McPeters storms in...no wait. I was not paying attention.
Rewind Happiness Monitoring. Yes. Hidden in shadows and watching all, McPeters! His face a storm of rage, his fingers twitch. Back to when he entered the lounge.
He presses a button on his Nomadi and D-109 flops to the floor and lies there twitching. McPeters rushes over, sits on Mary’s chest and sprays Peace and Sleep. She awakens, shocked and horrified at the sight of him.
She fights him while apparently holding her breath. Condemnation grows and fills her eyes. He keeps spraying until she breathes in and condemnation dissolves. He turns to D-109 still twitching on the floor and turns up the power.
D-109 twitches and spasms far worse than before. His feet and arms pound the carpet in a futile struggle to live. I cannot watch poor little boy’s torture but must as duty calls.
Several minutes later blood trickles out his nose.
He shudders once, stops twitching and lies still.
McPeters turns the Collar off heads into the kitchen and returns with a cloth. He removes the Collar wipes the blood off and fixes it around Mary’s neck. He sets the power to medium and turns power on. I do not want to review what happened—but again I must—and I do.
Mary jerks repeatedly, horribly. He switches power off but leaves the Collar in place around her neck.
In the alley behind the apartments, he drops D-109 into a dumpster. Glancing about he puts a copy of the Writ of Property into D-109’s pocket. The lid clangs, bounces twice and closes. He walks away slapping his hands together at a job well done.
Back in the apartment he logs in, finds the Happiness Monitor record of what happened and erases everything. He searches for the original of his son’s murder and clears all listings and content.
He destroys the video chip under his heel and kicks the fragments away. Does another search of Happiness Monitoring and finds some details of the death still remain. He erases those. He searches again but nothing further displays.
I rush out the office—Skellumer watches while pretending to type notes into the system. “Comeuppance storming your way, Soulone!” he calls out.
I ignore him as a sudden bout of burgeoning thought along with a new kind of reasoning kicks alive deep within me. Somehow, someone obtained a recording that by all appearances was entirely deleted.
Several hours later, I rush back in—lookup my recent activities and erase them despite that I now know it does me no good. I glance involuntarily over my shoulder. Skellumer makes more notes and slides his prying eyes my way.
I take a deep breath—his stale odor is worse today.
I shrug him off and consider. I have just done something and committed myself to a course of action I dare not think of, never mind mention.
One last check online then. I initiate a new search but my screen freezes, and Skellumer’s and all others too.
Today a camera stands mounted on the hood of a truck. I instantly recognize what we are looking at. We’re headed directly towards a section of the Razor Wire Zone, but no audio plays.
These razor wire fences cordon off endless miles of decimated land that surrounds all Red Zones. I have traveled this particular road before—I was on vacation and lost. Poip turned me back when I got too close and also provided proper directions.
The camera speeds deeper into the Razor Wire Zone.
At three-hundred some yards from the fence, two Poip step out of hiding with weapons drawn, hands held palm forward demanding a halt. A blinding flash, blades of rainbows, bright white light, a thunderclap and both Poip vanish.
Oh, my. This is not a History Lesson. How did that happen? Was a Fragger used? Oh, dear Equalness. We are under attack by Here-Born. After all the years of doubt, proof at last that the citizens of Here-Born are evil. How sick and unprovoked is this terrorist attack?
How much better I feel knowing that my parents won’t see this. Most parents of children my age are long gone to that restful place in the sky. That place where peace and fulltime Happiness is abundant. Yes. Few parents live beyond that of a child grown into their teens.
Wait. Personal history is taboo.
And back to my screen.
The hood-mounted camera drives at the razor wire, more flashes and loud thunderclaps open a path ahead. We speed on for many miles of flashes until the ninety-foot high armored wall that seals off the South Central Red Zone comes into view.
A massive burst of light and we are through. More flashes and the lush vegetation and trees around the vehicle explode and vanish leaving a path through the forest...wait a minute!
Forest? Lush vegetation? Can’t be. Not in a Red Zone.
Oh, my Equalness and praise be Hallelujah. This I cannot believe.
Red Zones by every description possible are nightmarish—toxic wastelands. Environments so poisonous a fifty-mile-wide no-go-zone surrounds each and every one of them. Our countless Red Zones were defined hundreds and hundreds of years ago.
Nothing flew over them, traveled through nor near them.
Generation after succeeding generation has feared these areas. We have behaved. We have dedicated our lives to conserving the environment. We have loved all living plants and animals as though each was a favorited child.
We sacrificed our luxuries, our automobiles, our vacations, even those children we have never had so that other life forms may live by the grace our sacrifice bequeaths them by means of a decreasing population.
My bladder threatens to gush involuntarily and my headache screams. I rush to the restroom and make first in—first out.
Back in my office I find the screen filled with images of clear blue skies then terracotta roofs and green gardens. Water sprinklers huff and puff spraying rainbows across endless lawns.
Around me staff talk at the same time and loud as all-get-n-go can be. Someone across the corridor growls, “Look at that! That couple has grey hair. They’re old. Look at those parents and their kids…those kids are well beyond teenagers.
And our area erupts as hundreds of enraged voices speak as one; which is a first.
It is also the first time I have realized how dead quiet our workplace tends to be.
Voice-Over says, “You have been lied to.”
CHAPTER 73
Of Oceans And A Simple Idea
The legends are numerous and the investigators split. How did she come to be? Earth-Born, a pearl lost and alone suspended in space too vast to imagine. Light years above her abundant plains blinks a Milky Way—a collection of planets and suns and moons and who knows what more.
Some believe Earth-Born is the central hub of this entire universe. Others look to the stars and imagine great civilizations spread throughout.
Few are certain which is true.
Many ardent and dedicated investigators of worlds and stars insist an explosion brought about all this universe and Earth-Born as well.
Should one inquire after the source of said explosion, one is told something akin to, “It happened as a spontaneous combustion of unknown quantities and qualities,” both terse and glib.
That they will rabidly follow up with, “All comes from nature bringing into being a hodgepodge of accidents and multiple though convenient coincidences.”
Yet no one asks how this explosion originated nor what detonator was in use. Even scientific illiterates fully understand that for an explosion to let rip matter or material of some kind must first exist. However, any solid, gas, or liquid first requires space in which to exist before it can exist.
Therefore, an explosion can only occur after the creation of space and then of matter within that space because before space and matter...there is no space...there is no physical material, no matter.
Therefore, there is nothing solid.
And explosive material in this universe…those require a detonator for nothing explodes here...without encouragement. If that were possible, we’d be dodging explosions all day long.
So if there is nothing to explode and there is no place f
or it to explode inside of there can be no explosion. Which raises the question...what exploded thereby creating this the physical universe if prior to said explosion all there was...was an actual nothing?
Those scientific investigators reply, “Yap, ha, huh, yap-pity-yap-yapping,” on and on.
Be polite and thank them as you walk away.
Yes. Earth-Born’s beauty outranks that of planets and other heavenly bodies one can easily see from her. She shines with skies blue, oceans as blue, forests too green but scattered about her countenance are scars, scars that have never healed.
Run an eye along northern Africa, the Middle East, on into southwestern Africa, the deserts of the Americas, Asian and much of Australia.
Tell me...are those old scars?
Scars of conflict like none most of us have seen. Conflicts so deadly in their devastation their scars never healed.
How terrible then, that which rained down upon Here-Born leaving her with scar upon scar, and scars alone.
***
Four hours before entering EB’s atmosphere we at last got into a wet shower with soap and washed off that odor. We have agreed to never and absolutely not ever mention Facilitation duties...to anyone. Especially the first one when the amidships main pipe was blocked.
We made our way crawling, slipping and sweating through a tangled maze of yellow piping. Closer to the Relief Valve the humidity was thick enough to set our heads spinning while between the pipes was barely room enough for Madsen to squeeze through.
“You should change your physical profile towards the leaner side so—listen to your wife Vicki and—,” but he cut me off with a glare.
After slithering between the final barrier of pipes, we found the Relief Valve area. It had almost no room to turn a wrench and none in which to leap clear let alone swing a sand-snail by the tail.
Fortunately, being well hidden what happened remains a secret. On opening the valve, I was amazed at the magnitude of blockage. How can a pipe so long, so large in diameter and with so few crew members become so blocked?
Nevertheless, the post of Facilitation Engineers was crucial in keeping our presence far less than obvious. Any crew seeing us abruptly took another route or retreated, no matter how much further they would have to walk.
Our searches about the interior of BA-75 revealed her cargo of gasoline was not doing duty as fuel nor did it serve to generate Breathable Air. In conclusion, BA-75 heads for EB with a cargo designated as other wares but carries forbidden gasoline.
“What do they need gas for?” I asked Madsen.
“We don’t need to worry about that,” he replied.
I asked why he thought I was worrying over trifles.
He walked off in a huff. Too long in too confined a space I figured.
Now, some weeks later with the crew gathered inside the Briefing Room we wait to enter EB’s atmosphere. Cheery voices hum and drone around us. On the other hand, I have had it with all the noisy verbal talking that pounds home every minute. I sigh just as the overhead speakers shout as though we are one-n-all entirely deaf.
“Crew to strap in! Crew to strap in!”
We rush for seats tattered and torn with usage and faded from bright green to a dull dirty green. Slow-Madsen buckles up moments before BA-75 slams into the atmosphere and bounces off screaming, an injured Crier snarling as the scent of Arzerns wafts thick upon its senses.
We hit once more and bounce again as BA-75 screams wilder protestations at the abusive treatment. A heady final dive and the ship groans and wails in anguish.
Every joint, metal plate and beam moans, shudders and visibly bends one way then the other...well...more-or-less. We plunge downwards, suicidal in all but intent. Air pumps howl tortured protest, temperatures continue to soar.
My body shakes as though I am charging across a thousand-mile-wide Crier warren at three-hundred miles per hour.
A pause as engines clear their throats, cough once then roar loudly as reverse thrust takes over. Into this cacophony tinkles the intro bars of Jingle Bells.
Madsen and I stare speechlessly but agree the tinkling got our attention off the scary attempts at reentry—altogether. The vocals start and we are more than a little taken aback at how they and the whole song had been changed leaving only a chorus—with new lyrics.
Taxes high, taxes high.
Taxes are so gay.
Oh how happy we will sigh
when high taxes pave the way.
Hey!
Taxes high, taxes high.
Tax us all the way.
Oh how happy we all cry
‘cause taxes are so gay.
Oh!
Taxes high, taxes high.
Tax us when we die.
Oh how happy we will fly
when taxes set us free.
Yipee hee hee heeeeee!
We shake our heads in stupefied awe at the outburst of applause and force ourselves to join in as the ship plunges downwards faster-n-faster.
Just as I fear my brain will dislodge and drop into my mouth additional braking engines fire with a whoosh-n-roar that rips through the entire ship. My brain bobbles instead and my stomach drops like a lead ball as the rest of me vibrates faster than a sand-snail’s lure.
Amidst the roar of engines, a screen lights up accompanied by dramatic music to display Earth-Born below us. East and west continental-coast-lines trace paths along an ocean of breathtaking proportions. No photo nor video can prepare one who has lived a lifetime upon sand for the impact of blue ocean from pole to pole and coast to coast.
How terrible circumstances must have been to force our ancestors to bid her farewell and embark upon a journey for a destination known to be pure desert. And there to live upon a planet of no rain, no green and no natural gardens to protect one from a merciless sun.
How strongly must they have protested what had become of life on Earth-Born that leaving had been their only option?
We sit gazing at her beauty and from my Foundation the reason why our Founders were right touches me. Their Letter told why and still does today.
With greater understanding, I realize that it is not possible to flee to freedom. Escape represents but a temporary respite. The slave master soon follows and sets about his task of enslaving one-n-all—once again.
Madsen and I, as the only Here-Borns on board Seattle BA-75, are noticeably in awe of the visuals below. Madsen bumps my elbow. I glance around to find a Poip pair observing us. We yawn close our eyes and pretend to snooze. Through eyelashes I watch them. They lose interest and move on as Jingle Bells repeats.
I peer into the future as we Free Marketeers do and scan over the simple yet vital task we are to perform, once landed. We have a precise envelope of time to deliver a message, which will be broadcast later, all across EB.
We’ll have our own crew to contend with, Poip on the ground, and possibly swarming personnel as BA-75 signs on and boards an outbound team who’ll take off after docking a new cargo.
We land with a loud whoosh and the sad groans of stressed metal as suspensions bounce then settle. Views confirm that we’re in, of all places, a desert but one covered in scrub.
Once the thuds, bumps, moans and groans subside, we head for the silo exit as does the rest of the crew. I carry a jerrycan in my backpack. Madsen has a metal pipe in his along with a small acetylene torch and more. We are first out but just before exiting I pull on a mask as I had promised.
We step out upon a wide steel walkway. I close the hatch behind us and Madsen jams it tight with a crowbar we had hidden in a nearby storage locker. He extracts a bolt cutter from his backpack.
Ignoring the calls and whistles and banging at the hatch we hurry to a small green, red and white gasoline pump displaying the BA logo—a red four-leaf clover. My stomach twitches as the walkway clangs and bounces like a trampoline beneath our boots.
I rubberneck far afield, to where the wind carries sand to destinations unknown. Human voices drift upwards from below. I glance
around the storage depot. It’s filled with gleaming white oil tanks, but there is no one in sight. Around the perimeter, BA’s are docked as we are.
The distant horizon carves a rugged line along a blue desert mountain. The sky is clear and eastwards the landscape is dotted with copses, green pimples upon a vast desertscape.
I jolt as Madsen cuts the lock free with a loud twang followed by the sharp ring of metal bouncing across metal. I take a deep breath and the familiar taste of dry air tinged with sand elicits a smile. A wider smile ensues when the sweetness of water permeates the dry.
I search but cannot find a river, pond nor lake.
Seems I’ll have to wait to see those.
I turn square on and face the vast and empty facility before us. After opening the can, I hold it upside down to prove nothing is inside. I stick a finger into the short neck to show it’s open then pump gasoline ensuring the torrent entering the neck is visible.
Filled and capped, we race to an open cage but not as fast as my heart races in sync with the bouncing walkway. Loose runner-wheels clatter and bang as we rattle downwards toward the desert floor.
Overhead, several crewmembers explode out an alternative hatch, wave, and shout at us but we ignore them. Some head our way in pursuit setting off a racing heartbeat in my chest and drops of sweat on Madsen’s forehead.
Ten minutes later, we exit and race across sand our feet pounding the ground, a rock star drummer gone crazy. We stop a good two-hundred sand-paces from BA-75, gasping for breath despite the almost complete absence of gravity.
Once we have recovered, Madsen rams the pipe into sand so it remains upright, lights the acetylene torch and holds the flame to it. Every few seconds he pulls it away for ten to fifteen seconds then back on—over-n-over altogether.
The crew in our pursuit shouts as one over a megaphone, “Kill the torch! Flammable Storage site!”
I splash gasoline over the steel pipe. Madsen sets it on fire and we idle until the flames die while keeping an eye on our pursuer’s progress.
“Are you guys insane?” The megaphone bellows.
Madsen once more attempts to make metal burn and fails.
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