The Archytas Page 5

  “Not likely, take a look, there’s thousands of them. They could never have brought this many birds. This is something else.”

  “Will mother be okay?” asked Jamie.

  “She’ll be fine. They don’t seem interested in the house, only the fields. And like I told you, the UDF will take care of it.”

  Tom and his son shifted their gaze back to the window and continued to watch the thousands of birds as they circled the fields looking for food to destroy. Then something changed.

  “Very strange,” said Tom.

  Outside the window, the birds stopped circling. They came together in the sky, forming a tight cluster. Tom got up from the kitchen table and walked to the window for a closer look.

  The birds were hovering in the dusk sky, a tight group of birds. Tom could clearly see what was left of his fields, purged of all crops. He let out a deep sigh. Above, he stared at the mass of birds and wondered what was happening; he had never seen anything like it before.

  “What are they doing?” asked Jamie.

  “I don’t know, but...” said Tom, “I think they’re communicating.”

  “They’re only pigeons, they don’t communicate, they’re birds,” said Jamie.

  “But...” Tom paused. “Come on, take a look.”

  Jamie got up from the table and joined his father at the window. The birds were almost still, flapping silently in the sky, unmoving.

  They watched for a further five minutes, the birds, and in the distance, the setting sun over the meadows beyond. Then suddenly they scattered, flying off in every direction. Seconds later, the only sight of birds were the black specks in the distance and above. It was a few seconds after the cluster of birds had disbanded, that ten Utopian Defence Force vessels arrived at Tom Somertri’s farm.

  25

  Grace was at her window, shrouded in darkness and sitting cross-legged on the cold concrete floor of her apartment. To her side, an unlit cigarette lay balanced with gentle precision on a matchbox; it would be her last cigarette of the week.

  It was not a pleasant feeling for Grace, knowing that in just a few hours that her, and everyone else alive, would have nothing. A total reset of credits.

  It was still early, perhaps half past nine, and the rain soaked streets were lit dimly by neon signs of varying degrees of functionality, flickering and glowing in the evening gloom.

  Across from her window, a half-lit pink sign tried to display the word, GIRLS BAR, although only the letters IRLS were illuminated. Everything was in a state of decay.

  Grace tried to concentrate, to focus on something more, but she could not think in the desolate conditions of her apartment. The heavy sound of people falling into bars, loud music, and the clatter of those living without a home, sheltering on the streets, their noise creating an annoyance of sounds that manifested all around. The rattle of smashing bottles and people laughing loudly creeping through the thin pane of glass that separated Grace from what she knew as the world, and offered only distractions from the despair. It was the same every Sunday night, the last day of the week.

  In her society, on Sunday, all credits reset to zero at midnight, a system that ensured nobody could get rich. Everyone fated to be equal. People worked all week, and were paid the following Monday. Grace often took comfort in the fact that if she did ever lose her job, she would still be able to survive with a final week’s pay; enough time to find new work; enough time not to starve.

  People on a Sunday rushed out to use up their remaining credits before the reset, spending them on alcohol, paying for sex with the prostitutes, the comfort women, or in some cases, gambling for something more. But even to gamble was pointless in a loveless society. Winnings too would reset at midnight. The only reason that Grace could see to gamble would be at the start of the week, to try to make the quality of life for those next seven days a little more bearable, but risking it all during the desperate process. To risk though, to risk was perhaps a sensation that brought with it the feeling of being alive. It allowed for the shortest of moments, enjoyment in life, before everything returned to nothing.

  Most people would starve themselves for a day or two, just so they had something left, something to use for entertainment at the weekend. They would work slave jobs, complete mundane tasks, perform hard physical labour for low wages, or as Grace did, sell their bodies for loveless embrace.

  Grace worked as one of the prostitutes. Because of her job, she was always busiest at the weekend. The girls would take turns to have Sunday off, so that they could at least enjoy the leisure offered by their credit reset every other week, and to maintain that there were always girls available; a continuous service for end of week clients. Unlike the others though, Grace decided not to enjoy her Sunday nights off drinking or wasting away the remnants of her credits. Grace was doing something else. Grace was stockpiling.

  Rent was taken directly from her credits on a Monday morning when everyone was paid, and following that, whatever was left, Grace would spend on shopping. She suspected others did the same.

  Fresh fruit and vegetables would arrive in stores early Monday morning, and usually they would be gone by Wednesday, presumably bought up by business owners charging high prices in their bars and restaurants. This was the trick, and there was no food left on Thursday, so those that did not stockpile were forced to spend their credits at the end of the week. The bar owners did not care too much about their credits resetting it seemed. They would stockpile so much alcohol, that they would never suffer from the reset.

  Grace had been stockpiling for months. Potted snacks, food bars, dried fruit and nuts. She had food that required little to no preparation, and plenty of it.

  Grace’s only vice was smoking, which was for her a problem. Cigarettes were scarce and often limited to two packets a week. It was hard to keep addicted to something that she almost never had. It was even harder to prolong the time between each cigarette. Self-induced torture for those with habits.

  It got to around ten o’clock, and Grace was still staring out of her window. Distracted and tired, she opened the matchbox and lit her cigarette, slowly taking care to inhale each drag, deeply and slowly, letting the poison fill her lungs, and letting the noise outside fill her silent moment of pleasure.

  After smoking, Grace disrobed and crawled onto her mattress, placed directly in front of the door to her apartment. She slept against the door each night to prevent intruders. She wrapped herself up in a single sheet, and tried to distance her thoughts from the sounds outside, before drifting away to sleep.

  26

  Tom had taken a walk across his fields, toward the border of Outer-Utopia. What he had seen along the way were meadows absent of life. The birds had vanished for the time being, and they had left behind nothing but the remains of crops.

  Before leaving, Tom had asked his son to gather any discarded wheat left by the birds; they needed to eat, and the pigeons had left them with nothing to harvest.

  At the edge of the perimeter that made up Outer, the Utopian Defence Force were hard at work. They were erecting something; Tom could see the dark figures as he neared, a construction of sorts was taking place. A glimmering reflection of some object, a metallic fence, being fastened with heavy machinery to the ground.

  “What’s all this?” asked Tom.

  There were six UDF ships on the ground, and twelve men working on the land. To his left, about half a mile away, Tom could make out another cluster of men, seemingly doing the same.

  “We’re building a fence,” said one of the Defenders.

  “They’re birds, they can fly over it,” said Tom.

  The man paused, looking Tom up and down. “Don’t worry, Mr Somertri, we have this under control. The fence will cover the whole of Outer.”

  The fence that the UDF were constructing was made from chains. They were securing it to the ground with liquid stone.

  “We’re going to spread this chain fence all the way back to Utopia, and attach it to the roof of the cap
ital. That way, no birds can get inside. Any that are still around we can take care of. The sunlight will still get through, so will the rain. It might be a little darker than usual, but it will do.”

  “Interesting,” said Tom, “but what about those beyond the border, what are they going to do?”

  “After the fence is in place, we’ll send out half the slaves, give them weapons. The president will tell them their new mission is to fight against the birds. It will take time, but we should be able to clean up this mess.”

  “But without the slaves, the power will be minimal.”

  “It’s fine. Less slaves, less mouths to feed. We have so much emergency energy we can survive for years. There might be a few blackouts to save power, but it isn’t such a big deal. Space exploration will be our full priority from now though, any spare resources will go toward that. If these birds, or whatever they are, if they don’t stop coming, we can’t stay here, and Phase IV will have to begin early.”

  “You mean,” Tom looked quizzical, “we will leave the planet?”

  “Something like that, we’re exploring every possible option, so we can’t rule that out yet.”

  “Where did they come from, the birds? My son thinks the aliens brought them along.”

  “Nah, it wasn’t them, one of the Delusionists hiding out in a farmhouse, he built them,” the Defender laughed. “Some religious kid trying to play God.”

  “Built them?”

  “Look, Tom, I would love to talk all day, but we’ve got a lot of work to do here. Say, I heard they’re rounding up the aliens, trying to make a peace deal or something. That one you bought in from Fornax, what was his name?”

  “Yudar,” said Tom.

  “Yeah, that’s him, he’ll be questioned soon. Maybe we need you to tell us everything he said to you. Is that a problem, Tom?”

  “No, of course not, I will make a call as soon as I get back.”

  “Great, thanks again. Fence should be finished in a few days. If those birds come back, just follow protocol and stay indoors. You have enough food?”

  “Maybe, my son is out gathering the leftovers now.”

  “Good. Then make the call, Tom.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Tom walked back in the direction of his house. He did not quite understand what the Defender was talking about when he said that the pigeons were built by somebody.

  Ideas drifted around in his mind as he wandered across the vast expanse of barren land. He thought for the first time in a while about Yudar, but that thought didn’t really lead anywhere, it simply died out in a short moment, much like his crops.

  27

  Carter woke from his dream, Six-of-Spades-2 2774. His mind was full of images of men and women dressed in rags carrying large pieces of wood. They were thrashing their arms back and forth, hitting birds to the ground. Thousands of what looked like slaves, fighting a war. An army of slaves deployed to kill birds.

  He did not understand why, but he was certain that the pigeons were mechanical, like they were an artificial construct. If this was a story from the history of his species, he was unsure why he had not heard about it before.

  As he wandered outside into the crisp air, he took a sigh. He joined the others in row and headed to work, always thinking, and his mind in overload. It would not be long before they moved on. Left the planet behind and set out to terraform yet another. Looking for a new energy source, looking for more life. In the food chain, his species were a giant mouth, and each cluster of planets that they discovered to be habitable, they ate. Their very existence reminded him of his dreams of birds. They too were mouths, going from field to field and consuming everything until there was nothing left. An insignificant futile presence.

  They, his species, were of course looking for a better way. A way to harness energy for eternity, because, just like everything else, they would eventually run out of places to harvest; run out of energy. It would all end eventually and Carter knew that. The cycle could not continue on forever, and even the birds would stop eating and wither away or die fighting. What they needed was an energy source that never ran out, a system where power was produced continuously. They had come close to that with kinetic engineering, but it was not enough. Batteries would eventually run dry, fuels that provided all else would expire, and habitats would eventually ruin.

  He continued in line, uniformity, passing non-thinkers, and those waiting to be replaced when time finally took them away. He thought hard about the pointless existence, the absence of breeding, and the loneliness.

  They had their dreams, the others. Carter had his, but it was not enough. He thought about sex, how he was never chosen to have sex. His species would breed only to replace those lost to time. Eventually time comes to everyone, Carter thought, but it was not really a concept he knew anything about. He knew that he could choose it, when he finally became tired of his existence he could request time, how it would always be available but never a considered option for many. Sex was different. Handpicked fine specimens to breed to replace those taken by time. A constant in their numbers, an order to fill, and everyone had theirs.

  He arrived at work to satisfy his place in society, and prepared for another day of cycling, but not for too many years longer, recreation travel was coming; he would get through, just a little more time.

  28

  It was Monday morning and the sound of elections stirred Grace from her dreamless sleep to the living world.

  Grace was sick of elections; large electronic boards displaying digital candidates would circle the streets once a month. Twenty candidates offering their pointless policies. It was always the same, they voted for change, but it led to nothing. It was an assumption that the candidates were real, but nobody really knew the truth. Nobody really knew who was in charge or running things.

  Last month the winning candidate changed the working week for labourers from five days to six, and in exchange, an increase in cigarette provisions to two packets a week from one. The electronic board outside Grace’s apartment was offering the exact opposite, with no changes to any of the other policies.

  Usually credits would increase or decrease from month to month, working days would alter, and death pay would reduce in favour of something else. Night curfews would add an extra hour to the late Sunday reset. One policy in, one policy out, nothing new, and Grace was sick of it.

  Death pay was something else. Everyone alive had to nominate another to be his or her receiver. Grace and one of the other girls, Ruby, were death partners. If one of them would die, then the other would receive a reward of double credits, or triple credits for the next week or two, depending on which candidate had won the election that month. Ruby always said that if Grace would ever kill herself, to do it during a triple credits week. It was common for people to die to help another; a fine example of the twisted culture Grace had to experience with each dying day.

  After death, nobody was certain where the bodies went; it was another mystery of society. So many things left unexplained.

  Grace thought about the futility of it all, the purpose of living. Everyone was working their jobs, like slaves, pointless jobs for such a small amount of credits. Then they would consume, drink, and at the end of the week, they would end up with nothing. She just didn’t understand the purpose of it all. Grace often wondered if everyone was part of a bigger picture, a larger plan; or just left over scraps from a society gone wrong. Somebody must have been in charge though, she thought, but she did not know who or what. Someone provided the food, and someone was surely benefiting from the suffering and mundanity. Someone was collecting the bodies, and again, she did not know who or what.

  Grace showered in the cold, and dried herself off with a towel still damp from the day before, before heading out into the rain swept streets. It was morning, but the darkness and gloom lingered through dawn, as it so often did.

  She passed the homeless crowd as they sheltered from the rain, eating scraps of food that had most like
ly fallen from the morning delivery carts, and joined the long queue to charge her credit chip.

  An hour passed before she made front of line. She duly received her credits for the week and headed over to the market.

  As always, the market was busy. People rushing to buy, their eyes full of greed. Grace took a wire basket and filled it with as much as she could fit. She selected a fresh loaf of bread, as many high calorie protein bars she could grab with her free hand, and a huge bag of carrots. She also took a packet of six bottles of water, paid her credits and headed to the tobacconist.

  The tobacconist was less lively than the market, thanks to the weekly purchase limit. She took her permissible ration of two packets, instantly opening one and lighting a cigarette, before returning to her apartment to deposit her shopping in her storage box.

  Grace would return to the market after work to pick out whatever good things had not already been purchased, and on shopping alone, spending over half of her credits in a single day. It made her miserable knowing that just one day after being compensated for her job, that she had almost nothing left.

  She locked her apartment door and headed over the road to the club she worked at, ready for another day of loveless sex with strangers.

  29

  Jamie was sitting at the kitchen table wrapping up food scraps in self-sealing plastic bags.

  “Is that it?” asked Tom.

  “Sorry, but this is all I could find. The pigeons took the rest.”

  “There’s barely food for a week here,” said Tom Somertri, somewhat disappointed.

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “Not to worry, I suppose there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Tom joined Jamie at the table and began to help wrapping up the vegetables. They were disturbed seconds later when the CRT-screen turned itself on, and the face of the president appeared.

  “People of Outer-Utopia,” said the president, smiling. “Our society is in a state of crisis. The world as we know it has changed suddenly. Our food supplies are under attack from robots. Intelligent robots appearing as birds. Pigeons. They are weak, but devious. We are making our best efforts to contain the situation, and are putting in place a secure fence around the border of Outer. The fence will be ready in a few days, and until then, we are taking measures to destroy the pigeons with our firepower, thanks to the brave men of the Utopian Defence Force.”