Serpent and the Sun, Cptr. 4 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.

The old MTA line flew beneath the hood of Blake’s float as the City of New York grew to fill his horizon. He was well below the civil traffic height; rarely did he chance to travel that high. It was dangerous to drive a float so close to the ground, for a number of reasons. But of that number, the ones that ended in injury or death were useless, and the remaining reasons could be overcome with skill.

Blake smiled as he negotiated an old rail-car, picked apart by scavengers. He had a rational reason for driving so close to the earth. His float had a cloak, but they weren’t too reliable at altitude. The UEC’s detection systems were sharp enough to notice the “shadow” of a cloaked float. But it couldn’t pick up “shadows” when the distance between the hull of the float and the ground was less than six feet. Yet at over three hundred miles-an-hour, six feet was that many feet over the border of reckless.

Manhattan was eerie. Blake had spent a lot of time there, and that impression clung to him like the mud that lined the streets. The city had a history centuries old that ended, more or less, with the arrival of Hurricane Karl twenty years ago. Karl was the first in a long line of Category 6 hurricanes to strike the east coast. Some had argued that Karl was a Category 7 in the ocean, but that was arguable. There was no rating for 7s, but it most certainly struck Manhattan as a strong Category 6.

A six or a seven, it didn’t matter; the city was destroyed. The contents of skyscrapers were blown out shattered windows, ending up in the rivers that were once the busiest streets of America. Despite the warnings, millions stayed behind in the five boroughs. There was never a death count, but likely it was millions. By the time Karl arrived, the United States had bankrupted itself through wars. The city was never rebuilt.

Blake flew under a tunnel. He never used the scanner, though he could get away with it underground. In fact it was more dangerous not to use it in the tunnel. Many of the tunnels weren’t cleared; subway cars hunkered down like ghost-trains. To Blake, they were just hurdles in an obstacle course; just another chance to sharpen his driving skills.

He made his way to a place they used to call Harlem, dodging abandoned cars, buses and debris as he cruised over the swamp to the western edge of the island. The coastline had encroached upon the city, and the only way Blake knew it was the edge was the lack of buildings any further west.

New York was one of the few undergrounds that existed above-ground. It was essentially a squat operation, and Blake could remember a number of buildings; the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, the Chrysler Building, and of course, the New York Public Library. Most undergrounds were based around libraries, like New Rochester. But the City wasn’t like New Rochester; the library wound up relocated when the UEC targeted it. The current base of the New York resistance was, fittingly, the Freedom Tower. It was the newest skyscraper, the last one erected in New York before Karl blew in.

Blake drove in as low as he could. The UEC scanned New York frequently, and he wasn’t looking to deal with them there. The place was ugly enough. There was a large hollowed-out area on the second floor. It was now the loading-dock, and the water-line made it the ground floor. Blake tied the float, leaving the UFM field on. The float hovered serenely over the water. He could always have it re-charged when he finished his visit.

He stepped into the new lobby. It was a shambles, with office furniture mangled around paint-worn steel support columns. Blake could see protruding cloth, and he didn’t have to guess what was actually making the cloth stick out. The resistance in New York had a habit of leaving the lower floors in the condition they’d found them in, bodies and all. Blake took a whiff, and could tell at least one of the bodies wasn’t original. The floor had a small slick of water coating it; that and the smell of the corpse formed a good enough Keep Out sign. Blake walked over to the corpse, catching a glance at the perimeter of the office space. He knew he was being watched.

He knelt over the most recent corpse. It was a man; young looking, with a rough black beard and a tattoo on his neck. He recognized it; he had one. He pulled up the wrist to see that a patch of skin was cut out with the precision of a human being. The body reeked of decay and rat piss, and when he moved the wrist, rat turds rolled down the black UEC jacket it had on.

“He got here yesterday.” A familiar voice said from near the stairwell. Blake could smell the pipe-tobacco smoke. Donnie.

“Get this jacket off him.” Blake said.

Donnie walked closer. Blake could see a fresh scar over his left brow.

“You’re not sentimental about it, are you?” He asked.

Blake gave him a cold stare. Sentimental.

“He’s only a scout, Donnie…” Blake said, his eyes returning to the body. “If y’all were smart, you’d burn the body and the jacket.” He lifted he black fabric, swiping over the logo with his thumb. “They’re gonna’ send more of ‘em, Don’; this one’s just a scout.”

Donnie drew in a cloud from the pipe, releasing the sweet fragrance. Blake hated the blend; he’d smelt it before. But he hated decomposition, and he’d smelt that before. In a choice between the two, he’d choose Donnie’s pipe-smoke.

“How do you know?” Donnie said between puffs. “…that he’s a scout, that is…”

“He’s dead.”

“Yeah, well it took almost everything we had…”

“Let me correct myself,” Blake said, “He’s dead… and in one piece.”

Donnie looked over the body. “You think they’ll send more?”

“Count on it.” Blake said. “Burn this body, Don’. They’re not just marked at the wrist anymore. They’re nano-infused; that means every ounce is marked.”

Donnie sighed. “Good to see ya, Blake.”

Blake let out a laugh. “Never thought I’d appreciate that nasty pipe tobacco…”

Donnie called out for help on an old communicator, the kind used for private networks. Blake didn’t hear the whole thing, but he knew it to be a clean-up call.

“How’s Mike?” He said when he got a confirmation beep.

“Dying, we think.”

“How?” Donnie scratched his chin with the communicator. “Isn’t he…”

“He’s supposed to be,” Blake answered. “But he’s been degrading…”

“Can’t the nano, ya’ know… fix him?” Donnie was just getting used to infused people. He’d never seen one before Mike and Blake that wasn’t trying to kill him.

“We think it’s the nano that’s doing it.” Blake said. He looked around the apocalyptic office space. “Ya’ mind if we get up out of here?”

They took one of the stairwells to the thirty-fifth floor. That was the command and control center they’d set up. It looked like it could be packed upon a moment’s notice, and often they were. Blake walked in to see a small group of people, some of whom he knew. It wasn’t the whole group; they’d be dispersed throughout the upper floors.

Donnie’s wife, Claire was sitting by a monitor screen, and his two sons were running around. They froze when they saw Blake. He had that effect on children. He used to attribute it to being infused, but Michael was infused, and kids loved him. Donnie led them into a conference room, where they sat down to an impromptu meeting.

“So what brings ya’ back here today?” asked Donnie as he handed Blake a pre-rolled cigarette. In the past, a plastic rolling machine was the price of a few packs of rolled cigarettes. Now they were the only thing rarer than tobacco itself. Donnie had one, and he treasured it. Blake grabbed it, lighting off of a candle in a hurricane lamp.

“We think the UEC’s up to something.” Blake said.

“Aren’t they always?”

“Not normal shit,” Blake replied, “Something else; a big move. The entire board met on it.”

“How do you know?” Claire knocked on the door, but Donnie waved her off. “What do you know, maybe is what I should ask?”

“They’re getting’ tired of the Sanctuaries, Don,” Blake said after a deep drag, “they want out.”

“Okay, so…?”

“They don’t think the planet’s big enough for both them and us.”

Donnie tapped the edge of the pipe with his finger. “So what are they planning to do?” He said.

“We don’t know for sure.” Blake said. “But we think it has something to do with a virus.” He tapped his ash on the outer edge of the hurricane lamp.

“Michael and I are both infused,” he continued, “but Michael wasn’t born in a Sanctuary; I was.”

“You think you should both be sick?”

Blake leaned back in his seat. “I don’t know, I guess so…” He said. “He got sick as soon as we intercepted the minutes from Everest.”

“Everest?” Donnie said. “Jesus…”

“I told you it was big.” Donnie looked out the window next to the front door. Claire was keeping the kids occupied. His eyes met hers, and Blake knew she saw fear in them.

“We’re attacking Denali.” Blake said after a moment of silence.

“Will it help?”

“No one knows for sure,” Blake answered, “But Everest sent instructions there as soon as they made the order.”

“HAARP have anything to do with this?” Donnie asked.

“Even if it doesn’t, we gotta’ take it out if we wanna’ hit Denali.” Blake grabbed another rolled cigarette from the case on the table. Donnie smoked pipes; the cigs were for guests.

“So what do you need from me?” Donnie asked. Blake passed a crumpled piece of paper across the table. Donnie flattened it out and laughed.

“That’ll fill your float, for sure…”

“Oh yeah,” Blake said, “I’ll need a recharge on that, too.”

They walked out of the conference room into the main office. The outer windows were blown, and the bitter smell of acid blew in through the open cavity. Blake thought of the corpse downstairs.

“You guys might want to find another spot soon.” He said.

***

“Confusion.”

Jameson wiped sweat from his brow. He’d been teaching Adam for the past three days. It had gone surprisingly well; Adam was indeed designed for complexity. He could hardly remember a human student that learned so quickly. Yet for the past four hours, he’d been met with that one word, confusion, incessantly.

Jameson was born in 1997. He was four, a kindergartener in the Bronx when the Twin Towers were destroyed. The wars, the collapse, the split, the impact; he lived through them all. He was a historian, capable of reciting three thousand years of human activity. Yet somehow he was at a loss to explain a history of which he had first-hand experience.

“Ask questions.” Jameson said. That was what he’d say to Adam, who would then ask a series of questions pertaining to the source of his confusion.

“The civil war in the 1860s was comprised of the Northern states versus the Southern states, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And the Southern states seceded,” Adam continued, “Correct?”

“Correct.” Jameson repeated.

Adam paused.

“Why did the central states secede after the collapse?” He said. Jameson looked to see a millennial political map where Adam’s face normally was.

“Did Michael give that to you?”

“Yes.” Adam said. “It’s the only map I have of the United States.”

“Oh.” Jameson tapped his fingers along the edge of his desk. “Very complex, Adam…”

“I can do complex…”

“For me, I mean,” Jameson replied. He let out a sigh. “I lived through this; not like the original civil war.”

“Then shouldn’t you know it better?”

Jameson laughed. “Good question.” He said. “Yes and no.”

“Confusion.”

“I understand.” Jameson got out of his seat and started pacing the fourth floor.

“That map you had,” he said, “was a political map. The red areas represented Republican areas, and the blue areas represented Democratic areas.”

“What was the difference?” Adam had a confused look on his face.

“At the highest levels, there wasn’t any,” Jameson replied, “In fact; both parties were instrumental in the creation of the UEC.” Jameson picked up an old leather-bound book. “But they were very good at tricking the poorer people.”

“How so?” Jameson was happy not to hear the word confusion.

“There were cultural differences in the country, largely between urban and rural populations.” Jameson explained. “The Republican party pretended to champion the rural populations, and the Democrats pretended to champion the urban populations.”

“You said pretended?” Adam again looked confused.

“Yeah, pretended,” Jameson went on, “Both parties worked for big corporations, but those corporations couldn’t elect them, or keep them in office. They needed the poor for that; the voters.”

“How did they do it?” Adam asked. “Trick the poor?”

“They couldn’t do it alone,” Jameson replied. “They needed the help of the press. So the corporations bought it out.”

“The press? What’s that?” Adam asked.

“Television, newspapers, the internet,” Jameson said, “They all stopped running after Apep hit, but before that they controlled the flow of information in the U.S.”

“Hell, the whole world…” He murmured.

“Confusion.”

“Ask questions…”

“Why did people use a press?” Adam asked. “Did they know it was property?”

“Yes, Adam, most people knew the press was property,” he answered, “but for a while the internet wasn’t owned; the problem went deeper than that.”

“Confusion.”

“At the beginning of the twenty-first century, people had more access to information and knowledge than in any other time in human history,” Jameson paced the small corridor as he explained, “yet through the century, the percentage of people who actually sought the knowledge, tried to access the information was the lowest of any point in history.”

The room was silent. Jameson hoped not to hear the word confusion right then.

“So people could get the truth?” Adam asked,

“Yes, they could.”

“And they chose to believe the ones trying to trick them?”

Jameson felt ashamed, as though he had to speak for his whole race.

“Yeah, Adam,” he said, “they did.”

“Why?”

“A couple of reasons, I guess…” Jameson said. “People stopped valuing the truth. If they could get away with believing the lie, they did.”

“What did they value?” Jameson was proud that Adam was using confusion less. Unfortunately, it was at the expense of his view of humanity.

Jameson sat back down, letting out a breath as he swallowed his pride.

“Material things,” He said, “Money, gadgetry, looks, appearances; what have you… there was also a fantasy element that people valued, like an escapism.”

“Confusing…”

“Are you saying confusion?”

“No,” Adam responded from his digital world. “Just, confusing…”

“What, may I ask, is the difference?”

“I can’t think of any questions to ask,” he said, “none that you could answer…”

“I see.” Jameson was oddly relieved. “Perhaps we should pick this up tomorrow?”

“I’d like that.” Adam responded. Jameson smiled.

“Good night, Adam.” Jameson said before turning the switch that put Adam to sleep.

Too bad I don’t have a switch like that, he thought to himself.

***

Gerhardt sat outside the Executive Boardroom with his head slumped down, arms folded. Two armed guards stood in front of the door; a show of ostentation, wholly unnecessary. The Sanctuary was one giant sensor, completely controlled by the men gathered behind the mahogany doors. No one would dare to attack the board members, not least by reason of the fact that they were infused. Nothing short of a bomb could hurt them, and nothing of that description would’ve made it as far as the seat in which Gerhardt sat.

It wasn’t only futility that kept the lower tiers from barging into this section of the Sanctuary. Gerhardt thought of a conversation he had with his neighbor in college, Albrecht Ralstein. Gerhardt was ever the young revolutionary, full of sharp rhetoric to rouse the rabble into taking a stand against the tier system. But Gerhardt was also ever frustrated when the liquid courage of the weekend parties evaporated come Monday morning. As he’d complain to Al, he’d get more or less the same response.

“It works for them,” he’d say, “If it worked for you, you’d be just like ‘em.”

Gerhardt protested every time. Every time except one; the last time he’d seen Al. The only thing different that time was a girl; a girl who made it work for him. A girl whose father would soon be walking out of the doors in front of him. His hands were shaking, and a cold sweat left his forehead in a haze at the thought of what he was about to do.

He could hear the sound of the Presidents grumbling on the other side of the door. The guards slid to the sides as the doors burst open. Gerhardt recognized a few of the Presidents, even waving to Harold Greenfield. The board had one member each from the lower tiers. Harold was the member from his tier. He also recognized John May, the member representing the lowest tier. Elle told him once that the First Tier member was always kept out of the loop. Gerhardt waved to him, though he didn’t know the man. Finally, one of the last men out was Elle’s father. He shot a cold, hard glance at Gerhardt before turning back to the man he was talking to, Neal Durham. Durham was the President of the Pacific Sanctuary, which made him an actual board member of the UEC.

Gerhardt waited patiently until Elle’s father started for his office. He had to pass by Gerhardt to get there. As he walked by, Gerhardt stared at him, to see if he’d be acknowledged. He wasn’t, and Elle’s father walked right by him without saying a word. Gerhardt waited until he turned the corner before he got up to follow. Gerhardt found it funny that her father didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. What cockiness.

He had just about shut his office door when Gerhardt finally spoke up.

“Mr. Renier, I need to talk to you.”

Elle’s father looked at him with surprise. “Mr. Renier?” He said. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“Sir, I’m sorry about the other day.” Mr. Renier had no intention of inviting Gerhardt in. Neither did Gerhardt have any intention of removing his foot from the doorway. Finally, Elle’s father gave in, walking over to his desk in a de facto invitation.

“I would accept your apology,” he said, “but I’m afraid I won’t be giving you my blessing, as before.”

“I understand, sir,”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He eyed Gerhardt suspiciously. “So why are you here?”

“So much for the small-talk,” Gerhardt sighed softly as he approached the desk, reaching into his shirt and tossing a crumpled collection of papers on the green felt. Mr. Renier fiddled through them in bewilderment.

“What is this?” He said, holding up the papers in his clenched fist.

“I need your help”

“Why would I help you?” He said. “After what you did, recording me without my knowledge the other day, filling my daughter’s head with all kinds of nonsense! What have you done to deserve my help?”

“Elle is willing to give up her birthright to be with me. You don’t want that,” Gerhardt said, “…and neither do I.”

Mr. Renier held up the papers. “And what, might I ask, is the purpose of these?”

Gerhardt walked over to the side of the desk.

“She’s not gonna’ let it go,” said Gerhardt, “not while I’m here. Those are the blueprints of the base level, as I’m sure you can recognize…” Gerhardt knew Mr. Renier had never been down there in his pampered life.

“What does this have to do with Elle?” He asked. “I don’t understand…”

Gerhardt pointed to the sub-level docking station.

“I want out of here.” Gerhardt said. “I know I’d never get a pass out from the top,” he pointed above, “but I can get a pass out on a maintenance pod.”

“So that’s it, huh?” Mr. Renier looked at the papers. “I get you a job here, somehow, get you a pass out, and you leave my daughter alone?”

“Mr. Renier, sir, I love her,” Gerhardt replied, “and I always will. But I’m not about to see her throw away the rest of eternity for me.”

Gerhardt walked to the window. The hurricane was still in full force.

“You’ve had me all wrong,” Gerhardt said, “I didn’t fall in love with Elle so I could get ahead, climb the ladder, as you’ve said before.”

He looked over. A tear hung on his lower lid. “I fell in love despite all that.”

In the whole time Gerhardt had known Mr. Renier, he’d never seen anything resembling warmth. But just then, as he cast his teary gaze back toward the tempest, he felt a hand on his back.

“Maybe I misjudged you, Gerhardt,” he said, “and if it were in my power, Elle would’ve had my blessing.”

“I know, sir…”

Gerhardt waited for a moment, taking in a scenic view he’d not likely see again. He then turned to leave.

“Gerhardt, if you’d like, I can get you into one of the other Sanctuaries,” Mr. Renier said, “I have a connection in Denali…”

“That’s ok, sir,” Gerhardt replied, “I’d rather be away from the Sanctuary system.”

“It’s your choice, son.”

Gerhardt looked back at Mr. Renier as he reached the door. He forced a weak smile.

“I know, sir.”

***

Sarah was thrust back into her seat as Michael floored the accelerator. Instinctively her hand went back to secure Daniel, who was sitting in the back seat. She glanced back to see him overjoyed at the unexpected adventure. Sarah herself was mildly shell-shocked.

“What are you doing!?!” She shouted, “Are you trying to kill us?”

“I’m not.” He replied, and then he pushed the float to go even faster.

“Why are you driving so low?” She could see the sun-burnt grass in the front light-strip. Way too low for their speed.

Michael banked hard-right, straightened out, and then hard left. Sarah could’ve sworn she saw the silhouette of an old, rusted land-vehicle fly by them. She tried to follow it with her eyes, looking at in the back window. Daniel’s own eyes were wide. The last time she saw him with that expression was when she took him to the Apep crater. She turned around, fully expecting to read Michael the riot act, when the car was surrounded by slivers of bright blue light. They emanated from the sky, and every point of ground they touched was liquefied. She could feel heat like the midday sun.

“What the hell was that?” Sarah was trembling.

“Ya’ remember that thing that blew up your house?” Sarah nodded.

“That was another one.”

“Oh, no…” she checked Daniel, who was still enjoying the show. “Why?”

“Let’s get out of the firing range first,” Michael said, “Then I’ll tell you.”

Michael took a series of hard turns, angling the float to climb a small ridge.  His cloak was on the fritz; hard to fix illegal modifications in hostile turf. Another flash of light splinters cascaded around the float, one of them igniting shrubbery as they passed it by.

“See how it’s not a single pulse?” He said as he pointed to the next one, as if he knew it was coming. Sarah just nodded blankly.

“It’s not trying to do that,” he said, “It’s trying to come down as one pulse, to nail us, but it can’t.” He smiled. He must be having a blast, she thought, good for him.

“Ya’ know, I really don’t care…” she said.

“You should,” Michael replied, “This isn’t all they’re gonna’ throw at us.” Suddenly Sarah heard a loud clap of thunder.

“Oh, great,” she said, “Now we gotta drive through a storm.”

“Not exactly,” Michael said. He released his harness with one hand as he held the steering control with the other. “You have to drive, and that’s not a storm…”

“What!?!” Sarah exclaimed, “Wait; I can’t drive this thing!”

“Have you ever used a steering control like this?” He tipped up the steering control, a black bar with fine-pressure sensors. Sarah had driven a float with that type of control before, but never like a maniac at ground level.

“Yeah, but,”

Michael handed her the steering control, and he climbed out of the drivers’ side window, hopping up on the roof. She started driving; there wasn’t anything else she could do. Daniel was in the car, and she wasn’t about to get in a wreck.

“Go faster!” She could hear Michael scream. She was about to scream back, telling him to go fuck himself, but at that moment, a flash ten times brighter that the slivers hit the side of the ridge. Lightning. Daniel screamed, as did she. She didn’t know what to do aside from push the float to the limit.

Another flash lit the night sky. Though only a millisecond, Sarah noticed that it had a spiral path, surrounding the float before it burned the ground. She’d never seen that before. She didn’t have time to marvel at it, because just then a burst of wind assaulted the car from the front. She swerved, and the roof vibrated with the sound of Michael, presumably grabbing onto it.

“God-damnit!” Sarah heard, “Keep her steady!”

“Sorry!” Jesus, she thought.

She kept her cool, holding the bar at a flat angle. The wind picked up, making it more and more difficult. Any slight deviation from perfectly flat, and the wind seemed to exploit it, as if it were trying to get her to flip over. The wind was then accompanied by hail stones; first small ones, then larger ones, until they were of lethal size. They would too have been lethal, were it not for the fact that they were shattering within a yard or two of the float. Sarah didn’t know how, but it seemed that something was protecting them from the weather outside.

And just as fast as it all began, it ceased. Everything; the wind, the hail, the thunder, slivers of light disappeared into a quiet Wyoming night.

“Stop the float!” Michael shouted, and Sarah was happy to oblige. She saw the silhouette of his frame drop off the roof. Once Sarah had slid over out of his seat he hopped back in. He was torn up. Bloody, bruised, broken; it was as if he’d taken on the whole storm himself, absorbing every blow. Maybe he had.

“Are you okay?” She asked him.

“I will be.” He said. “I just need time.”

“Wow!” said Daniel. He leaned up from the back seat. “Are you a super-hero?”

“Now Daniel, there are no such thing as super-heroes,” Sarah said.

Michael looked back, shaking his head yes and winking. Daniel laughed.

“Don’t encourage him,” she said.

“You want I should bring my cape next time?” She looked over at him, and was surprised that she could actually see him healing.

“I want there not to be a next time.” She said as they took the float off road and, hopefully, off-radar.

***

Kenny shivered as hot blood cooled to ice down his arm. He couldn’t dress the wound; the only dressing he had was full of nano-particles. He could be tracked with their presence, and the point of cutting his wrist was to remove the geo-locator that was tracking him. Everyone in the protected area had one. It was positioned within micrometers of the artery to discourage its removal. Not that it was often removed; payment accounts and float licenses were linked to it. Kenny spent a solid half-hour delicately slicing out the silver splinter.

He had to get to sector 32-18. He had no idea what was there, but Dalton wouldn’t have mentioned it without reason. It was almost halfway between Anchorage and the HAARP complex, and he had no way to get there short of stealing a float. He knew how to evade detection with them, but his own float was UEC Provisional issue, fully loaded. If Kenny was to escape Anchorage alive, he’d have to trade comfort for anonymity.

He had his route picked out. He’d take the Old Glenn Highway as far as he could before it became Route 1. As such, it would veer off from the rebel-held Gateway, a town that once held a few thousand residents. Unfortunately, the route would take him directly through rebel-held Palmer, where, a few days ago, he, Dalton and their unit had fought the rebels from both towns. He just hoped he wouldn’t be recognized… or anticipated. Kenny dryly chuckled at the thought that he’d either be seen as an enemy or a liability.

HAARP’s aurora bathed the window of the lodge in red, illuminating Kenny’s body slumped on the side of the bed. The maid wouldn’t be happy; the sheets, pillows and part of the carpet were stained with blood. Not too bad, though. He knew she’d seen worse. This was where all the newly-hunted criminals stayed before joining the rebel club. It was the only lodge in the protected area that took hard currency, mainly gold. It was also within a hundred yards of the Anchorage perimeter.

Kenny knew about the place; all the Security Force did, Dalton too. They could’ve called it in, had the place destroyed, but they didn’t. They viewed it as an intelligence asset. They’d never even go in there, just sit in the bluff across the street, float touching the ground to ensure full silence as they conducted their surveillance. Once their marks would leave, they’d call it in, and wait in anticipation for the new fugitive to cross the perimeter line and get evaporated from above. Now Kenny was the fugitive.

He looked at the simple cloth knapsack on the chair by the door. His father gave it to him when he was a little boy. It was the last thing he got from his father before Apep hit. His dad was working the skiffs that night, and he got blown out of the air by the electro-magnetic pulse the asteroid produced. In the panic that followed, it was a week before Kenny knew his dad was dead. So much had changed in his life since then. So much in the world had changed.

Apep struck an area that was once called Nicaragua. It was an equatorial country, separating North America from South America. Being so far away, it didn’t destroy Kenny’s house. Unfortunately, the ejecta thrown into the air made the next five years one straight winter, a miserable time for nearly everyone on earth, including Kenny, his mom and sister. They had to move into the protected area from Gateway out of necessity, not desire.

The main effect of Apep was to cause a major confrontation between the UEC and the terrestrial populations. Tensions were already strained, but the desperation and starvation the terrestrials faced broke the tenuous peace. As the terrestrials revolted, the UEC Sanctuaries were sealed; all but symbolic, as the Sanctuaries were all either maritime or grafted onto tall, weather-producing mountains, like Denali. The few protected zones were seen by the UEC as necessary evils, insurance policies. Kenny hated them. Perhaps he always had.

He got up and made his way to the knapsack. He pulled out a Philosopher’s Stone, one he’d pilfered a year ago during a bust. Gazing upon its surface, he was surprised that he actually stole it. From the beginning of his time with the Security Force, Kenny was anally by-the-books. But he couldn’t resist taking the Philosopher’s Stone. They were more precious than the air breathed or water drank.

To counteract the lack of arable land at the Sanctuaries, the UEC developed technology to molecularly alter readily available substances, making less readily available substances, like food. This technology was released, in a highly controlled form, to the protected areas. Before long it was released in highly-uncontrolled, rare and bootleg form, as a shiny black egg-shaped creation, called the philosopher’s stone. It was named so for its ability to, quite literally, turn lead into gold. Kenny grabbed a lamp with his other hand, concentrating on the formula for SynMix, a nutrient-rich substance supplied to the Force on expeditions. He had the formula memorized; they were all responsible for making it with the Provisional Issue transmuters. Kenny could feel the stone get warm, as well as the lamp, which was crumbling into SynMix in his hands. When the lamp was completely dissolved, Kenny pocketed the stone, kneeling down to load the grainy SynMix into his knapsack.

Kenny made other transmutations before he left the lodge. The protected area had a temperate climate, which ended right at the border. Beyond that was frigid. He made warm clothes; not the self-warming, nano-filament clothing he was used to. He was limited to what he could imagine, and nano schematics were beyond his comprehension. But fur and leather weren’t. Soon he had the gear to stay warm, and the look of an old Inuit,

He crawled out the back window, for no reason. He knew he was being watched, tracked. He rolled the silver sliver around in his mouth, still able to taste the faint trace of blood on it. He knew what would happen to him once he crossed the perimeter line. He looked over to the bluff. He could’ve seen the patrol float had he been plugged in to SecureNet, but he left the link in his apartment with the rest of his life. No matter; he knew they were there. Dalton, probably. Not Dalton alone; Bill would never agree to that. But if it was Dalton, then he knew what the game plan was. They’d seen it before; once.  Roger Borland.

Wanted for the forgery of UEC citizen cards, Borland was slated for execution. Kenny and Dalton both thought the punishment was bullshit. But their assignment was to target him for the laser to clean up. And at the last minute Borland did something, something neither Kenny nor Dalton had ever seen before. They spent a long time trying to figure out how he’d done it, many nights discussing theories in boredom when the auroral disturbance put them in blackout from the station. They had a running bet between them, on who would figure it out first. The winner was to buy the loser a shot of Scotch. The real shit.

Kenny crept up to the side of Old Glenn Highway, within ten yards of the perimeter. Catching his breath, he looked back at the bluff. He felt the tingle of the tracking line.

He smiled as he crossed the line, wondering if he’d ever get that shot.

More from Liam Sweeny…