by Ran Vant
Some argued that the Conflict would not have happened had the modification technologies been introduced slowly or if everyone had had equal access to the technologies. Some argued that the Conflict could have been prevented if the robots and machines had been built sooner, if the robots could have engaged in autonomous production with the fruits of their labors going to the masses; Others argued the robots and machines would have only made things worse. There were a host of theories about what might have happened. But the modification technologies came fast. The robots were not ready. It did not stop with the riots. The Conflict happened. And at that point, the past could not be undone.
In the Conflict, truds battled against the mods and gens. It started small, but grew quickly. The idea of equal opportunity gave way to something else: the idea that equal outcomes were possible by force. Hope in opportunity was lost.
How could a traditionalist compete on the job with a modified human, let alone a genetically modified one? Truds with 20 years of education and 20 years of experience would be replaced by a mod who could afford a bio-chip or a gen who was only 12 and could do the work by instinct. Businesses run by truds were out competed by those run by mods. If you believed modification technologies were wrong, you could not compete: not for education, not for jobs, not for money, not for hope. Capitalism began to crumble as the modifieds began to dominate. The mods and gens lived like kings. Those without access to the technologies, the truds, lived nearly the life of serfs.
Some modifieds did indeed “dominate” in the worst sense of the word. They were still born human after all. They were still people with the same human flaws that had always been present throughout history. Or were they?
But the traditionalists were not finished yet. In the Conflict between truds and mods, the truds still had the numbers, and with the numbers, power. The traditionalists would not be dominated. In their minds, earth was for humans, not for modifieds, not for crimes against nature, not for artificial creatures concocted in a laboratory, not for those who played in the realms reserved for God. The truds would not be ruled over like animals. Force would be used to bring down those who dominated, and freedom would be restored. So the traditionalists seized the earth firmly before it could be taken from them. Or rather, they tried.
It is true that in some places the Conflict was not violent. The mods and gens were allowed to walk away to the west. Indeed, sometimes the truds walked east. But these were the exceptions. Mods were slain in the street, gen labs were ransacked, while elsewhere truds were cut down by an enemy that could think and move faster.
The mods and gens had many advantages, but the truds had two of their own: leaders and numbers. The modifieds were independent and difficult to govern and lead. The traditionalists had effective leaders, and with that and the power of numbers willing to follow them, they managed to push the mods and gens to a corner of the west. At the water, the truds were slowed. Then the Conflict subsided for a time, for the truds could not advance any further against the mods and gens. The truds declared that all those who wished to use the modification technologies must move west.
Some of those made it west. Many did not.
Thereafter, the modification technologies were forbidden in the east, and travel to the west, where the modifieds lived, was not allowed.
Time passed.
The difference between mod and gens lessened to the point that both were simply called “gens.” But the beliefs of the gens and truds hardened and the gulf between them grew wider.
Now there was a gen who had once (before the Conflict) wielded great power and wealth. He had lived far in the east and could not forget what he had experienced and witnessed on his trek west during the Conflict. He could not forget, nor could he forgive, even though most of the truds who had been alive during the Conflict had by then been long dead. To him, truds were inferior, backward creatures. So he gathered other gens to him, and together they secretly built an army of machines, unknown to both the truds and most of the gens.
When the gen-man thought the time right, he invaded the trud lands in the east and sought once more to exercise dominion over them. The attack of the machines, the start of the Machine War, was so swift that the truds in that region fell quickly. But many other gens were aghast at what had happened to the truds in that region and conspired to stop the gen-man who they believed was power hungry. After a time, they exercised their plan and through much effort he was overthrown. The great machine army was withdrawn from the trud lands.
But the damage had been done. The Machine War rekindled the truds’ fear that they would be forever dominated by the gens, that they were never safe. The fear was rekindled and with the fear, a plan. And it grew slowly, like a hidden ember.
Those who had led the truds during the Conflict had died, and with those trud leaders had died the goal of exterminating the gens. The truds had begun to grow accustomed to the idea that a land of gens would always exist in the west. But with the Machine War the cry of mod extermination was born again. The truds had secretly developed powerful new weapons of their own, and now they sought to use them.
These new weapons released nothing that would poison the earth for an age, unlike the weapons of old. There would be no fallout to contaminate the earth. After the attack, the land could be resettled immediately. The weapons destroyed not only life, but all circuitry in the machines, and with the machines gone, the gens were vulnerable. The weapons would rid the world of the gens who played at god and their protective army of machines. And the weapons would not destroy their trud masters, if the attack was perfect. It nearly was.
The weapons came in waves. First, the ones smuggled in. Then, the missiles and drones. Finally, the soldiers and agents. Cities of gens were wiped out in an instant. Then the towns. Then the countryside. And then the gen remainders were hunted down, one by one. It was called the Annihilation.
But the truds had forgotten something. Or rather, they had never known about it. It was another city. And it was under the sea. There, under the roiling waves, in the last city of the original gens, they took refuge. There, under the boiling water, they conceived a plan that would lead to their salvation. Or so they hoped.
Like most creatures, the gens feared death. But there is a curious thing about those who live long lives. When one can imagine living forever, one becomes even more fearful of death, not less. Death becomes something unnatural and foreign and all the more tragic. The gens were no different, and they strove to ensure they would not be wiped from the face of the earth by the truds.
There were now few gens left, and they had been alive a long time. They did not want to risk dying in an effort of liberation, but they also did not want to live in fear of the day the truds discovered their hidden Atlantis. So the gens took council and began growing an army. An army without vulnerable circuits. An army of liberation. An army that would not be afraid to die. An army for themselves.
And thus in time the gens emerged to take lands of their own and conquered the trud armies of the east. The gens at that time did not wish to dominate the truds, but neither could they allow the truds to build weapons that might destroy them. Therefore, it was necessary to police the trud lands to suppress the old technologies and to ensure that no new technologies were allowed to arise that might threaten the gens and their eternal life. The truds would often see the gens’ agents flying in the sky, protecting the gens and destroying technologies or regions deemed a threat. The truds came to look at the sky in fear.
Many trud generations passed in this state. An uneasy tension grew along with rumors of a plan for the gens to be done with the truds forever, a plan called ‘the Event.’ And then it was time to change again.
Which brings us to the one called Michael Lightbringer and a girl named Clara.
1.
Lightbringer
He looked out across the plain, far below. The target was down there, hidden among the smooth buildings of steel and glass. The target was down there, and they would des
troy it. The fortress hovered seven thousand feet above the small city below.
“It’s time,” he said into the microphone hidden beneath the black metal of his mask. He took a step toward the edge and jumped from the floating fortress. His black armored body fell like a rock towards the earth beneath, his chin leading the way. Above and to his right, his silver-armored mate matched his descent. A bit farther behind and to his left, two more companions hung in the sky.
Like birds of prey diving, they plunged towards the city. The smooth buildings drew closer and their large size became apparent. He knew exactly where he was going: it was beneath the smaller angular building to the north of the river. His eyes scanned the ground, following the ribbon of blue. There. It would be underground. The contraband almost always was. They foolishly thought they were safer there, under the earth.
The four armored bodies hurled through the air until the tops of the tallest buildings were rising above them. Then, one by one, from each armored body’s back sprung metal wings, switchblades opening to slice the air. The wings angled to catch the resistance, rapidly slowing their descent, until each guardian’s legs swung down to gently greet the ground. With another switchblade action, the wings were once more concealed in the small oblong pods on their backs.
A few pedestrians scattered as he aimed his fist at a point on the ground directly next to the wall of the small angular building. A nearly invisible beam instantaneously flew forth from his black gauntleted fist. The only evidence of the beam was a distortion of the air, like heat rising from concrete on a hot summer day, and the exploding bits of concrete that bounced off the four armored beings.
A gaping hole stood open but for a moment before the four jumped through in rapid succession. It was as they had been told. Before them stood a lab with boiling beakers, spinning centrifuges, and several people lying about the room, thrown down by the creation of the improvised doorway. One man tried to reach for a rail gun, but the red-armored one turned his gantlet beam on the man first, and now only a sad pile remained. The silver-armored one grabbed some vials from a vault while the others melted everything of value in the lab. Everything of value but the people. With the exception of the one who reached for a gun, they let them be this time. Those were sometimes the orders. The yellow one did, however, inject each person with a tracer. It would enable them to be easily identified later and associated with this illegal lab, if the need arose.
He slowly scanned the room, and then uttered the only word of the mission, “Solid.” First the black one, then the silver, left through the same hole in the concrete that led to the street above. The dark red and yellow ones were not far behind.
The black figure led the four skyward, back to their floating castle in the sky.
2.
Father and Daughter
The little red-headed, blue-eyed girl clutched the emerald green pendant that hung from her neck with one hand and gripped her father’s hand with the other. They stood side by side, looking across the tall grasses and rolling hills. In the near distance, a tall man walked towards them. Farther back, beyond the man walking towards them, a massive and muscular man sat calmly by an old oak tree. The man under the tree seemed to ignore the father and the girl and instead visually scanned the horizon while a black bird in the tree crowed. The little girl felt as if they might be the only four people left in the world.
“Clara, we’ve finally made it. You’ve been a trooper. You’ve walked a long, long way. But our journey finally ends today. That, over there, is my friend, Alaric,” he said, pointing with his free hand at the man confidently striding towards them, a smile on his yellow-bearded face. “He was mom's friend, too. I think you’ll like him.” He looked down at the girl. Clara stared at the dirt. The father knelt next to her and lifted her chin up. He brushed her red locks to the side to look into her blue eyes. “We’ll be safe here for a long time. I promise. They won't find us here, okay?”
Clara managed a weak smile and nodded. She'd heard promises before.
“So, are you ready?” She nodded again reluctantly and the father stood to greet the approaching man, letting go of his daughter’s hand.
The approaching man with the yellow beard spoke first. “Lothar, we’re glad you made it.”
“Alaric, I thought I’d never see your scruffy face again.”
“Who are you calling scruffy, Red Beard?” Alaric said, commenting on his old friend's growing stubble after the long journey.
The two embraced and slapped each other on the back.
“I see you’ve brought your daughter. You must be Clara.”
Clara didn’t answer.
“Since her mother…” Lothar trailed off. “She hasn’t felt like talking much recently. We’re just going to give it some time.”
“I understand,” Alaric replied. Turning to Clara, he leaned over to look at her eye to eye, hands resting on his knees. “Clara, we’re glad to have you here.” Clara grabbed her dad’s hand again. “They call me Alaric here. Well, I know you’re not in the mood for talking, but think a little bit about your new name.” Alaric patted the pockets in his jacket, before locating the proper one. “When you’re ready, write it down on this.” He held out a scrap of paper and an ancient stubby pencil. She stared at it a moment before releasing her tight grip on her necklace. Then, looking up at her father for a reassuring nod, she released his hand and reached for the paper and pencil. “I’m sure your father has filled you in, but you need to be very careful not to use your real name or your dad's real name anymore, not with anyone, not even your father, okay?” He tousled her red hair and stood up straight again.
Alaric looked at Lothar with his eyebrows raised. It was a difficult thing to put your life in the hands of a little girl.
“Don’t worry, Alaric, she knows. We’ve gone over everything just as your instructions stated. She’s a smart kid. When I told her you’d greet me by the name of ‘Lothar,’ she couldn’t help but crack a smile.”
Alaric thought he saw her crack a smile even then, though it disappeared in an instant.
Lothar cracked a smile himself. After all this time, after traveling an arduous path, he was once again with a friend. That was at least something. He knew he couldn’t protect her alone.
“Well, we should probably get moving right away,” Alaric said. He motioned over at the tree where the muscle-bound Conan was waiting under its shade out of earshot. Conan stood, threw his massive rail gun over his wide shoulder, and walked to join the others.
Alaric pointed to the west. “Our settlement is over that way, another couple miles. You’ll be amazed how you can’t see it until you’re on top of it. Try not to walk in a single file line. We want to do our best to avoid cutting a permanent trail. The grass can only handle a few footsteps spread out.” He started walking while Lothar and Clara followed slightly behind and to either side. Conan followed behind at a distance, rail gun in hand, head on a swivel.
“Much Fanatic trouble?” Lothar asked, noting Conan's continuous scanning of the territory.
“Not recently. It’s been quiet of late. As the ominous cliché goes, one might even say ‘it’s been too quiet.’” Alaric chuckled to himself. Not too long ago, he would have thought it impossible for the world to be too quiet. “We’ve been sending scouts farther afield, but there’s no sign of any atics – Nearby, anyway. But we're always careful, Conan especially.”
“Well, they’re still certainly out there somewhere.”
“That’s for sure,” Alaric agreed as they made the final trek toward their new home.
**
They had stopped to rest. Lothar scratched his balding short blond hair before bringing his hand down to the red-beard-stubble on his chin. He studied the pencil scratches on the paper.
“You sure about this?”
She nodded.
“Well, it’s a lovely name,” he said.
She smiled genuinely.
“Katherine Diana Penelope.” Lothar said as he read the n
ame aloud. He had expected perhaps Sarah, after a favorite character in one of her books, or Diana, or Penelope… But not most of those character names piled together, one on top of another. “Katherine Diana Penelope,” Lothar repeated, trying to commit his daughter's new, excessively long, name to memory. Maybe he let her read too many books, he thought with an internal smile. Or maybe he needed to teach her to be a little more decisive. Oh well, she could have picked worse. And the names certainly had a noble history. They were certainly better than Lothar. “May I call you just Katherine for short, from time to time?”
She nodded, smiling broadly.
Lothar took the piece of paper, folded it, and put it in the pocket over his heart. “Well then, today, Katherine, we get to be born again. Now, Miss Katherine Diana... Penelope, may I have your hand?” Lothar took his daughter’s hand, and together they crossed over the little rise, and saw their new home before them.
**
“That’s Pete,” Alaric said with a sweeping arc of his hand. “We’re glad to be able to welcome you to this, our humble settlement.”
“Pete?” Lothar asked.
Alaric responded, “That’s what we call the settlement out here. Its original name was ‘prairie dog town’ after the first dirt caves. But that name offered clues as to its location, so we shortened it to its initials, ‘PDT.’ It wasn’t long until before ‘PDT’ ran into ‘Petie’ and then simply ‘Pete.’ I’ll introduce you to ‘Chuck’ and ‘Mary’, that is, the wood camp and the emergency retreat, later.”
