by David Salvi
When he broke free of his rocky body shackle, Chris assessed his injuries. Scrapes and rips of skin down his back, shoulders, and arms. Blood rushed outward and turned red when it hit the air. It dried slowly, keeping it ruby red thanks to the humidity. It oozed down his skin and felt like sweat, a familiar feeling, so he paid little attention to the sensations. There was a coolness at the surface of his wounds, and his brain alerted him of the pain.
“I gotta get out of here,” Chris said out loud. Another echo.
Picking up his bag once again, he made his way back to the grotto’s opening into the lake. One way out, no matter the cost.
Chris took a breath and dove in with his hands out in front of his body. A slight sting drew his attention back to the lacerations littered around his body, but Chris swam with purpose toward the entry into the lake. Screw it, he thought.
Blood literally was in the water, and not a minute lapsed before a tigrus gnawed at Chris’s bag. It chewed ferociously, but he fought it off by elbowing its head. One tigrus turned into ten within seconds, and he was being chewed up like feed. He struggled to swim to the surface, and the fish pulled him down by the bag, which popped off of his back.
In the quiet expanse of the underwater lake, Chris screamed, “No!” which was heard by no one. Bubbles headed to the surface, where Chris wanted to head, but the contents of the container in his knapsack were far too valuable.
A tugging match went on with Chris and hungry school of tigrus fish claiming the knapsack as their own. Chris fought kicking his legs and pulling the strap, which he had hoped did not snap.
“Ah!” Chris yelled again to no one but himself for motivation. More bubbles erupted from his mouth and headed to the surface. His blood was running out of oxygen, and he started to see black spots around the chaos of fish chomping at his body and bag.
Then Chris remembered his gardener knife on his belt. He drew it immediately and hacked through the water, first at the fish attacking his bag, second at the fish trying to gnaw down to his muscle and bone. The bag freed, and he used the momentum to swim to the surface, though a few pairs of teeth still latched on for a bite.
Fish flapped furiously as Chris rose to the disrupted surface. He gasped for a big gulp of air and found the rock face again. He could go there, or out to the depths of the lake for a tigrus feeding frenzy. To the rocks for sideways climbing it was.
Chris reached a ledge with his wet hand and nearly fell back in, but he gained his footing. His boots hugged the ground, and his hands found wide ledges to grip. The last of the fish swam away knowing their prey was out of the water. He let out a loud sigh against the rock face and closed his eyes to calm his mind for the moment.
After a moment, Chris scanned the face, finding a pathway upward. Laterally at first for about fifty feet, then another fifty vertically would be his challenge, as this day wasn’t enough. If he went the other way, however, he’d risk running into a curious fisherman.
Here we go, Chris said inside his head. Slowly, he inched his hands across grips, finding the appropriate footing and adequate leverage for his body. His knapsack was heavy and waterlogged. The more he gripped the jagged rocks, the drier his hands got from chalky and grainy residuals sticking to his hands.
With each step toward his goal, Chris took a breath and urged his body to resume. He steadily climbed and reached the dip in the cliff. From there he could walk back to the valley beyond the rice fields without a soul running into him.
Until one did. Not five minutes back into the valley did Chris make his first encounter.
A rice worker had wandered out to the valley to escape a day of work and was now returning. This stranger was chosen for the rice work because it was mindless, and he hadn’t a mind worth much more than picking things from the ground. He was a young man—younger than Chris and a bit smaller in stature. Like all rice workers, he wore a straw hat. Maybe out in the fields for a few years after the Sustainability Administration’s vocational school.
“You. You’re the criminal they are looking for,” the stranger said. His eyes screamed for help. As with any criminal, the Canaanite government spread news of an escapee quickly and deemed him or her extremely dangerous. Whether or not it was warranted, they struck worry in the hearts of their populace for one reason: obey or become the enemy of the people.
“I’m not a criminal,” Chris said. He wasn’t sure why he said that, and he thought for a second if it was the best option. So, he quickly tried to clarify, “I’m not going to hurt you,” which only criminals say. That’s implied if you are not a criminal.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
Chris rolled his eyes. Why did I say that too?
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Chris put his hands up to placate the man. “And I won’t tell them you ran out on work.”
“I didn’t run out on work. Just a nap.” He blushed as he was caught too, except that’s just a day’s chips and a harsh warning. Not the gallows. Or worse, the Games. Normally they were caught pumping the black market. Rice fielders fermented and smuggled their own rice whiskee, trying to make an extra buck or impress friends.
Chris froze and waited for the stranger to talk. Instead of moving his mouth, the man fled, weaving around the krakona trees. Chris chased, although he was beaten, bitten, and exhausted from this endless nightmarish adventure that just found another leg.
But the stranger’s legs tied up, and he tripped. A cloud of krakona leaves, those of seasons passed, burst around his body.
Chris dashed to leap on top of him. His nostrils caught a quaff of the stranger’s stinking breath of rice whiskee. Chris recoiled at the ghastly odor.
A quick shriek was muffled by a handful of large krakona leaves. Chris had plugged the stranger’s only way to get help.
He weighed his options.
If he released his drunk prisoner, Chris would only have a matter of hours before the Sentinels returned fully charged and stocked with ammunition. He couldn’t leave this man tied to a tree. Other rice workers would find him, buying him only an extra hour or so. Either way, the Canaanites would know he was alive. And they were vengeful.
Chris did what he previously thought was unthinkable. And the innocent drunk stranger saw it in Chris’s face. Determination with an undercurrent of sorrow. His eyes watered.
He drew his gardener knife and placed it on the stranger’s throat. Without looking and while squishing his face to pretend it wasn’t actually happening, Chris quickly slit his windpipe and artery. Blood oozed out like geysers in the north mountain.
Regretting the decision almost instantly, Chris rushed to his feet and dragged the struggling body. Nerves twitched the man’s extremities as they suffocated for blood and direction from the central nervous system. Nearing the edge of the cliff, Chris used whatever strength was left in his body and slung the man into Lake Albertrum, but without watching the body splash into the water—though he heard it. It took a few seconds, but he heard the thud of a limp body crashing into the water. Tigrus would bury the evidence. That was until Chris noticed the stream of blood from the spot where he committed murder.
He said the word in his head. Murder. He hated the sound of it. His mother never taught him anything like that. No one did. The only cruelty he knew was from the Canaanites.
Whether it was the splashy aftermath of the stranger’s death or the eerie quietness soon after in the valley, cortisol and adrenaline shot into his blood and sent him into a turbo frenzy. He dashed east toward the mountains with little regard for the bloody mess he had left behind.
Apollo slowly dipped under the mountain peaks. This hellish day was finally done.
June 2064 Entry -- Seattle, Washington
I write these for future generations. Always make progress possible.
I’m giddy like a child. After years and years—we found it! I cannot believe we found it, but we did. After years of study, probes, and robots, it was a lone probe, named Prometheus, that landed and calculated everythi
ng we needed. Thanks to our artificial intelligence personality, Rob, we did it! I can’t believe I’m about to say it.
Here it goes:
We found Earth’s sibling.
Mountains of data tell us the water quality and abundance, distance from their star, orbit time, length of days. Enough of a “genetic” match to host and sustain life...especially Earth’s life. My gosh, could you imagine?! Another planet for human beings to call home! It’s as if God’s hand crafted this world out of thin air for us! If I believed in God or a god, that’d be my explanation. Instead, let’s look at the data:
93.5 million miles from its star, Omega Aquarius, which is larger and brighter than Earth’s. We’ll have to come up with a name. Sun is Earth’s and Omega Aquarius is…too long.
24,712 miles of circumference. Based on this and mass calcs, the gravity difference is negligible.
Three moons! Names for those are needed. “Moon” is the least inspiring moniker.
79% water, enough of it fresh and potable!
Oxygen levels are slightly above Earth’s. 23.6%. Ok, fine. Nitrogen, and argon make up a significant portion. Traces of helium. Also water vapor, about 1.2%, 4% near the equator. Humidity is high, meaning many opportunities for life. And most of it will feel like the Earth’s tropics.
Slightly higher surface pressure, but well within our range. I don’t want our heads imploding.
It has trees, plants, creatures—actual life besides our own, evolved from its own amino acid compounds since the Big Bang!
Central land mass, almost like Pangaea! Dozens of massive lakes in the middle. Islands out in the large sea. They are just millions of years behind Earth. Surely it has tectonic activity on its lithosphere.
Violent storms on both coasts of the land mass, which stretches two hemispheres. High temperatures and water levels cause violent storms. We’ll have to keep the civilization more inland. Mountains will act as protection.
What are the chances? 1 in 700 quintillion, they say.
This is the next step in our evolution. Interplanetary colonization. This will ensure our survival as a race!
The time is fast approaching. These fools. These damn fools! Politicians and corporations. Greedy bastards searching for the cheapest dollar. Polluting our air and water. The very thing we need to survive a hard enough day. What good is money if we are dead? First goes the air and water. Then the forests. Then the oceans. Then the food supply. Then disease. It’s an unstoppable avalanche of death. And the snowball already started rolling down Everest.
Everything must be done in secret. Everything will be done in secret. The fate of mankind depends on it.
End of Entry.
Oscar Marian
CHAPTER 4
THE NEXT DAY, chaos in the city subsided. Some Canaanites aided the cleanup. Some retreated to their homes and watched dozens of government workers sweep a generations-long problem under the rug. Parents hugged their children tightly and watched the work unfold. Electric vehicles pushed rubble along with metallic blades. Vehicles with large wooden beds followed. Men used spades to transfer rubble on top of the beds. Medical carts hauled dead bodies away. These victims were caught in the crossfire. It was a sight the people rarely saw. But most Canaanites stood and looked around in awe and questioned why it had to happen.
Jack, though, was among the Canaanites ordered on the cleanup. Still, he was determined to help in any way he could, despite the order.
“Over here!” a supervisor shouted. He was an older, grizzled man with no time for bullshit. He directed his people accordingly and scanned the road. A pile of charred wood and busted metal boxes waited for pickup to his right. More down the line.
Jack hurried over with his spade in hand. He and a few others shoveled debris into the beds of the trucks, cleaning up pile after pile without complaint. They wanted to clean up their city and home.
“Where to next, sir?” Jack asked. Dirt and ash scattered across his face, clothes, and body. It was a dirty job.
“Main square. Lots of cleanup there.” He didn’t look up at Jack when answering.
“First the veins, then the real heart of the matter, huh?” Jack stared him down, hoping to make some eye contact.
The comment caught the supervisor’s attention, and he looked up to say, “Exactly. Good job today, Jack.” He got an assured nod from the young man.
Before heading off to the square, Jack spoke up, “Any way you could put a good word in for me, sir?”
“Shooting for Arch Canaanite status, son?” The old man liked Jack’s gumption. He took a long look up and down Jack’s body and smiled. He watched the kid work hard. So he said, “I’ll be sure to mention you to the Secretary of Interior.” That was two steps from the supervisor after Administrator of Construction, Jack’s division at the Interior Administration.
Jack beamed with excitement and hustled to the square for more shoveling. Behind him, the supervisor smiled.
When Jack arrived at the square, the cleanup halted for a message from the Commander of the Military Force, though much cleanup was needed. Unlike its officers, their commander was a woman—Commander Veras. She was tall, almost as tall as her officers, and firm at all angles. Her face pointed outward like a lion, and her eyes were daggers to anyone daring enough to look into them. She had voluminous auburn hair and gray eyes that complemented her decorated military uniform, making the entire appearance almost like a destiny.
Flanking her were two officers, whom Jack recognized from Eros Pub the night prior. Brooding and cocksure as they were before.
The commander spoke into a microphone while standing proudly on a makeshift stage of reclaimed wood, like a predator hovering over her prey. Her hair, normally tightly packed into a version of a bun, had frayed in several directions. Ash streaks went across her face.
Jack and Chris called her the Lioness when her name was brought up. They liked prescribing nicknames to the folks around town, which they considered endearing. Veras the Lioness. She’d love it, Jack and Chris said when they created the name. Though lions were not on Canaan, zoology was one of the few Earthly subjects taught on the planet. To them, these were mythical creatures—perfectly good nicknames.
“The threat has ceased, and the city is safe,” said the Lioness. A cheer erupted from the masses of people who gathered near the center of the city. More citizens joined at the periphery, emerging from their homes and filling in from the streets.
“A few perpetrators fled the city. Though we arrested many of them.” More cheers. “That means, Canaanites, that the Games will return to Ares Arena as a celebration to the Canaan Sestercentennial!” Another eruption of jubilee. It had almost been a generation since the last Games at Ares Arena, a stadium in the eastern end of the city. The elders cheered while memories of the last Games bounced in their diminishing brains. The youth cheered because the legends of this event reverberated in their social circles, hoping for any event to fulfill their cruel wishes and dreams.
She pivoted to a somber tone, “But, we have unfortunate news about one of our own. He used to be one of our own. Now he’s a detractor.”
Jack turned to a civilian and remarked, “Well, he can go to Eros.”
“Christopher Menas betrayed our people…”
Jack’s heart leapt in his chest, and he shook his head. No way. There’s no way Chris would detract, right? Jack thought.
The Lioness kept up the accusations, “He murdered his own mother. Fled our officers when caught in the act with Motus members at his side.” Boos permeated from the crowd. A few called for a hanging. “And we thought our Sentinels had avenged the crimes, but another atrocity occurred. During his escape, he murdered another of our own. Pools of blood led us through the rice farms and into the Albertrum mountain range. That Motus mongrel is there somewhere. And we will find him!”
Boos evolved into hateful jeers. Chris was quickly the public’s number one enemy. The people went from bloody, sweaty, and tired to invigorated with a common
purpose.
She said, “The threat has temporarily ceased. Once again the Motus Society disrupted peace and happiness on Canaan. This is why the danger of their treacherous members cannot corrupt our youth. We must protect what we stand for! Law and order across the land. Everyone doing their duty in the society in the name of Oscar Marian.”
A voice shouted out from the crowd, an elderly man with a white beard and missing teeth, “And what are you gonna do about the murderer! Motus scum! Throw him in the Ares!” Jeers turned back to applause and cheerful shouting. They wanted games.
The Lioness raised her hands to quiet everyone. She responded, “This happened under our noses. And we will never allow this to happen again. I’m here to announce, and this will be sent to your communication centers, that homes will be searched at random. Any suspicious activity will be evaluated and resolved accordingly. Bag inspection at entries. If you see anything, tell your block’s officer immediately.”
Boos morphed to groans. This angered the Lioness.
“Do you want this to happen again?” She was answered ‘no’ by panned faces.
According to the Lioness, additional security measures were approved by the Council. This time, the crowd accepted their fate.
In the back of the Canaanite mob was Jack, who found himself cheering and rooting for added security. He cursed his former friend’s name, and like that, a friendship was over. Jack was determined to bring Myra’s killer to justice, even if it was Chris.
Fighting through the horde, Jack approached the Lioness after she concluded her speech, calling out by her actual title instead of her nickname.
Before he could reach her, two officers lifted him by the armpits until Jack shouted something the Lioness found intriguing.
“I was Chris’s friend! I could bring him back. He trusts me!” Jack fought hard.
The Lioness turned and raised an eyebrow at the young man vying for her attention. She strutted over. The sway of her hips jostled the equipment on her belt. Her looming presence hovered over Jack. He gulped at her intimidating stature but awed at her beauty with boyish eyes.