AntiBio 2: The Control War

by Jake Bible

  Gorge growls low and trots away, lying down in the shadow of the roof’s low wall, away from the bright sun that beats down on the tower. Blaze shakes his head at her then squints up at the sky.

  “It’s crazy how different the sky looks without the city’s static shield up,” Blaze says.

  “You have seen open sky plenty of times,” Worm says. “During all of your missions into the Sicklands.”

  “It’s not the same,” Blaze says. “There’s just something about standing here and soaking it all in. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to worry about getting blasted or attacked by cooties. Maybe it’s just because GenSOF Tower is home and having the sun shine on your home is like no other feeling out there.”

  “Hmmmm,” Worm says. “I will have to upload into my orb and see for myself later this afternoon.”

  “Still working on adapting that old Morganfeld?” Blaze asks.

  “Yes, I am,” Worm replies. “It is nice for one to have freedom of mobility beyond just a transport.”

  “I get that,” Blaze laughs. “Freedom of mobility has always been my personal philosophy. And always will be, now that operators don’t have to worry about being stuck inside the tower.”

  “Speaking of operators, Captain Lane has asked me to tell you to, and I quote,get your fucking ass to the briefing right the hell now,” Worm says. “Shall I send him a reply?”

  “No need,” Blaze sighs. “I’ll deliver it in person. Just tell him I’m on my way.”

  Blaze doesn’t move.

  “Are you on your way now?” Worm asks.

  “Does it look like it?” Blaze replies.

  “I’ll tell him you may be a while,” Worm says. “Do not stay up here too long. Even with your enhanced skin, too much sun can be damaging. Skin cancer is a real threat.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Blaze replies.

  “I am not your mother, Lieutenant,” Worm says. “But if you would like me to contact her, I can— Oh, you were being sarcastic.”

  “Yes, I was,” Blaze says. “Way to catch on.”

  “I’ll leave you to your sunlight,” Worm says. “Try not to be too much longer. The captain can be very difficult to deal with when he gets annoyed with you.”

  “For you, Worm, I’ll try to limit his annoyance,” Blaze says. “I’ll be down soon.”

  “Thank you,” Worm says and logs out of Blaze’s com.

  The AiSP works his way through the many systems of GenSOF Tower until he finds the connection to his Morganfeld orb. He quickly uploads his main consciousness and brings the orb online. Instantly, he is shooting through the corridors of GenSOF Tower and down to the transport hangar bays. He dodges the personnel there as they work to rebuild the transport fleet.

  “Watch it!” Chief Mildred Roark shouts after him. “People are working here, Worm!”

  Worm makes a note to apologize later. He races down the exit tunnel and in seconds is outside the city. He flies the orb a few kilometers away then comes to a stop and sets the orb down on a rock outcropping. He studies the landscape of the Sicklands, taking in the barren terrain and dust clouds that billow back and forth.

  He knows the humans feel optimism about the future, but something about the “daynightmare” that continues to invade his thoughts worries him. He thinks maybe Blaze is right about how he has too much anxiety. Something that shouldn’t be possible for an AiSP.

  But a part of him knows that what the people of the Clean Nation cities are now calling the Control War may not be the last of the conflicts.

  If there is one thing he knows, it is human beings and new conflicts are never far away.

  The End

  Read on for a free sample of Mausoleum 2069

  Author Bio:

  Jake Bible, Bram Stoker Award nominated-novelist, short story writer, independent screenwriter, podcaster, and inventor of the Drabble Novel, has entertained thousands with his horror and sci/fi tales. He reaches audiences of all ages with his uncanny ability to write a wide range of characters and genres.

  Jake is the author of the bestselling Z-Burbia series set in Asheville, NC, the Apex Trilogy (DEAD MECH, The Americans, Metal and Ash) and the Mega series for Severed Press, as well as the YA zombie novel, Little Dead Man, the Bram Stoker Award nominated Teen horror novel, Intentional Haunting, the ScareScapes series, and the Reign of Four series for Permuted Press.

  Find Jake at jakebible.com. Join him on Twitter @jakebible and find him on Facebook.

  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 stood 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 wh
ose 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—-“