Ashes of the Fall Read online

  Copyright © 2016 Nicholas Erik. All rights reserved.

  Published by Watchfire Press.

  This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.

  Cover & map design by Kerry Hynds

  www.hyndsstudio.com

  Ashes of the Fall/Nicholas Erik. – 1st ed.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-940708-93-5

  e-ISBN: 978-1-940708-92-8

  The transcontinental Hyperloop’s doors open, and I push past the throng of briefcase carrying businessmen and sensibly heeled career women to slip off the bullet-pitted train as quick as I can. A dull, automated beep at the base of my ear—one only I can hear—reminds me that I need to be at my appointment in an hour. Citizens grumble about rudeness and common decorum as I elbow through the crowd, but let’s not kid ourselves—pointing out flaws in others isn’t the same thing as possessing actual decency.

  I adjust the pack containing everything I own and put my head down, staring at the dirty concrete platform. The remains of a poster announcing the North American Circle’s 22nd anniversary, complete with Chancellor Tanner’s smiling visage in graffiti relief, flutters by my boots. Four hours, fourteen stops and three thousand miles and I’m still in a place that resembles my own home, down to the jackbooted thugs with high-caliber assault rifles lining the turnstiles ahead.

  The tall mesh fences leading to the customs gates have the ambiance of slaughter chutes, endless lines of citizens streaming through. Craning my neck to survey the landscape, I assess that Turnstile C has what I’m looking for: a young scanner of maybe twenty-three, twenty-four. She doesn’t make eye contact with the people she scans through—nervous, shy. Pretty, but not pretty enough.

  None of us is. I’m not judging, just using that evaluation to my advantage. Her not-quite-there prettiness has manifested into a hidden contempt made clear by the tightening of her jawbone with each progressive scan.

  The system, in some way, has wronged her—and that makes her the right choice for me.

  I rub the base of my neck, where the HoloBand install is still fresh. Show time. I push the jacket’s collar over the fresh mark and then I get to work.

  I pull a piece of paper from my pocket, pen in the other, and write down the location of a bar—one I heard about on the Hyperloop intercom—and the time six o’clock. I also add come alone, for good measure. When I come up in line, I’ll adjust the note accordingly—if it’s those kind of drinks, or a secret meeting.

  Build rapport, work the mark. Or maybe I won’t have to use the note at all.

  And then I step into line, the ring-ting-ting of the scanner pushing everyone through at an amiable clip. The nervous thrum within the station is thick enough to cut through—heartbeats slightly askew, the rhythm off. Each confirmed scan might not be a happy chime, but it’s the closest thing that exists in the NAC—one that confirms you aren’t a threat to the status quo.

  Wouldn’t want one of those coming into New Manhattan. Beyond the turnstiles, through the chain links and crowd, I can see the overhang of the station’s end segueing seamlessly into the city street.

  Outside looks like freedom, an endless cascade of nano-bot assembled skyscrapers and self-driving cars. All the tech does, though, is grant citizens the privilege of cramming themselves in boxes that a mouse would find small. That shit hasn’t completely dominated the Western Stronghold yet, and I can’t say that I’m waiting for progress with bated breath.

  But don’t think for a minute I’m one for the frontier—I just like being able to see the sun rise every now and again. Not just its reflection, bouncing off a thousand panes of glass and brushed aluminum.

  A different chime breaks the rhythm, and I can hear the crowd’s collective hearts stop. It’s two turnstiles to the right, a slightly chubby woman with a nervous demeanor. She’s talking with the gatekeeper, whispering, her face red, trying to explain why her HoloBand scanned incorrectly.

  I can tell, even before the gatekeeper presses the button beneath his terminal, that she’s screwed. Her movements are shaky—not the demeanor of the innocent. She’s trying to sneak into New Manhattan, just like me.

  Only problem is, only one of us is any good at it.

  Two soldiers, their rifles at attention, boots shined to perfection, take determined, same-length strides over. They don’t hear her complaints, her explanations.

  Everyone else does, though.

  “I need to see my son,” she says, her voice a loud wail, “he’s sick, and that—that charge was years ago! Almost a decade! I’m not a criminal! You can’t do this.”

  But the soldiers do, and she and her complaints are quickly eliminated, summarily dispatched so as not to intrude on anyone else’s day. The nervous equilibrium returns, everyone thinking damn, what’s it all come to and wondering how we all got here, all while thanking whatever invisible deity they choose to believe in today that it wasn’t them who got pulled out of line.

  She’ll get deported, if she’s lucky, back where she came from, with a more permanent HoloBand injected into her neck—one that fuses with the top of the spine—to make sure she can never slip through the cracks. There are other scenarios, however, that don’t play out quite so well. But everyone’s telling themselves she’ll survive—and that, besides, there should be consequences when you break the rules, damnit.

  At least until the Inner Circle moves the goal posts again, and this time they fall outside the lines.

  The guy’s HoloBand chimes ahead of me, the gate light flashes green, and he’s through customs. I’m up. I close my eyes, feel the beating in my heart for a moment, and center my thoughts. Then I square my shoulders, wear my biggest smile—the one that says, hey, I see you, and rummage through my pockets.

  This is not protocol—everyone else has their shirt collars down, spending as little time in the slaughterhouse as possible. Being different for the sake of being different is stupid—but being different for the sake of distraction, running a social shell game…that is what an intelligent man calls a calculated risk.

  I bring my gaze up from the floor slowly, trying to catch the gatekeeper eye. The edges of mine widen, my features softening, as if I’ve seen the entrance to Shangri-La itself. I run a few quick calculations, redoing my assessment. She’s a vulnerable mark—now, I just need to identify the weakness.

  I spot it, hanging around her neck: a simple silver chain.

  “You’re a sympathizer, right,” I say, making no indication that I’m going to pull my jacket down and allow her to scan me.

  She blushes, her hand almost immediately going to her throat, like I’ve threatened to garrote her. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t tell me that didn’t have a cross on it, once upon a time,” I say, in a clandestine, conspiratorial whisper, “maybe it still does.”

  “It absolutely does not,” she says. Her eyes are focused on the touchscreen pad in her little booth, as if that thing holds all the answers.

  I shake my head, walking towards the still-locked turnstile. “A sympathizer working for the Circle. I can’t believe it.”

  “Sir, you need to let me scan your HoloBand,” she says in a small voice. “I can’t let you through without a—”

  “Okay, you can scan,” I say, standing still. With shaking hands, she takes hold of a gun-shaped tool, red beams of light streaming from its end, and rolls down the collar of my jacket. I feel the cool metal press up next to my neck. It beeps. Not the good chime. The warning chime.

  But I stay cool and ask her, like I approached her in a bar, “What’s your name?”

 
; “Carina.” There’s a long pause. The person on the screen doesn’t match who I am. I know.

  I run my play. “You don’t wanna press that button. I’ll show you why.”

  I reach into my pocket, and pull out the note, bringing my hand out slow. There’s an impatient buzz growing behind me—why the hell is this taking so long, everyone wondering—as I put the paper in her palm with a soft touch.

  “I’m a friend.” Then, with a reassuring wink, I take my hand away from hers and say, “Tonight, at six.”

  Carina’s eyes grow wide, and we hold a stare for a few moments. Then she reaches underneath her touchpad terminal to press a button. I hold my breath—I know I’m good, but you never can really know someone for sure until they make a move. I hear a click and wonder if it’s over. But it’s not the one that calls the hounds. Instead, she hits the manual override, for when a HoloBand can’t be properly scanned.

  The light flashes green, and I walk through the turnstile, winking again. Then I’m swallowed up by the towering city. I hail an auto-cab and input the address. As it winds through the city streets, real nervousness sets in.

  Because I’m about to see my brother for the first time in fifteen years.

  Despite the lack of drivers, congestion and traffic are still the real kings of New Manhattan—which gives me plenty of time to reflect on the circumstances that led to my arrival. Scamming your way across the NAC these days is no easy grift, even if you’re me. No credits and a criminal record make transcontinental travel difficult, particularly when you want entry into New Manhattan—the capital of this great nation.

  The silent ultra-high definition screen embedded in the auto-cab’s divider—so lifelike it looks like I could touch the gray-haired bastard reading his party lines—announces, on a red scrolling band across the bottom, that the NAC Anniversary Day celebrations were a huge success.

  There are photos of people pretending to be merry, many candid shots of Chancellor Tanner—all from years ago, since he’s had to stop making public appearances due to “state security concerns”—and even a pre-recorded message from Tanner himself, straight to the people.

  I don’t bother turning on the sound, but my new HoloBand automatically flicks on anyway. Good thing I didn’t have one of these before yesterday. I’d be in shackles with the Circle constantly watching.

  “My fellow citizens,” Chancellor Tanner begins, his voice containing a slight wheeze that even the Circle’s best sound engineers can’t fix, “the story of our glorious nation’s origins, some twenty-three years ago, begins during the Great Flood of 2025.”

  My story begins in 2025, too, but you don’t see me announcing it to the rest of the world. Tanner’s a better bullshit artist than even I could ever hope to be. I cover my ears, trying to drown out his parable. But the voice literally comes from within head, like the Circle has direct access to my brain. A discomfiting thought, if there ever was one.

  Tanners’ low, groaning drone cuts through like a razor blade, shoving my own thoughts aside.

  “The world was in chaos. For those alive in those bleak years, it is a wonder humanity survived at all. But through our perseverance and sacrifice, we came out stronger.”

  I stare out the window and manage to tune him out for a little while.

  When the ice caps melted, there were some serious problems—particularly when entire continents plunged underwater. I have my doubts about the absoluteness of the flood’s destruction. But a lot of that old coastal land was fertile, served as important ports of trade—a vital lifeline for many countries. Billions of people died or starved in the aftermath. Some say it was a calculated move by the nations that didn’t flood to withhold aid.

  Fewer people equals less pollution. An easy solution to a massive problem.

  But really, it was simple economics: there wasn’t enough money to save everyone. Crews working around the clock managed to preserve most of the North American coastline with an exhaustively impressive levy, water pumping and soil raising system. The average point on each coast is now actually twelve feet higher than it was at the start of the century. But the cost of saving ourselves—compounded by the influx of refugees from flooded lands—was enormous.

  And so the United States collapsed. Anarchy, not bells and excessive drinking, rang in the New Year in Manhattan when the calendar flipped over to 2026.

  Still looking out the window, I find the auto-cab is passing the Empire State Building, which has a bright glowing sign announcing it as a historical monument. If not for the line outside, the building would be entirely swallowed by its neighbors.

  The auto-cab inches forward and rounds a corner. The building disappears in a sea of taller ones.

  “Still, there were those factions who did not like the improvements to our world,” Tanner says, noticeable irritation present in his voice. “These rogue terrorists found that our efforts to preserve civilization conflicted with their wanton lust for violence and chaos. You all remember this man well.”

  A video plays, grainy archival footage of an execution from twenty-two years ago today. His death was the final symbolic nail in the coffin of any resistance against the Circle taking power. A man walks across the gallows, head held high in defiance. Even though it’s illegal to write about him in the history books, pull pictures of him up on the HoloNet, I know his face and name well.

  Damien Ford, the man who terrorized the Circle for less than three short months. He was the only thing standing between them and absolute power after the fall. Too bad he was a damn nut. The Rapture believed that all our problems—the floods, the lawlessness, the overpopulation of the NAC—were God’s punishment for our excesses. And that the only way to atone for our sins was through sacrifice.

  Human sacrifice.

  In the clip, the crowd jeers as the noose slips around Ford’s neck. He appears to say something, but the hangman cuts the last minute sermon short, dropping the floor. His legs jerk for a while, the crowd cheering. Then he’s still. And, after that—not shown on the clip—the Circle was officially declared as the sovereign power of this fine, fine land.

  Ford was a folk hero to many—still is, to do this day, depending on who you ask. But the Circle couldn’t stamp out his influence. The members of the Rapture who escaped the Circle’s net formed the Lionhearted. They carry on his ideals, although they’re a lot quieter about it.

  They still manage to be a big, cross-sized pain in the Circle’s collective asses, who have deemed them terrorists and enemies of the state. Me, I don’t have an opinion on the matter. Worshipping a man responsible for what happened in the South and Atlanta strikes me as a little off, no matter how much you hate the Circle. Ford’s attacks between January and March 2026 left behind an uninhabitable wasteland.

  Tanner’s speech catches my attention again near what I hope is the end.

  “We established the Circle as a bastion against destruction. Against lawlessness. Against death. As a cure for anarchy. Leaders who could keep our beloved citizens safe from all the harms threatening to plunge our world into the darkness of extinction. And, since our party” —he calls it that, like there’s a political system that affords dissenters the opportunity to run— “saved what was left of our world on that bitterly cold third month of 2026, establishing the NAC as the last remaining country on this resilient Earth, we have regained much of what we’ve lost and pushed forward towards a brighter future. Later today, in honor of our country’s immense progress, we are proud to announce the beginning of a new initiative that, I hope, will provide you even more of the safety you covet.”

  Safety for freedom. A barter that always looks good in the moment, when fight or flight triggers overwhelming anxiety. You’ll do anything to survive. And then you realize the life you saved was now worth nothing.

  Or maybe I’m the only one to realize it.

  “And remember always—progress lies in all that is
larger than yourself.”

  Mercifully, the mandatory listening broadcast ends, and I go back to watching Old Silver Fox the news anchor blather on about propaganda on mute.

  With the growing problem of the Lionhearted, it strikes me that the Circle is probably considering a change in their official slogan. Tanner means government and the system—not God, or wherever else people place their chips on this cosmic craps table.

  Whatever. Not my problem.

  The auto-cab rounds a corner, past another endless row of towers. Deeper in the city, the metallic forest has been growing dense, any resemblance to my home is lost.

  Will the connection with Matt be lost, too?

  Last time I saw Matt, I was eight years old. One day he’s sitting across from me, eating bland cereal made of processed wheat and food coloring, the next he’s gone without even a note. Our parents wouldn’t say anything about it, as if even whispering about their lost son would bring calamity. Pops started drinking a lot, Mom couldn’t stop him. They both died young, when I was sixteen.

  The auto-car chimes—everything in New Manhattan does, apparently—and I tap the screen to allow the vehicle to automatically sync with the HoloBand. Some credits I don’t have are deducted from whoever’s identity is on the chip’s firmware. Steven Reynolds, accountant from just outside New Manhattan, is gonna be pissed when he gets his statement.

  The proper authorities can add it to my file.

  I get out, staring up at the building where Matt lives. It’s all-glass, part of what you might call a campus. Further up the road, I can see a checkpoint, complete with guards, where you have to be authorized and all that to enter. The sign reads Gifted Minds Research Institute.

  “You always were the smart one,” I say as the auto-cab zips off while I stare at the building. I’m left somewhat alone—at least for the city. With its green grass and tree-lined streets, this area isn’t a place for the proletariat. Turns out, even in New Manhattan, there’s high-value, then there’s high-value.