Nihala

by Scott Burdick

  Ganesh spoke softer and softer, his head slumping onto his chest. “Who would have thought that civilization hung by such a tenuous thread? Who could have predicted the speed of mankind’s barbaric reversion?”

  His voice fell to a whisper.

  Kayla’s vision blurred. Puck slept in her pocket after the long day of adventures, and she yearned to follow his example. But curiosity forced one more question, “How did you survive?”

  The giant summoned enough energy to say, “Ohg … he found us …”

  Ganesh slid to the floor of the tunnel, his snores echoing off the cold stone walls.

  Something’s not right here.

  As the light from Ganesh’s crystal faded, the elephant-god mumbled in his sleep, “Ohg saved us all …”

  Kayla’s eyelids became weights she couldn’t lift. They narrowed to slits as wraith-like forms surrounded them. Kayla’s limbs trembled, but rejected the instructions her brain transmitted.

  Hands that might have been human, but for their unnatural length and skeletal thinness, lifted Kayla and the massive Ganesh. They floated on a mist of dreams back the way they’d come.

  Chapter 11

  Once again, Kayla’s dreams forced her into the body and perceptions of Peter, though his eyes seemed closed. She felt a deceleration and his eyes opened. The same passengers surrounded him on the train as her last dream. The cat-eyed attendant busied herself collecting VR helmets as the vehicle hissed to a stop. Out the window sprawled a vast underground terminal, with hundreds of other trains loading and unloading swarms of passengers.

  This dream must be a continuation of my last one. Was God showing her these things? Could they be clues in her search for what she’d become and what purpose, if any, He intended for her? But what possible connection could she have to this man who had lived nearly five hundred years before her birth?

  Another attendant spoke into a handheld device that projected her voice throughout the compartment. “We have arrived at Chicago’s Union Station. Thank you for traveling with us, and it has been a pleasure serving you.”

  The passengers collected their luggage, and filed out.

  As Peter shuffled toward the exits with everyone else, he glanced back at a man in a charcoal-gray suit talking to Cat-eyes. The man’s dark-brimmed hat set him apart from the passengers. The attendant stared at Peter as she spoke, and the man’s cobalt eyes turned toward him.

  Peter’s heart pounded as he hustled off the train and onto the underground platform, swept along with the crowd like a twig in a flood and then onto a moving stairway. The man in the dark hat struggled through the crowd behind him.

  Emerging into the bright streets on the surface, Peter entered the towering canyons of the city called Chicago. To Kayla, the buildings seemed smaller than the abandoned wrecks she’d seen crumbling outside the Wall, but they dwarfed the largest trees within Potemia. Ceaseless holographic advertisements flashed and throbbed their consumptive demands, while the pedestrians flowed as if released from a great dam of humanity.

  Peter glanced over his shoulder. The man still followed. Peter dove into the flood of pedestrians.

  “Not now,” he mumbled. “Not when we’re so close!”

  He crossed a bridge over a river swarming with boats, then turned left down a canyon of a street, then right, then left again. A glance back, searching the crowd. The man with the hat was gone. Peter expelled a breath and walked on.

  It wasn’t the unprecedented music, smells, strange clothes, or bizarre technological gadgets that seemed odd—it was the perfection of the people. A spattering of children and a few bizarrely dressed teenagers occasionally interrupted the crowd’s ubiquitous uniformity, but no one appeared older than their mid-twenties. Each face and body conveyed such perfectly proportioned elegance that it gave her a vague sense of unease, the self-conscious inadequacy one feels standing next to the most beautiful person they know.

  A man’s transparent, twenty-foot-tall head hovered in mid-air above the central square of a plaza, its commanding voice saying: “The year 2069 will mark the seminal moment for lasting peace on this planet!”

  The solid jaw and mesmerizing blue eyes conjured images of some warrior-prophet of antiquity. It was the unmistakable visage of Colonel Colrev, the man who had ordered Peter to kill the two Iraqi children long before.

  Peter came to a stop and gazed at the giant head. Across the bottom of the hologram glowed the words, General Colrev, US Secretary of Thought Crimes. Passersby smiled as they glanced at the commanding face looming above them. Many stopped to listen, exclaiming things like, “Appointing General Colrev was the best thing the president ever did!” and “He’ll destroy those Neo-Luddite fanatics!”

  Colrev’s eyes hardened. “My fellow Americans, after the tragic events in the city of San Diego, we must take proactive steps for the security and protection of our loved ones. We will no longer wait. We will no longer be victims. We will identify the very thoughts that lead to such acts beforehand!”

  Murmurs simmered within the crowd.

  “To the human race, the Neo-Luddite vision of a mythical Eden without science or technology is as dangerous as any Gene-Freak. It is ironic that these terrorists use our own science against us to reverse all the progress human society has made though our long climb out of barbarity. If we hope to retain all the miraculous inventions born of the fruits of our minds, we must use technology itself to identify those who would misuse it. No genetic test can identify this existential threat, so we must go to the source—the human brain!”

  Peter surveyed the crowd staring up at the hologram. Unblinking, worshiping faces surrounded him. Kayla had seen such expressions during sermons of Minister Coglin. In both cases, fear added the key ingredient.

  “To those who would use the outdated notions of Privacy Rights to protect these degenerates, I ask you to consider the rights of the thousands of dead citizens of San Diego.”

  The hologram cycled through a series of images of charred bodies lying amidst the ruins of blasted buildings. The crowd stood transfixed by the gruesome scenes as General Colrev’s voice continued.

  “The heretics that perpetrated this act will either reform their thoughts and live in the modern world, or die in its prisons.”

  The blackened form of a child embracing what looked like its mother formed the final image. It morphed into the general as he spoke. “These Neo-Luddite scum are not true Christians or environmentalists, but terrorists, plain and simple!”

  Cheers rose from the crowd, and many held their fists aloft. But here and there, a few people remained silent.

  Peter turned, but halted at a strange sight. A woman and a man, both wearing white robes and sandals, walked across the street and stood beneath the giant head. The woman had gray hair and deep wrinkles etching her face, while a long white beard marked the man’s advanced age. Their appearance set them in stark contrast to the universal youth surrounding them. The man’s sign proclaimed: Technology dehumanizes, enslaves, and corrupts. The woman’s sign read: God’s creation is more glorious than any machine!

  The crowd encircled them.

  “Technology can be stopped!” the bearded man shouted, his white robes lending him the appearance of some Old Testament prophet. “Return to nature and a simpler life, where you won’t be slaves to the machines!”

  “Medical technology saved my life!” shouted a fashionably dressed woman in the crowd. Like everyone else, she looked no older than twenty-five.

  “You’re Neo-Luddites!” a young man in an iridescent suit yelled. “You’re responsible for San Diego!”

  The bearded man shook his head. “We oppose violence of any kind and do not support the Neo-Luddites.”

  “Liar! You’re a fanatic!” someone in the crowd shouted. “Why else would you look old?”

  The gray-haired woman extended a hand as if in supplication. “Don’t you see that the collapse of civilization is inevitable if technology continues destroying nature? Act now, before it�
�s too late.”

  “You would return us to the slavery of nature,” shouted a young man wearing a form-fitting outfit that displayed every muscle of his athletic physique. “Science has freed us from disease, starvation, and ignorance!”

  As the crowd grew, its collective anger magnified, with mild-mannered men and women in conservative office attire shouting insults and spitting at the white-robed protesters. A woman pushing a baby in a hovering carriage snatched a bottle from her child and flung it at the white-robed woman, hitting her in the head and soaking her in milk.

  The disembodied head of General Colrev continued, unaware of the near-riot fermenting beneath his square chin. “In the coming days, many of you will be visited by officers tasked with rooting out those among us with aberrant thoughts and beliefs so we never experience another San Diego, or worse.”

  A man standing in front of Peter leaned close to his girlfriend and said, “How do we know Colrev himself didn’t stage San Diego so we’d give up the right to our own thoughts?”

  His girlfriend gave a sharp jerk on his hand and looked around. “Stop it, Bill—someone will hear you!”

  A helicopter descended through the transparent talking head, and landed behind the white-robed environmentalists. Words on the side of the vehicle announced, ‘POLICE—Protect and Serve.’ An officer emerged and frowned.

  “Lock the degenerates up!” someone shouted. The statuesque officer smiled heroically, ready to protect them from this assault of the elderly.

  The side of the vehicle hissed upward, and a harness shot from the shipʼs innards like a giant’s hand. In a flash, the elderly man hung bound and suspended in a fetal position, with face hooded and mouth gagged.

  The old woman fled, and the officer smiled.

  “Use the Exoskeleton!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  “Ex-Oh! Ex-Oh! Ex-Oh!” the onlookers chanted.

  The policeman spread his arms and legs wide, and numerous robotic appendages flashed from the interior of the ship and bound his entire body with an elaborate contraption resembling a metal skeleton. The cheers crescendoed when the black helmet snapped into place.

  The old woman stumbled to a stop two hundred yards away. She gasped for breath and jerked her head about wildly, like a trapped rabbit. The officer crouched and then launched into a graceful ballistic arc. A few blasts of air from various points on his exoskeleton corrected his trajectory, and he landed with a thump, inches from the old woman.

  The fugitive staggered, then fainted, and the crowd cheered.

  After the unconscious woman joined the previously collected specimen in the police vehicle, the officer placed a helmet on each of their heads. A red light appeared on the front, and a synthesized voice intoned, “Anti-technology thoughts detected. Suspect found guilty and sentenced to thought-quarantine.”

  Peter’s fingers balled into fists as the policeman received an ovation. Even the man in front of him who’d expressed doubts clapped, though with what seemed little enthusiasm.

  A few eyes swiveled Peter’s way.

  “Clap, my love, you’re attracting attention,” a woman whispered in his ear. Peter’s hands unclenched, and clapped until his invisibility returned.

  “Let’s go, Peter, this is no place for you,” the soft voice said, and the woman’s hands eased him away from the spectacle.

  Peter turned, and gazed into an angelic face. “Thank you, Susan, I almost—”

  “Don’t blame them,” the woman said as they headed into an alley. “When one controls nothing in their own life, any opportunity to strike out grants them a moment of illusory power.”

  Susan led the way through a rusted door and down a shadowed stairway. “To quote him,” she said with reverence, “ ‘Technology has succeeded in reducing human beings and many other living organisms to engineered products and mere cogs in the social machine.’ ”

  “Words are but the spark,” Peter said. “The only true propaganda will come from a deed great enough to purge the globe of technology.”

  Susan quoted the Gospel of John. “Let us not love in word or in tongue, but in deed and truth.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairway, and Susan slid her arms around Peter’s neck.

  “Later,” Peter said, and disengaged from the beautiful revolutionary. “The message I have is urgent.”

  Susan grabbed his hand and squeezed tight. “Do you mean …?”

  He nodded and entered a room with half a dozen conspirators awaiting his arrival. Their eyes glowed with the fanaticism of zealots—reminding Kayla of the eyes of the minister as he preached End Times.

  A dark-skinned man walked over. Peter embraced him, then held him at arm’s length.

  It was Tyrone, the black soldier who served with Peter in Iraq. Like Peter, he looked unchanged.

  “It’s good to see you, my friend,” Peter said.

  “It’s been too long.” Tyrone nodded and then walked back to the group standing beneath the single light hanging from the ceiling.

  Peter straightened and lifted his chin. His eyes swept the small gathering. “Project Eden is a go.”

  Many smiled—a few laughed.

  “It will wake them up!” said one.

  “Across the entire world!” agreed another.

  Peter beckoned to a man in the corner. “Professor Griffin.”

  An emaciated man in the shadows stood. The rims of spectacles circumnavigated his dark eyes, an oddity in this world of physical perfection. He removed a cylinder the size of his index finger and displayed it with the love of a sculptor unveiling his masterpiece.

  “I created one for each of us.” The skeletal hand placed the gleaming vial on the table. “Seven in all, plus an eighth as backup.”

  Tyrone shifted from foot to foot. “Isn’t this premature?”

  Peter gazed at him for an excruciating moment. Tyrone averted his eyes.

  “You’ve been my friend for a long time.” Peter’s voice softened as he approached Tyrone and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I won’t insult you by reciting arguments you know better than I. But I will ask how long you’ve had doubts.”

  “Not doubts.” Tyrone gazed at his hands. “I can’t help thinking of all the kids. Maybe it’ll come to this someday, but shouldn’t we at least keep trying to convince—”

  “I can’t say for certain why the Founder chose this moment,” Peter said, “but I would guess it has to do with the new VR helmets.”

  Susan stepped next to Peter. “Our sources prove they double as memory probes. If any of us wears one, we’d be arrested within hours. Every Neo-Luddite we’ve ever come into contact with would be instantly known to the authorities.”

  “As well as the identity of our leader,” Peter said. “San Diego was not our doing, so I suspect it is the government itself creating an excuse for compulsory thought interrogation. Delay is no longer an option.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tyrone said, his hands trembling. “I know it’s the only way. But I-I can’t do it. I think you know why.”

  “Yes, I know why,” Peter said.

  Behind Tyrone, Professor Griffin stepped silently closer.

  “You were the first I recruited,” Peter said to Tyrone. “Please don’t do this.”

  “My reason tells me you’re right, but my heart just won’t allow me to follow.” Tyrone’s shoulders slumped, and tears streamed down his cheeks. “I won’t do anything to stand in your way, but I just can’t be a part of this.”

  Peter hugged his friend. The professor raised a hypodermic needle and waited. Tears overflowed Peter’s eyes and he nodded.

  The professor stepped forward and inserted the needle into Tyrone’s neck. Peter pinned his arms with the firmness of a battle-hardened soldier.

  “What are you doing?” Tyrone gasped.

  “I’m sorry.” Sobs shook Peter as Tyrone’s muscles seized. Peter eased his friend to the ground, and Susan brushed tears from Tyrone’s cheek like a mother might for a child with a skinned knee.
r />   “Why?” Tyrone said.

  “I have no choice,” Peter said, his voice choked with emotion. “There’s too much at stake.”

  Tyrone’s body spasmed, like an old clock wringing a few final ticks out of its broken mechanism.

  “I wouldn’t … betray—” Tyrone’s face contorted and foam flecked his lips.

  Peter shook with his sobs.

  Susan used a cloth to wipe Tyrone’s brow, then his lips. “If you don’t believe fully, what choice would you have?”

  Tyrone looked at Peter, and words gurgled to the surface with blood mixing into the foam. “Yes, I would have told …” His eyes rolled beneath his lids, and his body jerked several times like a bad actor. Then he went still. Peter clung to him and cried. No one in the room moved.

  Susan brushed her fingers over Tyrone’s eyes to close them. Peter grabbed her wrist and glared. “Don’t touch him!”

  Susan stared at him, face stricken. “I’m sorry, I …”

  Peter let go of her wrist and looked back at Tyrone. “Brothers forever,” he said.

  “It had to be done,” Susan said. “He confirmed it.”

  Peter climbed unsteadily to his feet. “He only said that to spare me.”

  Tears glistened in Susan’s eyes as she reached a trembling hand toward him, then paused inches from his arm.

  Peter turned to her and gently caressed the bruise forming on her wrist. “I hurt you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Susan kissed him and he embraced her. Everyone else in the room remained silent, the tension apparent in each face. Finally, Susan pulled away, walked to the table, and grabbed a vial.

  A faint screaming in the distance grew in volume.