Elements (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2)

by Sundin, Jesikah

  “I must return to work, My Lord.”

  “Yeah. Sure. OK, see you around.” He responded with a near indiscernible shrug and a small dip of his head. “Thanks for the water.” In a few steps, Fillion returned to his place in the field. He slashed at the golden stalks with renewed abandon, his face lined with tension.

  Uncertainty seized her. She desired to respond to his silent questions and honor him. Yet, by doing so, she would publicly display her affection for all to know. Oaklee was not ashamed of Fillion. Quite the opposite. But she did not wish to share the pain of his leaving with the community. They were privy to the makings of her grief quite enough.

  The internal battle continued until she bent over and lifted the hem of her skirt to grip the worn linen of her work chemise. Last year she had added a ruffle to extend the length after growing taller, and could remove the damaged excess and replace it later. She grunted as she tore off a long piece, dismayed that is was a poor offering compared to others the men sported in their belts. It would have to do.

  Fillion noted her approach and lowered the scythe as he raised an eyebrow in a look of vulnerability. Lilting, harmonious voices nearby wrapped around her, each trill encouraging her heart forward. With a tremulous sigh, Oaklee tucked the remnant of her chemise into Fillion’s belt as lyrics of love and loss infused the atmosphere they both breathed in and exhaled.

  Her fingers, trembling yet bold, trailed along the linen. Tongues would wag after this, especially as she refused a flower chaplet to garnish her appearance this day. There was no going back now. Her fingers slid off the yarn she spun and wove, and she timidly folded her hands at her waist.

  Though she quavered, she chanted the ritualistic words with surety, “May you reap a harvest for the cellars as well as for the heart, My Lord.”

  His mouth parted as various emotions flitted across his face. She curtsied, despite her unsteady legs. When she rose, Oaklee stood on tip-toes and kissed his cheek. He smelled of earth, wood smoke, cedar, and sweat, and she closed her eyes, breathing him in once more. Before losing confidence, she whispered against his skin, “You honor me, Fillion,” and he drew in a quiet breath. It was a sound that echoed the sentiments of her heart as well.

  Then Oaklee pivoted on her feet and marched away with her buckets, clenching the hemp ropes in her hands until they burned.

  ***

  Biosphere 2 was an important and eye-opening project because it revealed to us not only the difficulty of managing a closed ecosystem and the fragility of human psychology, it also showed us how challenging it will be for us to manage Biosphere 1—the Earth’s biosphere—should things really start to get out of whack.

  Consequently, Biosphere 2 should not be considered a failure, but rather a wake-up call to scientists, environmentalists, politicians and the general public. Cynicism should be replaced with the understanding that it was an idea ahead of its time—but an important idea nonetheless.

  — George Dvorsky, “Why We Should Reboot the Biosphere Projects,” io9 / Gawker, August 29, 2012 *

  ***

  Wednesday, October 21, 2054

  Unable to sleep, Fillion got up early and studied archived videos of “Eco-Crafting Eden.” Another day in New Eden promised more physical pain and discomfort in the fields. His body was already protesting at the thought. But this moment, he wanted to forget his swollen knuckles and blisters and hunt for clues. Anything.

  “Eco-Crafting Eden” looked a lot like New Eden, in fact. As more of the same content streamed by from the show, his mind yawned and glossed over. Village life wasn’t a novelty anymore for Fillion. Not that it ever was. Rustic costumes, melodramatic gestures, chickens pecking near the kitchen in search of scraps. Boring. Head-banging-on-wall boring. On the screen, someone walked by leading a goat on a leash, and Fillion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The whole damn thing was staged for the Net. The show aimed to convince viewers that the players saw this natural, agrarian life as real. But there was always an agenda.

  The political slant of the show grated against each and every nerve Fillion possessed. It had nothing to do with how they emulated a life before the age of machines. Fillion had actually come to respect that lifestyle, and he acknowledged the beauty in it. Rather, it was the pretentious preaching that accompanied the post-apocalyptic player messages that bothered Fillion. Earth is good. Humans are bad. Well, all humans except them, the ones who were called of Earth, the chosen ones who “got it.” Unlike the selfish, destructive version of humanity that scourged the land with their idiocy. Green Morons. They were nothing more than pawns for the corporations that delighted in their elitist, good-doer mentality.

  What better way to take down competition than through public opinion? The organic industry was no exception, and boasted just enough truth to cover up all the lies. Shame-filled consumers stuffed their carts with organic foods and products. Products that were packaged on automated, carbon-spouting machines. Then checked out on a machine. Only to be driven home on a machine. To be kept cooled or frozen via a machine. Yep. Organic. So natural. And none of it was cheap. People were financially desperate and hungry. It made him so fucking mad.

  A leaf-shaped corporate logo spun on the screen, spitting out streams of simulated sunshine. Sponsors interrupted every fifteen minutes of recorded game play with typical Green Movement advertising. Buy organic. Support local commerce and reduce the carbon footprint. Say no to big pharma and their conspiracy to drug the world or “they’ll own your paychecks as well as your bodies.” That last message finally earned an eye roll. The same people who spouted such verbal evangelical tracts in order to sell and promote their naturopathic products also never hesitated to rush to the hospital to continue breathing one more day. Nature be damned at the moment of cardiac arrest. Whatever.

  Antsy, Fillion readjusted his position against the wall, pulling the covers up a little higher as game play resumed on the holographic screen. Random players were culled and interviewed. Most remained in character, pretending they were being surveyed by their ruling government for ideas, opinions, and general comments—be it King, Pharaoh, Archon, Emperor, or President. The King of Terraloch, he learned, was none other than Connor Hansen. Interesting. Hanley was the Royal Adviser, the official position of all Kingdom Gamemasters. And there were five Kingdoms: Ancient Greece, Egypt, China, the Middle Ages, and Colonial America.

  The object of the game was simple. Reach the twenty-year mark—in game time—with the largest and most prosperous civilization and claim victory. The winning kingdom would rule all others in the LARP’s next game phase, boasting the New World Order crown. Except, it never came. It ended with Terraloch’s win, followed by Dylan’s accident on the mountain, Joel ending his engagement with Della, and a couple years later, the birth of New Eden Township.

  He paused the video and squinted. What was that? Fillion swiped to rewind and replayed the scene again. A twenty-something Hanley, dressed in medieval finery befitting a royal, spoke with eloquence to the camera. Peasants and nobles milled beyond. Fillion defocused on Hanley, and studied the background. There it was. He paused the video again. Pulling on opposite corners, he enlarged the image and studied the face.

  Just behind Hanley, a younger Timothy lurked in the crowd. His face pointed toward a merchant table. Timothy’s features were relaxed in an unnatural expression of bland ease. All others were caught in a candid pose, mouths open, arms mid-air in a gesture, eyes fixed on something specific. Not Timothy. He was known in Terraloch as The Messenger. Always on a mission. Never resting. Breezing through crowds. It was often said in Terraloch that rumors were “heard on the wind.”

  It wasn’t the face that caught Fillion’s eye, though. At thigh level, Timothy flashed a game card to the camera. It had been quick, a blink. Fillion backtracked frame-by-frame until a clearer view emerged. He enlarged the image once more and exhaled loudly. The raven was unmistakable as were the six letters that spelled out “cursed.” How many players had and used this card? For all F
illion knew, all of nobility used Curse Cards.

  Curious, he rewound the video once more. This time to study Hanley. The scene started up again. Timothy walked behind Hanley, who glanced over so casually that it appeared he was distracted by a merchant. But when Timothy flashed the card, Hanley dipped his head, as if to look at his hands, lifting his face to the interviewer within seconds. The movements were graceful, fluid, almost flawless. But Fillion knew Hanley. When the Royal Adviser stared into the camera once more, he did so with a charming smile.

  The Curse Card is for me. I spin the tales and I weave the stories together. It’s a warning.

  Hanley’s words cycled through Fillion’s mind. A warning of a threat? Like, the destruction of the spinning wheel signified the end of Hanley’s reign as the one who spins the yarns of New Eden Township? Or a warning that a certain plan or players are in position? Like a tip-off? He thought of the faction that nearly cost Terraloch the game. Instead, Terraloch rallied its nobility and fought for the win. Even though, for several episodes, nobility and peasants resisted ideas of change and stubbornly clung to the original ideas.

  In order to live, something must die.

  Did Hanley capitalize on the simmering unrest to kill the original plan through a faction? Desperation drove the masses to listen to Hanley as he breathed life into a new plan. He gained control at that moment and moved the player characters on the chess board at will. Fillion thought of Ember’s comment, that nobility were pawns on a chess board awaiting his move. Spooky.

  How was Hanley involved in New Eden’s unrest? The forming faction? And was Timothy his henchman? Or Connor? The good cop, bad cop routine was getting old. Until Fillion had concrete information of the Death Card’s purpose in New Eden, he couldn’t fully buy Connor’s story or Hanley’s denial of its existence within the walls. And, as far as the Curse Card was concerned, only one item had been redeemed. A thing. The spinning wheel. Two action points remained for the card user to act upon. And why play the card on Willow? It made no sense.

  Annoyed and bored, he closed out the videos and opened a new browser. Swiping his mom’s first, middle, and maiden name, he skimmed through articles. Most of it had to do with “Eco-Crafting Eden,” where she played a Lady of the Court. Joel played a poor villager, a farmer’s son, who engaged in a forbidden relationship with Della. As with all forbidden relationships, it was discovered and started a small faction, where peasants held back food distribution to the main houses and to the royal court and went on strike when Joel was punished publicly for his love. That was the catalyst for the larger faction.

  Ready to give up, a headline caught his eye and he paused. “Theory of Reconstructing Universal Society and Trusteeship,” he muttered to the morning air. He touched the link and opened up an article about an award his mom won for her research on anthropological theories behind generation ships and space colonies—more specifically, how to psychologically overcome ICE symptoms. Role-playing was at the heart of her theories. No surprise there. “The T.R.U.S.T. patent and copyright,” he spoke out loud to himself. Fillion drew his brows together and continued reading, impressed that his mom was business savvy enough to demand ownership of her ideas. The Code echoed sentiments from this research, as did the societal reconstruction of the township.

  Fillion shelved the article and then turned the Cranium off and closed his eyes. He tried to ponder the hidden. Bits and pieces floated around aimlessly, though. If only he could return to sleep and allow his mind to defragment.

  The secrets Ember had shared with him rested in the storage cloud of his brain, too.

  A dozen from the second generation had been secretly groomed as computer technicians and engineers as part of a simulation, initiated seven years ago. It was the same time The Elements had gone radio silent through Messenger Pigeon. According to Ember, the Techsmith Guild’s mission added an element of “magic” to the LARP with real-world application. If they were a colony on Mars, technicians would be needed. Naturally.

  As this was a socio-psychological experiment, Ember explained, their participation served an additional purpose. New Eden Biospherics & Research tested to see if the technicians could have modern knowledge, communicating regularly with Earth, and still participate in an off-grid lifestyle like their counterparts, without suffering from psychological breakdown. When Project Phase Two began, their training would be considered complete and a new mission would begin: educating New Eden Township about Outsider technology. As they saw it, world history has shown that people learn best from their own.

  So, why the hell did Hanley keep the Guild’s presence a secret? Fillion wanted to scream. To pull his hair out. The walls closed in more and more every day. The ceiling seemed to drop lower. Still, he refused to cave in to his mind’s delusions. The confinement wouldn’t break him. But Hanley’s cycle of set-up-to-fail strategies just might.

  And what did Joel’s monetary legacy have to do with any of this?

  That lingering question brought a dull ache behind Fillion’s eyes. He pinched them shut even tighter. God, he couldn’t think anymore. Any decision he made was an opportunity for Hanley. If Fillion failed, he would become the goat that was set on fire and sent to the hills. If he succeeded, Hanley would continue to imprison him to be used again, and again, and again. Bringing glory to the great Gamemaster. Reversing Hanley’s Midas touch and turning each golden death into golden fame.

  Why was the Curse Card given to Willow?

  That question rose to the surface once again. Fillion’s mind touched it, as if a holographic screen, moving pieces to a front layer, enlarging bits here, diminishing others there.

  Does Willow have blond hair and green eyes?

  It was clear, from the beginning, that a power struggle existed between the Watsons and whoever originally held the The Aether position. Claire was a stranger. Joel’s rebound relationship post-Della. Was Willow targeted because she resembles Claire?

  The puzzle pieces slowly came together. Fillion bit the inside of his cheek and concentrated, rethinking the details. Hanley spins the tales and weaves them together. Claire was part of this story, woven into the fabric of the Nichols Legacy. A Techsmith Guild springs up a year after Claire dies, grooming the second gen to eventually educate their own to transition and integrate to the Outside world. Within this group, an individual plausibly hacks the government and issues falsified death certificates. Hanley couldn’t have created or allowed a more perfect cover for a hacker within the dome. N.E.T. would have noticed the additional Wi-Fi activity besides the Scroll users. But create a Guild of tech users? Brilliant.

  Before New Eden, there was “Eco-Crafting Eden.” Beneath the obvious, it appeared as though Hanley billowed the faction that directly placed control into his hands, using Joel and Della’s forbidden love as the catalyst. But he didn’t do it alone. The Messenger made that clear. A couple decades later, a man dies with a fortune bequeathed to New Eden Township as a result of no living heirs.

  Was someone from “Eco-Crafting Eden” collecting on a favor owed? Did Hanley negotiate one last favor in return? And was it the King of Terraloch, or The Messenger, or perhaps another? Someone completely off the map?

  Fillion was convinced Hanley had struck a deal with someone inside the dome. If “they” killed Joel and removed the heirs, then Hanley would grant “them” something. Maybe even Aether status. Perhaps reinstate their Aether status. Or, someone was playing to Hanley’s narcissistic ego to earn back Aether status. Hanley loved it when people worshiped him, too.

  Except, why falsify documents instead of actually killing the Watson children? The last thoughts swirled around inside Fillion’s head. He studied it at different angles until a better image surfaced. If Joel had lost his wife and children, he may have drawn up new beneficiaries. By not actually killing the Watson children, Joel couldn’t react and, therefore, change his financial legacy. God, Hanley was sick. Is this why it was too risky to personally ask Joel or Jeff about it? It disgusted Fillion and he fel
t the familiar rage swell inside of him.

  Why the hell did New Eden Township need Joel’s money anyway? It’s not like Hanley had a lack. Or any of his companies. Most of the world was indebted to Hanley for their economic successes. New Eden Enterprises owned and managed each and every desalination plant and irrigation system, leased by a multitude of countries. The innovative, cost-effective engineering of DesertSEA reversed the carbon footprint and ensured Third World nations could thrive. The deserts of humanity flourished.

  The irony wasn’t lost on Fillion. The First World nations, once oceans of wealth, were dying off, becoming the next great desert of humanity. The law of a closed-loop system echoed in business. Even in the rise and fall of nations.

  Something wasn’t right with the detail of Joel’s money. It picked at Fillion’s brain. Soon, his head would pound from the sores. “Stop,” he said out loud to himself. The sound of his own voice startled him in the silence, and he opened his eyes. He would catalog this information and analyze it later. It was time to join Leaf in the fields.

  Every muscle ached as he pushed himself off the bed. Fillion walked over to his window and pushed open a pane, allowing the cold air to shock him into a different mental rant. He scanned the woods and nearby apartments. But it was something much closer, a white object on the windowsill, that caught his eye. It was a neatly folded cloth.

  Perplexed, he picked up the fabric and held it up to the sliver of sunrise peeking through the forest. A large tree was embroidered on the front of the cloth in small, even stitches. He opened the folds and a note fell to the floor. The paper was coarse and the ink was unusual. It was black but with a red cast to it. He almost expected to see a wax seal. Instead, he unfolded the note without resistance and read:

  To My Lord, Fillion Nichols,

  For eight years, I have gifted my father this rag to carry into the Harvest season as my token of devotion. Although we have two per annum, the Autumn Harvest is the most important and, thus, rich with ceremony and tradition. I bestowed upon you a torn remnant of my chemise as part of these ceremonies; however, a piece of my garment is a meager offering for a great man such as yourself. In replacement, please accept my father’s Harvest token for this season, and for the one you shall endure when you depart New Eden Township. Although it is merely cloth, fibers of plants and nothing more, it carries my family crest, a seal that represents my heart, and holds within its weaves memories held dear to me. You pay me a great honor, Fillion, and I shall never forget you. May this cloth sustain your memories of me as you continue to toil and labor for my birth home and for my family.