“Yes, well anyway, you remember what I said when I saw that graffiti?”
Dennis nodded, “Yes sir, you screamed at me sir and uh...”
“Yes, well I couldn’t believe it, one of the key components to the gravitational generator was right there, sitting on the wall of an orphan. I knew at once I must take you under my wing.”
“Do you remember the first time I brought you to my lab?”
“Yes sir, I was there sir, I mean sir... I... uh... threw up all over you?”
“You did? Oh. Yes, that’s right, I had forgotten about that part.” Rigel glanced back to the control panel to check the status of the experiment, and then he reached over to a shelf and squirted several pumps of hand sanitizer into his hands and rubbed them together.
“Yes sir, you yelled at me that I ruined your best lab coat.”
“Ah yes, well as you know Dennis, I can be a bit... well, never mind. I will tell you what I remember. I remember a boy who solved equations that I, the smartest man left in Manhatsten, could not solve for forty-five years and you, a boy of a mere thirteen then, solved all my equations in a few hours.”
Dennis’s eyes were glossy. “Dr. Solids...” There were a few moments of hesitation and then, “I mean, Dad. There are a couple of other things I have been working on that I want—"
Dennis didn’t finish because a yellow light indicated that the machine was ready for simulation.
“Ah, it’s ready, Dennis. Are you excited? I am. Look, I have goosebumps.” He pulled back a section of his clean suit and showed the pimpled skin and thin blonde hairs standing on end.
“This is the moment of truth. Perhaps one thousand, two hundred, and eleven tries are the charm, eh?” said Rigel.
The two scientists stepped back from the control panel and moved toward the transparent viewing glass. In the center of the containment room lay a small metal orb. The orb weighed 2 kilograms and was about the size of a basketball.
The machine grew louder and louder until it drowned out all the other noises in the room. A smell of aluminum and steam from the machine filled the air. Rigel put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “This is it, Dennis. This is it.” He shouted, but through the din, it was a whisper.
A week ago, the Senate had called for an update on his work. They were angry with his progress. He begged for a little more time, and it was granted, but this experiment had to work. He had to have something to show them within the next few days, or he was finished, and Rigel knew that resources were dwindling. If he was finished, humanity might be too.
Rigel hadn't told them the devastating news yet, the news he had just learned himself only a few weeks prior. All usable resources on the planet were almost gone. Soon there would be war. Their cushy lives in the upper parts of the skyscrapers were almost over, one way or another. It was a familiar story, one that he had lived through more than a thousand years ago. Here once again, the wealthy paid little attention to what was happening around them; they lived in their bubble. But this time would be different, this time Rigel wouldn’t let history repeat itself.
In the chamber, the metallic sphere wobbled. It rolled off the platform. Rigel's heart sunk. Rigel felt an ache in his heart. His stomach clenched. Another failure.
He turned to Dennis. “Oh Dennis, what are we going to do?” He almost choked on his words.
Dennis said nothing. His eyes widened. He thrust his finger at the platform and Rigel spun around.
The sphere was vibrating just off the platform. Suddenly, and with great speed, the object was pulled toward the center of the platform. For a moment it was unmoving, then, the object rose. At a meter above the platform, it stopped, hovered and spun.
Rigel turned to Dennis, grabbed him, and kissed him on both cheeks.
“We’ve done it, my boy!” Tears leaked from the sides of his eyes.
Rigel jumped up and down, and Dennis watched him. Smiles spread across both of their faces as Rigel ran to some of the other rooms in the lab, grabbing any of the other researchers they could to demonstrate the breakthrough to. Rigel knew that he needed to work out a few kinks in the gravitational generator, but with a day or two of hard work, it could be ready to show the Senate. Things would be okay now. His work would continue, and once again, for the first time in centuries, the stars might just be in reach.
Chapter 7
The Coming Storm
The sun was rising. After the Dugger had dropped him off, 17 walked for hours in the frigid night air. He didn't notice. His suit cycled a perfect temperature, along with his oxygen. The barrens in those hours were still and silent. No trace of wind or storm hinted their existence. The AI had been tracking the barometric pressure, but for the moment at least, conditions were ideal. 17 knew better, though; there was a storm coming. There was always a storm coming.
“Well AI, an evening stroll into the unknown sure beats the hell out of patrol duty.”
“But Sir, last time you were on patrol duty around the drill you said,” the AI’s voice shifted to a recording of 17’s, “Patrol duty, that’s the life, AI. To hell with all that roaming around in the Barrens for gods know what.”
17 said, “Yeah well, that was the first day of a very long patrol detail. After 18 days of guarding the city’s big-ass drill, I realized I was wrong. Patrol duty is for newbies. This is much better. At least I get to see new landscapes, right?” He indicated to the emptiness of the Barrens, where nothing but rocks, gravel, and sometimes dunes marked the landscape. “I mean this is why I joined the Runnercore. The taglines were irresistible. See the world in a mechanized suit that smells like my own B.O. Live a million years in an alcove inhaling goop that tastes like bath water. I feel like it’s something that everyone in the city should aspire to.”
The AI hesitated for a moment. “You are, being sarcastic, Sir?”
“You’re finally catching on. I’m impressed AI. How much further?”
“52 kilometers, Sir.”
“Tell me why again the Dugger couldn’t have dropped me a little closer?”
“The geological surveys indicated a large number of methane pockets in this region. The Dugger is far more likely to—"
“Sounds like another bullshit excuse straight from management. That Daniels is a real prick, you know. Maybe he should get his ass out here and walk 80 kilometers.”
The heads-up display inside 17's helmet read 3 degrees Celsius.
“What’s the temperature going to be today? Is it beach weather?”
“Estimated peak temperature for this afternoon is 77 degrees Celsius.”
“Ah, so just a little cool for me to break out the Speedo, huh?”
“Sir, I have cross-checked your references, and I am afraid that I do not understand.”
“Never mind, AI.” 17 let out a long breath. He would kill for someone to talk to other than the AI, but the AI was better than nothing.
Seventy-seven degrees was an average day in the southwestern deserts of what 17 had once known as the United States. Once he had seen the temperature creep up to 95C. It had been so hot that even his EnViro suit had difficulty maintaining his temperature and after a few hours, he had been called back to the city to wait until things cooled off a bit. The problem was, the suits themselves produced a lot of heat to run and combined with external conditions, the power cells could drain quickly in extreme temperatures. In the best of conditions, the suits would last for up to a week without a power source, but with the fluctuating temperature of the Barrens, most of the time, the suits only lasted five or six days. You could move without power, but climate control was another issue; you’d cook inside of your suit. 17 had seen it happen more than once to newbies. It was a shitty way to go.
Like the singular shining source of illumination from a lighthouse on a foggy coastal morning, the silver exterior of the EnViro suit caught the first glimmers of sunlight as the sun peeked over the horizon. 17 knew how visible he was in the suit, but it didn't matter. He had at least a 50-kilometer notice of
any other cities' Runners or any other potential threats in his heads-up display. It worked the other way around as well; Runners from opposing cities had a similar technology, though each city had its own technological strengths and weakness.
However, after the initial proximity alert, the sensors in the suits weren’t all that accurate. Away from the city, there was just too much interference from the sandstorms and the solar radiation. The landscape varied too much, and the storms and dust devils could set off the sensors. In the early days, when 17 had first started his Running career, the satellites in orbit allowed for better protection, but as the decades melted into centuries, and the satellites became space junk that occasionally crashed into the Earth, things got trickier.
The results were some dangerous consequences. If, for example, you received a proximity alert at fifty kilometers and then let your guard down for any reason, another Runner could sneak up on you. 17 had used this method on several occasions to dispatch amateur Runners. It was a mistake that only a rookie would make. Fifty kilometers was a long way away, and it was all too easy to forget that someone was around after several hours of isolation in the Barrens.
It has been at least a century since he had encountered another Runner whose task was to attack Manhatsten, though it may have been longer. The alcoves always distorted his sense of time. He had seen plenty of other Runners on other occasions, but city raids had grown scarce as the centuries wore on. They just weren’t all that productive. The risk outweighed the reward.
A loud buzzing noise trumpeted in his ears and red warning lights were flashing in his face.
“Alert,” said the tinny voice of the AI, “Proximity Warning, an unknown object of unusual size 51 kilometers ahead. Please investigate and report back to...”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you, quit your croaking and let me do my job, all right? Fucking AI. Just so you know, I am in no mood for your bullshit today.”
“Yes Sir, I will attempt to annoy you as little as possible.”
“And AI? Don’t waste any more time with scans for resources around here. We both know Daniels is sending us to check whatever that object is.”
There was no answer.
The city’s long-range scanners must have picked up this mysterious object and sent him, specifically, to investigate. The city’s AI always liked to send 17 on special errands. It wouldn’t be the first time this had happened; in fact, it was probably the hundredth. Hell, he half expected Daniels and the city AI to have an ulterior motive for every gods-damned mission they sent him on. What 17 never understood, is why Daniels didn’t just send a probe? Other cities sent probes all the time. Why did they have to send a Runner to every gods-forsaken proximity alert? Not that he was complaining, it was good to be out of his little rat hole and in the open air, even if every element of the open air would kill him if given half a chance.
The fact that he was the oldest Runner in Manhatsten meant that they only sent him out for special assignments these days. He wasn’t special. Lucky is all he was, or unlucky, depending on how you felt about being a Runner. There had been opportunities for him to end his life in a way that would keep him from being recycled, and sometimes he honestly didn’t know why he had not jumped at the chance. Something... something kept him going, kept him moving forward.
“Persist above all...” he muttered.
“I’m sorry, Sir?” replied the AI. “I don’t understand that query and I—”
“Ah shut it AI, can’t a man talk to himself in peace once in a while?”
“Very well Sir, it’s just that I thought that–”
“Nevermind what you thought.”
The AI stayed silent.
Persist above all was 17’s father’s saying, one he hadn’t thought about in a long time. His father had been a New York City garbage worker long before the first glimmers of migration, and had died a decade before the invention of the alcove, but he had always told 17, that no matter what happens to you, no matter how hard things get, you must persist above all. Even when things look bleak, just put one foot in front of the other and press on.
“Hey AI, can you tell me something?”
“If I am able to Sir, I will serve.”
“How many people are still alive in Manhatsten that lived through World War Three?”
“One moment Sir, I need to cross-check my records with the city’s database... Three, Sir.”
“Three? That’s it, huh? I don’t suppose you know the number in every city?”
“No Sir, there is no way for me to access those records.”
“Who are those three?”
“Besides you, Sir, Dr. Rigel Solidsworth and Major John Daniels.”
“Is Solidsworth the only architect left?”
“According to the most recent records, that is highly likely.”
“Guess I should ask them what the hell they think the meaning of life is, huh?”
“You could Sir, but I fail to understand the point of such a question.”
“A joke AI. I'm old as hell, and I still couldn’t tell you what I am doing here.”
“I mean no disrespect Sir, but I was under the impression that you do not have a choice of whether or not to be here.”
“True, but what about Daniels and Solidsworth, are they stuck?”
“Major Daniels is under a lifetime appointment; he cannot leave his post any more than you can. Dr. Solidsworth, however, is free to do as he chooses.”
“Daniels is stuck like me? No wonder it seems like someone shit in his cereal.”
For 17, long life had meant a lot of traumas. He wondered if Daniels and Solidsworth had felt the same way. He wondered how they had survived World War Three and if they too had lost their families and everything that tied them to the world.
It hadn’t been all bad. In the first days of migration, 17 owned a luxury condo in the Uppers on the 71st floor. He could have been a Senator in the long run. He could have been a man of great privilege and power. But then, he crossed the wrong person, and for the second time in his life, everything was taken from him. His career as a Runner had begun.
The wind picked up a little, hinting at a coming storm. 17 recognized it at once. It was what he had been watching for. The surrounding air was churning, and the dust devils were dancing on the tips of their funnels all around him. They swelled in size. So often in the Barrens, it was those who didn’t pay attention who lost their lives. Every second counted.
Then the wind kicked up in force; a sudden sense of panic crept up into him.
“AI, what’s the wind doing?”
“Sir, you are currently on the edge of the formation of a large sandstorm, I advise that...”
“I’m on the edge of a sandstorm, and you didn’t alert me?”
“In fairness, you told me to,” the AI’s voice shifted to a perfect mimicry of his own, “shut my trap.”
“Gods dammit, it’s a sandstorm, not a proximity alert. I wanted to know about sandstorms, you asshole.”
“A sandstorm is classified under a proximity alert. You asked me to turn off all proximity alerts, shall I turn them back on?”
“I wish I could punch you in your face right now; you know that?”
“I am not sure what this hostility is all about, I am simply following orders and—”
“Just shut up and tell me if there is any shelter nearby. We don’t have time for your bullshit.”
“One moment Sir, checking all available geographic records.” The AI paused for a moment. “Unfortunately, I do not detect any nearby shelter that you could reach before the storm arrives.”
“Well that’s just fantastic isn’t it?” 17 let out a heavy sigh. It resonated inside his helmet. “What kind of winds are we talking about here? Anything I can survive?”
“I estimate wind speeds ranging from 300 to 350 kilometers per hour. Survival is unlikely.”
This was bad, very bad. All Runners were equipped with emergency shelters, but they only held up against wind
s of about 200km per hour, and that was on a good day. 17 had to think quickly, or else he would be lucky to survive the next hour. The one thing he had going for him, is that the sandstorms were quick. Most didn’t last more than an hour or two, but that hour or two could mean the end of his life. Those kinds of winds would pick him up and toss him like a tin can in an apolicane.
The wind was already blowing sand in the air and visibility was disappearing. A few dust devils danced around him, tiny heralds of what was coming.
“Where is the nearest cliff face?”
“Scanning... 2 kilometers southwest. But Sir, that is toward the storm.”
“Perfect, that’s what we want.”
2.
Dear Reader,
The reason that Runner 17 had persisted after almost 1300 years of running had little to do with luck. It wasn’t because he was fast, or strong, or even highly intelligent, though he was some of those things. It is in this historian’s estimation that the reason that 17 survived so long as a Runner was that he never hesitated. Albert Kleinburg, a historian who focuses on the life of Runner 17, has suggested that it was likely that years of employment as a stockbroker before migration had mentally prepared Runner 17 for his tasks as a Runner. In this instance, as can be seen in the archival video, he had started to run the moment his Artificial Intelligence had said “southwest,” because if he didn’t, the storm would have overtaken him. You can view the video clip of this particular event in library 17f in section 9872.
3.
His heart was pounding. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His helmet provided no means to wipe the sweat away. He felt the salty sting in his eyes but forced them to stay open. If he closed his eyes now, even for a few seconds, if he stopped running for even a moment, the storm would reach the cliff before he did and he wouldn’t have any chance at all.
17's muscles burned. He pushed them as hard as he could. Combined with the nanites in his bloodstream, the legs of the EnViro suit augmented his speed and strength, and he could reach up to 65 kph. It would cost him later to push that hard, but it was a victory, if he had a later.
Upon Stilted Cities - The Winds of Change Page 11