Questionable Futures, Part One: Rebirth

Part One: REBIRTH

I: Honour

Michael Yondara, Assistant District Administrator for the Southern Territories, glanced nervously around at the marvellous, gold-weaved tapestries adorning the lavish walls of High Administrator Kahne’s residency. Every time he saw these descriptions of the history of the civilised world, an overcoming sense of awe washed over him and he accepted it, like the shore accepting the sea’s repeated invasions. Was it not right that awe and fear should creep across his mind when he was in the presence of even the possessions of the High Administrator, a man who ranked at least four social grades above him? Although his impressive-sounding title seemed to convey more, Yondara was a mid-level beaurocratic servant, who deserved the respect of his peasant underlings and workers and in turn gave this respect to his honourable superiors.
His eyes drank in the splendour of the works, and came to rest on one of the earlier works, depicting the band of warriors, now revered in modern society, who had brought order and honour to a world in chaos, where the Old Democracies, systems of government where even the lowliest of peasants would have a say in world matters of which they had no comprehension, had finally been brought down and replaced with the traditions of honour, respect, and social deference to one’s superiors. Now, three centuries since those events, existence was simpler - the workers worked for their masters who, in turn, provided instruction on farming and manufacturing methods for their subordinates. Those who did not obey these forms were removed by the Honourable Guardians to a place where their insubordination would not spread.
Only the previous week, a peasant had been removed for using farming methods not approved by the High Administrator. He would not have been discovered had his production quota not been four times that expected. Of course, it was right that he had been removed - he had ignored the forms entirely. However, still a twinge of doubt lay in the back of his mind. Still, it was best not to dwell on such matters.
Yondara snapped to attention as the High Administrator entered. The tall, regal man, followed by his guard escort, marched into the echoing hall and used his full height to tower over the smaller man. He wore a long, gold-embossed robe, showing his family crest as a mark of his rank.
“Report.”
Yondara bowed low before beginning his speech. It was long and filled with details the High Administrator had heard many times before. Nevertheless, Yondara delivered it in the perfect form, not a breath taken in the wrong place. The nobleman raised one eyebrow and extended a hand to summon a guard as Yondara was delivering his final statement. Kahne spoke softly to the guard.
“Find me all of the peasants in this man’s jurisdiction and execute those responsible for such a poor harvest.”
The man did not move. His helmet visor, reflecting all light away from his eyes, turned to face Kahne.
“Did you hear me? I said now!”
One armoured gloved reached to the holster at the guard’s hip and pulled out a compact pistol, pointing it between the High Administrator’s eyes. The other guards reached for their own weapons but it was too late. The trigger eased quickly back and High Administrator Kahne collapsed to the ground, his body jerking convulsively as electric pulses surged through his body. The man, his reflective faceplate still showing nothing, turned and placed a shot in the chests of each of the other guards with practised ease. He turned to face Yondara, who looked straight ahead and prepared to face his death with honour. It came as a great surprise to him, then, when an armoured fist struck him harshly across the neck. His final thought before the tendrils of unconsciousness reached out to him was of his family, now shamed by the dishonour he had brought on himself by refusing to fight for his master.

II: Politics

The sleek, black, limousine slowed to a halt outside the ominous sandstone building. Few journalists now filled the streets, which once would have been bustling at such a world-breaking occasion. Those days were now long gone, and would never return.
Earl Hamlet Wenrobe-Smythe stared forlornly out of the window and awaited the imminent arrival of his chauffeur from the driving compartment, who, he knew, would treat him with the utmost respect just because fate had permitted him to be born the son of a nobleman.
The click of the locking mechanism releasing was followed by the flow of daylight, pure and unsullied by the clouds of smoke and fog which covered much of the skies of modern-day Earth. He breathed deeply, and emerged into the air. Without the traditional glance around at watching journalists that his predecessors had found necessary, the British representative at the UN entered the Manhattan headquarters.
Inside, the Security Council and their various aides were assembling. The seats that had been emptied by recent events lay empty, as if the Security Council had naïve hopes of their being restored.
Their replacements, the self-titled “Honourable Brotherhood” had refused to make any contact with the outside world. They had the support of the Japanese people, and had cut all links with the outside world. Several thousand tourists who had been present during the insurrection had been brutally executed, the images of which had been the only things which had left the country for three weeks, following which came threats for the rest of the world to ignore the country from then onwards. Several merchant ships and their crews had followed the tourists, until Japan had been ethnically cleansed of all foreigners. Nobody had seen, heard or known anything from Japan for six weeks.
Nobody, that was, apart from Wenrobe-Smythe and his own “aides,” who formed not only Britain’s representatives at the UN, but her first line of defence also. If an observer familiar with the Earl’s retinue had observed closely, they would have noticed one man missing from the group, one man who had undertaken full implant surgery to not only make him appear a simple Japanese peasant, but to have greater reactions, stealth, and vision than any previous covert operative, or indeed human, known.
Yet still, news had reached the ageing nobleman which disturbed him. The government of Japan had been replaced by a centuries-old feudal system; echoes and mirror-images of which were slowly, and quietly, gaining power in all the major democracies of the world. In short, Hamlet Wenrobe-Smythe was worried.

III: Espionage

The night was cold against his skin, and the rain soaked him to the bone. Yet still he did not move. He stood almost six feet tall, with the uniform of the Honour Guard plastered to his flesh from the repeated driving rain. He clutched the rifle protectively to his chest as flashes of lightning lit the sky with a fierce light, leaving phosphorescent streaks of white light across his vision, forcing the landscape to fade to blackness. The weapon clutched to his heart slowly relaxed as his night vision returned. Soon, he resumed the stance of a true samurai, a member of the newly-restored warrior caste. He glanced behind him, finding the sight of the small silver skyscraper, a dwarf among the giants that lay within the city of Tokyo, and it gave him a strange reassurance. He turned, and continued his patrol around this most important of buildings.
The Honourable Brotherhood was not stupid, contrary to the suspicions of many of the UN Security Council. They had realised the importance of secrecy, and had hidden the headquarters of their three wings, in small, surreptitious areas around the country. Here was hidden the military arm of the rebellion, the Honour Guard, who had spent several decades preparing for this time, saturating the military time and again with internal propaganda, doctrine and their own agents. Here also, was hidden one man whose fate it was to change the destiny of the human race.
Again, the sky lit as an arc of pure energy stabbed viciously into the ground, and thunder echoed around the silent city, fading slowly until the sound of falling rain collecting in gutters and puddles was the only sound heard in Tokyo for several moments.
The sound of splashing footsteps became louder, until a man dressed in the garb of a member of the peasant caste became slowly visible. He paused upon seeing his social superior, then gave a low bow to his samurai master. The guard gave a curt nod, pleased at seeing the revived tradition of honour so quickly adopted. He turned to continue his patrol, but barely made three steps before the peasant rose and gave him a sharp, ringing slap across the face as he sprinted past. The blow was not particularly painful, but anger fuelled the guard to raise his weapon, curling his finger around the trigger…
He collapsed to the ground before the trigger had reached two thirds of the distance it had to cover. Agent Idlecreek turned as quickly as he had ran past, bent to recover the small neurotoxic injector that he had had concealed between his fingers from the man’s face, and disappeared into the night, the midnight rain washing the dead man’s blood into the gutters.

*

The rain streaked and ran down the windows, the constant drum-drumming sound intruding into the silence of the room. The door was slightly ajar, and a sliver of light slipped through, giving stark contrast to the blue-white flashes of magnesium light caused by the storm outside. A guard, had he been posted to watch from this window, may have tired from watching the empty streets for signs of life, may have paused to look downwards to watch the puddles forming.
Here, he would not have expected to see a man wearing peasant garb climbing the sheer wall to reach the window four storeys high. And, indeed, he would not have seen him, since Agent Idlecreek was far too careful to be spotted. Instead, an observer would have seen nothing, yet felt and heard a sharp crack as his neck was broken by descending boots.
However, there was no observer, and the only thing to feel the wrath of Agent Idlecreek’s boots was the single-paned window, which shattered as he leapt lithely through, feet first, followed closely by a hand gripping a silenced pistol. The sound of breaking glass would have been heard, he knew, and he instantly dropped into a fighting crouch, backing into the shadows as a samurai, rifle gripped in white-knuckled hands, cautiously crept into the small room. He crossed over to the window, crunching the brittle shards of glass beneath his feet, and turned. He barely had time to utter a moan before two 9mm rounds punctured his skull and ended his samurai career.
Idlecreek paused only to draw another pistol from his side holster before proceeding into the unknown.

IV: Confusion

Slowly, the darkness receded, revealing a bright white light overhead. The light, unfalteringly powerful, prevented him from seeing the ceiling beyond it and did nothing to aid his headache, either. He attempted to move, but found his limbs heavy, and the effort of standing seemed beyond him.
“No, don’t try moving yet, mister Yondara.”
The voice came from somewhere to his left, but Yondara’s strength reserves seemed not even enough to look towards its source. Instead, he kept his eyes straight ahead, into the blaring light, and concentrated on forming words.
“Who are you? Where is the High Administrator?”
“I’m afraid, mister Yondara, I cannot reveal my identity to you at this time. However, I think you’ll find Kahne alive and well, excepting the rather embarrassing burns on his forehead.”
The sheer lack of respect for one’s betters was not enough to overpower the feeling of relief at his continued existence.
“But… you shot him!”
“Only a light-powered shot, I’m afraid. It wasn’t him, but you we were after.”
The voice was male, and not entirely unfamiliar, but Yondara couldn’t match it to a face. Yondara didn’t dwell on the fact; instead he concentrated on trying to move. He struggled through several minutes of embarrassed silence and finally managed, panting, to drag a leaden foot several inches. Through it all, he felt the withering stare of his unseen captor on his back.
Eventually, he lay back, his reserves of energy drained. This must be some form of potent paralysis drug. He saw waves of darkness before his eyes. Fighting them, he heard, on the edge of his semi-conscious vision, the deep, booming laugh of his captor. As the blackness again cleared, he saw a great, bristle bearded face over him, tinged red at the cheeks, and creased with laughter lines. However, in those cool, sky-blue eyes, he saw a killer’s mind staring back at him.
A large, equally red hand reached to his forehead, some small metal device clutched between the fingers. An instant later he felt pain… and a feeling of freedom. He kicked out and upwards, all weariness now drained from his limbs like water through a sieve. He felt his foot connect with something hard; heard a crack. His arms propelled him off the surface of the metal table, and span around, waiting for a fresh onslaught.
He glanced quickly from side to side, his eyes absorbing in the visual data. The room was small, confined, with walls formed from a grey metal. There was the table on which he had lain, grey and low, and the one glowing panel providing light to the room. The door was behind him, he reasoned – no exit could be seen. In fact, the only visible gap in the grey metal wall was a large dent, smeared slightly with blood.
He looked down at his badly broken foot as that booming, deep voice whispered in his ear, “stamina always was a family attribute…”
This time, he sensed the needle coming, but turned too late to avoid the drug’s affects.

*

As Yondara’s body crumpled to the floor, Damaius Karduan caught him neatly and handed him to the medics who had appeared unnoticed. “Keep my cousin comfortable,” he said, and walked towards the sheer grey wall, which melted away before him.

V: Violence

Slinking through the shadows in a manner more stealthy than any cat, a lone man made his way along the balcony towards the stairwell, the only illumination coming from a blinking red light set below a security camera strategically placed above the top stair; the only sound the whirr as it turned to cover a full view arc. Keeping his eye carefully fixed on the camera; the figure leapt over the balcony, nodding at the camera and the silent observers who constantly watched.

*

In the basement of the building, Idlecreek tapped the final code into the small pack of C-4 explosive, and clipped it against the column. His fingers nervously tapped against the remote detonator hanging from the protective cord at his neck. The exhilarating feeling of power but also fear was akin to being in the presence of a god. It was a terrifying, awful thought that the future of the freedom of mankind rested in his hands, was under no control but his own. He was not ready, but who would be? Shaking, he slipped the detonator back under his clothing.
A noise from outside made him turn. A shadow fell across the sliver of light seeping under the closed door from the passageway outside. The handle turned a quarter of the way around and was stopped. There was a scraping sound as a key was inserted into the lock, and a minor grunt of annoyance as the locking mechanism jammed. A fraction of a second later, the lock exploded and the door was forcibly opened by a large black boot.
A figure, silhouetted by the bright lights emanating from the corridor outside, strode purposefully into the dark storeroom. An old Ingram Mac-10 sub-machinegun rested lightly in its hands, the memory of a thin wisp of smoke still rising from the barrel after the shot which had destroyed the lock. Seeing the room empty, it dove instantly for cover behind a pillar as Idlecreek fired from his hidden position. A bullet ricocheted from the doorframe a fraction of a second too late.
A series of blinding flashes filled the room, making the subsequent actions seem like part of an old movie picture. Holes riddled the wall as the assassin sprayed fire through the room. Flecks of paint, plaster and concrete fell like snowflakes in midwinter. Idlecreek crouched behind a pillar, feeling extremely vulnerable as shards of agony flew past at incomprehensible speeds.
Then, came a clack. The assassin’s magazine was empty. Before the last of the flakes had reached ground, Idlecreek rose like an avenging demon from the pits of hell. His pistol, clenched between his hands in front of his torso in the classic spy-pose, spat two, three, four rounds into the darkness. And was met by another burst of fire from an automatic weapon. As Idlecreek fell to the ground, the blood rising in his throat, he reproached himself for not considering that the man might carry a second weapon.

As his fingers clenched weakly, prematurely on the detonator, his last thought was of Jessica, as the world briefly flowered in crimson reds and sunburst yellows before it finally faded to an everlasting darkness.

VI: Consideration

The stars were calming, an oasis of peace amidst the inky blackness of the eternal void. Particularly now, as the approaching planet rotated slowly under the startling beauty of a Martian sunrise. From this angle, the stars would soon be reduced to obscurity as a lance of pure, golden light preceded the arrival of the sun to a barely known world. The Human Failure creaked slowly, reassuringly, as the pilot began the ship’s descent onto an essentially alien world.
Damaius Karduan saw in this sight all that humankind had achieved, yet also all its failures. Down there, many miles below the old craft, was the devastated city of Milles; destroyed almost lazily by those who ruled now with an iron hand over the homeworld of humankind, killing that which gave life to may billions, causing suffering and pain to the Unity’s common ancestors, committing a travesty against humankind itself.
And yet, the Unity Of Humankind turned a blind eye to the atrocities committed on its ancestral homeworld, placing the system off-limits to all traffic, just as within the system, the only inhabited planet’s government denied any existence of anything beyond the sky. Those who were too intelligent for their own good, those who questioned were removed and never seen again.
Again, the ancient craft’s engines creaked quietly, as Gundamm, the pilot, brought the ship in to land. A slight shudder reverberated through the Human Failure and the constant humming of the engines ceased. The craft had reached its new home, and Karduan had irrevocably cast his hand.

*

The world was a shallow universe of pain, almost one-dimensional as aches and pains were reported to his brain by shaking and shattered nerves. His eyes, aching from underuse, opened slowly, a thin, blinding, sliver of light growing until it purged all darkness from his vision.
As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he saw that he was in a small room, and could see the tops of windows in front of him. He rose unsteadily, first to a sitting position, and finally kneeled before the window. He was met by a sight more amazing, more terrifying, than any he could have imagined in his deepest dreams.
The world was red. Rocks and dust stretched away from him towards the distance, an unbroken chain of lifeless colour. What had happened to the world that he held dear to him? No weapon could do this – change a world once green and bountiful into a desolate wasteland! So, therefore, there was only one conclusion. He was not in any earthly place. He had indeed died, and this was hell. He looked down at his broken foot, and found no mark, no injury. He knew then that he was dead.
A sound behind him, like the sliding of a well-oiled wheel across a smooth floor, made him turn. There, in the doorway, stood the bearded man who had tormented him before. Yondara, resigned to his fate, hung his head, tears of shame running from his cheeks, and awaited further punishment for his sins.
“I have much to teach you cousin,” the giant spoke. He walked quietly towards Yondara, and sat beside him. And as he spoke, Yondara listened, the tears of his shame replaced by those he wept for all the innocents who had died, all the servants of those twisted masters who had died, never knowing their true nature. And Michael Yondara saw.

VII: Consequences

Of course, there were no pictures of the building’s demolition. Her husband’s final legacy lived only in the imagination, and in the memory of those who had survived the detonation. No, not his final legacy; that was within her, his child, barely begun growing at the moment of his death. That was what Philton Milles had left to the world.
Jessica was alone in the kitchen of their home, staring impassively at the view beyond the window which together they had found beauty in. Now, it only served to deepen the emptiness within her. Behind her, the television noiselessly showed images of battles which raged halfway across the world. The media shamelessly sold images of propaganda and victory to the civilians who knew no better; who sat in their homes and believed that everything would be all right. But for the woman whose husband had been the first casualty of war, the man who had received no medals, no rewards for unquestioning loyalty, the world was already dead.
Hamlet had called yesterday, to tell her that he was sorry, that everything would be all right, that this would soon be over. But armies swept across Asia, and Russia had fallen, her ICBMs now permanently targeted at Western cities. New York had been reduced to rubble by one, to show that these fanatics would and could release these terrible weapons. Millions were dead, armies which had trained and lived and rested together, died as one.
But Jessica Milles had received the call. Not the call to fight, but the call to flee. She would have refused, but for the child she carried within her. For Philton’s sake, she would board the ship tomorrow, leaving the Earth to the hands of those who would destroy it.

*

The Orion’s Hand rose from the launch pad with incredible force. Those within the passenger hold were forced back into their seats as the last of the flotilla of passenger shuttles left the earth. Within, Jessica Milles, surrounded by strangers and those she barely knew, stared sullenly ahead, barely feeling the jolts as the Hand rose beyond the sky. And, as the blue-white of the atmosphere gave way to the inky blackness of space, the planet Earth, shrouded in the sun’s rays, came into view. It appeared so perfect, so beautiful. And, as Jessica Milles stared at this view, small orange-red clouds grew on the surface. And while the nuclear detonations continued, Jessica Milles wept, not merely for her husband, but for billions of good men and women who were now doomed.

VIII: Action

The rocks and vast desert became a haven of calm for Michael Yondara, as he stood in the room in which he had first awoken, contemplating the enormity of his position. Many of the other crew of the Human Failure preferred living on the ship itself, but Yondara found solitude within these buildings, the remnants of the first truly free human colony. Early on, the Failure’s engineer, a short, stocky man known as Barnett, who proudly declared himself to be a “Jessican,” had declared many of the buildings to be unsafe, but allowed Yondara access to some of the remaining. Yondara was unsure what a “Jessican” was, but found himself trusting the man unconditionally, as with the rest of the Failure’s crew.
One such building was a library, containing many works of literature which had been rescued during the flight from Earth, an event which he had learned was known as the Last Democratic Stand. Within, he found more names and titles than he could have imagined to exist. He selected one and found it written in the ancient language which he had been taught in his youth. The front cover proclaimed it to be “The Tempest by William Shakespeare.”
“I thought you might be drawn to that.”
Yondara turned and found Damaius Karduan beside him. He allowed the man to take the book from his unresisting fingers, and turn to the inside front cover. Within, Yondara saw a handwritten note.

“To Jessica
Never forget me. If all I leave you is your freedom, this would never be enough.

Philton”

“I do not know these names. Why does this book hold such significance for me?”
The giant smiled to himself, as if sharing some private thought with the universe. “Philton and Jessica Milles are somewhat legendary within the Unity. Philton was a covert operative who struck a first blow against the Honour Guard. This was the only thing which allowed those few shuttles to escape. Jessica was his wife, and gave birth to his child in this very colony. Many years after the attack, she went back to Earth, to Tokyo, to find her husband’s final resting place. She was, however, caught and killed before she could leave. However, her child survived.”
“And that child?”
“Kathryn Milles herself also returned to Earth. There, she bore a child. And that child is our common ancestor. You and I, we are part of the Milles legacy. Where your family stayed on Earth, mine fled to the Unity.”
Yondara softly closed the book, and returned it to the shelf. “Barnett… he said he was a ‘Jessican’.”
“Jessica is the first inhabited planet outside this solar system. It is a matter of pride for those who hail from there.”
“There is one thing I still don’t understand.”
“Ask.”
“Why did you kidnap me?”
The giant paused, his eyes lighting with the fires of unknown zeal.
“Because, mister Yondara, you and I are going to reclaim Earth in the name of freedom.”

IX: Beginnings

Mars Colony One had been surprised to find the flotilla of craft arrive early one Thursday morning. There had been concerns that no communications had been received for several days, but that was hardly rare – various astrological conditions could interrupt radio communication. So, when eleven of the twelve passenger shuttles that were based on Earth arrived to request landing permission, the administrator, one Major James Karduan, was hurriedly awoken and informed of the situation. He ordered that the protective covering on the landing pads be removed and all permission be granted.
The first ship to land was the Star Spangled Banner, which had left Cape Kennedy just in time for the passengers and crew to witness its total destruction from above. The colonists who greeted them were horrified at the tales they told, but even more so at the fact that on this one planet, in this small town, dwelt the remnants of the Democratic World.
The Orion’s Hand was the last of the shuttles to land. Jessica Milles walked slowly down the exit ramp, and saw Mars. She realised then that this place, this colony on an alien world, was more human than any city on Earth she had known. Here was no prejudice, no anger. This place was truly free. She felt a thrill of exhilaration, the first feelings of peace she had known since the first revolt in Japan.
While Jessica was being assigned quarters, Hamlet Wenrobe-Smythe was in the administrator’s office. With him were the other military leaders who had escaped. He stared sadly at the empty chair which had already been placed before Karduan’s staff had learned that the Solar Waltzer had been caught in one of the blasts, before the craft had had a chance to escape. Wenrobe-Smythe would miss his friend, the American General Mark Farnett. Too many good people were already dead.
It was the administrator who spoke first, his voice quiet, barely louder than the soft clicking of the air conditioner.
“Are we safe?”
It was Michelkov, who was probably the only surviving Russian outside of the Earth, who spoke.
“There are no spacegoing vessels on Earth remaining. Even if the enemy had taken all industry intact, it would be three to five years before another were constructed.”
“So what do we do?”

*

The question had been inevitable, but no one had an answer. Who, when it came down to it, would know what to do if they had been forced to flee their world, confined to an airless planet of rock and dust?
From his window, Hamlet Wenrobe-Smythe could see a strange beauty in the Martian night. The stars here were clear and bright, uninhibited by pollution. Light flowed from the glass windows of the colony, shedding illumination to the ground. This was a place of contemplation, of thought; but not of action. It was one of life’s ironies that he had found this place, and yet could not fully appreciate it.
At least, for the duration, he was here. Thoughts of expansion, of building defences, of surrender, had all arisen at the meeting. But for now, Hamlet Wenrobe-Smythe was content to watch the view.




The story contines in "Questionable Futures, Part 2: New Growth"