by Glenn Damato
PRAISE FOR THE FAR SHORE
"I give The Far Shore five stars. It rivals The Martian in accuracy, ambition and attitude. It offers hope for humanity at all levels."
Tamara Wilhite, contributor at Liberty Island Magazine
“Gripping and immersive, The Far Shore offers a lot: technology for the hard science fiction fans and tons of heart for all of us.”
Laura Montgomery, author of Mercenary Calling
“Brilliant . . . I admit to having tears in my eyes.”
Jeffery D. Kooistra, author of Dykstra's War
“The Far Shore sucked me in from page one. It really is amazing.”
Sherri Addleston Hilts
“A magnificent story – a soaring feat of imagination, highly suspenseful and utterly gripping.”
Robert Bidinotto, bestselling author of HUNTER
“I was hooked! Damn! The pace is awesome, the suspense is unbeatable, the characters are engaging, the plot is original, the theme is eternal and universal.” Irene Psyhogios
“I'm a techie, and like my science fiction hard, with rivets. Damato has not only done a marvelous job of keeping the reader on the edge of their seat, he's made it all technically solid and credible.” Tom Ligon, Member, Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America
“Whenever I put this book down I couldn't wait to get back to the characters. The story line was gripping and made me late for meetings and kept me up late reading more than a couple times.” Mark Bottorff
“Damato masterfully reins together the emotional titans of hope and fear through the eyes of a young girl.”
Joel S. Copeland
"Kept me riveted. Damato expertly blends science fiction with an all too possible future."
Edmond Schuebert
“As an avid sci-fi reader I could barely put this book down. I commend the intriguing characters and I hope there will be sequels coming out soon!”
Karin B. Divens
"This is a great read . . . I gobbled it up."
Khan Griffith
THE FAR SHORE
Glenn Damato
www.ninthcirclepress.com
Copyright © 2019 Glenn Michael Damato.
All rights reserved.
Published by
Ninth Circle Press
578 Washington Blvd 920
Los Angeles, CA 90292
This title is available in paperback and audio editions.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written consent of the publisher, unless by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages. Please do not participate in or encourage theft of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Damato, Glenn
The Far Shore / Glenn Damato
ISBN-13: 978-0-9858162-3-0 ISBN-10: 0-9858162-3-6
Science fiction, hard science fiction, dystopian fiction, space travel, space colonization, Mars colonization
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019909929
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by KarrieRoss.com
To Mike, Adam, Jim, Anna, and the rest of
the gang at MicroStrategy, for giving me
my shot even though I didn’t belong there.
PART I
AS ONE
ONE
My worst crime is I say things people don’t want to hear. The punishments are bearable, but why should words be a crime? I mean, it’s my mouth, and my brain.
I’ll never shut up. My long history of misconduct has scarcely begun.
Imagine there’s a tiny man sitting on your shoulder. He watches everything you do and listens to everything you say. He’ll hurt you the instant you make him angry. The little bastardo never goes away, not even for a second.
That’s my life, today and every day.
Look, I’m not crazy. I know there’s no tiny man sitting on my shoulder. The Autoridad doesn’t need him; they have infinite microscopic devices to supervise me. The autosystems watch and listen and understand, just like people. Did you know the Autoridad operates the smartest autosystems that ever existed? I can’t fool them. I can’t even see them. And they never leave me alone.
The result? As of this morning my Trust Score stands at 208, only eight points above the lowest possible number. All I need to do is piss them off a bit more to reach rock bottom. My life is hostage to that Score because it controls everything I can and cannot do. I’m expected to conform my behavior and raise my number, but I refuse to play their game.
What do they expect? I wasn’t born to be watched and operated like a machine.
I do have some freedom. Eggs or Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast? I can freely choose either one and it won’t drop my Trust Score.
There are seven of us crammed into a type-C municipal unit: me, a quad of adults, plus two little niños. Usually they’re all late sleepers, but Dottie must have smoked some kind of potent shab because she’s dancing circles across the living room, her bony legs nimbly jumping over the clothes and other junk scattered on the floor. Why is she out of bed before the kids? And lit-up before twelve?
I need to cook, but Dottie spins into the kitchen and bounces her hip against the stove. She sniffs and blinks at me with tearful eyes. “I’m mandated. Say goodbye to sweet little Dot.”
My heart jumps. Shit. “Mandated to where?”
She skips off without answering, so I flick to her Stream display. The mandate notice came two hours ago but there’s no information about where they’re taking her. That’s bad. She’s probably going to Coachella Center. The Centers are supposed to teach hygiene, language skills, interpersonal relations, plus correct wrong behavior and bad thinking. That’s mainly lies. They’re places of pain and hunger, and if people do come back they can hardly bear to be alive. I’ve seen it.
Dottie is a typical micro-brained nada, a nothing. Nadas exist to sleep, game, screw, and smoke shab. What did she say that got her mandated? Maybe nothing. No matter. She’s gone. No more letting her braid my hair while we laugh over the ridiculous lies of her treacherous lovers.
Six years, Dottie and me. She’s the one who taught me the particulars when I had my first period. Dottie, one of the few I ever let help me, maybe the most childlike adult I know.
She’s mandated, and I’m not. Now that’s freaked.
Dottie dances, and I fry peppers and eggs. My two sleepy niños shuffle into the kitchen. Nathan, no taller than my elbow, sets out three plates and forks. I pick up the skillet and give the eggs a final toss. “Isabel, why such a sad face on this beautiful sunny day?”
“Nathan, he hid my shoe," the niñita growls. She narrows her eyes and turns toward her older brother. "Put it in the sink, got it wet.”
I point the spatula at Nathan in mock scolding. “Next time you feel like hiding a shoe, why don't you take one of mine?”
He sinks into his chair. “Qué noooo!”
“Smart decision, hombrecito.” I scoop eggs onto plates. “Might need to kype something of his, Isabel, just so he—”
A motion just outside the kitchen window. I keep my voice cool to avoid alarming the children. “So he knows what it feels like.”
I dump the skillet on the stove and steal a second glance out the window. A three-legged spotter stalks across the backyard like a predatory beast. It’s robotic cameras peer through the window and study my face. I sit and fork eggs into my mouth as if nothing is happening.
The front door opens and the spotter struts inside wi
th its spidery way of moving. Charlie, our liver-colored spaniel, bolts toward the safety of my bedroom. Strange how most pets never get used to ground spotters, while the youngest niños ignore them as a mundane part of life. Sensors check everywhere for weapons or some other trouble. For our own safety, of course.
We eat our eggs in silence.
Dottie lets out a long breath and covers her eyes.
The spotter strides down the hallway. I throw my plate into the sink and follow it. The obnoxious thing goes straight for my room. Charlie scoots past me and zips out the front door. Not supposed to watch spotters, but so what? I swallow and clench my fists as it scans my dresser. They can see through everything, and always know exactly where to look. At least it doesn’t open the bottom drawer.
Lady voices from the kitchen, soft feminine assurances. Two grinning Policía with their hands outstretched in the usual I am your friend trick.
Policía de Seguridad del Estado—State Security Police—the muscle of the Autoridad. They’re always oh-so-sweet, but that’s just to make us forget they can take away everything we ever imagined for our lives. These two darlings are in the new style lavender uniform, smooth and spotless, with insignia on the sleeves: a fisted hand clutching a red rose with green petals.
The shorter, black-haired Policía is fat enough to be a sumo wrestler. She holds out packets of shab as gifts.
That means trouble.
The taller Policía has a giant nose shaped like a beak. She nods at me and the kids, then smiles at Dottie. “Saludos, señora Jenson. Did you say goodbye to your friends?”
No accent. She’s an Alta California native.
Dottie blinks her eyes at the shab but for some reason doesn’t grab it. She whispers, “I need my sweater.”
“Nothing required for you to bring,” Sumo Wrestler snaps. An emblem on her collar shows her homeland is Korea.
“I’ll allow it,” Beak Nose says.
Dottie faces me. She’s tearing up again. “A friend to bring me peace and set me free. Adiós, chica. Te amo.” She disappears down the hallway with her fingers pressed against both cheeks.
I need words, but nothing comes out of my mouth. Who is her friend to set her free? Why did she just tell me goodbye and she loves me before going into her bedroom?
To escape the mandate the only way she can.
Shit shit shit shit.
My stomach heaves and I’m going to lose those eggs. I can’t stop my feet from moving. The spotter reacts first. It steps behind me and I brace for a hit. Never been hit and I sure don’t want it, but I’m going after Dottie.
The Policía must have signaled the spotter to lay off because I make it to Dottie’s doorway. She slides into the bed where Nick and Chloe are asleep. In her fingers, a little pink vase. Those pink vases! Everybody over fourteen keeps one in their bedroom in plain sight. It’s required.
I can jump across the room and knock it from her hand. The spotter will hit me, but so what? If I can get the vase away from her, even for a few seconds, maybe she’ll slow down and think.
But all I do is stand in the doorway, because I’m a fucking coward.
“Dottie . . .” My big mouth fails me. That mouth of mine, always ready, now goes to shit.
Beak Nose says, “Cristina, step back. Do not interfere. Be silent.”
I can’t stop Dottie. I’d be mandated on the spot. What would happen to my niños? Who would feed them, care for them, love them?
Dottie nestles against Nick. She pulls the fake white rose from the vase. Two pills, one white and one red. She pushes the white pill through her lips. The promise is five minutes of joy, followed by a sweet and painless death. The red pill is the antidote in case you change your mind.
“Cristina, step back.”
I say it low, but I say it. “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”
“Cristina! Final warning. Step back.”
Dottie strokes Nick’s mat of chest hair. He yawns wide enough to show a row of broken teeth. He knows, and he does nothing.
Shit, Dottie. Shit.
I need to get back to my niños. I need to scream. I need to spit on these two putas. I need to shove their spotter up both their anos.
But my niños. Still at the table picking at their eggs, quiet as angels. I slip both hands into my pockets so they can’t see my fingers trembling. In a few minutes I’ll walk them to school and everything will be back to normal.
The spotter struts to the other side of the kitchen so it can watch me better. The Policía come close to my niños, too close, touching distance. There’s a new rock in my gut.
Beak Nose tells me, “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”
They’re going to steal them from me.
I rap my knuckles on the kitchen table. “Nathan!”
He flinches, startled.
“Take your sister, get ready for school.”
Beak Nose waves her hand. “No school today.”
I glare at Nathan. “Rápido!”
They run off. The heap of eggs remaining on Isabel’s plate. A perfect four-sided pyramid of yellow.
The Policía brandish the grim look of official business. The spotter creeps up to me and positions its arm near my chest, a clear message. I face Beak Nose. Her eyes are green and soft, and for an instant I don’t believe she can destroy my life, this ordinary flesh-and-blood person who looks like anybody’s sister or best friend. But she can. The insignia on her shoulder proves it.
Go ahead, Beak. Get in the first word.
“This unit is below minimum adult occupancy. I’m pulling them to state care.”
“No reason for that. They don’t even know Dottie’s their mother.”
Now we stare, the two of us, woman-to-woman. The Policía heard me say an unacceptable word, mother. To their faces. Mother, father. Those words have been stolen from us. We can’t say them out loud. This will lead to a Better World.
Beak blinks fast. She has no comeback at all? My Trust Score is steady at 208. After saying mother. But I’m just getting started.
“I care for them. I’m the only one who washes them and hugs them in the night. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Sumo shakes her head. “You are a child.”
“I’m seventeen. Don’t hit shab. I already do all the work around here.” I jab my index finger toward the plates. “Who do you think feeds them?”
They flick through my Stream. Pics of the Skylon II engine nozzles and heat shield flaps. Drawings of the JAXA single-stage-to-orbit vehicle. Do they understand my dream? Tracked for University. Beijing or Tokyo or Bangalore. Aerospace engineer. A future life designing spacecraft instead of watching them from the ground.
But there’s that 208 Trust Score.
“We understand your feelings,” Sumo counters. “However, we have only limited ability to change—”
“You have the discretion!”
Beak nods as if she finally understands my 208 Score. I create discord. Her phony smile comes back. “My discretion is to pull the children for their own health and safety.”
“You want them?”
Smile gone, just like that. “We want to secure . . .”
I stretch my arms across the hallway to block access to the bedrooms. The spotter takes three steps to get in a better position to hit me. Beak and I lock eyes. This will take more. That’s fine. “We both want those kids. But I want them more than you do.”
She sputters but can’t figure out what to say. The spotter raises its arm. I’m right on the edge of turning into a physical threat, so I may get hit for the first time, after all. That would be fine, too.
“Cristina, stop this. Sit down and be quiet.”
“Will you leave my kids with me? I’m not moving, so the burden of action is on you. Hit me, mandate me, or leave.”
Sumo looks ready to faint from the sheer stress of dealing with this fifty-five-kilo girl. She stammers, “Remember what happens to you if you don’t obey us. It is required.”
&nbs
p; “I don’t care. Can’t you see that? Look, this is simple. If you want those kids, if you really want them, hit me. Hit me, mandate me, then come up with some reason to explain why you lost control of the situation. Because that’s what you’re going to have to do. I want them that bad. You’re not taking those kids while I’m still standing.”
I mean it. Beak Nose gets that.
Sumo turns to Beak. “Stun her? Do you authorize?”
The spotter waits for the order. How much is this going to hurt?
We’re back to staring. Beak Nose thinks and thinks hard. Policía are supposed to avoid hits, maintain control with smiles and words. It’s easier, quicker, less risk of trouble—and even the Autoridad prefers to avoid trouble.
She shakes her head, and the tension leaves her face. “I’m marking this unit a quad. I find those kids hungry, they’re pulled. Do you understand that? I’ll let you win this one. Don’t screw it up.”
I want to reach out and grab her hand, but it’s not allowed—the spotter will automatically hit me if I touch her.
“From my heart. Gracias, mi capitán.”
I bow my head in fake respect as they leave. The spotter follows them out, and it even closes the door. Other spotters will come later for Dottie’s removal.
But I have this much: For once the Autoridad didn’t get to control me. And I told two Policía they can basically go fuck themselves.
The niños are in their room. They’re dressed for school, but huddling in the corner as if hiding from a dangerous animal. Nathan’s face shines with wet.
They’re in my arms, and the three of us hug tight. “I’m proud of my little chiquillos.” I bury my face in Isabel’s brown curls so they can absorb the moisture from my eyes.