Future Vistas

by D. M. Pruden

  Contents

  Front matter

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Owen's Gift

  Throwing Stones

  The Curator

  Goodbye is not an equation

  Transfiguration

  About the Author

  Future Vistas

  Second Sight Anthology #1

  By D.M.Pruden

  To sign up to my email list go to www.prudenauthor.com

  Copyright © 2016 Nose Creek Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  Reproduction or transmission of this book, in whole or in part, by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or by any other means is strictly prohibited.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, places and incidents described are products of the writer’s imagination and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or life events is purely coincidental.

  This collection is dedicated to my beloved mother, Johanna, in appreciation for putting up with my silly dreams and ideas and encouraging the development of my imagination. Your faith was not misplaced, Mom.

  Introduction

  First, I want to say thank you for reading this book. If, by some strange chance you are reading this and are not on my mailing list (somebody gave you this book, maybe?), please sign up here. You will get notifications of my latest work and updates from my blog.

  The collection of short, science fiction stories assembled here are the fruits of my fevered mind’s machinations during the year 2015-2016. There are many ways that science fiction authors envision the future of our world. A lot of them are dystopian in nature. I am not a huge fan of dystopian literature in general—I find a pessimistic vision of the future to be depressingly fatalistic. The idea that humanity’s destiny is to ultimately screw things up, while rich soil from which to raise exceptional works of fiction, is still a vision of the future that, for me, goes against how I was raised. I come from what many would describe as a naive kind of upbringing where I was always encouraged to endure the hardships of the moment because things always change, and they can certainly change for the better. It is a very catholic way of viewing the world that my lutheran mother was very much responsible for developing in me.

  As I review the stories contained in this anthology, I see this underlying hope in the future for our species. I truly believe that we are intelligent enough we can realize a future that is not dystopian or post apocalyptic, but rich with unexplored vistas and yet to be realized opportunities. Yes, I believe that our fallible nature will cause us a great deal of social and societal pain. I am afraid that, as a species, we have not yet outgrown misbehaviour like war and greed. But I refuse to believe that we are doomed to go the way of the dinosaur after only a million years or so of time on the earth. Humanity has a higher calling than any creature before us and I truly believe that our future, while perhaps not shiny like the vision of Gene Roddenberry, is still opened to hope.

  Owen’s Gift is a prequel short story to my Mars Ascendant Series. It is a story about the heroine of the series, Mel Destin in her early years on Terra, as she tries to make the best of a bad situation. Terra is in the midst of a war with the Lunar colonies, setting the stage for the strife and challenges she finds in her home.

  Throwing Stones is, in some ways, a companion story to the Mars Ascendant Series. I wrote this story before I conceived of the novel series, and the main theme of it is an elemental part of the background story for Mars Ascendant. It is a story set in the not too distant future where humanity has moved into the solar system and seeks to take the first steps away from the home world. It is set in the world that I hope to explore more fully in future novels and short stories.

  The Curator is one of my early attempts at flash fiction less than 1000 words. It is set in a far distant future in which the history of humanity is being rediscovered by dedicated scholars. I hope you enjoy the little surprise at the end of it.

  Goodbye is Not an Equation is an exploration of what happens to a world that comes into contact with an advanced civilization. I like to believe that a civilization advanced enough to want to teach us is also smart enough to know when we are not yet ready to hear what they have to say. It is a story about loss and legacy that came about as I reflected upon my own eventual death and pondered what would I have done that matters.

  Transfiguration is a story that has been grinding in my mind for many years, though I did not know it was present until I began to write it. It is a brief exploration of the effects a profound change to a person has on his family and loved ones. This tale is told from the point of view of a friend struggling to understand and accept the changes that have occurred in his friend’s life. If you read any theme in this story that runs parallel to some modern social issues, I will have succeeded.

  It is my profound hope that you enjoy this sample of my work and can find your way to look for more of my writing in the near future. Thank you for taking the time to read this and the subsequent pages. I hope to encounter you again very soon in more stories yet to fall out of my head.

  Doug Pruden

  Calgary, Alberta, Canada

  September 12, 2016

  Owen's Gift

  I slipped into the shadows of the alley, hoping nobody spotted me. I took a big risk crossing the little used street. I needed to find safer territory where I could blend into the nooks and crannies of a more familiar landscape.

  I debated too long whether or not the security camera on the corner was active. I didn’t believe the Morality Police actually searched for me, but I couldn’t be too careful when outside of my home turf.

  I should have called for a ride, but I didn’t trust anybody. Still, it had been a bad idea to go into New London alone. I didn’t know the streets, or the people. More critically, I didn’t fit in and seemed to draw inquisitive glances from everyone. I didn’t know any of the back ways, so I stuck to the main roads, believing things marginally safer.

  I avoided eye contact with anyone. Despite dirty looks and upturned noses, I kept my head down and minded my own business. Most adults I passed moved aside to avoid touching a street urchin. I could deal with that. The judgmental stares that followed, burning into my back bothered me, though.

  Things would be worse if I used the back alleys. There, the locals would not ignore my passage. I would be challenged and attacked as an outsider. Far safer to stick to thestreets. The secret was to appear like I had a clue where I was going. Except I didn’t.

  Cable, one of Skids’ boy bangers dropped me off with the new client. He was familiar with the city and had a stolen hover bike. My pimp also trusted him not to rape me. The customer was some uptown executive type with a penchant for the kind of services Skids could provide. I got picked because he wanted a clean freshie, and had the credits to pay for one. The older girls were all high when the call came. Though only fifteen, I could pass for eighteen if people didn’t check too close. Most didn’t.

  A clatter down the dark alley caught my attention. I peered up to get my bearings. A few visible upper floors of the Sato Corporate office tower peeked above the local urban canyons. The tallest structure in New London could be seen from everywhere. I had to travel another ten klicks before I would be in familiar territory. The setting sun vanished behind the skyscrapers and night would fall before too long. I needed to find safety before then.

  I dodged between doorways, constantly checking nobody followed. This part of town was empty of people, a lot of the buildings boarded up or damaged beyond repair. Large chunks of concrete and other debris littered the streets from the last attack. Most of the people had been evacuated ages ago, leaving only my kind to skulk through the detritus in an effort to survive. The scene was a sharp contrast to the busy downtown I
fled hours before.

  The guerrillas’ bombings never happened in the city core. Only the poorer fringes ever got hit. Of course, regular air raids always occurred over Oldon, where I lived. It was like the Terrans and the Lunies had made some tacit agreement only to bomb or blow up the slums. It didn’t make any sense to me. War was supposed to be equal opportunity. I guess it didn’t matter here. If the bombs didn’t kill me, the locals would.

  The sound of an approaching vehicle echoed off the canyon walls. I searched for what direction the noise came from, then decided to hide in one of the damaged buildings. I hoped nobody else was inside. Crouching beneath the sill of a shattered window I heard the source move slowly down the cluttered street. The familiar thrum told me it was a police maglev. The vehicle stopped and a scan beam shone through the broken pane and along the interior wall. I crouched lower and shivered. My ID wouldn’t fool them, and any chance of them merely amusing themselves with me and letting me go would evaporate once they found the object in my pocket.

  I held my breath and didn’t move a muscle. Their motion scanners would pick up anything larger than a rat. My leg cramped as the beam seemed to linger for far too long. And then it was gone and the hum of the maglev faded. I waited for another minute before dropping to my side and painfully stretching out my cramp. I almost jumped out of my skin when somebody spoke.

  “You’re pretty good at that. I thought for sure you’d give us away.” The voice of a girl or boy, younger than me came from the shadows within the building.

  “Who’s there?” I scrambled up against the wall. My hand closed around a palm sized chunk of concrete.

  “You’re not from around here. It’s okay. I won’t rat you to the scavies.” A boy, about eight years old, stepped out of the darkness. His clothes were more tattered than mine and he was covered in dirt. He regarded me carefully from ten metres away, preferring not to risk a closer approach. His face softened a bit and he said, “I got food and water in the back if you want some.” He sounded like he was trying to coax a feral dog.

  “I’m not a wild’n,” I said, clutching my rock tighter.

  “I know,” he said casually. He took a few steps into the interior of the building. “You coming?”

  I glanced out the broken window at the advancing night. If I took my chances outside I wouldn’t make it very far now. If he had a gang inside waiting to gut me, they wouldn’t leave me alone out here if I declined his offer. Maybe they’d let me eat something before they did me.

  I stood, but held on to my weapon. The boy smiled.

  “My name is Owen,” he said.

  “I’m Mel.”

  He headed into the gloom and I followed, resigned to my fate. But I kept my rock.

  After a couple of turns we emerged into a large abandoned warehouse. The air was dusty and carried the faint scent of piss and rat droppings. From a dimly lit alcove along the wall shone a light from a small lantern. Inside, I saw a tattered blanket tucked over a relatively new looking mattress. A worn pillow and a teddy bear with a missing arm were set at the head of the bed. Off to the side was a wooden box, serving as a table.

  I gave the larger visible warehouse a good once over as we walked towards Own’s little campsite.

  “We’re the only ones here, if you’re wondering,” he said.

  “Are you here alone?”

  “Most of the time,” he said as he sat cross legged beside the dining table. He invited me to sit across from him.

  “How come nobody else lives here?”

  “They’re afraid of the soldiers,” he said while he fumbled in an old sack. He removed two fresh apples and place them on top of the box.

  I greedily snatched one and began to devour it. Owen grinned and bit into his own in a more civilized manner.

  “What soldiers?” I asked between mouthfuls.

  “About once every couple of weeks, a bunch of Lunies come in and set up all their stuff in the big space,” he indicated the warehouse.

  “Don’t they see you?”

  He smiled slyly and reached to grasp a rope lying on the floor that I hadn’t noticed. He pulled on it and a metal grating swung down noisily, covering the opening completely.

  “I close the door when I hear someone. I can watch them through the grill, but they can’t see me and don’t even know I’m here.”

  I crawled to the barred entry and peeked through the holes. I nodded, impressed, and returned to the table. Owen placed two empty tin cans down and poured clean looking water into them from a large plastic bottle. I sniffed the contents. It was fresh.

  “Where’d you scrounge all this food?”

  “The soldiers bring all kinds of supplies. While they’re away I sneak around and help myself. You want some jerky?” He held outa small bundle of wax paper. I avoid jerky when it is rarely available. I don’t particularly like rat meat. But this seemed different.

  “It’s beef,” he said around a mouthful.

  I tentatively tasted the edge. The salty, spiced taste was intoxicating and I devoured the exotic delicacy.

  “How long have you been living here?”

  “Two full moons. My old place got blown. I wasn’t inside, but saw the guys who blew it up. I followed ‘em here.”

  “Do they know you’re here?”

  “They were gone the next day, so I checked the place out. They left some food and water and a few other things, so I figured they would come back.” He chewed on his jerky with no further commentary. He’d found a place to hide from the scavies, the roaming gangs of scavengers who picked through the ruins of the old city. If they caught anyone like Owen or me, they would have their way with us and then kill and eat us. They tended to stay away from areas they might encounter armed resistance, and they probably understood this warehouse was regularly occupied.

  I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them as I sat against the wall of the small space. I absently felt the object in my pocket while I tried to work out a plan to find my way back to my turf in the morning.

  “You wanna play cards?” Owen held a dog eared deck in his hand that appeared far to thin to be complete.

  “Uh, no, thanks,” I said.

  He shrugged and dug into his sack for another item. I hoped he didn’t have another game. He removed a tattered old book. Reclining on his bed, he reverently opened it and began to read silently to himself. He mouthed each word as he stumbled his way through the first page.

  “Where’d you learn to read?”

  He blushed and pulled it protectively to his chest. “I can read just fine,” he said.

  “I can see that. I asked you WHERE you learned.”

  “My Mama used to read this to me before bed every night.” He stared into the space between us and a tear glistened and ran down his cheek.

  “How old were you?” I asked gently.

  “Five. After that it was just me and my sister, ‘cept she didn’t like reading to me.”

  “Where’s she?”

  He sighed and put the book back into the sack. “She’s dead too. The scavies got her.” He reached for the tattered teddy bear to hug while continuing to stare into empty space. He laid down on the mattress and rolled over, showing me his back.

  I watched him in silence for a long time, recalling my own struggles to survive. My mother didn’t die, despite my frequent wishes. She simply drank herself into oblivion, leaving me to fend for myself when I was a little younger than Owen. I tried to remember the last time I’d read a book.

  I moved across the small space and found the bag containing Owen’s treasures. I pulled out the book; a collection of fairy tales. The corners of the pages were well worn for a few of the stories and I guessed that those were his favourites. I could easily imagine him asking his mother to read them night after night.

  He sniffled softly, his back still towards me. My fingers found one of the well turned pages and I opened to the beginning of a familiar story. I sat against the wall next to his bed and began to read Cinderel
la to him.

  By the time I got to the part where the fairy godmother appeared, Owen rolled over and faced me. He pushed himself back and invited me to sit beside him on the mattress.

  I read to him until he fell asleep, his head nestled into my ribs. Nobody ever read Cinderella, or any other fairy tale to me before. I identified with the story of a hard luck girl who is given a chance at a new life and seizes it. If only life were really like that. I thought a fairy godmother could come in handy.

  The closest I ever came to one was an encounter with an old guy who offered to send me to school. Wilbur? Walter? Something like that. He gave me a card with his name and number. I thought it might be in one of my pockets, but couldn’t be bothered to look. It was some kind of a scam, I was sure.

  I stretched and yawned. I really needed some sleep. Getting back to Oldon in the morning was my first priority.

  I read four more stories before finally dropping off.

  ♢♢♢

  I awoke alone in the alcove. The lantern was missing and Owen nowhere to be found. With growing panic, I felt around for the opening to the little shelter, and banged my head as I emerged into the larger area of the warehouse. Beams of sunlight filtered through a crack in the ceiling, illuminating a pillar of suspended dust. A shuffling startled me and I turned to see Owen, lantern in one hand and his sack in the other. The eery light made his smile appear grotesque.

  “Care for some breakfast?” A cheerful grin flashed across his face and he disappeared into his little cave. I debated whether I should take the opportunity to quietly leave.

  “Uh, I gotta pee first.” My footfalls were muffled by the dust beneath them as I crept further towards the middle of the open space, searching for a way to slip out unseen.

  “Are you coming? I have a nice ripe melon and some nuts.”

  My conscience pricked me; a little brother I didn’t need. My priority was to return to my own turf. Skids would be mad enough I ran out on the client, even though he was dead when I discovered him. With Owen in tow, the situation would become far worse and I wanted no part in what would happen to him.