by Rick Jones
Mausoleum 2069
Rick Jones
Copyright 2015 by Rick Jones
PROLOGUE
The cloud mass of interstellar dust continuously morphed into Rorschach shapes, always evolving with a slow, hypnotic grace as it crossed the galaxies. Not only did it alter its form but its coloring as well, changing from cool blues to warm reds, with bursts of bioluminescent light shooting off within.
Lacking the independence to travel by will, it moved with the course of solar winds, always drifting with a honey flow and guided only by the direction it could never control.
And like all mysteries of deep space, it was as infinite as time, and preceded the moment of the Big Bang.
The constant bursts of energy within the cosmic cloud were the jump-starters of life that enabled single-celled life forms clinging to the shells of meteorites to seed otherworldly planets upon impact and spawning life to dead worlds.
In regards to Earth more than four-and-a-half billion years ago, a meteorite the size of a human fist had wandered through the dust-laden field. In recompense, the electrical bursts within ignited the organisms attached to it and gave them life. And within a period of a millennium—a blink within cosmic time—the stone had traveled through space at untold speeds until it breached the fiery hull of a world within the Milky Way system and breathed new life on the third planet from the sun.
Now, four-and-a-half billion years later, it was returning, the cloud mass riding the solar winds in a cyclical pattern. And though life had established itself over the course of billions of years, the planet was dying a slow death.
And since cosmic dust has no conscience or desires, no process of cognitive thought or instinct, or any concept as to what life was even about, it simply did what it was programmed to do.
It breathed life into that which was already dead.
And for Earth, it was a Second Coming.
Though it appeared to move with purpose, it was potentially mindless as it remained on a collision course that would rejuvenate a planet so abused, that its purpose would only bring about a Hell never imagined.
It would create a maelstrom so deep and dark, that Earth would be catapulted into a terrible nightfall that would never end.
Never.
Chapter One
By the year 2179, more than ninety percent of Earth had become a dead planet, and what was once the United States had now become the Federation of the Fields of Elysium, the FFE. The Fields were comprised of twenty-five walled-in cities like New Philadelphia and New Boston, which had been modified with self-sustaining and energy-efficient skyscrapers, smart cars that navigated by artificial intelligence, and hydro- and aquaponics systems large enough to support those behind protective walls that surrounded these independent municipalities that were well fortified against insurgent attacks. Situated along the top of the ramparts were automated smart-turrets—heavy-duty machine guns with heat-sensing recognition sensors. Should anyone from the Wastelands attempt to ascend the walls, they would be cut to pieces by a hail of .50 caliber bullets.
Places like New York City, Atlanta, and Baltimore—places considered too far gone due to complete social collapse, were not walled societies or paradises. And because they weren’t protected like the Fields, they had become ruins of themselves and seated vicious tribesmen who preyed upon the weak and unsuspecting. This order of natural selection often found their victims turning on a rotating spit, the air often wafting with the smell of baked meat as bodies blackened for the early-evening meal. And so was life in the Old cities.
Inside the New cities the trees and grass remained emerald green, and flowers bloomed in a riot of brilliant colors, but in the Old cities, the trees were sinister-looking frameworks as bare limbs appeared to extend in petrified throes of agony. Lawns that were once manicured were now patches of dirt with blades of grass more of an anomaly rather than the norm, and the air, once crisp and clean, had a yellowish, free-floating filth to it.
Then there were the lands in between the Old and New cities, territories of rock and sand and dead landscapes once rich with fauna and vegetation was now a region that no one cared to rule. But these Wastelands had become the mainstay residence of mindless savages who were much worse than the clansmen who lived inside the ruins of the Old cities.
Everything differed from territory to territory. The diversity of living the earmark of a person, family, tribe, or clan. The clothing for New-City dwellers was high-end leisure suits and gowns of synthetic leathers, wools, and cottons. Those who lived in the Old-cities were relegated to wearing threadbare rags and spoiled cloth, and the Wasteland savages adorned themselves with the processed flesh of their victims, the leathery texture providing them with natural warmth in the winter and kept them dry during the rains.
Where politics was concerned, the Fields of Elysium lived under utopian ideology and supported a judicial system that was of one rule and one law: If you broke the law, no matter how simple, the punishment was banishment beyond the protective walls of the city. And since no one wanted to take their chances in the Wastelands or have their skins stripped from bone to provide clothing for the savages, crime was non-existent.
But in the Old cities or the Wastelands, punishment that was allotted to those in violation was simply to kill with impunity no matter the severity of the situation or without the process of appeal.
Execution was an expected way of life.
And though this dying world bore only small patches of humanity, no one realized that something wicked was coming to the shores of their planet.
Soon, everything was about to change, whether it be inside the Wastelands or within the ruins of the Old cities or the Fields of Elysium, life was about to come to a vicious and swift end against forces so dark, that only a few would survive the onslaught.
And for those who did survive, life would be an even greater struggle.
Chapter Two
New Miami
President Steven J. Michelin, a first-term president vying for a second term, flew in on Air Force Six, a modified airbus, with the vehicle hovering over the New Miami landing pad. The bus hung in suspension for a few moments as the engines rotated from a horizontal to vertical arrangement like that of a Harrier jet, and then began its slow descent to the landing site.
As soon as Air Force Six was docked and tethered, the winged door to the airbus opened.
President Michelin, who was wearing a very expensive Bertucci leisure suit, descended the stairs with his chief advisor in tow. In his hand was an electronic tablet that was downloaded with scripted dialogue of statements that catered to the sentiments of the people of New Miami, words of hope. And Michelin would base his platform of re-election by promoting to the people of New Miami that he should maintain the presidency because he would see their views through until they became law.
It was politics filled with empty promises when, in actuality, the views would simply fall on deaf ears, and the people of New Miami would be no better off than they were the day before the election.
Michelin held the tablet up and showcased it to his advisor, John Eldridge. “Have you read this over?” he asked. “Cleaned it up?”
“I did.”
“I feel like there’s something missing. Something pertinent. I need something that would put me over the top with these people.”
“Since it’s an older population, Mr. President, I can beef things up regarding the lowering of healthcare costs, if that’s what you want. You know, tell the people of New Miami what they want to hear.”
Michelin handed the tablet back to him. “Make it happen.”
“Yes, sir.” Eldridge took the tablet and began to log on as they walked along the carpeted tarmac.
At the end of the carpeted lane stoo
d VIP’s and political dignitaries who wore the smiles of feigned pleasantry.
Handshakes were exchanged and tones were congenial as everyone stood and conversed about the flight from New DC, and of the hope that the current weather pattern remained nice with the sky having only a marginal tinge of yellow to it, the promise of a good day for his speech.
When talk was finally over, the dignitaries headed to the convoy of sedans equipped with state-of-the-art hover capabilities to ensure a smooth ride above the surface of city streets.
President Michelin got in the lead hovercraft along with John Eldridge and New Miami’s governor, a smart-looking woman whose face had been redesigned by laser techniques to remove those pestering age lines that were coming on more aggressively as of late.
She sat opposite the president on a chair that reshaped itself to fit her anatomy, as did the president’s and his chief advisor.
They were following the lead vehicle, with two others close behind them.
Then without the pretense of a false smile, the president addressed the governor in a tone that was less congenial. “You look well considering.”
She nodded. “So you know.”
“Stage-four cancer. The bile ducts of the liver, I believe. A rare form.”
“Primary sclerosing cholangitis,” she answered. “Even with our technology, nothing can be done because the Federation is unwilling to fund the procedure, and therein lies the problem, Mr. President. It’s people like me, and there are a lot of us in New Miami, who need the financial aid to better the way of living in order to extend life.”
President Michelin sighed through his nostrils. Then: “How old are you?” he asked her.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, how old are you?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You’re seventy-nine,” he confirmed to her evenly.
“And your point is?”
“My point, Governor, is that you’ve lived a long life. Dying is a stop we all have to make someday. The funds you’re talking about are needed to efficiently aid those who have more of a considerable lifespan before them. If we provided financial aid to people of age like you, then the system would go bankrupt.”
His candidness appeared to take her off guard, her eyes lighting up. It was like having a splash of cold water thrown in her face. “Mr. President, you’re in a district where the elderly turn to you for hope. They’re not here to listen to the fables of longevity when we both know that your only purpose here is to obtain votes with falsehoods.”
Michelin leaned forward to punctuate his point. “Governor, this has been a political issue debated for two centuries now with no solution in sight. Now I’m sorry about your condition. I really am, but I cannot realistically fund a program that would ultimately deplete the federal coffers.” He slowly fell back into his seat with his eyes pinning her.
“So you’re going to lie to the people of New Miami? Is that it? That’s your campaign?”
“I’m going to give them hope,” he answered.
“Mr. President, raiding federal coffers is not the problem.” She reached to her left where her pocketbook lay on the seat beside her and withdrew a tablet. After tapping in a few online commands, documents rose to the screen. Then she began to read his off-the-books spending during his tenure as president. “In 2177, you illegally used funds to build a villa inside the most exclusive Field of Elysium in the world. New Malibu. Also in 2177, you used funds to upgrade your properties in New Waikiki, New Myrtle Beach, and New Bermuda. Collectively speaking, these funds could have saved or prolonged the lives of more than 1000 people in the New Miami district. However, you chose differently knowing our predicament.”
“I knew of no such investments.”
“In 2178, you hired twenty-four family members to work as part of your administration whose job descriptions aren’t even described, or that they actually provide any services to the people of the Federation. Yet they collected astronomical pay in sums exceeding the listed pay-grade. These amounts have totaled more than thirty-four million dollars, Mr. President, which could have saved more than 2,650 lives. This year alone, you—”
President Michelin raised a hand and began to pat the air to cut her off. “Enough,” he said. “You’re making this up. There’s nothing to support your allegations, Governor. Nothing whatsoever.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. President. And we both know it, don’t we?”
He stared at her for a long moment with indifference before speaking. “If you plan to go public this, Governor, I guarantee that this will be an uphill battle all the way. And frankly,” he added, “I don’t think you have the time or the strength to fight the good fight.”
The governor looked absolutely drained. “You know something, Mr. President, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I have two, maybe three months left to live, and by the time any of this—” She shook the tablet “—surfaces in New DC, your lackeys would have sanitized your cyber fingerprints, no doubt. You will win your second term as the Federation President for the Fields of Elysium, you will continue to rob the people of the Federation, and I will be cremated, which will no doubt be to your joyous satisfaction.”
President Michelin stared at her tablet.
The governor returned the device to her pocketbook, but this time when she withdrew her hand, she was holding a nickel-plated firearm with a suppressor that had a mirror polish to it, and directed it at the president.
Michelin held his hands up in submission. “Whoa,” he said. “What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”
Chief Advisor Eldridge was stunned as he stared at the opening of the pistol’s barrel, his mouth dropping. “If I may add something, Governor—-“
She pointed the barrel at him. “No, you may not,” she told him. “All I want you to do, Mr. Chief Advisor, is to sit there with your mouth shut. Do you understand me?”
He did, turning to look at the screen of his tablet as if nothing was going on.
She redirected her aim back to the president. “Now,” she said, “where were we? Oh yes. We were talking about how futile my attempt to wage war against you on Capitol Hill would be. And you’re right. You have far more political clout than I could ever dream of having. You will continue to fill the pockets of your constituency with enough money so that they’ll turn a blind eye to the truth, and the aged people of New Miami will continue to live a less appreciated life.”
“You don’t want to do this,” Michelin told her.
“Oh, but I do, Mr. President. People like you don’t deserve the privilege of sitting on the highest political seat in the land. What the people in the Fields of Elysium need is a person of integrity and moral fortitude.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that.” He stared at the pistol. “So your answer is to kill me, is that it?”
“It’s not exactly what I want to do given my Christian beliefs, but if this will better the Fields of Elysium, then I don’t see where I have any other option, do you?”
“There are always options,” he told her. “All we have to do is negotiate. Simple, right?”
“I’m afraid, Mr. President, that from this point on there will be no further discussions or debates or negotiations. Your tenure as president is up. I’m sorry.”
The moment she raised her pistol to the center of the president’s body mass, Eldridge lashed out with the tablet and knocked the firearm aside, the pistol going off in a loud spit, the bullet missing its intended mark and lodging inside the door.
President Michelin reached forward and grabbed the governor’s hand. The gun went off two more times, both muted spits from the suppressor, the bullets piercing the roof.
“Give me that, you bitch,” he hollered as he tried to wrest the gun free from her grip.
For a woman who was aged and sickly, Michelin thought that she put up quite a struggle as they seesawed with one another for the gun’s ownership—first he was in command, and then sh
e.
“Well don’t just sit there, you idiot!” the president said to Eldridge. “Do something!”
The chief advisor leaned forward and pinned the governor’s shoulders to the seat, which gave Michelin the upper hand.
The president enfolded both his hands over the governor’s, forced the gun’s barrel to the soft underside of her chin, looped his finger around the trigger, and pulled.
The bullet punctured the top of her skull with the exit wound the size of peach. Slowly, the governor arched her body a moment before settling back down and sighing a final breath.
Drippings of blood and gore rained down from the ceiling and landed on her blouse. The gun was still in her hand as she sat there with her head leaning to one side.
The president was covered with blood, his face marred with the bloody runnels of warm wetness. “Son of a bitch!” he cried. Then he looked at his hands, which were also peppered with the governor’s blood. And then at his suit, which held minute traces of pulpy matter. “Dammit! She ruined my Bertucci!”
“It had to be done, Mr. President,” stated Eldridge. “She was going to kill you.”
The president continuously whipped his hands about to shake the blood off them. “What the Hell am I going to do now?”
“We can figure this out.”
“Of course, we can,” he returned. “The question is, how do we turn this to my benefit?”
“Obviously, the woman was not in the right frame of mind. She was ill, dying. She reached into her pocketbook, took out a gun, and she became irrational. Which is the truth, correct? We can definitely trace the gun back to her. That won’t be a problem. Not at all. What we have to do is spin a tale that will benefit you in the eyes of the people in New Miami. It’s all about how we promote this.”
“Promote the killing of a governor?”
“Just listen,” said Eldridge. “Though you were sympathetic to her condition, she was less sympathetic to your policies; therefore, conversations spiraled out of control. When you tried to neutralize the situation regarding a woman with issues of instability and depression, the firearm unfortunately went off and killed the governor. Of course, we’ll have to clean it up a bit and put in more detail, but we can make this work.”