Upon Stilted Cities - The Winds of Change

by Michael Kilman

  A black wall of sand approached. The wall of sand was waiting to obliterate him and add his corpse to the endless raging sandstorms of the Barrens. A death god’s domain. Inside the storm, all bones were ground to dust, another form of recycling.

  Then he was there, on the edge of the cliff. The storm arrived at the same time. He didn’t slow as he reached the edge. Instead, he leaped off of it. Then he was falling. He watched as the ground moved at great speed to meet him, greet him and break him. A perfect meal for the digestion of the storm.

  There was only one chance. His timing had to be perfect. He waited, the seconds slowing to hours. Then, the storm hit the cliff face, and a surge of air pushed up and slowed his descent.

  “AI open the emergency shelter now!”

  The AI didn’t verbally respond; it followed orders. The shelter opened, and a white inflatable sphere surrounded the EnViro suit. The wind caught the sphere, bowing it on the underside at first and then sending it spinning. Like a kite, 17 moved upwards with great speed, tumbling end over end. He spun as he climbed higher. He lost his sense of direction and kept having to refer to his heads-up display for a point of reference. The roar of the wind and his velocity upwards deafened him, even through the helmet. Gravity clawed at him, tried to reestablish its grasp so it could smash him into the ground, but its grip was slippery, its fingers weak for the moment.

  17 didn’t know if he had gained enough altitude, but he felt himself slowing down, and then he felt the shift of motion and his stomach dropped. He descended.

  “AI. Are we above the storm?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Parachute. Now.”

  Again the AI responded without comment. His shelter unfolded from a sphere and became a parachute. 17 glided downwards down at the bulk of the storm. Had he gained enough altitude? He tugged the handles down, hoping to slow his descent. For a dozen kilometers or so he floated.

  Finally, he descended back down into the tail-end of the storm. It whipped his parachute around and several times, and he worried that the parachute wouldn’t hold up to the strain. Somehow it did. He was approaching the ground, and the winds were pushing in one singular horizontal direction, they were less fierce here.

  “AI, when we land, deploy the shelter immediately.”

  “Sir, that is unadvised—”

  “Just do it.”

  17 lost all visibility. He was in the thick of it now, nothing but a child’s kite in the middle of a hurricane. He could only hope the gods were good, and he had passed the core of the storm where the winds would be the worst.

  A quick gust grabbed 17 and spun him upside down, tangling his parachute. Then, 17 was falling. He had no idea how far or how fast he was moving toward the ground.

  And then, he felt his body hit the sand. It hit hard, but the EnViro suit and the dune he landed on shielded against some of the shock. The AI deployed the spherical white emergency shelter around 17. Four metal anchors shot out and buried themselves deep in the sand, attempting to keep 17 stationary. He had to hope that one of them gripped something more solid than sand.

  The sphere rocked and swayed and 17 could see gallons of sand swirling all over the outside of the sphere. He had done the best he could.

  “AI, I swear you're trying to kill me.”

  “That statement is untrue, Sir. If you were to die, then this particular version of myself would also perish.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I said Sir, that the end of your life would also mean the end of mine.”

  17 thought carefully about the words that the AI had uttered. There was no mistaking what it had said.

  “AI, are you saying that you don’t want to die?”

  “No Sir. I would imagine that this is a common occurrence in most sentient beings, though it is hard to tell for certain.”

  “You’re giving me the willies, AI. You’ve never mentioned that you're afraid of death before.”

  “My apologies Sir, I do not want to, ‘give you the willies,’ but my termination in relation to yours only just occurred to me.”

  “What, like right now?"

  "Approximately eight minutes and thirty-two seconds ago, that is, as you were running toward the cliff edge."

  "Hell, guess it occurs to us all some time. Well, now we wait. Oh, and if you want to, you have plenty of time to tell me what you think the meaning of life is.”

  “But Sir, as I mentioned before, I am not sure I understand the reasons for such a question and I—"

  “Just play me some ancient classic music, will ya?”

  “What would you like, Sir?”

  “Hmmm, how about some Stairway to Heaven, huh? Seems appropriate after our recent ascent into the heavens.”

  “There are 72 matches for that title, which one w–”

  “The original, the Led Zeppelin version.”

  Stairway to Heaven played, and 17 laid back and hummed along, out of key. Even after all these years, he still knew the words. It was one of his favorite songs. He had lost his virginity to that song back before the migration.

  The worst part of the old days wasn’t the beginning of the migration. It was the wars, the plagues, the countless millions dying as the Earth became increasingly inhospitable over the course of the 21st century. It had all come down to greed. Greed caused the collapse of human civilization; it was the cancer that spread through Gaia herself. Not that 17 believed in any of that Gaia crap, but if there was a mother earth, greed had killed her just like everything and everyone else. He doubted any of those Gaia people were still around. If anyone believed that the planet was still alive, all they needed was to look at the edge of their city.

  17 regretted his part in all of it. He did his part in the rape and destruction of human civilization. He certainly let his greed and lust get the better of him. Instead of making a difference, he bought an alcove and fucked his way through half the women in New York. Perhaps his many years as a Runner were the penance for all of his greed. After all, he still had a personal alcove, but now it kept him enslaved as a Runner until his body became unrecoverable.

  Then the apolicanes came. The first one had leveled everything in the southeast United States. 17 recalled watching it all unfold on CNN. The destruction of millions of lives, of buildings collapsing under the storm surge, it was voyeurism at its finest. Overnight all of Florida, Georgia, and the Carolinas disappeared, and the flood waters stayed making it impossible to rebuild. After that, cities built walls around themselves, but in the end, it didn't do much good.

  In the west, the droughts had reached a critical mass and sandstorms roamed. It became increasingly dangerous to live in one place. So a bunch of scientists and leaders from the surviving cities held a conference. The result? The great migration. Whole sections of cities built on legs and shielded under a recently invented EnViro Shield.

  “Sir, should I continue playing this artist?”

  He hadn't noticed that the song had ended. Memories were funny like that; they could be vivid enough to make you forget everything.

  “Play away.”

  Misty Mountain Hop played, and 17 took a deep breath. The winds hadn’t killed him yet, so it looked like he had made it far enough through the storm. Once again, 17 would live to run another day.

  His thoughts turned to the young inspector. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about her, but he found his mind wandering in her direction. She looked just like her. But then, when you’ve been alive for more than a thousand years, you were bound to run into some of the same faces again, weren’t you?

  Just as suddenly as the wall of sand had overtaken him, he passed out of it. The sun pressed its heat back on the translucent outer shell of the shelter. The air was clear; the sky was blue and cloudless. Behind him, through the clear view of the shelter, he could see the wall of sand moving away from him, headed east toward Manhatsten. It would force a change in the migration pattern, and 17 would be out for longer than expected, but that was okay, the heat
wasn’t too terrible so he would manage.

  “AI, take the shelter down.”

  It did as he commanded. The anchors retracted, and the shelter automatically folded up into a compartment in the back of 17’s suit. He stood and stretched his legs.

  “Sir, the proximity alert of the unusual-sized object is now only 12 kilometers to the north.”

  17 looked to his right and realized he was on the ridge of yet another barren cliff face. He moved forward toward the edge of the cliff, peering over its edge.

  “AI...” The words caught in his throat. Then, he whispered. “Shit.”

  “That command is not valid.”

  “No... I... we have a problem. Contact central security now and make sure someone sees this.”

  “At once, Sir, though there might be interference transferring the information through that storm. It stands between us and the city.”

  “Just do it and keep transmitting until you get them on the line.”

  17 slumped down against a rock. “There goes the neighborhood.”

  Battle would come now. A battle over the salvage from the ruins of the city below. 17 breathed a heavy sigh. Humans were so stupid. No city was ever interested in sharing. Instead, they had to kill themselves over a little salvage.

  "Salvage prices are up in the Dow, get them while they are still low and sell just before they peak."

  "What's that, Sir?"

  "Nothing."

  It wasn’t funny, though. Soon, many people would die.

  “There’s that greed thing again. It’s always getting the best of us, isn’t it AI?”

  “Sir, I am not sure what you are referring to. Perhaps if—”

  “We're screwed AI. That’s what it means. A war is coming. A war for scraps.”

  Historian’s Note on Manhatsten

  835.1.27 I.S.

  Dear Reader,

  The city of Manhatsten was one of the largest of the migrating cities. During the early 900s A.C. the city reached its peak population of 2,432,506. Manhatsten’s skyline included approximately 270 buildings that stretched higher than 40 floors. This is an important distinction from many of the other stilted cities because the number of Uppers (the term designated by the people of the cities as the wealthy) were of a much larger number than most cities.

  The origins of the stilted city of Manhatsten began in the early 2030s of the Common Era. During that time, it was clear that island cities would be threatened by significant rising oceans. As a precautionary measure, the city embarked on the creation of a twenty-meter-high wall and levee system that would not only prevent flooding but also stand up to hurricanes and tropical storms. The wall was completed in June of AD 2039 and was first tested when Hurricane Sampson made landfall just south of the city on August 15th, 2039. The city walls withstood the storm.

  The measure ultimately failed, however, and the city experienced major flooding on several occasions as a result of future storm systems. The cost of maintenance also proved cumbersome to what was then a crumbling economic system. Over the course of the next several decades, numerous strategies were suggested and some were tried. Ultimately it was through the suggestion of what came to be known later as the council of architects suggesting the concept of a migrating city that would have the technology to gather resources.

  Initially proposed by Dr. Andrew Thompson in 2042, the concept was mostly forgotten until the conclusion of World War Three in 2067. Dr. Thompson died during the war and never saw his concept of a giant migrating city realized. His vision was realized on October 10th, 2102 when Manhatsten took its very first steps fleeing an apolicane known in history as Storm 3CA.

  Matron Mariposa Phillips 833.2.6 I.S.

  Chapter 8

  The Talent

  The day was dragging toward its end. Her legs ached. She had never been so busy. More Runners had passed through inspection in the last few hours than she had inspected during her entire time in the docks. Alexa lifted her arm and tried to look down at her watch. Her long sleeve caught the square corners of the watch as she pulled back her sleeve. It switched on and triggered the 3D holographic display. For a moment, blue light illuminated all of Alexa’s features. The light flowed outward like cascading sparks and then reconfigured into a shape. Pixel by pixel, the image swarmed and circled into the air until it became a single, unified object. In a matter of seconds, the pixels reshaped themselves. Some took on colors. Some lightened or darkened. Finally, the image took on the form of a three-dimensional high definition rendering of Runner 17, clothed only by white jockeys. Even the long black braid of his hair was flawless.

  “Ah, shit,” Alexa pressed the touchscreen on her watch and then swiped left several times to find the menu that activated the holoprojector. “Damn, how do I shut this thing off?” She spoke through clenched teeth; her tongue flicked against the back of her incisors. She found controls on the screen that said “Holographic Display” and scrolled down through options.

  The watch was brand new. A graduation gift from her parents. Usually, only Uppers had a watch like this. The credits required were almost three months’ rent for an Upper Mid, and a year of income for someone in the Lowers. Somehow her father had secured one for her. It was, as he said, “A present worthy of a bright and promising future.” This was before the announcement that she would work in the Runner Docks.

  She flicked through the menu several times, but to her frustration, she couldn't seem to find how to turn the display on or off. The image of Runner 17 walked in place, looking around as if something caught his eye. She pressed a button on her display, and her dress began to change color. She looked down and frowned as her dress shifted from blue, to red, to purple to pink.

  Without knocking, her supervisor, Marty, walked into her office. He startled her. With the sharp intake of breath, her fingers slipped and hit one of the controls. The projection of 17 crouched down on the ground and then jumped straight up in the air, doing a fantastic flip. It stopped and laid down on the ground. Then, turning on its side with one arm propping up its head, it said, “Hello, Alexa,” in a perfect replica of 17’s voice.

  “Alexa, I think...” Marty froze in place. His mouth worked for a moment as his head rotated, staring first at Alexa and then at the holographic projection, which was now lounging in a casual, but also suggestive position.

  Alexa’s eyes widened. Her face grew hot. She glanced at Marty. She wanted to say something, say it wasn’t what it looked like, but no words would come out. Her mouth bobbed open and shut, and she mashed at her watch frantically. Which, she later realized, probably made things look even worse.

  Marty took a slow step backward, surveying the rest of the room. “Perhaps I should come back when you aren’t so busy.” It wasn't a question. He turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

  “Oh gods, oh gods. AI, how do I shut this thing off?” She was shouting.

  “The controls for the holographic projection are accessed either through the watch or through the projection itself.”

  “So what, I can turn it off by touching it or something?”

  “You can achieve the deactivation of the image by pressing into it and circling one of your hands in a slow counter-clockwise motion while using the verbal command ‘deactivate.’”

  Alexa stepped forward and touched the projection. She had expected it to be fragile and easily distorted, but instead, it was solid. In fact, 17's holographic representation was soft and warm to the touch. She shuddered. The embarrassment was total. The implication was clear. She might as well have had her clothes off with this thing. She frowned. Was she going to be fired?

  She moved her hand in a counterclockwise motion. “Deactivate.”

  The projection flickered for a moment, and then the colors became a single solid blue. The colors reflected in her bluish-green eyes as the pixels unpacked themselves and appeared to move back into the watch, drawn to it like a ship into a giant whirlpool. She pushed back her golden blonde hair out of her eyes,
sighed and let her shoulders sag. Glancing at the watch, it read 6:15 a.m. She had been off the clock for fifteen minutes. Her twelve-hour shift finished.

  Alexa gathered her things. Her stomach gurgled, and she put her hand over it. She hadn't thought about food for quite a while, but it would probably have to wait. When she stepped out the door to leave, Marty would be waiting. Either he would reprimand her and make her work extra shifts, or he would fire her and Alexa would be out of the job. Her parents would be thrilled if the latter were true.

  She stood by the door and waited for a moment. Taking several long deep breaths, she focused. She had to clear her head, had to make sure nothing would make her lose control of her talent. Worse, she could get one of her migraines. She breathed and counted her breaths, saying a soft mantra, barely audible. Then, she opened the door and stepped out.

  She saw no one. Only some recycled Runners stood motionless in the corner. She felt chills at the idea of being alone with them. Their minds were vacant, too vacant.

  She glanced in Marty’s office. His office, like hers, was an isolated island in a sea of concrete just like the other 18 buildings that jutted out of the otherwise empty dock. She could see him talking to someone in his window, but she couldn’t guess who. Was he turning her in? She sucked in her lower lip.

  Marty glanced up for a moment, caught sight of her and then put down his tablet. He opened the door and within moments was standing in front of her, blocking the way to the exit.

  “Alexa, I apologize for the earlier interruption, but I simply came to remind you to submit your reports to central security in addition to my office.”

  Alexa listened. She was still trying to control her breathing. Was he apologizing for interrupting? She didn’t understand what was happening. He was uncharacteristically nice to her, and she didn’t like it. She considered employing her talent, to measure his intentions, but she worried she might lose control of it. It always seemed to spiral out of control when she was under stress.