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hour13 · 6 years ago

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Fishbowl

By Tim Carroll

“Wanna know a secret?” Persephone asked in a voice that was too loud for anyone but her to call it whispering.

Margaret shrugged. She felt that Persephone’s secrets were invariably either things that everyone already knew or things that she had just made up to feel special. She looked over to see that Persephone was still staring at her expectantly.

“Fine,” Margaret whispered back, using actual whispers.

“Last night my grandma told me that the sky wasn’t always cracked.”

Margaret looked up at the jagged web of fractures that stretched across the western plate-glass horizon of Dome 58. Margaret shook her head, “Your grandma doesn’t know your name half the time. I think she might have—”

“No!” Persephone squealed, before remembering she was supposed to be whispering. “She said that one day a long time ago there was a loud bang. She said that when she first saw the cracks they looked like a spider web and she was scared that there would be a giant spider who lived there and wanted to eat her!”

Margaret shrugged, but Persephone continued in her non-whispery whisper, “She said everyone was scared, but then they weren’t allowed to talk about it. The people at her school said that it was all normal and they whacked kids for discussing it. And eventually everyone forgot that it wasn’t always there.”

Margaret smiled at Persephone. She had stopped scowling at her a long time ago-- it was too likely to make her cry. “That’s quite a story Pers.” Margaret replied causing Persephone to beam, “Now come on, we’re late to pick up our rations.”

It seemed like every aspect of the office of the director, from the old world paintings that covered the walls to the tapestry behind the desk, had been designed to awe visitors into a state of submission. Simply walking through the door, Surveyor Peter Card felt like he had left behind the administrative offices of Dome 58’s town hall and stepped into another world. A world that was run by the man sitting behind the desk, casually thumbing through an old world book – Director Edward Thornton.

Peter approached the desk slowly, taking the time to admire the room’s centerpiece: A man-sized scale replica of Dome 58.

Peter figured that several years’ worth of art budget had gone into making the model. Every detail had been perfectly attended to: tiny mothers walking to the birthing center, tiny children marching in double file lines behind the schools, and even a gaggle of people gathered outside the ration stations. Somehow, the sculptors had even chiseled a perfect replica of the jagged crack across the western sky.

Peter felt a shiver run down his spine as he looked at the crack. If it were only a few millimeters deeper.

Director Thornton flashed a grin at Peter as he approached, not breaking eye contact, the director grabbed the book off his desk and put it away on a small mahogany bookshelf. Peter had never seen so many paper books outside of a museum or a picture of the old world. Then the director got out of his chair and walked over to the surveyor.

“Pete, how’re you doing?” he chuckled, clapping Peter on the back, “Take a seat.”

Peter tried not to flinch. He wondered if Director Thornton was this liberal with back pats and nicknames to everyone he called into his office. He must be. Or maybe Peter truly was as special as Director Thornton claimed.

“Sir,” Peter began, as he pulled out the seat in front of the desk “Have you—”

“Slow down,” Thornton smiled, “Would you like a drink first? Some water? Tea?”

Peter gulped, “No, sir. Thank you, sir. If it’s all the same to you--”

“Enough with this ‘sir,’” Director Thornton interrupted, as he sat down on the imposing chair behind the desk, “I get enough of sir. Call me Ed.”

Peter swallowed again. “Okay… Ed.” Peter paused and, sensing no impending interruption, continued, “Have you had the time to review my report?”

The director tapped the black top of his desk, revealing it to be one massive touchscreen. Almost instantly, every chart, figure, and equation detailed in Peter’s 30-odd page report appeared on the surface. “Very impressive work, Pete.” Thornton mused, “I knew you were the right man for the job. That said, are you positive of your conclusions?”

Peter nodded. “I would bet my life on them. The cracks are not as stable as they appear and are growing at a rate of roughly 2 centimeters a year. You told me that decontamination was causing the Earth’s atmosphere to rise in temperature. If this is true, and assuming that the temperature will continue to increase at a constant rate, additional thermal stress will be placed upon the dome, causing the rate of fracture to increase exponentially. There’s too many unknowns for an exact prediction, especially since perfect measurement of the conditions outside the dome is impossible, but you’re looking at a 60% chance that the dome will be breached in the next forty years.”

Director Thornton nodded, his smile drifting away, “Your report also says that there is roughly a twelve percent chance of no breach occurring in the next hundred years.”

“Yes, but considering the low probability of that scenario, I think we would be far safer ignoring it. I was hoping we could use this meeting to discuss exactly how repair would be implemented. I would be more than happy assisting whatever team you choose for the job. Seeing as the rate of fracture is unpredictable, I think we should try and start as soon as possible.”

“Let me stop you there, Pete.” Director Thornton said, as he jabbed his finger at the section labeled Repair Costs. “Pete, don’t take this the wrong way. I consider you a friend, and you’re obviously the best engineer we have here, but it’s clear you’re not a budgeter. And that’s not your fault.”

“Sir…, I mean, Ed. I don’t understand. This is the dome we’re talking about, I don’t think we can take half measures. ”

“Pete, looking at your report you seem to suggest we should use close to the entirety of Dome 59’s stock of formaldehyde in order to synthesize this Cy… Cyano…” Director Thornton fumbled on the word,

“Cyanoacryllate,” Pete finished, “It’s a type of glue. One that should be able to hold the dome together until decontamination is done.”

“Pete, your heart, and much more importantly, your brain, are both in the right place here. But I can’t authorize using the entirety of our formaldehyde supplies. We need that for several other construction projects as well as producing a variety of medications. You’re going to need to bring these costs down.”

“Director, I have brought those costs down. Frankly, our stores are insufficient for the type of more permanent repairs we should be doing. The Cyanoacryllate we have will be sufficient for only repairs of the most major cracks. There’s still going to be a non-negligible rate of fracture.”

The Director shook his head, “I don’t know what to tell you Pete, you’re going to have to find a way to make it work.”

Before Peter could protest, there was a loud knock on the door and a woman poked her head in. “Director Thornton, your next meeting is here.”

“Give me a minute, Martha.” Director Thornton shouted, before turning his gaze back to Peter. “Pete, I want to be on your side here, but I just can’t authorize that kind of expenditure, you’re going to have to make do with what we have. I have complete faith in you.”

III

The doctors called it Constrained Habitat Induced Insanity. Those who were less sensitive called it “Domentia.”

Due to structural constraints, it had been much easier for the failing governments of Earth to construct hundreds of smaller domes before the Great Contamination instead of a few larger ones. As a result, dome residents would spend their lives surrounded by the same 2,000 or so people in the same 10 or so mile radius. For most domers, that was good enough. But for some, the monotony was maddening.

Allison’s birth mother had had Domentia. Her mother had stayed up late at night, rocking herself to sleep, and staring at the horizon as though a creature might come out of the inky blackness and take her far away. Even now, years after she’d been taken to the sanitarium, Allison could still hear the screaming rants in the back of her mind.

It was those same screaming rants that had driven Allison to pursue a job in the office of communications. In this office, Allison knew she was never truly alone. Everywhere else in Dome 58, interdome communication was strictly forbidden. But from her desk, Allison could send text-based messages to communicators in over a dozen other domes, brokering trade deals and discussing what life was like over a hundred miles of radioactive desert away.

Allison smiled as she reflected on an interesting tidbit she had learned this morning. Apparently, the director of Dome 42 was trying to legalize bigamous family units so that he could take his mistress as a second wife. Allison was typing a reply to her friend in Dome 42, when she heard a knock on the steel door behind her.

“Come in,” she shouted, without turning away from her desk. Reflected on her computer screen, Allison could see a blond-haired boyish face poking through the doorway.

“Hey, Ally,” the man said, “was wondering if you’d had your lunch yet.”

“Hey, John.” Allison replied, “I’m busy today. Decided I would save my midday rations for a bigger dinner. You peacekeepers haven’t made that illegal have you?”

“Not yet,” John replied, sauntering into the room, “But it could be argued that you working yourself to death is a seditious act against the office of communications, seeing as they’d never get on without you.”

“Wow,” Allison whistled, “You give a peacekeeper a gun and suddenly he’ll look for any excuse to arrest someone.” She gestured to the conspicuous holster on John’s hip, a sign that he’d graduated the academy with flying colors.

“Hey,” John chuckled, “First of all it’s not a gun…”

“Really?” Allison asked, eyeing the pistol-shaped device, “It looks like a gun from here.”

“It’s a dart launcher.” John clarified, “Bullets cause too much collateral damage and are too inconsistent. A touch of one of these neurotoxin darts and a criminal will be dead in a few seconds.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as a little risky?” Allison asked, “Isn’t a few seconds long enough for someone to pull a trigger of their own?”

“That’s why they only give dart launchers to peacekeepers and not to every person who wants to steal some rations. Speaking of which, you sure you don’t have time for a bite?”

Allison shook her head, “Sorry, babe. I’m going to be communicating with Dome 78 in a few minutes. Their communicator is a friend actually, and I’m negotiating an important trade deal with him.”

“Oh really, what are they sending to us?”

“Fertilizer,” Allison replied, turning back to her keyboard, “and if you want there to be a steady supply of vegetables in your rations for years to come, chances are you’re going to want me to have this conversation.”

“Shame,” John said, as he walked out of the room, “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe,” Allison replied, as she flexed her fingers and got back to work.

Director Thornton whistled a soft tune to himself as he walked out of the town controller office for the evening.

Without warning, he heard the sound of someone charging at him from behind. With a practiced casual air, he reached into his jacket and fingered the remote he kept inside it. With a single button press, a team of security officers would be at his location within two minutes.

A second before he squeezed the remote, he turned to see that his would-be attacker was none other than Peter Card, the surveyor.

“Pete!” He said, forcing a smile as he moved his hand out of his jacket pocket, “What are you doing here so late?”

“Sir…” Pete panted, “I had… an idea for the situation.”

Director Thornton checked for anyone who might be listening before leaning in. “I think this is a very serious matter to discuss in a public place.”

Pete turned his head to the left and right before craning his head in for a whisper, “I think I know a solution, and I just need you to set me up with someone discreet from the office of communications.”

Ed swallowed hard. “And why would you need that?”

“We may have finite formaldehyde stores, but there certainly are other domes with their own. Or possibly even the means of producing more. I’m not sure what we have to trade but if you give me—”

“Pete. Pete. Pete.” Director Thornton interrupted, “We’re supposed to be a self-sufficient community. We can’t be asking other domes for their crucial supplies.”

“Sir, we already participate in goods exchanges with at least a half-dozen other domes. Certainly there are some luxuries we could offer them in exchange for formaldehyde. Even a 20% increase in our stores would vastly improve our long term structural integrity.”

“Pete.” Director Thornton said sternly, “I told you to find a way to make it work. You’re going to need to find a way to repair the breach with the stores you have.”

“But sir…”

“I’m sorry, Pete. I have to go.” The director said as he walked towards the waiting car, “If you wish to have another meeting, schedule it with my secretary.”

Margaret stared at the half-written report on her desk and sighed. It was supposed to be two written pages about why Dome 58 – with its job of maintaining the human population after the Great Contamination - was critically important, and what she as a citizen could do to help ensure that that mission was completed. Personally, she’d always wished she had been born into one of the decontamination domes so she could actually help make the Earth livable again, but instead she was stuck here waiting for… nothing.

She heard the sound of footsteps behind her and turned to see her mom carrying a plate of beef-flavor rations over. Her mom flashed a smile, “How’s the report coming, pearl?”

“Not too well.” Margaret replied, “I just think there’s only so much I can do to help Dome 58.”

“Well there’s a lot you can do, hon.” Her mother replied, “Did you mention that you could volunteer as a birthmother,” she said gesturing to her growing belly.

Margaret nodded, though the idea of carrying a tiny baby inside her tummy always somewhat scared her. What if it bit on something important?

Margaret shook her head, and looked at her mother, “Hey, mom, can I ask you a weird question.”

“What is it, baby?”

Margaret turned to look at her mother, “Did the sky always have a big crack in it?”

“Of course, pearl, why would you ask such a silly question?”

“It’s just, Persephone said something today—”

“That girl says all kinds of silly things. Between you and me, I don’t think the teachers are doing a very good job with her. Radical ideas like hers are what got Earth into this mess.”

“Yeah…” Margaret said, “I thought so…”

“Anyway, let me know if you need any more help.” Her mother smiled, “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll figure everything out.”

John awoke to the sound of faint tapping beside him. His eyes peeked open, and he looked over at Allison, the curve of her back silhouetted by the light of the tablet on her lap.

“Ally,” he mumbled, as he moved closer to her.

“Go back to sleep,” she said patting him on the head,

“You first,” he teased.

Allison smiled, and resumed scrolling on her tablet.

“If you have so much work you’re doing it past midnight, you can probably tell your superiors. You’d at least qualify for more rations.”

“Not work,” she shook her head, “Not exactly.”

John yawned loudly. “And it can’t wait for the morning?”

“I was talking to Claude from Dome 42 this morning.”

“Your friend?” John asked.

“I thought he was, but I referenced some of our old jokes today and he acted like he had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Sorry, babe.” John yawned, leaning back on his pillow. “I don’t think everyone has your memory.”

“I think it’s more than him being forgetful. I’m looking back at our chat logs. Sometimes he seems like a completely different person.”

“Babe, I… respect you… a lot.” John replied, “but maybe we can discuss this in the morning?”

Allison sighed, set down her tablet, and rested her head on John’s chest. “Fine, we’ll talk in the morning.”

John opened his mouth to reply, but he was asleep before any words came out.

VII

Allison – Dome 58 Communicator has signed on. [12:58:14]

Rebecca – Dome 46 Communicator has signed on. [1:01:15]

Allison 58: This is Allison Dome 58. Do you read me? [1:02:36]

Rebecca 46: This is Rebecca Dome 46. I read you Allison. [1:02:52]

Allison 58: Security Check, what is your favorite color? [1:03:36]

Rebecca 46: What? [1:05:02]

Allison 58: We have had a problem with security recently. [1:05:13]

Allison 58: Asking personal questions to confirm identity [1:05:23]

Allison 58: What is your favorite color? [1:05:58]

Allison 58: Did you not tell me this during our communication two weeks ago? [1:06:44]

Rebecca 46: Oh, right. [1:06:56]

Rebecca 46: Rebecca Purple. Like my name. [1:10:11]

Allison 58: Why the delay? [1:10:31]

Rebecca 46: Apologies. My boss walked in and had a question for me. [1:11:52]

Rebecca 46: She does not remember approving a security check. [1:12:08]

Rebecca 46: So can we please talk about the trade? [1:12:33]

Allison 58: Sure, just one more question. Where did you meet your husband? [1:12:59]

Allison 58: Rebecca? [1:15:04]

Rebecca 46: My apologies. Boss came in again. There’s been an incident. Will get back to you about my husband soon. [1:17:03]

Allison reclined back in her chair, massaging her temples. Eight months ago, Rebecca from Dome 46 had adamantly insisted that she had not and would never marry.

VIII

Director Thornton reclined back in his bathtub, scrolling through a briefing on his tablet. Bathtubs were technically a luxury that was only afforded to families of five or greater. But then again, if the position of Director didn’t have any benefits, Edward seriously doubted that anyone would apply for it.

Suddenly there was a pounding at the bathroom door. Director Thornton’s head jerked back, and nearly collided with the tile wall. Steadying himself, he reached for his bathrobe.

“Martha?” He asked. It wasn’t truly a question. His secretary was the only other person with a key, and Thornton sincerely doubted anyone would be foolish enough to rob the home of the director. Clad in his royal blue bathrobe, Thornton opened the door. Martha was standing on the other side, holding a pair of caffeine pills in one hand and a hanger with a suit dangling from it on the other.

She looked at him sternly. “We have a situation.”

Clad in black, Allison snuck through the bushes outside the office of the communicator. She’d spent the past week-and-a-half staking out the building and watching the patterns of the guards’ movements. Granted, the term ‘guards’ might have been a little generous. Half of the night watch were asleep, and a third more spent the night either reading or playing games on their tablets.

Before she had left work six hours ago, Allison had left one of the first floor bathroom windows open a crack. Resting her back against the wall, she wormed her fingers into that small crack and lifted the window to create an Allison-sized opening. Once she was satisfied, she slid into that egress and closed the window behind her.

Allison crept to the bathroom door and opened it a fraction of an inch. She saw the lone night watchman walking about twenty meters in front of her. Gritting her teeth, she closed the door and counted to thirty. When she reopened it, he was gone.

With each step she reminded herself not to sprint. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the sweat pooling under her black gloves. This was her last chance to turn back. No, she told herself, I need to be here. I need to KNOW.

Allison made her way to the staircase and began descending until she reached the steel door to sub-level four. She pulled out an ID card she had swiped from her boss’s desk when he hadn’t been looking and waved it in front of the scanner. A half-second later, the red light turned to green. With a beep and a mechanical hiss, the door swung open.

Allison crept inside and let out a long exhale, there wouldn’t be any guards in this room, so she could take her time.

This room was supposed to be empty. It was meant as an unloading dock for the ships that came in from other domes. Dome 58 hadn’t received a trade in over a week, and yet the room was stacked floor to ceiling with crates. Allison ran to a stack of crates labeled “Dome 75” and lifted the lid. It was filled to the brim with medical supplies that she had negotiated a trade for on that very morning.

Allison dragged her gloved forefinger across the top box. There was a thin layer of dust.

Allison spent the next half hour searching the room. All of the mechanisms for opening the docking bay to the outside air had been disabled and were covered in dust. Even if there had been space for a trading ship to dock, there was no way for it to get in.

Not that Dome 58 needed any supplies. All the trade goods she had negotiated for in the past month were already here.

Had always been here, she realized. All of the seemingly random things her supervisors had told her to ask for, hadn’t been random at all. They were planned out to create the illusion of trade with other domes. Other domes that might not even exist.

Allison shivered. For the first time in her life, she felt alone.

Margaret walked to the education center in a sleep-deprived daze. She and her mother had been up two hours past curfew the previous night writing a list of ways she could benefit Dome 58 by stepping up as a birth mother. Her mother had insisted that it wasn’t really lying; Margaret would feel that way eventually. She just didn’t yet.

Half-asleep, Margaret nearly walked directly into Persephone, stopping a second before she smashed into her classmate.

“Sorry,” Margaret mumbled, “I didn’t—” Margaret gasped. One of Persephone’s teeth was chipped, and there was a large cut under her right eye.

“What happened to you?”

“I…” Persephone stuttered. “I tripped.”

“Are you okay? Should you even—”

“I’m fine,” Persephone nearly shouted, “It’s just I need you to know something.”

“What?”

“All that stuff about the Dome yesterday…”

Margaret nodded, “About how the sky wasn’t always cracked?”

Persephone seemed to flinch at the words. “I made it all up.” Persephone whispered, really whispered “It’s always been cracked.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Don’t tell anyone anything else. You might get in trouble.”

“Sure, Pers.” Margaret nodded, as she rested a hand on her classmate’s back, “It’s fine. I never really believed you anyway.”

XII

John sat on the bench in Pleasant Park and stared up at the dome. The bench used to be his and Allison’s bench. But John was beginning to doubt whether he and Allison were even a… well whatever they had been. The two of them hadn’t shared a meal, much less spent a night together, in the past couple weeks.

John sighed and kicked a rations wrapper absentmindedly. He’d been considering talking to her about filing for cohabitation, but now…

John crushed the empty paper cup in his hand and threw it at the nearby trashcan, missing the rim by nearly a foot. He considered getting up to pick up the trash when the radio on his hip sprang to life.

“Attention all units!” The metallic voice squeaked, “This is a code 4. Is anyone in Rim Sector 6!”

John pushed away thoughts of Allison and grabbed the receiver. “This is Peacekeeper Mulligan, I’m in Pleasant Park. What’s the trouble?”

“Roger Peacekeeper Mulligan. An unknown figure has been spotted walking along the dome catwalks.” The voice barked, “Unclear what he is doing up there. Investigate and report immediately. This is a priority one objective.”

“Copy.” John replied, as he pushed himself to his feet and began jogging to the cast-iron catwalks that butted up against the glass dome that surrounded the community.

In theory, no one was supposed to go up there without passing a pair of guards, and the presence of a man on those catwalks represented a massive threat to the community. In practice. John was willing to bet several weeks’ worth of extra rations that a guard – equal parts bored and stupid – wanted to see the view during his coffee break and forgot to clear it with a supervisor.

Ten minutes later, John arrived at the catwalk access station. John knocked twice on the steel door before electing to let himself in.

“Hello, my name is Peacekeeper Mullig---“ John stopped midsentence, and swore as he reached for his radio.

“This is Peacekeeper Mulligan!” John barked into his radio, as he fumbled to check the two unconscious guards for a pulse, “I’m at catwalk access station R, both guards have sustained head injuries. Both unconscious. Requesting immediate medical support. Requesting immediate backup!”

For ten seconds that stretched into an eternity there was only silence.

“This is Peacekeeper Mulligan!” John repeated, “I am at catwalk access station R—“

“We hear you Peacekeeper Mulligan!” The voice on the other end of the line interrupted, “Backup and medical are on route! Apprehend the figure on the catwalk. Deadly force authorized. Do you copy?”

John swallowed a mouthful of air down his suddenly dry throat. “Deadly force authorized,” wasn’t a phrase he had ever actually expected to hear on the job. Let alone directed at him.

“Peacekeeper Mulligan. Do you—“

“I copy,” John replied as grabbed the dartgun from the holster on his waist and began climbing the uncomfortably titled steel stairs that led up to the side of the Dome. After going up three stories, John saw a figure. “Mystery man spotted.” John panted into his radio, “Engaging now.”

“Roger, Peacekeeper Mulligan!”

With the dartgun clutched in his sweat-slick hands, John approached the dark figure. His boots clacked on the metal catwalk with each step, but the suspect didn’t seem to notice until John was only about a half a dozen meters away. The man appeared to be fiddling with a device that was affixed to the glass wall of the dome. John was no expert, but it looked uncomfortably like an explosive.

“Suspect!” John shouted, “You are in violation of Dome 58 code. Step away from the device and surrender yourself!”

The man turned and looked at John.

John gasped. “Allison?”

“John…” Allison replied, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you…”

“What the hell are you doing, Ally. This isn’t like you. What is that machine.”

“It’s not a machine, John.” Allison said, holding up a detonator, “It’s a bomb.”

“Good lord, Ally.” John replied, “What the hell will this accomplish?”

“There aren’t any other domes, John.”

John tilted his head to the side, “What?”

“The other domes, they’re all lies. They don’t exist. All the ‘clean-up domes’ we learned about in school were made up.”

“Then why blow up this dome?” John shouted, “This one is real!” John took a step forward.

“Don’t come any closer,” Allison shouted, holding up the detonator. “Don’t you get it, John? Everything is a lie. There aren’t any heroes out there cleaning the earth. All the sacrifices we make, all the rationing, all the forced families. It’s all for nothing! There will never be a clean earth! We are just living to die!”

“Allison, please, come home!” John pleaded, “We can go home!” “We’re not people, John…” Allison replied, tightening her grip, “We’re… guppies… guppies in a fishbowl! Living for nothing!”

“Allison…” John pleaded

“I can’t live like this!” Allison sobbed, “I can’t live knowing that it’s all pointless!”

“But I can, John replied, “Other people can.

“They’ve…” Allison sobbed, “They’ve broken you. All of us. They’ve made us think it’s okay to live in submission. They’ve played god with our lives. We’re not even people John! My mother was right!”

“Your mother was nuts!” John shouted,

“NO, John…” Allison said, suddenly quiet. “She was sane. And now I am too…”

“Allison, please!” John said, lifting his gun, “Don’t make me do this.”

“I need to do this, John.” Allison sobbed, as she held up the detonator.

“NO!” John screamed, as he squeezed down on the trigger. A sharp hiss of air brushed against his hand as a trio of darts sped into Allison’s stomach. Allison stumbled backward, her face twisting as the neurotoxin coursed through her system.

And then, with a final breath, she pushed the button.

XIII

Even now, through the swelling and blood in his eyes, the office of the director still looked dazzling to Peter. The two men, practically towers of muscle, standing beside him each held one of his arms in a stranglehold. The two of them nodded reverentially as Director Thornton entered the room.

“Pete, Pete, Pete…” The director tsked, “I thought we were friends.”

“Do you lie to the faces of all your friends?” Pete asked, spitting equal parts saliva and blood onto the carpet.

“I do, in fact.” Director Thornton responded, “It’s the price I pay for being director.”

“Yeah, you sound real broken up about it.”

“I have learned to cope,” Director Thornton responded as he poured himself a drink. “With the lies, the secrets. And speaking of secrets.” The director took a long sip, “We let you in on a major secret when we told you the truth about the crack in the dome. And now my men are telling me that you broke into the office of communications. We trusted you, Pete. And to abuse that trust…”

“You didn’t trust me.” Peter snapped, “You lied to me – to everyone – from birth. You think telling me one truth makes up for that?” Peter paused to catch his breath, “Was it even one truth? How did the dome really break?”

Director Thornton sighed, “I supposed there’s no point in secrets, now. Roughly seventy-five years ago, a terrorist named Allison Graham detonated a bomb while standing on the catwalks only a few meters away from the glass. The dome held, obviously. If it hadn’t, I doubt any of us would be here now.”

“Why’d she do it?”

“According to the officer at the scene, she’d leaned the truth about all the other domes that we had been in contact with. The truth that I have been tasked with keeping from both you and the rest of the citizens of my dome.”

“So, what is the truth?” Peter asked, “Why aren’t they talking to us?’

Director Thornton shook his head, “One hundred and forty years ago – roughly a quarter of a century after the great contamination - we actually were in contact with all the other domes. And we truly did trade supplies with them. However, for reasons unknown, the domes around us starting going dark, stopped sending supplies and communications. Over the course of about two weeks, we lost contact with every other dome.”

If the two men holding Peter’s arms were surprised by this information in any way, they didn’t show it. Peter looked at their impassive faces, and then back to the director. “What happened to the other domes?”

Director Thornton took another long sip of his brandy and shook his head. “We have no idea. The domes went dark so suddenly that we didn’t have any time to do anything other than speculate. The last few domes we were in contact with didn’t seem to know any more than we did.”

“We have ships though.” Peter responded, “Why didn’t we send them out to investigate? “Why do you assume we didn’t?” The director asked, “We sent out two ships. One to Dome 75, one to Dome 46. Those vessels never came back. Seeing as are last few ships are irreplaceable assets, my predecessors decided to call off the search instead of risking more of them. For the sake of preventing mass panic, we’ve kept this information from the general public. However, the leaders of Dome 58 have spent the last century under the assumption that we are the single last surviving dome.”

Peter resisted the urge to vomit. “But Dome 58’s not a decontamination dome. We have none of the tools to purify the planet’s air or water. That means…”

“Yes,” Director Thornton responded, “If we truly are the last surviving Dome, then there is no one else who has the tools or knowledge necessary to restore the Earth to its previous state..”

“But if that’s the case… if we’re all that’s left… then you need to fix the cracks” Pete pleaded, “You need my plan.”

“You are correct, your plan for fixing the dome is absolutely necessary. More than you could have ever known.” The director sighed and finished off his drink, “However, you are not necessary. Quite the opposite in fact.” Director Thornton slid open a nearly invisible compartment in a bookshelf and withdrew a peacekeeper dartgun. “Thank you for your designs, Mr. Card. Rest assured, they will be put to good use.”

“Wait!” Peter shouted, as Thornton pulled the trigger. Peter continued to protest, his words slurring together as his body slumped to the ground like a ragdoll.

“Get him out of here,” Director Thornton told the two guards, as he returned to his desk.

The director waited until the two men were out of sight before pouring himself another tall drink.

XIV

Consciousness came back to John far too quickly. One second he was lying on the catwalk, watching the spider web of cracks spread out over him. The next second, he was… well certainly not on the catwalk. He was in a bed, staring up at a featureless white tile ceiling.

As his mind replayed the memories of the explosion- as if on cue – the aches spread down his body. With a grunt of exertion, John propped himself up on the bed and began to look around. It wasn’t heaven. Either that or Heaven looked exactly like the inside of Dome 58’s hospital. And the man in the corner looked a lot like Director Sanders.

“Director…” John grunted?

“You can call me Jim if you want.” The Director said, as he poured a glass of water from a plastic pitcher and handed it to John “Take this, the doctors said to get water in your as soon as you were awake.”

“Thanks…” John panted, “Jim…”

The Director – Jim – pulled up a chair and sat down next to John. “Peacekeeper Mulligan – may I call you John?”

John nodded.

“The doctors also told me that I should get them as soon as you were awake. But unfortunately there’s a conversation that truly cannot wait. Do you understand?”

John nodded again, as he downed the glass of water. Jim reached for the pitcher, but John shook his head. “I’m good…” he muttered.

“You’re far more than good, John.” The director replied, “If the accounts I’ve heard are to be believed, you are truly extraordinary.”

“Is the dome…?” John began

“The glass barrier is fine.” The director answered, “There’s a few more cracks in it than there used to be. But it’s still holding.”

John let out a sigh of relief. “And… Allison?” John asked, but in his gut he already knew the answer.

Jim shook his head. “I’m sorry, John. She… she passed in the explosion. You have my condolences, I understand the two of you were somewhat close.

“We…” John began, “I guess we were... I don’t know…”

The director raised his hand. “I won’t pry if you don’t want me to. I know it’s always a shock to friends and family when these things happen. However, there is something we do need to discuss about it.”

“Don’t worry,” John said, lying back down, “You’ll have your full incident report once I’m out of this bed.”

“Actually, John, there’s no need for that.”

With a groan, John pushed himself into an upright position. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Peacekeepers have recovered a detailed suicide note from Allison’s residence, which I now have in my custody. The things Allison wrote down…” Jim shook his head, “There would be pandemonium if people knew.”

John lifted his eyebrows. “Knew what?”

The director titled his head. “I don’t understand…”

“What things don’t you want the people to know?” John asked, “Do you not want them to know that a woman with a bomb nearly shattered the dome? Or do you not want them to know that that woman believed… believed there weren’t any other domes.”

“Peacekeeper Mulligan,” The director began, “You have an exemplary record of service. And taking a wound in the line of duty is something that we notice at the office of the director. It’s the type of thing that lets us know who we can trust. Who we can put on the fast track for promotion. Do you understand my meaning?”

John looked at the director as though through a haze, “Just tell me two things. “

“I’ll do my best.”

“No, don’t do your best.” John replied, “Just tell me the truth.” John looked the director in the eyes. “Was my girlfriend – was Allison – ever truly in contact with any other domes?”

The director shook his head. “No, she only talked to actors. People within the circle of trust.”

John nodded. “The second thing. If I don’t cooperate, are you going to kill me?”

The director sighed. “You must understand, John, there are realities here that can’t be ignored. You’ve seen yourself what this knowledge can do to people. To good people, like Ms Graham. It’s not pleasant, but it’s what we have to do. You do understand, don’t you, John.”

John closed his eyes and lay back down against the pillow, “I understand perfectly.”

The director smiled, “I’m glad, John.”

“So… Jim,” John said, not bothering to open his eyes, “Could you do me a favor?”

“Certainly, John.” The director replied, “What do you need?”

“Can you make it quick?”

“Make what qui… oh… I understand.” Director Sanders rose from the chair and withdrew a dartgun from the inner pocket of his suit. “Thank you for your service, Peacekeeper Mulligan.”

It was quick.

It was 3:00, and the shouts of the hordes of children leaving the education centers reverberated against the glass windows of Director Thornton’s office. Ed sighed and stared at the mountain of paperwork on his desk. If he hunkered down, he estimated he would be able to get it done before 7:00. The director reached for the next reacquisition form and sighed. Finishing the last of his brandy, the director pushed himself away from his desk and headed to the door.

Martha eyed him as he was leaving, “Taking an early night?” she asked.

“Just something I need to see.” The Director responded, as he headed out onto the streets of Dome 58.

Ed’s driver, a redheaded woman in her thirties, stood up as he approached, but Ed gestured to signal that her services wouldn’t be needed. “I need a walk anyway,” he muttered, not sure if she could hear. She had already returned to playing a card game on her tablet.

It was a two mile walk to Pleasant Park, but Director Thornton was out of breath when he arrived. Perhaps he truly did need the exercise. Director Thornton walked to his favorite bench, the one that had the letters “AG & JM” etched into the side inside of a heart. Director Thornton sat down on the bench and stared up at the crack in the dome. From this vantage point it was so large it nearly dominated the crimson sky.

Before he even knew what he was doing, the director grabbed his tablet and opened up Surveyor Card’s – Pete’s – project. He scrolled down to the conclusion section. The tables and graphs were crystal clear, so easy even a pencil pusher like him could understand them.

With the entirety of the available stores of cyanoacrylate, used in exactly the right places, they could reduce the chance of the dome breaking in the next hundred years to just thirty-two percent.

The director sighed. Thirty-two percent.

It would have to do.

Author’s Notes

· It’s good to be back. Life has made writing a bit more difficult this year, but I’m still very pleased with how this story turned out.

· I believe this is my first story to completely unambiguously pass the Bechdel Test.

· The fact that Margaret’s mother calls her pearl is a pun. Margaret is Greek for “pearl.”

· This story was inspired by the idea of a tryptich. Which is usually three stories or poems centered around one topic. I planned to do a triple tryptich, nine chapters, alternating between the three plotlines. Once it became clear that the story was too big for that, I turned it into the fifteen chapter mess that it is now. Margaret and Persephone’s arc however still works as a tryptich.

· Ed Thornton was an interesting character, one who I wish I could have done more with. It’s not a coincidence that he and his predecessor, Jim Sanders, both use pretty much the same manipulation tactics on John and Peter. I’d imagine that each director has been groomed by the one before into being a master manipulator who doesn’t question the status quo.

· I don’t think Ed’s a sympathetic character, but I do sympathize with him to an extent. Not many of the options he’s presented with are good ones. I don’t believe he was lying to Peter during their final confrontation and I do think he saw the killing as absolutely necessary. I think lying and manipulation are things that have become so normalized to him that he legitimately doesn’t see another way out.

#short story #tim carroll #hour13 #fiction #prose #dystopia #dystopian #science fictiion #writing

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7newx1 · 5 years ago

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As the world reels from the novel coronavirus pandemic, Russia is doing its best to turn global turmoil into propaganda fodder. To date, a country of 146 million people straddling Europe and Asia and that has a great deal of commerce with those two great epicenters of the disease reports only 438 confirmed coronavirus cases and no deaths. One previously disclosed fatality has been dismissed by authorities as attributable to other causes. But according to official statistics from Russian state media, over 52,000 people remain under medical supervision “in connection with suspected coronavirus infection.” Perhaps the real number of Russia’s coronavirus patients lies somewhere in between. Garry Kasparov, a world-renowned former world chess champion and the chairman of the Renew Democracy Initiative, told The Daily Beast why the Kremlin’s dubious claims shouldn’t be taken at face value: “Of course Russia is lying about their coronavirus stats and I can say that confidently because they lie about everything,” said Kasparov. “Dictatorships lie when they have to—and when they don’t; it’s about control. Control of information, shaping reality, and, most importantly, appearing all-powerful and all-knowing. If the regime can be surprised or overwhelmed by a virus, maybe it’s not so powerful after all, a dangerous line of thought for a repressed population to have. Until there is truly independent testing—and the stories we’re hearing out of Russia are not encouraging—we just don’t know what’s going on.” Even so, Western media outlets have disregarded the Kremlin’s less-than-sterling reputation for honesty and transparency, and lauded Russia’s self-proclaimed success in controlling the deadly virus.In January, Fox News reported Russia’s decision to close its border with China and in early February uncritically repeated the claim that “Russia has only two confirmed cases of the virus, but authorities have taken measures to prevent its spread by hospitalizing people returning from China as a precaution.” In late February, Fox News stated that “Russia only has three confirmed cases of the COVID-19 disease caused by the virus,” without questioning the probability of such fantastic statistics in light of a pandemic raging in neighboring China. Last Sunday, showcasing Russia’s coronavirus aid to Italy, Fox News posted photographs released by the Russian Defense Ministry Press Service, with the doors of Russian military trucks adorned with heart-shaped flags that read: “From Russia with love.” Apparently accepting Russia’s claims as ironclad facts, Fox News fawned: “Russia has so far reported very few confirmed coronavirus cases, noting just 306 infections and one death. As the U.S. and Europe struggle to contain the virus, nations once viewed as rivals are stepping up in the global coronavirus response.” CNN wrote on Saturday that, “According to information released by Russian officials, [Russian President Vladimir] Putin's strategy seems to have worked. The number of confirmed Russian coronavirus cases is surprisingly low, despite Russia sharing a lengthy border with China and recording its first case back in January.” Kasparov, a persistent critic of Putin, wonders why anyone would believe this stuff, much less report it. “Repeating Russia’s numbers is ridiculous. Trust must be earned, and Putin lies about everything from his invasion of Ukraine to the more directly comparable epidemic of HIV in Russia that officially doesn’t exist. Why should western governments and media treat Putin’s dictatorship in good faith when it’s not returned, and in fact is exploited?” Putin Worries Coronavirus Could Screw Up His Constitutional ‘Coronation’Russia’s alleged triumph over the coronavirus coincides with Putin’s maneuvers to become the country’s president for life, a role all but assured through pending constitutional changes. Amendments in question have already been approved by both houses of parliament and are now pending a nationwide vote on April 22, which will take place come rain or shine—coronavirus notwithstanding. The possibility of conducting the vote by mail is currently under consideration. In the meantime, the Kremlin-controlled Russian state media are reminding citizens that the country’s very survival depends on Putin’s leadership. Dmitry Kiselyov, the host of Russia's most popular Sunday news program, Vesti Nedeli, is leading the way. “Let’s be honest,” he insisted earlier this month: “Russia without Putin is non-viable.” But there is ample evidence the regime’s information war is being disregarded by Russians in the trenches trying to deal with the reality of the disease. On Monday, Russian Prime Minister Mikhail Mishustin gave the authorities five days to develop a system that would track and notify people who have come in contact with any known carriers of coronavirus. The system would simultaneously notify special regional headquarters set up to fight the pandemic.Authorities have begun building a 500-person hospital to house coronavirus patients near Moscow and Russian doctors reportedly are alarmed that some cases are being ascribed to pneumonia and seasonal flu without testing. The same state media TV shows that would have you believe everything is under control are being filmed without audiences. Everyday Russians are stocking up on astronomical quantities of toilet paper and buckwheat, disregarding the government’s assurances that coronavirus is being contained. Margarita Simonyan, editor-in-chief of state media outlets RT and Sputnik, launched a Twitter initiative designed to prove that Russian grocery stores show no signs of panic buying. Simonyan’s idea backfired, as multiple citizens responded with photographs of emptied store shelves.Lingering memories of Soviet-era cover-ups are exacerbated by more recent denials, such as Russia’s covert warfare in Ukraine, its role in the downing of the Malaysian aircraft MH-17, clumsy denials of the Skripal poisonings and obfuscation of crucial details about a radioactive explosion involving a nuclear-powered missile in northern Russia last year. But the Kremlin’s persistent aim to keep the coronavirus numbers down is paying off thus far, since Russia’s international flights are unimpeded by worldwide bans. While U.S. President Donald J. Trump barred travelers from China, its largest neighbor continues to receive the benefit of the doubt.“Just as China’s information crackdown led directly to the massive outbreak now threatening the world,” says Kasparov, “Putin’s will also have an impact across the Russian border. The radioactive cloud from Chernobyl poisoned much of Europe. The flights still coming out of Russia—not on the banned list because of the low official numbers—could spread disease all over the globe.” Painting a rosy picture of Russia’s future, the Kremlin-controlled state media predicted doom and gloom for everybody but the motherland, especially the hated United States.Last week, experts on The Evening with Vladimir Soloviev were crowing about economic troubles for the West. Russian economist Mikhail Khazin opined that Russia is the only region that can grow and prosper economically during the challenging times of the coronavirus pandemic. Other experts on the show suggested that America is withering as a superpower, while a new age is dawning for Russia and China. They concurred that “Soviet-like regimes are winning” and the new world will be more authoritarian. Host Vladimir Soloviev concluded: “Enough talk about individual freedoms.” With angry animus, Soloviev argued that history would disprove the premise of Francis Fukuyama’s book, The End of History and the Last Man and would lead to the uprooting of liberal democracies.As he has in the past, Soloviev referred to President Trump as “Donald Ivanovych” and marveled at the statements and actions of the American leader who is himself in the risk group for contracting coronavirus. The Russian Models Instagramming From China’s Coronavirus CapitalStill, Russian state TV pundits kept their usually sharp ridicule to the minimum. Their exchanges revealed the hope that Western sanctions imposed after the annexation of Crimea and other Putin abuses of international law would soon be lifted, with the coronavirus pandemic overshadowing all prior concerns. Dmitry Kiselyov argued during this Sunday’s episode of Vesti Nedeli that multiple Western governments will be undergoing deep changes and the sanctions against Russia will soon become obsolete. As for the short-term propaganda goals, the Kremlin still anticipates the arrival later this spring of U.S. National Security Adviser Robert O'Brien for Moscow’s big 75th anniversary celebration of victory over the Nazis. President Donald J. Trump reportedly “wanted to go but faced pressure from advisers not to embark on such a journey.” The parade is scheduled for May 9—the very month the coronavirus epidemic is expected to have reached a peak in Russia.Read more at The Daily Beast.Get our top stories in your inbox every day. Sign up now!Daily Beast Membership: Beast Inside goes deeper on the stories that matter to you. Learn more.

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