Mausoleum 2069

by Rick Jones

  Wyman pressed the communication’s button on the left side of his desk. “Yeah, Jen.”

  “We’re in.”

  “Any anomalous readings?”

  “You need to see this.”

  “Jen, is this thing benign or not?”

  “Just get to the comm center.”

  A click sounded over the system. The communication was severed on her end.

  Eriq made his way through a series of winding corridors with low ceilings and pipes that bled steam to alleviate pressure, until he reached the freight elevator that was sizeable enough to transport graveyard goods, such as coffins.

  When he arrived at the comm center the tic-tac-toe grid of nine monitors on the wall had been calibrated to act as a single broadcast on one giant screen, rather than having nine transmissions showing up on nine separate screens.

  The probe had entered the cloud of cosmic dust and seemed to be gliding through with ease. Massive dust swirls the size of planetary moons moved in slow eddies across its path, the colors spectacular, and celestial staircases of lightning lit up from top to bottom, some crossing in fabulous swordplay as the unit remained unharmed.

  It was all mesmerizing to Wyman who entered the comm center without acknowledging his team, who appeared just as enamored as to what was playing out in front of them. Jen sat at the console with her fingers frozen to the holographic keyboard. Jim, as always, stood with his arms crossed defensively across his chest, and Sheena looked as if she was examining the poetic aesthetics of a fine painting.

  Gems of light constantly burst as colorful spangles, the explosions shiny and metallic in their flares. Yet the probe’s shields seemed to hold.

  “Report,” said Wyman.

  Jen read from a comm-top screen to her right. “So far,” she began, “we have readings of presolar grains, carbonaceous chondrites, silicon carbide, aluminum oxide, spinel, and graphite. Simple stardust properties. However, given the cloud’s thickness, it’s also showing elements of amorphous silicate, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, and polyformaldehyde.”

  “And the radiative readings?”

  “Normal.”

  “So it’s benign.”

  “And beautiful,” added Sheena.

  “And the lightning strikes,” he continued, “are likely caused when water condensation and ice particles meet, building up large electrical fields. I’m classifying this as benign. I’ll let the Federation know.” He tapped Jen on the shoulder. “Send the probe back to Jupiter-Six.”

  “Roger Wilco.”

  Then: “All right, people. Show’s over. There’s lots of preparation to be done before the president gets here. So let’s get to it.”

  Whereas Jen continued to man the keyboard and communication center, and Schott went to commit himself to tasks of engineering, Eriq and Sheena took the elevator to the Observatory on the highest level of the mausoleum.

  The ceiling of the Observatory level was made entirely of impenetrable glass, a bubble acting as a lens to deep space where the spirals of distant galaxies and constellations could be seen. The Observatory landing was an illustrious garden with serpentine walkways, a koi pond, a waterfall, and grass and flowers that bloomed after a photosynthesis feeding from high-intensity lamps.

  In the central area lay several sarcophagi laid out in ten rows of ten. It was an exclusive area that was set aside for the most coveted citizens of the Federation, most notably the political elite. In the fifth row sat a lidless sarcophagus that bore the ornamental carvings of Roman centurions on its sides, a symbolic link to civilizations once considered great empires such as Rome and the United States, with the latter falling into ruin and becoming a former shell of itself as the Fields of Elysium—a Federation that now flew under the banner of a new flag with the red, white, and blue nothing but a vague memory to most.

  Sheena pointed to the stone etchings. “It’s what the governor wanted,” she told him. “It was in her Will of Wishes. She wanted to remember the things and the ways of what used to be.”

  He smiled. “Impressive,” he said. “It’s very nice.”

  Using an automated carver, Sheena had programmed the desired photo into its memory. The carver then became airborne and flew around the sarcophagus using beams, and it designed the programmed images into the hard synthetic stone.

  The final result was always a perfect facsimile of what was taken from the photo.

  He then went to the tomb and rested his hands along the edges, and looked into its depths. It was the best that money could buy, he thought. Whereas people like the Wasteland savages died on the dirt where they last stood, their bodies, if not completely consumed, were left to rot because there were no birds or scavengers to pick their bones clean.

  A hand landed softly upon his shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts?”

  He feigned a smile, turned to her, and took her into his embrace. “It’s nice up here, isn’t it?”

  She leaned into him so that the side of her head rested against his chest. His heartbeat was strong. “You’re lost again,” she told him softly. “You seem preoccupied.”

  He looked back into the sarcophagus. Then he remembered the bodies rolling into a mass grave, one of many after President Michelin decreed a new order to terminate everybody beyond Elysium walls in the name of security, the order itself creating roving death squads of which he was once a part.

  “Terrible memories,” he returned.

  She looked at him, cupped her hands around the back of his head, and drew his face close to give him a kiss. When she pulled back, she said, “It’s beautiful here. So you’re not allowed to have terrible memories.”

  He exhaled and sighed through his nose. Smiled. This time genuinely, and pulled her so close that he could smell the hint of shampoo in her hair. “You’re absolutely right,” he told her. “I’ll be good from here on in.”

  They both gazed skyward. Beyond the glass of the mausoleum’s roof was a canvas of countless stars and faraway galaxies. Stars glittered like gold, and cosmic dust clouds wafted lazily in brightly lit colors of green and purple.

  It was a spectacular view.

  And, pun intended, one to die for.

  “It’s going to be a great service,” he stated softly. So softly, in fact, that it almost sounded like a whisper.

  But he would be wrong.

  The service would not be a great one at all.

  But it would be one to remember.

  Chapter Ten

  New Miami

  After a closed-coffin wake was held for Governor Anderson, preparations were made to have her remains boarded on Air Force Six, where it would lift off from New Miami and make its trajectory to the northerly position of Mausoleum 2069.

  As soon as President Michelin made his appearance, he made his routine statements of sorrow, then exited the hall, claiming that pressing matters needed to be addressed; an obvious lie, but one that had always been successful.

  When he reached the suite of his hotel he removed the top half of his leisure suit, draped it over the back of a chair, and sat on the couch where he lifted his feet and rested them on the coffee table as if it were a hassock.

  He then let his head fall back until it lay against the top of the couch. “I cannot wait for this madness to be over with,” he said. “That bitch, even in death, is driving me crazy.”

  John Eldridge took a step forward. “Yeah, maybe. But you have to admit, this is all ironic, don’t you think?”

  Michelin smiled. “You’ve got that right,” he said. “As much as she hated me and my policies, she’s going to put me right over the top. All I have to do is continue to play the champion. The rest will fall into place.” He raised his head to engage Eldridge. “When are we leaving?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” he answered.

  “I know that. I meant what time?”

  “Oh. Sorry. We leave New Miami at nine o’clock, dock Mausoleum Twenty Sixty-Nine by nine-thirty, have the ceremony no later than ten-thirty, you say your
little eulogy—what, ten minutes maybe? The Priest will then have his say, maybe another fifteen minutes, and then we’re gone by eleven, give or take ten or fifteen minutes. We’ll be back in New Miami by lunchtime.”

  “Good. Make sure it’s a good restaurant. I want this to be a moment of celebration.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. How do you feel about beef?”

  This caught the president’s attention, his eyes flaring. “Steak?”

  “I can have it flown in from New Las Vegas. Eight ounces of prime meat, if you wish.”

  “The last time I had meat was at my inauguration.”

  “And if I remember correctly, it wasn’t much of a steak at all. Not a large portion.”

  “No. It wasn’t. Maybe three ounces. But it sure was good.” Then: “You think you can swing this with your connections?”

  “Of course.” Eldridge went to the coffee table, picked up his tablet, and brought up an image of the steak in question. When the image loaded, he turned the tablet around to show the president. On the screen was a photo of an eight-ounce piece of steak hanging on a hook inside of an empty meat locker. “Look at that, Mr. President. Beef like you’ve never seen before.”

  President Michelin stared at the screen. The meat was red and nicely marbled, a prime cut.

  “It is from cattle, correct?”

  “Verified.”

  “Then make it happen.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The cloud rolled its way across space. Its smoky tendrils always reaching forward to take new ground. In the distance, the planet from the third sun loomed large. It held the shades of gray and brown—ugly hues, dead hues, cancerous hues. And its atmosphere was not free, either. Twisted pieces of discarded metals, such as junk and castoffs, circled the planet.

  Yet the cosmic cloud had no concerns or prejudices as to what it consumed, touched, or grazed.

  It simply was.

  As it traversed space, it was perfectly aligned with this planet. Within a day it would lap at the surface of the moon. Hours after that, it would fold over Earth like a blanket. It would pass through its atmospheric shell without contest. There would be no flames to kill it. No obstruction to impede it. It would simply pass through the planet as if it was transparent, touching every electron, proton, and atom. It would regenerate a dying planet, reanimating life when all that loomed was the promise of death.

  It was the Second Coming.

  And it would be Hell.

  Chapter Twelve

  Onboard Air Force Six

  Day of Liftoff

  After the earthly ceremonies¸ the governor’s casket was loaded onto Air Force Six’s lower compartment. The shuttlecraft was capable of global transit on a single charge of a fuel cell and low-level space missions. It was not, however, developed for deep space travel.

  The shuttlecraft was equipped with all the accoutrements and luxuries afforded a presidential transport. The interior had silk carpeting throughout, a gymnasium, a conference room with a table made of synthetic Brazilian Rosewood with matching chairs that were upholstered in the finest Italian leather, even though Italy hadn’t existed for more than sixty years. On the portside of the shuttle was a bar area stocked with the finest liqueurs imported from the most exotic lands, places like New Brazil and New Belize. The stock alone was worth the salary of a Federation official in New DC.

  But today’s journey was a vertical shot to the exosphere before leveling off, and then a direct route to Mausoleum 2069. It was a thirty-minute journey, including the amount of time it would take to dock.

  Onboard the shuttle there was a headcount of ten people. Besides Michelin and John Eldridge, others included two Elysium senators from New Miami, Andrea Hines and Shawn Newel; the governor’s daughter, Lisa-Marie Millette; four armed guards from the president’s Detail, and from the Roman Catholic denomination, Father Celestino Gardenzia.

  Since this was nearly a direct shot into low-altitude in space, everyone had to be strapped in for the duration of the flight. President Michelin and John Eldridge, however, requested to be sequestered from the others, citing the discussion of personal government agendas.

  When the shuttlecraft took off and began its upward trajectory, Michelin and Eldridge did discuss certain agendas. Most regarding his pending shift in power.

  “You know the Fields of Elysium are having problems, right?” he stated rhetorically to his chief advisor. “Even with the sterilizations, food supplies continue to dwindle. We’ll need to ration our food sources until we can get back to a healthy quantity.”

  “If the people hear that supplies are low, it may cause a panic, Mr. President. I would suggest that you place this issue on the back burner until the election is over.”

  “I know that. I’m not a fool, John. I’m merely posing a deep concern. One of many. The other issue is the Wasteland savages. They’re becoming bolder by the day, wanting to breach the walls to get inside the Fields. So, as you can see, the problems are internal and external.”

  “The savages will never get inside. In fact, Mr. President, since they’re so emboldened to die, you can kill the proverbial two birds with a single stone.”

  “Yeah. And how’s that.”

  “No more mass graves,” he said. “Turn the negative into a positive.” He attempted to lean forward in his chair for close counsel, but the straps kept him at bay. “The fish count in the aquaponics systems are dangerously low. And the vegetation in the eastern Fields of Elysium have nearly been destroyed by rot and disease, forcing shipments from other Fields to support the loss, which in turn depletes resources from those Fields who have to distribute these goods. What we need to do, Mr. President, is to come up with an alternative. Perhaps one that we won’t like, but it’ll be one that can sustain the masses.”

  Michelin turned to him. It had been a solution that was on his mind for months now. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Look. We cannot sustain a food supply much longer to feed the people. There are too many variables.” He started to tick them off with his fingers. “One, fish need nutrition to breed and grow, but the source to feed them is dwindling as well. Two, vegetation is vulnerable to disease, which is happening along the eastern Fields. Three, there’s evidence that the employees working the ponics systems are stealing, already taking food away from an already low supply. And four, since the workers realize that the supply is diminishing, they’re beginning to talk. So far we’ve been able to neutralize the rumors with damage control.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Those who have stolen, and those who have spoken out about the fading food supply, have summarily been banished to the Wastelands along with family members.”

  Michelin nodded his head. “And deservedly so.”

  “Now with all these variables taken into consideration, we need to come up with an alternative. One known to those who sit on the highest political seats in the land.” He hesitated a long moment before speaking. And then: “We need the savages to contribute.”

  Michelin closed his eyes. Earth was dying. And the Fields of Elysium were dying even slower. Sooner than later there would be nothing left to the aquaponics systems other than empty pools of water, and the dirt and gravel of the hydroponics systems would be as barren as the deserts of the Wastelands.

  All the Fields of Elysium had been able to sustain themselves for over a century, but the gluttony that killed the planet was beginning to catch up, and in time, the people would be forced to turn to the only available food source, which would make them no different from the savages that existed beyond the walls, he considered.

  “We can process the meats,” Eldridge stated. “We can say that the Elysium of Montana has provided us with a bounty of steaks.”

  “And once those steaks are gone? Once every Wasteland savage is gone?”

  Eldridge turned away and stared straight ahead. “Would it really matter at that point and time?”

  “No,” answered Michelin. “I gues
s not.”

  The rest of the trip was a solemn one, both men realizing that desperation was a sign of last resort. And they quietly came to a single and conclusive point.

  Reality was a bitch!

  Chapter Thirteen

  It had made great strides over the past two days, the cloud mass moving with the leading front rolling forward like the frothy curls of sea waves, always pressing forward.

  The mausoleum, one of many geosynchronous stations revolving along with the earth’s rotation, was nothing more than a speck against the backdrop of a dirty planet. It moved forward, the mass growing and getting larger on every rotation of its own pass, a four-point-five billion-year cycle. In three hours it would sweep through the solar system touching everything within its path, giving life to inert cells.

  In three hours.

  Chapter Fourteen

  An automated voice that was feminine came over the loud speaker of Air Force Six: “Please prepare for docking.”

  Michelin swore under his breath, and then, “Thank God for small favors. I’d have to say that that was perhaps the longest thirty minutes of my life.”

  As the shuttlecraft hovered outside the bay area, the computers between the ships linked together with the shuttlecraft’s computer, allowing the ship to be guided safely into the docking bay by the mausoleum’s mainframe.

  Once the shuttlecraft settled inside the disembarkation zone, the automated voice came over the speaker system: “Commencing Pressurization.”

  Outside the shuttlecraft there was an extremely loud hiss as the mausoleum began to seal and pressurize itself.

  When the procedure was done, the automated voice, in a clipped and neutral manner, said: “The area is now safe. Please disembark . . . The area is now safe. Please disembark.”