Millennium Zero G

by Jack Vantage

  “Then tell us, Carl,” Regan said.

  The laser blade moved closer to Carl’s manhood, smouldering into the seat of the chair, as he started whimpering. “Please, please.”

  “Tell us now or you’ll have to change your name,” Regan said.

  “Okay. Okay I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you,” Carl said. “Everything is on the chip card in the sole of my shoe. Who, when, and where. The order left my unit yesterday. It’s being held by a courier overnight. It’s out of my hands.”

  Regan smiled. “That wasn’t so hard was it?”

  Timmy removed the knife from Carl’s legs and stepped back.

  “Will you please let me go? I can get medical help,” Carl pleaded.

  “The thing is, Carl, you know my business,” Regan said as he pulled a slick thin laser blaster from his jacket. “So, it’s not going to be as easy as that. What I can do—” Regan positioned the gun sideways and twisted a power enabler button from four bars down to one bar. “Carl, is stop the pain, make things comfortable for you.”

  Regan lifted the gun to the centre of Carl’s forehead. “Thank you, Carl,” he said, then pulled the trigger.

  Carl knew he was dead the second he sat in the chair. He knew it was going to be painful, and he was relieved the pain was about to stop. Some people say life flashes before your eyes when faced with death. Not Carl’s. His past held memories that were best left forgotten. Disgusting things, things that changed him, like selling to kids and pregnant addicts. He mingled with people who had no morals, no self-dignity, and no life. Just a mess, a disturbed way of living, a hate of the world, a twisted mentality that bent his life to hell.

  Carl’s life was a sick one. He was one of the deranged people who never gave two fucks about the person next to him, never gave two fucks about himself. He always lived in fear of the Authoritarians. Always hiding, lying, and being a repulsive scab that clung to society like a putrid disease. The Authoritarians always tried to pick him off, clean him and be rid of him.

  Knowing he was that person scarred him and warped him into experiencing the world in a demented way. After his first Mentha sale, he realised his income was infection, his clients the infected, people who would rather buy a hit than buy their kids’ food, people who were dependant on escaping reality to a place in their mind that was confused, dirty, and rotten.

  Carl knew he was dead the second he sat in the chair. He knew he would never sell another infectious hit. He knew he was going to hell.

  The laser burnt through his head, an inch wide, and cauterized the wound, which stunk of fried brain. A perfect hole tunnelled through as Regan lowered the gun.

  “Timmy, get the information over to Nexus.” Regan rose on his cane and turned to leave. “Oh, and by the way, good work. Good work, son.” He walked back into the shadow, leaving Timmy to search the amputated shoe.

  Chapter 2

  Quazar

  Every morning like clockwork, Dylan Ajax soaked the cityscape view from his apartment window at the five hundredth floor. The supernal sight was soothing and mesmerizing, reminding him why he loved the planet so much.

  The vivid red translucent sky, an enlivened atmospheric side effect of three close moons in an elliptic orbit around Quazar, covered the planet with sublime warmth. The moons were visible day and night for half the year, reflecting the sun’s rays onto the ozone layer with enigmatic effect. Enzine, the largest full moon, surveyed the planet with its battered, cratered surface to the east of his view.

  The architecture! he thought. I adore the architecture!

  The entire planet was a giant megalopolis, a sanctuary of buildings, a world of high-concept structural design. From his apartment view Dylan picked out dozens of his favourites.

  The Japanese industrial quarter, just three miles away, the lowest buildings in view, resembled a giant computer circuit board, with the factory buildings positioned like microchips, interconnected by roadways and dotted with plant life. Much of the world’s architecture had been inspired and designed with a computational and technological eye, like the neighbouring buildings, headquarters of the genetics corporations.

  Each luminescent, multi-coloured, super skyscraper coiled high like the corkscrew image of genetic coding; the next quarter was a vast residential urbanised area. The topology mapped a grid-like layout. Tall, square buildings were enveloped by indented glass shells, reminiscent of the surface of a golf ball.

  The megalopolis curved the planet from pole to pole, each area with its own unique design, purpose and attraction. Thousands of structures staggered the horizon like a collection of stepping stools that altered in height.

  Dylan smiled. I would hate to live outside this endless city with its ability to cater to every perceivable need.

  To the west, lay the towering outskirt peaks of the nearest megalopolis centre, Central Capital 8. That was his destination today for his dose of data intake. The condensed, slick, cylindrical structures reached hundreds of meters high, and they pierced the thin wisp of the atmosphere. They curved like waving church organ horns and hid the city beyond. Positioned around the Quazar globe, sixty Central Capitals dominated the skylines with superior height, dwarfing the residential and industrial quarters of the external cities.

  Between buildings, at numerous altitudes, and with synchronised precision, sky-mobiles zipped and flowed through aerial super skyways, criss-crossing in a dance of harmonious traffic. Monorails, the planet’s most reliable form of transport, manoeuvred around the skyways, entering and exiting buildings across the cityscape, picking up and dropping off Quazarians en route through their daily life.

  Dylan smiled at the world and its mesmerizing functions. He loved his floor-to-ceiling apartment view. Loved his morning thoughts, implanted by the world before his eyes as he stood in only his underwear and stretched his arms, releasing unwanted tension. He kept his body fit, lean. Life felt so much better with a maintained body. He glimpsed himself in the reflection and liked his blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

  He didn’t want to leave for his compulsory data intake right now, but he had no choice. He had high aspirations and there was no room on the planet for uneducated people, unless he wanted to be one of the few beggars who appeared around the place from time to time. Besides, it was the last day of Intake before the new-year break.

  “News,” he requested to the opulently designed and minimalist room.

  From within the wall above Dylan’s head, two small lenses flickered a beam of light, one to either side of the wide window. Central to the beams another lens flickered from the parallel room wall. The three beams clashed in the centre of the room, in front of his L shaped cream seating area, and widened to a projected ninety-inch screen.

  The introductory sound of a zappy news bulletin grew louder with an excited voice.

  “This is Quazar Planet News, live at seven on this monumental millennium’s eve, with your presenter for this morning, Fiona Fisher.”

  Dylan moved to the corner of his room, where his cooking area resided around a small crumb-ridden chrome worktop and pressed the button of a small black coffee maker. Beside it was a miniature orrery with ten planets, each with numerous moons orbiting slowly around a larger sun.

  His silver thermal cup filled within seconds under the coffee dispenser and he carried to his seating area. He sipped the aromatic blend and slouched onto his large, synthetic cream, sofa.

  The smart and sassy Fiona sat against a saturated aerial image of bustling daytime Quazar. Her glasses rested on her small nose, and her wavy black hair had a glossy shine. The words Quazar Planet News revolved at the top right of the screen, around an image of the Quazar globe, in a neat small emblem.

  Her delivery had the tone of lively intellectual satire. Her posture was a static blank. “The president of Quazar, Malcolm Junior, announced his plans for the further development and engineering of the planet.”

  A small image of the dark-haired, brooding president dissolved at the top right of the pr
ojection, covering the emblem. The president stood before a pulpit as Fiona continued.

  “In a press conference early this morning, the president said the global construction company Rectify would receive governmental support for a minor architectural makeover in various areas of the planet. He stated this procedure would not disrupt the functioning of transport in any way.”

  The small image expanded to full projection. It revealed the president standing at ground level before giant construction machinery that framed the image within a super skyscraper construction site. The prefabricated skeleton of the building stood central behind the president as he addressed the awaiting global press with his burly buoyant prowess.

  “Your safety and daily life will not be impaired. I feel this planet still has flaws in areas, flaws that can be ironed out with little cost, effort and time. Together we can better what is already a near-perfect system.” Cameras flashed his strong posture as he continued. “People of Quazar continue your daily lives, continue your work, and continue your role in keeping our world moving.”

  The flashes intensified as an ovation began and grew. Malcolm Junior raised his arms high and pointed his index fingers skyward in an austere posture of success.

  Then the president shrank to the top right screen as Fiona filled the main screen again. An air of seriousness crept into her voice. “Another drug bust took place last night, again over the drug Mentha.”

  In the upper right corner, the image of the president dissolved into a distant CCTV image of a deserted ground-level urban side street, where two black sporty sky-mobiles landed in pools of light. The screen expanded to full projection.

  Four shady, suited men exited the mobiles and approached one another cautiously under the cloak of night, both holding silver brief cases. They bartered, and were exchanging cases, when several Authoritarian guards burst from doors on either side of the lawbreakers. Their bulky assault vests were laden with weapons and gadgets. The vests must have held a hundred gadgets. There were laser pens, communication trackers, x ray imagers, and both gamma and stun shockers.

  Both pairs of men attempted to escape, but the guards blasted them with their high-powered gamma guns. The impacts punched the felons ten feet through the air, against the walls and mobiles. Flashes of the rainbow particle gamma rays rippled out like disturbed water, then thinned like dust to nothing.

  Dylan enjoyed the excitement of real busts on the broadcast channels. The dealers, should they try to run after a gamma blast had hit them, would die of radiation. They had no choice but to give up and be treated by the Authoritarian guards with molecular cleansing, the only known cure for the concussion blast. He also liked their assault vests, with Authoritarian boldly written across it.

  All four men lay unconscious as sirens flashed. Authoritarian vehicles landed down alley, ready to collect the apprehended criminals. Beneath the vehicles were the gravity discs, which pushed at gravity and enabled flight. Air displacement was visible beneath the vehicles as they landed on their extending landing legs.

  The image shrank back as Fiona Fisher returned to the screen. “The cars used by the perpetrators held two point eight million credits worth of the drug, making this one of the biggest hauls to date. But still, use of the drug continues to escalate, killing hundreds of Quazarian youths every year with its consistent use.”

  “Tell me about it,” Dylan whispered. He stood and moved to his front door.

  His morning routine included examining the main headlines of the day with its clever satirical approach. Broadcasters always treated the news with the wry intellectual humour of satire. It kept the Quazarian public disillusioned to the reality of the problems.

  “No problem,” the news said to Dylan every morning. “It’s all under control. Continue your life as if nothing is wrong.”

  But there was something wrong. During his junior data intake on narcotics, Dylan learnt how social fractures of crime and disobedience reappeared within the first millennium of Quazar’s birth. It’s human nature, he was taught. The government treated crime with strict punishment. Any illicit misgivings had dire consequences. You could be incarcerated for the smallest crime, killed for the worst.

  Dylan stood to one side of his front door and tapped at a small walled box. He sipped his coffee and touched the boxes small screen. An envelope spun into his view. He tapped it and an internal letter slid out and folded open. Touch Here For Video Message read across the letter.

  He touched the screen and his parents appeared side by side. Both had aged, touristy skin. His mother wore a linen top and a head of short, soft, ginger hair. She still radiated her youthful beauty. His father was dressed in a hideously bright tropical shirt. He had shaggy black hair and rugged, macho features.

  His dad spoke first. “Hi Dylan. Me and your mum have been waiting to hear about all your data results. We can’t wait for you to visit again at the end of the year.” His chubby belly accentuated his booming voice.

  Dylan’s parents ran a space hotel named Cosmos Paradise. It was one light year away from Quazar, a successful stopping point for all Quazarian space tourists, galactic exports, and galactic imports between planets. Dylan was born in the hotel and sent to Quazar for his data intake, which was a six year stretch of Intake. The last time he’d seen them was a year and a half ago as they checked in on him and his financial situation.

  If Dylan said he was underprivileged in the financial department, he would be a liar. The hotel was a successful business, set up by his grandparents, who were born on Quazar, and left to his parents. The mile-high and mile-wide hotel station floated in space, its complex structure an interconnected cubed matrix. It had everything on board, from recreational needs to beauty requirements to relaxation services. His parents had done well for themselves and given him the highest Intake Period credits could buy, including his lavish apartment. There weren’t many friends at Intake who could say that.

  Dylan’s mum said, “Be sure to let us know, and make sure you work hard. Take notes during your business intake.”

  They wanted Dylan to run the business when they retired. He could see they wanted him back with them straight from his intake complete celebration, but Dylan didn’t know what he wanted yet. He had ideas, had interests, but nothing decisive. Lately he’d been thinking about his future after Intake, thinking of what he wanted, trying to see his destiny in life. He was still only nineteen years old, “still a baby,” his parents consistently said to him.

  His father, a very masculine fellow, teased him repeatedly about his adolescence. He would ask when a girlfriend would enter the scene. Or “The best thing to do,” he said, “is wait until you’re running the hotel. Then grab one of the space babes that appear in there all the time.” One day when his mother had her back turned, he even said, “Take one to the gravity centre. Close it down and make love in zero G. She’ll want your baby. That’s how I swindled your mum.”

  His father was a typical man with money but gave him everything he could. At times that made Dylan feel like a traitor for wanting to stay on this planet that he called home. He didn’t want to spend his life aboard the mini-paradise that Mum and Dad had created. He didn’t want to isolate himself from the world he inhabited now, where his life was playing out. But he did miss them, was everyday grateful to them, and would everyday love them.

  “Hey son, don’t forget to reply. Keep up the good work. We’re really proud.” Both waved him off. “‘Bye, see you soon.” The message ended.

  I will visit as much as I can when the year is over, Dylan thought. Until then he had his intake to digest, fun to be had with his youth, and his life to plan. He could ill afford to make the one-year trip to see them, then another year back, although the galactic ship he travelled on was paradise. He still preferred to spend the year here; he supposed a year was a long time, time that was precious when you were nineteen.

  Better get going! Traffic was time consuming in the morning rush hour with twenty million Quazarians making the da
ily journey to Central Capital 8.

  The various Capitals were home of everything, the planet’s main hubs for all, from its economic structure to governmental power. Around the globe the sixty such Capitals circulated the planet with credit and life, like the heart pumped in a body.

  Dylan moved through his apartment and entered his sleeping quarters. “Lights,” he said, and the room illuminated. It revealed a mess like any other nineteen-year old’s quarters with no mum around. Clothes were strewn all over the place. His unmade bed, a low-set area with clean white duvet, dominated the centre of the room.

  He tapped a flush walled button which slid out an inbuilt wardrobe rack. Numerous full outfits dangled, and Dylan selected his chosen attire for the day. He slipped into synthetic cream trousers, which ribbed at the knees, and a white shirt. Then he slipped on his padded thick jacket with square shoulders, that ribbed at the elbows and gave off a two-toned colour appearance. The jacket shifted from white to velvety light purple and back again. His thick white-soled sneakers were streaked with every rainbow colour, and they slid on his feet as he folded and squashed the gel straps together to fasten them.

  “Lights,” he said as he exited the dimming room.

  He checked his open studio living quarter, and then pushed a flush walled button beside the front door, which whipped open. He stepped out and entered a hard-lit, white-walled corridor. He passed by many apartment doors as he walked, counting down 1588, 1587, 1586.

  He reached the nearest elevator, a rounded ormolu door, and called. It arrived silently in seconds. The circular door rolled into the wall and revealed a tightly filled lift. Dozens of businessmen stood formally in neatly cut suits. They were decorated with gold, silver, foiled, and with various patterned ties. All held gold, silver, and black coloured briefcases.

  At the front a young boy, no older than eight, stood before the men holding onto a yellow hover board that was covered with obscene 3D graffiti. The tiny metallic magnetic prongs were visible, and he wore a holo-shirt with a comic strip covering its front, side and back. His short black hair was a neat mess.