The Biomass Revolution [Nicholas Sansbury Smith] (fb2) читать постранично, страница - 2

gunfire tore through the silence of the dead forest, ringing in Evandishs’ ears. Ralli panted on, undeterred, the muscles in her old legs holding strong.

“Faster Ralli!” Evandish shouted over the barrage of machine gun fire. He watched the bullets tear by them, peppering the frozen ground and sending chunks of snow and earth raining down.

Ralli raced in and out of the spray and for a split second, everything slowed down. A bullet whizzed past Evandish’s ear. He yanked on her reins, his eyes fixated on the path, hope slowly building inside him. They were almost to the safety of the valley. But Ralli’s legs were old and strained. She was not as fast as she had once been and was no match for the speed of the train.

Evandish was foolish to have hope, learning over the years that there was no room for it in Tisaia. He cowered in fear, gripping the reigns tightly as the train bellowed down on top of them at the last minute. And before Evandish knew it he was in the air, fumbling for the reigns, Ralli tumbling beneath him. He watched helplessly as the bullets tore into her beautiful dark skin, her eyes wild with fear. They hit the ground simultaneously, arms and legs flailing powerlessly about.

The two companions came to a stop at the crossroads of the trails, their bodies broken and silent. The train hammered on, its horn blaring through the cold wind. Evandish caught one last glimpse of the Knights who turned their focus back on the tracks, ignoring him like nothing had happened, the cold blue glow from their goggles fading in the distance. His gaze fell upon Ralli, who was lying lifelessly to his side, before he too closed his eyes for the last time—a look of horror frozen on his face.

Chapter 1: The Past Unveiled

“Reality is only an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”

~Albert Einstein

Time: 10:14 a.m. January 19, 2071

Location: Sector of Governmental Services. Lunia, Tisaia

It was mid-morning and Spurious Timur sat in his cubicle, staring at his goldfish, Archie. Slowly the small fish fluttered his fins and swam about the bowl. Sporadically, he peered through the glass with interest at the outside world, a place so large the small fish could never comprehend its complexity. And yet, the goldfish stared back at him, his gills puffing in and out, as if he was trying to understand what lay beyond his glass walls.

Ironically, Spurious lived primarily in a space equivalent to that of Archie’s. The only difference was the young man was surrounded by four white walls connected to form a cubicle, where he worked 10 hours a day, 60 hours a week.

Archie darted towards the surface of his glass home as Spurious reached over and dropped a pinch of food in the water. He smiled, watching his fish peck aggressively at the small morsels.

“So that’s what you wanted. No wonder you were staring at me. I bet you were pretty hungry,” Spurious whispered, too quietly for other pods to hear.

Forgetting his small friend, he turned and faced his blue screen, slouching in his plush chair. The scent of bleach and paper prompted him to sneeze. The odor was something he had never gotten used to, even after his five years of working in the same place. There were always service workers in their ocean blue uniforms, cleaning the work spaces with bleach in hope of preventing germs from spreading.

The smell never ceased to remind him of his first day at SGS.  He could still remember the floors of windowless rooms with artificial light and the stuffy tunnels below the building—their twisted pipes lining the thick concrete walls like synthetic veins. And he certainly would never forget the first time he entered his office, sitting down only to see the web of ventilation above like bars on a holding cell. It was then he knew his cubicle wasn’t a work station—it was a prison.

The clock struck 10:15 a.m. and Remus, a service worker, showed up with his small cordless vacuum cleaner.

“Good morning Spurious,” he smiled, pushing his tiny vacuum into Spurious’ workstation.

“Do you mind if I vacuum in here right now?”

Spurious didn’t need to look up to see the crooked grin painted across Remus’ face. It was the same grin he saw every morning, a grin that repeated itself day after day like everything else. He simply nodded and motioned Remus into his cubicle.

Remus, like many of the other service workers, was developmentally disabled. In fact, most of the service workers employed at his office suffered from some condition preventing them from obtaining other work. Their attitudes, however, did not reflect their miserable jobs.

The only thing Remus and Spurious seemed to have in common was their unique family stories. Both of their parents were killed by a bomb during the early years of the Biomass Revolution. And every day Spurious saw the young service worker’s crooked grin he was reminded of it.

“All done, Spurious; you have a good day now, you hear?”

“You too Remus, see you tomorrow.”

Spurious watched Remus drag his vacuum down the hall towards the paper stations. He stopped to replace the disappearing stacks of yellowed paper with more stacks, reminding Spurious of his aging childhood book that survived the wars.

“Good morning Remus,” chirped Zaria, a secretary that worked just down the hall from Spurious.

“Well hey there, Zaria, how are you doing? Did you watch the last fight at the dome? I heard the Samoan warrior put on a great show,” Remus said, putting a stack of papers back onto the table.

“No. I couldn’t make it, but I have heard a few people discussing his victory this morning. I overheard he has won the past four fights and if he wins the next one, he will gain his freedom. Is that true?”

“Get back to work, Remus! Don’t bother other employees,” shouted his supervisor, Mr. Sturm.

Remus looked back down at the carpet and pushed his vacuum cleaner out of Zaria’s office, acknowledging his supervisor’s request with a simple nod.

Sturm followed Remus and the other service workers everywhere, hunting them with a clipboard and checking off the tasks they performed with the same methodical stroke of his pen.

Spurious never heard anyone call him by his first name, and all of the service workers referred to him specifically as Mr. Sturm. Some days he wondered if Sturm wanted them to suffer.

The slow tick from a nearby clock echoed in his ear, reminding him of how structured his life had become. Having lived his entire life in Tisaia, Spurious knew nothing else. The world beyond the great steel walls was as foreign to him now as it was when he was a child. Like other State workers, he only knew what the State taught him and what he saw with his own eyes.

He could remember only a few things about his childhood. He knew his father was a factory worker in one of the first Biomass factories. His mother was a boarding school teacher for immigrant children before the State had passed Law 99 in 2051. The law deemed any immigrant taken in through the gates of Tisaia in the last decade to be an illegal citizen. The result was deportation back into the Wastelands—a virtual death sentence. A Justice committee was established and a squad of Royal Knights was dispatched throughout Tisaia to find all illegal immigrants and transport them to the camps to process them for deportation. After Law 99 his mother had been out of work.

Spurious frowned, reminded that he could scarcely remember his parents faces. It wasn’t the only thing he had forgotten. It seemed he could not recall what it was like to be happy; his purpose was only to provide administrative support to his superiors. Over the years he had come to accept his fate, but deep down he had always wished there was something more to his life.

Spurious swiped at his holographic blue screen to transfer data from a file he had received to a spreadsheet. As he finished up his report, the crystal blue screen began to pulsate, indicating he had a new message. He swiped the screen with his index finger to unlock the incoming message, watching the blue background fade and a white screen emerge. “Sound,” he commanded.

“Spurious,

We have gotten an influx of new tunnel projects—priority red. I’ll need you to get started on mapping them as soon as possible. Make no mistake, this comes from the top.

Regards,

Miria”

“Beats the plumbing projects,” Spurious said, quietly. With another swipe from his finger, a 3D image of the tunnels underneath Lunia emerged from a tiny opening