Snow Over Utopia

by Rudolfo A. Serna

  Eden scanned the wooden deck for other sailors.

  The green smoke drifted down across the empty deck like a mist, and she was alone, hearing the thumping of the ship’s motor rattling and vibrating beneath her. The propeller started to crank and groan, moving the sea vehicle forward, belching green smoke from the rims of its stacks, and the ship steamed ahead of the storm’s fury. The Rotor’s wood deck had been polished, and the walls of the deckhouse were made of a gray metal. Fastened to the railing of the ship were bronze figurines. The faces of the figurines had the eyes of her lover, leaping through the forest, baring her fangs at those she attacked, the detailed figures along the rail, alive and ferocious, reaching out at the necks of a horned enemy.

  The battle scene recreated, the adornments consumed in the mist that rolled over the deck, while the sea pounded at the hull. The sun hung just above the horizon, turning green, with the black storm clouds looming out of reach. Lightning flashed and the thunder rumbled beneath the chug of the pistons and gears with the thumping of the Rotor’s engine.

  The porthole in the door of the deckhouse was lit up green.

  Still in the gown and barefooted, already forgetting what the sand of the beach had felt like, she walked over the deck, in the mist, to the green glow of the porthole, each step taking her closer to Utopia.

  Lining the outside of the deckhouse was a line of green bulbs that stretched from one end of the ship to the other. The green haze grew thicker, devouring the bronze castings of the humanoids with animal eyes. The angry faces screaming a vicious silent howl.

  Frost started to form on the railing, covering the beautiful face of her lover. The caracal eyes and pointy ears.

  Sheets of ice teetered in the sea as the ship cruised on.

  The deck boards had become frozen, and yet she did not feel the cold.

  She stood still for what must have been a long time, looking through the green porthole to the hall that stretched to the fire door at its end. Feeling only the vibration of the ship’s engine, and the rocking motion of the Rotor’s hull.

  She was being carried in the green mist instead of the solidity of the craft on which she had boarded a short time ago, or eternity, or perhaps for no time at all in a thick unyielding freeze. She turned the handle and opened the door to the deckhouse, walking into the hall with the fixed bulbs that lined the cabin wall, where at the end of the corridor was the origin of the pulse. She continued towards the sound of the machinery clanking, making up the beat of the Rotor, a whisper still calling out from underneath the din and clang.

  The sound of the engine room synced with Eden’s steps, and one sound grew into many—the clicks and turns of the cogs and pulleys, the pounding from the end of the hall, a metal chorus of brass and copper powered by green ore in the firebox.

  She got to the end of the hall and pulled at the door handle. It swung smoothly on its hinges, and she entered among the clanking sounds, walking past the gears and rods that pushed and rotated with smooth circling cranks, metal pipes with fittings and valves spurting steam in the green-lit hold of the engine room—the source of the ship’s power smoldering in the furnace.

  She saw the smooth surface of the engine, with its pipes twisting, twining like worms, or snakes squirming in a nest, and the steam powered gears turning the ship’s propellers, thrusting the ship through time and space. She could hear the whispering—the engine singing, escaping the green shell of the ore, the power waiting, whispering to those receiving the dream, the transmissions to the city.

  Utopia was on the other side of the furnace door, a green force radiating from the bars of the grate that held the smoldering ore that should have disintegrated any flesh that sought to hold it. Yet when Eden reached for the lever of the furnace door, to turn and pull, there was no heat. She reached in …

  She felt the vibrations of the Rotor at her fingers, spreading up through her arms and shoulders.

  She stared into the furnace blazing with green light.

  The engine went silent.

  “Eden. Eden. Good morning my child. Wake and rise. Wake and rise.”

  Light emanated through the walls of the room—sounds of the engine fading, thumping out to sea, its hull getting further away.

  Witch Mother in the Juggernaut tree, transmitting bursts of light and wind, visiting Eden in her Utopian bed, the sounds of the leaves from the Juggernaut tree fading with the voice of the dream machine, reciting the poetry of The Twelve Laws of Utopian Night: “You are happy, never sad; you do what you are told, you are glad. Smile, for you are the lucky one. It is in Utopia that we have fun …”

  Eden’s legs worked, and her toes felt a smooth, hard floor.

  It was easy for her to rise from the bed, a bed she had risen from many times before. A chime came out of the white light.

  “Get up, child. Get up,” a pleasant voice said.

  The white cloth covered her feet and extended up her legs to her torso and arms. Walking across the room, she saw an image staring back at her in a reflection on the wall—something with long yellow hair and blue eyes. The smooth skin untouched.

  She stared at the image, reached out to it, realizing that it was her own reflection in the lucent wall, shimmering like the sea surface that she could only barely remember.

  Another chime rang, and a pleasant voice floated from the room’s luminous walls.

  Eden looked for the origin of the voice.

  She saw the perfect square corners of the bed that elevated over the immaculate floor, and she felt the memories of hard straw poking into her back, fading, and the voice of the old woman that had called her by name, almost gone entirely, along with the memories of the steamboat, fading as if a dream.

  She had been without eyes, without a name.

  She moved away from her reflection, into the white light, and a passage in the illuminant wall opened.

  “Time for work. Time for work. Time to report to the station. Each shadow needs cleaning. Each door a shining.”

  The angelic voice chimed again, and Eden went through the opening.

  She entered a long portal stretching off into a white light at its far end.

  She saw a figure that was her height; lean, in the same white sheath of a uniform that she wore.

  The identical figure walked towards her, long hair running down past her shoulders.

  Eden reached behind her own neck, feeling the long strands between her fingers, pulling the blonde hair to where she could see the golden ends. She let it drop down from her fingertips.

  “Eden,” the angelic voice chimed. “Train 8 will be departing for Eden. All Edens please prepare for the arrival of your train.”

  “Eden?” she said out loud to herself, mimicking the voice that chimed from the walls.

  “Yes?” The long yellow-haired figure stared, smiled slightly, her blue eyes bright. The two stared at each other, and visions of Eden’s previous life cycle faded further from her memory.

  “We must go,” the Eden standing across from her said with a smile. “Here come the others.” Another Eden turned from the white-lit corners of the long, illuminated hall, and the other yellow-haired figures approached them.

  “The train for Eden has arrived. The train for Eden has arrived,” the disembodied voice chimed all around her.

  “Good morning, Eden,” each one had said to each other.

  “Good morning, Eden.” “Good morning to you, Eden.” “Good morning to you, Eden.” On a wave of warmth, the Edens approached her, each saying, “Good morning, Eden,” “Good morning, Eden,” “Good morning, Eden.” The warm wave reached her, and she instinctually repeated the sound she heard:

  “… Good morning … Eden,” she said.

  “Good morning, Eden,” her image said back to her with a smile, and the chorus of voices continued singing, “Good morning, Eden,” filling the cylindrical portal with their chatter until they all fell silent, their greetings completed, and waited obediently for the doors of the recently-arrived train
to open.

  All of them remained smiling except for the one Eden.

  With all the others, moving now as one, Eden boarded the steps to the silver train and shuffled to her compartment’s window.

  The silent cars pulled away, and Eden looked upon the city’s neon colors that seemed familiar—red, green, bright gold and silver, neon purple, and yellow—streaming the corners of obelisk buildings, leaning crisscrossed and diagonal, while the train looped around pillars of carved stone.

  Eden felt like she had seen the wonders many times before. The terraces, the gardens and temples, the tall buildings stopping just below the glass of the giant dome that allowed in what little sunlight there was in the short days. Yellow-haired Utopians moving across walkways, parks and streets, staring at screens while sipping warm morning drinks. The faces were the same, chattering while the images projected on the dome showed the Utopians how to act, how to be funny or dramatic, to laugh and applaud for the recorded images that looped.

  Eden had taken the ride on this train before.

  The Utopian congress convened under the symbol of a sledgehammer, representing the forge of Utopia. Surrounded by the white polished stone carried on the backs of their ancestors.

  The senator was alarmed: “Production of ore has stopped since the last delivery in the third season of the southern district! There has been no contact with our distributors!”

  The other senators let out a large moan at the announcement that the ore production had stopped, each senator trying to be more patriotic and fanatical than the rest, to look good on the large bright screens set up throughout the city, on every street corner and building.

  The Robot Queen had created a congress for the purpose of a semblance to the old world, although she remained supreme ruler of the new capital, their empress and president.

  The queen did not recognize time, unable to recognize the purpose. Operating on a simple command—to live and create. She had been pulled towards the pole’s arctic storms and icecaps, compelled to collect the bio-matter along the way, but unsure why she did so. Thinking, perhaps, it had something to do with her programming—seeing deep into the stream, and raising the ghosts from old databanks, and planting the foundations of Utopia.

  The congress in their white robes, wearing the sashes of their party. The holy colors of green and red, while they sat on each side of the aisle that separated them.

  “What will we do?” A senator said.

  “The Green Party has failed us!”

  “It is the Red Party that has failed!”

  “The Green Party has not lived up to their promises to provide the ore that will keep the furnaces burning.”

  The Robot Queen was made from silver metal. Part of a human brain was fused with processors and the purple spark, which crackled.

  The array transmitted.

  “Why have we not been able to contact the ore producers?” A senator demanded.

  “There is no one there to answer,” another senator bellowed.

  There was a silence in the chamber.

  “Is it plague?”

  “Plague! Plague! Plague!” the congress crowed, even though they were incapable of catching disease due to their design. The fear of contamination was innate and was used on the floor of the senate to charge the other party with incompetence, used regularly. The majority feared infection, while others silently questioned. More dangerous than any plague was the possibility of alien thoughts invading their sanctum, disrupting the order of Utopia. The whispers were still there, crawling out from under the foundations and the furnace rooms from somewhere deeper still: Arbol de vida …

  “Plague! Plague! Plague!” the parties bleated even louder.

  “Is it true? Is it a plague that has caused us to lose contact?”

  “Senators, what will we do?”

  There was a short moment of silence, the senate convening among themselves, and then one of the senators sounded off with the rest of those on each side of the aisle, cackling furiously.

  “… It is the fault of the Red Party and their inability to lead!”

  “It is the Green Party and their incompetence that has led to this disaster!”

  “The Red Party should have known this would happen!”

  They continued bleating accusations against each other.

  The senators would often recall the myth of a benevolent leader that brought joy to a dying world and rewarded the bio-matter that followed its mandate to behave, with inventions from the foundry.

  “How will we fuel the furnaces? It will be a disaster, the end of us all!”

  “We must send the War Machines to bring the green ore back!”

  “There is no other choice!”

  Large screens broadcast congress’s sessions to the citizens of Utopia.

  Congressional debates did not matter, nor did political affiliations, or who was correct, just as long as Utopian needs were met, and food grown in the terraced gardens was harvested and delivered to the plazas and markets.

  Streets cheerfully streamed with decorative paper, commemorating holidays whose meanings were forgotten, but were observed anyhow, while pleasant, synthesized strings and flutes played at all times, the fragrance of incense pumping through the vents.

  The children of the new capital were engineered to be young and beautiful, with blue eyes, yellow hair, and pale skin. It was a perfect order, where science had cured all disease and provided everyone with a steady supply of happiness.

  It was perfection, for none of the Utopians went without, and they did not have to labor long before they retired in the coliseum, protected from the storms and deep freezes. Images generated for the slumbering mutantoids in their silver ship, visions of naked, golden-haired, blue-eyed Utopians dancing in psychedelic green and purple skies—the mutantoids all dreaming the same dream …

  Pink mist, carrying calming euphoric fumes, released through vents into the chambers of all who slept, with pearl-colored trains on twisting tracks, weaving up and around the corners of buildings.

  The great dome protected all of Utopia, the massive invisible shell that kept lush gardens growing in the heat that rose from the furnaces, turning the belts of the assembly lines. The teeth of the conveyor sang in consonance with the workers who cheerfully operated the gears in green and red coveralls.

  The holy colors of Utopia—symbol of all good decency, handing out weaponry delivered by hover-jets, fueled by purple glow, discharging exhaust from their fuselages—the sonic booms showering ash down on the children of warring tribes believing in myths— passing their beliefs to the next series of soothsayers and sages—telling the stories that make up their reality.

  Thoughts monitored by the Robot Queen.

  Utopians, conditioned and made to believe that they had freewill bequeathed to them by their beneficent and wise government.

  The purple, glowing antennae spinning continually from the her temple walls to the workers, the serial numbers registering in her memory banks.

  Meanwhile, Utopian philosophers debated existence. Their philosophical theories did not bring scorn or criticism. Their opinions did not matter to normal Utopians, nor did their opinions matter to the queen or her congress. The philosophers had a job, and were content like any other Utopian, and they did not suffer any distress from trying to realize the futility of living.

  All that mattered to the Utopians was the beauty and joy that could be attained in the gardens and workshops—their needs met.

  Philosophers were no threat to Utopia’s congress.

  Instead, the philosophers provided more entertainment on the screens, debating the meaning of Utopia, or life before the green sky, gibberish spoken through the speakers in the rafters, on the street corners, among the violet bushes with pink blossoms.

  The terraced parks constantly bloomed, and the fallen petals were swept up by diminutive, half-mechanical beings the queen’s maker had created—the fallen petals taken to a lab where, under the purple light, the mak
er meticulously extracted and dissected parts of the petal to be used in special formulas, fused with aerosols to spray in the air over Utopia.

  Other types of life were carried among the rummaged material taken from dead cities. Biomaterial not intended for Utopia, but survived in the warmth of the leviathan.

  In the gardens were insects and rodents that burrowed through rock and soil, nibbling through wiring in the metal floors, digging down to the stone foundations of the city, into the furnace rooms, tended to by those given the honor of shoveling the ore into the furnaces that gave off heat and light, running the turbines and warehouse lights.

  The rodents continued to burrow, attracted to whatever was beneath the furnace rooms and garages where the war machines sat in a comatose state, waiting for the order to wake and carry out their programming.

  The rodents dug until they found refuge in the light of the great tree, where the animal-faced slaves had found sanctuary. Underneath the foundations of Utopia, having survived their burial, where bio-matter oozed down from clanging pipes, dripping into the large underground lake that had filled the meteorite’s crater. The insects and rodents grew, carrying seeds in their stomachs, releasing them in melted permafrost, while bio sludge mixed with frozen organisms and plant matter dripped further down into the cavern that held the tree.

  Witch Mother called out to all of its underground children gathering beside the lake, in the light of the great tree, where Miner reached out and tore at the soft, wet cells of the amnio-sac, ripping at the membrane, feeling the cold air entering, tearing the sac wider with his hands like splitting open the guts of the leviathan.

  Eleven

  The human slid through the slit, crawled out on the edge of the lake.

  Born of the fluid that ran down from the workshops above, he lay silent, in pain. He sensed his new world: The coolness of the underground breeze that blew through the massive vent systems built for the furnace rooms, the colder winds blowing down through the crevices, funneling across the emerald water, small four-winged birds that surfed the waves, the starlight pouring from the chest of the gnarled tree beside the underground lake.