Splendid Apocalypse: The Fall of Old Earth (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 5)

by Timothy J. Gawne

  “As you say, my love,” said the female.

  “Let us build a new world together, light of my soul,” said the male. They both turned to the dead body of the scientist and bowed. Then they rushed out of the ruins of the observation gallery and were instantly lost in the rubble.

  A few moments later the entire observation room was incinerated with thermobaric weapons. Distant explosions echoed across the rest of the testing grounds, and then it was quiet.

  4. Another Day on the Farm

  “We have now sunk to a depth at which the restatement of the obvious is the first duty of intelligent men.”

  - George Orwell, Author, 20th Century.

  The morning did not start well for Imelda Blucher, senior administrator and day shift supervisor of Biorecycling Center No. 37 on the planet Earth. Without looking she reached an arm out from her bed and clamped a hand on her digital assistant, hoping the alarm would stop. It didn’t. After a while she sat up, and blearily coded in the alarm stop function.

  Blucher had been up late the previous night trying to balance the budget of her recycling center. Her neck hurt from an old work injury, and the fungal infection on her left foot was acting up again. Now she had to run a day shift. Once the functions of senior administrator and shift supervisor had been performed by different people, but in the interest of efficiency those jobs had been merged. That was great for the corporate bottom line, but for Blucher there weren’t enough hours in the day. Still, being a senior administrator had its merits. Her apartment, for one.

  Her room was tidy, a spacious rectangle three meters by four, with a two-meter high ceiling. It wasn’t even a time-share, the room was hers alone, and - precious luxury - would remain untouched while she was working until her return. On one wall was a small plexiglass window. It was slightly hazed with age, but afforded her a view over the street three floors below. There was also a small bed, a couple of tables and some chairs, and a large armoire made of white-painted antique particle- board. Her data terminal was still open on one of the tables from when she had been working on the budget the previous night. From all around came the conversations and bangs and bumps of the thousands of other people that lived in her housing complex, but she was so used to it that it was like the sound of the wind to her.

  She sat down at the other table and brewed a legally approved mixture of caffeine and a mild amphetamine. She inhaled the aroma of the synthetic coffee – it was good, and she was starting to feel more human. Breakfast was rectangular protein bars. They weren’t bad either and they were quite filling. Again, one of the privileges of being a supervisor. She changed into her work clothes: the unstained light gray overalls of an overseer, practical ankle-high work boots, and of course her photo ID badge which she hung on a cord around her neck.

  She used to carry a purse, but that had slowed her down in the security scans, and was a magnet for thieves, so she had given it up. What little she required in the way of toiletries she had duplicated in her office.

  Blucher examined herself in a plastic mirror. She saw a heavyset ethnic European woman with sandy red hair that was starting to fade at the roots. She had been pretty once, but had worn into a haggard if robust middle-age. She combed her short hair and lightly dusted her face with makeup (more for form’s sake than anything else), put her digital assistant into a side pocket, and walked out the door.

  The corridor was empty – this was a fairly high-level housing complex so you didn’t have people sleeping in the halls. She visited the common bathroom and used the facilities, being careful to log it. With 200 billion people on the planet, recycling was critical and not using an approved toilet could result in heavy fines.

  She descended the two sets of stairs to ground level, passed the alert-looking security guard at the entrance desk, and put her filter-mask on. Outside on the street it was bright, hazy, and almost stiflingly hot. The streets were packed with people, bicycles, and small motor-trucks. Blucher blinked in the bright overcast. She wondered if she could afford a pair of sunglasses, or if she would get enough use out of them to matter.

  Her recycling center was three miles away from her apartment. When she was younger, she had walked, for the exercise and to avoid the delays of the security screening for the bus. Now she was older, the air was worse, and there were security screenings for pedestrians as well, so she took the bus. There was only a ten-minute wait this time with no random drug tests. She showed her badge to the security guard, was wanded with a hand-held sensor-stick, and allowed to board.

  Wonder of wonders, there was an open seat, and she gratefully sat down. Two scrawny children came over to beg from her. Their outstretched hands were lean, but their dark eyes glittered like weasels. Blucher gave them her best stone-gray- fuck-you-I-don’t-care-just-go-away glare and after a moment the two predators scuttled off in search of weaker prey.

  From the windows of the bus, she could see the streets jammed with traffic. They passed close by one of the double concertina-wire barriers to a lower-class sector: everyone was dirtier and hungrier-looking over there. The guards patrolling the barrier had body armor and carried real firearms. Blucher was glad to be on her side.

  There was a video screen in the bus showing a feed from an information agency. The big news was the sudden departure of the Planetary Governor, Clinton-Forbes IV, to the Alpha Centauri system. Apparently there were some issues in that system and they had needed his experience and skills. A new governor had been appointed, but already people were getting ready for the next general election in three years’ time, and the commentators were speculating about the campaign strategies of the likely candidates. The conservative candidate was a left-handed male, tall, ethnic European, and an ardent opponent of gay marriage. The liberal candidate was a tall female, ethnic Latin American, and a staunch supporter of gay marriage. Blucher reacted to the discussion the same as she did to the squeal of the bus’s worn-out bearings, or the screaming of the baby six seats back.

  The bus bounced and jolted through potholes that seemed deeper every day. It somehow made it to the recycling center without falling apart, and Blucher got off.

  On top of the center was a large billboard showing smiling children playing in a pristine forest with the tag-line: Save the Planet! Conserve Resources!

  As she was the plant administrator, security was hardly more than a formality. She skipped to the head of the line, showed her badge, was scanned with millimeter wave radar and contraband sniffers, and entered the building.

  She took the time to whisk the street-dust from her overalls. The hallway to her office was lined with safety warning posters:

  High voltage lines are dangerous!

  Always cut away from you.

  The first job is to make sure that your footing is secure.

  Tax and healthcare forms must be filled out on time.

  Terrorism: it’s everybody’s business!

  --------------------

  The day had proven difficult. There were only two hours to go until the end of her 12-hour shift, and she was still 10% behind quota. She allowed herself the luxury of massaging her temples with her hands for a few moments, then leaned back in her chair and addressed her assistant.

  “We’re going to have to speed up the lines again,” said Blucher.

  “I know,” said Elmer Nandi. “However, that will increase the likelihood of another breakdown. If we lose time on a second belt, we’ll never make quota.” Nandi was of vaguely Indian ethnic ancestry. He was shorter than Blucher, and skinnier, but hardworking and loyal. “If only we had more regular maintenance and spare parts.”

  “You know as well as I do that that costs money, and would kill our profit margins. Central says that we make do with what we have, and make do is what we will. Order the line speedup. Make it 5%.”

  Nandi frowned. “We are already running faster than regulation speed. I think we can still make quota with a 3% speedup.”

  “4%”

  Nandi slapped his hand on the d
esk. “Sold, for 4%, to the woman in the gray overalls.” Blucher had once laughed at this joke, but by now she had heard it too many times. Still, Nandi was efficient. You couldn’t just instantly increase production: that would cause chaos. You had to warn the operators and supervisors, and then speed the lines up slowly so that people had time to adapt. Blucher watched her video feeds of the conveyer belts as they slowly accelerated, the workers adjusting smoothly to the increase in tempo. At last, she thought, things seem to be working to plan. Just keep it going a little while longer and I can end the day without censure.

  “How is our feedstock?” asked Blucher.

  Nandi checked the video feeds of the outside of the recycling center. They showed long lines of people slowly shuffling back-and-forth between a zig-zag of waist-high security barriers. The black-clad security guards lounged casually with their stunners holstered at their waists. Everybody was patient and uncomplaining, their eyes carefully lowered in front of the guards. “More than enough to make the end of our shift,” he said. “All choice, by the look of them.”

  Prime was guaranteed virus- and prion-free. The flesh was well-marbled and the organs healthy, and was reserved for the elites. Select was the lowest grade, and included the dead or dying, was likely contaminated with any manner of pathogens and thus only fit to be ground up for bulk fertilizer. Choice, which was what this plant handled, was not quite guaranteed 100% pure, but was mostly good, and thus the parts still had market value and it was economically profitable to separate the pieces.

  After all, with 200 billion people on the planet, conservation was important. If a healthy 20-year old could do more work than a 50-year old, for the same salary and less healthcare costs, well, replacing the oldster with someone younger and more competitive would boost productivity, thus allowing the economy to provide for even more people and ultimately creating a bigger pie for all. Nevertheless, this was rarely spoken out loud and talking about what the recycling center did in public would get you arrested. Or worse, fired. Nobody told the employees this, of course; they just understood it as a matter of routine. You didn’t survive in Neoliberal society without internalizing what you could or could not say.

  The feedstock would all have gotten a notice to show up for debt reconciliation or counseling or something like that. Once they reached the end of the line they would enter a room and be asked to place their clothes in various bins – they had all been strip searched so many times that it was just routine. Then a guard would tell them to hold still, and use a captive-bolt pistol to stun them. They probably thought it was just another medical test, but even if not, they were all so conditioned to obeying guards that there was almost never any problem. The captive bolt pistol would shoot a steel rod as large as a man’s index finger through the skull and into the brain – nominally still alive, at least for a while, the shock would cause the feedstock to instantly drop into unconsciousness. The captive bolt had the power of a rifle bullet, but none of the risks of ricochets, or of some malcontent stealing it and using it as a weapon.

  Blucher remembered an old documentary about World War II, when the Nazis were killing people in gas chambers. The story the victims were told was that these were just showers. How many suspected that they were being lied to? How many knew for certain that they were going to die? But it didn’t matter, they were all herded like sheep to their deaths with nary a protest. You would think that they would have panicked or screamed or tried to run away, but long exposure to overwhelming force makes people just give up. Blucher reminded herself to never, ever share this insight with anybody else.

  Nandi switched back to the video feeds from the shop floor. “We have a problem with the testicle processor. The temperatures are rising above spec. Must be those damned chiller coils again. If we don’t get the temp down soon the entire lot could spoil.”

  Blucher grunted. Testicles had become popular as a source of natural hormonal supplements – and it would not help her budget to lose an entire day’s production. Apparently the damned things needed to be kept at a precise temperature after harvesting or they would lose their potency. “Call engineering. Have them make it a priority. I want those chillers back online now or I want a new set of engineers.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Nandi. He punched out the orders on his terminal. From the video feeds they could see two harried-looking engineers in their blue overalls and heavy tool-encrusted web-belts begin to wrestle with the recalcitrant testicle chillers. The gauges showed the temperature slowly stabilizing and then beginning an ever-so-slow decline.

  Another disaster averted, thought Blucher. She checked the time. An hour and a half to go. Close.

  “Let’s walk the floor,” said Blucher. “You can only do so much by remote. The workers need to see us watching them, and I need to see them with my own eyes.”

  Nandi nodded. “Agreed. It would be good to stand up for a bit, I’m getting stiff.”

  Their office was a glass-enclosed box overlooking the floor. They walked out, and the noise and odor of the work floor washed over them. There were six main lines, each a conveyor belt running the full 100-meter length of the low-ceilinged main space. Sweating workers stood or sat on stools to either side of each belt, and expertly dissected the bodies as they moved past on the belts. There were some heavy-duty bandsaws on each line, but the work was largely done by hand with knives and cleavers.

  Most of the bodies, though not obviously diseased, were pretty stringy, but there was still a decent amount of muscle on them, and animal protein was a valuable resource.

  Just before they got to the first line, they passed the hulking immobile form of the EnviroTech Recyclotron 4000. The machine was painted a bright green, and had multiple knife-wielding robotic arms all frozen at odd angles so that it resembled one of those thorny desert trees that Blucher had seen in some old movies. Gaping holes and unplugged pipes in its base showed where electric and hydraulic lines had once been connected.

  Nandi gestured at the dead machine. “If we had a dozen of those we could make our daily production targets in half the time.”

  Blucher shook her head. “It’s true that a machine like this can do the work of perhaps 30 people. It operates more precisely and with less waste, but the purchase cost of just one is as great as the rest of the entire plant. Then there are the ongoing maintenance and service fees, which for a single machine exceeds the total salary budget for the entire facility. Oh, it was a wonder when it was still working, so fast that it looked like magic – that was before you came here. Then it broke down, and the cost of repairing it was more than my entire yearly capital budget.” She gestured at the workers on the lines. “If one of those gets sick, we just get another. Don’t forget about the waiting room for people hoping for someone to get injured so that they can take their job.”

  “The human body is a remarkably sophisticated machine that can be easily constructed by unskilled labor using tools that you probably have lying around your dormitory. I read that somewhere, once.”

  “Indeed. Unless you need the precision, robots are expensive toys that central admin likes to play with now and then, but when the full costs become apparent they lose interest. Right now I don’t even have the damn funds to have the blasted thing hauled away for scrap. But scrapping people is free…”

  “Last night I watched a newsfeed that automation was making human labor obsolete, and was responsible for low wages.”

  Blucher stared hard at her assistant. “Nandi. I have enjoyed working with you these past few months,” she said in a cold dead voice. “I should like that to continue.”

  Nandi blinked. “Oh. Of course. Yes, it is a shame that automation is taking so many jobs, but what can one do? There is no stopping progress.”

  “Yes. Do – Not - Forget - That.”

  They wandered down the lines, watching the expert dissecting of human bodies. Nothing went to waste. Hair was shaved off and thrown in bins, thyroids and other glands harvested for their valuable hormones and e
nzymes, a few of the healthier-looking specimens had kidneys or livers or eyes dissected out for transplantation. At the end of the lines the bones were dumped into hoppers where they were ground up for meal.

  They came to the now-repaired testicle chiller, where the two engineers were double-checking its operation.

  “Everything OK?” asked Blucher.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said one of the engineers. “The coolant pump had a bad control module, but we swapped it out and it’s working fine. We’re just going to watch it for a few more minutes and check that it’s all stable now.”

  Nandi looked at the pale round organs as they floated in their preservative solution. “These things cause trouble in life, and even now they are a hassle.”

  “Not to worry,” said Blucher. “There is a movement to ban them. The statistics show that male hormones are responsible for something like 95% of all violent crimes and child abuse. It’s a public safety issue. Perhaps they will not be a problem for you much longer.”

  “I like my testicles,” said Nandi. “You could say that I am rather attached to them.”

  Blucher sniffed. “I can’t see as they do you men much good. Other than allowing you to get into fights, make stupid decisions, or get kicked in them, what’s the point? Did you know that as a drug, testosterone is a controlled substance?”

  “But without testicles, where will babies come from?”

  “Where they always come from. It’s us women that do all the work. Sperm is an inexpensive and abundant commodity.”

  “When testicles are outlawed, only outlaws will have testicles.”

  “Nandi. I like to think of you as a friend. Sometimes you are too clever for your own good, and sometimes you are not clever enough. And sometimes both at once.”

  “Sorry. Bad habit. I’m working on it.”

  Blucher and Nandi left the engineers and continued their inspection of the line. One of the workers was clearly overcome with fatigue, and had been doing an increasingly sloppy job. Blucher waved security over, and the feebly protesting man was led away. A replacement worker immediately took over and the processing continued without stoppage.