-zagging path through small streets just in case they were persistent, then got into one of the main avenues out of the city and was out in minutes. I don’t think I had ever been able to reach the city limits so quickly.

* * *

A little more than a month later I was looking through a pair of binoculars over the walls of Jerusalem from the rooftop of a hotel to the northeast of the old city, and it looked like my guess had been right.

The trip was long but fairly uneventful; it had not been that hard to avoid the largest concentrations of the crazies, though they followed me relentlessly every time they spotted me. There had been remains of crash after crash on the road but usually not enough to block the passage. In places—first in the outskirts of Frankfurt, and then close to Belgrade—entire traffic jams had been abandoned where they stood and I had to drive around them looking for back roads.

Reaching Istanbul I had more of a problem: all bridges had been left packed with cars and trucks, and the only way around would be a complete circuit of the Black Sea. I found a small ferry, though, and with a couple of days of tinkering I managed to operate it and make the crossing. After that my only concern was fuel—I never thought that driving through Syria could be so relaxing.

In every city or town where I stopped to check, the same thing was happening: statue-like altars being built, children being rounded up. Nothing like in Jerusalem, though. I could see fires rising from the mosque at the Temple Mount and a lot of purposeful activity near it, but the main event was at the Mount of Olives.

A great statue was being built, the framework reaching at least twenty meters high, and this was no precariously balanced jumble of trash and corpses. The blood was there, alright, in the lower sections where the skin had been fitted, but this was made of metal, carefully beaten plates of what looked like bronze that connected perfectly to each other. I couldn’t tell the expressions on their faces from that distance, but those workers certainly didn’t move like the other crazies, and some seemed to be patrolling the area around the statue.

I had to get closer.

[continues]