Love after the End Read online

  Those who could took orbital shuttles, or Seed Ships, that exploded from the earth like massive mountains of granite. As they rode magnetic waves of fire, they eyed the moon as a staging base or headed toward the Mars colonies. Others left for Ganymede, the outer solar system colonies, or the Titan Jump Gate Ring, risking death to traverse the great void in an instant on a one-way trip into the unknown.

  Too many were left behind, too poor or too unskilled to secure passage off the Withering Earth, as it came to be called. Food and water became resources prized more than human life as millions of people died. One Seed Ship, hastily constructed from the cheapest nanomaterials available, broke apart as it rose into the sky, killing many on the ground and everyone within the doomed vessel. Few mourned those lost, as temperatures and food shortages caused worldwide clashes, and forced many to become cannibals just to survive.

  Roving bands of humans fell back on ancient tribalistic bonds, twisting those laws into “kill or be killed.” In more temperate zones, where food was easier to produce and more plentiful, those in power offered their citizens a grim balm: three years in a virtual paradise before being gently euthanized and being reprocessed into nutrients for other citizens. This proposition wasn’t mandatory, and in areas where food was easier to obtain, not everyone took the offer, but for those who didn’t work was hard and healthy cheap food was rare. Laws, such as they were, were strict.

  For many, however, it was a better prospect than risking the lawless zones where the strong preyed on the weak—in many cases literally. Still, scientists in hardened hidden fortresses worked together, pooling their efforts and research with others like them to develop and mass-produce artificial means of extracting carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and storing it in vast blocks of concrete. They did so in hopes of lowering the temperature enough to buy more time for folks to develop alternate ways of surviving on the planet, either to reverse the course of catastrophic climate change or to leave the earth altogether.

  It proved to be too little, too late. Even with surviving nations focusing solely on this technology, events had transpired to create a runaway climate change greenhouse effect on Earth. Despite the desperate efforts of the brightest scientists across the entire solar system, the rising temperatures caused by hundreds of years of human industrial waste heating the planet in combination with the massive heat influx created by the unexpected accelerated expansion and death of the sun proved to be an irreversible challenge. Advances were made every year in an effort to slow down rising temperatures, but it was only a matter of time.

  Priority was eventually given to creating habitable worlds away from the Withering Earth; despite their invaluable contributions, synthetic citizens were barred from being allowed to escape with humans.

  “AND THAT, MY DEAR LISTENER, IS WHERE I CAME IN,” said the girl, smiling despite struggling for every breath. “You see, by my nature,” she coughed, grimacing, “I had a problem with that policy.

  “It wasn’t just because I was the recreated mind of an Anishinaabe scientist, housed in an artificial body that had no ‘human’ flesh at all. Nor was it because I was transgender, or niizh manidoowag, a carrier of sacred healing medicines of the Anishinaabe peoples.

  “But it was that there are still babies amongst our kind, both Two-Spirit and not, amongst the humans, those who we called Children of the Light. Children who deserved better, but were ignored because of their artificiality.

  “The Seven Teachings of my people insist that I live humbly and respectfully, but when our people’s rights are ignored because we do not have authentic human flesh or authentic human blood, even though we bleed, I must abide by the teaching demanding me to be courageous and truthful.

  “I have to fight for these children, because I am an Anishinaabekwe, an Anishinaabe woman who loves all her people, regardless of whether or not we were born in the wombs of our human parents or in the birthing crèches of the synthetic consciousness factories built and left to us so long ago.

  “And so I fight to protect them. Regardless if they are authentic human or synthbabies built in crèches. They are all as equally human as me.

  “It occurs to me that I should have brought body armour to this fight.

  “I think I may pass out a bit just now.

  “Sorry about that, dear listener.”

  THE GIRL GRUNTED AWAKE AFTER AWHILE. She sighed, looking down at her wounds, putting her hands over them. She forgot her silent listener as she pulled vials of mediflesh out of her rucksack and pushed them into the bullet holes, the white foam dissolving the glass and creating white hexagons of artificial skin and painkillers. It wasn’t body armour but it should stop the bleeding, and maybe let her live long enough to finish her story.

  She hissed as the mediflesh worked to repair the worst of her injuries. The painkiller helped but there was still a sheen of agony just beneath that. After a moment’s sharp pain her vision cleared and she felt a little better. Less muggy and out of focus. She looked over at her “listener”—a tired-looking, ancient service bot with a single glowing green eye, indicating a powered-down battery.

  “Ha,” Nona said. “Get me a bit battle addled and I’m telling my life’s story to a vacuum cleaner.”

  She wished she had a gun. Or a whole battalion. Or even just some soldier training beyond what she’d learned the hard way. She was outnumbered and definitely outgunned.

  No playing around, Nona. A lot of innocent children were waiting on her to get them safely off the planet before the inhospitable environment destroyed their fragile bodies.

  This left her with a hard choice. Her body was functionally organic but not made from human or animal flesh. As such, she had an option which meant she could save the children, but at a terrible price. She could forcibly activate her nanomachine abilities and harden her body, while speeding up her reaction time to speeds inhumanly fast. This would give her a tactical combat advantage, but it would mean something horrible. She wouldn’t be able to stop herself from killing those who opposed her; something that felt sickeningly wrong, even though they were happily willing to murder her.

  If she’d had combat training software, or combat experience as a trained soldier, she might be able to disable her opponents non-lethally. But she wasn’t a surgeon with a scalpel, just a girl with a sledgehammer. In her enhanced mode, she had no way to make adroit attacks, just fast, efficient, and deadly blows.

  Also, if she stayed inside her sped-up metabolic state too long, she would burn out her neural connections and end up brain-damaged or dead from overexertion. After all, she’d just been given a regular synth-person’s body, not one built to be a combat tank.

  But if she didn’t act soon the people who were trying to kill her and the other children would destroy the Tree, their only safe way off planet. Then they would kill her, and then slaughter the children as “artificial abominations against God.”

  She bit her lip hard and leaned against the wall.

  “The courage to be Anishinaabekwe,” she whispered. Then she pushed off the wall, grabbed the service bot roughly, and stepped outside, her heart rate increasing as her skin began to harden.

  It was a massacre.

  THE ENEMY HAD MACHINE GUNS and railgun dart weapons, but they were only human, and accelerated as she was, she had the reaction times of a machine. She threw a service bot at one of the men, instantly turning him into paste. Nona punched holes through skulls, snapped arms like twigs, ripped people in half. Of the thirty sent against her, in the end only two remained, one human being who was too scared to fight her and a cyborg-enhanced fighter who matched her strength.

  “You’re a murderer!” the cyborg said, swinging his axe at her face.

  “Who started shooting at who first?” Nona yelled, ducking his blow just in time. “You wanted to kill all these children, innocent and helpless!”

  “You’re all just fucking godless machines!” the cyborg said, turning to swing his axe again.

  “We’re alive, we
hurt, we feel, and we pray, just like you,” she snarled. Nona caught his axe and wrenched it from his grasp, before cutting off one of his hands. He screamed, and covered his wound with his other hand.

  “Do it,” he hissed. “Murder me, you gods-damned killbot.”

  She raised the axe—and threw it away. Nona looked at his human ally. “Run, but call for help for him. We didn’t want this bloodshed. Remember—you started this.” The woman stared, frozen in fear.

  “Run!” Nona yelled, clapping her hands. The human woman bolted like a rabbit.

  The cyborg stared at Nona as she collapsed.

  “Why? Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked.

  “I never wanted to hurt anyone,” Nona said. Then she puked up water and bile. Shaking. She wished she could have washed the blood off but all she could do was wipe it off with some rags she found on one of the dead. She smeared more of it than she removed.

  The walk back to the children’s hiding place in the ruined school bus took a long time because both the fight and her previous wounds exhausted her, despite the meds she’d ingested. She stumbled over the sand. Carol, the only human child in her group, yelled. That brought all the children tumbling from the ruined bus with shouts of joy and concern. They raced to her side.

  “Sister!”

  “Nona!”

  “Mommy!” said little Tamba, holding up pudgy arms, demanding Nona hold her. Nona grunted and picked up the synthtoddler, smiling at the girl’s green and chrome skin and bright blue eyes. The baby nuzzled her, and she patted her back gently.

  “Shh, shh, it’s okay, Tambarina.”

  “You’re hurt,” Carol said. She was only twelve years old but she acted like Nona’s big sister sometimes. “Tamba, give your mommy some space, she’s hurt.”

  “Noooo!” the child wailed.

  Nona bounced Tamba up and down gently. “It’s fine. I treated my wounds. The blood isn’t mine.”

  “Oh,” said Carol quietly with a look.

  “Come on, we have to hurry and get to the Tree before sundown. Everyone ready?” Nona yelled.

  There was a chorus of affirmative cheers and within a few minutes the little group of thirteen was on the move. Slower than Nona would have liked but it couldn’t be helped. They stopped once to use “the potty” and to eat snacks, but Nona and Carol kept the group going at a good pace.

  THE MALE CYBORG was still there when the group of children came close to the base of the Tree. The cyborg just waved with his good hand when some of the children called to him. One of the brave kids escaped Carol’s grip and ran to him, giving him water and a few ripe pears. Nona started forward in fear but the male cyborg just nodded and gave the girl a smile.

  Nona shooed the girl away and approached the man. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

  He grunted. “They really are babies, aren’t they?”

  She nodded. He sighed and waved her on. That was the last Nona saw of him.

  They reached the base of the Great Tree, soaring into the heavens like an immense wimba tower made of silver and gold.

  Remembering what her auntie told her about the Great Trees before she died, Nona touched one of the bulbs of glowing blue at its base. The bulb opened to reveal a great flower with a luminous blue gel on it. It smelled like limes. Or oranges. Or orange limes. Nona put her hand inside before smearing the gel on the trunk.

  The trunk shivered and unravelled, showing an immense teardrop-shaped seed the size of a mansion house, which peeled open to reveal a warm yellow interior that smelled of sweet-fruit.

  “Everyone in! Quick now!” Nona said. She wasn’t really sure of what was going to happen next but the kids, young and curious, tumbled laughing into the large pod. Carol looked at Nona with worry in her brown Indian eyes and Nona smiled. “It’s fine. Relax. Get in, quick!”

  Nona’s confidence was entirely faked, but Carol got in nonetheless.

  Once everyone was in, Nona touched the wall with her gooey hand. The seed shivered again and vines dropped from the wall. Straps? Nona had everyone put themselves behind the vines, which pulled the kids back gently against the wall until they were secured.

  Suddenly there was a huge hissing sound as the tree corkscrewed the seed upward into the sky with great pressure. Nona wanted to pass out with the spinning, but most of the kids, even Tamba, laughed as they soared higher into the atmosphere like a top.

  After about five minutes gravity went away and the vines loosened, letting everyone experience microgravity for themselves. Kids flailed, bounced, laughed, and screamed with delight. Even Carol, ever the serious younger sister, giggled as she cartwheeled past Nona, who inhaled deeply, glad for the breathable air.

  Now what? she asked herself.

  AFTER AN HOUR, there was a loud bang, then a clanging noise, and a series of pops. Nona frowned and looked outward, where sparks flared up, readying herself to attack whatever was on the outside of the seed wall. There was a crashing sound that popped her ears, and then she was staring at a small woman, a synthperson like her, holding a blowtorch.

  “Riley,” the synthperson said, “It’s a seed full of little kids!”

  Nona balled up her fists.

  The woman grinned and put her torch away. Then she held out a lollipop. “Hi, I’m Sam! Are you lot hungry?”'

  Nona exhaled with a sob, laughing.

  Tamba launched herself at Sam, who caught the toddler with a laugh.

  A huge blond man, another synthperson, floated into view. “Hi! I’m Riley. Welcome to the Rose Dawn, orbiting Earth one hundred kilometres up. We’re glad you lot made it. We’re a refugee ship for synthfolks. But we won’t turn away a sympathetic human, or three!”

  Carol smiled with relief.

  “This is a very interesting, uh, ship seed thing you have,” Sam said, bouncing Tamba in her arms.

  “A real Seed Ship!” crowed Mikan, a five-year-old synthboy.

  “Right!” Riley said with a smile.

  Sam looked at Nona. “Are you hurt?”

  Nona felt her stomach drop. She looked at the ground and shook her head. “There were bad men that wanted to hurt us. I stopped them. I didn’t want to do this, but—”

  “Hey, hey,” said Sam. “It’s all right. I understand. Why don’t we get you cleaned up?”

  Nona nodded. “Don’t take the kids away,” she said quietly.

  Riley shook his head. “We won’t. Families mean everything to us. We’ll just get everyone settled in and fed, and uh, bathed.” He wrinkled his nose and Carol blushed under her tan skin. “And make sure everything’s copacetic.”

  Sam grinned and led everyone in from the massive cargo bay where the seed sat, shining. Nona brushed her hand on the seed and bowed her head in silent thanks to the Great Tree.

  They were safe. Now the vast possibilities of space awaited them, and sixteen-year-old Nona vowed to be there for her family.

  All of them.

  NAMELESS

  NAZBAH TOM

  JENNIFER SAT AT HER DESK, her tailbone aching from sitting in her chair all day. She moved her head side to side slowly stretching her neck. She yawned and reached for her cup of coffee, but as she wrapped her fingers around the mug she felt how cold it was. She sighed, looked at her wristwatch, and put her fingers back on the keyboard.

  This was her last note of the day. She had sat through eight clients today. Seven of them were regulars but her last was a new client referred to Jennifer from his probation officer. She looked over the letter sent with the client from the probation department.

  “Mr Trujillo is required to attend ten counselling sessions with a focus on skills development and substance abuse. One missed session will result in immediate arrest and incarceration.

  “Mr Trujillo’s counsellor will be required to send in a final report at the end of ten sessions with an assessment of the client’s participation, progress, and skills development.”

  Jennifer typed in a short note about her first session with him. She typed q
uickly and succinctly with the words of her supervisor in her mind: “Remember to note sessions with the knowledge that it might end up in court one day. You don’t want to tell too much or too little—just enough to remind you of what you worked on together. Keep it vague.”

  “Client presents with complex trauma symptoms attributed to childhood abuse in foster care system, current substance abuse, street involvement, and is currently unemployed. Writer used Assessment Form 103-B to assess client. Writer is building rapport and trust with client and will continue to do so. Client’s next session is next Friday at 4:00 p.m. Writer will finish filling out Assessment Form 103-B.”

  She was able to leave thirty minutes after five, enough time to run an errand before making it home for the night.

  K’É SAT AT *THEIR KITCHEN TABLE sipping on *their juniper tea and eating pinches of cornbread *they had baked that morning. The clean pine flavour mixed well with the sweet cornbread. K’é sat in front of the window facing west in *their hogan, an octagonal home with a twenty-five-foot radius. *They lived alone in a hogan built to maximize space in *their solitude and thoughts. A hanging wood-burning stove to warm the cold desert nights. A doorway facing east to greet the sunrise. A bookcase filled with books and plants. A small couch and coffee table to write *their daily journal. A small kitchen table to sit at and prepare for *their next session with *their mentor, Asdzáá Hashké.

  Asdzáá Hashké was a firm but loving teacher. Her voice could be heard clearly over a good distance with its booming high tone. Her chastising was as loud and expressive as her warmth and care.

  “Yadilah!” she would exclaim loudly when she was exasperated with her students, jarring the classroom.

  “Yáah, shiawéé!” she would say when she was proud of her students, soothing them all with her quiet smile.

  In their last session together, however, Asdzáá Hashké’s teachings were more alarming and urgent. K’é knew Asdzáá Hashké was part of the second generation who survived near extinction during the last World War. But sitting on the floor of Asdzáá Hashké’s hogan, she finally described her experiences in detail.