prologue · web viewprologue 2099 or the year 59az a hundred years ago, at the beginning of the...

UNDER THE SENESCHAL’S CUPOLA/ Koppel/comp in progress to 2.2 = 16,188 words

PROLOGUE

2099 or the year 59AZ

A hundred years ago, at the beginning of the century, everyone had an opinion when it

came to talking about the weather. The conversation could be a good ice-breaker or a

cliché, sentiments were ambivalent, but fifty years later, when fighting the climate became

every nation’s largest expenditure, people couldn’t stop talking about it.

Régimes around the world started to scramble to appropriate water, air, and fire, to

disastrous results. As larger, stronger nations jostled to defend themselves against the

onslaught of monstrous meteorological conditions that had befallen Earth and then spent

trillions rebuilding, nations with the best climate naturally came on top. Temperate weather

regions carried on as they had, but now enjoyed things their more powerful neighbours

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lacked; basic things like clean water, fresh air, and unmodified food. Wealth began to be

measured in degrees Celsius.

My name is Maki and I come from a long line of eco-warrior women who started

the fight when the world was natural and free of additives. My clan’s struggle intensified

after the world was obliterated but for the region protected under the Seneschal’s Cupola

and the battle did not end there.

My bisabuela Itzel, my great-grandmother, liked to tell me this story when I was

growing up. She would say:

Maki—beautiful daughter of Maruca, who is the daughter of Xochitl, who is my

daughter—let me tell you the story of when I was young and in love with your

bisabuelo when your mother Maruca was only five, and when the cataclysm began

five decades ago.

It had been an active hurricane season, but the year that changed it all was a

year like none before. It was a year of many hurricanes, so many that we had

reached the last named storm, Hurricane Zyanya, and there were no names after

that. It felt like nature was punishing humanity for all the harm and war and

pollutants we hand thrown at her. Hurricane Season was growing longer, the

spinning vapours of death got larger and the recurring blenders struck farther north

and farther south.

People despaired.

Mostly, people like your hard-headed bisabuelo who was young and full of

vigour then, and believed he and his warriors could fight a hurricane, as if they were

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fighting a mythical dragon, with theoretical technology. I had never heard such

nonsense.

“There’s a plan in place, Itzel,” he had said, putting on his harness. “We’ll

fight the heart of the hurricane, we’ll break up the eye with particles travelling

faster than the speed of light.”

I looked at your bisabuelo in disbelief. “What on Earth makes you think you

can fight a hurricane with particles? Isn’t this 2040?” I was trying to knock some

sense into his hard skull. “You and your band of crazies are running straight to your

deaths. I’m begging you, don’t do it!”

“I have to,” he said, moving me to the side. “I can’t let another storm

devastate our lives.”

“And how do you plan to fight, Hurricane Zyanya?”

“With all my might,” is all he had said.

He left in a rush. He gave me no chance to protest, to tell him there was no

way a band of young angry people could fight a hurricane whose name meant,

always and forever. He left without letting me ask, how could he abandon his

daughter, Xochitl when she needed him the most? When I needed him?

The calm before Hurricane Zyanya was marked by nerves. While the brave

and desperate gathered in a football field to blitz their crazy war against nature,

children and the sensitive hunkered home, windows and doors hammered shut. The

air was heavy with anticipation and the clouds drunk with moisture. As Zyanya

approached, palm trees swayed like frightened children running from the

boogeyman and the wind howled bending cacti and snapping branches into confetti.

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“What’s gonna happen to daddy?” Xochitl had asked above the roar of the

wind. Your poor abuelita, she was frightened out of her wits, but still pretended to

be strong in the face of adversity at such a young age. “He’s always here during

hurricanes,” she had said. “Who’s gonna tell us what to clean after the house breaks

up?” In her short life, your grandmother had already experienced more hurricanes

than most adults had in a lifetime and probably thought surviving constant

hurricanes was part of a normal life.

But Hurricane Zyanya was much more than a hurricane. There were

cyclones embedded around the monster's eye and they sucked into their vortex

anything in their path; this was the tragic fate of all those who thought they could

fight Zyanya, including your bisabuelo, Maki.

Zyanya’s radius was the size of most of México and Central America, and to

make things worse, her power was such, that the pressure she caused in the

atmosphere made the Earth’s magnetic field lines tube their way through the Earth’s

core from the north pole to the south. They began rotating against the Earth’s axis.

Suddenly, these dense clusters of electromagnetic lines flipped, causing a reversal

in polarity.

This created an electronic nightmare. Satellites suffered from memory

failure due to increased radiation from the sun and wandered aimlessly, gathering

information but transmitting nothing back. They became dysfunctional. They

roamed, spaced out, causing electric grids to fail which brought widespread

blackouts, which lasted years. The world was plunged into an age of darkness.

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We had no way of knowing that other regions had ceased to exist. That the

rest of the world had fried and had become a great vastness. We, the survivors, were

in a dark island of uncertainty.

Xochitl had asked me, “Why couldn’t you use your palmscreen to find

things out?”

When I was growing up at the beginning of the century, the notion of having

computers in our bodies was something visionaries had promised in the nebulous

future but, by the time my young daughter was growing up, she expected everyone

would have one injected into their palm at birth.

“We didn’t have electronics in our bodies in those days, sweetie, but we did

have cell phones and virtual reality and the moon was unpopulated. It was a simpler

life.”

“Whatever,” Xochitl had said. She was just as stubborn as your mother

Maruca was, and I see that trait starting to show in you, Maki. Better keep it in

check but, back to my story. Your mother wanted to know, what we had done in the

darkness.

I told her, “The powerful got stronger and we could do nothing about it.

From the executive bunker, those deemed important enough to protect from

Zyanya’s wrath organized. The president amalgamated the heads of the army, the

largest corporations and the pharmaceuticals into one powerful union of absolute

power he called, Sanmonto Corp. Its mandate was the total control of the climate

and whatever survivors remained to be used for clinical trials.”

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Well, you know very well Maki that your bisabuela was not cut out to be

experimented upon. No Señorita! And, there were many others that felt like me. We

became the dissenters. The ones that opposed Sanmonto Corp. but our protest was

mainly vocal. We had no power over Sanmonto or the weather. After Zyanya, the

storms grew exponentially stronger and they could no longer be considered

hurricanes. For a while, we numbered the twisters, Tempest #x. After Tempest #20

or so, we stopped calling them names; the violent storms had become weekly events

with very little calm in between.

We crawled out of the age of darkness by re-gridding our towns using solar

power. We began to re-build our homes for cataclysmic events. We erected

hermetically sealed towers of steel and bullet-proof glass that were strong enough to

withstand winds of up to 300 km/hr. Everything was bolted to the ground. The few

remaining single homes were covered in sheaths of light-weight concrete and

reinforced plastic tubing to better withstand the onslaught of squalls.

Then, a new type of tempest was born; the hurriclone. It was as if

thunderstorms had mated with tropical cyclones to spawn cloudbursts that caused

instant deluges amidst a maelstrom of whipping water and wind. Cyclones

embedded in the hurricanes caused maximum havoc over the land they chomped on

and we had to start building structures to withstand winds of up to 500 km./hr.

Sanmonto’s first autocratic decision was to erect a huge membrane to cover

the only region left on Earth. The breathable Cupola made of plasma tissue, spread

between sky and Earth and would protect the region from further climate erosion by

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deflecting the sun’s radioactive rays. This would help to break up the fury of

hurriclones—at least that is what the main honchos in Sanmonto were saying.

“It must have been terrible to live under a dome,” I said.

“It was like living inside a toxic bubble, Maki, and nobody realized this

more than your grandmother, Xochitl. It was her that your generation must thank

for its crumbling but, I get ahead of myself.”

After drastic modifications, breaches of law and outright illegalities, the

head of Sanmonto emerged as The Seneschal of what he called Montoya, the zone

protected under the Cupola. It wasn’t long before the shielded area attracted

survivors from the Vastness seeking shelter. These wanderers became Sanmonto’s

indentured workers. The Seneschal fed and clothe them, housed and paired them

and, through genetic modification, they became loyal labourers. This didn’t take

long at all. Sanmonto’s phallic tower of power housed the best minds in the world,

controlled to produce one outcome, better chemistry, better-targeted drugs.

Not everybody wanted to work at Sanmonto’s headquarters. The

impenetrable tower rose from a protective moat like a penis trying to kiss the

Cupola. Our group of dissenters had continued to protest the Seneschal’s

sovereignty and ironclad rule. For years, we demonstrated in front of Sanmonto’s

entrance believing we could negotiate with the Seneschal. He made us think we had

got our way when he granted us a patch of land at the edge of the Cupola that we

could call our own. We’d be cut off from Sanmonto’s ‘protection’ and that is

exactly what we wanted.

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I thanked your crazy bisabuelo’s jaguar spirit and his divine intervention

because, without it, the Seneschal would not have agreed to our autonomy, I am

certain of that. I know your generation Maki, and the ones before you feel that my

Mayan superstitions are antiquated but, in my heart, I know this is true.

We gladly took the Seneschal’s offer and marched to independence and an

uncertain future. For us, anything was better than working for Sanmonto. Some

were even prepared to return to the Vastness where they came from, where nothing

grows, nothing moves, and nothing ends.

“You know the rest of the story, Maki. That was the birth of Fracas, the zone

your mother and abuelita worked endlessly to clean up so that your generation

could flourish. Let’s let your mom and abuela Xochitl tell the rest of the story.”

ƔƔƔ

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XOCHITL 1.1 2071 or year 31AZ

The clouds tonight remind me of the old master Van Gogh; curls and swirls that

whirl all of the Earth's climate in their midst. At this time, just after twilight, their

faintly blue-grey colour mirrors the tone of the skull on which my eleven-year-old

daughter happily sucks. She gets the skulls from the Academy and her enthusiasm

is palpable. Maruca’s tiny pink tongue lingers at the empty eye sockets and then

slithers down the nose and ends up in a kiss.

She opens her mouth wide and closes her eyes tight. Then, with one

enormous bite, she crushes the head to smithereens. Blood-sugar oozes down her

jowls staining her while t-shirt red. Maruca’s eyes shine the colour of the moon.

Believing that nobody is watching, my daughter chomps on the skull again. Her

eyes roll, and her head shakes.

“You will spoil your appetite, darling.” I pretend I haven’t seen my daughter

act as if she’s possessed. Calmly, I say, “Leave the Calaverita until after dinner.”

I take my daughter’s hand. We start to walk back home from the Academy’s

reconditioning school program, but Maruca shakes me off.

“Just don’t run ahead of me, you hear? And don’t go punching people for no

reason like you did yesterday.” Or tripping young children like you did the day

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before that, I think to myself. No matter how much I shake my head in disapproval,

nothing seems to affect Maruca after she’s had her sugar snack.

Yes mama, she says, but then yanks an astrobike chained to a skinny tree and

flings it onto the road with obvious delight.

“Maruca! You know that children’s souls use astrobikes to get out of the

Cupola! Why did you destroy the astrobike?”

My daughter's eyes now shine like the hot sun. Usually, she’s a sensitive

kid; she cares about our poisoned environment and about the rapidly shrinking

moon. She has a whole funeral planned for when the sun dies. She will graduate

from the transformation academy with honours, ahead of time.

“The astrobike was in my way.” Maruca laughs and skips along, swinging

her arms.

We pass a modified yappy puppy that starts to bark behind a fence made out

of plastic recyclables. His many tails begin to wag at the speed of a hummingbird's

wings, and his nose is close to the ground. Maruca finds a gap in the fence and

kicks the puppy's snout. The small creature whimpers back to his home base.

“Maruca!” My hand involuntarily flies to slap Maruca but I stop. “There was

absolutely no need for that. Behave!” I feel my cheeks fluster and my temperature

rise.

“He was in my way!”

“No, he was NOT!” I used to believe Maruca’s wild mood swings were a

consequence of growing up under the Cupola that the Seneschal erected after

Hurricane Zyanya. The membrane was supposed to be temporary, to protect us

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from the Hurriclone seasons, but, the Cupola never came down. Maruca was six-

years-old when that happened, a year after Hurricane Zyanya.

I look up from my thoughts and catch Maruca running a rusty nail over a

new monolith. She listens intently to the grinding of metal upon steelastic as if the

screeching was delivering an important message. She discards the nail by the wheel

and hops merrily along.

I have tried to figure out my daughter's mood swings. I’m convinced they

are in part because we are living under this thin membrane. One can hardly see the

Cupola, but it is there, keeping the atmosphere out and trapping everything we

exhale. But, it isn't only the Cupola that causes Maruca's moods to come in waves. I

see the most significant change in her when she sucks on the sugar skulls the

Seneschal sends the transformation Academy on the first of November, the Day of

the Dead.

El Dia de Los Muertos was an exciting time for me growing up in the now

defunct city of México. The celebration marked the start of the Christmas season

and a time of joy and peace amongst the chaos left behind after Hurricane Zyanya

nearly decimated humanity.

“Let’s make Calaveritas like grandmother used to make,” Maruca says. She

is as sweet as the melted sugar needed to make her favourite snack. “Like you made

when you were a child, mama. Let’s!” The thought of giving Maruca more sugar is

discouraging but making Calaveritas was always a great bonding experience when I

was growing up, and I would not dream of stealing that from my child.

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We race to the monolith. Our home is made of concrete, reinforced steelastic

and has no angles for hysterical winds to grab on to and rip our life apart. Maruca

reaches the electrified fence barrier first.

“May I try to go between the beams, mom?”

“Don’t be silly. You know this barrier was designed by my astronaut friend;

it is impossible to cross without tripping the trigger. We don’t want the security

company coming here to investigate. We’ll take what we need because we have to

cook the skulls in the cave.”

Maruca understands. The cave is at outskirts of Fracas, near Cupola’s edge.

When the Seneschal granted us land, we razed the forest to build our district but left

a barrier of growth between us and the Vastness. At the foot of the last mountain

under the Cupola is a small and nearly invisible cave. I have used it to store

prohibited foods and to cook the Calaveritas my daughter and I like so much.

It doesn’t take long to get to the cave from our monolith if we take the outer

ridge road. This area of Fracas always gives me an uncomfortable feeling for the

trees are high and the land shrouded in shadows. Cold air from the Vastness filters

in. This makes me think of Maruca’s biological donor and how he was sucked into

the vortex of the Vastness trying to fight a monster hurricane.

At the cave, all the pans are out in order, and we are ready for the ordeal.

We have to be fast as sugar solidifies quicker than it used to, we don't know why,

but it does.

“Ready?” I ask Maruca.

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She pours the bag of white, modified sugar into the boiling water and

watches with expectation as I whisk the mixture. It begins to solidify but still feels

more water than sugar paste.

As I stir the boiling sugar water mix, Maruca plays around me. She knows

she must not get anywhere near the scorching melting sugar, but she understands no

boundaries when she follows the aroma stream that the concoction provides. I look

up at the opening of the underground cave where the scent escapes out into the

Cupola and see that the Van Gogh clouds are forming outside of the dome once

again. From our worm’s point of view, I notice steam evaporating from our fields

seeping through the membrane and making the clouds swirl. A little ringing starts in

my ears.

The sugar mixture is finally a malleable paste. I let it cool down before

kneading it until it feels like wet sand in my finger.

"Ready to pour the mixture?" I ask Maruca who brings the potato moulds

closer. We shape the skulls the way my ancestors did; we carve potatoes into the

negative shape of the Calaverita so that when we stretch the sugar paste over it, the

skull will be round and hollow. We have to wait until the paste cools down and

solidifies before we can cut the potatoes and free the heads. Then, they will be

ready to decorate.

“I think I’ll paint my skull purple with pink dots and I’m going to name her

Penny Polkadot.” Maruca laughs with the energy of a toddler. She is tall and

mature for her age and sometimes, even I forget she is a child.

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While we wait for the sugar to cool down, I catch Maruca digging into her

Academy-issued tablet bag, looking for something. I'm expecting her to bring out a

pamphlet on the Seneschal's latest agricultural project, but instead, she munches on

something.

“Are you hungry already? It’s still early.”

Maruca swallows hard and fast. “Not hungry at all.” Then she turns. “Is it a

problem?” Her voice is hostile.

“Nothing is a problem, darling. Just thought you were snacking on

something.” She gets up. “Where are you going? The Calaveritas will be ready

soon. I'm sure we can start on the first ones we moulded."

Maruca snatches the first skull that has cooled. She covers it with black food

colouring. My daughter pokes toothpicks into the head, and now the skull boasts a

Mohawk. She takes small cherries and fills the empty eye sockets red. From the

skull's teeth, red food colouring oozes down the chin. She grabs a little mound of

sugar paste, flattens it, and carves the name, Death’s Breaths.

“Maruca! What kind of name is that for a Calaverita? The skulls are not

about death. They are about our spirit soaring to better places.”

El Dia de Los Muertos celebration has changed over the centuries. The

ancient, Mesoamerican cultures strung real skulls in a tzompantli, which is

something like an A-framed-clothes drier but for skulls, to display the person's soul

rising to another level. Death was a passage, and the skulls were a reminder that the

soul had moved on. It was a happy time to see strings of dangling skulls, row after

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row on the tzompantli but, the Spaniards thought the ritual barbaric and created

sugar skulls instead.

I want Maruca to feel the softer side of the celebration but, I see her eyes

spin in her head. I see her body shake, and without warning, she smashes the skulls

into small bits.

"What the hell was that about?!" I don't frequently shout at my child.

My daughter laughs. She takes a ball of sugar and flings on to the cave’s

wall.

“Why did you do that?”

She doesn’t answer and does it again.

"Maruca!" And again, and again. She takes all the moulded sugar she finds

and flings it onto the cave's jagged walls. She covers the part of the cave where light

still seeps in and then continues to fling sugar at the interior, where the naked eye

sees nothing. All the time, she laughs, and the sound carries to the cavernous depths

and reverberates louder and deeper. She acts as if she is completely alone in her

demonic state.

"Maruca! Take hold of yourself!" I try to grab her but she escapes.

She does not stop until she is physically exhausted. Maruca flings pieces of

moulded sugar, over and over, until the little balls return to their granular state. She

finally slumps on the floor bereft of energy.

“What was that all about?” My voice carries in the cave, but I get no

response. She is fast asleep. I have to carry Maruca back to our monolith to put her

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into her restorative chamber for the night. Her mood swings disturb me, and I set to

get to the bottom of what is in the Calaveritas that sets her off.

By the hearth simulator, I begin to relax as the flickering and crackling

calms my nerves. I crawl into my restorative chamber. On my palmscreen, I find

where I left off in my novel, and snuggle into a cosy position to read. The story is

set in the age before hurriclones, just before Hurricane Zyanya, when the clouds

were puffy and did not swirl, and when people had power over their governments. I

pause at the scene in the story where the protagonists in love, walk down a pristine

opening in the woods, holding hands, a brilliant day where the fields are green, and

the air is pure.

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1.2 MARUCA - 2067 or 27 A.Z.

For some reason, there are times when I can read mommy’s head. What’s inside of

it. I used to think I was super special because of it and knew how to get out of trouble

‘cause I knew what she was thinking about, but it’s not only me who can read their

mommy’s head. There are others, at the Academy, who can as well. The Head Girl is one.

She’s like super smart and she thinks it’s ‘cause of the type of implant we all got at birth

when the scientist uploaded the software for our palmscreens. She thinks we got different

ones than the rest of the kids and that makes us special, especially her. She thinks she’s

super special. She makes me sick.

Tonight, is one of those nights, though. Mommy’s dream pops into my head. Her

dream is set in the age before Hurricane Zyanya, like almost thirty years ago. Even how

they named their years sounds old. The years started to be called After Zyanya in what my

mommy’s generation called twenty forty. Like, two-thousand and forty sounds so old! It’s

much better now that we are in 27 A.Z. Simpler. Can’t imagine how that coulda worked

back then because the world was so different. The whole blue marble, like Seneschal calls

it, was populated, not just Montoya, and they had cities and different governments and they

all just fought each other anyways.

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So, mommy’s dream is set in a long field, all green and fresh. The trees have a

whole bunch of leaves and the light only comes through in tiny points on the grass, which

looks fluffy. There is no Cupola to protect them from the sun, so the woman wears this

huge hat and the man a cap. They have clothes made of plant fibers and they gross me out

‘cause they pretend to be enjoying their natural world with clean air but, what mommy’s

dream doesn’t show is that the air also carried superbugs and all kinds of microbes and

germs. Under the Cupola, the air is free of all that icky stuff.

But Mommy really likes that old-fashioned stuff. She once told me that before the

Seneschal and Sanmonto, people really believed in free will. They went about like thinking

that they were doing things ‘cause they wanted to but, my revision books at the Academy

say that didn’t go down so good.

What really happened was that people started getting really pissed off because life

was so hard, and they began to get guns and started shooting at innocent people in the

street, because they were so mad. Then Zyanya happened, everything changed, except

people being angry at each other and thinking that someone else got it better even though

the Seneschal divides everything equally, except for Fracas. We get very little from him

and Sanmonto.

The time in mommy’s dream was sooo boring; nothing ever happened ‘cause all

those people really believed that they could get things done on their own, but they couldn’t.

We follow Seneschal’s will, whether we agree with it or not, whether we live in Fracas or

not.

I leave mommy’s dream in the field and take off on my own dream. Mine is set deep

in the woods of Montoya, under the Cupola where lotsa fun things happen because we get

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to talk to forest creatures and Glymphs. I think the forest in mommy’s time was different

than the one in Fracas.

Mommy told me that before Hurricane Zyanya, the tall tree trunks in the forest used

to have lots and lots of leaves, and it was spooky and really dark inside.

“Whatcha mean scary?” I had asked.

“There were so many branches full of leaves at the canopy that the leaves didn’t

allow the sun to come through. The place was pitch dark and all you could see on the

ground were pinpoints of light, dancing all over the road! It was marvelous.”

I had rolled my eyes. If I were her, I wouldn’t go around telling people I see light

dancing on the streetpellers, or even on old-fashioned paths. That sounds so nuts and old-

fashioned. In our forests, like in the rest of Fracas, we don’t walk down paths or on

sidewalks, we have streetpellers that move us from place to place. You just gotta hop on

and off the moving belt and done. And our forest is full of light ‘cause the tree trunks aren’t

that tall and there’re very few leaves on them. This is necessary for the Glymphs.

“What’s so marvelous about a dark, creepy place, mommy?” I had asked.

“That it existed naturally, untouched. The end of it all was when Seneschal and his

Sanmonto Corp. started to spray Golden Life Solution to kill all vermin to make room for

the new crops we have today. It’s because of GLS that trees don’t have leaves today. The

solution penetrated the trees and killed off most of the leaves.”

“So that’s good! Now, it’s not so scary to go into the woods. What’s wrong with

that?”

She doesn’t see it. She just thinks that all things Seneschal does are evil and

nothing’s gonna change her mind on that one.

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When I was little, mommy used to tell me a story about a little girl in a red riding

cloak who lived in a village near the woods. The little girl wanted to visit her grandmother

at the other side of the woods, but that forest was scary because the place mommy read

about was dark, full of tall trees that were full of leaves, and full of dangerous creatures,

like wolves and stuff.

There’s nothing like that in the forest of Fracas, where I live. We do have lotsa

Glymphs, but they’re not scary at all! My professor told us all about them at the Academy.

“Receptors,” that’s what our professor calls us. “Today’s lesson is on the origins of

Glymphs. Can anyone tell me where do Glymphs come from?”

Me and the Head Girl wave our arm in the air. “From the beach!” she blurts out

before our professor has given her permission to talk.

Ignoring her intrusion, the professor points at me. “Maruca, do you know the origins

of Glymphs?”

I clear my throat and feel super proud ‘cause I know all about them. “It’s true you

can find Glymphs at the beach but that’s not exactly how they start. When there’s a

hurriclone, lightning rods that fall on the sand fry little tunnels into it and the sand kinda

sticks together like melted sugar. These tunnels are called ful—” My heart beats hard, and I

start to sweat ‘cause I forgot the super hard name the tunnels have. “Fulgu—”

“Fulgurites, Maruca. You must memorize the name! It will be a large part of the end

of term exam.”

“That’s what I was gonna say, fulgurites. These little hard sand tunnels are the size

of an adult’s finger—”

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“Told ya!” The Head Girl interrupts again. “Fulgurites are found on the beach and

then become Glymphs.”

“Respect, Head Girl!” the professor is super angry. “You must only speak when

asked to! I am quizzing Maruca presently.”

“Sorry, professor,” she says but, the Head Girl doesn’t look sorry at all. She always

likes to show off.

“Continue Maruca. How do fulgurites turn into Glymphs?”

Here, I wasn’t all that sure. “Well, the Seneschal asks little kids, like when we were

five or six, to go dig up the fulgurites from the sand, except we only called them sand

tunnels ‘cause we couldn’t say fulgurites when we were such little kids—”

“Get to the point, Maruca.”

“Little kids take the fulgurites up to the forest and they have to find soft, mushy

places near the tree trunks to plant the sand tunnels.”

“Good. And?” And, that’s all I had. “How do fulgurites become Glymphs?”

I don’t say anything, hoping the Head Girl will blurt something and take the stress

off me but, she doesn’t know the answer either.

“Open your palmscreens to tab number 23,” the professor reads. “Fulgurites feed on

Golden Life Solution that has seeped into the tree’s membrane. Their growth is primarily

inward, toward the land’s center and only a tiny part of the top part is visible above the

ground.” The professor stops and asks if we all understand this, and we say yes. “Excellent.

Head Girl, you seem to know more than most in this class. What are the three primary

functions of Glymphs?”

“The Glymphs number one function is to clean our land of human pollutants.”

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I can tell the Head Girl memorized this from somewhere but has no idea what she’s

talking about.

“How is this done?” professor asks.

Busted! She doesn’t know what she’s talking about! Without even wanting to, my

hand’s up in the air again. “Do they suck the bad stuff outta the land kinda like giant

drinking straws?”

“Not bad Maruca. That is precisely what they do. Glymphs turn into a system of

underground vacuum cleaners that expel toxins from the land. This is not dissimilar to what

humans have. We have our own glymphatic system which expels impurities from our

brain.”

“Ew!” the class says as one.

“Tomorrow, we will learn about the Glymphs’ two other functions: as a system of

communication for Seneschal and their third function as protectors against pests, one in

particular, the Kalijous.”

So, back in my dream about the woods in Fracas

I step into the woods. Long branchy sticks cover my head like a bird's nest. Everywhere

else in Fracas, the ground I walk on is spongy, but not here. The forest is hard and dusty.

Like if there’s no moisture. The air also feels different. Lighter. It doesn't smell at all. It

clears my head, and I seem to float instead of walk on the dusty path of the forest.

“Gleep, gleep!” I think I hear a sound. Gleep, gleep. I pretend I didn’t hear that for

the second ti—gleep, gleep!

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“What is that?” I say out loud. “I know you’re there…come out!” My heart is

pumping, and my hands feels both sweaty and cold.

I don’t see anything moving in the forest. I strain my ear, but I don’t hear anything

anymore. I shake my head because my overly active imagination sometimes gets me in—

gleep, gleep!

“I hear ya! Come out from wherever you’re hiding.” I have to pretend to be brave

‘cause otherwise, whatever is out there might just eat me alive.

Down here.

It talks! I look down, but all I see is the dust, the trees' knotty roots and nothing else.

We’re here! Open your eyes!

I do, but I still don’t see a thing.

Put on your investigator's hat. Look closely at what otherwise is commonplace.

“Whoa. How do you know that line from the book I’m reading on my palmscreen?

Where are you?” I squint all the way down to my self-lacing shoes. Growing outta the

ground, are eight small tubes, that look like short skin-coloured drinking straws.

Took you long enough.

“How can you talk? Are you Glymphs? You sure look like them but you shoulda be

in the beach, no?”

We are the General Glymphatic System and yes, we originate as fulgurites in the

beach but, the Seneschal has beautiful children, just like yourself, dig us from the sand and

plant us in this lovely squabbly squishy marshy earth. Through our tunnels, the world’s

human waste is expelled from the Earth’s Central Nervous System. You also have your

own, smaller Glymphatic System that cleans pollutants from your brain.

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“How is it that you’re talking?” I really didn’t listen to what the tubes were saying

‘cause I got stuck at them talking. They look like buried worms and their voice sounds like

if it’s coming from a bullhorn.

Who else, darling child? The tunnels puff and exhale. Ew, it stinks like fart.

“What do you want from me? I’m just a kid from Fracas walking in a dream.”

We are Glymphs, and we are here to bring you essential information child, so listen

up! The Seneschal's chosen you for a very special mission.

“Why me?”

Hush! Listen to what you must do first, and then, never ask questions. Show some

respect, child. Now listen…rumor has it, that a new moth has permeated through the

Cupola’s membrane. The Seneschal does not know how this has and wants the moth

exterminated before it causes havoc under the Cupola, which it will, trust us. The good

news is the Seneschal has put you in charge of its capture and death.

The tiny Glymph tubes vibrate quickly and make a shrill sound that fills the forest.

Then, they exhale that stench that reminds me that through their empty finger-like tunnels,

the world’s waste matter comes out. Ew again.

“What if I don’t wanna? Mommy’s not gonna like this one bit,” I say, looking down

to my sneakers.

That is not an option, kid. Go get the moth! Go!

I walk farther into the forest and see something flying in the distance. It’s the size of

what bumblebees used to be before they disappeared. Mommy has told me that not so long

ago, people were afraid of the bumblebee because they were everywhere. All kinds of

contraptions and sprays were invented to keep the bumblebees away from people and then,

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when nobody was looking, the bumblebee disappeared; along with some birds and other

small insects.

I crawl over some sticks to get a better look at this furry bumblebee-looking thing.

The bug flies really slow and it’s kinda big for an insect. When he rests on a branch, I see it

has four wings, it’s covered in fur that’s ashy white and its tiny ears stick up like a rabbit’s.

His eyes are the shape of large empty almonds which makes this bug look like an alien

moth. He’s cute, in a scary kinda way.

"Hello there,” I say in a quiet voice, so I don’t scare off my new friend. “I’m

Maruca. What’s your name?” The insect looks at me, vibrates its tiny wings, moves its ears

and tilts its head with the alien eyes.

I stick my finger out, to give the moth a ledge to land on, but the intruder doesn't

move from the branch he’s perched on. "Come!" I whistle. "Come here, sweetie…I want to

be your friend!"

You're no friend of mine, kid.

“Whoa! Who said that? Is that you Glymphs?” I look under the trees, but the earth is

not mushy here and there’s no sign of the little tunnels.

The Seneschal has sent you to catch me but, you won't.

“Whoa!” I get closer to the alien moth. “Are you talking?”

You see anybody else around here, kid? I've essential work to do here. I’m to

transform Glymphs.

“I know a few of them! They’re my friends. Whatcha mean, transform them?”

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The alien bug flies off like a bee would in a curly-cue, and I follow it until I feel that

if I continue, I’d get lost forever. Something pushes from under my shoes. I look and there

are like a hundred Glymphs wiggling up from the ground.

What the heck was that! One of the tunnels exhales. Do you not see a golden

opportunity when it looks you straight in the eye? Cute alien eyes and all? What was the

Seneschal thinking when he picked you!

“I was just trying to be the moth’s friend. He was cute.”

Your mission remains the same; to capture or kill that moth! Cute or no cute. We

must prevent him from its mission to transform us into Kalijous.

“Into Kali who? I don’t understand any of this; I think I’m gonna wake up soon. I

don’t wanna do no mission.”

I feel the Glymphs moving under my feet, but they don't say anything else. They

just move, and tickle and make me feel like when my daypet comes to my feet, early in the

morning, and licks my toes until he wakes me up.

Daypets didn’t exist in Mommy’s time. Well, technically they did, but they were

two different animals, a dog and a cat, but they were so different, and people liked both so

Sanmonto started making pet food that made dogs and cats into one adorable daypet.

They’ve got the size of dogs and their friendliness and loyalty, but they are fluffy and soft

like cats and they like licking you a whole lot. I’m kinda thinking-dreaming about daypets

when I feel mine at my toes.

“Furry!” I rub his head. “What time is it?” but I fall straight back to sleep. Furry

crawls in and sleeps next to me in the restoration chamber. We can dream each other’s

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dreams. In Furry’s dream, the Seneschal picks him up and shakes him hard. Furry wants to

scream but knows this will be worse.

“You must get the girl to kill the moth! That invading moth must be terminated! Do

you understand, dumb mutt?” Furry purrs and barks. “That a boy!” The Seneschal gives

Furry a Good-Daypet-Treat and Furry becomes an instant loyal follower. He licks the

Seneschal’s shoes until they shine. Then everything goes dark.

--- 0 ---

The alarm clock injected inside of me at birth goes off and wakes Furry and me from our

dream. He licks my face and is happy to be closer to feeding time. I take his fluffy face

close to mine. We both laugh for no reason at all, and I can feel that this is building to be a

great day!

I look around the monolith and everything is in place, just like mommy likes it, and

just like I like it because it means things are safe and no hurriclone is coming. I smell

mommy cooking her breakfast, she’s so old-fashioned it hurts, and Furry smacks his lips.

“Are you up, Maruca?”

“Of course, mommy! Furry and I are doing our morning exercises!” We laugh, but

this time, only in our mind. We make puffing sounds.

“Start getting ready for the Academy. I’ve got a busy day ahead. Hurry!”

I drag myself to the sanitizing tube. I’m so sleepy, I still have Furry in my arms

when I enter the chamber and when the sanitizer is activated, poor Furry nearly jumps out

of his skin and scampers in all directions trying to get out of the spraying sanitizing tube.

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He’ll be the cleanest daypet in Fracas. After sucking on my teeth cleaning pad, I get ready

to take Furry for a walk.

He tells me, not today.

“What do you mean not today?” I say out loud. Sometimes, I don’t like teletalking

with Furry because he doesn’t listen. When I say it out loud, at least I know he’s hearing

me. “Going for a walk is your favourite thing under the Cupola!”

Still, not today, he teleresponds.

“Why?”

Got a bad feeling.

“Like what?”

Not sure. Daypet intuition.

“Daypet intuition, my ass! Daypet laziness is what it is! Here! Take your sugar treat

anyway. More time for me before going to the Academy.”

I unwrap Furry’s treat and throw it at him to show him I’m mad. A piece sticks to

my skin. I go back to my pod to see which uniform the wallscreen says I will wear to the

Academy today and lick my hand to get the daypet treat off.

There’s ringing in my ear, like the one I get just before I hear the voices. The

wallscreen dresses me today in the maroon uniform meaning we will be devoting the

Academy day to honouring the Seneschal and his Benevolent Clarity. The ringing in my

ears gets worse until I can't stand it anymore.

Find the moth, kill the moth.

I cover my ears, but it doesn't go away. Find the moth! Find the moth, find the

moth!

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When I’m dressed, the conveyor brings my breakfast pill, pudding, and…a pod. I

lean in closer to investigate because I never get pods with my meal.

“Can I eat you?” I pick up the pod to inspect.

It’s to trap the moth!

I don’t bother asking who said that anymore. The Seneschal’s voice is in my head

and sometimes, he shouts so loud I think my ears are going to fly off my head. It's like a

sound bomb that makes me feel sick and dizzy.

“Stop! Promise to stop! Promise!” I feel a little crazy screaming at myself.

Stop what?

“Screaming in my ear,” I whimper.

Girl up! Get that moth, and there won't be a need for me screaming! NOW!

The ringing gets louder. I have no choice; I’ve gotta chase that moth. I turn the

turbojet option on my shoes and Furry runs after me.

“Not now Furry, not now! Leave me alone!”

Furry jumps and pins me down with his paws. I try to peel him off me, but he won't

let go. I punch, and I kick, and I scratch, and I wiggle. Furry is not getting off.

"You want adventure? You got it, buddy! You're gonna help me find this moth."

I tie Furry’s leash to my turbosneakers and he doesn’t stop yapping and scratching

and trying to let loose. The more he tries to escape, the harder I hold on to his leash. He

starts to fight back. There’s a brawl and a big ball of dust and fur and then, I hear my name

in the distance.

“Stop! Did you hear that, Furry? Listen!” We’re not far from our monolith. Because

it’s early, nobody is out on the streetpellers yet so it makes the neighbourhood seem scary.

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I scamper to get closer to the sound and realize Furry’s stopped trying to escape.

Maa-ruuuh caaaa! It’s like howling in my ears. Louder and louder. Maaruucahhh!

Maruca! The wailing in my ears drives me crazy. I try to rip my ears off. I try to scratch the

screaming out of me. I try everything.

“Can you hear that Fluffy? Can ya?” He doesn’t answer. He’s not struggling and

he’s not answering either. Suddenly, all’s super quiet. Something’s happened. I can sense

that, but now, I’m not sure if I’m awake or still in somebody’s dream.

I see paramedics measuring my pulse and temperature. Furry doesn’t move on the

floor and mommy is screaming hysterically by the door. A young firewoman attempts to

calm her.

“What happened?” I try to get up, but it feels like my head’s full of loose marbles. I

can’t get up. Everything spins and goes dark again and then, it’s like nothing moves, like no

time is passing, like nobody’s breathing.

It’s like super cold in my restoration chamber and I’m totally sure I’m awake now. The

monolith is a mess. There’s no paramedics by me. I scramble under the covers for Furry

and feel nothing.

"Fuuurrryyyyy!” I call him with the special singsong voice I use for him. Nothing.

“Come heeeere Furry!”

He doesn’t come to greet me. I get up to look for him. He’s supposed to be my

cybercompanion in life and onscreen and, where is he now when I am calling him?

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I trip over him sleeping on the floor under a cover. “How could you Furry! I shake

him, but he doesn't move. "How could you abandon me?"

All along, I know something is wrong, I can sense it, inside of me and outside. It’s

dark in the monolith and I don’t know what day it is. All I remember is going to look for

the Seneschal’s damn moth and then, it’s like a blank. I can hear myself talking to Furry,

but I know I’m not making the words. My hands shake when I pull the cover off him. His

skin is gone and there’s some of his fur in my hands.

Mommy comes in and turns the lights.

“Maruca! What have you done?”

She falls to the ground. I think she’s fainted. I push my daypet around but Furry is

dead.

# # #

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2.1 Xochitl 2067 or 27 A.Z.

Raising Maruca alone, I've learned to keep my cool, even under the most

extenuating circumstances. There was the time when she found an injured bird and

buried it next to our monolith's entrance; it was still alive, or the time right after a

vicious hurriclone, when Maruca found hundreds of injured Monarchs huddled and

fluttering atop one of Sanmonto’s fields. Instead of trying to help the poor

butterflies, she started to stomp on them, howling and singing a song about the

fittest of the fit; my eleven-year-old daughter, howling Darwinian theory.

These thoughts make me shiver. A cascade of sweat gushes from my

forehead but, of all the bad things she’s done before, nothing compares to this. I try

to think of the best thing to do, the right thing to do but I know if this goes public,

Seneschal will surely punish us. Perhaps take Maruca away from me. Or me from

her.

I panic.

Instead of reporting Furry's death, I decide to cover my daughter's act. That

night, I give Maruca a little sleeping aid, so she will not wake when I am out trying

to obliterate her heinous act. In the dead of night, to prevent being spotted by

Seneschal’s antennae, I bury the animal’s body and pelt far from the monolith in an

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abandoned Sanmonto field where they once grew an experimental crop. It’s hard

trying to hide under the bushes because they hardly have any leaves. I begin to dig

with my bare hands. The earth is moist, although it has not stormed since the last

hurriclone, and now we are in a Dryburn period. The deeper I dig, the moister the

earth becomes; it carries a strong musty smell. I place Furry in his shallow grave,

cover him lightly and run as fast as I can, trying to forget my daughter’s action.

Going back home, the clouds whirl madly above my head, mimicking my

emotions in their tempest. My heart has gone through a blender and my stomach a

cheese grater. How could my daughter have done this? Why? She loved Furry so

much. She’s always been mischievous, but this is downright evil brewing in her

veins.

My dark mood is reflected in the atmosphere; it looks like a storm is

looming as dawn rises, so I quicken my pace back to the monolith where I find

Maruca waking up. My emotions are mixed. On one hand, I want to brain her for

what she’s done, but on the other, I know deep in my soul, that she was possessed

by something, I don’t know what and I intend to get to the bottom of it. I force a

warm smile.

“Good morning, darling. You slept soundly last night.”

Maruca rubs her eyes and looks out the monoliths’ peephole. “Drag. Is a

storm coming, again?”

"I've been so busy I haven't had a chance to check the news." I fire up the

wallscreen and feel the wind picking up. The air smells musty, and the pressure is

high. "Doesn’t feel good,” I tell my daughter. It’s been a couple of years since the

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Seneschal’s Office installed feel/taste sensors into all the wallscreens of Fracas so

that we could experience His mandates with all our senses. They work better for the

weather.

Towering thunderstorms, heavy rainfall, and high winds are expected to form over Montoya after midnight. The Seneschal has deployed his arsenal of weather control drones to no avail. Intensifying as the night progresses, the Fujiwhara effect is likely to occur. We are predicting no less than six tropical cyclones orbiting around one another. Folks, this one is a monster!

“That sucks,” Maruca throws her hands up in the air. “I had plans with Dee

to go shopping on our palmputers this afternoon. Now’ll be stuck inside, like caged

animals.” She slams her restorative chamber shut.

Balmy days are a thing of the past. Maruca’s life has been spent preparing

for storms, enduring and rebuilding after the hurriclones so she knows nothing else.

I remember before Hurricane Zyanya, when I was a young child, we had four

distinct seasons, but now all we have is six months of Dryburn and six of

Hurriclone seasons.

“Guess we better start clamping down, Mom. We gonna have enough water,

Mom?”

Ever since the Seneschal began to ration our water supply, I have made sure

to keep several closed jugs at the back of our monolith for moments like this. The

water supply was turned off yesterday, and people will not be able to collect water

for the emergency. Hopefully, the Seneschal will show some mercy and turn the

water back on soon after the devastating weather clears.

“What about crackers? Didn’t our stock go soggy after the last hurriclone?”

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“Maruca, don’t worry. We will have plenty of dry crackers to eat.”

When everything is soaked, plain dry crackers bring comfort. I replace them

as soon as we need. Like today, we never know when the next piece of weather will

pass our way.

We move everything off the floor in case of flooding, and the furniture is

tied down. We huddle by the solar heater and wait. The winds pick up. I hear the

trees cracking. Both peepholes to the monolith have been reinforced, and it is dark

inside and out.

Whaaam!

Something big hits our monolith. I hate irresponsible people who do not tie

down their belongings properly. If there is damage and I can identify the culprit,

after the weather passes I’m going after the bastards.

Maruca pushes her head into my lap. I feel her clammy forehead on my legs

and fear oozes from her pores. No matter how many hurriclones we’ve gone

through, it’s always frightening to hear things tossing outside like confetti or

crashing into our home.

The next thing that thumps into our home threatens to tumble our monolith,

it hits us so hard. Everything shakes inside. Our eardrums quake.

“Was that a monster?” Maruca asks. We have never felt something hit us

that hard.

"Just something loose, flying through the wind, darling. It's hit our home.

Nothing to worry about, pumpkin, our monolith is strong."

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I try to stay calm. No matter how big of a lie that might be, there is some

truth in what I tell my daughter. Our home was built by her biological donor before

he was swallowed into the Vastness trying to protect us. He was an active man and

erected a well-built home for his daughter and me. Monolith technology had

advanced to the point that the engineers had claimed victory over the environment,

and he used everything available to make our home bullet-proof strong.

“Mooooommmmy. It sounds like there is a lion in our house.”

It does. The wind howls outside, and the pressure rises inside the monolith.

The storm is coming from the east, so I open the opposite peephole to stabilize the

interior. Our home begins to shake. Maruca scampers to stay close to me. I feel her

small body tremble. I bend over her like a mushroom, to protect her from fear.

The hurriclone last hours. We lose the lights early in the storm; this is

Seneschal’s way of indicating this storm’s a dangerous one. He shows some mercy

when storms are not catastrophic because he waits until the storm’s around the

corner to cut off the power, gives us more time to prepare.

“Why don’t you go into your restorative chamber and sleep this one out,

honey? Seems like this one will last a long time.”

Begrudgingly, she agrees. She sends a ton of messages out and, once inside

her restorative chamber she slams it shut. I hear her double lock it. Good.

I increase Maruca’s sleep aid. This will protect her from the noise outside

which now sounds like a raging war. Our monolith shakes again in the gust. Several

things hit our rounded reinforced walls and fly off without consequence. I feel the

pressure increase. Our home jerks as if convulsing. I am knocked off my feet. It

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feels more like an earthquake than a hurriclone. I am flung up and down, side to

side. I feel like a pebble inside a maraca, keeping time to a fast-paced merengue.

My head spins.

In a flash, everything is quiet. There is no wind outside, and nothing is

shaking. The lull before the most violent wall of the hurriclone hits, is the time

when folks venture out their monoliths to assess the damage. I take a gander.

Like the storms that came before, this one’s battered our fields, demolished

small homes and flung our featherweight, electric astrodrones in all directions.

Although it should be dawn, it is still as dark as the pit of a cave and the air equally

heavy and stale. I flick the light on my palmscreen and take my first tentative steps.

I hate these exploratory walks. They reveal the devastation and obliteration the

hurriclone left behind. They point to the great rebuilding effort ahead; they reveal

new structures still standing that will only be demolished by the next storm.

I am surprised the wall we built around Fracas still stands. The wall was

erected to keep Seneschal out of our domain, little did we know the wall would do

nothing to keep him out of our business. It has served a purpose, however. It

protects us from the raging sea. Instead of reinforcing the wall with steel, which

would become a lethal weapon when dislodged by a hurriclone, the Frat engineers

constructed a honeycomb mesh using a combination of melted ocean plastics and

tar. It is durable, flexible and allows the wind to pass through but keeps out most

ocean debris. Very little else remains of Fracas but our homes.

Trees are uprooted and gone. Our crops decimated, and our fertile seed is

now mixed with Sanmonto’s terminator seed. I shake my head at the thought of

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growing contaminated food. A gust of wind hits my face. The clouds churn as the

cyclonic winds get ready to change course.

I walk down a few more blocks feeling the weight of the air on my

shoulders. The wall has successfully protected us from the ocean blob. Scientists

have been tracking two unexplainable blobs on our planet. The oceanic blob is a

massive column of warm water, 600 feet deep and 2,000 miles across, which has

been occupying more or less the same location for decades. It has attracted all the

plastics we have dumped into our oceans and is responsible, in part, for all the

weather changes we’ve had. I believe Seneschal is far more of a culprit, but my

opinions are a minority.

The blob in the ocean affects the entire mass of air above it, heating it up,

drying it out and this dry mass of air becomes like a magnet for the oceanic blob

partly creating the catastrophic climate we have today.

These two blobs have been trying to merge into one enormous plastic

biosphere for years. If the ocean plastics kiss the atmospheric electromagnetic mass

flow, the Seneschal’s Cupola will be permeable, and we could all bake to death, but

I see no ball of plastic debris and feel a little relieved.

“You looking for the blob?” my neighbour approaches. “Me too.” She’s in

her early thirties like I am but, before she came to Fracas, she had the special

palmscreen injected into her body that all children now have, giving her the ability

to hear people’s minds. When I don’t answer, she asks again out loud.

“Yes,” I say. “Luckily, I see nothing. We can only hope for the best on the

other side of the hurriclone. You stay safe, you hear?”

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“We will. My two girls and I are resilient type of people. We rely on each

other and get through. Good luck to you and your daughter.”

We stand on the streepeller, the self-propelled street paths that takes us back

to our monoliths. Her home is two monoliths from mine and has never been

reinforced. I fear for her safety. When the winds pick up, we hop off the streetpeller

to go into our homes.

“If you feel your home won’t withstand the deadliest part of the hurriclone,

you and your girls are welcome to spend the rest of the storm with Maruca and me.”

“Thanks for your kindness, but I prefer to go through this in my own space.

No offence.”

We rush into our homes. Maruca remains blissfully asleep in her restorative

chamber as the wind rages outside. I crack open the peephole opposite the gust’s

direction and see the sky is a turbid eddy of roiling clouds gone wild. Van Gogh on

acid.

Whoop! Something hits our monolith again, harder, and this wakes Maruca

up. “What was that?” she says still in a dream. “Did a tree fall on our monolith?”

“Don’t think of these things. Something hit us but, I doubt it was a tree,

honey. Try going back to sleep.”

Maruca snuggles into her restorative chamber, but her eyes are wide open.

There's another bang outside, and another, and another. Ocean water begins to seep

under the door. Bang! Wallop! We’re being bombarded and we’re sinking. I pick

my daughter’s slippers off the floor and crawl into her chamber and close it tight.

I am as scared as she is. Spooned into one another, we shiver for hours.

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I try to think of the times before Sanmonto and the Seneschal, when life was

natural and free, when we had no hurriclones, but this only frightens me more. I

need to be strong for Maruca. Show courage. I steady my breath…in…out…in…

out…slowly. I hug her a little harder. Breathe.

The flood in our monolith reaches two feet before receding. The winds

begin to calm, and relief catapults me into action. I open a peephole and see the sky

brightening, but there is still a dome of tossing clouds. A strange metallic smell and

taste fill the air.

Maruca crawls out of the restorative chamber when I open the second

peephole. A stench attacks our monolith. "Yuk. What’s that Mom?"

“I’m not sure. Perhaps something has burst at Sanmonto. Heavens, I hope

not.”

With calmer weather, it’s time to venture outside and assess the damage. I

make sure no more biodrops are falling because when people rushed out of their

monoliths too soon after the last hurriclone, their skin burned with the acidity of the

biodrops. Maruca and I don our protection suits to find what the storm has left

behind.

The streetpellers between the monoliths of Fracas are not moving; they

stand still, stuck, covered in quinoa-sized bits of colourless plastic. There are so

many micropellets on the streetpellers that they have all stopped running and people

wobble unsteadily over the plastic dots.

“How we’re supposed to get anywhere if the streetpellers don’t work?”

Maruca complains.

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“We walk.”

“Walk? How? These things make it super hard.” She tries a few steps.

Under normal circumstances, walking would be difficult for most people because

we have streetpellers that take us everywhere. She holds on to the railing and tries

again. There is no traction under her shoes, just small plastic balls. I try and slip.

“What are these?” I say half laughing, half crying, splayed on the

micropellet-covered streetpeller.

“Mom, are you ok? Maruca laughs.

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

“Allow me help,” my neighbour offers. She’s a small woman, like me, but is

solidly built. She forms a human chain with her two daughters holding on to the

railings and plucks me off the ground. “There you go. I reckon we’re going to have

to crawl over dem things. Only way to get ‘round. You fared well?”

“Fairly well,” I say. “Nothing was dislodged from the monolith although we

got hit hard a few times.”

“So did we. Weren’t people’s stuff though. I reckon’ it was solid clouds

hitting straight at us they were.”

I thank her for her kindness, but I have no patience for folk theories. I need

facts, not stories of solid clouds hitting our homes. I scrub the residue from

Maruca’s shoes and mine and we walk the neighbourhood, off the streetpellers,

were there used to be grass.

Fracas is covered in a thin bubbly veil of synthetic resin. As the sun rises

and heats, the micropellets melt, moving like lava through the land, melting trees

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that survived the hurriclone and downing lamp posts and flag pillars. Except for the

micropellets, everything is still. Frozen, as if the moment the hurriclone’s winds hit,

everything stopped functioning. Doors are ajar and fallen leaves are suspended mid-

air. Frayed flags extend their tethered threads like taunting Thai fingers in mid-air,

and a still ocean spray, full of plastic micropellets, crests over Fracas.

“Why isn’t anything moving, Mommy?’

“I don’t know. The air feels heavy, like if it’s making everything move

slower.”

“No, Mommy. Everything’s stopped dead.”

“Let’s go to the edge of Fracas. I need to see something.”

The northernmost boundary of our district lies directly opposite Sanmonto’s

backend, at the edge of the Cupola. We’ve allowed a thick forest to grow between

us, but this is a place where few venture, for there’s nothing here. A moat, 200

meters wide and as deep as Mariana’s Trench separates us. It runs for more than

five kilometers around Sanmonto’s perimeter. It’s so big, I’m sure it can be seen

from the Vastness.

“Hey Mommy, the water looks spongy.”

“It does.”

The moat appears to be nearly solid. A porous mass of interlacing horny

fibers has formed a delicate honeycomb that looks like a sponge joining Fracas and

Sanmonto.

“Can I go touch it, Mom? It looks like fun.”

“Don’t you dare. Who knows what that stuff is and it looks toxic.”

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“Mom. Everything looks toxic to you.”

Without warning, dot-sized plastic micropellets fall from the churning

clouds. At first, they feel almost like raindrops, soft and caressing, but the harder

the clouds whip the micropellets out, the harder the sting is on the skin.

“Let’s get out of here.” I take Maruca’s hand and turn back home. In the

forest, it’s not so difficult to move, but as we approach Fracas, we stumble over the

slippery streetpellers. “Easy, honey. I don’t want you to break a leg.”

“Whatever’s falling from the clouds hurts, Mom I wanna get outta here,

fast.”

We move as quickly as we can over the slippery dots of plastic. I’m sure

Seneschal has something to do with this and I’m determined to get to the bottom of

it. I imagine what’s going on inside of Sanmonto.

It is rumored that the Seneschal has a bunker four stories deep into the

ground, fortified with ten tons of crushed wood which is stronger than steel. His

office is at the top of the phallic building, swaddled in hurriclone-proof glass.

Through high-powered goggles, he can see a large portion of Montoya and he keeps

a constant eye on Fracas. I wonder if he is watching us hobbling down the immobile

paths and trying to get away from raining micropellets. We, his pathetic dissenters.

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2.2 MARUCA 2069 or 29 A.Z.

It’s been two years since the first micropellet storm and now, they’re like so normal. They

fall after each hurriclone. Today, there is a whole bunch of amino-resin covering Fracas.

Mom and I are by Sanmonto’s moat to see if it looks like spongy popcorn, and it does. It

looks like this after each micropellet shower.

“No matter how many times I see this, I still can’t figure it out. Do they tell you

anything about this at the Academy?”

“Nothing ‘bout the moat, Mom.”

“What makes it look like this I wonder—”

“Ouch. Micropellets!”

“What? Now? They’ve only fallen after hurriclones, up to now.”

“Run, Mom. They hurt.”

We run back home screaming in pain. This must mean something, but I’ve got no

clue what Seneschal wants me to do ‘cause I can’t hear him, there is too much noise.

The micropellets cover all of the floor in our monolith. It’s like a carpet of little

plastic balls that are kind of soft and slippery to walk on. Mom gets angry when I laugh at

the bubbles under my toes.

“They feel good, Mom and why won’t you let me have fun with them?”

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“We don’t know what they are, honey. I’ve been trying to figure them out for the

past two years but, every time I’m close, we get another hurriclone. We need to get them

out of here, and I think we should wear our protective suits, just in case.” She starts to

sweep the gooey plastic dots, but they just roll around.

“Don’t waste your time, they’re everywhere, Mom. It’s just plastic that’s been in the

ocean a really, really long time. The ocean purifies the micropellets; there’s nothing to

worry about.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“At the Academy. The masters’ make us recite; ‘The ocean cleans itself; it cleans

amino-resins as well as it cleans amoebas.’ The youths at the Academy have known this

day was coming for a really long time.” I feel proud to be able to teach Mom something

new.

She looks a little lost. “And…what did your masters say was the meaning of all this

plastic?”

I open my eyes wide because she’s talking like someone who just started at the

Academy and is in grade zero. “It’s like, if we didn’t get this ocean spray, nothing would

grow.”

“Nothing will? How do we know when the spray is coming? Hurriclones we can

predict, but this plastic shower from the ocean?”

“Mom, really. What did they teach you in school when you went…nothing?

Everybody knows that the spray will give plants the petrochemicals they need to grow

under the Cupola.”

“Outside of the greenhouses?”

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“Of course. You’ll get used to the spray, Mom. Sanmonto’s got it under control for

our own good—”

“—Not for Fracas’ good. I am certain of this. Not for our good.”

“You’re not living in the world in which you grew up.” She’s so behind the times I

could kill her. Really, she’d be better off. She’s so stubborn about eating that old-fashioned

food, it’s almost embarrassing. Like, she’s always forcing me to take fruit with me to the

Academy, to give your brain a boost, honey, she says to me. Doesn’t she know there is

nothing for my brain in these soft balls of tasteless juice? Gimme a break.

The other day when I was going to the Academy, I saw a very skinny daypet. Its fur

was mangy and it looked as if it had not eaten in months.

“Here, cutie,” I said to it. “Lemme give ya a hug.” Poor thing could hardly walk. I

tossed the apple Mom gave me that morning, but he only managed to roll it with its snout a

few times before giving up and going back to sleep.

This makes me think of Furry. Although I don’t want to, my heart like sinks to my

stomach with sadness. I can’t remember anything about what happened, how or what I did

to my daypet, but I do remember Mom’s reaction and her trying to get rid of him. I was

super drugged up, so I can’t be for sure, but every time I think of him I feel like crap. It’s

like I don’t remember anything, only the feeling. I never got another daypet and since it’s

been two years now, I don’t think I’m gonna. I never asked Seneschal why he made me do

it, either. I was too scared to. He’s like such a big man, powerful and impenetrable, I’d hate

to get on his wrong side. Don’t want my head chopped off even if I don’t understand his

wishes and orders sometimes. I just know I have to obey, or else. I think he had told me that

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Fury wasn’t an obedient daypet and that he was developing free will so he had to go. I’m

pretty sure he said that anything with a free will would have to be annihilated.

I try to connect with him right now. I focus my thoughts. I squeeze real hard.

“Are you friggin’ there?” I almost shout but, still, nothing. “What the hell am I

‘spose to do with all these micropellets?” Nothing. So frustrating. “What ‘bout catching the

alien moth? What about my mission?”

“I have to get rid of these micropellets,” Mom says again, like I didn’t hear her the

first time.

I know this makes no sense. To make her happy, I put on my hazmat suit. One leg

in, then the next. My feel look like bunny rabbits. I pull the white overall and cover my

body and head. I hate the face mask. It makes me feel like I’m looking at the world through

jelly, all soft and out of focus. I help her clean the amino-resin dots outta the monolith. I

help her sweep them into an auto-disappearing bag and when it’s nearly full, I tie a knot at

the top. The dots do feel funny. They kinda stick together a little, like a magnet’s inside of

them; they roll around like if they have a life of their own.

“Look Mom,” I grab a bunch of micropellets and fling them into the air and they

fall really slow back on top of us. They make a tent of lots of colours over our heads. I

laugh.

“Stop. These are not toys. Hurry and get them out of our home. Hurriclones are so

much work! I’m so tired of this.”

Mom speaks like if she wants to be somewhere else; maybe outside of the Cupola

even, in the Vastness. I know I’m supposed to tell him about people like her, but I’ll never

tell on Mom.

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“I’m surprised you moved to Fracas, Mom. Why?”

“To fight Seneschal, you know that. We were all dead against Sanmonto, but it’s

been hard to keep the fight alive with all these damn hurriclones.”

“That’s so lame. You know you won’t, so why pretend to keep trying?”

“Never give up, young girl, never. This is what Frats do.”

“I could report people like you to Seneschal, you know? Report dissenters.”

“He’s knows that since we moved to Fracas. Clean up.”

She’s just all talk, anyway. She’s like a little mouse, not a warrior.

Before Seneschal became supreme leader of Montoya, the people of Fracas were in

a real bad way. That’s before I was born but, I know how it was for Mom and my

biological donor; they were real fighters back then. My parents protested the bad things

Sanmonto did in those days. They fought against Seneschal’s rise but, they didn’t know any

better. Now our people need to understand the power of Seneschal and that we live in peace

under the Cupola ‘cause it protects us. Mom’s not so strong these days ‘cause she thinks

she can defeat Seneschal, as if.

Sweeping the monolith’s floor, I find a cracked sugar Calaverita in the micropellets.

It’s only a small piece, almost looks the same color as the little dots of plastic, but I know

it’s not. I can’t pop it into my mouth ‘cause of these silly hazmat suits we’ve got on, but I

put it in my pocket, so I can get to it later.

I sweep the little balls all over. They move funny.

“Stop playing and clean. I mean it.”

“I already told you, Mom. The micropellets are harmless.”

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When we’re done cleaning and it stops raining micropellets, we go outside. Fracas

is covered in them. They stick to the monolith’s walls and they stick to the tree trunks.

They cover the streetpellers and the paths. They cover our drones and our bots. All of

Fracas is like a micropellet kingdom.

“No good, this is no good….no good.” Mom repeats this every time we see

something new covered in the gooey plastic. “I don’t like this one bit.”

“M-o-o-om. Can’t we take off these silly suits? Nobody else is wearing theirs.”

“We don’t care what others think or do, Maruca. Remember that.”

Maybe she is a warrior in her own way, after all. She forces me to keep the suit on.

We move on, inspecting what the hurriclone left behind.

“What is this stuff made of?” Mom says, mostly to herself.

“Corn, carbon and hydrogen…all natural ingredients, Mom.”

“You are so wrong. If this is plastic, it’s not natural, honey. Plastics never

deteriorate…they become this…plastic muck.”

“You’re the one’s that’s dead wrong. At the Academy, my teachers say that

Sanmonto has been producing high-quality plastics made from nature. We mustn’t fear

them like the older generations did, like your generation did. Plastic today is completely

safe.”

“What thirteen-year-old speaks like this? I need to take you out of that Academy

and I’ll teach you myself…they’re feeding you junk.”

“I love school. They give us Calaveritas to eat when we’re good and comply with

the rules.”

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“They keep you running on spooky sugar, which is as bad as plastics, and don’t tell

me about the sugars of today, missy.”

I was, but she wouldn’t listen anyways. She’s stuck to her fuddy-duddy ideas and

that’s it. Nobody is going to change her and that’s too bad.

Back home, we unclamp the furniture. It takes a couple of days for everything to

reopen after a hurriclone, and then, I'll have to go back to the Academy and Mom to work.

When we finish our chores, it’s about figgin’ time we take off our suits, and Mom

and I sit by the wallscreen and crank up my favourite ultrasonic game, Hunting for

Calaveras. I remember the skull shard in the suit’s pocket and my mouth waters. I get

antsy. I try to think of the game ‘cause it’s really fun. There’s a whole bunch of skulls in a

dark forest that we have to find. All the skulls have a name on their forehead. The skulls

are hidden in caves, under rocks, inside bushes…everywhere. When you find a whole

bunch, you have to try and make a sentence with them. I’ve collected 4; leader, best,

supreme, know, so I make, the supreme leader know best. Mom looks at my Calaveras and

rearranges the skulls: Best to know the leader supreme.

“Those are my Calaveras. You find your own and make your own sentences.” I take

my four skulls and dump them in a folder she can’t access.

“I was just showing you how the same words can mean different things, honey.”

“That’s what I wanted to see. Why should YOU tell me what to see?”

I hate it when she does that. She thinks she knows more than me and just grabs my

things like they were hers. If I try to take something of hers, I’m in big, big trouble.

“You want me to send you to the restorative chamber without supper?” I mock, like

when she’s angry at me.

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“Respect your elders.”

“That’s soooo old-fashioned. Who says that these days? C’mon only the Seneschal

deserves our respect.” My blood boils because she is so damn hardheaded. She is a

disbeliever. If she wasn’t Mom, I’d report her in a flash.

“Listen to yourself, Maruca. We are Frats and we oppose his tyrannical ways. Why

do you think we live in hovels when we are intelligent and can do much better for

ourselves? He doesn't allow it."

“He put up the Cupola to protect us from the dying sun.” Why does she refuse to see

what’s good ‘bout Seneschal?

“He has done that for Sanmonto’s own purposes, not yours or mine, honey.”

“You’re dead wrong.”

“What are they teaching you at the Academy? I’m going in tomorrow to take you

out of that place; I’ll teach you at home. I heard the bullet-proof windows at our office

shattered in the hurriclone and everything is gone. It’ll be a while before they call us back.

We can start now.”

“You’ll be my teacher?” I laugh. “What will you teach me? The ways of the past

that didn’t work?”

Mom fills with air like a puffer fish, her eyes go ‘round like moons and then, the air

is out of her like a balloon. I see courage run out of her body; she slumps on a chair.

“There’s no point in fighting. Nothing changes after all…” she says in a tiny voice.

“But, lots of things change, Mom.” I try to cheer her up; I don’t know if it’s

working. “Ok…let’s play school. You can be my teacher and I’ll be your bad, bad student.

What’s the lesson today, miss?”

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Mom looks at me, puffed up again. This time, her eyes say what she means and boy,

am I in big trouble, but I don’t know why! All I did was what she wanted me to do and

now, I’m going straight to being grounded. Give me a break!

“You gonna teach me, or what?”

“Going to…not gonna, for starters, and begin your questions with, ARE you going

to teach me? Understood?”

“Are you understood?”

Mom looks at me, but realizes I’m playing with her and smirks.

While she brings out a pad and markers for the lesson, I pop the Calaverita shard

into my mouth. I look for my e-screen in the Academy bag and I find another broken

Calaverita piece. I pop that one into my mouth also.

“Let’s have our first lesson. I’ll give you a choice between mathematics, chemistry

or engineering.”

“You can’t even tell the difference between them Mom so, whatever you prefer.”

Mom decides to teach chemistry, and even before she starts, I know the lesson will

be about plastics and how horrible they are for the world. For her world but not in here.

When I try to tell her this, she acts as if this is all new to her.

We sit at the table to review her lesson.

“You go on as if plastic was the thing that killed the world you grew up in, Mom.

Plastics have helped the world so much and you can’t even see it.”

"Have you seen outside? That's my generation's plastic bottles, and shoes, and belts,

and spatulas and buckets broken down to their smallest possible size and brought here,

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courtesy of the hurriclone. Who knows how plastic that was already toxic decomposes to

these tiny balls, but these micropellets are part of my world."

I hadn’t seen it that way and—

A loud buzzing inside my head makes me stop. I put my hands on my ears but the

noise gets louder. My head feels like it’s gonna explode. The sound gets louder. Then the

Seneschal is in my ear. Loud and clear.

Old ideas must be eradicated. E-ra-di-cate! You must kill old ideas. Eradicate all

that’s antiquated. Kill the alien moth. The words churn in my head. They make me dizzy.

They bounce in my ears and go ‘round my eyeballs. I scrunch Mom’s lesson papers. I fling

them like wedding rice all over the monolith.

The ringing gets super loud and just when I think I’m gonna explode, it stops.

Really far away, I hear someone calling my name.

“Maruca. Stop. Please…Maruca…” It’s Mom, and she’s crying.

I jolt out of my head and find Mom on the floor, hunched over balls of crushed

paper, protecting herself from something.

“Mom?”

She crawls away on the floor, trembling. “Are you ok, Mom?”

“Get away from me!” Mom’s face is scratched. Her hair looks like a bird’s nest and

blood’s running from her eyes and nose. “Stop!”

I try to help her, but she screams really loud and my ears start ringing again. I go to

the other side of our monolith and sit on the floor, away from her. We stare at each other

for a really long time; I see fear in her eyes, and it makes me feel really sad. I crunch into

the monolith’s bend and cry myself to sleep on the floor.

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The next morning, I find mom picking confetti off the floor. She looks at me like if she’s

not sure if she should sweep me out with the torn papers or not. I don’t know why there is

so much hate in her eyes.

“I’m going down to the Academy to take your name off the register. I don’t know

what kind of junk they’re filling your head with but, I don’t like it one bit.” She pushes

things around, but isn’t really doing anything. She doesn’t look into my eyes.

“Did they reopen after the hurriclone? Can I come with you?”

“No. You’re not leaving this monolith until I say so. After the way you acted last

night, like a maniac, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re grounded.”

Great. Now I’m grounded with nothing to do. Don’t know why I’m being punished

but I think it might have something to do with Mom’s face being all scratched and red,

although the bleeding has stopped. She fixes her hair a little, puts on fresh clothes and locks

me inside. Through the peephole, I see her trying hard not to slip over the micropellets that

still cover the streetpellers. She holds on to the railings to steady herself then stops and

leans against the monolith to look at the sky. The storm’s gone; it’s clearing.

I turn on the wallscreen to watch my favourite animation but first, I have to watch

the news. I have no choice. Everyone in Fracas has to watch ten minutes. After that, I can

change the frequency. I look for some Calaveritas to suck on while the boring news is on

but, I can only find little-itty bits of the sugar skulls Mom and I cooked in the cave. Damn.

As I mop up the little parts with a wettened finger, I take in what is said:

The Atmospheric conglomerate flow continues on its undetermined path and the

Seneschal’s Thermosphere Office is carefully monitoring the strange event we are calling,

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the “Tropical/Northern Hemisphere” or the TNH pattern. This presents a direct link

between the North Pacific Ocean patterns and the flow of warm air we’re calling the

Atmospheric blob.

The positive phase of the TNH pattern consists mainly of a high-pressure ridge over

the northeastern Pacific and a low-pressure trough over eastern Canada. This flow in the

atmosphere which appears as a blob, is seeking the warm plastic blob formed over the

Pacific some time ago.

Rest assured folks, the Seneschal will not allow this to happen and plans for busting

the atmospheric mass are already taking shape.

In other news…

I tune out. That’s scary shit because if the warm air blob in the atmosphere meets up

with the warm waters, the marriage would be an explosive one. The positive warm energy

of the ocean blob would crash with the negative blob in the sky and kaboom! We’re fried.

Some disbelievers think it’s Seneschal who is planning this but, that would make no sense.

I know that Seneschal will fix the blob in the sky. He’s always been able to fix the

weather. In one of my lessons, the master told us that the atmospheric blob was like the

negative stage of the marine blob in the Pacific. I’ve seen underground forbidden

animations that show secret plots to bring both blobs together, to create one huge

superweather event. My thoughts are interrupted as I tune in to what is said next because

my ten minutes should be just about up.

…today will be the last day you’ll have to clean up after the hurriclone. Everyone is

expected at work tomorrow, as usual. There have been rumours of buildings losing

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windows and everything within, but these are just rumours. Everyone will report to work

tomorrow.

This is the Seneschal’s wavelength midday hour, bidding you a clear and

productive future through biochemicons.

Finally, I touch the air button to change the wavelength and sit back to watch my

game, Hunting for Calaveras. The feed is really bad today. It looks like the forest is full of

snow, and not the cold kind. I can’t see the skulls or the forest. I wave my palmscreen to

see if I can catch a better feed but no. I try other wavelengths; same story. I slump at the

thought of a boring day home by myself, with nothing to do and nobody to talk to. I can

livefeed friends at the Academy, but they won’t have anything better to do, either. Fracas is

really, really boring and nothing’s gonna change that.

Even if Hunting for Calaveras is fuzzy, it’s still better than nothing but, there is no

colour to the screen and the names on the skull’s foreheads are washed out. It’s hard to

make sentences with washed out words. I gotta look real careful but finally find 5 skulls.

On their foreheads I read: Reminds, Celluloid, Natural, Freedom, and Rebel.

The only sentence I can make is, Natural celluloid reminds the rebel of freedom.

Then, the weirdest thing happens…it’s like, I can taste a Calaverita in my mouth. I

can really taste the sugar grains dissolving on my tongue. I suck harder and harder and it is

as if I have a piece of skull in my mouth. I can even smell the sugar.

Now I'm antsy. The virtual taste and smell aren't enough. I just want those

Calaveritas, real ones! Mom said not to go out, but I gotta go to the cave where we were

cooking skulls before the hurriclone. I know I got angry and smashed quite a few of them

but there’s gotta be some pieces left.

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I get really scared when I open the door to go out. It’s a feeling like I’ve never had

before. I know I’ll get in big trouble if Mom finds out that I left the monolith without her

permission, but it is more than that. It’s like if something bad is going to happen, or, maybe

like it already happened? I don’t know. All I know is I feel real bad, but I don’t care. I’m

just want those Calaverita skulls.

The sun’s beginning to warm and the micropellets on the ground are sticking

together making it easier to walk over them. They’re super gooey. Hardly anyone is on the

streetpellers. Fracas looks like a ghost town. Everything is confused. The guy next to me

walks looking straight ahead and there’s a whole lotta garbage in his head about the end

days, and being drowned in our ancestors’ plastics. What do these people have against

plastic? Man.

The micropellets in Fracas cover the trees and they stick to the monoliths’ walls.

They hang from the overhead wires and they cover the astrodone’s windows. They are

everywhere and they are melting. The churning clouds go totally away, and the sun is really

hot now. I’m glad for Seneschal’s Cupola otherwise, it’d be frying today.

There is another kid walking ahead of me. Sometimes, I can tune into people’s

minds without a problem, but not all people. I don’t understand why I can’t hear what’s in

some people’s head and not others, but I can hear this boy’s thoughts clearly. In his head, a

whole lotta formulas and science stuff are floating about. He is looking for something in the

micropellets to create a magnet. Maybe he's thinking of a maggot, I can't really tell. His

brain is going so fast, I can hardly understand what he's thinking.

"Hi, there." The kid doesn't answer. "Hey, you! Didn't your Mom teach you

manners?" His brain skips a beat but continues calculating as if I wasn’t even around.

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What’s her problem? Can’t she see I’m busy trying to find a solution for these

micropellets? She is rather cute but bossy. I can tell.

“I’m NOT bossy. I like to talk, that’s all. What’s your name, kid? What ya looking

for?”

What part of ‘I’m busy’ doesn’t she understand? ‘My name is Qway Ri,’ I transmit

my name to her but offer nothing else.

"Hi, Qway, I’m Maruca. What you’re trying to do with the micropellets, anyways?”

I walk away without an answer. She would not comprehend and, I have no time for

a lengthy explanation. My work is cut out for me here.

The boy walks off with his head hunched down. “I’m super smart, Qway. I bet I

would understand. You’re an idiot.”

I try to run to the cave, but the sticky floor makes it really hard. As soon as I go into

the cave it hits me; that feeling that something really bad’s gonna happen. I turn the light of

my palmscreen on and sweep it around the cave. Yikes. The table is upside down, the

chairs are broken, wood bits are all over the place and everything is stained with dark

brown blood. Nobody’s been here in years.

Ringing. Ringing in my ears pushes me forward. I search the cave floor between the

chairs, but I can't find anything that looks like a Calaverita. I turn the table upright. Some

of the hot sugar Mom melted so long ago is still stuck to the wood. I lick it. There’s a little

dust on it but I don’t mind. The sweetness of the sugar comes through. I want skulls!

I pull everything in my way until something I see stops me. It's a small bit of

shattered skull. I run to get it but stop again. It’s not a Calaverita. My head nearly explodes

when I realize this must be Furry’s skull.

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My body starts to shake and I feel cold. Images I’ve blocked start pounding my

brain. I feel hot and cold again. Images flash; holding his neck, pulling his fur, yanking off

his leg. Blood. I can’t breathe. I gotta get outta here but, then, next to my daypet’s dry

blood, I find almost an entire Calaverita. These are the small ones that Seneschal gives out

at the Academy. It must have fallen out of my academy bag last time I was here. I pick it up

sure that’ll be stale as hell. The name on the skull’s forehead is Chosen.

I pop it into my mouth and run back to the monolith before Mom finds out that I

left. Close to home, I find Qway with his head still down to the ground. I try to teletalk with

him but all the stuff in his brain forms a wall and nothing gets through.

I start shouting but he still ignores me. When I pass him, I give him a great big

shove and he falls face down on the micropellets. That must have hurt and I laugh all the

way back to the monolith. For no reason at all, I also knock the man in front of me who is

looking straight ahead minding his own business. It’s for his own good. He needs a rude

awakening.

The place is too quiet. I pick up a piece of metal and scratch some astrodones on my

way. The screeching blocks the ringing in my ears, which is really bad now. Then, the

Seneschal’s voice is in my head again: Antiquated ideas that emphasize the self over the

whole must be eradicated. Must be eradicated. Eradicate! Eradicate! Eradicate! The words

pound in my ears long after I return to our monolith and lock myself in my restorative

chamber. Eradicate!!

A dream inside a dream, so I don’t know how if this is happening but, without doing

anything, I’m doing a lot. I’m running/flying over a field of golden corn stalks that have no

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corn. Just gold leaves. From the middle of the field, I see some stairs, like a snail, going in

little circles straight up to the clouds. I hover over the cornstalks to get close to the spiral

staircase and I see it is made of transparent strings of different sizes. At the end of the

strings, there are little exoskeletons of golden bugs.

The metallic exoskeletons become the first tread of the stair to the sky. As the

strings get smaller, more and more steps are made until I can’t see where the staircase ends.

I land and try to step on the first stair. The strings move like the chords of an

electric violin. The steps are not solid. With everything moving a little, I feel dizzy and I fly

to the top without touching the wobbly stairs.

Suddenly, I’m trapped in a cloud. It’s like a cyclone inside. I’m thrown from one

end to the other, bounced like a soap bubble in an old washing machine. There are little

fans in each of the cloud’s blobs that stir everything, every which way. I am tossed and

lobbed until I’m sick to my stomach. A warm oozy feeling knocks me out of my dream.

Ew. I’ve barfed all over my chamber and I am swimming in puke. I rip out of there

as fast as I can to wash the sick off, but Seneschal has shut off the damn water again. The

howl I let go can probably be heard all the way up to the top of Sanmonto's headquarters,

right into Seneschal's ears. I shove my way to the back of the monolith, slashing everything

in my way. I've gotta get to Mom’s hidden water supply. I can’t stand the sick on me and, if

she sees this, she’ll know I’ve had Calaveritas and that I went out and, that’ll mean more

trouble, for sure.

In the darkest nook of the monolith, I find a few brass jugs full of water. Mom

thinks that brass purifies the water, so she went through a lot of trouble to get these bottles

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without Seneschal’s knowledge. She got them from some guy called a metallurgist from

across town. I don't even bother getting out of the small nook. I pour water over me to get

the puke off. The water feels cool and clean, and so nice! The best water, ever!

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prologue · web viewprologue 2099 or the year 59az a hundred years ago, at the beginning of the...

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