City Without Suns (3 page)

Chapter 4

September 9, 2829

              Not knowing if the news will be welcomed, I must divulge that I have three sons.  I wake up every morning not knowing how many days I have left, so without spending further time on other subjects, I am compelled to write about something you would surely want to know.  As a little girl, I used to imagine telling you news of your grandchildren under much different circumstances. I suppose it gives me some satisfaction knowing that I have a legacy, although I don’t know why I try to justify my involvement in this place.  I guess it is an old habit not easily broken.

I named my first Eon.  Actually, I named him after you, but in the nursery somebody took a close proximity of the phonetic spelling of Ian and twisted into something they thought was profound.  He is now nineteen years old, born shortly after the communications blackout period began.

For all of those nineteen years, he has shared this room with me on the top bunk.  He is my greatest companion, the best friend I ever had or will have.  I have spent a lifetime educating him, telling him stories, playing games to pass the time, and protecting him the best I can.  Under the circumstances, he has grown into an impressively smart and self-confident individual.  I would like to think my parenting skills are the cause of that, but I know a large portion of it has to do with the genetic make-up of his father.

Unlike most births on Gambler, Eon was conceived the old-fashioned way.  He is an outcast among the other youth onboard.  With no formal assignment, he is relegated to live down here with me, one of the two original stowaways, buried in the midst of the commoners.  Such a shame that someone like him could not be put to use.  Things would surely be different if General David Mason was still alive.

Both of my youngest sons were inseminated.  My role changed from historian to fertile female with David’s death.  They are sixteen and seventeen years old by my memory, assuming they are still alive.  I neither see them nor know their names.  The older one was from one of my own eggs, so I was told.  They live in the Ward, the place in the upper levels where the children are raised for life in space.  There are supposedly close to a thousand living within the confines of the Ward.  That amount would outnumber the adults on Gambler by more than three to one.  Attrition has been replaced with birth, and the disproportionate number of youngsters creates an incentive to educate them quickly.  The ship is so massive that it doesn’t feel densely populated, especially with the concentration in the upper levels.

              I think about my two lost boys and imagine what they’re like, what kinds of things they are learning about the ship, and whether or not they even know each other.  I wonder if they think about me, even though it may be unrealistic to think there should be a bond between implanted offspring and their unknown mother. 

I also wonder what traits they were given.  The genetic engineering occurs close to the nursery not far from my quarters.  It is an operation originally viewed as the most important to our long-term survival, but under the command of Leonidas it has been neglected.  It remains operational but not progressing with new innovations.  There are all the old ones, like bone density enhancements, as you are aware.  Neurological advancements are within their capability, but although amazing and interesting, they don’t compare to what was accomplished in this area on the Islands back home where you are.  Some people here know about my vision.  Nobody knows anything else, and I don’t even know the extent of what was done to me.

Historically, they have been proficient with small modifications contributing to our adaptability.  Some of the originals were afflicted with extreme vertigo, constantly dizzy from the trips into and away from the center axis.  One poor guy vomited repeatedly in his room until he was quarantined for fear he was contagious.  He was unsupervised and ended up floating among his excrement during a maintenance period when the rotation was dialed back.  He was later sedated and studied, and genetic alterations were devised from unaffected persons with well-constructed inner ears.  All engineered babies, including my younger two sons, inherit the superior traits.  This mode of operation, forced evolution, was planned long in advance – everyone knew they were forfeiting their rights for free unchecked child bearing when they boarded - except me, a last-minute addition to the crew that had been preparing together for years.

Interestingly, I have not heard too much about people with natural night vision.  I don’t think it’s ever been made a priority, which is interesting considering the need to save power through reduced lighting.  I don’t know whether that thought has evaded them or they just don’t know how to reproduce what runs in our family.

I am drawn to my two younger sons and determined to see them before my life is over.  With each passing hour, with each cruelty I witness, I become less interested in the magnitude and importance of the original mission, and I long instead for family again. 

I was thinking about trying to find them today when Eon and I went to the lower mess hall.   We were eating synthetically grown meat for protein with plants grown from the greenhouse levels washed down with filtered and recycled water from the substantial mid-ship tanks. Our meals have become a necessary labor for nourishment rather than a luxury.  We typically eat as fast as possible.  I cannot imagine how we will survive out here if the quality of meals continues to decline.  I thought we were always equipped to solve these and many other problems, but I no longer have any visibility into the governance and division of labor in this place.

After the meal, we detoured up to the main levels instead of back down to our quarters.  We were stopped in the main corridor by one of the patrols.  If I were alone, he might have been friendlier, but with Eon there, he seemed very guarded and kept a hand on his weapon.  He turned us away to return back to our section, the segregated society of commoners.  Eon, with no stripe on his arm to identify his trade, is assumed to be either a criminal or an idiot when sighted by the patrols.  I worry for his safety (and mine) with the recent increase in the practice of extermination carried out from top leadership to thin the population of nonessential personnel.

We stopped at an exercise station on our way back down.  The nearby latrines had been flushed from recent gravity shift, so the temporary smell that was making exercise unpleasant had dissipated.  Eon seemed unusually agitated and ran for a long time in the stationary wheel.  I returned, and Eon continued to the genetics level saying he was going to ask for some jobs doing some lifting or moving.  I consented and locked the door.  As I write, he has still not returned.

Chapter 5

September 10, 2829

There are many things outside my control, far more than those I can influence, but I cannot forgive myself for allowing any harm to come to Eon.  He just came back, unable to open one of his eyes and buckled over in pain.  He is resting in my lower bunk while I replay his story wondering what I should have done.  I cannot follow him everywhere, and even if I did, I cannot shield him from the reckless violence that has become more and more unchecked.

Yesterday when he left, he proceeded downward to the nursery and genetic engineering levels as planned.  One might think these belong in the upper levels by the Ward, but I think this separation was intentional.  The nursery is not the same type of place as one back home where the births are primarily natural.  Here there is a high infant mortality rate, especially with the growths and incubations attempted outside a human womb.  The layout was designed to shield the happy atmosphere near the Ward from the death and failed experiments down here.

He entered the lab, where there are typically numerous dirty jobs to be done for the recycling and harnessing of organic material.  He was welcomed at first, but there was nothing that needed to be done at that moment, so he was politely turned away.

He continued downward to the hospital and was greeted with head nods on his way.  We mostly know each other down here, but with the insertion of the lightly guarded prison in our area, all of our old friends are suspicious of anyone wandering in the dimly lit hallways without obvious purpose.

The doctors there, once our most highly revered class in the social order, have become an extension of the police force.  The most highly trained doctors from Earth have already passed away.  The specific medical training on this ship does not prepare the ones remaining for general health care.  Instead, there are a small group of pediatricians, focused on the care and saving of the newborns as well as training the younger generation in their field.  The majority does quick triage.  Easy healings are performed, and ailments requiring long term care or high effort are avoided.

Eon entered to see if the nursing staff needed any help, but none of them were present.  There were three individuals in the sick bay lying immobile in their beds.  Two were unconscious, and the other was strapped down.

“Hey, hey,” the restrained patient tried to get his attention.  Eon approached but kept his distance from the bedside.  He did not say anything in reply.  “Unstrap me.  Get me out of here.  I’m a patrol for Leonidas.”

Eon just shook his head.  He has grown up with the impression that the guards are self-appointed enforcers of made-up laws, so his response was given with displeasure at the mere identification of a patrol, whose role was supposed to be both feared and respected according the leadership on Gambler.  Eon turned his back to exit.

“Wait!” panicked the patient, whom Eon figured was probably an imposter or desperate prisoner trying to say anything to get out.  “They’re going to kill me.  I didn’t do anything wrong.  I was just trying to reach my family back home.”

“Then what are you doing in the sick bay?” Eon questioned.

“I got my ass kicked in the prison.  I think I have broken ribs.  They threw me in there figuring I would probably be beaten to death.  But you see that guy?  He got the worst of it when I defended myself.”

Eon looked to one of the unconscious men, who on second inspection looked pale.  He was dead.

“Why would you be punished for trying to reach your family?  Especially as a member of the police force – I thought you guys could do whatever you want,” Eon quipped.

“They thought I was tampering.  That carries a death penalty.  I was looking for a transceiver because I heard about the new period of lucidity, but I went poking around in the wrong place by accident.  Unauthorized use of any of the critical systems is considered tampering…come on dude.  You’ve got to get me out of here.  I’ll make it worth your while.”

(Period of lucidity - I guess you started a trend, father.  I wonder what other transmissions have been received.)

“I still don’t get it,” Eon refuted, “Leonidas wouldn’t punish one of his own like that.”

“Are you kidding?  You don’t know Leonidas very well.  Punishment is lashed out in all directions,” explained the patient.

Tampering.  What a joke.  Faint suspicions of vandalism are punishable by death while the police look the other way from stealing, murder, cannibalism, and all manner of fighting.  Child abuse directed at one of the Ward members seems to be the only other crime that is enforced.

Three patrols entered before the conversation could continue.  One of them took the dead man over a shoulder and headed out the door.  The other sleeping person seemed to be ill but awoke with a start as he was wheeled away toward the direction of the first level. He protested, but Eon could not understand what he was saying. Finally, the last was pushed away, violently yelling and jerking in vain against the restraints.  Eon was not regarded as an intruder or a threat by the patrols who were accustomed to commoners loitering without reason.  He followed.

They descended to level one, the lowest inhabitable level about three quarters of the way down the ship.  Within that section, Eon suspected what was about to transpire.  Extermination, a practice formally used as a last resort for the most grievous offenders and the terminally ill. Lately, it has become a form of recreation administered by the police for the sadistic entertainment of the commoners and elite alike.  The dead man had been taken somewhere else.  The two other patients remained.

The one that was asleep struggled and tried to fight the patrol.  He was struck hard straight in the face repeatedly until he was limp.  The one that tried to petition Eon for his release was similarly beaten into submission.  Eon stood at a safe distance and observed from his limited point of view, formed in a world where civility and human rights are foreign concepts.  His instinct was to keep separation and prepare to run if needed.

They turned from the main corridor into a chamber as Eon watched from outside, creeping closer to see through the small window in the door.  The patrols, like hunters focused on a kill, did not bother turning to notice Eon was still there.  The chamber led to an air lock, where the abused and injured victims were stripped naked and left in the center of the floor.  The patrols shut the second door, sealing the lock.  From behind in the chamber, a set of cameras were capturing the event, undoubtedly being monitored from other sections of the ship.  They began to evacuate the air.  The committers of unconfirmed and unknown transgressions struggled for breath while their assailants laughed.

The men gasped for air as a door behind them slid open. While they were still cognizant, the humiliated and naked men were released, and their helpless bodies shot into the outside vacuum of space.  I can only imagine their terrified expressions were captured for the viewing pleasure of audiences scattered around the massive vessel.  Punishment like that was used as discouragement to keep any would-be criminals at bay, but the laughter of the patrols demonstrated that their actions were more for amusement than rule enforcement.

Eon did not linger.  He put distance between himself and the patrols and was quickly out of their sight running back toward our room along the main corridor.  He paused when he noticed the third patrol returning to the upper levels, the one who had taken the dead one away from the room minutes earlier.  He did not want to run past and be mistaken for a fleeing prisoner from the detention area.

Eon spotted a nearby ladder tube and climbed into the ceiling to the next floor.  He found another tube, and he ascended one more floor inward toward the center of the Gambler cylinder.  For safe measure, he continued several floors up, where he was a little bit less heavy from the smaller radius of rotation.  Eon traversed the hallway on a detour attempting to make his way back to the room undetected. 

His effort for stealth came to an end when he arrived at an unused laboratory where an older man was opening containers and cabinets.  Their eyes met.  Eon bore no insignia, which normally made him an outcast, but in this instance he naively and incorrectly felt trusted by the stranger who likewise seemed at home in the lower levels. 

“Hey, man, you know where we can find some extra food?  They won’t let me out of here to get any grub,” the older man pleaded with wide open eyes bulging from their sockets.  He must have been old enough to be at least sixty Earth years old, which would make him a former senior member of the original crew.  He was turning his head rapidly to look in all directions in paranoid fashion.  A band clamped down on his wrist indicated he was in detention, but he had apparently fled that detainment and become one of the occasional fugitives roaming in close proximity to our quarters.

Eon shook his head. 

“Unsatisfactory!” exclaimed the deranged individual.  He swiftly dashed into the hallway demonstrating freakish strength and agility for somebody that age and tenure in space.  He pounded Eon with an unexpected blow to the eye.  Eon endured several kicks while clenching his injured face.  Through the fury, Eon managed to see that the old man was wearing a tattered uniform – with an emblem.  The number of stripes suggested he was a very high level officer.

With a violent kick, Eon jumped up and raced away with superior speed, able to drop back down the next tunnel in his path.  The distraught weirdo remained behind and for some reason did not pursue.  Eon’s rush of adrenaline allowed him to get back to the room where he collapsed in my arms.

He told me the story only a short time ago. The execution he witnessed was atypical but not completely unusual.  More humane planned killings, however, are typical.  Every month, a census is taken of the commoners.  Six of our friends have been taken away in the last year, never to return.  We believe they have been eliminated.  The rumor is that it is done painlessly, but we do not know.  The rationalization provided is that the resources available cannot support unlimited population growth, and the population has to be periodically purged of noncritical personnel.  At least this notion has some logic, however frustrating and depressing it may seem.  The brutal executions are far more disturbing. 

The stray lunatic did not surprise me.  Even before the segregation of the lower levels by Commander Leonidas Verga, I watched passengers and crew deteriorate as if an unseen force has permeated the vessel and corroded their minds. On occasion, thoughts of violence enter my own head, but I stay vigilant. It requires conscious effort to ward off whatever evil spirit tempts me with giving up my good nature and fighting for resources like some of the others.  I have heard of bands of youngsters down here in the lower levels who have formed alliances and fend for themselves quite well.  Not everybody is as resourceful.  In the meantime, we still have access to rations, and as long as we obey the rules, that should continue for as long as we are allowed to live.

With the General in charge many years ago, we always knew what was happening all around the ship.  Everyone had a job they felt was contributing to the mission, the first interstellar voyage to find new and necessary homes.  I don’t see how everything that needs to be done to sustain life in this completely unnatural place can be accomplished without every individual being put to work.  The fact that I know nothing about what is going on in the upper levels, and the fact that there is any notion of segregation among such a small community, suggests that something is wrong.  The oppressive actions of the patrol can be explained by nothing other than corruption, but I feel helpless to do anything about it.  I write this realizing that the words might even be intercepted and read, but the possible consequences seem no worse than what I am enduring already.  I will continue to write to you with hope of influencing someone, either onboard or elsewhere, who will hear our plight.