by Oliver Higgs
In the Library, I’d read a book by a soldier named Xenophon. He’d written it more than two thousand years ago, in a time as harsh as this one. I’d also read more modern novels, from people who’d lived only decades before the Fall. The latter focused on technology, social issues, careers I could barely fathom. There seems to have been a two-century window in which life on Earth–or at least the wealthier parts–was almost alien to everything that existed outside that era. The people worried about missiles hitting them from halfway around the world, yet never bandits or rogue armies showing up at their doorstep. In cities like Scargo, they’d had endless crowds to feed, yet dietary books spoke of an “obesity epidemic.” Believe it or not, these books were written for people to lose weight, as if food had been so abundant that everyone couldn’t help but stuff themselves!
I’ve tried to imagine what that must’ve been like. I’ve wondered if we’ll ever reach such astonishing heights–or lows?–again, or if the Cyberians or Synth-Z or some newer atrocity will triumph. Who can say? What I do know is that everyone from Xenophon to those anonymous nutritional experts succeeded in adding their voice to the larger world. Taken together, one might see them as a kind of running inner dialogue, the ongoing stream of humanity’s collective consciousness. Looked at this way, I suppose we, as individuals, would compose the cells of a planetary being too vast to perceive–eons old, yet not eternal–as it struggles to comprehend its place in the cosmos, circling and circling a burning light in a sea of darkness.
One might think a single voice in so vast a dialogue would be rendered meaningless, lost as a drop in a river, yet many which seemed tiny have grown into giants over time, building as a pebble into a mountain, defining the route of all who climbed over. Some of those tiny voices were extraordinary from the start. Their bearers did extraordinary things. Yet others were just ordinary people opening a window on their world.
As I trekked back to our home in the forest, I thought: who will speak for my age? Who will speak for I and Annabel? For Wade the Desert Scorpion and Franklin the Ferryman? For Jarvis and Starbucks? And then I thought: who will remember Farmington? That, in the end, is the question that needled me most. My grandfather Bacchus, my best friends Crispin and Berkley, the injustice of what Cove’s soldiers had done–it all may mean nothing to you, but it meant a hell of a lot to me, and I would have the world whisper their names a little longer.
I honestly hadn’t thought of writing anything myself, but when I talked through my thoughts with Annabel, she led me to the natural conclusion. That’s one thing I’ve come to value about her: she often knows what I want before I do, and she’ll take my hand and lead me toward it even while I doubt her. We fight now and then, Annabel and I, and a third of the time I think she’s literally insane, but I wouldn’t give her up for anything.
So here I sit, quill in hand, Conan’s leather-bound tome on my right. Annabel is downstairs with Layla, and through the window I can see our son gathering wood beneath the softly-shifting leaves of the forest, framed in an endless blue sky. Life hasn’t been what I expected. It’s been much worse. It’s been much better. Soon the baby will come and things will change again–for good or bad, I know not. But here my voice must go silent. The window is closing, and this part of my tale is over. If you’re down the road a bit and the world has changed again, raise a glass and take a moment to remember those that came before, all who struggled and suffered and drowned in the river of time, and live this day for them, for us, one moment at a time …
And maybe one day the angels will come, or the demons from under the sea;
maybe they’ll covet all that we have and rip it away from me.
But I’ll no longer fear the loss of what’s dear, in our kingdom by the sea;
for we’ll laugh and we’ll cry, we’ll love and we’ll die, I and my Annabel Lee.
END
Author’s note: Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to post a review, however brief. All comments are appreciated.
Coming Early 2015: The Last Plutarch–in the city of Panchaea, society’s elite are given godlike powers by a “utility fog” they alone can access. Instead of using the Fog to benefit mankind, however, they seek primarily to reinforce their own lofty positions. The Plebians under their rule, kept ignorant of the Fog’s true nature, are bred to believe in the Divinity of their masters … until the most loyal Plebian of them all undergoes a life-changing event which not only opens his eyes but gives him the one tool necessary to fight back.
More sci-fi coming soon; for updates, see my blog at
http://www.thescificritic.com/blog/index.php
