Blood, Sweat, and Gears
By: Tobias Mayer
“Papa?”
The clockmaker looked into the innocent eyes of his young daughter and smiled. He had just tucked his beloved daughter into bed after her first day of school, and was now lingering at the side of her bed.
“Yes, daughter?”
“I don’t much like going to school. All the kids there are mean.”
The clockmaker’s brow furrowed. “Now, what would lead you to think that about them?” “They say mean things…about you and mama.”
The mention of her mother made the clockmaker’s heart jump. He suppressed the panic. “What do they…say?”
His daughter sat up in bed and began tracing the intricate designs on her bed sheets as she spoke. “Well, they keep asking me what you do all day in your study…”
Inside, the clockmaker’s nerves were spiraling. Still, he did his best to not let his calm outward composure betray him.
“My daughter, you of all people should know! You’ve been with me as I’ve worked. I make clocks! Timepieces for all the people of this town. Why don’t you tell them that?” His daughter’s eyes began to tear up.
“But papa, I have. They won’t listen. They keep telling tall tales about clockwork beasts and other terrible things. Even when I tell them you just make clocks…”
She was crying now. The clockmaker moved closer and embraced his daughter as she sniffled. “Now, now. Please don’t cry. Just because they don’t believe you doesn’t make it any less true. You know what I do in my study. You just keep telling them the truth.”
His daughter seemed to sob even harder.
“But they say…they say that mama is a machine!”
The clockmaker’s breath caught.
“Well…that’s just as false, my dear. Again, you know the truth. Don’t be afraid to tell them they’re wrong.”
His daughter stared up at her father sweetly as he wiped the tears from her eyes. “Okay,” she sniffled. Tucking in his daughter once more, he turned off the electric lamp at her bedside and moved towards the door.
“Papa?”
Turning to face his daughter, the clockmaker saw a new sadness return to her face. “Yes, my dearest?”
“Why couldn’t mama tuck me in tonight? She always does it. Is she…sick again?” At the mention of his daughter’s mother once again, an extreme flash of sadness, loss, and also panic flashed through his mind. Once more, the clockmaker tried and nearly failed to hold his composure. “Yes, she’s…sick again. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of her and she’ll be ready to tuck you in tomorrow.”
“Does this mean she hasn’t…gotten better?”
The question sent a million daggers into the clockmaker’s heart. He felt the daggers twist when he said to his daughter, “Don’t be silly, she’s gotten loads better. These little fits she’s having are just…echoes. They’ll be gone soon enough.”
This seemed to put his daughter at ease, and she finally let herself rest against her plush bed. The clockmaker gave her a smile and retreated further out of the room.
“Goodnight, my sweet daughter,” he said as he closed the door gently.
Now alone in the hallway, he put his back to the wall and slid to the floor, hugging himself. He began to tear up.
“I don’t know how long I can keep doing this,” he whispered, “I don’t know how I can keep lying to her…”
He sat there for a while until he was completely empty of feeling. Then, the clockmaker got up and across the hallway and down a flight of stairs.
“Damn kids. They don’t know how right they are…” the clockmaker muttered.
Traversing another hallway, he came upon the door to his study. A large, sturdy oak door that was always kept locked. Producing a brass key from his pocket, the clockmaker inserted it into the keyhole and twisted. The heavy lock thudded and he opened the door, leaving only wide enough for him to slip inside before he closed and locked it behind him.
Snapping on the lights at the flick of a switch, the clockmaker looked about his workspace. Many different kinds of clocks were hung upon the walls, and many more lay strewn about on tables in various stages of completion. The clockmaker sighed and strutted past his work, heading straight for a nearby bookshelf full of a multitude of books, mostly on the subject of clockmaking. With sturdy arms, he slid the bookshelf to the side, for it was secretly set on intricately disguised tracks. Before the clockmaker was a new passageway into a hidden room. Once more he stepped inside and closed the bookshelf over the opening. The room he found himself in now was his real study. Instead of clocks, various kinds of dubious mechanical beasts frozen in different acts of motion were hanging from the ceiling or sitting on tables, along with a mix of gears, springs, and other pieces. But the clockmaker was focused on something sitting under a tarp at the center of the room.
“Ah, alone at last, aren’t we, Lauren?”
Pulling back the sheet, there was his wife—or rather, the very likeness of her—sitting in an old chair. Her beautiful amber eyes were staring up at the ceiling, lifeless.
The clockmaker faltered, as he did every time he saw his creation. Memories of his beloved wife came racing back as he stared at the automation. Years of a happy, loving family. But they soured after she got sick, and then sicker still. At the time of her death, the clockmaker swore to himself that he would never let his daughter feel the pain he had. So he set to work immediately, crafting a machine even more complex than any other recorded in history. Following the teachings of an old scientist long since deemed a kook, he practiced making mechanical beasts that could move and think for themselves. The moment he’d gotten it right, he applied it to the automated wife. Then he made the machine in the spitting image of his wife, using his memories and many pictures to reconstruct every tiny feature, as well as her personality and sound. The result was the object before him. And though his daughter, or anyone else for that matter, couldn’t tell the difference, the clockmaker could. Grief came to him every time he looked at his creation, or fixed it when it broke down. But he had to keep going. For his daughter. “Let’s see what made you stop working,” mumbled the clockmaker to himself.
Walking up to his creation, the clockmaker removed its clothes, revealing the lifelike skin underneath, correct to even the most minute anatomical detail. reaching around to the back of its head, he tapped a rhythm into a small pressure plate etched into the backside of the ear. As he finished, there was a pop and a hiss of air. The stomach opened up to reveal a large cavity inside, filled with cogs, springs, and other bits and bobs, all at a standstill. He carefully dissected the mechanisms, probing for what caused her
to stop working. The mech-wife had just finished making breakfast this morning when it started to seize. The clockmaker had ushered it out of the room and into his study before his daughter could take much notice. The cause of this issue was exactly what the clockmaker was searching for now.
Coming at last upon a faulty cog that had broken down, the teeth worn nubs, The clockmaker replaced it with a much more durable one. He was determined to make this automation so perfect it would hardly ever seize again. Replacing the other mechanisms, he closed the chest cavity. Immediately, the automation-wife snapped to life, blinking and sitting up. It looked about the room. “Oh dear, did I break down again?”
The sound of its voice sent shivers down the clockmaker’s spine, and the familiar way it moved nearly made him vomit, as it often did.
“Y-yes. In the kitchen. I’ve fixed you now. Hopefully I don’t have many more repairs to do. You’re nearly perfect now.”
“Splendid,” the machine said.
“Now, dress yourself in the clothes on the floor and I’ll let you out of my study. You are to go up to our bed and resume your program.”
“Yes, darling,” it obeyed.
Immediately, the automation dressed itself. When it had finished, the clockmaker led it out of his study, past the secret room and through the large door. Once it had disappeared up the stairs, the clockmaker closed the door, locking it once more, and returned to his secret study. He busied himself, cleaning up a bit of the workplace to take his mind off of the automation.
“How long are you going to keep this up?” Asked an all-too-familiar voice.
Dropping the bits of machine in his hand, he turned quickly to face directly behind him. There stood his wife—the real one, with sickly looking skin and a dead look in her eyes. That was how she’d looked when she’d left this world. Upon sight, the clockmaker howled and fell to the floor. “Really, Archie? Fear? Do you really feel such dread at my appearance?”
The clockmaker ran a shaky hand through his hair, “W-what is this? An apparition? No, I must be hallucinating.”
The ghostly woman seemed to glow a light gray, a pale light that followed her as she began to step towards the clockmaker.
“You always were a man of science,” she frowned, “I figured showing up like this would upset you. But figment of imagination or not, that does not change the disrespect you have dealt me.” As she advanced on him, the clockmaker crawled backward, under a table against the wall. “My wife, what disrespect have I done to you? You, who I love so dearly? Tell me and I will right it.”
His deceased wife progressed ever further towards him. His back to the wall, all he could do was hug his legs to his chest.
“My darling Archie, you stole me away before anyone had ever known I’d died. Not even our own daughter. I was given no funeral, no recognition of my death. And what of my brother? Or my
sister? My parents, most of all? Each of them go about their days the same as ever, unaware of my passing. All of this, you have done. Because of you, I wait in the heavens, silently forgotten.” “Oh, my sweet wife, I’m sorry. There are no words that—”
“And worst of all, there is the machine. The one you made to be my spitting image. My mirror reflection. That is insult far above the rest. You use it to lie to everyone. But most importantly, our daughter.”
“But if she found out,” the clockmaker interjected desperately, “she would be broken! When you died, I suffered immensely. If she would have found out, she too would have had to suffer the—” The specter of his wife flared bright light as she interrupted him once more.
“Then that would be her grief to bear, not yours. You have stolen that from her. From me. You see how your daughter saddens whenever the automation breaks down and you tell her they are just ‘echoes’. You only prolong her suffering. But that clockwork thing walking around our house wearing my face, and using my voice? It has done you no good either. You have grown to hate my face, haven’t you? You lie to yourself, saying that all those fond memories of me are truly bliss. But you know deep down inside that your own grief, and that ugly look-alike you made to replace me have ruined all of them. I see it in the way you react now. The way you cower under that table, pathetically quivering. In making that mechanical wife, you have destroyed everything, and damned my soul to suffer alone forever.”
At this, the clockmaker was sobbing. He began screaming as the ghost neared the table he huddled under.
“I swear, I only meant well! Please, Lauren, please! You must see that! Stop tormenting your husband, and have mercy!”
His wife began bending down and reaching for him, and so he sent a bloodcurdling scream throughout the room. He hid his head in his legs.
“Help! Anybody! Please!”
But the clockmaker knew no one could hear him, not even his own daughter. He’d build the secret study to be soundproof. He waited for his ghostly wife to grab at him. But nothing happened. He spent several more moments with the room completely silent. Finally, he decided to lift his head from his legs and look about. The apparition had gone. Pausing a few seconds, he crawled out from beneath the table and stood up, looking about with a bewildered look about him. Wiping his tear stricken face and taking a breath, he shook his head. His eyes gravitated to the chair at the center of the room, the one the automation had sat in.
“Ghost or not, what’s done is done. I must carry on, no matter what. For my daughter.” Finishing the cleaning he had started, he quickly left the study and returned to bed, careful to avoid looking at the machine that was laying on the other side of the mattress. As the clockmaker drifted to sleep, he prayed that he not be visited in that study again, by mere hallucination or not.
Some years later, the clockmaker would remember that day for the rest of his life. It would mark the beginning of the continued haunting of his wife’s ghost. Initially, she only visited him in the middle of the night as he worked to improve the automation-wife and other creatures he was making. But her appearances only increased in frequency, and soon they were not bound to the night. The clockmaker would be visited if he were alone in his study making clocks during the day, or in the kitchen cleaning dishes. Eventually, his specter of a wife never left him alone, following him at all times.
This progression did not come without its fair share of degradation to the clockmaker. Soon, he had become a complete recluse, only appearing in public to sell his clocks. He grew increasingly
unkempt, eventually looking as dead as the wife that haunted him. He was a shell of the man he had once been before his wife’s death, and even his daughter had taken notice. Years older, she no longer wished to spend time with her father, favoring the machine-mother she was convinced was real. This too did no good for the clockmaker’s condition…
“She may hate me, but at least she’s happy,” the clockmaker remarked one night, sweeping long strands of his greasy hair out of his eyes as he worked in his secret study.
“Happy? There is no joy behind those eyes of hers.”
Always there now, the ghost of his wife was quick to respond.
“Say what you will, Lauren. But I stand firm in believing I have saved my daughter from the grief of losing you, her dear mother.”
“Only to replace it with the slow-burning pain of losing her father.”
Frustrated, the clockmaker threw down the tool and machinery in his hands.
“I am not starting this conversation again. If you must torment me at this hour, pick another topic.”
His wife harrumphed and was silent. Taking in the bliss of quiet—which seldom happened as he worked these days—he soaked the triumph in.
He took the machinery and tool back in his grasp now, and continued working.
“What is it that you labor so intently on now? You’ve been at this project for a dreadfully long time,” scoffed the clockmaker’s deathly wife.
“You should know, you are of my mind,” he fired back quickly.
Indeed, the automation before him was huge, and shaped exactly like him…
“Even so, I want to hear you say it. Voicing it out loud is bound to make you realize your plan’s lunacy.”
The clockmaker groaned and inserted the machinery into the unfinished automation. “I will do no such thing. This is a thing I must do, for if I cannot live with the guilt and consequences of my actions, I shall fix it the only way I know how. And that was almost nearly complete.”
“Very well,” the apparition said, “very well…”
“Daughter? Come here.”
The clockmaker’s daughter—who was a flowering woman now—was shocked to hear her father call her so presently. A few years ago, her father’s condition—physical and mental—had decreased substantially and unexplainably, never to recover. She had been in the kitchen, making a nice Sunday lunch for herself when her father called. He was seated at the dining room table nearby. She came to him immediately.
“Y-yes father?”
Her father looked at her, and she could see a kind of life in them that hadn’t been there for a long time. Her breath caught.
“You sound so aghast, daughter. Like you’ve witnessed a specter. I know how that feels…” He began to trail off into inaudible mumbling as he often did nowadays, and the spark in his eyes was lost. It returned however, and he shook his head.
“Never mind that now. I must speak with you. I realize that I have been deteriorating for a few years now. I know that you are scared of the shell of a man I have become. It has driven you from me, and I from you for a long time. But I intend to fix it.”
The clarity in her father’s voice and actions terrified her more than anything. She trembled now, in her seat beside him.
“F-father, what is the meaning of this? You act so strangely for years, and today you behave as if none of that ever transpired? What is this madness…”
Her father placed a steady hand on her shoulder, and her panic ceased immediately. Then the tears began to flow. She began crying uncontrollably, and so she did the only thing she thought she could. She threw her arms around her father, and instantly she was taken back to when she was younger. A happier time, when her father was the solid rock of the family. A shoulder she could cry on. This day, he felt just as steady, and so she cried even harder. Then she felt her father too begin to cry, the large ripples of his chest synced to his silent sobs.
They stayed there for a while, father and daughter embraced. But when the father pulled away suddenly, there was determination in his eyes.
“I tell you what,” he whispered as he pulled some money from his pocket, “you take this money and go buy some sweets, like we used to do together. I will leave as well, but go on my own short journey. When you return, I will be waiting for you in the shape I was all those years ago, before I turned into what I was only yesterday.”
She could not believe the words she was hearing, but took them anyways, along with the money from her dear father.
“Yes father,” she smiled, wiping her tears.
She only looked back at her father for a moment before she shut the door to her house and left for the sweet shop…
Once his daughter had gone, he quickly got up and locked the door with a heavy sigh. “I urge you not to do this, Archie! It is selfish! Do you think your little illusion will hold for long? What happens if she discovers what you’ve done? What then?”
The clockmaker groaned and faced his ghost.
“You saw how she reacted. The relief on her face. She wants this, whether she knows it or not. It’s plain to see. And if it’s within my grasp to give it to her, I’d be damned if I didn’t.” “But again, what if she finds out?”
“She won’t,” the clockmaker replied darkly, “not until she’s ready.”
“And how would a machine know that?”
“You’ve seen what I’m capable of. What I can do with automations. I’ve tested it with the auto-wife,” he explained as he watched his creation sweep up some crumbs in the kitchen, as lifelike as the person he based it on.
The spirit of his wife sighed a sad, defeated sigh.
“All this time and you still will not listen? Not to a single word I’ve said?”
“I’m sorry, my dear wife. But I made my mistakes many years ago, and no matter what I must deal with them. This is the way I chose how to do just that. I don’t truthfully know how that will affect everyone, our daughter especially, but I do know this: whether you are truly a spirit or a mere figment of imagination, it makes no difference. You haunt me just the same, and I fear it is driving to the mere end of madness. I wish to spare my daughter of my grim path, and so I must go. You’ve done your job, my dear wife. Now go.”
His deathly looking wife said nothing. She just nodded, and the next time the clockmaker blinked, she was gone. In her absence, a kind of solitude came about him that deafened the ears and blinded the eyes. After years of torment, his wife too had given up on him, just as he had done himself a long time ago. He took a moment to clear his mind.
“Right then,” he said, and set to work.
Entering his secret study behind the bookshelf, he went to the center of the room, where the all-too-familiar tarp was thrown over yet another body in the chair. Throwing it off revealed…a naked version of himself. He stared, his breath catching at the sight of what he used to look like before his work on the mechanical wife had finished, its chest cavity still open from last night.Then, wishing to waste no more time, he withdrew a singular cog from his coat pocket and inserted it into the machine. He flicked a switch inside and all the bits of machinery began moving. Closing the cavity, his double snapped to life. “Hello Archie,” it greeted its creator.
“Hello. The day has finally arrived. You must replace me, and take care of my daughter alongside your counterpart, Lauren. You are her husband. My daughter is now yours to take care of.” “Understood.”
“I am going to strip myself of my clothes. You are to put these on and take my place. You have full operative permissions. You are now me.”
“Understood.”
The clockmaker took off his clothes and watched as the machine rose and put them on. Then he handed it the key, and it tucked it away exactly as he would have. Finally, he left the study and watched as his creation locked the door. Running to his room, he dressed himself in discreet clothing that he had saved for this occasion, grabbed the prepacked go-bag. Before he left, however, he had one more thing to take care of. Reaching into his bag, he withdrew a small wooden cube with a crank. He went over to his clockwork double and handed it to him.
“When it’s time, give my daughter this,” he demanded.
The machine nodded in complete understanding.
With that, the clockmaker left, closing the door behind him. Out on the city streets, he quickly hailed a cab, never to return again…
Years later, the clockmaker’s daughter had just returned from college. But she returned to her childhood home with a singular question. One she’d had for a long time, brooding at the back of her brain.
“Father?”
“Yes, daughter?”
The two of them had been sitting at the old dining table. Her mother was doing the laundry in another room.
“I’ve got a serious question. About you. And mother.”
“Yes?”
Even when she was at the threshold of getting her answer after all these years, she almost considered not asking. But a hunger for the truth lying deep inside her dragged the question from her lips. “Are you and mother…real?”
Her father blinked for a moment, shocked by the question. It made her embarrassed to have even asked such a question.
“Come with me,” her father said promptly, causing her stomach to lurch.
Her head filled with questions as her father promptly got up and led her to the door of his study. He quickly reached into his coat and withdrew the key, and for the first time in her life, opened the door for her to step inside. When her father stopped in with her, he did not close the door after him. That was a first as well.
Peering about the room, the clockmaker’s daughter marveled at the sheer number of clocks before her, each one different than the next. It became clear to her why her father had locked himself away in this room every time he worked. Such mastery surely couldn’t have been accomplished without solitude and silence.
“Oh, father,” she whispered, “I had no idea.”
“This is not what I needed you to see,” her father said plainly.
Immediately she was put at unease once more. She watched as her father strode over to a bookshelf in the far corner of the room and…pushed it to the side. Now dread took place in her heart, wondering what could have been so important that he needed a locked room and a secret path to hide it. “In here,” her father motioned from the entryway.
This was it. The ball was in her court. She had every opportunity to just walk away and forget this happened. But she couldn’t pretend anymore. For years, she’d felt like she was living a lie, yet couldn’t place a finger on it. She needed to know the answer. Taking a deep breath, she walked the way her father motioned, and emerged into yet another room as large as the first. But instead of clocks all about, there were beasts. Mechanical beasts. Hanging from the ceiling and walls, or laying on the tables strewn about. Memories of a time long ago came rushing back. She recalled the times when kids at school taunted her about her father making such things. All this time she’d been lied to, and had spewed that same lie to everyone else. She couldn’t keep herself from hyperventilating. She turned to her father, scared yet angry. “You…” she trailed off, shaking.
“Not yet. There is still one more thing,” her father told her.
He pointed at a nearby table, at an insignificant looking wooden box with a hand crank in the side. He said nothing more.
Trembling, the clock maker’s daughter went over and took the box in her hand. Looking over at her father, he just stared blankly. Waiting. She understood what she had to do. Taking the handle of the crank, she began to turn. After a few revolutions, the box began to give a rhythmic sputter. She ceased her cranking and stared at the box, apprehensively. She was expecting some sort of movement from the box. Anything at all. What she didn’t expect was a voice. Her father’s voice.
“Hello my dear daughter,” the voice said, “if you are listening to this, then you must have asked the right question. As such, I believe I owe you an explanation. Do not try to respond, this is a mere recording of my voice, and I will not respond to any further questions you may have. This is simply the best I can do…”
The clockmaker’s daughter, for once in her life, could simply not understand. She was a brilliant girl born of a brilliant father and mother, and yet she had no inkling as to what this all meant. Still, the voice continued.
“I will begin with the reason why I did what I did, so that maybe one day you can look back and see that I was only doing what I thought was right so that I could protect you. It all started with the death of your mother…”
Those words brought tears to her eyes as she began to realize just how much of her life had been a lie. Years of grief came crashing down on her all at once.
“You recall when she fell increasingly ill when you were younger? One night, while she lay in bed, she died as I stood by her side. It tore me apart. I felt that I had lost everything. Everything except you. In my delusion, I vowed to never let you feel the pain I was feeling. I wanted to protect you. So as soon as I secretly buried your mother, I set to work immediately. Reviving an old scientist’s work to bend to my own will, I quickly made his work a reality. I began constructing clockwork beasts, many of which are still in the very room you stand in. As soon as I got the formula right, I began creating an automation in the likeness of your mother. It took many days, but I finally managed to construct it. It was nearly perfect, feeling, acting, and sounding just as she did. Even you have to admit that it felt real, having lived with it for so long.”
Although she was partly horrified at the truth, a startling new side of her marveled at how realistic the automation had been. It caused her to wonder…
“As soon as I had put the clockwork wife to work, I knew I had made a mistake. But I still could not bring myself to tell anyone—even you—the truth. As I continuously worked to improve her, though, my state of mind got no better. Soon, I was haunted by visions of your mother. While I cannot safely say whether they were hallucinations or a work of something…more, I can say that it negatively impacted me all the same. That was around the time where I began to deteriorate. I started having these visions increasingly more often, and I’m sure you can remember how I began to show signs of it.”
She closed her eyes and nodded as tears fell from the corners of her eyes. Those years were the most miserable thing she’d come to experience, and she couldn’t see herself encountering anything worse. She could recall vividly how her beloved father slowly morphed into a mere twig of greasy hair who rarely ever opened his mouth except to mumble incomprehensibly.
“Well, I realized eventually how damaging it was for you. And since I knew my condition was only ever going to get worse, I began making a plan. A plan to give you back the father you deserved. So I quickly set to work, making a perfect image of what I used to be. An automation so advanced that it bested even your mother’s counterpart by far. It was capable of everything I was and more. That creation is the thing standing with you in this room now.”
She hadn’t known it until now, but that was exactly what she had been waiting to hear. She turned to the automation at her side and noted his stare once again. It was one of a machine having fulfilled its intended purpose, and awaiting more input…
“I’m sure that if my plan went the way I intended, I most likely had you go out for sweets as I swapped places with my machine. Maybe you accepted the sudden shift in my appearance and attitude then, but I was sure after some time you’d be left wondering what truly transpired. You are my daughter, after all,” her father’s recorded voice remarked with pride.
The clockmaker’s daughter was still trying to deal with the sudden truth of her entire life. How many fond memories she had of her parents were complete fallacies. It elicited a many number of feelings, all swirling up inside her.
“I don’t pretend to think I did a good thing with all of this. But my goal was to make the best out of a mistake I’d previously made, and this seemed the only way how. I also don’t expect you to completely understand my motivations, or my thoughts during the entire thing. In fact, it’s entirely possible you may hate me, and wish me dead. But I did what I did because I love you. Maybe one day you can see that in my convoluted actions. No matter what, let me remind you that through it all, you were always my blood, sweat, and—”
“Gears,” the clockmaker’s daughter finished, smiling as she sobbed.
When she was younger, he would say that to her all the time. It was their little joke to have and hold forever. Even as the message clicked off and the box finished its little sputtering, she could feel a melancholy warmth overriding all her other feelings. She had wanted to hate her father for everything he’s done. But in truth, she simply couldn’t. He had been right in saying she wouldn’t fully understand, but she could still feel the amount of sheer affection he’d always had for her. Going away must have been the worst thing for him.
“Now that you know the truth, you have complete control over how I and the auto-wife operate. We will do whatever you ask, within reason,” explained her fake father.
At this, something clicked inside the clockmaker’s daughter. Something sudden that made all the other emotions fade instantly. She knew what she must do.
“Then teach me,” she ordered, “teach me to make these mechanizations.”
“As you wish,” the machine responded.
She had no idea how long the road of knowledge may lead on, but she knew for sure that she would master her father’s secret craft. And when she did, she would hunt for him. For her true father.
Dustworld
By: Bianca Bassetto
Back Cover Blurb
It’s the year 2072. The climate crisis continues to worsen as humans concentrate their best efforts onto mitigating the damage of generations past. Many ecosystems have collapsed and weather patterns are shifting. Crop fields are at the mercy of the raging, unpredictable weather. Animals that once roamed the Earth have long since gone extinct, preserved only in laboratory strands of frozen DNA. Bees are one of those species. The hard-working pollinators all but disappeared, doomed by a deadly combination of pesticides and habitat loss. Faced with the destruction of their planet, some humans have fled to other planets, establishing surface colonies on Mars and balloon cities in the clouds of Venus. However interplanetary travel is a luxury that not all can afford. Among those left on Earth are the scientists working to mitigate the damage, in hopes that humanity can someday return, and those too poor to leave it, who make do with what they can find.
______________________________________________
The TV flashes its bright colors and merry jingle as a news anchor speaks.
“Gooood Morning America, welcome to CNN News. Today is June 14th, 2032. Let’s start with today’s weather. Off to our weatherman Ned.”
The smiling news anchor’s face disappears, replaced by a large map of the U.S.
A weatherman walks into view, also smiling pleasantly.
“Thank you, Rob. As you can see, hurricane Paula, still category six, continues to devastate the coast of Florida and the Caribbean, with record breaking wind speeds at two hundred and forty-five miles per hour. Now, there has been an upward trend in hurricane strength and frequency in recent years, a concerning pattern. Similarly, Hurricane Louis has been ravaging the islands of Hawaii and the Pacific Ocean. Authorities have sent total evacuation orders to these areas, displacing millions of people. Northeastern Trade Winds have been extremely unreliable this year, blowing thousands of flights off course.”
“Thank you, Ned. Now onto one of our senior reporters, who is on the steps of the Capitol to tell us about the debate regarding neonicotinoid pesticides.”
“I’m coming to you today from the steps of the Capitol to talk about the proposed ban on neonicotinoids pesticides. Neonicotinoids, or NNIs, have been a subject of public debate for years now, as they have been found to have adverse effects on pollinators. Now, the European Union has already banned the use of these pesticides, but today is the day that the bill passes to the Senate…”
______________________________________________
The New York Times
September 29th, 2034
SHIFTING GULF STREAM
Scientists have detected an alarming change in the Gulf Stream’s direction. The current is expected to have shifted completely by 2042. This is expected to cause a massive disruption to the global climate. Dramatic changes in local weather patterns… more on page 2
GREAT BARRIER REEF DESTROYED
The Great Barrier Reef, off the coast of Australia has collapsed. The massive network of corals has been facing mass bleaching events for years, but this year’s have been the worst yet. Scientists state that the entire system has collapsed… more on page 3
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The Modern Farmer
January 15, 2036
BEES DECLARED EXTINCT
The decline of pollinators has been a well known and studied phenomenon, especially in recent years. However, it seems that the U.S. Pollinator Recovery Bill has come too late. The essential pollinators have disappeared from our planet.
Scientists are working to clone bees from laboratory DNA, but all attempts so far have been largely unsuccessful. Without bees, which pollinate one-third of the world’s food crops, the agricultural economy will collapse.
It’s important to note that not all pollinators are bees, however. The loss of bees is a huge blow to modern agriculture, but there are other pollinators still around. Focusing our efforts on protecting those species could be our only chance of saving these ecosystems. Scientists are already scrambling to collect DNA from these species and establish lab colonies, to prevent total pollinator loss. These other pollinators are also in decline, and if restoration efforts fail, they are also in danger of extinction.
Here are some things that farmers can do to help:
Allow your leafy crops, such as lettuce, to flower
Protect and plant flowering plants
Reduce insecticides to a minimum
Use insecticides that target specific species
______________________________________________
The New York Times
August 26, 2043
WORLDWIDE CROP FAILURES CAUSE FAMINES, BILLIONS DEAD
As weather patterns continue to shift, crop failure has become a common occurrence. Famines are devastating communities. The death toll for the past ten years alone is
estimated to be around four billion, and it continues to increase. Research regarding how to mitigate this damage is ongoing, but scientists are… more on page 2
GULF STREAM SHIFT CAUSES MAJOR WEATHER DISRUPTIONS
As the Gulf Stream’s path continues to shift, weather patterns are becoming more unpredictable. A hurricane devastated the northeast coast of the U.S. taking residents completely unprepared. Tornadoes, once almost unheard of in western and central Europe, have become far more common… more on page 3
______________________________________________
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May 8, 2072
The heavy air is still above the empty brown field. Dust particles too small to settle remain suspended in the eternally ashen sky. A stifling, oppressive heat lies heavy on the dry, cracked dirt. Dry brown leaves lay on the ground, still connected to their fallen stalks, thousands upon thousands of dead plants that litter the dead field. In a nearby orchard, the withered skeletons of trees stand, some sagging pitifully against their neighbors, their bone-dry wood squeaking and groaning eerily. The sound rings loud and hollow in the stifling, deadly air. A house stands at the junction between the field, the orchard, and a rough road. The road is filled with cracks, bumps and potholes, covered in a thick layer of dust and lined with dangerously crooked telephone poles. The house is, like all else, in a state of disrepair, its roof sagging on one side, and the porch railing torn off. The railing lies a ways away, a mess of splintered wood and crushed supports, blown away by a violent storm. The wall paint looks faded and is caked with dust. A rusty tractor keeps vigil next to the house, a relic from years past, falling to tiny, flaky pieces. The front door remains closed, its paint color unrecognizable as it peels away, dusty as all else in the barren, monochrome landscape.
In the ragged remains of the orchard, supported by the branches of several of the oldest, most gnarled trees is a treehouse. Its roof bears dusty glass panels, and three worn solar panels. It is well kept and cared for, the cracks between each wooden plank painstakingly patched together with clay, mortar, grout, and whatever else its owner can find.
The heavy silence is broken by the loud sound of a little boy’s giggling. His clothes are oversized, worn and gray, but the heavy atmosphere doesn’t dampen his enthusiasm. He sings to himself as he puts on a heavy gas mask, too big for his face and stuffs heavy canvas and newspaper pieces into the gaps where it overhangs his face.
“Soon may the wellerman come, to bring us sugar and tea and rum…”
The little boy slips on a pair of rubber boots, so large that they almost reach his knees. They remain on his feet only with the use of more canvas and newspaper padding.
“One day when the tonguing is done, we’ll take our leave and go…”
The little boy glances over at a dirty mirror and giggles even more.
“I look like a mummy!”
With more giggling and singing, the little boy skips out the front door, easily leaping the gap between its frame and the ground. He skips along easily, humming his merry tune. His cheery singing stops abruptly as he catches sight of a car, pulling in to park next to the house. The car is only slightly dusty. It’s new, a stark contrast to the rusty, dusty, and saggy landscape. The door opens and a person steps out. They wear a white plastic paint suit, sealed at the legs and arms with duct tape. Their face is slightly concealed by a gas mask, only showing a pair of kindly brown eyes.
“Hey, kid. What’re you doing out here on your own?”
The stranger’s voice is kind and concerned.
The boy looks up. “I’m going to my treehouse. Where are you going?”
The stranger looks out onto the barren landscape. “Why don’t we go to your treehouse together, so we don’t have to shout through our masks?”
The boy nods his head enthusiastically, holding his mask in place to stop it shifting around.
“Okay! Follow me,” he says with a dramatic flourish and a gap-toothed smile.
The treehouse is surprisingly large, supported by several trees and many posts driven into the ground. The little boy runs over to a rope and yanks it down, unfolding a rope ladder. The stranger follows as the boy easily climbs up the ladder, and then stands on a small ledge, consisting of a single wooden plank nailed to the outside of the treehouse.
He opens the door, revealing a small room with another door on the other end. Once the outside door is closed, he takes off his mask.
“You can take that off too! Now we can talk better! Where do you come from? How old are you? I’ve never talked to another person before!”
The stranger takes her mask off, revealing short brown hair, and a face in its early 20s.
“You’ve never talked to another person before?”
“Nope! If I did, I don’t remember.”
“I’m Alex. What’s your name?”
The boy’s face falls at the question. “I don’t have a name.”
Alex looks over sadly. “How can you not have a name?”
“Maybe I had one, but I don’t remember it,” he mumbles.
“Well, you can pick a name now, if you like. How long have you been here?”
“A long, long time. Like this long!” As he says it, the boy spreads his arms as wide as he can.
“Really? No one takes care of you?” Alex’s tone is concerned, “Where did you learn all of the things you know, then?”
The little boy hangs his mask on a wall hook and switches his dusty boots for a pair of Converse. “I watch videos on the TV and on YouTube. Whoever lived here before left so much stuff!”
“How did you get here?”
“I was walking down the road for, like, forever, and then I saw the house and then I knocked on the door, but there was no one home, but I started living here anyways. Where are you from? Why are you here? How old are you? I’m nine.”
Alex laughs, “Whoa, slow down there, kid. What is this treehouse? It looked a lot bigger on the outside.”
The boy giggles, “No, silly! The treehouse has two rooms! This room is just here so I don’t get everything on the other side all dusty!”
After Alex takes off her boots and white paint suit, revealing a simple T-Shirt and jeans, the boy starts to fumble with his small fingers, undoing a combination lock on the room’s other door.
As he works on the lock, Alex chimes in again, “Hey, kid, what do you want me to call you? You need a name, let’s make one up.”
The boy looks down thoughtfully. After a few moments, he mumbles, “Scout.”
“Out of curiosity, why Scout?”
The boy looks up, “I don’t know. It feels familiar.”
“How have you survived this long all alone, Scout? How do you know how old you are?”
Scout carefully sets the open lock aside and shrugs. “I don’t know.” He opens the door.
Alex’s jaw drops at the sight. The space is a greenhouse. It has a glass roof, and the floor is occupied by neat rows of two-story planters, bursting with fresh, verdant plants. There are tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, zucchini, and strawberries, each plant bearing flowers and fruits. Each planter has a light above it, providing energy, allowing plants to grow bigger. Among the crops, flowering plants like daffodils and daisies grow, and most impressive of all, bees buzz from plant to plant, flower to flower. The small greenhouse is a stark contrast with the dead landscape outside.
“You built this?” she asks.
“The treehouse was here before, and it had the planters in it already. But I fixed all the cracks in the walls and found a lot of seeds and then I planted them.”
Alex looked amazed as a bee flew over and landed on her hand. “What about the bees? I’ve never seen one before.”
Scout giggled happily. “There was a queen bee in a box when I found the treehouse. I looked up how to keep bees on the internet.”
Alex laughed in wonder. “But bees have been extinct for forty years! The last reported bee sighting was in 2035.”
“I found older beekeeping videos on YouTube.”
“You have cell reception here? Most towers are down due to weather and lack of maintenance.”
“I guess mine didn’t fall down yet.”
Alex takes a lap around the treehouse, reveling in the greenness of the space.
“Alex? Why did all the bees die?”
“It’s a long story, kid. By the way, where do you get enough water to keep all this growing?”
Scout sits down and makes himself comfortable on the floor. “I don’t know. It just comes out of a hose. Maybe there is underground water? And will you tell me the story of why the bees died?”
“I’ll try, kid.”
Scout sits silently on the greenhouse floor, deep in thought as Alex finishes telling the story. The bees continue to buzz tirelessly around them.
“Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“Why did people not do anything when the bees started to die? They could have stopped all the bad things from happening.”
“People didn’t realize how bad it was until it was too late. They didn’t want to hear about it. They didn’t see the problem, so it must not be there.”
“But they could have just planted flowers and it would help. And flowers look pretty!” Scout exclaims, surprised that anyone could be so blind.
Alex sighs, “Maybe if they had, the world wouldn’t be like this.”
“We wouldn’t have to go to Mars. But why did you stay on Earth?”
“I believe that we can still do something. We have to try. There’s still life here. We can bring back the bees.”
“How?”
“There are places where the dust isn’t as bad. If we start growing plants there, and reintroduce the bees, maybe we can fix the world.”
“But I only have one colony!”
“The only bees our scientists were able to clone were male drones. They can’t work, but if your colony produces females, we can breed more queens! Scout, I have a lot of scientist friends. They can help us!”
“Where do we start?” Scout’s eyes are alight with emotion. It takes a moment for Alex to place it. She realizes. It’s hope.
Reality Dysphoria
By: Tobias Mayer
Hugh took a sip of coffee and leaned back in his office chair, staring at the wall clock. It was a quarter to 2:00 pm.
There were a number of things he would have rather been doing at this moment. Instead, Hugh sat here, behind a desk; a receptionist—some would say slave—of Imagitech. But at least the job paid well.
He heard the door at the opposite side of the room open. In walked a young man, with short blond hair and blue eyes. Given his awkward, sheepish amble up to his desk, Hugh estimated he was about seventeen or eighteen (for as long as Hugh had worked here, age guessing had become second nature). Hugh met his gaze and flashed the warm and gentle smile that was taught to him by the employee handbook.
“Welcome to Imagitech,” he greeted, “how can I help you today?”
The kid scratched the back of his neck anxiously.
“I was thinking about doing a BA,” he stammered, “how would I do that?” Hugh continued to smile at the boy, but deep inside he sighed his discontent. What was a BA? The BA (short for Brain Adventure) was a kind of controlled dream
inflicted on a sleeping person. The sleep would be induced on the customer, and they would be connected to a kind of machine that would manipulate their dream-state to be an ultra-realistic scene the dreamer can consciously experience with all of their senses; Sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. Once inside a BA, the customer could go about the experience as they pleased.
Invented by the geniuses at Imagitech, it was originally meant for the elderly. Older people with the desire for adventure, but who possessed bodies too feeble to do much of anything. People who were no longer fit enough to go on risky, physically draining adventures. With the power of the BA, elderly people could go on specific adventures, such as snow-boarding or rock-climbing, without having to worry about realistic restrictions or dangers.
For a while, that was exactly the kind of people they got. Old folks came inside looking curious, and left with huge smiles. They told their friends. Their friends visited. Somehow, the good word must have jumped tracks, making it to the ears of younger adults. Then they started coming. Being an all-inclusive establishment, there was no way Imagitech was going to turn them away. So, Imagitech catered them. Again, more curious faces. More happy reactions. More word spreading. A few more age jumps, and now Imagitech was taking in teenagers, like the one standing before Hugh. Individuals with all the physique and means to go on their own adventures, but no willpower to do it. Hugh supposed that was the bit that frustrated him so much. Leave it to the youth to find something good and worm their way into it. Still, he smiled at the boy before him.
“Sure! I’ll just ask you a few questions to get your file started. Then I’ll have an expert take you into their office and get you all set up for BA-ing.”
He nodded, and Hugh began a brief questionnaire, typing the answers into the blanks on his computer. The boy’s name was Tristan. He was indeed 17, and lived just five miles from this facility. Hugh collected his payment information, and then paged an expert to come see him. A few minutes later, an older lady with graying hair wearing a crisp, white lab coat led Tristan out of the lobby and down a hallway of doors, to her office.
Hugh was left to sit back in his chair, alone once again. Luckily, the boredom only lasted twenty minutes before another individual strolled into the lobby. A middle-aged woman in a business suit.
As usual, Hugh flashed a smile.
“Welcome to Imagitech, how can I help you today?”
“I’m a usual here, and I’ve done pretty much every experience on your list. I was wondering if I could get a CBA made?”
At the term ‘CBA’, Hugh’s teeth clenched. It only took half a second to steady himself and continue the conversation.
“Of course! Could I just get your information so I can pull up your file?”
She obliged and after checking her in, he hailed another expert to take the lady into their office. As soon as she was out of sight, he let his smile sink into the grimace hidden underneath, and allowed the dark thoughts wash over him.
Hugh hated CBA’s with an intense loathing. CBA’s, or Custom Brain Adventures, were an extra service added in contrast to the prefabricated BA’s. For a significant increase in price, a customer could meet with some elite experts and fabricate their very own adventure. When it was first announced, it was meant to allow customers to put a personal touch on their BA-ing. The first wave of customers worked with experts to make fantastic things. Brand new unique realities to explore and experience. But then as always, someone had to ruin it. One day, someone decided to make a CBA that simulated what would have happened to themselves if they had made a different decision in life. It must have been profound, because that customer told every other person that they could do the same thing as well. The news went all the way down the grapevine, as usual, and now Imagitech had customers that did such CBA’s on the regular. Sure, it was more money for the company, but the after-effects made Hugh’s stomach turn. When people entered a world exactly like the one they knew, how could they tell the difference between real and fake? Sometimes, people just couldn’t. Especially when the dream world they created was better than their harsh reality.
That’s where Reality Dysphoria came in—a term that wasn’t around until Imagitech released the societal poison of the CBA. Sometimes, when people came back from a CBA, they got confused with which reality was real, causing distress. This confusion was diagnosed as Reality Dysphoria. The levels of stress from the condition varied, ranging from short-lived discomfort to complete mental breakdowns. Some people would be so desperate to get back to their CBA ‘reality’ that they would result to the most desperate of measures. Fraud? Theft? Death threats? Imagitech had seen it all. The condition of Reality Dysphoria got so bad that Imagitech had the police on speed dial.
One might think that people would want such a danger to be shut down. But doing that would stop all BA-ing, and people being the selfish kind that they are didn’t want that. So they didn’t say anything. The government wouldn’t risk angering the mass public with an investigation, and besides, at least half of the government enjoyed BA’s and the like as well. Imagitech was practically invincible. So here Hugh was, selling people the very service he despised.
“U-um, excuse me?”
The voice shocked Hugh back to the present, making him jump. Somehow, he had missed a woman coming into the facility. Blinking, he quickly put up a smile.
“S-sorry,” Hugh stuttered, “How can I help you?”
The woman frowned and he could see the displeasure in her eyes. “I scheduled ahead for a BA? I believe I’m at the top of the waiting list,” she reported impatiently, holding up her driver’s license so he could quickly check the credentials. Hugh did just that, noting that the woman’s name was Jessica.
“Y-yes Mrs. Jessica, I’ll escort you to your room right away and get you set up,” Hugh responded, looking at his computer, “it looks like your BA has been preloaded to dream-suite number thirteen. Let’s get you on your way.”
Jessica nodded matter-of-factly, arms crossed. Hugh, rising from his desk, flipped his ‘Welcome!’ sign to ‘Helping a customer, be back soon!’, and guided Jessica down a hallway of doors opposite of the experts’ hallway. Reaching the door labeled ‘Suite 13’, he opened the door and held it for her as she entered the room. It was a small cube of a room, no bigger than a small doctor’s office, and devoid of any kind of furniture besides a small one-shelf bedside table holding a glass of water and the machine it sat beside; the BAB, or Brain Adventure Bed. The BAB most similarly resembled a twin bed, with the frame, mattress, and pillow. The headboard, however, was a metal box attached to the wall that emitted a faint hum. It housed the intelligent computer powerful enough to run the BA simulation. Protruding from the top of the headboard was a small metal arm holding the headpiece that would project the BA into the customer’s dream, and receive the customer’s responses in real time.
Jessica knew just what to do. She began laying herself comfortably on the BAB’s mattress as Hugh pressed a few buttons on the control panel etched into the wall beside the headboard. A click and a whirr came from the BAB’s arm, and the headpiece slowly lowered down to Jessica via a thick cable. The expert BA-er she was, Jessica grabbed the headpiece and secured it firmly around her head.
Hugh then approached the small bedside table and opened the drawer, pulling out a glass jar full of tiny purple tablets—the sedative. With precision, Hugh gently opened the jar, plucked a single tablet, replaced the lid, and plopped the sedative in the glass of water. It fizzed upon contact, and dispersed quickly, turning the water a faint purple tint. Hugh took the drink and handed it to Jessica, who in turn took it and gulped it down in a matter of seconds. She smacked her lips and frowned.
“You know,” she said, “you folks have to find a way to make this taste better.” Hugh swallowed his annoyance and forced his company-taught smile. “Yes ma’am, I’ll be sure to file that suggestion to my boss.”
Jessica sighed almost disappointedly, and her eyelids began to fall slowly, until they were closed in only a matter of seconds. Slow breathing ensued. They may taste bad, Hugh thought, thankful to be rid of the woman, but by god are they fast!
Walking back over to the control panel in the wall, he pressed the final button to start the BA. Exiting the room, Hugh headed back down the hallway, and returned to his desk, careful to flip his sign back to ‘Welcome!’. And it was at his desk that he remained, alone with his thoughts once again. The day proceeded just as it had been going. Hugh continued to daydream about his contempt for BA’s and Imagitech, only to be interrupted by the occasional customer who needed one thing or another. Eventually, it became 4:00 pm. With Hugh’s shift coming to a close at 5:00, thoughts now drifted from his tangents of negativity to what he might do outside of work. He was relishing his blissful daydreams when a sound ripped him back to full attention. Crash
Hugh looked around, wondering where it had come from.
Crash
There it was again, and this time Hugh could tell it was coming from the hallway of dream-suites. Then, he frowned.
Oh, he realized, it’s just another one of these. Here we go again.
A final crash sounded throughout the building and the hollering of an old man could be heard. He must have awoken from his dream state, the BA finished, and stumbled around the room confused by a case of acute Reality Dysphoria. Then, unable to open the door, he must have broken it open instead. It happened often enough. Hugh sat calmly in his chair wearing his best smile, listening to the shouting man shuffle down the hall. The man finally emerged from the hallway and whipped around to the front desk, pointing a finger at Hugh. “You put…” the man gasped confusedly.
Hugh swiftly checked the man’s file on his computer. The man’s name was Peter. “Yes, Peter?” Hugh asked sweetly.
Peter jabbed his finger at him. “You put me back, right now!”
Hugh reinforced his smile. “Peter, your CBA just ended. If you’d like another one, you’re welcome to pay for another session.”
Peter howled in anger. He seemed a little too angry to have an acute case of Reality Dysphoria.
“You’re going to make me pay to see my wife?!”
From what Peter’s file read, his wife had died years ago. The CBA must have made it seem like she’d never left this world…
“Fine,” Peter growled, pulling out an overused debit card and inserting it in the card reader.
The reader took a moment to read, and then responded with big red letters saying ‘Insufficient Funds’.
Oh, Hugh thought, this is not going to end well.
“I’m sorry Peter,” he said as gently as he could, “but it looks like you don’t have enough money to pay for—”
He was cut short as the man suddenly reached for his waist. In a brief second, Hugh was staring down the barrel of a loaded pistol.
“I’ll tell you one more time,” Peter barked, “put me back right now. Let me see my wife!” Taking a gulp of air, Hugh calmed his nerves and responded as cool as he could. “Of course, Peter. I understand. I’ll give you your wife back.”
Even with the assurance, Peter never lowered his gun. Hugh clacked on the keyboard, loading Peter’s CBA back into his dream-suit, number seventeen.
“Alright,” Hugh said, “the CBA is loaded back into your room. Let’s go.” “What?!” Peter yelled confusedly.
“Your wife, Peter. She’ll be in your room. I’ll go get her as soon as you lay back down.” Peter brandished his weapon at Hugh, causing him to flinch and put a cautious hand out. “You swear it? Tell me you swear.”
Taking a deep breath, Hugh put a hand to his heart.
“I swear.”
Peter nodded aggressively, but still never lowered the pistol.
“Let’s go then,” he grumbled.
Hugh got up, and moved to get out from behind the desk. Then, he feigned a tripping motion, falling down so that he was obscured underneath the desk. This caused Peter to panic.
“What the hell are you doing?” He shouted.
Hugh stood back up and brushed himself off.
“Nothing, Peter. I’m a really clumsy person, that’s all.”
That seemed to make sense to Peter, and so he allowed Hugh to continue leading him into the hall to his suite. He never noticed Hugh had pressed the red button marked ‘Summon Police’ from under the desk…
“Here’s your room, lie down and I’ll do the rest,” Hugh urged.
Peter obeyed, flopping himself nervously on the mattress of the BAB. Hugh swiftly accessed the control panel in the wall, pressing all the proper buttons. Peter jumped when the headpiece lowered.
“I’m going to help you into that headpiece,” Hugh explained.
Peter grunted in allowance. Hugh took a heavy gulp as he got in close to Peter, who put the tip of the gun to his neck.
“Don’t try anything,” Peter whispered threateningly.
“Yes, Peter,” Hugh responded, tightening the headpiece.
Withdrawing slowly from Peter, he went routinely to the table at the side of the BAB and opened the drawer, removing a purple tablet from the jar. Suddenly, he realized he had neglected to notice the glass of water had been drained from Peter’s previous CBA trip. “I’m going to refill your glass of water so I can give you the tablet.”
This seemed to disturb Peter. His breathing grew more rapid and he raised the gun anxiously.
“What’s this about a tablet? I thought you were giving me my wife!”
Jesus, this guy is really out of it, Hugh remarked to himself.
“Consuming the tablet is necessary before you see your wife,” Hugh explained gently, “I promised you’d see her, remember?”
This seemed to make Peter relax a little.
“Okay. Be quick.”
Hugh nodded silently, and wasted no time. Grabbing the empty glass, exited the suite and went to the very back of the hall, where the utility room door lay. Opening it, he quickly filled it, popped the tablet in, and made haste back to the room.
“Here,” Hugh said, offering it to Peter, “drink this.”
Surprisingly, Peter obeyed without anything more than slight hesitation. It wasn’t long before his eyelids slowly sank over his softening gaze. The arm holding the gun lowered simultaneously, and in a moment, he was completely unconscious. Hugh took a deep breath of utmost relief.
He could have left Peter there to go and get the cops who were surely arriving at the door now. They would have taken Peter into custody immediately, and Hugh would be able to go about the rest of his shift as normal. Instead, Hugh went over to the control panel, and pressed the button to begin the CBA, and stood over the sleeping Peter, a slow smile spreading over his resting face. Hugh took a long, drawn out sigh of sadness.
“It’s not your fault you’re like this, Peter,” he said, tears brimming his eyes, “It’s those devils who invented the BA’s and all that junk. They did this to you. I can’t do anything to stop it. But I did keep my promise, like I said I would…”
With that, Hugh silently drifted out of the suite, and into the reception room, where three officers were waiting. One of them stepped up to address Hugh.
“Hey there, sir,” greeted the officer, “we received the signal for help. Everything alright?”
“Yes. It was an older man with a severe case of Reality Dysphoria. I managed to subdue him. No one was hurt. He currently lies in suite seventeen. I have his details on my computer.” “Excellent. I’ll have my fellow officers here go and retrieve him, I’ll get his information from you, and we’ll be out of your hair.”
At this, the two other officers stepped towards the hallway of dream-suites. “Wait,” Hugh called to them, causing them to stop, “that man is under a CBA. You’re aware there’s severe consequences for interrupting the process?”
One of the two officers nodded in understanding.
“Well, what should we do then,” he asked.
“Stay here and allow the process to fully complete itself. When the man fully awakens, you may take him into your custody. And be careful. He’ll be extremely disturbed, maybe even more so than when I dealt with him. I also need to mention the man has a gun. Recover that before doing anything else. You can go get that now, if you like.”
The two nodded and disappeared down the hallway.
The remaining officer turned to Hugh.
“Let’s take care of the man’s details, shall we?”
“Yes officer.”
As soon as the CBA had ended, the officers had taken Peter kicking and screaming out of the building, throwing him in one of their cars and driving away. Some customers had been intrigued about the blown open suite door and the presence of officers, but many disregarded it. Things like this happened all the time, after all. Hugh went about business like nothing had happened, because that’s what he was trained to do. And when the clock struck 5:00, he quietly
picked up his things, and left, another miserable-looking receptionist replacing him. He got into his car parked just outside the entrance, and started the engine.
Maybe I won’t do anything today after all, Hugh decided, I’ve been through enough today. I’ll just turn in for bed early.
Putting his foot on the gas pedal, he tore out of the parking lot and headed towards home. On his way, he passed countless advertisements from Imagitech.
‘Now, you really CAN climb a mountain in your sleep!’ Proclaimed a billboard. ‘Extreme sports from the comfort of a mattress!’ Tempted another.
Overcome with exhaustion, anger, and sadness, Hugh only sped faster down the road. Upon getting to his apartment complex, he quickly climbed up the steps and entered his dwelling. Changing out of uniform, he collapsed onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling.
This has to end, Hugh reflected to himself, I don’t know when, or how, but it just has to. People’s lives are being ruined. No one cares to go out and do things when they can do it from the comfort of a bed.
Suddenly, the mattress he was laying on got a lot less comfortable.
You know, maybe I’ll go out and do something after all.
Getting up, he got ready to go out, and set off for a nearby park. On his way, he took note of the birds, the trees, and everything else that average people walk right past. When he got to the park, it was nearly empty. This wasn’t uncommon. The park was no longer a frequent stop for people. They favored visiting their local Imagitech facility instead.
Hugh sat on a nearby park bench, feeling it creak and groan with the sudden stress after remaining unused for so long.
“One day, I swear I’ll do something to stop this mess. I swear it,” he said to himself, staring up at the blue sky, “to Peter and everyone else who doesn’t have the privilege of seeing what’s wrong here. I’ll do something. One day…”
I became Stardust when I was little. I looked up at the night sky and wondered if I could tap-dance on the stars. The man who raised me told me I could. Stardust, he would call me. Now I was watching the tail lights of his decrepit car disappear in the night. Perhaps if I knew this was the last time I’d see him, I would’ve raced after him on my aching little legs, shouting goodbye as my voice rang shrill through the darkened woods. Maybe if I knew that his farewell was a bitter allusion to reality, the supernovae from which his stardust was made, I would’ve begged for him to come back, forlorn cries lost under the grumbling engine and the crickets who bid the world goodnight.
I’ll be there when you dance on the stars, he’d promised.
How naïve I was to believe him.