The mission was vague, but top secret should never mean not enough information to carry it out. To be fair, a few details were revealed, but possessed the almost supernatural ability to sap our confidence even further . . . or at least mine. It seemed a class A lander set down near 87C some years back and had either been overlooked or forgotten. The twelve remaining satellites orbiting Earth must have missed it somehow.
We were supposed to find it and pick up some long overdue cargo. Only upon seeing it would we figure out what it was. Everything about this operation seemed shrouded in mystery. Nothing was mentioned about flying the lander back to base, but not so vague hints led to the idea it crashed and wasn’t functional.
Upon our hypothetical return to 87C, the cargo would then be picked up by Moonbase officials, which was where the orders had originated. The contents seemed too important to have been overlooked. It wasn’t our place to ask and I’m sure they wouldn’t have told us if we had, but we really should’ve been better informed . . . this mission could cost us our lives. I knew they didn’t care about that, but they obviously cared about their cargo and if we died, we wouldn’t deliver. Knowledge is power and out in the Dead Zone knowledge is life.
We were told the craft set down near 87C, but “near” was a relative term. I’m sure it looked pretty damn close from the satellite photos, but in reality the distance was 47 miles, one way. Apparently Moonbase “forgot” they’d recalled all our crawlers for use at other “more important” Earth bunkers. Forgot or didn’t give a shit? Who could tell?
This meant we’d have to walk the entire distance there and back. The furthest we’d ever gone was 36 miles, but were now faced with 94 miles, 47 there and 47 back. Traveling this distance through the Dead Zone boggled my mind, aside from having to walk it! Thankfully, Spider scheduled ten half hour rest stops, five there and five back.
We wouldn’t be going back, though. The Saurids made our return suicidal. My plan was to hot-wire the thing and fly it as far as it would go. With any luck we could make it to the West Asian bunker 252E, based in what was Saudi Arabia. 252E is the closest base; we had to make it at least that far, or die trying.
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I tried to get next to Spider on the way up the levitator. I didn’t want to cause a panic with the information I carried. I had to discuss this in private first. This was a bad time, but I couldn’t get Spider alone in key-ops or suit-up. Now was a much better time to discuss the situation than in the Dead Zone.
I should’ve had enough time, too . . . the twenty mile trip to the surface took the typical 74 minutes to complete. Technically the entire trip could’ve taken only nine minutes, but the sheer gravitational force would’ve had our journey ending before it began.
The shaft’s diameter was large enough to allow for a small army . . . it had to be to bring down some of 87C’s larger, bulkier hardware. Fortunately, weight upon the levitator’s rising plane was never a problem. The plane consisted of a number of laser emitters all arrayed in a somewhat circular formation. The emitters spanned the length of the shaft . . . one full mile’s worth. Our home on Deck 8 was nearer the surface than Deck 33, but not by much. At 5,280 feet and 10 feet per deck you’d think that they could’ve built more levels in the antiquated bunker. We still had to travel 5,030 feet just to reach the Dead Zone.
When activated the laser emitters crisscross and intersect hundreds of times to form a grid, which is durable under any weight. A safety plane materializes exactly one inch above the grid to protect hardware and personnel. This safety plane is transparent even though there’s nothing really to see but blackness. It’s actually pretty cool once the delirium from hovering in mid-air wears off.
When deactivated the grid and safety plane vanish . . . there is no floor as such. This allows the levitator to appear instantaneously at any point during the route . . . doing away with annoying wait time. The grid can also be divided into four sections to accommodate multiple passengers all heading to different destinations. Each section resembles a pizza cut into fourths. Hypothetically, the sections could even overlap, but the safety lock-out in the mainframe computer won’t allow it, except during emergencies.
The levitator system originated a decade before the holocaust. It was salvaged on Moonbase and was now common-place everywhere an elevator was required, throughout the known galaxy. I’m not sure if any of the old fashioned elevators still exist anywhere.
But our group consisted of 15 people, all clones, so we were large enough to get away with commandeering the entire grid. Well, that’s not quite right. We could’ve squeezed into a quarter grid, but the entire thing was available at the time so we took it. Everyone does when they can.
All this was text-book information learned at fifth grade level, boring really. I shuffled closer to Spider, trying not to look like I was. I almost reached him when the first of the red lights whizzed by.
The trio of red lights were inlaid into the sides of the shaft wall. All they ever did was flash, but at our speed, they appeared to be moving at the speed of light all the way down the vast tunnel.
The lights were routine, yet unexpected. They signified that someone else wished to use a piece of the grid. Seeing the importance of our mission it must have been someone from 87C management on their coffee break, because you know . . . priorities.
The red lights soon narrowed to point to section D. A computer voice confirmed this hypothesis.
“Warning, section D will be commandeered in T minus five minutes and counting; authorization code 7459875972-87C; Warning . . .” The voice repeated itself, and would continue to do so for the entire five minutes . . . safety protocol.
A voice spoke up over the micro-transmitter in our helmets.
“Damn, it’s that fucking Richardson again! He needs to cut down . . . fattest guy in 87C!”
Everyone laughed as we all started to evacuate section D. Soon a competition began as to how fat Doctor Richardson really was. I was too dejected at my failure to join in.
Truthfully though, tensions were high and the laugh did us good, but I was the only one who understood just how high the stakes really were.
Soon the countdown came to zero minutes, zero seconds. At this time section D vanished. It didn’t fall or stop, it just vanished and reappeared somewhere on Decks 1 through 5.
At precisely the same instant two new grid walls appeared, complete with safety panels, to prevent us from walking off the edge; as did on Doctor Richardson’s grid as well.
I quickly checked the elevation. We had only two more miles left to travel. I’d failed to talk to Spider on this front, too. Three strikes; you’re out . . . I won’t be getting any chances in the Dead Zone.
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The toxic landscape appeared before me as the levitator came to a smooth, steady stop.
The view warped through the stained, 6” glass window which was laced with chromide for added stability. This was more like staring through a chain link fence as they hadn’t yet found a way to make chromide transparent. Not that it would’ve mattered as I couldn’t make out anything beyond twenty feet due to the wind that blew the sand in repetitive, circular motions.
The words that resounded through my helmet radio were, “Let’s get this over with!”
I looked on as Spider punched in the release code. At the enter key the inner door slid open to reveal what we called the “Wash Room”. It was our decontamination chamber, built to rid us of all toxic contaminants upon our hypothetical return trip. It wasn’t in use now, but served as the way out as well as the way in. I hadn’t forgotten about the Saurids. How could I? Yet, by now, it was impossible to talk to Spider or even Grant alone, and I wasn’t about to panic everyone by announcing it.
After all 15 of us piled in, the door slid shut. This rang home the feared finality of the mission, but I knew going back to 87C meant certain death.
I’ll miss Wolf more than words can say, but fortunately I brought along the few things he gave me. I always took my holo-vid with me. Everyone who had one did. It was like that pre-holocaust Visa commercial I’d heard about . . . “Never leave home without it.” My mind wipe was not, however, intact. I removed a panel and tinkered with it until it failed to work. I can repair it, but this way it looks like junk. Most people will think its three hits are used up and not fuck with it. The altered DNA emitter already looks like junk, or rather a spare part of something most people couldn’t guess. Still it’s better safe than sorry. The khaki jumpsuit I now wore had a pocket sewn into the inside of its upper left arm, right next to my arm pit. This was jury-rigged but still safe with a zipper. It was here I stashed the DNA emitter, but I slipped my holo-vid and the mind wipe into the right pocket.
Spider soon interrupted my thoughts with more safety protocol. “Everyone’s helmet secure?”
Spider was bombarded with a volley of 14 checks, and carefully counted every single one of them, as Grant double checked. Spider continued. “Check on mine, too. Triexelyne valves open?”
14 more checks filled the radio. The list went on.
After what seemed an eternity Spider punched in the second release code. I prayed a silent prayer. Though it was more of an involuntary act because I don’t think god gives a second thought about clones. Whether or not he does, I imagined I’d find myself praying much more often in the future . . . if I had a future.
At the enter key, the door slid open but before it was a quarter way up, we were battered by the wind as the Wash Room was suddenly attacked by a ton of toxic sand. The storm was a mild one, but it was enough to give a first timer a heart attack. Nevertheless, no mission was ever easy, so I willed my leaden boots forward and trudged into the Dead Zone.
Time passed exceedingly slow as boredom ate away my fears. I purposely fell back to the tail position, which was my favorite spot. From here I could see all without being seen. This was actually a dangerous and undesirable position, but for me none other could compare. It calmed me . . . gave me a special kind of freedom. It’s the best you could hope for in the Dead Zone. Besides it’s the position I always took, so they all knew I was there. They were glad to let me. Someone had to take up the rear.
There wasn’t any point in trying to get next to Spider. Getting next to him would just draw suspicion and the truth would draw panic . . . and both would deplete our triexelyne supply twice as fast. We needed all we had and maybe more to get where we were going. No, I had to get him alone . . . later.
Thankfully, after about an hour had past the storm abated to a degree. I allowed my mind to wander as there was nothing better to do. I watched how fluidly my body moved as I walked. I could only wonder how pre-holocaust astronauts ever survived. To us they were as barbaric as the 19th century was to them. Our suits were far more streamlined than theirs were. It was the natural course of things. Variety was born out of necessity. As space suits became more and more vital to survival they evolved into a form of wardrobe. I hear that humans on Moonbase can choose from the sleek design of five to twenty suits from day to day; colorful too!
I only had the one. My suit gave me life. For them this was only true in space, but here, if you breath toxic, you become toxic. This means death . . . slow death. Nevertheless, even though our chromide gear is far better than pre-holocaust’s, it’s still not top of the line. After thirty years and four newer, more modern Earth bases, Bunker 87C has become less than tenth priority.
Third, and sometimes fourth hand supplies arrive monthly. We get odds and ends like vials, beakers, a few books, a holo-vid or two and ancient furniture. Nothing too ancient, though. If it’s pre-holocaust or around there, it might be worth something. No, we get the worthless stuff, things nobody else wants. The only thing new we ever get is paperwork . . . on a vid, of course, actual paper is too valuable to waste on us.
We struck gold a few years back. They sent us a new computer system, but, of course, it was only new to us. The newer bunkers had systems ten years newer. Even so, the system revamped our archaic hardware, which we were ordered to send back to Moonbase, because, by now they qualified as antiques.
Let’s not forget our gourmet delicacies, which is something I definitely won’t miss. The food is usually pre-fabricated and tastes like barely edible plastic; looks about the same too. Aside from today’s farewell banquet, we rarely get the fresh stuff they make on Moonbase. They have bio-domes for everything up there. Hell, they even have salads straight from the vegetarian bio-domes, but we never see any of it. Not even the higher ups see it, because 87C, as a whole, is low priority. I guess management needs to kiss some more ass. The thought brought a slight smile to my parched lips.
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Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted. I heard a roar and looked back. There was another tornado on the horizon. It was far off and I wasn’t in any immediate danger, but for some reason, I was surprisingly relaxed. More relaxed than I could afford to be in the midst of a storm.
My second glance was almost involuntary, but still, I shook off the feeling and willed myself to keep moving. Only a few steps further my feet began to feel like lead and slowly I turned back.
The tornado was magnificent and all I could do was stare at it. I’ve been out in the wasteland dozens of times but this experience was completely new. It would’ve scared the shit out of me had I been in my right mind. It was as if I’d lost control over my own body.
It was then that the alien presence took control.
My thoughts . . . my . . . mind.
!...?[‘‘‘]x+v>[‘‘‘]“|”)[|||] (tap your mind)
>=<=...\=[|||]x+v>\=<-[o] (release yourself)
It was vague. I saw it, but I didn’t see it. I felt it. I felt nothing, but I knew it was real. The thoughts flowed like water, slow, full of purpose and unrelenting. I know the wasteland all too well. Though it knows me better, and perhaps one day soon it will see fit to rescue me from this life. Perhaps today.
I watched the tornado from afar and wondered if it would catch me. I watched it long for me as a mother to her child. Its loving arms reached into the vast wasteland and found me between here and there; and once I was made known, the tempest screamed it’s desire. Insanity raced through my veins as my entire being fought for survival. Seconds became years; years became eons, and finally my mind beat a new chorus as my fear overcame my exhilaration.
I knew I’d been released. The unseen let me go.
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Many years would pass before I would fully understand the meaning behind this alien connection. Their language was as bizarre as their appearance. Their message was one of utmost importance, both to me and to them. This was their first communication with me. There would be many more during my long, unexpected journey.
Yet for now, the whole experience was disconcerting. Things like that just don’t happen. I couldn’t figure it out, so I promptly wrote it off as too much stress and shoved the incident to the back of my mind.
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If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
The whole world was spinning when I came to. My movement was no longer inhibited, yet I remained where I was, stunned and trying to figure out just what just happened so many years . . . minutes . . . seconds ago. It felt like years.
While still standing in the desert, I checked the time to find only a minute had passed. I also found that, though far off, the tornado was not a dream and that it’s true nature was not one of love. As if to prove my point, the storm’s fury increased. I pondered this coincidence and watched as the tornado wrought destruction upon the already desecrated land.
I prayed my lapse was not a vision of things to come, but yet another coincidence. This I prayed because I value my life, even though life on Earth is often worse than death. I know that many weren’t so lucky. On this harsh planet, the mighty tornadoes act as savior for many a downtrodden soul, offering a quick death. More of a savior than the Saurids could ever be. I found myself praying Wolf would have his release without suffering. Crazy too . . . and even Bite Me. I’m about to lose so much. I pray I don’t lose anymore.
I know many see luck as belonging to the dead, for they’ve been rescued from this place. Yet, I remain among the living and must wallow through the filth awhile longer. The thought was disturbing and served to drive me forward; deeper into the toxic desert. I moved towards yet another possible death, to the tool of the Saurids . . . to its very core . . . radiation.
The wasteland poses a different threat. Tornadoes are thought to provide a quick death, but the irradiated sands offer only a slow, excruciating demise. The storms rearrange the landscape often, but with the inescapable desert, death is a constant companion.
The winds change. The sands shift. The grains multiply into the billions. Within it’s microscopic walls each toxic grain harbors death anew. Behind this veil lies the secret of the tornado’s allure. Yet, ironically, the desert offers hope of survival. The storms offer none. So I continued my trek with reservation, still bothered by my lapse.
I surveyed my surroundings as I traveled.
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To the east the tornado reared its mighty head, turning day into night. Apart from this, I saw nothing but desert and the darkened orange haze surrounding. I knew my home, Bunker 87C, was in the same direction, but beyond a mile, none could make it out.
This being the case, the only way to find our way home is by transmitter beacon. Otherwise, we’re hopelessly lost. We all have radios, but they can’t penetrate the twenty mile barrier with the tornado’s interference and clear days are rare. In theory, though, our homing signal will allow a rescue team to find us if lost. In reality, the homing signals are only for appearance, as we would’ve long since depleted our triexelyne supply before being found. Oh, it does help them find our bodies, and this in turn makes it look like the higher ups are doing their jobs. I won’t miss them.
Soon the tornado would pass directly overhead the base. They’d soon feel it. Post-holocaust tornadoes are tremendous and the vibrations can be felt far underground. It’s amazing our decontamination chamber can withstand it. Even so, it’s in dire need of repair. Fortunately, death had a way of erasing such minor needs.
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To the north, the mighty Kilimanjaro loomed high. We were 58.6 miles away, but it was still hard to miss. About that many years ago, the mountain had been defaced by one of many nuclear warheads flying all across the globe. It hit Kibo Peak, which is now known as Kibo Crater. Still, it never ceases to amaze me. The majesty. The dignity. How could such a thing so beautiful survive the holocaust? Surprisingly, Kilimanjaro stands as one of the few remaining barriers inhibiting the endless tornadoes.
Through the hazy atmosphere, I also noticed the semi-thick layer of toxic ice and snow atop the mountain. This was a new layer, only sixty years old. I wasn’t there, but I hear when the warhead hit, the ancient ice crust melted instantly, or close to it. This had apparently chopped about 300 to 500 feet off the mountain. Including Kibo Crater, Africa’s highest peak had lost about 2,500 feet. But, seeing how Kibo’s sister, Mawenzi peak, survived despite the massive damage wrought upon it by the nuke, Kilimanjaro remains as Africa’s tallest mountain at 16,834 feet.
Mount Kenya, at 16,219 feet, is a close second behind. Although it’s true the pre-holocaust version measured in at 17,058 feet, aside from those in Antarctica, all the mountains on Earth lost their original ice crust, causing a huge setback in their evolutionary states.
This unprecedented event also formed thousands of new lakes, all across the globe; submerging low lands, towns and sometimes even entire cities. This was not unthinkable seeing how most major cities of the old world were now monumental craters, creating ideal lake beds. This effect also pushed shorelines back hundreds of feet, destroying even more coastal cities and towns. Mostly, the war was merciful and killed the inhabitants of Old Earth before they could drown.
I know I’m a nerd, but with little else to do in our downtime, I adopted something of a fetish for all things pre-holocaust, as if a monolithic monument all stored in various parts of my brain. It was something like a mental museum full of useless facts.
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Moving on, I glanced west, which was currently forward for me. I saw my troop. Well, actually, it was just my group. We’re not an army, not really. Still, we have a chain of command and I liked using the term “troop”. It made us sound important. It made me sound important, and I needed to feel that way. Damn, I’m not even the leader. If I were I wouldn’t be some twenty odd feet behind everyone else.
Being so far away is dangerous, I know, but it’s more disconcerting that no one seemed to miss me. I guess they were all caught up in their own thoughts as well. I suppose, that tends to happen when people sincerely believe they won’t survive the day. I don’t have a monopoly on depression.
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Eventually, I let my gaze shift to the south. I was confronted by endless miles of desert. This was a sight I saw often. It was beautiful, but also depressing, unlike Kilimanjaro or even the tornadoes.
I started to turn away from the sight, but as I did so my eyes caught a glint of light in the sand. I soon lost it, as I was unprepared for it. I stopped in my tracks and slowly, ever so slowly, began turning back. My eyes ached in the search.
It was still midday and the Sun was at the highest point in its cycle, but it only shone through briefly due to the cloud cover created by the raging tornado. Because of this it was only a mere 92 degrees outside, though it was hotter inside our suits. We were as used to it as anyone could be. Though, sweat still rolled from my forehead and my hair was long since drenched.
I longed to look back and see how close the tornado had come, but to move would be to miss my possible treasure. Anything in the desert besides rock and sand could be worth a small fortune. I figure if we’re not going home we could use all the money we could get. Therefore I remained at a standstill and soon my ears were also strained, listening intently for any change in volume.
Gradually I heard it. It was dying! Not that the storm was any less powerful, but that it had altered course. After making certain of this, I determined that I was safe for now. I punished myself mentally for not paying closer attention to something so lethal, though I was thankful that my lapse hadn’t reoccurred.
I knew my life wasn’t worth this trinket, but my body moved almost involuntarily towards the spot in the sand where I thought I saw the mysterious object. Never once did I think this thing possessed supernatural powers, but there was just some need in me to have it. Some desire powerful enough to overcome my fears. So once again my eyes probed the shifting sand. For a second I thought I might be losing control again, but soon enough I realized it was just . . . greed.
I longed for something to relieve me of my grief and fear, but I never thought it would be greed. I told myself over and over again that if I found anything valuable it would be for the greater good, but deep inside I didn’t believe it. What’s wrong with me!? My friend is going to die, I’m going to lose my home, my whole life is being turned upside down, hell we might not even survive and I can’t take my eyes off the fucking sand!? Such is the nature of greed to override all else.
Even so, if we survived we truly could use the money, but time was running out. Whatever I do I must hurry! After a minute the glimmer returned to my sight. It wasn’t as bright as I’d first thought, even though it lay only ten feet away. It wasn’t surprising that I’d lost it earlier. The inside of my visor was a mess of fog and sweat. It’s a miracle I could make out anything beyond the general horizon.
Upon arrival I kicked up sand, time and again, until the slight glint was joined by a partially covered square-like object. I couldn’t tell the exact size, but it appeared to be a broken piece of a larger object. I couldn’t discern the color from that of the toxic sand. Though, at points the shade seemed to darken. These could be burn marks and if so was definitely something good. Burn marks usually meant either holocaust or pre-holocaust activity. The desert is devoid of life and the chances of post-holocaust burn marks are unlikely at best.
I carefully deprived the desert of its prize. My eyes widened in disbelief! It was a sign! A wooden sign! It could be worth half a million credits, maybe a million! It’s remarkable to find wood anywhere, especially so much of it. The dull glint turned out to be a rusty nail, of all things.
By now everyone else was about thirty feet away, so I started back at as hurried a pace as I could manage. I tried to read the sign as I went, but the intense heat was getting to me.
As best I could tell it read, “the majest . . . manjaro stands . . . Africa’s highe . . . ut it’s actu . . . ibo peak, one of tw . . . top the mounta . . . holds this honor. It rise . . . O 19,340 fee . . . s sister, Mawenzi . . . o . . . nly . . . 17, . . . 4 . . . T . . .”
The sign rambled on, often breaking the line of thought to skip over splintered cedar and charred remains. To read further would prove to be considerably more difficult, and in my condition . . . impossible, so I let my mind relax as much as I was able. It was just as well . . . I’d somehow pieced together all I needed to know.
The sign was apparently trying to tell me basic information about Kili “manjaro” by stating the elevations of the two peaks. Before the holocaust K “ibo” peak was higher than Mawenzi peak. This is what the sign states, yet it’s untrue. Proving that the sign was pre-holocaust. This was a true relic.
I was happy, though none could tell. The environment curbed my enthusiasm. It was remarkable I was able to solve this little puzzle in my condition. I trudged on like a beast of burden . . . knowing nothing more than to move forward. I carried my sign and silently rejoiced at its lack of weight, yet, at times, it still felt like a brick.
By now I was in range for radio contact, as revealed by the flashing green light on the inside of my helmet. After a while I wished I could somehow turn it off. It was starting to give me a headache . . . it always did. It was regulation not to use unnecessary triexelyne on gossip, but I’m sure talking was the last thing on anyone’s mind. It was hard enough to keep walking. I slowly raised my right arm to check my trix level. It was difficult to read due to the sweat and glare on my helmet visor, but after five minutes of trying I was able to make out the numbers 649.43.
Upon departure we were all equipped with 1000 units of triexelyne, divided into two 500 unit tanks, plus a small 100 unit emergency tank. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it. I don’t know if I’d have the strength to switch valves. This truly was a long distance and night was starting to fall, making things harder to see and thus more dangerous. On the plus side the intense heat would soon ebb away.
Though, not anywhere near as cumbersome as pre-holocaust’s suits, our chromide gear was still a bit bulky, but only because of its age. They must have been at least twenty years old. 87C’s suits were usually white in color when new, but none of us were ever privy to such an honor. Mine saw so much wear and tear the color dulled down to match the desert terrain.
Blending in with the terrain is bad news out here, but at least all our suits came equipped with built in high beam head lamps. It helped a great deal against the misty orange atmosphere. The light jutted out bluntly, directly above my eyes, similar to the way pre-holocaust baseball caps once had.
Each suit also had a built in high beam located in the small of the back. The suit’s computer can detect the lowering light levels and automatically activates all available lights at the appropriate time. Night seemed to fall early with the cloud cover and I could see lights systematically illuminate the blackened sky, one by one. All were lit up within five minutes time, as was mine. Spider was leading the group, but since I was at the rear I could barely discern his back light. Nevertheless I took pleasure in counting all of the troop’s lights over and over again. There really wasn’t anything better to do and concentrating on the lights helped get my mind off the oppressive heat, which was fading, but not as fast as I would’ve liked.
Come to think of it, the custom made reflective pads didn’t hurt my visibility either. Most were triangular in shape, each about the size of a marble. There were 18 in all and they covered my body, causing me to resemble a Christmas tree every time a bright light shone across my body, which at the rear was a rare occurrence. Though I suppose these pads made it convenient for me to be at the rear.
It was around this time I started feeling a little better, but hunger began to eat away at me. I really should’ve eaten something at the banquet. I knew we’d stop soon so I endured it. I don’t like to be noticed and I most certainly didn’t choose this outfit. It belonged to Eddie, a jock who failed to make it back to base about a month ago. I barely knew him, but got stuck with his suit. It sent a chill up my spine every time I thought about being inside a suit somebody died in. It felt strangely like a coffin. I tried to think of something else.
I found myself constantly taking sideways glances at the suit’s thermostat. I’d come this far, but I was still slightly worried that the patch up job wouldn’t hold. Eddie was rich by the standards of clones and though his suit was old he was able to afford a few perks. One of the new additions was a customized thermostat regulator, which adjusted the temperature inside a suit. It was really just a glorified air conditioner. It was an excellent idea, but it was an unlikely addition which didn’t exactly belong.
Of course, everyone was envious, but that all ended the day Eddie’s thermostat burned a tiny hole in his suit. I wasn’t there, but I hear Eddie died a horrific death. His body was dragged back to base and the suit salvaged. The thermostat was removed and put to some better purpose inside 87C. Once repaired, the suit was put on emergency standby in the hope it wouldn’t be needed.
Such wasn’t the case. The suit was needed one day, yet understandably no one wanted it. To be fair straws were drawn and I drew the shortest. I’m not dead yet.
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Depressing thoughts were a dime a dozen in the vast emptiness of the Dead Zone. I soon found myself wondering how I even existed. I really shouldn’t. Like all half-breeds, humanity reviled me. Lips curled in disgust as we walked past. Some spit in our general direction, forever disappointed when their attempt failed to connect. In truth, the history of what we are began long ago . . . as did the hatred. I thought back to a time before I was born, to a story handed down to me by my kind. A story of why we’re blamed for the destruction of Earth.
Pre-holocaust society had long since mastered the art of cloning humans.
It was nothing new, but until 2046 cloning had only been practiced with dogs, cats and farm animals of different sorts. This posed only a small, tolerable threat. Then came John K., founder of Prototech Incorporated. We never did know his last name as it was buried in secrecy for his protection. Fanatics and tabloids alike adopted the last name Kennedy, as if cloning technology secretly existed that long ago. Paranoia seemed a trademark for that lost age.
Regardless of who John K. was, he became famous for a very different reason. He began what he called “Latter-Day Species Revival”; I guess John was trying to sound religious, but it’s just jargon for cloning recently extinct species of animals.
In 2046 he brought back the California Condor; in 2049 the Snow Leopard; in 2055 the Black Rhino . . . all great accomplishments, but only a prelude of John’s ambitions to clone humans. The first human clone was birthed in 2077. It caused an uproar.
By 2082 Prototech was moved to a top secret location somewhere in Sweden. Exactly where, no one knew. They had to keep a low profile because of society’s growing fear of walking to the grocery store and seeing themselves somewhere along the way. Not that this actually happened. It was mostly a hypothetical kind of fear. In reality, the volunteers and other test subjects were carefully screened.
I could go on and on, but on September 17, 2083, now know as “Nuclear Holocaust Day” or “NHD”, Iraq, with their ever happy trigger finger, eventually became so disgusted that they fired five nuclear warheads at all the major parts of Sweden. One got through. No one knew if that was the missile that took John K.’s life. No one lived long enough to figure it out.
When Iraq continued firing nuke after nuke after nuke at Sweden, the United Nations eventually retaliated. As expected many countries sided with Iraq and returned fire. The countries were picked off one by one as were the world powers until the only survivors left were a frozen few in Antarctica.
Just about everyone died on planet Earth, but the newly released Scepter 10 Moon satellite caught it all on tape, so history wasn’t left out in the cold.
Luckily though, a fourth of humanity had already moved to the Moon and Mars, making Earth the scientific battleground better known as the Dead Zone.
Ironically, after the war cloning was needed more than ever to help save humanity from extinction, because surprisingly few people on Moonbase and beyond survived the new adaptation, also known as the “Savage Years”. However, the technology was only saved in part. It wasn’t until 2094 that this reengineered formula was complete enough to create a clone that survived more than a few years.
When Spider was born, in 2116, the formula was down fairly well, but it’ll never be as good as it was. There’s always going to be anomalies and miscalculations that will cause us to live anywhere from 40 to 130 years. They say the “perfect” or “true” clones live 160 years standard, but none of them are that old yet. Even so, there’s only a few left because most of them were Earthside when the big one hit.
What is perfect anyway? We’re modeled after flawed humans. Some of us are stronger, some smarter and a select few are deformed and, or irradiated, because you can’t catch all the bad genes. Sounds pretty human to me. Strange when you think about it. Society desires to be superior, yet they make us. Ah, but some things will never change, like stupidity.
Of course, many other things happened from then to now, but the most relevant, the most horrific, to us was the “Spartanian War”. This was a fight between humans and “flawed clones”. It wasn’t a far jump for them to call us inhuman in order to distance themselves. Humans tell us this even today. Most of us believed this since it was beaten into us, basically, since birth. They must’ve thought it was easier to keep us as slaves if they claimed we were a different species . . . easier on their conscious anyway.
I have yet to be convinced humans have a conscience. I’d be willing to believe they had one long ago, but they killed it and I’ve never seen it. It was this fairly widespread abuse that caused the war. There were a few flawed clones that simply couldn’t take it anymore. So they formed an army. In the beginning it was an underground army. They fought with guerrilla warfare from the shadows.
In time the army grew as they had a cause worth fighting for. It helped that they had many victories due to what they were. The smarter ones formed the tactics and numerous back up plans for every encounter. While the stronger ones had little trouble killing the weaker humans. Yet, eventually the army outgrew the shadows. It was when they came out that the real war began.
It lasted for a couple years, sometime around 2125, but eventually we lost. I don’t know how. Outnumbered, I suppose. I know as much as I do because some survived and handed the story down time and time again. It became folklore . . . almost a myth, but I believe it. I believe it because of what happened because of it. My life was shit because of it. Whatever freedoms we had were taken away and the hatred grew from and toward both sides. 87C was just a large cage. Were we not rats in a maze?
Of course, history is told by the victors. The humans first tried to make everyone believe there was no war because it bruised their precious egos to think that we could’ve gotten the better of them, even for a while. When this obvious lie didn’t work, they tried to downplay it to a skirmish brought on by rebellious and unruly half-breeds and was easily squashed. This didn’t work either, so they admitted there was indeed a battle . . . not a war, but that the good and righteous side won . . . them. They were also forced to admit to a few minor casualties. They would go no further. This was the story they still adhered to. They rarely speak of it . . . too embarrassing I think. Yet when they do they call it the “Battle of the Breed”.
Jump to today, 2143, 60th anniversary of Nuclear Holocaust Day. No one was celebrating. Clones are still despised, but us flawed clones are scum of the universe. I guess that’s why everyone calls us half-breeds instead of true clones. Although, we’re still needed to help replenish the human race.
Aside from the war, that’s probably why humans hate us . . . they didn’t want us, but were forced to take us anyway. We were needed even after the war. I’m sure we would’ve been exterminated otherwise. Sometimes I wish they had. For clones, that equals a typical lose-lose situation. It sure didn’t do my self-esteem any favors, but life sucks. I didn’t need a storyteller to figure that one out.