Dystopian – The Word Worker

Cyber

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A handful of Teeners straggled along the copper walkway, following the guide’s bored voice around corners. It was the Festival of Origins; the time when all good Members paid tribute to the past by visiting the Museum of the Ages. Weeks of cybershocks leading up to the Festival were supposed to generate excitement, and holos dressed every portal glorifying the rise of Cybercorp from primitive Ancients.

It was a yearly ritual, one that no Member would even consider skipping, one that hadn’t changed in the memory of the Pensioners. Sixty years! Teener Jarrell was more awed at the thought of such age than the useless metal monstrosity his apprentice group were touring for the tenth time. How anyone could have lived like this escaped knowing; why anyone should be forced to know about it defied understanding.

He tuned his implant to a soothing pulse; he would pay attention again at the Closing Ceremony, when the year’s Decanames would be promoted. This was his Decayear; he would receive the blue uniform of a Laborer. Juvie Jarrell would take his place as Teener and a new Juvie would be Named from the year’s births. The current Laborer would wear Journeyman yellow, the Journeyman would receive a master’s white, and the Master would retire to be honored with Pensioner purple.

As newly promoted Laborer, his first duty would be to pass the brown to his successor, just as the Pensioner would pass the purple to his. Teener Jarrell wondered what it would be like to don the black of the Ancestor and Exit alone. He supposed after forty years in Cybercorp it must feel strange; instead of having one’s implant programming updated, cyber identity would be returned to basic setting and transfered to the new Juvie. Instead of Jarrell, one would be no one, just another bit in the code to be recited at the Opening Prayer to the Origins.

A beep in his implant yanked his attention back to the museum guide. With a sigh he turned off the pulse and trudged off to catch up with the group.

Apocalypse

The bomb hit at sunrise. Shards of glass melted into the asphalt, like black ice waiting to land me on the flat of my back. Twisted metal beams hung overhead, barely visible in the greenish haze that should have been sky. I couldn’t breathe.

Debris filled my vision, the emptiness overwhelming. The whining creak of frayed steel grated on my awareness as the beams cast weird, indistinct, swaying shadows into the ash. I shuddered, unable to step over them as if they were as tangible and insurmountable as their counterparts above.

The clatter of falling brick jerked my gaze painfully to the side, and I gasped into the wind. Smoke threaded into my lungs and I clutched my throat, coughing desperately for what oxygen remained in the thick air. The bomb would kill me yet.

I tripped over the layers of blackened sheet metal littering the street as I stumbled back the way I had come. I had forgotten to put on boots when the bomb woke me, and the metal sliced through my toes, blood drenching my sock. I clutched at the wounds in fetal position, wailing like an infant. My cries mingled with the creaks and rattles and drifting smoke until no other thoughts penetrated. I slept, utterly spent, alone in the silence.

The bomb came at sunrise and I lived death again.

Empty

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The blast zone was eerily quiet. Sophie walked slowly over the dead ground, footfalls crunchy in the charcoaled remains of the world she had known. Her heart thudded, as loud as the sobbing breath heaving in and out of her lungs.

Already long shadows fingered the valley, shades of glory made barren. The time between first light and sunrise was pitifully small, but it was her only chance at leaving the Settlement. The Conclave allowed no one into the Barrens. First offenses meant time in the brig; second offenses meant one ration per day for a month and exclusion from assembly for a year. This was her third.

They had thought the plague would be the end of everything. It was the reason the Settlement had formed, deep in the mountains with rules designed to prevent infection and preserve a pocket of humanity. Sophie herself had spent a month in quarantine outside the border after plague took her parents. They had remained on their own land in the shadow of the monastery, cared for the sick and frightened, but with them gone there had been nowhere else to turn.

She wished she had stayed; Hell had arrived within weeks of their deaths, ending the suffering of all outside the Settlement. Leaving her alone. For two years on the Day of Purification she had snuck away to their ruined graves, her tears the only memorial left to give. For two years she had been caught by the Conclave and ostracized. This year they would Purify her in the square, though nothing remained to be cleansed, her soul as empty as the excoriated land.

The Leaving

FB_IMG_1590364184563 She had waited for this day for twelve years. Every time an Underage met his or her Milestone, she had followed them up the tracks as far as she was allowed, dreaming of her own Milestone. This morning, her twelfth Day, Da had woken her before Lights, a ready bag in hand.

She had dressed carefully in her brand new Topside clothes, her hands trembling with excitement. She had to blend in, but the clothes felt so strange she couldn’t quite move correctly. The long skirt hung around her ankles, and she kept tripping. Da told her to take shorter steps and move more slowly until she adjusted, and she tried.

The long pack was heavy and hit her thighs just behind her knees with every step. She was relieved to climb on Da’s Motor and let it hang behind the seat. She had to hike the skirt up as well to straddle the Motor, and she relished the freedom of movement, the last she would experience for several… months? Yes, that was the word. She was going to have to remember to talk like a Topsider. Starting with not saying Topsider, she thought with a grimace. Surface dwellers called themselves Citizens.

The Motor made the trip up the tracks much shorter than she remembered. Da was a good driver, but the crossties still made for quite a few jolts. She kept her jaws clenched tightly to keep from biting her tongue, and when they finally stopped at the Door she ran her tongue over her teeth to make sure they were all still there.

She and Da stood together, his hand on the lever that opened the Door. “Are you ready?” he asked. She nodded. This was how it was. No ceremony. Only one witness to confirm the Leaving. He pulled the Lever, and the steel panels slowly rolled back into the walls.

She had seen charcoals of Topside, even a few oils, but she was not prepared. The city stretched vast before her, its towers reflecting in the river like bridges of glass. Gleaming silver transports mirrored the colors of the sky as the sun tipped the horizon. It was her first sunrise, and for a moment she thought the whole scene burned until she remembered one particular oil.

Da pointed downriver. “There’s an old highway about a mile that way,” he told her. “Topsiders haven’t used it in decades, but it will get you across.” He squeezed her shoulder tightly, and she knew he was worried. Miners always worried about the Leaving. Sometimes they had reason.

“I’m ready, Da,” she assured him. “I can do it. I’ll be the perfect Citizen. You’ll see.”

He nodded, his eyes reddening. “Bring back everything you can,” he choked. “See you as a Miner.” He stepped away from her, ready to close the Door. She took a deep breath and stepped into the Topside.

The Elevator

FB_IMG_1589902792589 I stood on the boardwalk, gazing out at the elevator glowing faintly in the reflected light of the moon. The water was eerily still, barely a whisper in my consciousness. Pap, Mam, and I had been in line on the boardwalk since a week gone, since the day we were granted our tickets at the shore office. We’d been given a week’s rations in a wheeled cooler, issued uniforms in various shades of blue according to the strict set of guidelines posted on the wall of the office waiting hall. Mine was an ugly flat royal shade with large pockets and no distinguishing marks, the uniform of a pre-productive student. I hated it.

Pap and Mam sat on the the single duffel bag we had been given, that held the change of uniform provided, our passports and tickets, and the few personal items we had been allowed to bring. Their backs against the opposite rail, they huddled together, Mam’s head on his shoulder. She beckoned for me to join them, but I wasn’t ready for sleep yet. The elevator stood visible at the end of the boardwalk, just waiting, motionless for the first time since we had first seen it early that morning. Over and over I had watched it spin its way under the waves, carrying family after family to their new future.

I folded my arms on the railing and set my chin on them. Pap had talked for weeks and weeks about fair work, and new opportunities. Mam had been dreaming about a new house and neighbors. They hadn’t asked me what I thought. I remembered Ellie’s face when I told her we were leaving. And Boris, who had scowled and stomped away never to speak to me again. They were my best friends. We had done everything together since we were tots. Ellie and I had made pinkie promises just last year in third form to grow up and take care of each other. Boris and I had planned to join the Fieldball team together next year. Now I would never see them again. No one who went below ever came back.

That was the deal. Start over, that’s what they said. No ties to above. Personal items were heavily restricted, only useful items allowed. I was just glad that my fieldball was considered a useful item for a pre-productive. Mam had her art supplies; they barely qualified, and she had cried over leaving the portrait she had painted of Granda and Grana. No ties, not even to memories. Pap had a handful of books; they wouldn’t let him keep his Pap’s tools.

In the morning the elevator would descend empty and bring the welcomers up from below. Their white uniforms and slicked-back hair would shine in the early sunlight, like the surface of the waves. Only welcomers wore white; only welcomers ever returned to above. They would walk down the final stretch of boardwalk to unlock the gate, where they would stand and count the people jostling through. When the day’s limit was reached, they would close the gate, and those behind it would watch the space gradually widen behind the lucky ones who made it to the elevator.

In the morning we would be the first. In the morning we would see the sun, the surface of the ocean, the above, for the very last time. We would step onto the elevator with the shining welcomer and spin into the depths forever. So tonight, I stood at the railing and watched the moon. Tonight I said goodbye.