Splendid Apocalypse: The Fall of Old Earth (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 5)

by Timothy J. Gawne

  The man’s skin burned even more easily than Algomer’s when his environment suit touched the hot metal of the ruined cybertank, and it wouldn’t heal up like a ribhus’, but that was OK. The man wouldn’t need it where he was going.

  The ribhus made it back to the command carrier with over ten seconds remaining in his tolerance – plenty of time, not even close. On the way back the man started to wake up. He was delirious with pain, but in moments of lucidity he tried to offer Calibri anything he wanted if only he would save him. Alternatively, he would claim that he had powerful friends.

  Calibri just chuckled. “Sorry, but all of your powerful friends are now dead. In any event, I made a promise to someone, and I intend to keep it. But don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe. Totally and completely safe.”

  20. The Post-Armageddon Blues

  “When the truth is replaced by silence, the silence is a lie.”

  - Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Poet, 20th - 21st Centuries.”

  “Would you care for some coffee?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’ll stick with tea, but I would like one of those rolls.”

  Imelda Blucher drank from her steaming mug of black coffee. “I can’t believe how good real coffee is. It’s amazing that you’ve managed to grow coffee beans in the hydroponics. They are supposed to be really hard to grow that way.”

  Mahalanobis took a bite out of his breakfast roll. “Brother Mendel loves a challenge. It’s a little indulgent, but we have the slack.”

  Blucher nodded. “Yes. Things have been coming together. It’s no longer one catastrophe after another in the water treatment plant. I think we might be getting to a surplus next month. Maybe even showers.”

  “My brethren are impressed with your management skills. We were lucky to find you.”

  Blucher kissed Mahalanobis on the cheek. “No, I was lucky to find you. Running a water treatment plant is nothing compared to what you are doing. Head of an entire buried shelter complex with three million people in it. How do you manage?”

  “With difficulty. After the remnants of Neoliberal society had completely collapsed, we Librarians Temporal and our antique computer systems were the only group left with the capabilities of organizing on a large scale. If we had not moved in, they would all be dead by now. It’s an incredible bother, and I don’t know when I’m ever going to be able to just sit down and read a book for pleasure ever again.”

  “Don’t you think that it would be more efficient for you to move to the complex yourself? Sometimes a supervisor needs to be physically on site.”

  Mahalanobis shook his head. “My occasional inspections are more than enough. Even in collapse Neoliberal society harbors more than a few nests of vipers. I prefer living in a place where I don’t need to worry about being poisoned or murdered in my sleep.”

  “I suppose,” said Blucher. “So what is it today? Power systems?”

  “Yes power systems, for starters. The grid is still unstable with its original controlling circuitry permanently locked out by unbreakable codes. We may need to chop it up into completely independent sectors, run by independent DOS machines. Then some administrative committee meetings. Now the plumbers are threatening to strike, there may be an outbreak of third-generation Dengue in the lower levels, and we need to coordinate with the other shelter complexes because the medical staff of this one are mostly dead. That’s just before lunch.”

  “My poor Mahalanobis. But really, you Librarians are in charge now, aren’t you? You’re basically ruling the world.”

  “Yes. Sadly. It’s a necessary duty, but we look forward to giving it up and going back to our books.”

  “Many would jump at the chance to run the world.”

  “Yes, many would – and look what a bosh they made of it. No, the sooner we Librarians can get back to our true calling the better.”

  “And what,” said Blucher, “is to stop people who crave power from taking over after you have left? Having grasped the sword, can you really put it down?”

  “Hah! Grasped the sword – you have been with us too long, my dear lady, you are beginning to talk like us! But yes, it is a problem. We need to not just repair the technical infrastructure of the Neoliberal shelter complexes, but their politics. We must purge the last traces of the Neoliberal deep state, and replace it with something that won’t come back to bite us later.”

  “And you can do that?” asked Blucher.

  “We believe so. We cannot turn them all into Librarians – most people are not temperamentally suited to our order. We can, so we think, create a framework that could work, and could last. Basically, we divide them up into city-states, large enough to govern themselves, but small enough not to be able to turn back into centralized tyrannies. Then there are some other tricks – I can give you the references if you like. We worked out the theory a century ago, we just never thought that we would have to put it into practice.”

  “Well, you are the Librarians Temporal, right? Concerned with real-world applications?”

  “Yes,” agreed Mahalanobis. “I suppose this does serve us right.” He finished off his roll, and stood up. “I must away. Duty calls.”

  Blucher stood up as well, and hugged him. “Don’t be too long. There is some red wine that it would be a sin to waste.”

  Mahalanobis hugged her back. “You really are talking like us. In any event, I shall be as late as the job requires. Don’t stay up for me. Unless, of course, you want to.”

  Mahalanobis adjusted his robe, holstered his revolver, and started to walk out the door of his quarters.

  “Have fun fixing the electric grid, dear,” said Blucher.

  “Always,” said Mahalanobis.

  He walked past several other dwelling units. The old subway station was still pretty messy, but it was slowly getting more livable. Some progress had been made on cleaning up the piles of trash. A few people had painted their doors different colors, and the overhead lights were steady and bright. Cultists – no, he mentally chided himself, citizens – were busy hauling carts full of food and electrical equipment and other supplies.

  Mahalanobis encountered the ribhus, Calibri. “Well hello there. I see that you are wearing blue jeans. Is this a new look for you?”

  “You could say that,” said the ribhus. “I no longer need to hide my nature under layers of rags, but humans expect that sentient bipeds should wear clothes. Hence, the jeans. Also the T-shirt. I also found a black leather belt with silver pyramidal studs in it. I’m quite taken with the belt, but I hold the line at shoes, they are just too constricting. How do you humans stand it?”

  “You look like a rock star,” said Mahalanobis, “but the bare feet add more of a pirate touch.”

  The ribhus beamed. “Thank you. And you look like an eccentric and heavily armed medieval monk.”

  “Now, thank you,” said Mahalanobis. “We have missed you these last two weeks. Where have you been?”

  “There is an abandoned biotechnology center about 240 kilometers from here,” said Calibri. “I spent some time scavenging, and I’ve got quite a haul of valuable equipment. Your brethren are helping to sort it out now.”

  “Ah, excellent,” said Mahalanobis. “Most of this world may have been ruined, but there is still much of value to salvage. It’s important to get to it before the heat and the acid destroy it.”

  “Indeed,” said Calibri. “And how are things going running the surviving Neoliberal shelter complexes? I hear that you Librarians Temporal are basically running everything right now.”

  “Yes, we are,” said Mahalanobis, “and a wretched bother it is. You’d think the world could just run itself and leave us in peace. I’m hoping that we can give up the day-to-day operations in five years, but that’s optimistic.”

  “Any resistance from surviving Neoliberals?”

  “Yes, a bit,” said Mahalanobis. “There are still cells of them here and there to be cauterized. I know why you can’t help us, but I still wish that you could. You ribhus would be ideal f
or that kind of work.”

  Calibri nodded. “Sorry. I personally would love to hunt those bastards down, but until my people rebuild their numbers we just can’t risk ourselves. Even on such low-threat missions. Many of my people are still angry at me for going out with Brother Adenour to rescue Miss Blucher.”

  “Even though that probably saved us all?”

  “A stupid action that, through blind chance, turns out well, is still stupid. I was indulgent. I won’t do that again.”

  Mahalanobis nodded. “As you say. Still, you ribhus are magnificent technicians. The work you are doing for us here is far more than enough. My thanks to all of you.”

  Calibri bowed. “And we too are lucky to have found you, and are grateful for our alliance.”

  Mahalanobis made a sound like a bassoon that had been taught to yodel.

  Calibri’s eyes widened. “You have learned basic ribhetish! That’s quite good – I didn’t think that a human throat could handle the sounds, or your language cortex the grammar. Although I think you meant oweiwoeiweini.”

  “Ah, right – the imperfect meta-subjunctive always trips me up. I wish I had more time for it – such an interesting language, so rich, but I do have some quibbles about the logic terms. I think it could be improved. Someday I should like to discuss that with you, but for now, I must be off. Tyuljiktli-errrthyrn.

  “Wernnnhichh-th,” said Calibri, and then the ribhus strode gracefully off the opposite direction down the subway.

  As Mahalanobis continued to walk, he came upon a small shrine set against the wall of the subway. It was made of various bits of scraps – he recognized parts as being salvaged from the old temple of Cthulhu. It had two pillars on each side, and a kind of triangular roof. It was as if a five year old had tried to make a scale model of the Parthenon out of rubbish.

  In the middle of the temple was a metal box with a single lens and a speaker grille on the front. Various small offerings were arrayed in front of the box: a piece of dried fruit, a ring with a clouded plastic imitation gemstone, and a hardcopy printout of the latest edition of Popular Cybernetic Weapons Systems.

  Hello Brother Mahalanobis. How are you today?

  “Well hello Old Guy. I am fine. And how are you getting along?”

  Not bad. I am apparently in danger of becoming a minor deity. I’m wondering if that’s a good career move for me.

  “Well, you – or at least your main self – did sacrifice yourself to save the world. That’s more than any other major religious prophet on record.”

  Well, if you put it that way. Hey, wait a minute, what about Christ?

  “He died for our sins. He never died to save the world.”

  Oh. Right. I still think that he outranks me.

  “Most likely. In any event, I regret that we are currently unable to restore your connections to motive or other systems. The industrial facilities that could make compatible equipment have all been destroyed, and we don’t have the tools or resources to duplicate them. Are you OK just being a box with a camera lens and a microphone and a speaker? Is there anything we can do for you?”

  It’s nice of you to ask, but I’m fine. Sitting here is sort of like just watching TV all day. I have a lot of interesting conversations, and if things get slow I just put myself into standby.

  “Well, that’s good to hear. We do owe you, so anything you want, just ask.”

  I will. For now just steady electrical power and someone to clean my lens once or twice a day will do nicely.

  “Of course. Say, do you think that your original self will ever come here?”

  You mean the me that was on Alpha Centauri Prime? I don’t know. Do you have any news from there?

  Mahalanobis shook his head. “No, sorry. One of the last acts of the Neoliberal elite was to permanently lock out all of the ground stations for the interstellar communications satellites. The satellites are all still working – they were in such deep orbits that you did not disable them during the latest combat - but we are completely unable to access them. Until we can fly up there and replace their control systems, or build and launch new satellites, we shall be cut off from news from other star systems.”

  There is also the issue of the aliens. It might be better to keep a low profile for a while. Shooting stuff into space might give them bad ideas.

  “Yes. Yes, there is also that to consider. Well, I must be off, and I see that you have some worshippers waiting to see you. Until later.”

  Later.

  Mahalanobis continued walking. He passed a young woman with an infant in a stroller. The stroller had seen better days, and none of the wheels matched, but it still rolled well enough. Mahalanobis smiled. The woman smiled back, and the infant flapped its arms and giggled.

  He came across Brother Adenour, who was lounging against a blank spot on the gray stone wall.

  “Brother, good to see you. But where is your acolyte?”

  “My acolyte? Oh, you mean Lucas. He’s in school where he belongs. I never thought of him as an acolyte though. Maybe he is. Good. I’ve always wanted an acolyte.”

  “Splendid. What’s a member of an obscure, eccentric cult without an acolyte, I ask you? Perhaps all of our brethren should be issued one.”

  “Why not?” said Adenour. “Although of course, almost none of them will ever become Librarians, so that might defeat the point of it.”

  “True,” admitted Mahalanobis,” but to change the subject, how was your foray into the shelter complex? Make any progress untangling the records there?”

  “Some,” said Adenour, “but it’s slow going. They had almost all of their records stored only on their computer systems. When those froze up they had precious little hardcopy. We are probably going to have to do a census and recreate the databases from scratch.”

  “I thought as much,” said Mahalanobis. “Even without all that damnable Neoliberal financial and administrative complexity, keeping millions of people alive in a closed environment is something that can’t be done without coordination and planning. We need accurate records.”

  “I know. We’ll get there, in time. I did, however, come across some archives of interest. I’m not really sure what to do with them.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mahalanobis.

  “You know that one of the tenets of the Librarians Temporal is that we are for truth, even if the truth is unpleasant?”

  Mahalanobis frowned. “I see where this is going, but ask the question anyhow.”

  “Hypothetically, should you tell someone the truth, knowing that it would cause them personal anguish, while not telling them would cause no problems whatsoever?”

  “Just tell me,” said Mahalanobis.

  “It’s about Imelda Blucher.”

  --------------------

  Imelda Blucher was overseeing the water recycling plant. In many ways it reminded her of her old job, except that she had plenty of sleep, and she kept most of her records on either an antique DOS machine, or written on paper on a simple clipboard.

  At first she had wondered how anything could be coordinated using such primitive systems. After a while she realized that, if anything, the plant was running more efficiently than it would have with more ‘modern’ computer systems. Most of the complexity in her old job had been administrative make-work; record keeping for its own sake, multiple layers of oversight, endless certifications for everything from the electric shock safety awareness training refresher course to the ethical handling of transgendered employees’ knowledge base exam.

  Blucher walked over to one of the workers and gave him instructions on what she needed done at the pumping station on the far side of the facility. The man nodded and slowly walked off to do the job. The other thing that Blucher needed to get used to was that people didn’t jump to attention at the slightest threat of losing their jobs. If you said that they might be fired, they would just laugh at you and say that they could get a better deal elsewhere! No, you had to make it decent for the workers, and offer better p
ay and benefits than the competing organizations or you could lose your workforce. It was almost as if she was working for them, rather than the other way around.

  On the whole Blucher had to admit that things were going pretty well. The shortage of labor worked both ways: she herself could basically name her own working conditions. Nobody was demanding that she do the work of three people or engage in make-work because some higher-up thought that it sounded good. The subway was becoming, if not beautiful, but somewhat homey. She knew most of the people personally now, ate well, and the nightmares about not filling out the right tax forms on time had almost stopped. Of course, there was the matter of her new lover, Brother Mahalanobis. She had been initially surprised at that. She had imagined that with their red embroidered robes and sandals and all, that the Librarians Temporal would have taken vows of chastity or something, but that was not the case. Not the case at all. They had been living together for over a month now.

  All of the workers had been dispatched to their job sites, and Blucher was alone in the workroom. She was reading through the records of the flow through the various return sumps, when she was surprised to see Brother Mahalanobis enter her workplace.

  “I did not expect to see you here. I thought you had a full day scheduled. Is anything wrong?”

  “You could say that,” said Mahalanobis. “I just now learned of your previous occupation. I would like to request that you move out of my quarters. I have requisitioned new ones for you on the other side of the subway. I would have offered to let you stay and I move, but I’ve been there longer and have a lot more stuff, so this I think is more efficient. I will be going off to work now, and when I come back tonight I do not expect you to be there.”

  “What?” was all that Blucher could say.

  “I told you, I want you to leave. Today.”