Retreat into Darkness...

 

And, for the first time...the Supreme Court has revoked a fundamental civil right of personal choice and autonomy by sending the question of a woman's right to an abortion back to the states.

Battle lines are already forming between Federal authority and state sovereignty.  Women of low income...primarily women of color...will be hit the hardest in states that have already banned abortion to one degree or another. 

What fundamental human rights might next be declared nothing more than the  opinions of individual states?  Segregation?  Slavery?  The very right to live if you're LGBTQ?

It isn't just social issues on the line, though.  The highest court is already weighing in on issues of gun control and climate change, in direct challenges against Federal authority.  Issues of national security...maybe even the survival of the environment and consequently of the human race itself...are being decided not by law enforcement agencies, scientists or even by the popular will of the people.  But, by ideologue judges appointed as operatives of social change by reactionary politicians and their political bases, which look on the verge of all-out rebellion.

In an already divided country...one in which the validity of the electoral process was recently challenged by a large faction, threatening the peaceful transition of power...these growing divisions look like sparks waiting to ignite the fuel.

This short story takes it to the limit.  How far away now is the dividing line between speculative fiction and reality?

****

 

JUGGERNAUT

 

2051 A.D.

Bradley’s blood raced as Washington D.C. burned.

The teeming mobs roared like a pack of wild animals, firing their automatic weapons into the air as the capitol dome went up in flames.  Bradley’s mind exploded like a thunderbolt as he raised his hands, the heat of the fire washing over him as his voice boomed over the crowd through a hundred hovering audio drones. 

“My fellow Americans…” The mob fell into a hush at the sound of his voice.  He was awed at the sway he held over them.  “The 2^nd American Revolution is successful!  The elite has been purged, the abortion mills have been destroyed, the perversions of birth control and sexual deviancy have been eradicated, our right to bear arms is vindicated, and American industry is free.  The coal plants are open, the oil flows…American power is revived.  America is ours again!”  The crowd exploded.  His heart throbbed as they chanted his name.  He saw the dead bodies in the distance, dangling from hangman’s ropes and reveled in his own power.

His mind flooded with memories.  Once his hand-picked judges had handed the power of life and death to the state politicians, the battle was won.  They’d armed the masses…his hand-picked rabble rousers had led the uprisings.  The cities had burned, and martial law had made his power absolute.

Now, he could build…

***

2073 A.D.

Bradley shuddered and slammed his fist into his desk as the entire underground complex seemed to tremble around him.  He cursed as he looked up at the domed ceiling.  The distant bombing seemed to get closer every day.  The immense plasma screens around him conveyed the scenes of surface bombardment from the Euro-Asian space platforms, numbers scrolling across the screens totaling the daily body counts…He snickered, switching the views to the underground monitors.

Construction of the subterranean cities was well underway.  The coal plants had been moved deep underground where the bombing couldn’t reach them.  Construction round the clock.  Jobs, jobs, jobs.  He almost laughed, shaking his head.  The idiots worked themselves to death building cities they’d never live in.  Cities only for winners like him.  They barely noticed the flooded coastal cities, the tornadoes leveling the heartland, the droughts.  Of course not, he thought, switching the screens to scenes of black ghettoes burning.  Crematoria spewing the ashes of assorted undesirables into a darkening sky.  Police squads kicking in the door of every domicile where a pregnancy implant monitor had gone dead. They were too busy killing each other to notice the old world was dying.  The juggernaut of progress couldn’t be stopped.

“By the Chancellor’s leave…”

He started as his latest Chief of Staff, Jason Barrett entered unannounced.  “What is it, Barrett,” he grumbled, switching off the screens, irritated at having his daily entertainment interrupted.

Barrett’s forehead was creased.  The dark circles under his eyes and his gravelly voice revealed he hadn’t been getting much sleep.  “Chancellor…we need more conscription.  The black and Hispanic insurgents are getting increasingly organized, and arms are getting to them from the Euro-Asian Alliance.  And, refugees from the storm areas are beginning to join them.  I’ll need at least…”

“Forget conscription,” Bradley said, pouring himself a bourbon.  “I need all the manpower I can get for the construction projects.  Organize more militias, for God’s sake.  There’s no shortage of dead weight up there, and all of it armed.  Use some of it.”  He tossed one back and poured himself another, smiling at the buzz.

Barrett sighed.  “Sir…they’re getting hungry.  Hungry people get desperate fast.”

Bradley swirled the ice in his glass.  “Barrett…you forget the perfectly balanced nature of the times in which we live.”  He patted the other man’s shoulder and whispered close by his ear.  “As half the population shrinks, the other half gets fed.”  He switched one screen to a scene of a food production mill where the dead bodies of a generation he’d saved from the abortion mills were being processed into raw protein food stuffs.  He chuckled, taking a swallow.  “Increase food production.  More mass executions of the homeless, more anti-homosexuality sweeps.  Just step up food production.”  He switched the screen to moaning porn scenes.

“One other thing, Chancellor…We’ve received another entreaty from the E.A.A.  They’re willing to negotiate a cease-fire if we cut back on coal and oil.”

“Absolutely not!  How many times do we have to go over this?  If we cut back on fossil fuels, the economy suffers.  Besides, we’d see hydro and solar cropping up all over the continent before you know it.  No…centralized power grids are key to maintaining control.  You said yourself rebellions are flaring up.  The last thing we need now is to cut back on the juice.  Besides…”  He finished off his drink.  “The more of them that die in the heat and the storms, the less we have to worry about.”  He smiled, slapping Barrett’s shoulder.

“Dad…”

He grinned broadly as his daughter Rachel entered.  Radiantly beautiful as ever.  So like her late mother.  He found himself having to fight off certain urges where Rachel was concerned.  “Kitten…always a pleasure, but I’m a little busy right now…”

“Dad, this is important!” Her lovely face flushed as she stamped her foot and raised her voice.  “I’m trying to throw the biggest party of the season, and your security staff is telling me I can’t have my friends from Houston or the New York platforms, because of travel restrictions?!”

“Everything’s locked down because of the insurgency, Miss,” Barrett explained.

“I wasn’t asking you!  Dad…”

Just as Bradley was about to pour himself a stronger drink, Claudette…his lovely black attendant entered, in one of her sexiest form-fitting mini-dresses.  One he’d had designed personally.  He looked her over and nodded approvingly.

“Is now a bad time?” Claudette asked.  “This is our usual hour.”

“It’s never a bad time for you, my dear.”  He licked his lips and smiled.  “That will be all for now, Barrett.”

“What about my party, dad?” Rachel demanded.  “Is your little whore more important than me?”

He rolled his eyes, wondering what expensive gift would placate her this time.  Alarm bells and strobing red lights shrieked across his nerves. Barrett put his phone to his ear, sweat glistening on his forehead as he switched the screens to a scene of explosions in the coal mines… black and Hispanic slave workers armed with assault rifles blazing away, killing their overseers.   Bradley’s blood boiled.  “Barrett…what in hell…?”

The man stared at him, the color draining out of his face.  “E.A.A. commandoes smuggled weapons to the slaves.  There are revolts in every mine and explosions spreading towards the main power plants.”

“Where the hell were your guards?!” he shouted, his face flushed, his voice cracking.

“The security gates were opened and the guard units moved on your authorization, Chancellor.”

“What the hell are you talking about?  I never authorized…”  He froze, as in a nightmare as Rachel pulled a plasma gun and pumped three rounds into his stomach.  The pain was blinding, the room spinning.  He barely saw Claudette pull her own gun and blow Barrett’s head off before he hit the floor.  Bradley’s hand came away from his stomach drenched in blood.

“You’re so careless with your security access codes, father,” Rachel said with a grin.  “Did I do all right, Darling?” she asked, stroking Claudette’s long, luxuriant hair.

“You were perfect, my love,” Claudette replied, sliding her arm around Rachel’s slender waist and kissing her fully on the lips.  “But, we have to hurry.  The shuttle’s waiting.”

Bradley’s mind was reeling, his heart fluttering.  “Why?” he whispered.

“Claudette’s under cover for the E.A.A., of course,” Rachel answered with a sneer.  “They’ve granted me asylum in Europe in exchange for my help.  I understand Paris is lovely this time of year. Give mom my regards.”  She smiled as she pointed her gun at his head and fired.

And, the death toll continues...

 

The killings go on... the automatic rifle the weapon of choice.  Sometimes, the motive is madness.  Sometimes racism or other extremist ideology.  But, the death is constant.

After the most recent mass slaughter, a degree of bipartisan cooperation unseen in Washington D.C. for decades materialized.  For a minute, anyway.  Whether it will lead to any meaningful step towards the restoration of sanity in this country remains to be seen.

Firearms helped shape our history and just may be the end of it, if our society dissolves into a lawless frontier.

This short story illustrates an extreme (hopefully fantastic) scenario of just where America might be going if gun rights ultimately take precedent over human rights.

****

 

SANCTUARY

“West 20 degrees, Feng,” Marjani ordered, her eyes fixed on the computer analysis of the projected flight path of the last expedition to venture into the North American continent.

“Acknowledged, Commander,” her Chinese helmsman replied.

 Marjani recalled her history…in the old pre-globalist days, the ancient Americans had worshiped a fire-arms culture.  It became all-consuming to them, dominating their way of life even as it destroyed their civilization.  Other nations, including those of Marjani’s native Africa, had instituted common-sense gun control legislation.  But, North America had ultimately dissolved into utter chaos.

As the ship circled in and descended, she saw their destination on the forward viewscreen.  Across the desolate plains of ruined ancient cities…there is was.  The dome.  Truly the crowning achievement of a dead civilization.  Immense as a mountain range, it straddled the continental heartland.  The only human built structure in existence big enough to be seen from space.  “Any contact?”

“Negative, Commander,” Cibor, the European com officer replied.

“But, this was the last known position of the European Coalition expedition, just before they disappeared?”

“Affirmative.  I’m scanning on all frequencies, but I can’t be sure radio communication is even possible through the dome.”

“Probably not,” Meera, the young Indian historian said.  “By all indications…towards the end of the late nationalist period, the Americans had completely isolated themselves.  Not even radio contact with the outside world was possible.  The dome was designed to insulate them from what they called ‘foreign dominance.’  Primarily, they wanted to escape the gun control legislation of the new United Nations Assembly.”

“There’s the first ship!” Feng exclaimed, pinpointing the Euro expedition airship on the viewscreen, brackets flashing around a point near the edge of the dome.

“Enhance 40%,” Marjani ordered, the landed airship growing larger on screen.   “That’s the Artemis, all right.  ‘Looks intact.  Put us down right next to it, Feng.  All hands, brace for landing.”  She felt the vibration as the landing jets engaged, the ship touching down with a slight shudder.  “Deploy scanning drones.”

“No sign of movement,” Jean-Paul, the tactical officer reported, the aero-drone images of the surrounding area appearing on split sections of the viewscreen.  “However…” he zoomed in on one section with a hand-held remote.  What looked like a breached hatchway appeared on screen.  “It looks like they gained access to the dome through there.”

Marjani studied the situation.  “All right…Minimal contingent.  We don’t want to kick over any hornet’s nests if we can avoid it.  Meera, Isabella…You’re with me.  Beamers set on heavy stun force.  Jean-Paul, you have the bridge.”

The man looked at her with a furrowed brow.  “Commander…I respectfully request that I be allowed to…”

“Denied,” she said firmly, suiting up.  “I need you here.  But, have a squad standing by, armed with stun beamers.  We may lose contact once we’re inside.  If we’re not back in 20 minutes, come in fast.  Clear?”

“Affirmative, Commander,” he said grudgingly, a frown on his stern black face.

Marjani climbed down the airship’s ladder, the harsh wind howling through the surrounding ruins.  Her breath rasped through her helmet, fogging the glass of her faceplate.  Dust pelted her suit as she and the other two women made their way into the shadowed interior of the dome.  They turned on their helmet lights, the gloomy darkness swallowing them as the faint light of the entrance faded behind them.

“Air musty, but breathable,” Isabella, the South American anthropologist reported, checking her scanner.  “No dangerous microbes or toxins detected.”

Marjani cautiously lifted her face plate and winced in disgust, the ancient stench of decay and rot choking her.  It was like stepping into a charnel pit.  She threw her light across the rusted, decayed wreck of shattered metal and gutted instrument panels all around her.  Layers of dust all around.  “How old are these ruins, Meera?”

“About 3000 years at best estimate, Commander,” the young woman said, her voice a tense whisper.  “This was the last outpost of technology towards the end.  A haven from the gang wars, for the wealthy elite.  But, as you see…long since cannibalized for raw survival.  Civilization clearly fell inside, too.”

“Commander, we’ve just lost contact with the ship,” Isabella declared.  “However…I’m picking up a signal from the sub-dermal emergency tracker of one of the expedition members.  Half a kilometer due east.”

“Beamers at the ready,” Marjani ordered.  “Isabella, you take point.  Meera and I will cover the flanks.”  She watched every shadow as they advanced in the gloom, fighting to keep her breathing steady.  “Isabella…Have your people in the South American Federation sent no expeditions this far north?”

“None that have returned, Commander,” the young Latina replied.  “There have been rumors of wild cannibal tribes in these parts, but nothing definite.”

Marjani started as something moved in the shadows, red eyes blazing in the darkness as the thing lunged.  She fired, a shrill, inhuman scream lancing to her marrow like a cold skewer.  She caught a glimpse of something shaggy as the flash of the energy blast faded.  A cold chill ran through her as her heart started beating again.  “You both okay?”  Both women exhaled, replying in the affirmative.  Marjani threw her light over the thing.  Something like a rodent.  But, huge.  Over a meter long, with straggly fur and three-inch curved fangs.  “What in hell?”

“Clearly, a mutant,” Meera said, breathlessly.  “It seems the vermin are evolving towards becoming the dominant lifeform.”

“Stay close, stay alert,” Marjani said, sweat stinging her armpits as they advanced into a dim, growing light coming from a section ahead.

They emerged from the dark tunnels into a wide, open chamber.  Rusted, abandoned machinery choked with thick weeds and underbrush.  Artificial light shined down from an arching ceiling high overhead.  “Atomically powered lighting,” Meera explained.  “Clearly designed for hydroponic agriculture.  The farming equipment’s obviously long since fallen into disrepair and the crops have gone to seed, but the reactors are still running.”

 Isabella shouted as some horrible multi-legged organism…something like a centipede, but nearly a meter in length crawled by.  “Another mutation?” she asked.

Marjani looked around, seeing winged insects, like mosquitos, but nearly half a meter long, fluttering about.

“I’m picking up low-level radiation,” Meera  said.  “Radiation leaks increasing over 3 millennia in a closed biosphere would account for this level of mutancy.”

“Are we in danger?” Marjani asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“The radiation levels are too low to do us any harm over short periods, but I wouldn’t advise a lengthy stay.”

“Have no fear.  Which way now, Isabella?”

“Through there.”

They pushed through clinging vines and brambles into another section.  Ruined industry.  Gutted factories.  What looked like wrecked battle drones covered in thick layers of dust.  In open areas, metal wreckage had been piled up, forming what looked like barricades, covering makeshift shelters.  Like primitive forts.  Marjani ran her hand across jagged holes in sheets of metal.  Bullet holes, she realized.

“They turned on each other at the end,” Isabella declared.  “Their food supply probably ran low, so they split into factions and fought over what was left.”  She picked up what looked like a crudely fashioned metal club.  “When the industry collapsed, when the ammunition was spent, they reverted to hand-to-hand combat.”

They all looked up, Marjani’s blood running ice cold as a scream echoed through the chambers.  They all ran in the direction of the scream.  The sound of multiple voices resounding in the rhythm of some savage chant grew louder as they neared the entrance to a lower chamber.

They stopped, looking on a scene out of a nightmare.  In a wide, torchlit chamber, a crowd of hideously deformed, pale little primitives in rough animal skins clustered about a towering statue.  An immense bronze figure of a man holding a primitive rifle aloft.  “En-Rah!” they all chanted in unison.  “En-Rah!  En-Rah!  En-Rah!”  A man was dragged forward by those crooked little savages.  A man in a European Coalition uniform.  Marjani gasped as a stack of wood and brambles was gathered around the poor man’s feet as he was tied to a pole.

“They’re going to sacrifice him?” she asked in a whisper.

“To their ‘god,’" Meera whispered.   "Since they fell back into primitivism, their gun culture seems to have degenerated into a pseudo-religion.”

The captive screamed as one of the primitives brought a torch toward his pyre.  Marjani shouted as she fired.  The stun blast knocked the little creature down, the torch falling from his hand.  The other savages gasped and drew back as the three women bounded down the steps, firing warning bursts into the air.  “En-Rah,” the creatures all whispered in awe, falling to their knees, apparently at the sight of guns.

“Untie him,” Marjani ordered.  “I’ll cover you.”  As Meera and Isabella freed the captive, the mutants snarled in rage and attacked en masse.  Marjani fired directly into the crowd, stunning several of the creatures into unconsciousness.  Some were frightened off, but the rest kept coming, brandishing primitive spears and clubs.  Marjani’s heart raced.  Bursts of energy blasted through the wild mob, multiple creatures falling.  The rest screamed in terror and scattered into the ruins.  Marjani looked up, heaving a sigh of relief as Jean-Paul’s strike team came bounding down the stairs, stun beamers blazing.  “That’s enough!” she shouted, holding up a hand.  “Hold your fire.  I don’t think they’ll be back.  Well done.”  She holstered her beamer.

“Are you all right?” she asked the man they’d saved.

He nodded, trembling.  “Yes,” he said in a strangled whisper.  “Thank you.”

“The rest of your team?”

He shook his head, burying his face in his hands.

“Get him back to the ship.  We’re getting out of here.”  She looked at the monstrous statue and brushed a layer of dust away from the plaque at the pedestal.

Three letters stood out in bold relief:  NRA.