The Block

by Ben Oliver

  “Jesus,” I whisper. “Mable?”

  She had been the last to be freed from the Loop, a scared little child who had refused to escape with us. She had run into the train tunnels alone and been eaten alive by rats. Or so I had thought.

  “When we found her,” Maddox says, startling me out of my shock, “the rats had consumed much of her; they had eaten her eyes, bitten out her tongue. But she was alive.”

  “You … How could you?”

  “She was quite mad, couldn’t understand why she was still alive, just kept on screaming over and over again. But, as you can see, she still has her uses.”

  “You’re evil,” I say, the words stammering out of my mouth.

  “Sacrifices are necessary to bring about change,” Happy says, speaking through Maddox.

  “Is that always so?” Tyco’s voice comes from behind me.

  I watch an expression of curiosity come over Maddox’s face as his illuminated eyes meet Tyco’s.

  How can they disagree? I wonder. They are the same entity.

  Galen leans forward. “You see, Luka, everything that has happened and everything that is going to happen is for the good of the planet and for the good of the people.”

  “Just not for the people who are still alive,” I say, tears forming in my eyes as I look down at the girl who I have failed.

  Galen laughs. “Sometimes we have to think bigger; sometimes we have to think outside of our own insignificant lives.” He smiles at me. “Tomorrow, Luka, at dawn, you will stand onstage and tell the world the truth: that you have joined us.”

  “Once you have what you need,” I say, “once you have figured out how the healing technology works, kill us both, me and her, please.”

  Galen looks to Tyco; the host takes me by the arm and leads me back to the elevator.

  We travel down three floors, and I’m led to a large room.

  Tyco stands in the doorway. “These are your quarters for the night. You will be taken to the ground floor at six a.m.”

  He closes the door. A lock clicks and I’m left alone.

  The room looks like someone’s idea of a high-class hotel room. Sleek black floor and walls punctuated with hidden lights. The far wall is one enormous window that looks out over the city. There is a four-poster bed half-sunk into the floor with black sheets and pillows.

  I stand, unmoving. I think of Mable tied to the operating table, having lost her mind more than nine weeks ago.

  How long was she left alone in those tunnels? How long did the rats eat away at her while her wounds healed themselves over and over again?

  I walk across the room and open a door that leads to a bathroom. I stumble toward the shower, pulling off my Alt military uniform as I go.

  * * *

  I stay in the shower for a long time, watching the water spin down the drain. I listen to the white-noise sound of the flowing water and I try not to think at all.

  I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself, but I leave the water running—I’ll need it to hide the sound of my voice. I take Apple-Moth out of the pocket of my black shirt and switch the drone on.

  I hold a hand up in an attempt to keep Apple-Moth quiet, and—for once—it works.

  “Hi, friend,” I say.

  Apple-Moth does a backflip. “Hi, friend!” it whispers.

  “I need to ask you to do something for me,” I say.

  “An adventure?” it asks.

  “Yes, Apple-Moth. One more adventure.”

  “Okay, friend.”

  “You might not make it out of this one alive, Apple-Moth, I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry? You’re my friend; I’d do anything for my friends.”

  I feel an ache in my throat. How can this little metal creation of wires and code be so good? “Apple-Moth, you’ve been the greatest friend to me.”

  “That makes me happy!”

  I clear my throat. “Tomorrow, we stand in front of thousands of people. I’ve been thinking … maybe we can change their minds. Maybe we can start an uprising.”

  “Let’s do it,” Apple-Moth says, glowing pink.

  “Let’s do it.”

  When I’ve talked through the details, I hold Apple-Moth in my closed hand, concealing it from all the cameras that will be hidden in the main room.

  I ask the shower to switch itself off, and the water ceases as I walk through to the bedroom.

  I stand at the glass wall that looks out over the city, and I feel destroyed. I have tried—since this all began—to do the right thing, and I may not have always wanted to be looked upon as the leader, but I have tried to keep everyone alive, and yet my friends have died, and some have ended up in worse places than death.

  I think on Happy’s words, at first in turmoil at the logic it presented: a rebirth of humanity; a chance to do it right; no more war; no more hate. What if Happy is right? What if fighting against the machines makes us the bad guys?

  No, I tell myself, you cannot justify evil means with a virtuous end. You cannot justify genocide with a better future. I still believe in humanity, I believe in the goodness of people, and I believe that bad people can change and see the error of their ways. The moment I stop believing in that is the moment I stop fighting.

  There are vents at one side of the glass wall and I open them, feeling the rush of cool air come in.

  I open my hand and Apple-Moth floats silently into the air.

  The companion drone says nothing; its lights stay dark as it hovers in front of me.

  “You know what to do,” I say.

  A brief flicker of green light and Apple-Moth flies to the gap in the window and then stops. “Do you wanna hear a joke?” the drone whispers.

  I nod my head. “Yes.”

  Lights flicker excitedly on and off, and then the drone is dark again. “What do you call an alligator who wears a vest?” Apple-Moth asks.

  “I don’t know,” I reply.

  “An investigator!” Apple-Moth says.

  I laugh.

  “Goodbye, Luka,” the drone says.

  “Goodbye, friend,” I reply.

  Apple-Moth’s lights turn pink and then it’s gone, zipping out of the gap in the vents and into the night sky, and I’m left in silence.

  Happy has provided clothes: an Alt uniform with no markings. I leave it hanging in the wardrobe.

  I sit and watch the city. I look at the towering Verticals, built to stock the growing number of poor. I look at the villages around the city, spacious second homes for the ultra-rich, and I think about what the Alts were: a walking advertisement to the poor; look what you could achieve if you just worked harder! But the opportunity didn’t really exist, not to Regulars; you had to be born into the right family to have what they had. I look at the financial district: hundreds of thousands of Coin wasted on golden statues to the Final Gods of Prosperity, when that money could have gone to schools, to hospitals, to the millions of homeless people in the slums around the Verticals. I look toward the Loop, a place for kids who fell foul of a corrupt justice system, no mercy for circumstances.

  For a moment I think, Yeah, bring it all down, but I’m making the same mistake as Happy—I’m looking at humanity as one entity, a uniform species.

  I look toward my old home, the Black Road Vertical, and I think about my mom teaching us sign language, my dad taking us to the river. I look toward City Level Two and remember sneaking into the gated community with my friends to knock on doors and run away. I look to the sky-farms; the hundred-yard-high Ferris wheels that turn night and day, rotating crops in overlapping troughs to feed the entire city, and I think about me and Molly sneaking into a potato trough and being carried high up into the clouds.

  Humans are not cogs in a machine; we are not a hive mind working toward a single goal. We are individuals, each of us different and unique. To wipe us out based on the sum of our parts is to erase the unfathomable beauty that resides in most people. Creativity, capacity to love, ambition, talent, mothers and fa
thers and brothers and sisters. The world was not brought to its knees by the masses; it was forced there by the billionaires, the corporations, the warlords and world leaders who favored profit over life time and time again. No, Happy is not right, no matter how it frames its logic; we are here, now, and we won’t go quietly. The revolution will fight on in Region 9, in Region 26, in Region 40, in Region 71, all over the world. We will not go quietly. And if there are even just a few of them who see me as the symbol of the rebellion, then I will be the symbol of the rebellion.

  A calmness comes over me. Tomorrow is the end of the line, but knowing that I’ll go out fighting makes it okay.

  I get dressed and order food from Happy—it comes to my door by drone five minutes later. I eat and I fall into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  I’m standing in the center of Midway Park and the ground is shaking beneath my feet.

  The recently melted snow has turned the park into a mud pit as thousands of people fight for their lives. Sonic bullets rip through the air. All around me people are crying, screaming, and crawling around in the mud.

  I have to keep moving forward, I have to make it to the stage at the front of the park, but I can’t remember why.

  I push forward, shoving an Alt soldier out of my way.

  Something bad is about to happen, I think, a sense of dread eating at me.

  I keep moving toward the stage, certain that—at any second—the bad thing will come.

  One of the Missing falls down dead in front of me. I step over her and walk on.

  Finally, I make it to the stage. Smoke still billows out of the hole where the bomb detonated.

  What am I looking for? I wonder as I place one hand on the platform and drag myself up.

  Suddenly, the sound of the battle raging behind me stops. No more screams, no more bullets, no more sounds of bodies hitting the ground. Silence.

  I stand up and turn around.

  The sea of fighters has ceased killing. They are all facing me. Those who were dying are dead; those still alive watch me with hope on their faces.

  I’m frozen by the silence, by the expectation, the hope that floats on the light breeze sweeping across the landscape.

  I stare back at them, uncertain of what to do next. And then, from the back of the park, I hear an electronic beep. A single note, echoing through the park. It comes again a few seconds later, and I see, near the back of the crowd, a young man turn to face the sound. The beep comes again, and three more people turn away from me. Another beep; six or seven turn to face it, both Missing and Alt soldiers.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper.

  “You’re supposed to talk,” a voice says.

  I recognize the voice immediately and turn to face Maddox. He stands just offstage, next to one burning curtain.

  “They won’t be able to hear me,” I say, looking at the destroyed microphone and speakers.

  “They’ll hear you,” Maddox says, and smiles.

  The beep comes again; a dozen people turn to face it.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I think aloud, looking out at the silent gathering.

  “Yes, you do,” Maddox replies.

  And from far away, the electronic beep comes again.

  “Maddox,” I say, turning to my friend, “I miss you, man.”

  “I miss you too, Luke,” he says, and I laugh. Maddox had been the only person I ever let call me Luke.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you … I’m sorry.”

  “We knew there would have to be sacrifices if we were going to win this war,” Maddox tells me.

  “It’s all so … so fucking wrong,” I say, feeling tears flowing to my eyes.

  “It’s okay to fear what comes next, to ask yourself, Am I going to be alone again? But remember what you’re dying for: life; evolution; dreams; love. And whether you succeed or not, they will thank you for trying.”

  There’s something about Maddox’s words, the strange way he is speaking, that sparks something in the back of my mind.

  The beep comes again and more turn.

  “I think it’s time,” Maddox says, and then points to the back of the park, where the beeping sound is coming from. “You have to make it stop. No one else can.”

  I look to where he is pointing. When I look back, he’s gone.

  Now almost half the crowd has turned away.

  I step forward, raise both hands in the air, and open my mouth to speak.

  I wake suddenly from the dream.

  Elements of it begin to fall away, but I remember Maddox; I remember the beep.

  Outside the large window, sunlight is beginning to spill across the city.

  I get out of bed and put on the black Alt uniform.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, my door opens and Tyco—eyes still glowing—escorts me to the elevator.

  I step in and he follows. We begin to descend. I turn to him.

  “Do you regret it now, Tyco?” I ask. “Do you regret selling us out in favor of the machines?”

  The lights from the host’s eyes turn to me and I swear I can see agony buried deep down in there.

  We exit into the eerily silent corridor and make our way to the great hall.

  Galen waits behind a podium; his three-dimensional projection stands an unnecessary fifty feet tall. The seats are filled with Alts, all sitting in silence. They turn to face me and watch as I walk down the center aisle. Galen stands on the stage, smiling down at me.

  I climb the steps and stand in the middle of the raised podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Galen says, his voice the tone of a circus ringmaster’s, “today is a very special day. I’m sure all of you recognize the young man who stands before us. This is the great Luka Kane.”

  Derisory laughter and jeers come from the crowd.

  “How dare you laugh?” Galen asks, his voice lowering to a growl. “I say that with not a hint of jest. This remarkable boy, only sixteen years of age, has outsmarted us, broken free of our prisons, avoided capture, and inspired a rebellion. How many here could say they were capable of the same? We must not look down upon the accomplishments of others simply because we do not share the same aspirations.”

  I look around at the crowd. At least a dozen drones hover above their heads, some moving around me, recording me, projecting my image across the empty city for all to see, onto Lenses, SoCom units, screens, Barker Projectors. These images will eventually be seen by Kina, Igby, Molly, Pander, everyone who is still alive.

  “This day is a historic one!” Galen projects, getting into his role now. “This day will go down in Earth’s new history! This day will be remembered forever as the day the fighting came to an end!”

  Happy lets you out of the box for one morning and you really make the most of it, I think, rolling my eyes at Galen’s dramatics.

  “But enough from me,” Galen says, stretching a hand out and gesturing toward me. “We are not gathered here to listen to my words. Luka, if you would?”

  Galen steps back from the podium, his fifty-foot effigy moving simultaneously with him.

  I step forward, moving slowly up to the microphone. I turn around to see that Galen’s gigantic image has been replaced by my own.

  You’re supposed to talk, I think, the words in my head coming through in Maddox’s voice.

  “I … I came here today after meeting with Galen Rye. He took the time to explain to me exactly what it is you are striving for. What you want is a new beginning, a future, a reset for humanity, a chance to start again and get it right. That is an opportunity that is hard to turn your back on, especially when your only other option is death. And yet some chose death. There were Alts, just like you, who listened to the World Government’s plan, their plan to eliminate most of humanity, to eliminate the poor, the infirm, the disadvantaged. And you sat here and watched them die for their empathy. One by one they were brought before you on this stage and they were erased, and you cheered. But you’re the good guys, r
ight? You’re doing the right thing? You’re the ones protected by the future authors of history. No one will remember your wrongdoings, so what does it matter?”

  I sense an unease rippling through the crowd. They are unsure where I’m going with this, unsure what side of the fence I will come down on. I scan their faces, and then I look up at the drones hovering above their heads. All of them are dark, apart from one. I see lights flicker green, pink, orange, red. And I know now is the time.

  “I have something to show you,” I say. “Apple-Moth, when you’re ready.”

  I watch the colorful companion drone zip forward and then rise high above the crowd. A white light emits from it while it connects with the command unit positioned in the ceiling.

  The image behind me changes to that of the room on the top floor of the Arc. Galen sits behind the long table, Maddox beside him.

  “Happy thinks of humankind as a virus,” the projection of Galen says, “but they frame the problem in terms of technology rather than biology. To think of humanity as a computer virus is to hypothesize that it can be reprogrammed.”

  The projection jumps forward, and now the focus is on Maddox, with his glowing eyes.

  “Humans beat dogs to teach them not to bite. Now it’s time something greater than yourselves trained you how to behave.”

  The scene switches again, jumping once more to Galen.

  “People, Luka, are generally idiots,” Galen says, his voice booming over the crowd. I smile as I watch the confused faces exchange glances, and I smile knowing that this is being projected to millions of survivors around the world, survivors on both sides. “Tell them the truth and they’ll skew it to fit their agenda. I’m Galen Rye, voted in by a base of supporters so devoted that I could walk into the West Sanctum Vertical, start executing Regulars, and still win a snap election the next day. In the beginning, Happy needed leaders like me, leaders who could tell their devotees to do what they’re told. The stupidity of the masses, Luka, is not to be underestimated. I preyed on their fears, on their prejudices, on their idiocy. I told them I’d stop migrants taking a chunk out of their subsidy percentage, and they called me a hero. I told them I’d bring back conscription, and they called me a savior. I promised to loosen USW weapons laws, and they chanted my name! Do you think I care about migration? About homelessness? About any of the arbitrary things I’d spout day after day? No! But I knew what the brain-dead hive mind of the people wanted to hear. I manipulated them until they were loyal, dedicated, steadfast. Phase One of Happy’s plan involved poisoning ninety-eight percent of the population of Earth—a thing like that cannot be achieved without people like me at the reins.”