by Julian Miles | Apr 4, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Dawn breaks as we head uphill, the path laid on top of the trench that covers the power cables. Passing through the bulwark, the noise of the chillers drowns out all natural sounds.
Patrick gestures to the viewport. I pull the lever that works the wipers. We peer through.
The valley below is covered in snow, dead trees sticking through the drifts. At the cliff end, great doors can be seen above the remains of the old landslide that obstructed them. I can feel the cold through the transparent pane.
I look to Patrick.
“Don’t they suspect?”
He nods.
“I’d be a fool if I thought there aren’t people in there asking questions. But, so far, we’ve detected no activity that indicates attempts to open the doors or to tunnel out.”
“It’s been twenty-eight years. How long before their predictive models disagree with what we’re showing them?”
“Most were in the forty-year range. Many of the counter-arguments would’ve fallen by the wayside when ‘Nuclear Summer’ or similar changes hadn’t occurred after five years. As for what they’re thinking now, nobody out here knows.”
I step back and take a seat. These duties might be tedious, but everyone agrees they’re essential.
“Patrick, how many bunkers are there?”
“Thirty-five remain under management. The Integration Commission decides if and when they will be approached. Sadly, the six major ones will never be breached. Those inside are considered irredeemable.”
“What about others?”
“We’ve brought seventeen back into the world. Most were astonished at the subterfuge, but on seeing the result have agreed to participate.”
“Most? What happened to those who disagreed?”
Patrick frowns.
“We offered them a chance to transfer to one of the isolationist communities. There are three bunkers that contain voluntary withdrawals: those in Kentucky and Siberia are full. The latest, and biggest, is in the Taklamakan Desert.”
“Weren’t there some disturbances?”
“Yes. Texas and England. In both cases, lethal force was used. A lot of us aren’t happy about that. The next time we’ve resolved to do better.”
“Will the isolationists ever be released?”
“I suspect a couple of generations will be needed before negotiations can start.”
“What about nukes?”
Patrick grins.
“Full of questions this morning, aren’t you? The last unsealed stockpile is somewhere in what was Wyoming. I’m told research is ‘ongoing’. I’m also told that research may have to be forcibly stopped. Old greeds are surfacing.”
“Warminds? Nationalism?”
“Many people still remember how it was. Most don’t care. A few do, and some care too much. The switching out of nuclear warheads was a clandestine international initiative, the start of the nationless world. When the warminds pressed the buttons, enough first wave tactical nukes remained to drive them underground, convinced that ushering in the end of the world to stop people from thinking differently was reasonable. Luckily, all the strategic warheads fired had been swapped to conventional explosives. They made a mess, but nothing toxic.”
“That’s when United World stepped in and set up the cold zones about each bunker?”
“They didn’t openly declare themselves until the bunkers were secure, and after the hold-outs had been dealt with, but yes.”
I look at the man I chose to be my father figure. His eyes have narrowed.
“You’re not convinced United World is the solution, are you?”
Patrick smiles.
“There are signs of totalitarianism within the hierarchy. Too many older folk with lying smiles. I want to start something to set things right. Work out how to stop history repeating itself.”
“Not I. ‘We’.”
He smiles, then nods.
“Alright, then. Welcome to the beginning of a fresh start.”
by submission | Apr 3, 2022 | Story |
Author: Jude Curtis Greaves
I stared in disbelief at the fracture, in reality, contemplating its sudden appearance in my apartment. Hypnotized by the apparition, my muscles moved in the direction of the fortuitous scientific hypothesis while my consciousness told me it might not be a good idea to do so. However, my body was an unresponsive wreck and I found myself twenty feet in the air, above a large pond.
Like an osprey that suddenly lost its wings in the middle of a ferocious dive, I plummeted toward the ground. The force of my body hitting the murky pool knocked all of the air out of the interior of my now-bruised rib cage. For a few dazed seconds, I thought I was dead. Then the pain came back to my lagged nervous system in a ferocious forest fire of agony. In my suffering, I managed to surface and expel the water that had been previously trapped in my lungs.
Bruised and scraped, I trudged out of the muddy pool of water and surveyed my surroundings. I was in the middle of a grassy plain dotted with wildflowers and distorted with the occasional knoll. About a mile away, I perceived what looked to be a small town. Wandering over to this single sign of intellectual life, I realized that it wasn’t just a town, but the beginnings of a city.
Entering the outskirts, I discovered that I was in The same town that my dad had resided in over thirty years ago. Since my dad had recently passed away, I ran to where I thought the location of my father’s old home was, full of excitement. Strutting down the streets of the conurbation, I tripped on some badly-set pavement and crashed into the cement. Because of this, I hit a rather unassuming red skateboard and watched it woefully as it tumbled down the street. Quickly, I got up and tried to get away from the place as fast as possible hoping with all my might that the owner wasn’t nearby.
Continuing on my travels, I witnessed a red skateboard soar into the air and knock a primitive chachalaca out of the sky. “What in the name of…” my sentence was broken off by the sudden occurrence of the unfortunate bird landing on a jackhammer, activating the powerful device and sending it haywire. The jackhammer shredded the base of a telephone pole, cracking the aged wood and causing it to fall on top of a building.
The building collapsed in on itself as I realized in horror that the building was the same one that my dad lived in. As the realization of this event made contact with my brain’s processing unit, I Ran over to the foundations of the building and located the dying body of my dad. In despair, I climbed over to him. “Dad!?” I called out to him as he lay there paralyzed in his near-lifeless body. “I’m a dad?” A cracked voice answered in confusion as I witnessed my soon-to-be dad die. Again. Reality blacked out around me as my mind went into a turmoil of anguish.
I stared in disbelief at the fracture, in reality, contemplating its sudden appearance in my apartment. Hypnotized by the apparition, my muscles moved in the direction of the fortuitous scientific hypothesis while my consciousness told me it might not be a good idea to do so. However, my body was an unresponsive wreck and I found myself twenty feet in the air, above a large pond.
by submission | Apr 2, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
It was fiction to be sure. High fantasy even. A hinter world, Malazan. And, yet, there it was: children are dying. Simple. Direct. A plea, a dire call to action, a binding recrimination.
What manner of world fictional or otherwise would deny these three words with the shrug of shoulders or stammering prevarication? We know that there are those who would walk away from Omelas. We know of those that would take up arms on Arrakis. Or sacrifice themselves on Hyperion. Still, children are dying.
Here, too. Mariupol. Aleppo. Homs. Taiz. Bamako. Port-au-Prince. Lahore. Dhaka. Sao Paulo. Detroit. Our hinter worlds. Children are dying. And we let it be.
But deathdouspart did not. When the three words children are dying flashed on the megatron of Super Bowl LXII—and stayed on. When every electronic transmission from that moment on included the tag children are dying. The world uproared and tried hard to ignore those three words, much like once-printed glossy, guilting images of innocents with bloated bellies and cleft palates.
Deathdouspart gave no succor. They were relentless and their message pervasive. The words children are dying were burned into humanity’s collective retina.
And words have meaning.
Worldwide, electronic media almost collapsed, but deathdouspart, the secretive holocracy that engineered the global campaign, would not let it. They provided a tool to act. Dubbed freeagency, the device was made freely available to be implanted in willing adults over the age of 30. The freeagency device was designed to release a deadly toxin when activated.
That activation was random.
When a child anywhere in the world died a wholly preventable death—as clearly defined by deathdouspart—a random freeagency device released its toxin and killed the “agent”.
Deemed ridiculous and suicidal by the establishment, freeagency nonetheless caught on. Look around: life is cheap while martyrs are chic. Not surprisingly, deathdouspart’s martyrdom got results. A lone child’s egregious death in Ukraine or Syria or Haiti, once local and virtually unnoticed and unsuffered, now had adult collateral damage.
Swift and random.
Sometimes high profile. Sometimes in dramatic fashion. A newscaster in Sydney keeling over on air. A world-famous athlete expiring mid stride during a game.
Freeagency didn’t solve the immediate crisis. It didn’t get at the root causes of why children are dying. But it called attention. Caused second thoughts. It slowly changed decision-making and behaviors. Every child’s fate was being linked to a greater network of adults, their destinies intertwined in a most tortured sense.
The stakes had been raised. And that’s how the hand was now played. With caution. With a good deal more intentionality. Wild cards were buried in the deck and gamblers didn’t know the odds—and they didn’t know whose numbers (or whose money) they were playing with anymore.
Children are dying, though not as many. Not as carelessly. And free agency is always ours to commit to until death do us part.
by submission | Apr 1, 2022 | Story |
Author: B.K. O’Brien
Her breath fogged before her, a small ghost in the air. She walked slowly, each step precious, eyes roving as she continued to take in the unfathomable.
Every now and then she’d stop to watch as flakes danced in their slow amble to the ground, already thick with their kin. She jumped in a nearby drifted pile and a laugh escaped her. She stomped her feet, marveling at the muffled sounds her shoes made. Everything around her was a novelty, and it almost made her breathless.
Spruces rose through the gray thicket, and she ran fingers along the borough nearest her, reveling in the feeling of needles against nearly numb skin.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” She asked, unable to tear her eyes from the landscape before her. The snow was exactly as she’d always pictured, though the cold nipped at her more viciously than expected. She drew her arms in tight against her chest, but still shivers racked her body and rattled her teeth.
She waited a few more moments. “You’re really not going to talk to me? Look at this place. We can forget we’re even here.”
A dry laugh huffed behind her, “I can’t.”
She didn’t want to turn around to face him. Doing so would mean leaving this small place carved out in time, where the needle to come didn’t exist. The hulking mass of steel and gray in which they lived was instead a world of deep green and winter chill. Turning back meant seeing his uniform, seeing the long gun cradled securely against his body. Bumps had risen uncomfortably across her skin, fighting desperately to keep her warm. She’d forgotten what they felt like after years in the climate-controlled ship.
She whirled around suddenly. “Did you know how cold it would be?”
He looked taken aback, “Yeah. We’ve done a few simulations in the snow before. My class had to train in a blizzard once,” he shrugged at her raised eyebrow, “just in case.”
“And no one thought I might need a jacket or anything?”
He laughed then. “You’re nuts, you know that?” But his smile wavered as she stared, until his expression was rewritten in solemnness. “It’s your last hour, Girl. I don’t think they really care if you’re comfortable. Even this is more of a tradition than anything.”
It was what she expected to hear. But seeing the sudden sadness in Guard’s face hit her in a way she didn’t like. She didn’t refer to the other guards as anything at all, even in her own head. Their existence morphed more with monsters, if she did give them any thought. But Guard had always been kind to her; had always been ready for a robust skirmish with sarcastic words. His humanity had kept her sane.
She turned back to her forest, unable to look at him any longer. The spruces seemed sympathetic in their stoic, snowy haze. They understand, she thought. They’re bigger than the petty misdemeanors of humans – they forgive. She wished for nothing more than to be able to slip between the depths of their trunks, lost in the darkness of their chilled family.
She’d already served her penance in her years here. She would view this only as an escape, even if it was not of her design. She raised her face to the falling snow, and sighed.
“That’s it.” The melancholy in Guard’s voice made it almost unrecognizable.
She nodded, turning slowly, memorizing the scene around her. She’d be back in a few minutes, she told herself. She’d be able to stay forever.
by submission | Mar 31, 2022 | Story |
Author: Jayne Wadsworth
Even now, I still have memories. The sweet soft wind whipping through my hair and the music of the rustling leaves up above. We had a good life. A simple one. When the zones ambushed our farm they took my father to undergo something called conversion. With nothing left, I knew my only hope was to move to the capital city and make enough money to be able to get to sea-scape, a nature conservatory, the last place I knew I could be happy.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I stepped out of my apartment prepared to get a nose full of the smoky exhaust cloud that seemed to never leave downtown, but was immediately stunned to see a familiar face walking in the opposite direction. I couldn’t move. I turned to watch as my childhood best friend walked past me. For a moment I just stood there watching, then reality came back and I let his name escape from my lips..
“Orion?”
He stopped immediately and turned. His face had changed. He had matured. His family had been ambushed and taken by zones. He filled out and looked strong. The only thing that hadn’t changed were his sparkling aspen eyes that always drove me insane as a child.
“Orion, is that you” I breathed. “Chimera? Chimera! Oh my goodness I.. I can’t believe it’s you.”
He started to walk towards me and then broke into a run as he got nearer. He grabbed me in his arms and hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.
“Chimera what happened? I miss you so much but prayed I would never see you again. I never wanted them to do what they did to me. Is your Dad ok?”
I flinched and stood there as he watched a flash of pain stream across my face.
“On no.. I’m so sorry Chimera.”
“Orion, how are you here? How are you alive? I thought that they killed you.”
“I thought they were going to, but last minute they decided it would be a waste to dispose of such a young mind, released me in hopes over time I would learn to accept and support their advancements”
Suddenly I had a realization.
“Orion, you need to come with me. Come with me to the sea-scape.”
I hoped he could see the pleading in my eyes. He was my last family, I had no one else.
After what felt like years he answered.
“Of course, I’ll go with you Chimera.”
The rest of the day was a blur. After hours we finally entered what supposedly was the city center. To my surprise, there were no people at all. I didn’t expect to be let into the courtyard but the security didn’t even question us. I watched as Orion peered down at me and suddenly, in one swift motion slammed my head against his knee. All went black.
I woke up in a bright white room. My blurry vision cleared to reveal Orion standing robotically to my right. Orion dropped the letter he was holding onto my lap. With trembling fingers, I opened it and read ‘Candidate for Conversion found. Mission completed’. My heart stopped. There was no sea-scape. Society had created the idea of ‘sea-scape’ to trap those who did not fully support the advancement of AI. Orion, my long-lost best friend, had gone through conversion, just like everyone else. Now it was my turn, my turn to become what the world wanted me to be. To conform to the realities of society. I thought I had a choice but no. There was no choice.
by submission | Mar 30, 2022 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
There’s a new drug on the market but it’s exclusive. You can’t buy it from the Runners, you have to seek out the Supplier. Both he and his place are an integral part of the trip or so I have heard. It isn’t something you can take away in a phial or tablet form and whilst that is certainly a part of it there is more but along with the Supplier that something remains elusive.
The subs money isn’t great but I have a cell and I am clean, have been for almost a year and I am able to save. As I roam from Enclave to Enclave I have come to realise that the people here rarely move. They tend to stay put and the Sector is rife with rumour and conjecture and wherever I go the perspective on this particular story is a little different. Everyone is having their say and it is difficult to glean anything solid. But on a couple of factors at least all are agreed; that a visit to this particular Supplier is a very singular experience and for those who can afford it, it is the drug of choice. Although expensive it is rare that anyone needs to indulge more than once. It is literally the trip of a lifetime.
I keep moving from first light until after dark. I return to my cell when possible but mostly sleep rough. Settling down wherever I find myself and as long as I am clear of the Communals I am able to rest easy.
I find myself constantly checking the money – counting it and re-counting it, moving it about my body. Not because I am concerned that it will be stolen but rather that I might lose it. Surprisingly, money isn’t really a part of the equation here in the Sector. We have our subs and those who can be bothered make a little from scavenging. But it is all destined for the Sector’s epicentre.
The Communals are an Enclave of long since disused cell blocks. Gutted and most of them roofless, it is maze like, a murderous place. Business there is violent and bloody, guns and knives are prevalent and the decisions are made there as to what will be available in the Sector at any given time and how much it will cost. The Runners deliver the product every day without fail and it is critical that the Sector’s citizens are able to get high and that they can afford to do so.
News of the new drug has reached the Communals and the Runners are asking questions. Clearly, they are acting upon instructions and are both bemused and amused, considering themselves above such a wild goose chase and resent the task. But they are merely henchmen and I wonder who is pulling their strings.
It seemed impossible a year ago that I would be able to save the money. And now I am sure that I have it yet I am no closer to reaching my objective. I have taken to tailing the Runners, dogging their every move, which mostly consists of standing still, lurking in doorways or loitering on the pavement and doing my best to appear nonchalant. I am growing restless; my frustration is rapidly worsening. It would be so much easier if I was high.
It has been so long since I scored but I don’t even need to talk. I hold out the money and the Runner takes it. I look down at the derms in their cellophane bundle and they look so delicate and so precious.
