The Archytas Page 6

  The president’s speech was briefly interrupted by brightly lit advertisements. A holographic display drive that beams images of fields into the sky, offering to confuse the pigeons, set to a catchy jingle. A bird-proof spray that promises to protect your Trac-car, today! And a device said to send out electromagnetic pulses that would deter the birds, offering a happy, pest-free farming experience.

  The president once again appeared on the screen in his smart suit, and continued speaking, “I ask of everyone to stay calm, and try to stay indoors. We are still not aware of the total ability of these birds, and there might be an imminent threat to your property and your person. Finally, we ask anyone with any information, any details, anything that they have discovered about these pigeons to contact us immediately. That is all. Good luck, Outer-Utopians.”

  The CRT-screen turned itself off, and Jamie and Tom resumed their wrapping.

  “Are you going to call?” asked Jamie.

  “Tomorrow, it’s almost time for bed.”

  They finished up with the crops and carefully placed them into a refrigeration tube. Tom double-checked that the windows and doors were bolted shut, whilst Jamie went up to his room, before heading himself to bed.

  That night, Tom and Jamie Somertri struggled to sleep. All around them was the distant sound of missile fire and explosions. A containment effort by the UDF that continued into the early morning.

  30

  “Hey Ruby,” said Grace, as she slipped into a tight white dress.

  Today, Grace would couple with five or six men. She hated her job; it disgusted her. In her society, prostitutes like her were most likely to end their lives. Each day she would arrive at work, an empty feeling in her stomach. She could not wait to escape, and she would do soon.

  Usually her clients were total strangers, occasionally there would be a repeat customer, somebody that had fallen for her, and wanted to take the relationship beyond working. Grace knew that like most men, they only wanted sex. Only wanted to have a girl to keep, to use without paying. They were not interested in small talk or personality.

  Grace did fall for a client once though. A man named Edwin. He was not like the filthy men she was accustomed to meeting. He was charming, handsome, and had an unusual air of wealth about him, even though he had no more than anyone else.

  He started to visit Grace at work every week, but would sometimes opt to use their hour for conversation, rather than sex. It was not common at all for a client to want to talk, and Grace immediately felt something different with Edwin.

  About two months of him visiting almost every week, Grace began to look forward to their meetings. He was the kind of person that she would not usually meet in the world outside. He was so different, and Grace thought he felt the same way toward her as she did to him.

  She asked him once if he would spend time with her away from work. Much to Grace’s surprise, he had told her that he loved his girlfriend and would never leave her. Grace remembered asking him why he deceived his girlfriend on a weekly basis, and he argued that the prostitutes provided a professional service, and it was not adulterous. After that, Edwin never visited again.

  She often hoped he would return though. Maybe he got over the assumed loveless relationship that his girlfriend offered, but never again did she see his handsome face. Only in her dreams could she see his slick black hair, blue eyes, strong jaw, and his high cheekbones.

  After having sex with six different men, Grace finished work; her voice parched from the moaning.

  She changed into jeans and a black shirt, and returned to the market for some more supplies.

  At home, she calculated exactly how much food she had stored for the eventual day.

  “Another two more weeks,” she said, before taking seat on the cold concrete floor to smoke her second cigarette of the day.

  31

  Tom was speaking into his two-way communication tube.

  “Lockdown? But I need to speak to him; can I come in, just for a few hours?”

  “I will have a word with the president, one moment please.”

  “Okay, thank you very much.”

  Tom had been speaking to a female voice for the last twenty minutes. He had explained in intricate detail to her all of the conversations he had had with Yudar. Now, he was waiting to find out if he could visit Utopia and speak to Yudar himself.

  A musical jingle played from the tube for a moment, a lively and upbeat piece of music that sounded like it was played on pan flutes; cheerful and elastic, springing forward, its buoyant momentum seeming to never end. High-pitched whistling became interspersed with the jingle, a painful hiss on the tube lasting for a few seconds, before the cheerful melody returned, the hiss swiftly becoming long-forgotten, to be replaced by the familiarity of the tune’s happiness as it energetically resumed timing, floating along in repetitive wonder, before crashing into an unexpected crescendo. Tom found himself tapping his foot in a timely rhythm.

  “Hello,” said the female voice.

  “Hello,” replied Tom, caught off-guard by the sudden silence and subsequent interruption.

  “Good news,” she said, “the president agrees that it would be a good idea to have you here whilst the alien is interrogated. Please come by this afternoon, we’ll be waiting.”

  The device clicked off before Tom could offer his gratitude.

  Outside, the birds had not returned, and Tom’s field was as empty as the previous day. He walked to the window, and could see a shadow cast across his land. The chain fence that stretched above his farm was nearing completion, and Tom had a busy week ahead replanting crops and trying to get his fields ready for the next season of the harvest.

  He killed some time over coffee, took a stroll along his fields to assess the damage, before returning to his house to see Jamie eating his breakfast.

  “You know what time it is?” asked Tom.

  “Yeah, half past one.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little late for breakfast?”

  “I couldn’t work today; I had no reason to wake up early, what with the crops the way they are.”

  “Very well,” said Tom. “Anyway, I have to go over to Utopia; I have some urgent business that can’t wait. I will be back before dawn. Try to stay inside where it’s safe, okay?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Jamie, “I’m not scared, they’re only pigeons.”

  Tom shrugged his shoulders having little else to add, before leaving the farm.

  He decided to walk to the capital, to assess damage and look for patches of untouched food along the way, however, empty fields revealed the misery that remained on either side of the roads and pathways. It was a sullen sight, and one that somewhat angered Tom.

  Arriving at Utopia, Tom found there to be heavy security checkpoints just before the first gate. Tom had never seen so many Defenders in one place before. He thought that maybe the uprising had already begun, before quickly reminding himself that those birds probably were the uprising.

  Tom had no trouble passing through security; after all, they were expecting him. He entered the gate into Utopia, and walked through concrete toward the inner gate that led down and below into Corebase.

  32

  Carter was preparing to leave. Their time was up on the planet they had called home for almost four thousand years.

  He gathered all of his belongings and placed them into a box. They would be collected with all of the other boxes and transported to his new quarters on one of the ships.

  There were a total of eight ships plus the Sol-ship, which would move together across the universe in search for their new home. Usually, the exploration team would have the location already mapped, and there would be a general idea as to how long it would take to reach the next habitable planet.

  As a random check before leaving, all members of his species needed to take part in a screening process for illness and bacterial infection, and to spend a day in quarantine. Carter hated quarantine, not only was it the most mundane o
f all days, he hated the pointless questions that they asked.

  He left his podpartment to see that the buildings behind him were already in the process of deconstruction. He joined a line of men in black, and walked silently, thoughtlessly.

  He headed to the quarantine section, a huge field of white tents set up just for this day. Inside, he waited in line for what was about four hours, before finally reaching the front of the queue.

  “Carter,” a man said.

  “That’s me.”

  “Sorry, but something happened and we need to ask you a few questions, please head straight to Interrogation Room 4.

  “Something happened?” asked Carter. Other than the usual line of questioning, he had never been subject to interrogation before. “What was it?”

  “We can’t say here. Interrogation Room 4, Kin-Commander Sykes is waiting for you.”

  “Okay,” said Carter, blankly.

  Inside Interrogation Room 4, Carter took a seat opposite his superior. Kin-Commander Sykes was in charge of all kinetic cycling matters, and had served such a position for as long as Carter remembered.

  “Look, Carter. When was the last time you saw Maxwell?”

  “Maxwell,” Carter thought for a moment. “Yesterday, we were sitting next to each other on the way back from Sol. After we landed, I went straight home as usual.”

  “Interesting,” said Sykes. “The report I have is that Maxwell didn’t make it to Sol yesterday. In fact, the rest of your unit said they didn’t see him at all yesterday.”

  Carter thought for a moment, as if trying to remember the events from the day before.

  “Have you questioned Maxwell?” asked Carter. “I was definitely sitting next to him, absolutely certain.”

  “We would ask him, but he ran out of time.”

  “Time!” cried Carter, taken aback.

  “He was found this morning when we went to collect his things. Plugged into dreams and without time. We do not know what happened. No scars, no injuries, almost as if natural.”

  “That’s shocking,” said Carter, surprised.

  “Anyway, if what you say is true, that you were the only one that saw Maxwell yesterday, and the others didn’t see him, then naturally that makes us a little suspicious.”

  “You think I had something to do with this? Come on Sykes, we have known each other forever. You know I wouldn’t...”

  “Look, as you know, protocol dictates that after a sudden loss to time, we have to check the facts. This, of course, includes recordings. We took the liberty to run every conversation that you and Maxwell had ever had. The analysis of that data revealed one anomaly, of which I will replay to you now.”

  Kin-Commander Sykes started the playback on a recording of Carter and Maxwell at work.

  “Maxwell...”

  “Hello, Carter.”

  “I have a strange question. Do you ever remember your dreams?”

  “My dreams?”

  “Your simulation dreams, after you are awake.”

  “Not really. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I am fine, I just... Maxwell, what if I said I...”

  “Sorry, Carter, I can’t talk about this now, I have to focus. We have to get these batteries charged. I heard this planet is close to retirement, so we have to complete on time.”

  “I know that, but...”

  “Sorry Carter, another time maybe.”

  The recording finished. Carter completely forgot that he had reached out to Maxwell when he first began dreaming of birds. He wondered if Sykes was even animated when those events occurred on Terra.

  “Anything to say?” asked Sykes.

  “Not really, that was a long time ago. I don’t see any relevance actually.”

  “What were you trying to ask Maxwell, you were going to say something but didn’t. What was it, Carter?”

  “I can’t remember,” lied Carter.

  “You can’t remember! Look, this is serious, Carter, you were asking a very specific question about dreams. Don’t think we didn’t check your dream logs too; we know that you’ve been searching for something. Maxwell’s dream log is almost identical to yours.”

  “Sorry, Sykes, I don’t really know what to say. I just chose a random period in time; I didn’t even know what those dreams would contain. Darkness I suppose. I believe them to be from a long time ago.”

  “You bet they were; they were dreams from a time when our species was different. What are you trying to discover?” asked Sykes, with utmost frustration.

  “Like I told you, I have no recollection of those dreams. They are just dreams, right? Recordings of our history. Harmless recordings. They offer no insight into anything but the past, and they disappear on waking. I don’t see how this is important.”

  “Very well,” said Sykes. “If you say so, then fine. There are no simulation dreams during recreation travel; I suppose it doesn’t matter now. You can proceed to quarantine.”

  “Is that it? Interrogation over?” asked Carter, relieved.

  “That’s it, but know this, Carter, when we advance to the next planet, we will be keeping a close eye on your dream log. My advice to you is to dream of some time else.”

  “Advice taken,” said Carter, as he got to his feet.

  “Good,” said Kin-Commander Sykes. “Very good.”

  33

  The world that Grace was living was far from paradise. As she left work for the final time, she gazed around and saw the homeless sleeping with the rats. The drunks staggering from bar to bar on their last few credits, ready to waste it all, blowing everything they had until it was gone or taken away by the impending weekly reset.

  In her society, once you left it all behind, once you lost your job, once you became addicted to gambling or ended up on the streets, there was no second chance. Leaving the system of working made it near impossible to get back on your feet.

  Grace wondered if it was worth it. Drinking ale, gambling, and sleeping with a prostitute was an escape for some, but it did not fix anything, and getting addicted was always the end. Day by day, the number of homeless steadily increased. Which meant less workers and more work for the rest. Longer hours in exchange for temporary election promises, waiting to be erased, fated to be forever lost. It was not living; it was captivity.

  Grace knew the risks. She knew that after leaving, she would never be able to return, never be able to get back to a stable lifestyle of abject misery. She had enough supplies stockpiled to last her three weeks, four weeks maximum if she rationed with care.

  She did have another option. She often thought that it would be possible to sell her body for sex, in exchange for food and cigarettes. It was not entirely safe; she knew when working as a prostitute, the establishments would protect her. However, going alone would be dangerous; she would reach that path only when it arrived, and once there, only at a very last resort would she succumb to such offerings.

  She arrived home and packed her things, stuffing everything she owned into two large bags. Her next month of food, two credit days to come, she could get by, she hoped.

  Grace did not know how far it was. She did not know where exactly she was going, but she knew that the streets had to end somewhere. There had to be an edge, an exit, something beyond. If such a place did exist, she was determined to find it.

  Her plan was to wake early and begin her routine as normal, taking a cold shower and getting dressed, before heading out with her bags to charge her credit chip. Then she would leave.

  She crept into bed, on what would be the last time she slept in her cold concrete room, and the next morning, she would finally escape the hell she called home.

  34

  Tom was ushered through Corebase on foot by two UDF Defenders. They took him through dimly lit spiralling tunnels until they eventually arrived at the entrance to the antechamber before the interview hall.

  “You’re on your own from here,” one of the men said, the first words of conversation that had been spoken since Tom a
rrived at Utopia.

  “Thanks,” said Tom, before strolling into the open door.

  The antechamber was empty, with only metallic walls and huge doors. He looked around for a moment examining the room, but there was little else of interest. Eventually, one of the doors seemingly opened by itself, and Tom headed into another room with a small table.

  The door slid closed behind him, and as he approached the table, he could make out a small shadowy figure. It was Yudar.

  Embedded in the table that Yudar sat at was a screen that displayed a broken image of God. The transmission had presumably ended, and a ghostly black and white flicker of the president remained on screen.

  Tom took a seat opposite Yudar.

  “Hello, Tom,” said Yudar.

  “Hello, Yudar,” said Tom.

  “They want me to make a deal. To take your people to my home, to UDfj-39546284. They promise peace. They promise to share your technologies with ours. They say that we can cœvolve, create a superior species.”

  “Interesting,” said Tom.

  “If this is what God wants, then I have no choice. Your leaders, they hurt me, Tom, they made me move heavy machinery, people were being burned alive, it was terrible.”

  Tom looked Yudar up and down; he appeared to have been spat into the world after being swallowed up by a terrible hell.

  “Sorry, Yudar,” said Tom, “but if it’s what God wanted, who are we to argue?”

  “I told them I would take them, but not without you.”

  “I can’t go with you; I have to take care of my son. I can’t just leave everything behind; I have a family to feed.”