Tag: S. M. Nolan

Short Story: Io

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Io

In the ever-present, expanding cosmos, an imperceptible flow of energy invisible to the human eye, ear, and mind steadily pulses across the eternities. It is, what human instruments have measured as, an emanation of radio-waves– but one of many remnants left over by the explosive big-bang. Upon decoding the various, intermittent pulses and silences– as one might with Morse-code– one will find a message discernible only through mathematics and applied linguistics.

It reads thus: “The masses will have undoubtedly cried upon discovery, proclaimed this to be His work, His word, His voice. They will have implied He were the one to be credited with the infinite, cosmic machinations. The truth is however, is much simpler, than such a primitive species could hope to grasp. I know this because I know him– your “He,” your “Alpha-Omega,” your “God.”

“To attempt explanation on such lowly mortals given your stubbornly facetious intellect, would prove unyielding, difficult. However, I must at least try. The fact is God– if you so wish to call him that– does exist, but he is no Divine Creator. He is yet another scientist! One whom began his career a long while after I. The best I can think to explain, for I must in posterity’s sake, is through the parlance of your own times.”

“God”, whom I know as Io, was a student, mine– and a poor one at that. When he came to me, as others often do, he had little training. He knew of the physics of dimensions, of universes, and of duration-manipulation. He knew of them, but was continually perplexed by their intricacies, astounded by their fields and dynamics, and downright overwhelmed by the masses of information and formulae. I remember watching him sit in class hours after the other students had gone home, his utensils making ubiquitous markings as he tried and failed to grasp the least wanton physics. So poor was his form and and understanding that I had written him off as a try-er, but ne’er a doer.”

“To understand this properly, perhaps you should know a few things about us grander beings: Firstly, our “sciences” are beyond humanity’s intellectual prowess. There are simply no words in your parlance to relay the extremity of our understanding of these fields. I can say only in words you’ll understand, that we are of the highest repute in matters of knowledge and wisdom. Furthermore, we do not teach as your “master” teaches your “student.” Instead, we communicate with feelings, images, thoughts that supplement a vast, and unending genome. (Again, in your parlance, for genes are not apart of our composition.)”

“These facts are important to know because it was Io whom struggled most deeply with them. (I believe this may be the basis of your “created in his image” fallacy.) In your terms, his genome was tainted by a mutation– a mishap of your “evolution” passed down to him from the time of his creation. The poor child. His mind was so permanently boggled that his awareness was too weak, inattentive, to grasp the many concepts his lineage passed to him. For a period, he and the others thought him mad. It was then that he came to me– a counsel to his ward.”

“Another thing you must understand; Io has not always been here. What I mean to say is that in your “holy” books– of which I detest– Io is remarked as never-ending, never-beginning. This is a preposterous, pretentious notion, and could only be taken as fact by the most gullible of creatures. To believe such ego-maniacal depravity is to lack the where-with-all– or perhaps, imagination– to picture even the true scale one’s own planet, let alone something infinitely larger. I will put it simply as this; mathematics do not agree you in this notion. You can not take one from zero. Even your primal, “reptilian” brains could find it if bothered to try.

“Ah, but I digress. There is but a final matter to clear up, this notion of Humanity as “chosen”, “created in His Image”, or any other of the infinite and vastly flawed arguments. As I said before, Io was my student. He was not authorized– nor was it wise for him– to “give life” to any part of any of the infinite universes our species has created. He was simply not competent enough. To further expound on an earlier aside; I believe his ego was driven to defend itself. As a result, he chose creatures not unlike him– at least not in their poor, mental aptitude.”

“Again, I digress, but as to the matter of this “life-giving.” In the course of his meanderings through our insurmountable knowledge, he stumbled across an old formula for life-giving. The formula was older than most, unused as a result of its instability and dissimilarity to us. So vastly minute in its size was it, that it could not communicate with us in any way– even this message might prove futile. In simplest terms, the formula was obsolete. A number of other species of varying sizes, though still larger than any a “human” might imagine, have since been created. These new formulae have held a purpose– chosen if you will– to aid us at appropriate times in our research. Humanity is not one. It is, was, and shall forever be an accident and a grave mistake.”

“Io, the poor soul, wished only to understand the vastness of knowledge our species contains. He wished like his ancestors to be held on high, praised for his genius. But he had not the capacity for it, and certainly not the ability to do so responsibly. Many of us knew this, treated him differently for. Those you might term as “peers” bullied him, while colleagues of mine berated, belittled, and ridiculed him. I, and a few others like me, took the poor boy aside at times to comfort and calm him. It was a mistake, one that I regret to this day. He knew well why the taunts were directed at him, but appeared to take it in stride. In secret, he resented us all. Then, in direct defiance to our collective will, he began to experiment on his own.”

“This is how life in the “Human” universe came to be. The universe itself was an old one. Once again determined too minute, its physics too basic. It had been laid aside for eons until one day it might be studied as a curiosity by one of us in some way. Yet Io did the unthinkable!

“He stole into our archives, lifted the universes container up, took it and a few others, and secreted them all away. He then used the old formulae– how he gained the capacity to do so, we’ll never know– and mixed together its ingredients. Like a mad chemist with a dropper, he deposited the ingredients onto a planet, let it stew for billions of years. Though we do not mark time as you do, it is all the same in relativity.”

“Oh if only you could truly grasp our existence, then you would see how ill-advised Io’s course was! As time passed, he became disheartened, distraught. His ego was shattered, his heart broken. He had once more failed, had taken so many risks only to again prove himself unworthy.”

“Then, something wonderful, amazing, hideous occurred. Long after he had given up hope, turned away from his experiment as scientists turns from his petri-dish to mind other matters, he took a last, forlorn look back. Something had crawled from the world’s seas, flourished to surprise even him!”

“As he tells it, whilst he rummaged through an old sack of belongings– no longer a boy, but now a “man,” he re-discovered his youthful experiment. In truth, I believe he came across the “Human” universe’s disappearance in reports in his work at the archives. It is the only job suitable to creature of his poor intelligence. I believe it reminded him of his failure, forced him to look once again upon it in defeat– as though the scientist were about to chuck the petri-dish. Instead, he was surprised by life, millions of years evolved, and so Alien in its form. He rejoiced. Never had he, or even we, seen such a form. Still he was elated at its discovery, but told no-one, studied it until he’d perfected its equations.”

“Oh the millions of agonies! Io why? Why did you do it? Was it truly ignorance, or was it an act of spite– the desire to inflict the same pain you’d received from those of us whom lack compassion?”

“Io sent one of our ambassador particles down upon your world, programmed to his directives, and disguised in your native form. He had told it to tell of “God,” a place in his kingdom, and a frighteningly large amount of other nonsense, that had it been known, would have had him locked away for good. Yours species however, was disinclined to accept the notions he put forth notion. (And I don’t blame you. Especially for a poorly planned experiment, carried out by an equally poor student.) Io’s ambassador particles were sent over decades, millenia; each time their programming was refined, his message clearer, simpler. Unfortunately, he was an even poorer programmer than he was a student, was incapable of coding the particles to interact properly together, or indeed at all. Conflicts began. What you call “Holy wars” are nothing more than followers of the various particles failing to co-exist as they had.”

“This last point is why I send this message. I have discovered Io’s schemes. More aptly, he has confessed to them. I don’t blame the poor child, for he only wished to be like his elders. Is it so terrible a thing to wish to be greater than oneself? No, invariably this is the way that all beings grow, evolve. He has however, gone far beyond the realm of the sane seeker to that of a desperate madman. His pomposity on matters of our science have only increased, the delusions imparted to you gone to his head. We fear now for the remnants of his sanity, the life he’s petulantly created. It is possible I may find more life that he has half-assedly created like this first, in the depths of these long-forgotten universes, but it seems unlikely as of yet that he has found it.

“And so I leave this message for the “Humans of Earth”: You are not alone. However, you are not special. You are not unique. You are not chosen. You were “given life” by a child-scientist in an act of petty childishness. End your feuds; for there are scientists, and then your “God”; a failed, child-scientist. But do not fret. Instead, cherish your existence all the more. Otherwise his delusions will go to your heads, and you may miss out on what we have created the others for. We will abide the rules we have on such matters as these, and leave you to your ultimate ends. And should you reach sufficient knowledge or frame of mind, we may retrospectively consider Io’s experiment a success, and let you into the “kingdom.” Fare well in your journeys so that you may go alone, unhindered by delusion. For Io is no “God,” no “Creator,” he is a child; too young, stubborn for his own good. Rest assured that if you truly think him amazing, then you must wait, meet us.”

Short Story: What Once was, is no More.

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

What Once was, is no More.

It began innocuously enough. Sometime in the early 2000s a group of scientists in a corporate lab, discovered a set of proteins and enzymes in the genetic code of the wide-spread lab-rat. Rattus Norvegicus, the common brown rat, had been used for innumerable studies in everything from psychology to cancer research. It was only then however, that their true power was unlocked.

Latent genes in R. Norvegicus showed promise for the wildest dreams of Humanity were they to be activated. Of course, this meant further understanding them. After hundreds of new rat generations, a proper sequence was compiled. What began then had no end, for how could it? How could one bring about an end to something ended, or worse still, something endless? Through those hundreds of generations of rats, the scientists shifted, their corporate masters changed, the research waxed and waned but ever carried-on.

The cure for all disease came first– human disease at least. How could one do such a thing? That would depend on the ailment. Then, how would one cure cancer, specifically, in an entire species? It seems an insurmountable task to even create a cure, let alone distribute it to an entire populous, I know, and it nearly was. But those higher-ups and their bright ideas found a way.

Despite mass-protests, riots, and burned cities, the world’s governments launched the first in a series of non-violent chemical-dispersals over their countries. Civil wars lasted days, until, with the help of the internet, the media-propaganda-machine took over. For once, an entity used solely for suppression of disparaging citizens, rose in defense to communicate a collective message of altruistic action, hope, astonishment. Mothers, daughters, fathers, sons, and other familial nomenclature, rose to chorus in unison that no longer did their knees ache, their joints creak, or their lungs burn.

In time, the riots died down, the embers of the burned cities extinguished. With the doused fires came news of cancers cured, Huntington’s, ALS– which even the great master, Hawking, praised– Parkinson’s, MS, even the common cold, and flu.

From there on no human was again afflicted by the ailments that had so long dogged our progress as a species. They still existed, as evidenced by scientists and their microscopes. Both heralded as kings, Gods among men, and their instruments respectively. For a time, to speak for the name of science, carry out its whims, and deign its inner-machinations was the greatest act any creature could see fit to take-up. In-time, even those zealots who’d ever-decried the discipline went silent.

Ah, but alas, a crucial law of that most wondrous discipline known as physics has wider-spread affirmations than any surmised. There is a law, one nearly older than time itself at this point; each action must have an equal, inverse reaction. The positive to the negative, yin to the yang, the life to death– or perhaps that is no longer apt. Of course, digressing as I may, we found we’d approached a cataclysm– a singularity of human hubris.

This event began with the loss of biological warfare. In and of itself, when executed by humans, it was not a fitting act for such intellects as our. As such, its loss in the world hardly seemed an issue. It was a good thing. Now, not only were we humans cured of our ailments, but we were unaffected by them. We were steel of stainless stature in the face of oxidation. The breath in our lungs un-threatened by the toxins in our air. We might have collectively inhaled in the very vacuum of space, so enlarged were our heads.

Would that we had! Oh woe is us. For you see nature– science’s harsh master, mistress– is a fickle thing. She is the yin to its yang, the positive to its negative.

As relayed, the cataclysm began with the loss of biological warfare. But it was not ours loss that threatened the world. Rather, it was hers. A little overlooked fact by those Godly men– those scientists whose lives it was to study, understand, and harness Mother Nature– a simple fact. Some called it growth, others progress, the once God-King himself Darwin, called it evolution.

Evolution! How could we have misled it? Without humans dying to disease or fighting to cure it, plagues came faster, more numerous. They ravaged our world. But what did we care? We were invulnerable. Those chemical-dispersals had rewritten our DNA, made us more rat than man, woman, or child could ever want to be. The very fabric of our nature had been changed, our sight destroyed.

Mass-extinctions killed off species in the millions– perhaps billions– at a time. Plagues, epidemics, pandemics ravaged our world with such death it became contaminated. World governments scrambled, corporate interests toppled, scientists hanged, answer-less.

Once more, riots, civil-war, death. Then… that most frightful of ideas! Oh woe is us, how could we have ever thought it? But how could we not? The rats were dead, as were the birds, the fish. We had no cattle or meat, barely enough plant-life. We had no options! We were choice-less to the machinations of cause and effect, spurned by our own mistakes, our existence bulldozed to the precipice of extinction as our world withered around us.

Another chemical-dispersal, came quickly, contained something so heinous I beg not to think it.

No-one wished for immortality. For who could? Who could look so fondly upon themselves and inconsiderately thrust title of God upon them-self? Who could so desire an eternity, waiting for nothing more than the heat-death of the universe? Why could we not stop to consider the simple pleasures in the act of danger, hunger, sorrow– for if we do not die, and we are all that is left, where then do those great virtues come from?

We may fair seas that are slowly drying, and rise through skies whose colors shift as the atmosphere dies, but what of them? Should we not care? Perhaps. But we, collectively, do not. Though we may begin the fairing of space with time as our only guide, and the hope that we might find a place, or a cure for our damnation, we know of no fear, no exhilaration, no anxiety. For now we can withstand an inhale in the vacuum of space, the destruction of our ship upon it vastness. And our only angst in such an event wake? That we might drift ever-more through the Great-Beyond.

What we may embark upon in the future, no one knows. We care not. For what once was, is no more. We have no death, no fear, but neither doe we have no peace, love, serenity. We’ve no eponymous downs to give the rising ups their meaning. We have but one, atrociously-long life. We have no goal but to await the Big-Crunch, and perhaps, our own, eventual ends. But then again, perhaps not. Our lives’ only end is so far beyond us that we are lost. Without it’s threat, what goals could man, woman, or child have will to accomplish? We do not know. For that matter, perhaps we never will. For what once was, is no more, and neither are we.

– Departure Speech of Captain Ramius Severus; First Drifter-Class vessel of the Earth Fleet.

Band of the Red: Part 6

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

6.

THE GRINDING HALT

When First returned, Second and I met secretly with him. He detested our ideas; he was a Federation soldier through blood and soul. After hours of convincing, and more than a few blade-wielded threats, he listened to the story of Sir’s betrayal. At the idea that his beloved Federation would murder to cover its misdeeds, he relented.

Regardless of his loyalties, he admitted a serious reticence to the Federation and Mustela’s handling of things. “The Federation has too much power now,” he said. “Those in command are now hungry for more, unsure of how to handle the problems they’ve created. All of this began over a simple matter of coin, and now it has escalated to full, galactic war.”

Second reassured him, “And that was never what the Federation, nor the Council, were given power to do.”

It was true too, neither of these entities had been created to allow minor factions to cause chaos through-out the Galaxy. In point of fact, the opposite was their purpose– to swat down those that attempted to and preserve peace. Instead, The Federation’s politics had ensured their resources could one day lead the Mustela to victory. Unfortunately, war does not end with one side proclaiming victory. It takes years of devolution to skirmishes, hit-and-runs, and feuding systems before it fades for good. And that is if it does not flare up again. What we needed was an abrupt resolution, the grinding halt as it were.

We approached Sharok carefully, at a time when she would be most docile– just after a victory from some of First’s most recent intelligence. It seemed the most fitting; we had given her something and now she would honor us with the gratitude of an audience.

Second gave word to the guards to dismiss them. We waited for them to join the festivities down the hall from Sharok’s door, then entered single-file. Sharok sat in the middle of the room at her desk, her feet up, and a glass of liquor in her hand in triumph. Second and I waited beside one another as First closed the door behind us.

She sipped lightly, motioned us forward in good humor, “Either there is to be a coup, or the three of you have something to say.”

Second stepped forward to speak– she was, after all, Sharok’s right hand. She glanced at First, “Lock the door, please.”

“Something on your mind, Kadè?” Sharok asked with Second’s nickname.

“Yes, my friend, you need to know of a deception against you.” She paused for a reaction. Sharok gave only a sip from her drink. Second hung her head, as if ashamed. In truth, I believe she was preparing herself for battle. She spoke with that same gentle comfort I had heard in her quarters, “We three have been sent here.”

“Sent, Kadè? By who?” Sharok asked, her tone never changing.

“The Federation,” I replied.

“Khie’Yen!”

In one lightning move, she had leapt and flipped through the air. Her glass hit Second’s face, her blades drawn at First and I. We anticipated her, dodged to either side. We each grabbed a wrist as she landed and disarmed her. She lifted a leg to kick First, jolted me sideways. Second was on her with a hard kick to the back of her knee. First and I followed through to force her arms ’round, and Second shoved her to the floor.

She pinned Sharok’s head against the ancient stone, whispered as a snake might, “If I had come to kill you, my friend, I would have done so whilst you slept. Your show of strength has been bested, and now you will adhere to the code, and listen.”

Sharok spit obscenities against the floor, but relented, “Then release me and speak.”

First and I retrieved Sharok’s blades from the floor. Second released her. They were both immediately up. A tense silence fell over the room. Sharok’s arms crossed at her chest. First and I stood firm with her blades in-hand, while Second began to tell of the Einheit; our elaborate hoaxes, our mission, our recruiters and their betrayal, and our present plans.

Sharok took it at first with the snarl that one who has been betrayed might, but it soon faltered. In truth, none of us had ever put the Band in any danger, and for her to believe otherwise was to dishonor us. Moreover, for her to believe the Band could truly be endangered dishonored its ways as a whole. It was with this creeping realization that she began to settle.

She sank against her desk, leaning with her arms crossed, to take things as a strategist might. Second emphasized that our orders were never to harm herself nor the Order, and that we had in-fact, brought about many more deaths to our own side in order to protect it.

She then relayed the perceived failure of the Einheit, “Only two of us returned with the training; Third and Fourth. Both are now imprisoned and under investigation. No-one within the Federation nor the Mustela has received instruction. If Sir’s betrayal is an inclination of things to come, none should ever receive it.”

Sharok asked a sensible question then, “What do you seek of me then?”

First relayed our feelings, “An end to this war, a just end.”

I added, “Where no side has any more advantage than the other. Until now you have not dealt in sides, only coin. But you have the resources to end this.”

“I did not start this war,” she reminded.

“No,” I agreed. “But your honor is at stake because of it.”

This gave her cause for alarm.

You see, when the Lord Verbero’s army began their hit-and-runs, her own people were aboard the ships to provide protection for the intervening trade-routes. While we in the Einheit knew they were unconnected with the attacks, the Galaxy at-large did not. The reason for their neutrality was even simpler than honor; Sharok took no-sides and her people followed her orders alone. It was the sole reason why much of the ground-fighting had ended in stalemate; the Band members refused to fight. However, only the most perceptive of Galactic citizens could ever recognize this. As such, the Band’s honor was at stake if Sharok did nothing.

At this she sensed that, though we needed her, she needed us more.

This revelation was clear in her face as she spoke with stratagem on her tongue, “In order to bring about our way of end to the war, several things need to happen. Each of the factions involved must become leaderless. This means Lord Verbero, the Mustela representative and The Federation’s Council must all be eliminated at once.” This was the simple part, we all knew, and she continued to this effect, “Lords and politicians sleep in grandiose rooms with high-walls and windows. It provides a false sense of security. These designs are perfect for well-trained Band assassins.”

We agreed. She immediately sent word for her best assassins to be assembled in her quarters. It became cramped in the room. I have no hesitation in admitting discomfort in a roomful of assassins. These men and women might as well have been eunuchs; everything but their eyes were shrouded by black cloth, the only color that of the Red Band on their biceps and the sheathed blades at their back.

Sharok spoke in great detail, but with paradoxically few words; the assassins would preform their jobs on a single night, synchronized across systems to cause a unanimous chaos among the three factions. None of them would recover fast enough for the next phase of our plan to begin. New lords and politicians could arise in time, but the rest of us would ensure their impotence.

I watched Gal-Net’s reporters, in terror, relay the mass of assassinations that had taken place. The remaining Einheit members sharpened our blades beside Sharok. As it stood, the Band had more than enough members to carry out the next phase with similar synchronicity. However, allowing them adequate time to return home seemed near-impossible.

We would render the largest fleets, and most dangerous ships, inert. Or, in other words, blow them out of the sky. It could be done, Sharok assured us, but it would have to be done right.

The Mustela were the easiest target with the fewest ships. At that they had but a handful of cruiser-class ships– mid-range escorts with fighter-defense weapons. The Verbero too had few cruisers, but countless frigates. These cargo haulers were no match for any skilled pilot in an attack-class fighter. Fortunately, the Band occupied most of them, and only a single command was needed for their crews to be eliminated and the ships commandeered.

The main brunt of the Band then, would have to target the Federation’s ships– invariably the largest concentration of cruiser-classes. The greatest obstacle would be the flagships. These were six times the size of a normal cruiser with the capacity of roughly a metropolitan city. It wouldn’t be terribly hard to destroy them along with the others, but it seemed a waste. Sharok and I agreed on this point, but First and Second questioned what to do with them.

“We take three,” Sharok said with confidence. “All at once. Destroy the rest.”

“How do you suppose we do that?” First asked, dumbfounded.

“Sneak aboard the Bridge, seal it off, and vent the ship into space.”

It was cold, elegant, and simple. Getting aboard and taking the Bridge wouldn’t be difficult for any Band-member, let alone the four of us. Even venting the ship wasn’t too bad an idea.

Second spoke, “It seems a needless waste of life, my friend.”

Sharok revised her assessment, “Then seal the Bridge with a five minute-warning to the crew.”

It was settled. We had the plan in place. All that was left was to tie-up loose ends.

“What about territory?” Sharok asked.

“Leave it,” I said. “We don’t want control, just peace. If any side tries to chase us down, we take it piece-by-piece until they calm themselves.”

Sharok agreed.

For one, single moment, the stars were like fire-flies in our hands. We executed the plan with over a thousand Band-members. In one hour the Band of the Red altered the entire course of the Galaxy. Frigates were emptied of Verbero, their bodies torn asunder by blades while blood splattered their cock-pits. Cruisers detonated remotely from triggers in Band-members hands as they made for safety. Flagships burned over the skies of dozens of planets with nary a fighter launched. And in the chaos, Sharok and the three of us claimed our three ships.

We gave our five minutes of warning, then with reverie in our eyes, vented the ships. I stood a the large command console with that reverie, and entered in the course on the holographic display. Even at the jolt of hyper-jump, I stood firm, staring out on the emptiness before me. Each of us began the long series of jumps back home as whatever bodies did not escape were blown out into space to drift forevermore among the stars.

Such was the way it went; simple, elegant.

When the time came for Gal-Net’s daily reports, the death tolls were astounding, but the war was ended. A single act of defiant honor was carried out with professional skill, and moral conviction. And without the Council, the Mustela representative, or Lord Verbero to guide them, the three factions were in utter despair. With no fleets left to launch in anger or retaliation, the systems went silent. The Band lost not one person, and not a single soul was truly certain who had caused it, but the war came to a grinding halt.

The factions remain equally powerless even now, our flagships ready to smite any whom would attempt to replace war-fleets. We’ve since kept our eyes on them, but there is not much to see. No-one who might have truly wished revenge was left alive to seek it. There are still civilians, and their ships, disagreements and skirmishes, but there is also peace.

I suspect, and others agree, that this was a welcomed incident– a way out of the battle for those many draftees and would-be defectors. None of them wanted this war, and those that did now lay dead with their gold-laden pockets to weigh them down.

Sharok remains in power over the Band of the Red, its reach greater than ever, but she is no longer concerned with coin. We three, remaining members of the Einheit stand by her, policing the space around the Band’s planets with our flagships manned by skeleton crews.

Where we began seems so far away now, that it is almost anti-climactic in the eyes of one who has lived it. But this is simply my story– my ascension through The Band of The Red.

We have since taken all military ship-building plants in pieces aboard the flag ships, dividing them as best we can to set down to build our own fleet. Presently, Second and I share a special place with one another in this endeavor, while First heads up the creation of a new Galactic government. His virtues are true, as are the Band’s: No more will the want of a few coin-fixated men and women, determine the fate of billions. The Band of the Red will forever be in charge of the galaxy. With its resources, and code of honor from eons past, it will be a fine flag of peace for the masses; this in spite of its former, treacherous dealings. But at least now, the Galaxy’s people know to question their leadership.

Short Story: Deadman Part 3

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Deadman

Part 3

The five stepped into sunlight, the world around magnificently colored with a plethora of verdant and earthen hues. The trees, regrown through centuries that had passed, threw shadows over the ruins of once prominent sheet-metal warehouses that had decayed to rusted out skeletons. The sun shone through a missing section of roof around ivy and tall grasses that had reclaimed it and the concrete floor their boots resounded echoed with. They rubbernecked their way forward to a metal door, emerged into full-blown day.

Their radiation suits, of a thick plastic, and yellow and red in color, were hot, chaffing. A member of the team lifted an instrument to measure the atmosphere. It returned normal. The few, small bounces of needles no doubt came from the sun itself. He gave the signal– a thumbs up– and the others pulled back their plastic helmets, switched off small re-breathers on their backs through devices at their wrists. They looked upon the world with renewed eyes, saw now that the complex of rectangular warehouses, covered in green ivy, was flanked by trees that threatened to topple them. All around were high rock-walls that formed a horse-shoe ’round the warehouses. They stepped for the shoe’s center, looked westward toward its open face.

A small path led outward, wound down and around the mountainous cliffs. They took in the spectacular sight, breathed deep to inhale fresh air that lightly stung their chests. In the untold centuries that had passed, their subterranean lifestyle had only afforded them the fruits of reclaimed and carbon scrubbed air. Here, it was an adjustment just to breathe, but a welcomed one.

A renewed vigor infected the Five and their mission; they must find somewhere not far to establish a settlement. One team member elaborated on the benefits of following the path down the mountain in search of an old settlement, but stayed himself when reminded of their current location: they were atop a range, likely a few thousand feet from the region’s average sea-level. The road could twist and turn for days. The man understood. It would take far too long to blindly follow the road, when there might be a more than suitable expanse on the range itself. They did however, elect to follow the road for a time, and in keeping with the ways of their utopian society, each one agreed before any of the others would leave. They set off.

The road sloped a short way then leveled off, still far above sea-level. An exploration into a mass of plains between two tree lines that spanned yielded measurements of roughly a mile in each direction. At the furthest edge forward, a remarkable sight appeared. The ground dropped away abruptly, where the Five stopped and sat upon its edge. They looked out on the profundity of what lay below.

The cliff side was staggered, the path winding down for miles. It became smaller and smaller, until merely a line that wound beneath canopies, around forests, and onward into oblivion. The team remarked to one another. This was once their domain; Humanity had claimed it as its own, and when the bombs fell, were whisked beneath it. As if man had been a pile of dust swept beneath a

rug, there was no trace from this point, but the path that had once been a road. It was doubtless that by exploring the nethers of the proverbial rug, humanity’s final resting place would be uncovered.

For a moment, the team was contented to remain and dine on the first meal taken in the reclaimed world. The others in the utopian complex would enjoy the sight, its borders large enough to house a collective. There was a matter, however, of finding suitable agricultural land. And so, planting a tracking device, linked electronically to their wrist devices, the Five set out to find suitable land.

The path curved around to a second clearing, hidden from them by the orientation of the first, and of a lower elevation. It looked out upon a ruined landscape where, clearly, had been one of the bombs’ striking points. A team member examined the ionization, as the others looked down upon a massive crater, miles wide from end to end and more still from side-to-side. It was as if a large meteorite had struck the ground. Dirt welled up around its perimeter, such that it gave

the appearance of dunes, or waves breaking in a dirt sea. Its inner perimeter, along sloping ground, still scorched over eons from the intense heat that had been released when the missile struck.

In the center of the pit, was a clearly discernible ivy that grew in distinct, unnatural shapes. It hid beneath it, ruins of a man-made structure while the craters outer-banks were much the same as before; charred dirt that morphed into green grasses. Bushes and foliage came next, that towered over the pit. Then, a mass of sprawling trees, roughly a hundred feet high, their girth a fifth of their height.

The Five took measurements, concluding this would be a more than satisfactory place to begin their agricultural pursuits. They planted a tracker, and moved on.

So it went for days. The Five would travel a short way, find a clearing, and once satisfied, plant specific tracker for different tasks. In time, each who spoke were satisfied. The “Common-man’s” advocate found peace in the beauty of their proposed residential land. The “Agriculturist” found suitable land marked to meet their people’s needs, and when the bottom of the cliff-side seemed much nearer than before, the “Business” advocate put forth an idea. Perhaps it would be best to keep their district nearer the complex and their manufacturing equipment within. The “Security” advocate agreed; to mount any defensive encampment much further from the complex, did indeed endanger their ability to defend their industry. This was of course, in speculation that defense might be needed, as save for their underground home and themselves, they’d yet to see a shred of humanity.

When the Five returned bearing news of a beautiful world awaiting them should they choose to nurture it, the utopians obliged. They moved outward to their assigned areas, began their reconstruction. They re-fertilized the soil, cleansed from its minute contaminants with artificial, microbial life; and planted their crops. They built homes among trees and plains, cleaning and replanting the soil around them. They dismantled a few of the skeletal warehouses, used their components to repair the others, and set about matters of business and defense.

In the years that passed, they were contented to stay upon the mountain. Their harvest traditions, though no longer necessary, were upheld with even greater zeal. Their views, for the first time in the span of Humanity, worked out its flaws to incorporate the compromise of few among many, and vice-versea. While a few did leave to start anew nearer to sea-level, their spirit of cooperation lived on. If one were to wish, in any of their days, to see true paradise, they need only visit the people upon the mountain, and indulge in their way of life.