CONTENTS
DISCLAIMER
Copyright
Bio
Dedication
Title Page
FML
War! What is it good for?
The Futurists
Amy
The Pit
Fuck'N'Fight
Another Day in Paradise
Showbiz
Food for Thought
The Dick
The Agency
Best Laid Plans
Paris Je T’aime
Season Finale
Mom and Pops
Iron Rick
Solus Tour
Moonland
The Plot Thickens
Moongirl
Third Time Lucky
Brock Motherfuckin’ Dynamite
Afterword
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Last Human?
By T.F.R. LeBoomington
Book 1
The Last Human Saga
By T.F.R. LeBoomington
Editor
DLP
Soon-to-be Dr. in Nanotechnology
Cover by T.F.R. LeBoomington
ISBN: 9781796446036
www.thelasthuman.co
© 2019 T.F.R. LeBoomington
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permissions contact:
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Bio
T.F.R. LeBoomington resides between London and France. When he’s not working on some mad project he's out researching his books and studying humans in their natural drinking environments.
Throughout the years he's worked in marketing, video production, gaming, smart homes and more. His passion for technology and knowledge of the tech industry is excessive and a bit geeky.
He's been writing since he was a kid, but never attempted to publish anything until 10 years ago when he tried and failed miserably. A couple of years ago he decided to start writing again, on the side. The result is The Last Human Saga. It's a product of his love of 80s and 90s pop culture mixed with his love of futurism and science-fiction, filtered through his life experience.
I dedicate this work,
To my great uncle. He died on the day I finished writing Book 2. At least I got to tell him the whole saga, he knew more than any of you reading it!
And to my family, my inspirational hardworking sisters, my mother who always believed in me whatever foolish project I pursued and my father who probably wishes I’d just get a normal job.
And to my editor, outstanding scientist and talented artist, without whom this book would the ramblings of a madman.
And to my number one fan who’s managed to make me believe this is a good read. Then again she thought that on the first draft.
And to all my friends, for their support, inspiration and good times!
Thank you all so much!
THE LAST HUMAN?
BOOK ONE
By T.F.R.
LeBoomington
FML
Rick could barely see. He knew there was a gun in his hand, but it kept moving in and out of focus. There was something wet in his other hand. Something hard. Something sharp. He emerged from his blackout episode standing naked in a park. Rick got the ominous feeling that, yet again, he’d fucked up. He could taste blood in his mouth. His left hand was bleeding; it was holding some sort of broken vase. He brought the flower pot to his face and smelt it. He confirmed that this receptacle did, in fact, contain booze. He took a swig. Not bad. Fruity. Rick blinked. He was in his living room now, or at least he hoped it was his living room. He was still naked. The gun was still in his right hand. His left hand was no longer bloody, and the broken booze vase was gone. Instead, his bandaged hand held some sort of bubble with brown liquid in it. He put in his mouth. He winced. He coughed. It went through his nose. It burnt as it did so. Whiskey. Rick looked at the gun again and thought fuck it. He brought the weapon up to his temple and closed his eyes. Enough of this fuckery. He would have pulled the trigger, but he fell asleep like that.
The first thing Rick felt when he woke up was shame. Shame at getting blackout drunk, shame at probably making a fool of himself, shame at not remembering, shame at not making it into bed, shame at waking up with a gun in his hand, shame at not having the balls to pull the trigger. The second thing he felt was pain, just good old physical pain. Just another glorious day waiting to unfold. From the room next door, he heard Amy telling him to get ready. Doctor’s appointment.
Doctor Fuckface stared at Rick quietly, they’d been like this for a few minutes, and he hadn’t said a word beyond “have a seat”. The office was your typical psychiatrist office, degrees framed and mounted on the wall, couches and seats of various comfort levels and lots of books; probably just decoration, not a lot of people read these days. No need for it. The doc had bionic eyes, Rick could tell. That could only mean one thing, he was being analysed. His micro expressions measured, quantified and meaning assigned to his behaviour. Rick didn’t want to be here, and Dr Freud, or whatever his name was, didn’t seem to care too much. He was getting paid either way.
“So, Mr Archer, do you want to tell me a bit about yourself?” Ah, it speaks! “I think that would be a good start. Don’t you?” Me walking out and being done with this nonsense would be a good start. Rick was not in the mood for sharing today, or any day unless he was drunk. Maybe I should try this drunk next time.
“Rick is fine.” Rick waited for a nod and started again. “You know me” Rick continued, “everybody knows me, I’m fucking Rick Archer, my life is public domain...” He let out a tired sigh and looked out the window, “and it’s been this way since the war ended. What do you want from me?”
“I want to help you feel better” The doc started...
Fuck you. Rick thought it, but he must have also said it because there was an awkward silence. Rick was the last non-modified human. He couldn’t even get standard medical procedures. Everyone got the essential lung upgrade for free, but not Rick. No, Rick’s contract forbade any type of modifications, until death. So, he was the only one walking around with a breathing mask, just one of the many things that sucked about not being a cyborg superhuman. That was fine in the beginning when he was young, and everybody died, but life could be so much more now. Limits had been pulverised. He could live forever now. In some form or other.
“My agent is forcing me to come here. Help me get back in the zone, so I play ball. But I don't wanna play ball. I've had fucking enough of being paraded around like a fucking show monkey.”
“Is that how you feel? A show monkey?”
“Listen, there’s only one thing that’ll make me feel better, and I’m here because you have to convince me that I could be happy some other way. I know how this shit works. I may not be some super-mutant-cyborg-genius, but I am not a fool. So, fuck you for even trying to shrink me.”
Rick believed anyone who was honest with themselves and capable of introspection could identify their own psychosis and handle it. Like most in his position he was blinded to his crippling issues and those of others. His psychosis was far from under control. While true that the many brain upgrades and accompanying societal improvements had brought people to a pretty good place; the carousel of misery stil
l went round and round, and people still rode it. Rick just thought he was the only one.
For most, mental problems and their solutions were the domain of cyber-surgeons and counter-hacking professionals, or brain geneticists. Most brain issues, all medical problems really, were solved by scanning the problem and then agreeing nanobots could fix it, then programming the nanobots to fix the issues. And those who could afford it had permanent nanobot colonies living inside of them; keeping their bodies young and healthy a while longer. Not Rick though, Rick got none of that.
“I’m only trying to do my job. I want to help.” The doc seemed sincere enough, but that was beside the point. His job was to make Rick accept something he didn’t want to. He could be stubborn.
“Yeah, your job… Which consists of medicating me so that I behave myself and don’t have any more breakdowns live for the whole world to enjoy.” The breakdowns actually made great TV, Rick knew that because his agent had told him so a hundred times. They reinforced the whole idea that simple humans were foolish beings. “So, what? Want me to tell you about my life? So you can make your little notes? Then give your advice and prescriptions? I’m pretty open with myself, and I’m already self-medicating, don’t you follow the news?” Rick loved to drink, and get fucked up. It’s what made life bearable. If only they’d let him get the Liver 5000 upgrade. Goodbye hangovers.
The doc was unfazed “That would be good, maybe tell me about your life before the cameras.” Rick sighed, might as well get this shit over with.
“I hate my life”, Rick let that sink in for a moment. It was a rare thing nowadays. He was part of that small percentage of people that still weren’t happy. The Great Purge had pretty much wiped out greed and misery and the people that propagated those traits. But some moody dicks remained, and Rick was one of them.
“Hmmm, but you are rich and famous. People dream of being rich and famous.”
“Yeah? Maybe they do. But I don’t think anybody on this planet would want to switch places with me. Wait, bar that. I don’t think anyone in Solus or any other system for that matter would want to swap with me. Would you like to have my life?” Rick let the silence last for close to a minute then muttered: “didn’t think so.”
The doc waited a bit longer in case Rick had more snide comments in store. Satisfied Rick was done he started again. “I want to understand you. Help me help you. Tell me about the real you. Tell me about your life with your father. Tell me about your childhood.”
Rick turned away and gazed out the window wistfully. It was a grey day, a rainy day, a depressing day, a good day to get blackout drunk. That prospect cheered Rick up just enough to cooperate. For a bit.
“Fine, I’ll tell you about my life. Pretty sure this shit’s been covered in some documentary or two… But since you don’t watch TV, follow the news or look at the internet... I’ll recap everything for you.” Rick was visibly disappointed that his sarcasm had not elicited a response from the doc.
“That would be great, thank you.” And there it was, the smallest smile, but it was there. And that’s all Rick needed, acknowledgement that he was funny.
Rick had told his story a million times. Though it wasn’t just his story, it was very much his father’s story. Frank Archer the fucking hero. People always wanted to know about the great Frank Archer and what it was like growing up with him. And Rick told them. Though, Rick thought, usually I’m the one gets paid…
War! What is it good for?
Rick Archer was born in 2016. It was a terrible year, his father had told him often. Frank lived in London then. He worked in IT for some doomed-to-fail-start-up. That year was the first year he started believing the world was going to implode. Lots of terrible decisions were made, and many great people died, but really it was just the logical continuation of their civilisation’s trajectory. Frank had observed it; everyone had observed it. It’s what people talked about at dinners and drinks for decades. Nations were turning inward, and fascist tendencies were resurfacing. Paranoid countries plagued by terrorism and the media fear factory were becoming police states. Politicians were suppressing the truth and stealing from the people. Good times.
Frank hadn’t planned on having Rick, or any children for that matter. Rick had been reminded of that as often as he’d questioned his father’s parenting. His mother was the most beautiful-perfect-person in the world, and she’d wanted to keep the baby. She was boss. Frank had become a father as division and mistrust spread across the globe. Old alliances failed, and the acceptance of impending doom propagated.
The world-wide generational tug-of-war gradually escalated. Frank wrote about it in his political slash conspiracy’s blog. His headlines were catchy, and he had a small following. He wrote about the power and control of the industrial elite at odds with the growing tech elite. Frank was obsessed with the rise of technology and creative destruction of the old world. Especially the idea that everything would be free and robots would do all the bitch-work. He warned that the only thing that could save the old world and its greedy ways was a war. A nice big war would do the trick.
“Yes, yes, I know our history, Mr Archer…” Rick did not appreciate being cut off.
“Listen, you, interrupting people is rude! Now I’m telling the story, and you’re listening”. The doc nodded. A nod that said, “fine carry on”. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah, clusterfuck in the UK prompted my parents to leave their home in London for my mother’s sunny homeland. We moved to Barcelona and knowing what came after it was a good move.” There was a bit of silence, the doc, like most, had lost people, and this session was going to bring some memories back. Rick continued with his story anyway.
Back then Rick’s parents, like many others, were social media warriors. This consisted of signing petitions and getting people to sign petitions, and the occasional donation or marathon run challenge. Millions of people did this, and it applied slight pressure on corporations and governments, and it worked to some extent. More importantly, it empowered people, putting them in a state of mind where they believed the world could be changed to a better place, that their voice mattered. Every day these dormant rebels inched closer to the tipping point. Frank desperately tried to get the people to rage against the machine. They did not rage in time.
The war started after the collapse of NATO. A lot of madness happened after that. Even CNN struggled to keep up. The beasts of the Pacific once more fed on the bloated corpses of the young. The Middle East and Americas erupted into an orgy of chaos. And in response to the US and Turkey's departure from NATO, the European Defence Force was created. It’s around that time that Britain stopped its Brexit nonsense. Just couldn’t stay out of such a nice army. Rick paused and turned to the doctor.
“Hey doc, don’t mean to pry, but it’s hard to tell how old people actually are now… And from your accent, it’s clear you’re English...”
“Come out with it already.”
“Were you in Britain during the war?”
“Yes.” One word answers always sent a clear message. Rick got back to his story, the good doctor was paid to listen, and he could use the money to get help for whatever demons haunted him.
“OK, well, I’m carrying on.” Still, he waited for the doc’s nod. “Back home my parents, like everyone else, watched as skirmishes started between the EDF and Russian paramilitaries.”
“Yes, we all know that to be lies.”
“What?”
“Those soldiers were Russian military!”
“Hmmm, okay…” Rick wasn’t so sure. Every Russian he’d met was crazy enough to start a war. The doc cleared his throat, bringing Rick back from his reveries. “So, things were equally terrible in Turkey. The Turkish leader had been busy making himself king and his people rebelled.” Rick glanced at the doc. No objections?
It was time to leave Europe. Frank had published articles researching escape routes to safe havens. More of a gag at first, he'd use them for his family. His research had identified New Zealand and Chil
e as of the two safest places to ride out the war. The conflict was spreading to every corner of the world. It was probably already too late to make it to New Zealand. They would have to move fast, and it would have to be to Chile, and so young Rick and his parents embarked on a flight to South America.
They never made it, their plane was hijacked and crash-landed in the Canary Islands. Rick’s mother died in the crash. After that Frank went a bit mental, mostly mumbling about a revenge spree of sorts. First, though, he grieved. For almost a year he was close to catatonic. Other survivors had to take care of Rick.
“It’s weird that.”
“What’s weird Mr Archer?”
“That my first clear memories are from these random people that took care of me while my father went crazy. Don’t even know their names, or where they are now. Just thought that was weird.”
“Well, it is unfortunate that you lost your mother, and technically your father, at the time where cognitive functions began. Your development could only be impaired.” Rick maintained his scowl for a few moments before getting back to his story.
Frank eventually snapped out of it, he found himself living in a crash site turned refugee camp. He would act. As far as he was concerned the ruling elite was responsible, they were the ones who profited from this war. The world governments had to be toppled, all of them. Unreasonable fascist leaders were running the nations that had once fought fascism. But their extreme and unrepentant rhetoric drew the ire of more and more people, including their own people. Frank would exploit these cracks.
The Last Human Page 1
