 
The Seventh Age of Man
Part 1: Regeneration

By Kevin Gordon

Copyright 2011 by Kevin Gordon

Smashwords Edition
Chapter 1

On every radio, television screen, cellphone and portable media player, on a crisp, cool day in late December, a countdown could be heard.

"Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . ."

Across the world, in every language, the non-descript male voice proceeded evenly, instantly drawing the attention of all who listened.

"Seven . . . six . . . five . . ."

The governments of the world scrambled, dove at their defense systems, scanning the skies for missiles, bombs, planes—anything to explain the sudden calamity they all now faced.

"Four . . . Three . . . two . . ."

Couples embraced, sharing a deep, a passionate kiss. Mothers clutched their children close, as men gripped their knives, guns, pitchforks and shovels, all eyes cast upward in anticipation of doom.

"One."

Across the world, regardless of color, country or faith, the world's population aged fifty years. All plant life, animal life, and human life, that was not underwater was affected. A third of the world's human population died instantly, whether from the toll of the years or the stress of the shock. All plant life died out instantaneously, along with ninety-five percent of animal life. The Earth shut down in an instant, huddling under the proverbial covers, wondering what would happen next.
Chapter 2

There was no way Brian was sleeping tonight.

Overhead the springs creaked again and again. Starting slowly, they quickly built to the inevitable crescendo of groans and delicious screams. He tried to smother his head and cover his ears, but his mother was a moaner, with a deep, bass growl that penetrated the thickest of pillows. All he could do was wait it out.

Brian was the oldest of four children born to the Patrick family. At fourteen, he was born two years to the day after 'the Countdown,' as it was called. His parents didn't want kids, but when the whole world loses over two-thirds of its population in less than a year, people do what they need to survive. The remaining three governments of the world ordered any and all sexually able citizens to procreate. Brian shared his bedroom with his three siblings, and knew more were definitely on the way.

"Can't they just get it over with?"

Iris, his twelve year old sister, giggled in her bed. "I think it's funny! They fight and fight all day, but as soon as night comes—bam!" Her sheets exploded around her, as her wide brown eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She had a face that favored her Hispanic mother, with olive skin, long, black hair and rounded cheekbones. "You should be happy. At least you don't have to spend all day cleaning out the city."

Brian nodded, as he lay his head back on the pillow. He knew he was one of the lucky ones. Every day, he helped at Scott Air force Base, just outside St. Louis in Illinois, learning systems of one of the recovered Space Shuttles, assisting in prepping the massive ship for launch. Most other kids he knew had to work on moving the dead bodies out of St. Louis—the next city in line for reclamation.

He turned to look out the small window in his room, which was slowly being caked over with dust from the dust storm outside. The one thing he loved about working on the shuttle was that he got to stand on the top of the maintenance scaffolding and breathe in the clear air. No dust, no smell of death, just pure air.

Finally his parents stopped, and Brian was able to relax and try to get some sleep. And just as he had dozed off, as his conscious mind finally folded away, Iris poked him insistently in his arm.

"What is it?!" he snapped, turning away and trying to bury his head in the pillow, but she would have none of it. She poked him again and again in the same spot and she wouldn't quit, no matter how much he tried to ignore her. So he sat up, let out a long sigh, and resigned himself to facing her. "Whaddya want?"

"Nothing."

A part of him wanted to beat her upside the head, but the rest of him was mildly amused. He always was the compassionate one, the listener, the patient boy who used diligence and persistence to solve a problem. And though he was only fourteen, he was effectively the man of the house. While his parents were both sixty-seven, they had the Effective Mentality of seventeen-year-olds. Seventeen-year-olds who had keep it together and raise a family, seventeen-year-olds who had to learn how to walk and talk, have sex, breast-feed, work, and clean. Seventeen-year-olds denied the typical idyllic adolescence, who now found themselves in bodies that were withering and fading away. For when the Countdown hit they were two years old, and in an instant their bodies were those of fifty-two year olds. They had sucked it up and accepted their share of the responsibility of rebuilding Earth, but once they were settled into a daily groove, once the electricity flowed as freely as the water and every home had its equal share of plasma TVs and DVD players, they tried their best to enjoy their mental youth, and were both more than happy to have a son that was the responsible one.

"Come on, Iris, what is it?"

She sat on the floor and leaned against the bed, pulling her pajama jacket close, as there was a chill in the air. She always let her long hair cover her eyes to hide her shyness.

"Are you gonna make babies with Rachel?"

He lay back on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling. He had blue eyes, like his father, and they more often were opened absently in a dream-like state. "I dunno. I guess I hafta." All children were required to have a child by their fifteenth birthday, or risk having a mate automatically assigned. "She's kind of cute." He had just finished his sex education class, filled with movie after movie of pornography. It was the one class that was segregated by sex—males watched hard-core porn, while women watched films about the love a child can give – the need for family. At first Brian didn't like it, but by the end of the term, he, like every other boy, had grown fidgety and frustrated, waiting for release.

Iris sulked. "I don't wanna."

He suddenly understood what the conversation was really about. He clambered out of bed, and scooted beside her on the dusty floor.

"You're only twelve—you've got three more years yet. Why, is someone already interested?"

"Yeah. Two boys at school put my name on the list." Iris was one of the most well-developed children, with a tall, strong frame, ample bosom, and deep brown, seductive eyes. She dressed in the most tomboyish of clothes, but she was given a gift that couldn't be hidden or denied. Her mother's curves always could be caught by a boy's eye, no matter how thick the pair of pants.

"I'm . . . I'm scared." She started to cry, and Brian put his arm around her, drawing her close. "Have you ever seen mommy and daddy at night? Have you seen what they do?! I just don't want that."

"I know, I know." He forced her to stand, and walk over to the window. "But look out there, Iris. There is so much of nothing. So much death! You have to clean it up every day, so you know better than me."

She moaned softly as she wiped the mucus from her runny nose. "I . . . I don't wanna leave you, Brian. I don't wanna leave my home!"

"You won't be far, Iris. If you need me, I'll always be there. All you'll hafta do is call."

"Why do we need to do this? Why can't we just be left alone?"

He shrugged. "I don't think anyone knows. Everyone's just scared—especially the old people. They don't know if another Countdown's comin' that'll kill 'em all like it did their parents. They all need to make sure that people will survive."

"But you'll figure it out, won't you?" she asked, wiping the tears from her eyes. "You'll go up in that ship, go up to the Watchers, and they'll tell you—right?"

I sure hope so. "Yeah, that's what'll happen. Now come on—we both have a lot to do tomorrow."

The plate was literally thrown in front of Brian and by some miracle the pancakes didn't fall off the edge.

"Look good?"

"Yeah, dad," he nodded in reply, as he dug into the food. Joe crossed his arms, looming above him.

"Two pancakes, three slices of bacon, two eggs. Mmmm." Joe looked like he could spit, he was so angry. "Just 'cause you got a big brain, you get that damned food."

"Sorry, dad," he replied, with a meek shrug. He always apologized. It was a habit he acquired early on that seemed to save him from the coarser aspects of his parents. But lately, its charm seemed to have worn off.

"Sorry?! What you feel sorry for me?" He leaned down close to Brian's head. "You don't think I don't take some of that, just for me? After all, who raised you? Who fed you? Without me as your dad, you might've just been another normal sack of shit like your sisters or brother, spendin' every damned day draggin' the dead outta their cars."

Joe shoved Brian's head, then sat down in front of the fish-protein cake he had for every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The fish were the only things left alive after the countdown, the only things that didn't need to be brought back from extinction. For a short while, almost two years, everyone had a smorgasbord of treats from the now dead supermarkets that littered the landscape. But once the Homestead was established, once the government organized a militia, all food was put in storage, given only to those deemed important to the survival of the human race. For all others, there was an ample supply of fish, and that became their only sustenance. Fish and algae, with jellyfish for something special. Everyone Brian knew that didn't work in the complex ate the fish protein for their meals and a part of him wished he could eat it with them, just so he wouldn't feel this terrible guilt and shame. So he shoveled the eggs down right with the bacon and hurriedly slicked up the pancakes, just so it all would be gone and they couldn't hate him so much.

Iris bounded in, with Jacob and Mary in tow. Jacob and Mary were twins, but their father kept it well hidden, because twins were thought to possess a gene for larger quantities of children, and while he didn't like Brian, he did love Jacob and Mary, and didn't want anything to happen to them.

"Come on, you need to finish all your breakfast. The bus'll be here any minute!"

"Yeah dad," they all moaned, digging into their fish patties. Iris kept glancing sideways at Brian, and he couldn't figure out why.

"Another fine day!" yelled his mother, Jess, as she stumbled into the kitchen. Perpetually drunk, she could afford to be, as all women with four or more children were exempt from work. She spent her days cleaning the house, bitching to her other stay-at-home neighbors, and trading with some of the rogues that trolled the neighborhood, giving up this or that bauble for any and all alcohol she could get. "So how long'll you be at work today?"

"Long enough to get us the food we need," retorted Joe. "Why don't you try to stay in today? We're startin' to run outta things for you to give away."

She slapped him hard, and he slapped her hard back. Brian and Iris cringed, while Jacob and Mary chattered and laughed, enjoying their patties.

Joe wolfed down the last of his patty. "God, I hate you."

"I hate you right back," she spat, slamming some pots into the sink. She threw open the door to the fridge, slamming bottles and cans around. Iris took one last look at Brian, and cleared her throat.

"Dad, do I hafta go to school?" she asked.

"'Course you do, sweetie," answered Jess, slurring her words. "How else are you gonna learn? Besides it's only for an hour. Then you get to spend the rest of the day playin' hide-and-seek with the dead people."

"Yeah, but, well . . ."

Joe slammed down his beer with a loud thud. Brian never understood how with food so hard to come by, there always seemed to be an ample supply of beer. "Come on sweetness, spit it out."

Iris paused for a moment, before saying; "a couple of boys have already put my name up, you know, for . . ."

"Children," blurted Brian, hating to see his sister suffer. "They got her marked already."

"So what?" asked Joe with a sneer.

"She's only twelve!" shouted Brian. "She's too—"

Joe wound his hand back, behind his head, and slapped Brian so hard everyone in the room could hear something snap, as droplets of blood flew onto the plates.

"Do you know how old we were when we had you?! We had an Effective Mentality of two-years-old, two-years-old! I can remember it like it was yesterday. I could barely say 'momma,' when they made me do your mother. You want to talk about bein' afraid? When I was cummin' in your mom, I still didn't even really know what a 'baby' was. I didn't even know what the world was! All I did know was that somethin' real bad happened, and I had to do my duty. And when your ma started cryin' under me, wailin' like she was gonna die, all I wanted to do was stop." He began to break down, as Jess came out from the fridge, to put a hand on his shoulder. "All I wanted to do was stop! But they pushed me down, and pulled me up, back and forth, 'till I was done, just because she and I had these adult bodies. And all I know is that everything in here," he said, pounding on his chest where his heart would be, "hurt like I was gonna die myself! And that look on your ma's face." He leaned back in his chair, all his strength gone. Jess threw her arms around him, and cried with him.

"Iris, I know it's hard, but you've got a lot more of a chance to be ready than I ever had." Jess wiped the tears off Joe's face tenderly, kissing him on his cheeks. "Now you don't need to be with a boy that's mean to you, that'll beat you, but you need to be with a boy, and the sooner you choose, the sooner you get it over with, the sooner you can get on with the rest of your life."

Iris nodded in silence, afraid to say a word. Brian gathered her things along with his, and helped her out the door, as their mother and father slowly resurrected their souls from their dark, private graves.
Chapter 3

It was the fifteenth year after Countdown, and the Earth had been fragmented into three groups of humans. Some lived in North America, in the area between Nevada and Missouri. Others lived in South America, mostly in the Mato Grosso state of Brazil, while the greatest number of initial survivors was in Africa, though disease and plague decimated them quickly, with the survivors migrating to Tanzania. The heavily populated areas like the East and West Coast of America, most of Mexico, Europe, India, China, and the Middle East up through mother Russia, were all quarantined within three years of the Countdown. There were just too many rotting humans and animals to waste the precious few survivors to try to clean up.

So they focused on securing their central living area, then spreading out, city by city, cleaning the dead out of the cars and homes, the animals from zoos and forests. They sterilized by chemical and fire, and hoped it would be enough.

Dust was by far the most threatening challenge to the survival of the human race. The first few years after Countdown were said to be the worst, with dust storms so intense they blotted out the sun for months on end, dropping the planet's temperature by almost a full ten degrees. The remaining scientists feared another ice age, and plans were bandied about that involved detonating several dozen nukes in hopes of artificially raising the planet's temperature, or at least disrupting the dust storms in midair. Thankfully cooler heads prevailed, as within three years the sun reappeared on a more consistent basis.

It now had been fifteen years since countdown, and a great deal of dust still whipped around the Earth. There was nothing to anchor it—without insects, or earthworms, grass or shrubs, the rain only turned into mud for a short time. But when the sun heated it, and the wind came, it rose again. It clogged the lungs, polluted the water. It fouled machinery, made cellphone communication impossible outside of a 250 mile radius.

The second biggest problem was information. Most who were over thirty when the countdown hit didn't survive the shock of gaining fifty years in an instant. Those that were left had to learn quickly from the survivors, then teach the maturing children. It was now an odd mix of those seventy to eighty working with fifteen-year-olds, giving them the secrets of the world so it might carry on and be brought back from the brink of oblivion.

Brian was one of those learning the secrets of technology. He was part of what was known as 'Year Two' of human births, and all Year Two children came to be known as the 'prototypes,' and most prototypes were focused on learning and leadership. It was on they that all the hopes of the new America, the 'Homestead,' were placed. Every day he would travel to Scott Air Force Base, a massive facility located just outside of St. Louis, where he and others like him assisted in trying to prepare a NASA shuttle for launch. It was his greatest dream to leave the Earth and fly into space, and if everything worked out, he would be on that small crew to venture into space, to meet the watchers.

He took a bus for the long trip from home to the base, and Iris rode most of the way with him, which is why they were so close. It was an odd motley of folks; half the bus with those of his generation, the other half comprised of the geriatric set, who wheezed and groaned through the whole ride. Brian and the other kids his age always avoided them as much as possible. He could see the envy written all over their faces. The women leered at him, wishing they could possess his thin, supple body, while the men hated him for his youth, remembering how quickly theirs passed.

They passed through the fields of the heartland, now barren and dusty. Often they would need to stop when great dust storms rolled across the landscape, stretching hundreds of feet into the sky. Everyone that rode on the bus had to carry a filter mask and goggles, as the bus still allowed much of the dust to creep in.

The seats sat three wide, and though Brian and Iris usually tried to make it seem as if all three were occupied, as was sometimes the case, an old man sat down between them, his eyes on Iris as if she was a slice of bacon and a sixteen-ounce Pepsi rolled into one. He was tall and barrel-chested, with deep chasms through his ancient face. His skin was pale with blotches around his eyes, and he reeked of urine.

"Hey there, little girl, what's your name?"

"Her name's Iris," said Brian, folding his arms over his chest. The old man smiled.

"Now don't get your panties in a bunch little man, I'm not gonna move in on your . . . girlfriend?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend."

He leaned back, obviously not going anywhere. "Well, it's a long ride to the next stop, so we probably oughta get along. What do you think?"

Brian, ever the compassionate and forgiving one, relented, merely sighing and nodding.

"Good! So, you two hear any news?"

There was a broadcasting station resurrected about a year after the Countdown, but it was quickly taken over by the Homestead. Now, it only played taped programs of the old Earth, with isolated emergency broadcasts once in a while.

"No," said Iris. "How 'bout you?"

"Well, just look out the window!" They turned, and in the distance, through the dust, they could see massive farm machinery moving like metal elephants over the ground.

"What're they doing?" asked Iris, excitedly pressing her face against the pane.

The old man laughed and coughed, wiping his mouth with a dirty handkerchief. "Damn this dust. They're planting! Can you believe it? Well, actually they're layin' down the mulch."

"Mulch?"

He shook his head, amazed at what wasn't taught to the new generation. "Mulch is decomposed organic matter, used to help rebuild soil. I used to be a farmer of sorts, before . . . this."

"Where'd they get the mulch from?" asked Iris, suddenly interested. "What about seeds?"

"The seeds, well, they weren't wiped out. Seeds aren't 'alive' like the rest of us, so they survived the Countdown. There's tons of 'em lyin' around! There were even several seed banks—one of the few smart things the dead generation did before Countdown. The problem always was; how do we get the Earth fertile again?" He nodded to himself. "Well, we're definitely doing it ourselves."

"What do you mean?" pressed Brian.

The old man's expression became distant and somber. "That mulch is the remains of the human race. All the dead people, from the cities we've reclaimed, are in that mulch."

Iris yelped, covering her mouth with her hands. Brian felt sick to his stomach.

"How else are we gonna grow anything?" The old man shifted in his seat, as the bus was rocked from side to side by another fast-moving dust cloud. "All the plants died, and all the animals too. Shit, even the bumblebees and butterflies have dissolved into the wind. This is the only way, but even then, you should've seen the fight before they agreed on it." He nodded to himself. "I actually sat in the meeting the Homestead had, trying to decide what to do. There just wasn't any other option for disposing off all the bodies. We can't burn all of 'em, and we don't have the manpower to bury them all. So any food you eat, once the plants come back and animals too, will have been birthed from our remains. Life, from death. Kinda poetic, in a way, if you thought about it."

Brian's highly analytical mind processed the old man's words, and knew it was a logical and necessary decision. "I guess it has to be done."

The old man nodded, smiling with approval at his maturity. "Yes it does! We've got a whole lot o' things we've gotta do, and none of us are gonna like 'em one bit."

Iris nodded to herself, thinking on her own future, as the bus roared through yet another dust storm, headed for an uncertain future.

"But, if you want to hear some real news, then listen to this: Africa's falling."

"What?"

The old man began to cough, and took a whiff of air from a canister he carried at his side. It seemed to Brian that all of the old generation had them—it was the only thing he actually envied them for. "Well, maybe you heard, they had the lowest median age. More of their people survived the countdown than any other nation. The problem is, they didn't have the technological resources to carry on. We've offered to help them, in exchange for them coming to work for us, but they've flat refused."

"Why?"

"I dunno. Somethin' 'bout slavery . . . All I know, is that the world's gotta rebuild, and we've gotta all get together and get it done. No matter what."

Brian leaned back in his seat, as he was still tired from the poor night's sleep he got. His mind drifted, thinking on all there was to be done in the world. One of his professors told him of the six priorities agreed on in the council.

First: disposal of the bodies. All human and animal matter is to be recycled into compost. Factories will be converted into compost accelerators and purifiers. Farm machinery is also to be pulled into the newly populated areas.

Second: food creation and distribution. All plant life across the Earth is dead. Many trees survived, but immense dust storms ravage our land. The few remaining species of animal life that are left are dying out from lack of food. After compost is created, we must plunder any and all seed banks to grow crops. We must begin to clone all insects from egg and larvae depositories. We must begin with bringing back the bees, then the cockroach and fly, to pollinate our crops and help dispose of the dead.

Third: the establishment of law and order as quickly as possible. A pseudo-communist government must be established in the interim, to facilitate distribution of food, water, and rudimentary medical supplies. Contraception is hereby illegal, as the repopulation of our planet must be achieved through government direction and/or coercion.

Fourth: the rebuilding of the technological infrastructure to unite people of Earth.

Fifth: the aggressive and systematic investigation of the Countdown catastrophe. None of our citizens will have the will to forge on, if they think that tomorrow another Countdown could take it all away.

Finally, as our society becomes stable, as we generate a surplus of food, medicine, and return to our pre-Countdown level of technology, we must convert the communist government to capitalist democracy, to prevent establishment of dictatorships and possible civil war. The greatest threat facing our race is a prolonged civil war between the remaining survivors. Anything and everything must be done to maintain peace among the survivors of Countdown.

Brian turned to look on his sister, who had fallen into a light sleep. Thankfully the old man was respectful, and sat with his hands clasped on his lap and his eyes closed.

"You know, we're lucky," said the old man, suddenly opening his eyes.

"How so?"

"There hasn't been any war. I remember in the first weeks after the Countdown, how terrified everyone was. There wasn't even any looting, any riots, because we all were holding our breath, waiting for something else. It took a full year before we all understood the scope of what had happened, and by them we had lost a great many more people. It was as if a switch was thrown, and each and every one of my generation knew we must work hard to keep our species alive. The 'machine' that was humanity roared and engaged, determined to accomplish the herculean feat of survival. People worked until they dropped from hunger, slaved in the most extreme cold and heat, knowing if they didn't, our doom was sealed. There was a greatness about us, back then, as we faced the cold hands of death upon our necks. We didn't need a gun, or a tank, to shout 'we shall not die!' And all of us shouted those words, in one way or another. We evacuated as many as we could from the cities, then reluctantly set them afire. We cared for those who were suddenly old, who couldn't even speak."

Brian's eyes drifted onto the other side of the bus, lined with row after row of the aged and wrinkled specimens of humanity. He never liked them, always thought them disgusting and foul, but he was beginning to understand all they had done for humanity, and how little reward they reaped.

The old man continued. "But the time of generosity and patience and understanding is coming to an end. Perhaps you're too young to feel it, perhaps because you grew up in that time of union and hope. But I feel it. War is coming, and it will be vicious and brutal. The more people think that another Countdown won't happen, the more they remember power, prestige, and wealth, and seek to do anything to get them back."

"But there's still so much to do!" he cried naively, as the old man shook his head.

"It's your generation that will betray us. The older we get, the more infirm, the less they will see anyone that could give them boundaries. Power, young man, power – it's the root of everything. And we are in a time of great uncertainty, when the bravest fool can control the minds of men and bend them to his perverted will. We are in the seventh Age of Man; the Age of Doubt, and one only hopes the Age of Enlightenment will follow."

The day passed quickly for Brian, working at Scott, as there was much to do trying to clean and repair the shuttle. And when he got home, he found his mother packing a small bag, scolding him for forgetting to get a physical done. She yelled at him that he shouldn't have kept putting it off, that if another week went by the archetypes would pay them a visit. Brian nodded and piled into the car with the twins to see the Doctor Melon.

The room was packed in Dr. Melon's office, and it was mostly filled with the wheezing, hacking remains of the human race. The dust was merciless, working its way through windows and doors, creeping into beds and homes, and it was by far the most pressing health concern of the survivors of the Countdown. Even though everyone was given a dust masks and told to keep it on most for the day, the average human couldn't function like that, and most only wore it when a dust storm cropped up. While some could take the dust without getting sick, most had lungs that collapsed under the strain, leaving them as wheezing, useless bodies the Homestead had to care for.

Jacob, Brian's younger brother, was one of those unfortunates. Brian listened at night to his wheezing and always wondered if his breathing would just stop altogether. He had heard the government was considering legislation to discontinue asthma medicine after five years, and if the patient didn't improve, then to have them euthanized, as they would be too great a drain on resources while contributing too little work. Overhead hung a sign Brian only noticed a few visits back.

The Homestead has now forbidden contraception. Contraception in any form is punishable with euthanization for the male and forcible insemination for the female. Forcible insemination is no longer a crime. While the Homestead abhors violence in any form, no act that results in fertilization can be punished by law.

"Ready for you, Brian."

Dr. Melon was almost eighty-five, but he was spry and active. Brian had begun to notice that while some men aged badly, like his father, others seemed to keep their strength and alertness. These men typically were his instructors, his doctors, and some of the Homestead officials he came in contact with. If he was of a more suspicious nature, he might even have thought there was some conspiracy afoot, but he was kind and relatively trusting, so that fact lay ignored in his subconscious.

"So, how are doing today, Brian?"

"Fine."

Dr. Melon made a cursory physical exam, making Brian take off his shirt, pressing and prodding along his ribs and back. His hands paused along some black and blue splotches.

"You dad hitting you again?"

"Yeah, a little."

Melon nodded, with a sad smile. "It'll all be over soon – you're going to be someone important! Now, turn your hand into a fist."

Dr. Melon swabbed Brian's inside elbow with alcohol, then prepped a syringe.

"Any breathing problems?"

"No."

He injected Brian swiftly, rubbing over the site once again with an alcohol pad.

"Eating regularly? You look a little thin for the allowance you're given."

Brian shrugged, as he never wanted to speak about the food his parents sold. The doctor sat next to him.

"You know, we're in a time of transition. A lot of us old ones, like me, still think and act like our mental age. After all, I really have an EMA of thirty-five! And yet, I'll be dead in a few years, as will all of us, and kids like you will need to run the world. The time is fast approaching, Brian, when you and others like you will be brought up to speed, and given the keys, so to speak. Then you'll have to drive this big truck of a world, and you're gonna hafta be some kinda careful. So, grin and bear these last years when your father can act like a prick. I'm sorry it has to happen to you, but it'll all be over soon, and you won't have to be bothered by him anymore."

The doctor had told him this several times, and Brian didn't know how to feel. While he didn't like his father, he couldn't make himself feel happy about the fact that he would soon be dead.

"Yes, Doctor."

The doctor smiled. "Now, go out there, make some babies, and keep yourself healthy! That's all the Homestead asks for, and I know you can do it."

"Why?" meekly asked Brian. "Why do I hafta make babies?"

"You know—I know they teach you that in school." He put a hand on Brian's shoulder. "I know it's a scary proposition, but it must be done. There are too many things working against us—the dust, the death, the unknown. We need to revert to a more primitive existence; make as many babies, and hope the strongest survive. We never know when or if another Countdown will happen, so we must be ready. And you should be warned Brian—not only is celibacy past the age of fifteen a crime, but monogamy is also being discussed as criminal behavior. You are capable of great things, my young prototype, but you must follow the law in this one thing. Then, anything else, well . . . you'll have a great deal of latitude with."
Chapter 4

She was, without a doubt, one of the least offensive, most innocuous of women one could ever have come across—and she liked it like that. She wasn't particularly attractive, with a body full of straight lines that looked more boyish than feminine. Even her hair was cut short, in some echo of youthful, boyish rebellion.

"You will sow much seed in the field but you will harvest little, because locusts will devour it." She spoke those words casually, leaning against the makeshift podium, one hand in the pocket of her black trousers, the other resting on the bible which lay open before her. Five hundred stood gathered around her in an old ice-rink, a secondary meeting place that was near to where most of the Grunts worked. They were dusty and dirty after a long day's work cleaning out the corpses of St. Louis, and all the highways leading to and from the old mighty city. They smelled too, like days upon days of sweat and urine all piled into their armpits and crotches. It sometimes made her want to vomit, but she held it in, for they needed her, and she they.

"And we do sow, my friends! We clear the land of stones, clear the field of what was rotten and foul, and slowly, carefully, plant what shall surely be our glorious future. 'They sowed fields and planted vineyards that yielded a fruitful harvest,' said our Lord, and it shall be true. So long as we have faith, in our Lord and in ourselves, it shall be true. Glory be to God!"

"Glory be to God!" they echoed.

Her crowd was mostly the sixteen, fourteen and eleven year-olds—the worker bees of the new America. These children spent little time in a classroom, and what time they did spend inside was only to learn about proper hygiene, along with basic math and reading skills. The most serious tracts they ever read were from the Bible, and those only reinforced the necessity and of their work, and the humility with which they must conduct themselves.

"And you will be blessed. Although they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous. God knows you toil hard, toil like none before you! 'But God remembered Noah and all the wild animals and the livestock that were with him in the ark, and he sent a wind over the earth, and the waters receded.' The winds blow over the Earth, my friends. They may scorch and sting, but they are the purifying breath of the Almighty, purging the fields and the homes, cleansing the sin from our soil and our souls."

She stood once again behind the podium, buttoning her black jacket in a sign that the sermon was almost over. Those before her had pitifully short attention spans, and grew restless the longer she spoke. Her face broke out into a slight, genial smile, and her eyes twinkled with a goodness that kept those before her coming day after pitiful day, knowing that their load was a little lighter after she spoke.

"'If the Lord brings about something totally new, and the Earth opens its mouth and swallows them, with everything that belongs to them, and they go down alive into the grave, then you will know that these men have treated the Lord with contempt.' And so we, the new citizens of America, stand, nay bask in God's grace! It is upon us the divine light of his love shines, it is upon us that his benevolence beams, it is with us that his strength and power rest!" With each iteration of the word 'us' she slapped her hand on the podium, bringing a commensurate murmur from those before him. "Never forget, my friends . . . never forget! If we so choose, we can stop the wheels and cogs of this burgeoning world; we can bend it to our will. If we find this new world to be heading down the path of sin and decadence, in foul imitation of what was wiped away, it is our duty, to the Lord, to force our fellow men and women onto the path of salvation! They do not know it, but we hold the power, not only of the righteous, but of the Lord Almighty! God rule within us!"

"God rule within us!"

She stepped down, the Deaconess Rodriguez, and shook the hands of the boys and girls who still regarded her with awe and adulation. She was seventy-five, but she never felt surer of herself, never felt stronger or more determined in all his life. She had recently acknowledged her preference for women, and even reconciled it with the more conservative aspects of her faith. It made her stronger, more confident, especially when she had a small coven of nubile followers to return to when the night grew cold. She knew that know, when she raised her hand, the world would stop, and be forced to follow her desire.
Chapter 5

Brian always felt alone, but today he felt positively isolated. The old man's words haunted him no matter the distraction, and he saw the fruits of his truth bloom in the scrutiny of his teammates. He saw in his peers the scorn of their elders, the unending braggadocio and hyper-machismo. They were all smart, but they were impatient, ready to snatch the world from those who almost perished saving it. They had knowledge without wisdom, without context. None of them lived through the fear of the Countdown, none of them woke wondering if this day might be their last. It was all a nighttime story, a legend that had no teeth.

The complex itself was a sprawling facility, taking advantage of the ample room Scott Air Force Base provided. Even the old base in its prior configuration housed over two thousand people, now, with many of the buildings converted to dorms, it housed almost twenty thousand, its population almost evenly split between prototypes and archetypes. Dorms lined one side of the facility, while training grounds covered a third of what was left. The shuttle was housed in a large hangar just off the one remaining runway.

Brian had been coming here for the past year, and in all that time he never grew tired of admiring the black and white beast. The shuttle was an immense thing, archaic in design, yet with a grandeur and strength he found irresistible. It was covered with rust when they first started working on it, but over the past year they had meticulously cleaned it, inside and out. Supplies were brought, as well as manuals on disc and paper, and Brian was one of an elite team of twenty that also learned the basics of how to fly the beast. The more he learned about it, the more he respected what was before; the world before Countdown.

They actually made it, up there, he thought to himself, as he worked on one of the consoles in the cockpit. The programming was wiped as a result of a mistake early on. There were many mistakes made, as no one survived that had any direct experience with the shuttle. They had to learn everything from paper, and often it was trial and error in fixing something. Every panel of the glass cockpit was cracked from the accident, and only now did the parts arrive to fix it. In this ship, they orbited the earth, above it all. His dreams were filled with him piloting the shuttle, venturing out to meet the Watchers, convincing them to help the people of Earth. He always dreamed he would die in the attempt, gallantly losing his life as he returned with the Watchers' message.

"You done in there?"

One of his close friends, Todd, woke him from his reverie. "Yeah." He screwed back on the console, and climbed into the pilot's chair.

"Don't get too used to that," said Todd. "I'm gonna be the captain—you can be sure of that. Hey, look!"

Brian peered out the window to see a formation of younger boys, all dressed in fatigues, march by to the shouts of a tall commander.

"Fuckin crater-faced archetypes," sneered Todd. "We should all be glad we weren't born three years later."

"Yeah." The archetypes were all twelve-year-olds, instructed in combat, meant to be the police force of the Homestead. Almost all of them were abnormally large for their size and with terrible acne, which led most to suspect they were being given some kind of steroid. "You ever think about who's in control?"

"Of the Homestead?"

"No. Of those things."

Todd shrugged. "Does it matter? Like they said in class, we never hafta worry 'bout the archetypes."

Brian nodded, as they both watched the formation move out of sight. Gunfire could be heard in the distance, as a bell sounded. "You think we'll get this thing to launch?"

"Who knows? We're gonna need to get it back to one of the launch platforms, and somehow learn all the launch procedures. It's a lotta work, and a lot can go wrong. Come on, that was the lunch bell."

"We've got to get it up there," said Brian, seriously. "We've got to do it!"

Todd laughed. "I know. But not today."

Brian and Todd ran out onto the tarmac, as the archetypes were lined in rows for review, standing at ease, with their hands behind their backs.

"Watch this," whispered Todd. "Atten-shun!"

The archetypes snapped to attention, along with their drill instructor.

"What're you doing?!" demanded Brian in a loud whisper.

"Shut up! Watch this." He cleared his throat. "Right face!"

They all instantly faced right. Brian had never been this close to a formation of archetypes. Though they were three years younger, many dwarfed him and most of his friends. He knew they had to be the strongest members of the human race now, and a part of his was afraid of their potential.

But Todd felt no such fear, and laughed at his dominance over them. "Now, on your knees!"

They fell to their knees, still rigid and at attention.

"Come on," pleaded Brian, pulling Todd away. "They're not some damned toy."

"Stupid fucks!" shouted Todd, as he was pulled away. "Stupid crater-faced fucks!"

At the end of a long day, Brian stumbled slowly back to the bus stop, alone, as Iris always took an earlier bus home. All day he was preoccupied with the archetypes, watching as they constantly drilled, trained, polished their guns and laughed a coarse, vicious laugh. He was consumed in his sorrow, which is why he didn't notice the pack of human wolves stalking his every move.

"Wake up, brain-boy!" yelled a tall, lanky boy as he smashed a rock on Brian's head. He stumbled forward, dazed, but managed to keep his balance. After a moment Brian recovered, spread his arms out, and managed a clumsy fighting stance.

"Ho-ho! He thinks he can fight!" A pack of seven boys and girls leisurely circled him, a couple with old bottles in their hands, others with rocks, and one with a metal pipe. It was dark, and their faces were shrouded in shadow. Brian was always good at avoiding traps like these, but unfortunately today his mind was in a better world far, far away. One of the teens threw a rock, and Brian just managed to dodge it.

"Look at him! Clean clothes, clean skin. You hear what they eat?"

"They eat real food," sneered a girl. "Real meat, real bread, real cake!"

Brian saw their dirty, torn clothes, spattered with blood probably from the long dead. There was a unity and concert to their movements as they paced around him, as if they had done this many times before.

"Can you imagine that?" Brian noticed a tall boy was clearly in the lead. The others followed his lead in whatever he said or did. "Have any of you even had cake?"

"Nope—not me."

"Can't say I have."

"Uh-uh."

This leader came closer to Brian, motioning the others to keep a watch out for unwelcome intruders. "So tell me brain-boy, what's cake like? What do you deserve to get to eat cake?"

Another threw a bottle at his feet. The tall boy motioned them to stop.

"Come on, tell me! Do you pull the slimy men and boys, women and girls from the cars all day? Do you open up the doors to a hundred homes, to yank out the rotted corpses that fall apart in your hands? Do you feed them into the machines to grind 'em up, hoping an eye or finger doesn't spit out and hit you in the face? Tell me boy! What do you do to deserve cake?!"

Brian replied in the meekest voice he could muster, hoping to show them he was no threat and not worth antagonizing. "Nothing."

The tall boy roared with laughter that was echoed by his friends. "Have you ever picked up the dead?"

"No."

The tall boy whistled with glee. "Then tonight's your lucky night! Cause we're—"

Suddenly, a voice rang out of the darkness. "All of you—don't move!"

Out of the shadows sprung ten archetypes, clad in black. The teens all darted wildly back and forth, looking for a way out, but were pinned down.

"Move away from the boy!"

"Which boy?" whined one of the girls, as the others laughed.

A gun fired into the air. "Do it now!"

They all backed away, as one of the archetypes motioned to Brian.

"Now, over there! Move up against the wall."

In an instant, their expressions turned from glee and sarcasm to abject terror. A couple of the boys tried to stand up to the archetypes, but they were shoved back with the butts of thick black guns.

"Line up!" growled one of the archetypes. "Hands behind your back! Now!"

They slowly lined up, anxiously looking back to see what the soldiers were doing.

"Now, you have committed the crime of assault against a prototype," pronounced the same archetype, who seemed to Brian to be in the lead. He rattled off the words with a brisk, mechanical precision. "You struck a prototype in the head, putting into jeopardy the usage of his mind for the betterment of the human race. As such, according to article four—"

"No!" screamed one of the girls.

"According to article four, you are sentenced to death!"

Brian whirled to the archetypes, wished he could say something, but their purpose was fixed, and inviolable. Their guns were raised the instant the charge was read, and without a moment's hesitation, bullets exploded the heads of the teens, as their bodies fell to the ground. One still stood— the leader who bossed Brian around only moments before.

'You will drag their corpses to the truck!" yelled the lead archetype. "Move!"

The boy was bawling uncontrollably, as the archetypes pushed him along with their guns. He pulled his fallen friends by their feet, dragging them to a pickup truck nearby. He groaned with each body he had to lift, moaning in terrible misery that ate at Brian's soul. He wanted to help the boy, but one of the archetypes held him back.

"Now, get into the truck!"

"No, no—please! Just let me go, I've got a son who needs me! Please!"

The archetype took one step forward, raising his gun ever so slightly. "Get in the truck!"

The boy's legs fell out from beneath him, but three archetypes rushed over to kick him and yank him up. They practically threw him in, on top of his friends.

"Please! No!"

He knelt in the truck, on the chest of one of the girls, his hands clasped together as if praying. A single shot rang out, and he fell back onto his friends, bringing silence back to the night. The archetype next to Brian pulled off his mask, and gave him a card.

"Now don't you forget me!" he cried, with a simple smile. "You prototypes r'gonna run this world. When you get where you're goin', you call me back. Don't forget what we did for you tonight. Those teens've killed three prototypes so far—you woulda been next."

Brian watched as they pulled off, and then vomited repeatedly in the dirt, not far from where bits of flesh and bone still remained.

He got home late, staggering through the door with a riotously angry headache. His father was waiting in a chair, watching the TV.

"Why're you late?"

"I dunno."

Brian tried to walk softly past, to avoid a confrontation, but his father's hand whipped out and grabbed his arm, pulling him down close. Joe turned, with bloodshot eyes, his voice thick with liquor, and examined his son's face.

"You've got a gash on the side of your head, and you tell me 'I dunno'?!"

"It was . . . it was just some kids givin' me some trouble."

His dad nodded, not letting go of his arm. "And you thought I was too stupid to understand?"

"No! No," he stammered, trying to pull away, but Joe held onto his arm as he stood. "I'm sorry dad!"

"Maybe, you felt sorry for me? Maybe you didn't want to bother me? Maybe you thought I was too old to do anything about it?"

Brian glanced away at his last words.

"You . . . little . . . SHIT!"

Joe slapped his son, right on the bloody spot of his head, knocking him to the ground. Brian stumbled around, fading in and out of consciousness.

"I'm sorry, dad, I'm sorry!"

Joe kicked him in his gut, knocking him a few feet over into one of the TV stands. A wide plasma TV fell to the floor with a crash.

"I see the way you look at me, boy—I know what you think! I think you've been livin' too much of the good life. You actually believe you're better than the rest of us."

Brian managed to curl into a ball, cowering in the corner. Joe spat on him, again and again, as he just sat, stewing in fear and anger.

"Glad I wasn't like you, or this whole world would've gone to shit. Get yourself cleaned up."

Brian finally got into bed, wishing for a moment that Iris was still awake so he would have someone to talk to, someone to lean on, but she was fast asleep. He pulled his sheet up over his head, wishing it could cut him off from the whole world. He pulled it down, got something from his wallet, and pulled it back up again.

Gustav Klendricks: Senior tactical guard, Archetype column five.

He read it over and over as the boy's face conjured in his mind. He hated what was done to the teens, but Brian also knew that he would have been dead, if not for them. He thought on his father, and how the abuse was getting worse and worse, every day.

The day after Brian came home, with the designation as a 'prototype,' his father avoided him at all costs. The only short time that he felt any love from his father was when the first shipments of food came. They sent enough for the whole family, and the minute Joe sank his teeth into a thick strip of bacon, a wide smile was never far from his face. After that first meal, when the family was happy and full, Joe hugged his son, and told him how much he loved him.

But over the years, Joe began to resent how Brian was providing for the family, when he could barely go through a night without wetting his bed. He felt competition with his son, as Joe only had an EMA of fourteen at the time. The thought of all the things Brian would get to do, get to experience, weighed heavily on Joe. Every day Joe looked in the mirror and saw a wrinkled face looking back, saw the youth he was denied. He would watch as the young kids played stickball or football outside, running back and forth as the girls whistled and flirted all day long. He grew to hate himself, and through that, his precocious son, who didn't seem to enjoy being given the gift of youth. Joe had lived through the tough times, lived a life stewarded by several eighty-year-old women who weren't his mother. Joe's life was one of ambivalence, as nobody cared about his emotional needs or development, only that he was able to eat and shit by himself, that he knew how to read and write, and that he knew fire was hot and the icebox cold. He never had a father to tell him it would be alright, to tell him how to act around girls, to tell him what to do when the specter of death would loom in his dreams, teasing with the thought of another Countdown.

And Brian felt all those textures of hatred every minute of his adolescent life. Joe started selling the food he got, not that they really needed the money, but more to spite his son. Brian knew, but never complained, and that made Joe even angrier. Brian could see the hatred surge on his father's face, could feel the heat of his fury when he came home from work.

He's going to kill me, someday. He held Gustav's card in his hand, as if it was a magical token he could wish upon. But he actually loves Iris, and the twins. No matter what, I could never hurt Iris. I've got to find another way out of this life, before it kills me.
Chapter 6

It was raining again.

Long, leisurely sheets of blue enveloped the ocean, cradling the tides with the rumble of thunder. It smelled of purity, of rebirth, of the endless wellspring of maternal love, given freely from the Earth to all its children. Mother may have been burned from the unknown fire of Countdown, but her love was still free, still unconditional.

Charlie lay on a lawnchair, his eyes closed, his arms spread wide, his palms open to receive the mother's love. He lived for the rain, for the peace and quiet. The rain had a way of bringing the most industrious of men to a standstill, of slowing the most aggressive racer. The downpour was as a speedbump that suddenly sprang in the midst of human life, a reminder of perspective. As every flower, every leaf of every tree paused in the past to spread wide every membrane to drink in the mother's milk, so Charlie now paused in his duties to acknowledge the consistency of life, the unknown symphony of which he was merely a brief note.

"You'll catch a cold, Charlie!" yelled Frank, his constant buddy. He had watched Charlie do this same thing ever since the Countdown, and since the rain came more and more often, it was beginning to really slow down their operation. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a bolt of lightning could be seen, momentarily connecting the sky to the horizon.

"We've got all the time in the world, my friend. All the time."

Frank shook his head, and trampled back to the truck, flipping on a TV, turning the volume up to its limit.

Damned shallow-minded asshole, thought Charlie, as he tried to empty his mind once again. Unfortunately, the rain was letting up, and the sun was just peeking through the grey clouds. He sat up, and glanced for a long while at his submarine, a wide smile on his face, as he knew it was going to be another gorgeous day.

Charlie was one of the few lucky ones. At forty-six, he was thirty when the Countdown cataclysm scorched the earth. A private in the Navy, he was stationed on the nuclear-powered, ballistic missile submarine USS Ohio, patrolling deep waters of the Pacific. The day it hit, the moment it hit, he instantly knew it, by the dropoff in chatter on the airwaves. When the sub breeched from the deep, he felt born anew, a man created to inherit the Earth.

No other sub from the U.S. Navy survived that day. All other subs were sailing high, and their crews were hit and decimated by the Countdown. Thankfully for Charlie, the captain of the Ohio wanted to run some more tests on the ballast system. Unluckily for that captain, Charlie slit his throat, along with the XO's as soon as he realized what happened in the outside world. In the battle for control that followed, only Charlie and fifteen others made it out alive, thanks to Charlie's ruthlessness and determination. There were two others with more experience with computers and weaponry than him, but afterwards they died quickly in 'accidents' that Charlie helped to orchestrate. It left him as the most valuable human still alive, and he milked the title for all it was worth.

"Charlie! We got a call from the Homestead! Come over here quick."

"The Homestead," chuckled Charlie, as he got up and folded his chair. Bunch of old geysers playing at power. In only a few short weeks all of you will be dead, and I will finally have it all.

He got over to the truck—one of his personal favorites. He had ample time after countdown to find all the toys he had ever wanted in life. He had almost eighty cars, three choppers, two copters, an F-22, and his personal favorite sitting before him—a Lamborghini LM002. One of the first true luxury SUV's ever created, he spent four months tracking down the exact one he wanted. After all, there was no factory to do any aftermarket additions. Frank got himself a Hummer, but Charlie called it 'pedestrian,' and took the LM002 wherever he went.

He snatched the phone from Frank, and pressed it close to his ear. "Yeah, go ahead, this is Charlie."

"Charlie, we need you at Scott," said the voice that he recognized to be General Franklin. Everyone was a General in the Homestead. They wanted to keep the guise of it still being an American democratic government, even if it was redder than the Soviet Union ever was. "Get over there ASAP."

"Why? What's goin' on over there?"

"We're having problems with the shuttle you scrounged for us. The heat tiles are too far gone. It'll never do."

Damn. "Well, no sense in me going over there. We've got one left—the Endeavor. It's in some deep storage, but we might have enough men now to get it out. I'll go over to the California Science Center, drag it out, and load it on a B-52. We should be there in a week."

"What about the Russian shuttles? Any luck?"

He laughed. "The Burans? Too many damned pieces! But the boosters they made were some fine pieces of machinery. There's just no way we could get it all over to Scott. And I wouldn't suggest that long a flight for the shuttle. We're gonna hafta launch it into space on piggyback, and that's that."

"That'll mean it'll be a one-way mission—we'd lose too many heat tiles from the shock of separating from the bomber for it to make it back through re-entry. We'd lose the only shuttle we've got."

"Then you've gotta make some hard choices. Is this mission what you really want to do? If you change your mind, give me a call. Otherwise, I'll be at Scott in a week with the black-and-white."

"When you get there, Councilman Davis requests your presence at a full meeting of the council."

Damned pricks. "Fine. I'll be there."

He pressed 'END' on the cellphone and burst out in riotous laughter.

"What a fool!"

"Yeah," said Frank, chuckling with him.

"What do they hope to accomplish with this stupid mission? Ah well, whatever makes them think they're actually doing something."

"You actually gonna take 'em all down?"

"Well, you tell me? The council is now in their late eighties. Half of them are startin' to lose their memories. And the new generation is just entering their mid-teens. There've already been riots, Frank. We've got to take over things, got to give the young 'uns somethin' to follow, or all that has been done will unravel in a second."

Frank shrugged, as power plays were never his strong suit. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Damned right. Charlie leaned back on the truck, to take one last long look at the Ohio, before he took a shower and they got things going. Who would've thought that floating coffin would have been my salvation? Call me Ishmael, for I am the last of what was, and the beginning of what will be.
Chapter 7

It was a hot day, and consequently, a dusty day. Ever since the Countdown cataclysm annihilated all life not able to withstand fifty years of aging, grass no longer existed. Slowly it was coming back, as spores fell back to Earth and took root, but most of the land was still a sterile dustbowl that wreaked havoc on humanity with every extended dry period. The winters were brutally cold, as the dust from the Earth's land mass rose and fell in an unending cycle, blotting out the solar radiation and pushing the temperature down. Conversely, the summers were dry and hot, with the Earth's cycle of evaporation and perspiration upset by the Countdown.

Brian and Iris slipped out of the house early, opting to wait a little while longer at the bus stop than have Brian endure anything more from Joe. The bus was late, but at least the dust didn't start swirling until they got on board. The dust pelted the hazy Plexiglas windows, seeping in through a few cracks, coloring the air and sky a rusty brown.

She wore a pair of dusty, torn jeans that hung too low and a tight yellow shirt that rode too high, but that seemed to be the default fashion for all the young girls. She had a woman's body that was bursting out of her young girl's clothes, but a chubby face, with baby-fat cheeks and a few blackheads dotting the surface that reminded any admirer of her true age. Under it all hung the eyes of a sheep—docile and innocent, unaware of what could come and naive as to what lurked in the world. It was hot and close in the bus, as the air cooling unit weakly pumped out air, and the windows were sealed shut against the dust. Iris reeked of her period as Brian reeked of fear and shame.

"I'm gonna do it tonight," she said sullenly.

"Do what?"

"You . . . you know."

Brian sighed, as he knew there was no fighting it. "Who with?"

"Akiri."

Brian patted some dust off his khaki pants. "I don't think I remember him."

"He came over last night, when you had to work late."

"Oh." His head still ached from the bruising he took, but the pain wasn't half as bad as the wrenching guilt that ate his heart. "Asian guy?"

"Yeah."

"Haven't seen many of them. You like him?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. He's alright. He just doesn't push like the other boys do. I think he's a little afraid."

A soft smile filled Brian's eyes, as the bus pulled up. "I think that's a good thing. But you've got your period."

"So?"

Brian smiled, and shook his head. "Nothin's gonna happen, when you're like that. Wait a couple of days till it passes, then you can try."

The bus made slow progress through the storm. It was one of the old 'Greyhound' buses, as they seemed to survive anything thrown at them, though the silver dog had all but faded away. It was almost as if a foot of snow had fallen, so high were the dust dunes, cutting visibility by over a half and making traction difficult and tenuous. By the time they pulled to the next stop, the grumbling of the riders was loud and impossible to ignore.

The old man who sat next them on the last ride got on, and made his way slowly back to their seats, as the bus lumbered on. As he plopped down next to Brian, grinning like a school boy, Brian finally took a long look at him, to understand better whom he was sharing his time with.

He was a tall, sturdy fellow, with a ruddy complexion under a mop of red hair. His eyes were thin, and his nose glowed like a fairy reindeer's, with craters along its surface as if it was a small moon. He wore something similar to what he wore the first time he sat by Brian; faded khaki overalls with a thin white shirt underneath, and worn black construction boots that looked to be a size too large. Her smelled of unwashed masturbation, and it was the one thing that kept some part of Brian ill at ease.

"Well, hello young man. What happened to you?"

Brian quickly pulled down his sleeves to cover his bruises, hoping Iris wouldn't notice.

"Oh, it's nothing."

Iris glanced over, yanking at his sleeves. "What happened to you?!"

"Some kids jumped me, last night."

She pulled at his clothes, searching to see how far the bruises went. He tried to push her away, but she persisted, finally pulling up his shirt to see an angry purple and yellow bruise run from his hips to just under his ribs. "Did they get away?"

"No. Some archetypes surprised them."

"Good—bet they got 'em good!"

The old man nodded knowingly at Brian, as Iris wasn't ready to hear the truth, and he had some inkling as to what it was. "So, did you think on what I said?"

Brian tucked his shirt back in. "Yeah, but what can be done?"

"Focus, and hope, young man. That's what we all need. A goal, that is pure and attainable."

"We're . . . I shouldn't be telling you this, but we're trying to get a Shuttle up, to communicate with the Watchers."

The old man grew pensive, and sat back, thinking on the possibilities. "A Shuttle? How could we get a Shuttle up? It takes a lot of manpower to get one of those off the ground. I even sat in on one of those launches, and . . . well, it was one big deal."

Brian shrugged. "I dunno. I'm on a team working to prep one for launch, but it's taking a long time. We keep finding rust, or tears, or major component damage."

"Well, it's been sixteen years since anyone did anything with them. We should be lucky they still exist at all!"

Iris got up and waved goodbye, the old man's eyes following her exposed midriff.

"You've got a pretty sister."

"Sister? I told you—"

The old man laughed. "Boy, I've seen a lot in my years! Though I've only got an EMA of thirty-five, it's long enough to tell when there's love but no lust."

Brian nodded, thinking on all that could be gleaned through careful observation, making a mental note to work on his powers in the future. "What did you do, before Countdown?"

"Slept around, mostly. Did a lot of what people are doing now; watching TV, eating, and waiting. We humans did a lot of waiting. We waited for our kids to grow up, waited for bills to be paid off, waited for someone to love to appear in our door. Well, while I was waiting, I worked in a retail store."

"Retail?"

"Yeah, like you see on the TV, where people bought things, with money, and credit cards."

"Credit cards? Are they like the allotment cards?"

The old man chuckled at Brian's ignorance. "Yeah, I suppose so. We got paid, just as people do now, when we finished a week's work. Except back then, there were a whole lot of other ways to make money. For some people, it was their whole life. I never could understand people who were like that, only concerned with more money, more things. It's like they were still a kid inside, wanting more and better toys. Sad thing is, we'll get it all back, one day. All the credit cards offering money we don't even have, all the magazines with dolled-up sluts grinning on the cover, all the flashy cars that can go too fast and go too many places to be of use to anyone."

"Why?"

"Because that is what a human is. We have a drive not only for survival, but for success. And money is the most obvious indicator of that success."

The bus pulled into a station, and Brian got up.

"Here's my stop again."

The old man held onto Brian's shirt sleeve. "I hope I don't seem like some bitter old man."

"No, there's a lot wrong with things today. The Homestead is evil and corrupt, and—"

"Now hold on," said the old man, pulling him back by the sleeve. Brian was frankly surprised at his strength. "It's always been real easy to see the bad side of everything! You know that world I told you about? Well it also had opportunity. Freedom. Wide open spaces, where anyone could go. Sure a man could occupy himself with making money. Or he could occupy himself with helping others, finding cures for diseases, nurturing the young—any manner of uplifting things. We had that choice. Now the Homestead might be easy to speak ill of, but look around you. Everyone is being fed, clothed, and housed. No one is a slave, or is forced to work more than necessary. Everyone has light, heat, and entertainment. And are they trying to make a missile to blow up the Watchers, or finding tanks and bombs and planes to conquer what's left of the world? No. They just want to try to preserve the human race, to build a foundation, on which we can all lean on. Those most vocal against the Homestead, are usually those who desire power. And we should be real thankful people like that aren't running the show."

Brian nodded. "I've gotta go!"

"You think on what I said!" yelled the old man, as he ran off the bus. "You think real good!"
Chapter 8

The Mississippi river was a muddy mess, its arteries clogged with years of accumulated soil, blown from the farthest corners of what was America. A submarine sat in its depths like a lonely crocodile, waiting for easy prey to tiptoe by. It housed the council of the Homestead, able to disappear under the waters should another Countdown occur.

Charlie always hated to come there, as he despised most forms of authority. When he was in the Navy, he was written up four times for insubordinate behavior. Twice he was almost dishonorably discharged only to have the paperwork revoked by his Lieutenant. Whatever kind of an asshole you are, said the Lieutenant after one of his screw-ups, you're a damned smart asshole. And that he was. He could learn a ship's systems in days, rather than weeks. He knew how to program the computers, how to rewire the systems. And at the same time, he was a vicious soldier with dozens of medals for valor. He could go out with a small platoon of men and accomplish what a whole battalion couldn't. Three times in the second Iraq war he single-handedly tracked groups of insurgents and routed them with only five men at his side. He was unparalleled at hand-to-hand combat, but more than that, he was a skilled technician who could disarm IED's in a heartbeat, then rewire them as part of his own traps. He gained the nickname 'Snake Eye' for his ability to kill without remorse.

As such, the Homestead needed him and hated him. It was he that coordinated the movement of the Shuttle to Scott, he that trained the youngsters to pilot the subs, drive the cars, program the computers. He was anywhere and everywhere, and with each child he taught, another soldier, another loyal follower joined his ranks. He had a charisma that was irresistible to the young and insufferable to the old, and worst of all, he knew it.

As he and Frank walked along a narrow path leading to the sub, Charlie took another drag from his cigar, before throwing it into the muddy soup of the river.

"Why do you think they called us back? Why not just conference on the cell?" asked Frank.

"Who knows, who cares." He zipped up his bomber jacket, as they rounded down the last stairwell leading to the sub. Through the dozens of archetypes they passed, each one coming to extreme attention to Charlie, and he eagerly saluted them back. He was the closest thing there was to a living legend, and most of the younger generation worshiped the ground he walked on. "It'll give me a chance to update them on my change of mind 'bout the Shuttle."

As they rounded the final gantry leading to the sub, an archetype saluted them, his eyes focused on Charlie. "Sir!"

Charlie paused in front of him, scanning him quickly up and down. "Yes?"

"You should be informed, sir, that the Deaconess is onboard."

Charlie gritted his teeth like he just took a swig of cod liver oil, and nodded. "What's your name?"

"Francis, sir!" The young boy came to rigid attention, his pock-marked face focused straight ahead, with tightly-drawn lips. He was huge for his age, with burly shoulders and thick arms buried under his black uniform. "Francis Hill sir!"

Charlie nodded. "Good job, Francis Hill. I'm gonna need a few more hands for my work. I'll put you on the list."

Francis beamed from ear to ear. "Yes sir!"

Charlie moved on, with Frank pulling out his gun and checking it.

"What're you gonna do, shoot 'er? Put that thing away."

"This deaconess' gettin' to be a lot o' trouble," grumbled Frank. "I've been hearing some rumors from the prototypes. She's been tryin' to recruit some of ours!"

"You're giving her more credit that she's worth. We can get rid of her anytime we choose. After all, she's just an old woman like the rest."

They descended into the sub, and kept quiet, wary of prying ears and eyes. It was a small vessel, tighter and more cramped than his own, but it was the only sub that was projected to be able to make it up the Mississippi. Charlie stood for a moment, outside the door to the council chambers.

One day, this sub will go up in fire and flame, and the glory days of the Homestead will begin. I must take this abuse, this subservience, only for now. He took a deep breath, and walked in with the broadest of smiles.

The council sat in darkness before him. Thirteen members, in echo of the original thirteen colonies, sat around a wide, ovular table whose polished, wooden surface gleamed in the pale light. Around the perimeter, four archetypes sat, each holding MP5 guns in their hands.

"Come, Charlie, won't you sit?" asked Davis, the default head of the Homestead. One of the oldest council members, he was the only one that held elected office before the Countdown, albeit for scarce a year. But he knew how to turn a phrase, how to build a consensus, and most of all, had a strong desire for power, which enabled him to keep control over the others and even men like Charlie. He was also a remarkably intelligent man, and that fact irked Charlie more than anything else. Charlie sat in a chair next to Deaconess Rodriguez, with Frank assuming a soldier's stance behind him.

"No greetings for the council? None for your colleague, the Deaconess, who was quite gracious with us?"

"I'm not here to be polite, or gracious," snapped Charlie. "I'm here to do work."

"And how is the work coming?" asked the Deaconess. "Are we any closer to launch?"

"That's why I'm here," said Charlie to the council, ignoring the Deaconess. "I've decided the Shuttle will be impossible to launch."

"Why? We've spent so much time."

"As you know, we've been unable to get the solid rocket boosters prepped for launch. They were used shortly before Countdown, and were never prepped for reuse. And we just don't have the skilled manpower to do it. And even if we had a full STS system, the launch of the shuttle is manpower intensive, and we just don't have it."

Davis drummed his fingers on the table. It was a habit Charlie always hated, watching his bony fingers pound relentlessly on the wooden surface. Davis wasn't much for shows of power, but Charlie knew he liked to remind everyone about the power he had. So, often in meetings just like these, he would make everyone wait, while his fingers drummed on the tabletop. Charlie didn't even think Davis thought of anything in particular. He just wanted to remind everyone who was the alpha; who followed whom. "What is your alternative?"

"A company called Scaled Composites created a private launch ship, called SpaceShipOne. Before Countdown, they had just completed its successor, SpaceShipTwo, also called 'Enterprise.' It's a small, plane-like craft that's launched from the bottom of a large plane called White Knight Two, or 'Eve' for short. It's much simpler to operate than the shuttle, and wouldn't require the amount of skilled labor to launch."

Murmurs of approval ran through the council. "Will it reach the Watchers?"

"It should, but just in case, we can mount a Pegasus rocket booster underneath. Enterprise can attain orbital altitude without it, but the booster will give it the extra thrust to reach a Watcher's ship."

"So you've wasted all this manpower on a futile endeavor?" demanded the Deaconess. "When we have cities to clean out, roads to clear?! I thought you knew what you were doing!"

Charlie sat back, as if she didn't utter a word.

"Charlie, the Deaconess' concerns are valid," said Davis. "Why did it take you this long to realize this?"

"I've had a lot on my mind, and—"

The Deaconess bolted out of her chair. "You mean like the takeover of the Homestead?!"

Charlie slammed his fist on the table, as Frank pulled his gun and leveled it on the Deaconess. The archetypes in the corner raised their weapons, though didn't quite know who to target.

"Enough!" shouted Davis, slamming his palm on the table and getting to his feet. "Lower your weapons, and be seated." Frank slowly holstered his, as the archetypes backed away. The Deaconess sat slowly, her eyes still trained on Charlie. "We have barely two million people left in America—think on that! And you two want to start a civil war, make more people die, just in a foolish quest for power?" He sat back, frustrated and disgusted. "You both are here because you both control the two halves of society. Charlie, the prototypes and archetypes all default to you, while the entire workforce follows your direction, Deaconess. What neither of you seem to understand is that society cannot function without both of these halves. To have a military, scientist and leadership force without civilians to do the day to day work would be impossible. Conversely, to have a society of only workers, and no military to enforce order, or scientists or leaders to push ahead into the future, would also be untenable. Both of you must give up your designs on taking over the Homestead!"

"I have no designs whatsoever for such a thing!" yelled the Deaconess. "I am of your generation, Davis, so you know that my time in this world is short. What I do want is respect!" She whirled to bore her eyes into Charlie. "Your archetypes walk around as if they are gods inheriting the Earth; your prototypes get treated as if they are royalty, while in the streets the rest of humanity pulls out the corpses, clears the roads. The rest of humanity is dying because of insufficient medical care, losing hope because of the meals of jellyfish they now must eat! There is a growing imbalance in this society that will only lead to civil war if this council collapses!"

"That's why this mission is so important," said Davis. "Humanity must have a focus." He leaned forward in his chair. "You both are here because we have new information, and it is so sensitive, that it must remain in this room." He nodded to the archetypes, who marched out of the room. "Now, as you may have noticed, the dust storms are abating, and there are even times when the moon can be seen."

Charlie shrugged, as did the Deaconess.

"Well, just a few days ago, one of our oldest and most knowledgeable scientists started looking up at the stars again. Only the very brightest can be seen through the haze, but even they were enough to confirm a suspicion he had." David took a deep breath. "We are no longer in our home solar system."

The deaconess sat back, in shock. Charlie merely laughed.

"You've got to be joking!"

"No we are not!" shouted Davis, as he slammed his fist in the table. "We have no time for foolishness! His observations have been verified by two others, going to observatories at Grinnell and Cornell Universities. The stars do not match any maps in existence."

Charlie sat back, now deep in thought.

"Then, we turned our attention to the sun," added Sou-Lin, second in authority to Davis on the council. Charlie always found her appearance favorable, even if she was just another old hag. "It isn't the same. Its mass is substantially smaller, and we also determined our orbit is tighter. The Earth has been moved, my friends, and the moon with it."

"Whoever moved us, wanted us to survive," said the Deaconess.

"How do you suppose that?" asked Charlie.

"Why else put us around another sun?! And in even a tighter orbit, so we would get the same level of heat? Why take the moon with us, other than to preserve our tides? If what you say is true, then whomever is responsible wants us to live."

"Which brings us back to the mission to the Watchers," said Davis. "If we knew that the Watchers were evil, then every living soul would work towards their annihilation. If they were peaceful, and gave us hope, then we all could move on, secure in the knowledge that there would be no further Countdown. We must have answers!"

"And your bickering is complicating matters, as well as your pathetic maneuverings," added Sou-Lin. "You think we don't see what's going on around us? You think we don't hear the rumors, the conspiracy theories? But we must think of the future of humanity, which it appears neither of you are doing. We are on the brink of extinction. There are so few pockets of humanity left on this world, that all it would take is one war to push us over the edge, make resurrection impossible. The Homestead decrees that you two must work together! So long as we live, we will not tolerate internal politicking or divisiveness. You are both dismissed."

Charlie got up, and bowed before the council, before offering his hand to the Deaconess. She accepted, and they both forced smiles in front of the council. As Charlie turned to leave, only one thing was on his mind, despite the enormity of the revelation given him.

So long as you live.
Chapter 9

It was a clear, relatively dust-free day, for the first time most could remember. Scott Air Force Base was fully revealed, bare to the world, without a shroud of filth circling around. And yet, it still looked dingy and worn. Brian took a walk with Todd around the periphery, in-between classes, just before lunch break, to talk about guns and girls—the only two things most boys spoke of.

But Brian was distracted by the landscape, now fully revealed, free from the dusty haze. The sun rose at the end of a very long runway, and small, young trees still framed the periphery, and for a moment, it reminded him of the Earth he would see on TV, full with bright hope and promise. He often got this way, in fact, it was more his nature, than of leadership and aggression. Sometimes he knew that he was good friends with Todd, if only so that he had a constant male companion, someone to prove that he was a boy, just like the others. He learned about guns, and all the pretty girls on the base, really just so he would have something to talk to with Todd and the other boys. But if he had his druthers, he would spend all day in a delicious dream, thinking philosophical thoughts like the old man, pondering the fate of man, and what wonders were in store. And sometimes, his musings would even be rewarded in reality.

Today, he even heard a bird.

It took him a minute to figure out where the chirping came from, but he quickly spotted it. The small, blue and white thing dove and ascended with grace, and to Brian, it echoed the falling leaves, dancing with the wind.

"Can you see that?" asked Todd, his usually sarcastic voice filled with wonder and awe.

"Yeah." They both stood for a minute, watching it fly, before finally racing out of sight.

"I heard they've had some success with cloning, and are finally beginning to let some animals out."

"You think it'll live long?"

Todd shrugged. "Who cares, At least it's something nice to look at."

"Yeah. I wonder where it came from?"

"They had some animal bank, like that seed bank they're using in England."

"No," said Brian, for the first time really thinking about it. "The seed bank's one thing—they can plant seeds. The genebank, well, it's only got sperm and eggs of animals. How'd they make that bird?"

"What? They just cloned it."

Brian glanced up at where the bird flew. "I think you still need a girl bird to make it pregnant. Otherwise, it couldn't be born. There isn't any technology yet that can substitute for the womb, or I'm sure they would've used it by now with humans."

Todd stopped, and thought over it too. "Then where did that come from?"

Brian got a shiver up his spine. "I don't think I wanna know. Anyway, it's time for chow."

The cafeteria was enormous, even by military standards. Stretching the length of two football fields, within its bounds thousands of Archetypes and Prototypes, and even a few hundred Grunts, sat down for midday chow. Scott wasn't just the base for the new Shuttle program; it was the training center for all archetypes, the education center for all prototypes. Wargames were held just a few miles away, and everyday tanks could be seen rolling by as the homestead prepared for the potential of the world to descend into barbarism. Girls and boys sat side by side, dressed the same, ate the same food, joked about the same subjects. In this new age of man, the luxury of sexism or racism couldn't be afforded. The older generation may still have thought of things through the lens of girl and boy, rose colored glasses versus combat fatigues. But the new generation only cared about cleaning up the dead, learning how to fight, and how to run the infrastructure that was old America. Women shoved back as hard as they were shoved, and while a few fell victim to a few burly boys at night, typically they struck back with a few vicious girls in the day.

The only thing that was frowned on was same-sex relations. In a world where procreation was paramount, homosexuality was tantamount to treason. Men and women were brought up to have sexual fun with as many different partners, so long as they were of the opposite sex. The few times homosexuals were caught, they typically weren't just expelled from the program—the 'Machine' as it was called by the young boys and girls—they were typically slaughtered as they left, a way of cleaning up loose ends. The worst one boy could do to another is concoct proof of a homosexual liaison, for in this new age of man, gossip was most often taken for truth. But then, that wasn't anything new.

Brian and Todd made their way through the crowded, main aisle of the cafeteria, after getting their trays filled with food. It was a chaotic scene, with Prototypes horsing with other prototypes, and Archetypes doing the same, but with a discernible line separating them, and both their kinds from the lowly Grunts. A few girls grabbed at Todd as they moved down the center aisle, as he always was popular with them, especially ever since the showers became integrated, and the girls could size up the equipment the boys possessed.

"Would y'all keep yur damned hands to yurselves?!" he yelled in a mock southern drawl. He loved the old reruns of Gomer Pyle, and every chance he imitated the titular character in a perfect echo. "Golly, gee, just lemme be!"

Brian playfully shoved him, and then pointed out their circle of friends. They found a few seats, and started to dig into their food.

"Can you believe Charlie's gonna be here?" asked one of the girls at the table. Word was going around that Charlie was not only visiting Scott, but spending some time with the Archetypes and Prototypes. He was probably the only human in existence to illicit equal respect from both groups.

"No way," said Brian, as he leisurely consumed his meal. It was potatoes, beef, and green beans, and it didn't taste half-bad. He relished in taking his time eating it, as opposed to his mad dash through breakfast. His friends would always tease him about how slow he ate, but none knew the reason.

"You think it's gonna be about the coup?" asked Isaac, one of the tallest Prototypes. He was continually called an Archetype, much to his chagrin, and often a stray Archetype would challenge him to a fight, which he usually managed to refuse. "They hafta wanna do it soon."

"You think there's really gonna be a coup?" asked Brian. "Why bother?"

Dawn, one of Todd's closer friends, threw a green bean at Brian. "'Cause all those old geezers is only gettin older—look at our teachers, stupid! They can barely make it through a whole class without wheezin' and coughin'. And we're gonna let them tell us what to do?"

"Yeah." Todd started picking off Dawn's plate, and she smiled as he did. Brian always had a funny feeling about Dawn that he just couldn't explain. She seemed like the other girls, maybe a little more attractive, but she also had a reservation that not only spoke of intelligence, but something more, something akin to . . . devotion. The few times she tried to get close to him, he cleverly pushed her away, not out of fear, but because she always seemed to want to learn more about him, and he was never one to share. "They're all weak, and they know it. They know we're gonna take it all, but they just wanna hold on for as long as they can."

They all went quiet, as one of their professors walked by with a tray of food. As soon as he was out of earshot, Todd laughed.

"Look at 'em! Look at all of 'em!" His voice grew louder, laced with prideful arrogance, and others around him turned and took notice. "They're all old sacs of shit. We should—"

"You should shut up," said a voice that laid a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and almost lost his bowels.

"Charlie!"

The other kids ran over, not even noticing he came into the cafeteria. The Archetypes were all quiet now, sitting rigidly in their chairs, as if at attention, while the prototypes clambered over one another to get to Brian's table. They were all questions and smiles, begging to know what would happen next. Dressed in a black bomber jacket and jeans, he had a cool machismo that every boy tried to emulate, and every girl lusted after. He calmed them down, as he sat on a table top.

"Now first, you can't go around talking like that in public—not when others can hear. You got it?"

"Yeah," grumbled Todd. "Ok."

"That's better. Because the time is coming when I'll need all of you."

They all pressed in closer, their ears perking up. In the distance, the tables filled with the old professors cringed with fear.

"Very soon, we're gonna press that reset button, and start things over. I need boys and girls who have calm, cool heads, who can think for others. We have to rebuild this whole society, and figure out the direction for the future. You understand?"

"Yes!" They all answered.

"Now the archetypes will be the core, the backbone, but you here will be the brains of the new Machine. The Machine will only press forward; the Machine will be strong, and fearless! The Machine will take back the Earth, and we shall control the Machine!"

"Yes!"

"But we need to be quiet, and diligent. Some of you have been talking—"

"No, not us!" they all cried.

"Yes, some of you have been filthy snitches, squealing on our plans. I just came from a meeting with the Council, and I know this to be true."

His eyes passed from one boy to another, from the face of one pretty girl to another, and they all quaked in fear.

"I need you to police yourselves. If you hear someone runnin' around, actin' like a damned fool, then do something about it! Don't let one or two fools ruin our future!"

"No!"

Something caught Brian's eye, and it was Dawn, or rather, it was the expression on Dawn's face. While the other prototypes looked up to Charlie with eyes of fear and awe, she gazed at him with a more familiar, comfortable expression, like she had heard his voice many times before, like she was used to his presence.

"Good," continued Charlie. "Now, we're gonna change direction. I haven't been much for this whole Shuttle shit, but now I agree with the Homestead, that we need to get up there and speak with these Watchers and figure out what happened with the Countdown." The council's words about the change in the Earth's position rang true with him, especially after he did some tests on his own back on his submarine. He knew that even if he and his people took over the Homestead, it could all be negated in an instant by the Watchers, or whomever possessed the power to affect the Countdown. "Before we can flip the switch, and turn the Machine on, we need to know as much as we can. Now we were gonna use the Shuttle, but I've had a change of heart."

"What?" asked an eager prototype.

"We're gonna use another ship I remembered about—Enterprise, from a company called Scaled Composites. It's easy to fly, and can get us where we need to go. It'll be boosted into the upper atmosphere by a bomber-sized mothership called Eve. Enterprise can carry eight people, including two pilots. I took a look at the ship, and it's in fine shape, and should need minimal prep. We should be able to launch in two weeks!"

The kids all cheered, whooping and hollering, as finally an end was in sight.

"And after that, after the ship comes back, and we find out what we need to know, then we turn the Machine on. And I pity any and all who stand in our way."

As Charlie walked away, Brian couldn't help but be swept up in the euphoria felt by the other kids. The whole rest of the day they talked about what they would do with the world; what they would fix, where they would go, and how they would live. He watched as Charlie took a tour of the archetypes, who never stood straighter in their lives. They not only had fear in their eyes, but pride in their bearing. For them, Charlie was a living legend, a man who would open the doors to a future in which they would be even more powerful than they were now. A part of Brian even envied Charlie, to be able to command such respect from so many, and apparently so easily.

Later that day, Brian came home, opening the door to find his sister and mother embracing.

"What happened?"

"I finally did it!" shouted Iris, as she bounded into Brian's arms. "We couldn't wait for tonight, so I went over to his house, and . . . well, it's finally over!"

Jess beamed proudly. "Your sister's gonna be a mother. Whaddya think of that?"

He hugged her again. "I'm happy for you! I'm glad that's all over."

"So am I." To Brian, she beamed like the sun itself, and few things in his short life had made him happier. He always loved his sister terribly, and the fact that she wasn't born a prototype, like him, caused him no end of worry. But finally, he knew she would be alright, that her future would be secure. "Tomorrow I go to the doctor, to get certified, and we can start looking for a house!"

Brian nodded absently, the realization that he was losing his younger sister suddenly smacking him in the face.

"Oh, don't worry, I won't move too far." She saw his sorrow, and kissed him on the cheek. "I could never live without my big brother."

Brian smiled, and laughed, squeezing her so tight that she had to beat him away.

Later that night, after dinner, he sat with Iris on the porch, gazing up at the stars. It was a cool night with little wind, and a few dozen pinpricks of light twinkled through the sheet of dust overhead.

"Dad sure wasn't happy."

Iris sighed heavily. "No, he wasn't."

"I'm sure he'll come around. Especially if you actually do get a house close by."

She twiddled her thumbs, and then rubbed her hands on her non-existent belly, dreaming of getting big, and full, and being the envy of the other girls. As much as she was afraid about having the child, the actual act wasn't too bad, even as she thought to herself later, pleasurable. And every girl her age was worried about finding someone right, about actually carrying the load.

"What are you going to do?" she asked quietly. "When are you going to make Rachel preggers?"

He sighed, suddenly feeling a little chill in the air. "I guess it'll hafta be soon. Her parents are starting to get on my nerves. And I even got an official warning from the Homestead."

"Why, don't you want to? It's not all that bad," she said, with a coy smile. "You might even like it."

"I'm not sure she will." Rachel had been very dismissive of him lately, willing to kiss for extended periods, but once the kissing turned to heavy petting she always demurred. "I probably will, but . . . I don't know. I really want to, but I just don't . . ." He picked up a rock, and threw it far off into the distance. "Ah hell, who knows?"

Iris sat back. "You want to go up there, into the stars."

"That all I've ever wanted to do!" he cried, pounding his fists on the floor. "I don't want a kid, or a house, or even a girl. I don't wanna be a commander of those damned archetypes, or some Homestead lackey. I just want to get away, get out there, above all of . . . this. I want to see the watchers, find out what happened to our world. I guess . . . I guess that more than that, I don't wanna turn out like mom and dad." He leaned back. "I can't wait until I'm gone."

Suddenly, they both heard the screen door close behind them. Brian went white as a sheet, as he could barely turn around.

"You . . . little . . . SHIT!"

Brian still didn't turn around, but that didn't stop Joe from almost throwing his son to the other end of the porch. He was on top of him like a panther on its prey, using his hands to beat relentlessly on his son.

"Stop!" frantically cried Iris, as she stood behind them unsure of what to do. "Please—stop!"

Joe beat him several more times on his head, then stood up, beginning to cough. "All you arrogant little shits disgust me! You sit there as the whole world is handed to you, and still you hate us. We give you food, you hate us. We give you life, and you hate us!"

Brian curled into a ball in the corner, sobbing and rocking back and forth.

"I'm sorry, dad, I'm, sorry . . ."

"You are sorry. A sorry waste of a man, a sorry waste of food, a sorry waste of my time! I wasted fifteen years raising you, threw away the only good years left to me so you could whine about how rotten I was. How rotten your mother is!" He slapped his head once more with all his might, the muscle in his aged arms delineated in the pale light of night. Brian tried to cringe away, struggling not to pass out, but Joe grabbed a tuft of his sandy-brown hair, and yanked him back, bringing a snapping sound from his neck. "Your sister's got more balls than you, getting pregnant at thirteen, startin' her life. What do you do? Nothin'—nothin' at all! God you sicken me." He tossed Brian away like a ragdoll, then bounded back into the house, slamming the door hard behind him. Iris rushed over to Brian, kneeling beside him, holding his head in her arms.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." she stroked his head, as pools of her tears collected in his blood-stained cheeks. "You know he didn't mean it, he's just had some hard days at work, and—"

"He means it," said Brian, with an icy coolness in his eyes. "They all mean it. That's what my age group was bred for, right? Bred to take over the world from the geezers like him. I guess I can't blame him—we have all these years to live, and he's got his numbered already."

"Don't talk like that!" she shouted, turning angry. "You sound like some of the kids in my class—always talking about taking over the country!" She calmed down and sighed, rubbing her hands over Brian's face, kissing his cheeks. "Things are good just the way they are."

She hugged him close, as he wept a few tears into her ample bosom.

Things might be good, he thought, but they could always be better.
Chapter 10

Down the streets of St. Louis, a new truck moved slowly, fed as it went by a couple of dour and morose attendants. They would hoist the skeletal remains of a person up, and then toss it into the back of the trash truck. When the lower area was filled, the massive metal scoop would come down, and press them all together, breaking the brittle bones down into dust. The jets of white detergent water would then wash down the outside, while yellow streams of propellant showered the consolidated humanity on the inside. The organic mass was shifted to the front of the truck, where plumes of fire ignited what was left. Up degree by degree, the fire would burn hotter and hotter, till thick, black smoke poured out the smokestack near the cab. And on it would move, down the street, eagerly consuming what it was fed.

Those who tended the bastard creation, who would devour its creators, hung as wraiths around its form. They wore a motley of clothes, scrounged from whatever was left in the neighboring department stores, or that could be cherry picked from the homes of the dead. Cashmere sweaters over Dickies overalls, Nike sneakers peeking out from Carhartt workpants. While their clothes may have been different, their faces were all the same. There was no hope in their eyes, no dreams of better times, no confidence that what they did would really matter. Their young souls were broken when they ceased to pile the corpses onto waiting flatbeds. For some reason, even though they knew the bodies were being taken for disposal, it wasn't them that were doing the disposing. But now, hearing the machine crunch through bone, ground up their souls as if they placed them in with the dead too. So often vomit would join the corpses, as not even the most jaded of the children could completely disassociate themselves from their gruesome tasks. The only thing that kept them sane was the ever present Deaconess, who flitted from crew to crew, inspiring them, building them up, cajoling them to come back for another day, praising their work as something noble and necessary. Her words were as intravenous nourishment, going straight to their hearts and minds, even if their souls were too far gone. And the few times she asked for a favor, the few times she had an assignment for the strongest or smartest of the Grunts, after hours, they eagerly and willingly complied, knowing that in helping her, they were helping themselves.

It was a hot, dusty day on Interstate 78 when Enterprise touched down, tucked underneath the graceful yet massive Eve. The runways at Scott weren't quite long enough, since the modifications after the Countdown, and Charlie wanted to make sure there was room for error.

A group of fifty Grunts were there to reorient and attach the ship to a pull vehicle. Pulled off corpse removal, they were in good spirits until they got halfway back to Scott, when one of the axles of the semi pulling the ship broke.

"Damn," grumbled Charlie. He was tired of the whole shuttle business and while now he may have been eager to get someone into space, it still wasn't what he liked to do, and he just wanted it all to be over, so he could turn on the Machine, and relax. "Call in some more Grunts from St. Louis," he said to Frank, who got on his cellphone. "A storm's approaching, and we need this plane under cover!"

In thirty minutes, ten semis filled with people pulled alongside Eve. By that time, five more massive metal lines were attached to the craft. The Archetypes opened the trailers, and out stumbled the Grunts, disoriented and bruised from the journey.

"Alright, hand out the gloves! We've only got gloves for about half of you, but we need all of you to pull! So rip off your shirts, tear your pants in half. We've got about five miles to cover, and—"

"Are you insane?!" yelled a voice from within the crowd. The Archetypes turned their guns on where they thought it came from.

Charlie got down from his Humvee, and pulled out his sidearm, with Frank at his side, his AK-47 drawn. "Who said that?!" He ran back and forth, holding the gun up to various men and women, hoping to provoke a response, but none would cow to him. They all stood, resolute and passive, stoking his anger even further. "You better show your face, damned sonofabitch, or I'm gonna—"

Suddenly the crowed parted, revealing a smiling Deaconess, her hands clasped behind his back. Her black jacket fluttered in the wind, exposing her austere white silk shirt. Charlie cursed under his breath.

"So," stated the deaconess in confident, even tones, "you expect these people to pull a craft weighing several hundred tons, using steel cables, and only half have gloves? Are we building the pyramids again, on the back of American slaves?!"

Thunder could be heard in the distance, almost an echo of the strength in her voice, as storm clouds began to roll in.

"We don't have time for this!" snarled Charlie, as he tried to hold Frank at bay, who desperately wanted to let the bullets fly. "We need this ship under cover if we're ever gonna get it airborne!"

She was calm in her reply, speaking slowly, as if time was utterly immaterial to her concerns. "And I tell you that this is tantamount to slavery. These are citizens of the Homestead, and they deserve better than this."

The Grunts around her murmured words of approval, as Charlie stood in the middle of the highway, frustrated yet furious. The wind picked up strength around him, shifting the massive plane back and forth. He glanced back at Frank, who motioned to his own gun. Charlie nodded to himself, coming to a decision.

"Column C—formation!"

A group of twenty Archetypes ran into two short lines. Charlie stepped forward.

"This craft needs to move, by order of the Homestead. Refusal to follow orders from the Homestead is punishable by euthanization. You have one minute to pick up those cables!"

"Stand your ground," growled the Deaconess, as she raised her fist into the air. Her jacket was almost blown off, and it revealed more of her muscular shoulders and arms. While she had a feminine face, she had the arms of a woman who had multiple childbirths, who was used to holding an infant for long periods of time while tending to other matters. Suddenly, Charlie saw part of her strength, how she was able to influence the Grunts, how she was always unperturbed at whatever he might do or say. "We have the strength of the righteous," she screamed over the approaching storm, "and pharaoh shall not break us!"

She's treating me like some damned child! She's always talked down to me, always thought so little of me! Well I raised the Homestead from the dust and grime, I've got my Machine primed and ready—I'll not let some damned bitch like her take it all away!

"Level guns!"

The Archetypes put one foot forward, and leveled their machine guns. The crowd of Grunts began to stir and yell, but the Deaconess raised a hand to silence them.

"If you do this, we still shall not move. The more you shoot, the less there will be to move the craft."

"Target . . ."

The Deaconess folded her arms, standing proud and defiant.

"Fire!"

Ten Grunts dropped to the ground. The Deaconess didn't flinch. Instead, she raised her hand higher in the air. The crowd around her grew quiet and still, as another crack of thunder cracked in the distance.

"He who opposes the children of the Lord, opposes the Lord!" she yelled. "And must be made to feel his wrath!"

Suddenly, a beam of sunlight split through the clouds. The grey storm clouds split open, revealing open sky.

Then, as all gazed at the sky, a chirping could be heard. High above a small bird dove down, darting back and forth, before flapping out of sight. The Deaconess smiled even as Charlie smiled, seeing life somehow flourish on a world filled with so much death. Then the Deaconess' lips curled into a sneer. She brought her hand down, and the first civil war of the Homestead began.
Chapter 11

It had been several days since Iris told Brian of her pregnancy, and every day she seemed more and more excited and joyful. He hugged her as she left in the morning with her father, bound for a trip to Dr. Melon, to get certified as pregnant, so she could start her new life. Even Joe had begun to act differently, strangely optimistic and in good humor. Brian relaxed a little during breakfast, as it was filled with laughs and smiles, of Jess excitedly planning the future with Iris, and Joe feeling for the first time like a real father, with a prospering family.

That all changed when Brian got back home.

He knew it from the instant he strode through the door. It was quiet, filled with a profound silence that spoke of the death of hope. He found his mother and father sitting on the old, worn sofa, staring absently at a blank TV screen. He was loathe to break the silence, but needed to know what happened.

"Is dinner ready?" he asked tentatively, waiting for his father's hand to strike out like a coiled cobra. But the instant his mother turned to look at him, he knew Iris was dead. Jess' eyes were puffy and worn, and crumpled tissues littered the floor around them.

"What happened?!"

"She's sterile," spat Joe. "She can never have children, so they executed her so she wouldn't drain the state's resources." He threw a piece of paper at Brian, which outlined it all. It also stated that Jacob and Mary would need to be brought in for thorough testing the next day, and if there were any abnormalities, they too would be euthanized.

"Apparently a lot of children are turning out like that," said Jess wistfully. "I've heard—"

"It just don't make no fuckin' sense!" Joe pounded his fist on the sofa, as Jess cringed in fear. He let out a low moan, and slowly staggered onto his feet, lumbering around like a bear roused from hibernation. "Why'd that doc ask us for lottment? I thought the meds were supposed to be paid for by the Homestead?"

"What are you saying, dad?"

"I dunno, but it's funny, that's all. Your ma put out four kids, got another on the way, and her girl turns out to be broken? Smells funny to me." He leaned against a wall, and picked up a half-filled bottle of bourbon. He took a long swig, downing half the contents in an instant. "Ah well. Things was goin' too good after all."
Chapter 12

The battle on I-78 was a short one, as only one side had the guns. The Grunts made a valiant effort, charging relentlessly against the Archetypes. A few even got through, and tried to overwhelm them, but without a gun they were no match for the hormone-enhanced bodies of the Archetypes. The Archetypes lived for violence, and within fifteen minutes, three hundred dead Grunts littered the highway.

The Deaconess though, was left standing. She stood silently with her arms crossed, utterly defiant. Charlie walked briskly over to her.

"Looks like you've lost."

They stood facing each other, lone figures in the enormity of the highway, with the sun beaming down on them both.

"You should thank God for turning aside the rain, or you would've lost too."

Charlie nodded. "I should kill you now."

"You do, and no matter what excuse you and your kind comes up with, every worker in the Homestead will revolt. And eventually, you won't have enough guns to stop us, for one way or another, we will bring your 'Machine' to a grinding halt."

Charlie smiled at his mention of the Machine. "Who's been feeding you information?"

The Deaconess shook her head. "I don't think you'd like the answer. Now, I'm gonna get in one of those buses, and head back."

"You know, you're gonna die one day soon. Then, all my problems will be over."

"You ever heard the old saying about the devil you know? Well, unlike you, my mortality has been on my mind. And I have prepared for my passing." Suddenly, a wry smile graced her lips. "I wonder if the council has been preparing for their passing too? Makes one wonder . . ."

As she walked off and boarded a bus, a knot of fear gripped Charlie, at hearing her words.

What could she mean by that? He watched as the bus' engine sputtered and started, and she slowly pulled away, with several dozen Archetypes forlornly pointing their guns in her direction. She's just a damned stupid bitch anyway. What does she know?

While the council remained in the submarine just in case another Countdown should hit unexpectedly, Charlie felt no need for such extreme measures. When he first took over Scott, he took his own precautions by installing a massive pool put in the center of the base. Scientists determined the 'wave of temporal displacement' didn't permeate more than the first few inches of water, but he made the pool a consistent 20 foot deep. Then he converted a storage building into a series of suites for him and other Homestead officials, and timed that it would take him exactly eight seconds to run from his bed to the pool, and dive in.

And it was in that bed he lay now, his arm around Dawn, satisfied, gazing up into the ceiling.

"Lot on your mind?" she asked delicately.

"Damned right—damned right!" He had just plowed the crap out of her, acting as if he was doing the Deaconess instead of the young prototype. He had taken a liking to Dawn when she was thirteen, and it took him a full year to get over his persistent morality about child abuse. It's a new age, he told himself, over and over. This is it. Either I stick it to one of the old hags or I get over it and sleep with one of the children. If I don't get with one soon, then they're gonna think I'm some damned queer, and not even all my bravado will help me then.

The first time he slept with her, she cried, and it almost tore his soul apart. How can I feel this pain with her, he thought to himself, after he was done, and yet know I will blow up the sub with the entire council on board, and start a civil war if necessary to get what I want? Each time he lay with her he felt a little easier, pretended it was someone else, someone older. The few times he tried to enjoy her for herself, take delight in her body, he almost vomited, and decided never to do it again.

But she was good at listening. It was like speaking to a little sister, when they were done. She would put her arm around his wide chest, lay her head in the crook of his arm, and just listen. She never judged, never tried to take advantage of him, or press him for a deeper commitment. She just 'was,' and he greatly appreciated her for that.

He let out a long sigh, and turned to look in her eyes. "She doesn't know what she's doing. I mean, stirring up the grunts? All she can do is lose! We have the guns, we have the training! We have access to the weapons of war, and the will to use them. Every single Archetype is waiting, begging to fight something! And if she keeps on pressing, that's just what she'll get."

She rubbed his chest with her hand, and he moaned in pleasure, as she lay her head back down on his chest.

"How'd you know I like that?"

She smiled coyly. "I don't know. I just . . . know you."

"Yeah. Guess you do."

"So . . . now that you've got Eve, when's the launch?"

"Three weeks." He gazed absently at the ceiling, enjoying her hand on his chest. "I need to get a few more things, in preparation for what comes after the launch. I'm leaving day after tomorrow, to bring in some . . . heavy machinery."

She grinned wildly. "Isn't the 'Machine' big enough?"

"Not quite, not quite. One can never be too careful. The second you let down your guard, the second you trust too much, is the second the knife is plunged into your back."

She kissed along his cheek. "How did you get like this?"

"Like what?"

"All . . . suspicious."

"You don't wanna know."

She pouted, and sighed a little. "If not me, then who?"

The one thing he did hate was how she pressed him to learn more about himself. She never asked for details about the Machine, or who would be killed when, or how he would affect the coup. But she did press for him to speak about himself. And the part he hated most is that she always won, and he always spoke.

"I don't know . . . I wish I could tell you some story about some childhood thing, some trauma, but that just isn't the case. I had a good childhood, with a good mother and father who both loved me. My father was always taking apart stuff, and one time he even invented something, that got the money so I could go to college."

"So, I guess everything went along fine, until the day before Countdown. I was a lot for some people to handle, but my mind always got me out of whatever jam my body got me into. Then, it hit, and the instant it did, I knew. I could almost feel all those people die. They all rolled over, and took it, lying down, not fighting back. Well, I just couldn't! I had enough of following the orders of lesser men, and I wasn't about to give my life for someone who didn't know any better. In that minute, I decided. I took control of my own destiny, and I was determined never again to let anyone else decide where I would be, what I would do, or when I would die. This world will never exist being governed by committee. It needs a dictator, someone absolutely unshakable in his convictions, to drag along everyone else into the future."

"And you're that man?"

"Honestly? No." He clenched his fists and stared at the ceiling, feeling naked for the first time in his life. He always knew the answer to the question she asked, but this was the first time he admitted it to anyone. "As much as I'd like to be, I'm merely a transitional element. A bridge, between what was, and what will be. No, he or she who will follow in my footsteps will have learned my lessons, and will know how this world is to be handled. That's why I spend so much time with you prototypes and archetypes. I'm waiting to see which of you will break out of the pack, show me something special."

She held her breath, knowing what he shared was something he never shared with anyone else.

"And . . . the Deaconess?"

"Threatens to take the teeth out of us, to make us in some mirror image of the false morality in her soul. She covets power as much as I do, but she hides behind the words of the creator. The world she would create wouldn't be a proud one, but one where everyone would be abased in front of her. She has no desire for progress. She wants stasis, for her will to keep us motionless and trapped in her thrall."

Dawn mounted him again, and then leaned down to kiss him deeply, her hair spilling over his face.

"But you'll show her."

He grabbed her hips and started a slow, building rhythm with their bodies.

Damned right . . .

The next day, the council was positively livid when they called Charlie back. They heard about the slaughter of the Grunts, heard the furor from the Deaconess, and demanded answers. He thought about taking Frank along, but knew he would be too tempted to finish them all, and Frank would be too eager. Even now, as he walked past the archetypes guarding the subs, he could see the need to murder in their eyes, their absolute devotion to him.

Why do I wait? He often asked himself that question, more so now that almost all Archetypes and Prototypes had openly pledged their allegiance to him. I could give the word, and it would all be wiped clean. He paused, glancing up into the nighttime sky. High above, a faint glimmer could be seen—one of the Watchers. Is it them? Do I wait, because I don't want them to think we're all war and no peace? Part of me feels like we just went through the flood, and for whatever perverted reason, we few that survived are the modern day children of Noah. But while God promised there would be no other flood, we've never received such a promise from whatever did this to us. I feel like, sometimes, they're waiting to see how we'll do, if we'll pick up the pieces and move on. And I feel like I'm back in the Navy, and I've gotta be a good boy, at least until I know what the real deal is.

"Are you to be all about war?!"

Davis yelled at Charlie, his face going red. He had been yelling at him for the past hour, and Charlie thought he should probably stop, or he'd burst a blood vessel or something. Finally, he had enough.

"Who else is going to be about war?" demanded Charlie angrily, pacing back and forth. "Do you know what's going on around the world? Well I have some clue. I hear rumors of forces massing in China, of the resurrection of the planes and tanks and warships. This has been like a giant stalemate, with all the players knocked senseless to the floor. Well, whichever one rises first, whichever one can make a fist, will be the one to control the world from here on out."

"We can't be about war," pleaded Sou-Lin. "Life is hard enough, without making it even harder on the souls of our people. You say everyone is knocked on the floor? Then why can't it be the first person to extend a hand of help and forgiveness, will be the one to set the tone for the future? Why do you need to think on all that is perverted and sinful and violent, and not have hope?"

Charlie's lips twisted into a sneer. "You say that, with full knowledge of what we have done to the archetypes? To the prototypes? To the entire year four of our civilization, locked away, breeding animals from where humans should be?"

"They are necessary evils, and—"

"And so is this!" shouted Charlie. "We need more soldiers than cleaners, for in times of peace, soldiers can clean just as well. We need to make a race of strength, not morally upright pillows fit only to be the bedding for those of greatness!"

Davis was about to speak, when he suddenly broke out in a peal of laughter, one that shocked Charlie in how uncharacteristic it was for him. "What kind of analogy is that? 'Pillows fit only to be the bedding for those of greatness?' Oh my . . ." The council slowly burst out in genial laughter, diffusing the tension, and even Charlie smiled, and let down his guard, suddenly feeling the time was right for some candor.

"You know your time is short right, Davis?"

"Yeah. I see it in your eyes."

"Then let me tell you, I am waiting to see it in the eyes of the prototypes. I hunger for that soul who finally shows a spark of independence and leadership! I need to know that there will be someone to carry on, to push hard, to give up the pleasantries of life, and commit to the resurrection of America!"

"You mean, the resurrection of the human race," asked Davis.

"No, I mean America!" snapped Charlie angrily. "The human race be damned—I am a patriot, through and through! We have a greatness within us that transcends our species; a knowledge of our place in the history of this world that cannot, will not be denied."

He stood before them, a frenetic fire in his eyes that struck a chord of fear in all those seated to witness.

"You worry me, Charlie. More than even the prospect of another Countdown, you worry me."

"Do I? With me, you know that the Homestead will never die. No matter what, it will go on and on, and will thrive, and grow, and even if there is another damned Countdown, we of the Homestead will press on, undaunted by the damned Watchers, unperturbed by the stinking Deaconesses of this world! I think it's time you decided how you will die, and what you will be remembered for."

Charlie stormed out of the room, leaving the council in a shattered silence. Davis leaned over to Sou-Lin.

"What of the Actuals? Are they close to being ready?"

"Not close enough."
Chapter 13

Brian thought about staying home from Scott, away from friends who might ask the wrong question or touch on the rawest nerve, but he decided he would rather go there than spend the day alone with his parents. He got on the bus, as usual, and within minutes the old man came and sat next to him.

"Hello there, young man!" He was obnoxiously chipper, and for the first time, Brian wanted to forcibly make him shut up. "Where's your sister?"

Brian gazed abstractedly out the window. "You know, I saw a bird the other day."

The old man paused, the smile still hanging on his face while confusion consumed his mind, for lack of something better to do. "A bird? Really? Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Me and one of my friends saw it at Scott. It was blue and white, and it flew away . . ."

"Well, yes, I suppose there are a few coming back."

"Where do they come from?"

The old man gazed perplexedly at Brian. "Where's your sister?"

Brian let out a long sigh, almost a whimper. "Dead."

The old man whistled, and patted him on the knee. "I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. What happened?"

"She had sex, then found out she was sterile. The doctor . . . killed her."

"Why'd he kill her for that?"

"The official paper said she would be a drain on the resources of the Homestead. My dad thinks the doctor wanted a payoff."

The old man nodded to himself. "I've heard some rumors, yes I have."

"What have you heard?

The old man took a whiff from his canister of air. "Well, —and this is just hearsay, mind you, but the doctors have slowly been getting more and more power. They are the final arbiters of life and death. It is they who decide who gets medicine; they who decides whom to operate on. Medical care may be a provision guaranteed by the charter of the Homestead, but the quality of that care is completely up to the doctors. Did you know that no one can contest a doctor's decision? No one can bring charges against a doctor? Well, the doctors are getting a little tired of living in a house next to corpse removers, driving the same car as them, eating the same food. So they have started demanding extra, and we aren't in any position to refuse."

"But my dad didn't know!" cried Brian.

"Are you sure? I hate to sound harsh, but doctors don't really want to go around killing healthy children. They only do it as a last resort, only to make a point. You're one of the prototypes—I can tell. I'm sure your father has stuff to bargain with, I'm sure the doc knows that."

Brian sat back, thinking. "Dad's no damned saint. He trades in my extra food, and so does mom. If they wanted to, Iris would still be alive."

The old man patted him on his knee. "It's best not to dwell on things you can't change."

"But . . . I can. Or at least, the time is coming when I will be able to change things."

The old man nodded. "I have a lot of things to tell you, my boy, my young 'Alexander,' who dreams of taking over the world, for all the little peoples' benefit! Why don't you come by my house? I can give you a great deal of information."

"Why? Why do this for me?"

A wrinkled, simple smile graced the old man's aged face. "'Cause I like you. I think you have a compassion that the other young shits don't. So stay on for one more stop. I don't live far from the station. It'll probably only make you late an hour or so."

Brian looked out the window. A crop duster was flying low, spraying petrolatum over the grey fields in a vain attempt to keep the water in.

"Yeah, I'll do it."

The old man led him to a house just over a five minute walk from the station. It was small, and cramped, but Brian knew the old man was lucky to get even that, as he seemed to have no special skills, nor any children.

"Come on in, come in!" cried the old man, as they passed through the door. "You've got a laptop, right?"

"Yeah."

"I've got about a dozen DVDs filled with information."

"What kind?"

"I know every member of the Homestead council. I know all that they've done in the past! I even have records of the naughty things they've done now. And you asked about that bird? Well, that is a very tasty secret indeed. Come on, it's all in the basement. I keep it tucked away, just in case."

They passed through a large room filled with shelves overflowing with books. Brian paused to gaze at their titles.

Plato: The Republic. Hume: An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding. "You like philosophy?"

The old man paused, standing next to Brian, a gentle twinkle in his wrinkled eyes. "I've always been a philosopher! I need to know how the human mind works, need to understand our motivations, our desires. To me, it is the philosopher that is the soul, the conscience of humanity, challenging him to do more, shining a spotlight into the murky doubt of man."

Brian stood a moment longer, looking over the immense wealth of knowledge. His eyes fell on a gilt plaque that bore a picture of the old man as a precocious child, and his name. It began with a 'K,' but he couldn't figure out how to pronounce it. He passed over it, amazed at the quantity of books before him. "They don't teach philosophy at the Academy."

The old man nodded. "And that is a shame. How will anyone question their actions? What will govern those who govern? It all needs to be written down, in black and white, if any code of ethics is to be followed. Man is a tempestuous, passionate beast, which must be reigned in if society is to survive. The philosopher is the bravest of all human creation, for it is he that must stand against the knife, against the gun, armed only with his mind and his mouth, to tame the beasts that circle around him. Come—there isn't much time."

The old man led him to a small, white door, with paint chipping off. Something inside Brian balked at going through the door, even after the old man opened it and invited him in.

"What're you waiting for? Oh, did you know 'bout the archetypes?"

"What?"

He grinned with glee. "I've got schematics of the device they've got installed in their brains!"

"A device?"

"Yeah, yeah, how else do you think the Homestead has kept a bunch of teenagers in line? It's a device that releases a small amount of THC, a cannabinoid, every time they come in contact with one of your group. It gives them a slight high, and ensures loyalty to the ruling class." He motioned Brian down the steps. "Now come on—you haven't got much time."

Absolute loyalty? He thought back to Gustav, how eager he seemed to please Brian. I . . . control them? It was all that was needed to convince Brian to go down the steps into the darkness. And as he started down the stairs, the old man locked it behind.

"Go ahead, young man. I'll get the light switch."

The instant he flipped on the switch, about twenty old, wrinkled men could be seen standing around the perimeter of the room. Their eyes bulged, their mouths twisted in evil grins.

"What the—"

They were on him in an instant, grabbing his arms and legs, pulling him down to the floor. While he would have been able to fight off two or three, he was powerless against their combined strength. They dragged him over to a bench, made him bend over, then shackled his hands before him, and his feet behind. The old man stood in front of Brian, who now managed to look up.

"What are you doing?!"

He cackled with laughter. "What do you think? I thought it was the most hilarious thing, when you thought I wanted your sister. All boobs and no brains? I think not. Me and my friends like something . . . firmer."

Brian could feel his pants being pulled down, along with his underwear. He squirmed to try to stop them, anything to hold onto his clothes, but the hands that pulled were bony and strong, and would not be denied.

"Stop! I thought . . . I thought you were someone to trust—a man of the mind!"

"I am of the mind, my dear boy," he said, as he unbuckled his belt. "I have many needs, many desires, many dreams! It is the strong who uses, or abuses the weak, and you just didn't see my strength."

They all laughed around him, and he could feel their wrinkled hands run up and down his legs.

"Scream, my boy, scream as loud as you like! No one can hear you, down here. Now don't worry, we're not gonna kill you. And what I said was true—you'll be able to go back to work in little over an hour. But as for that hour, well, we do have some definite plans."
Chapter 14

Dawn held her head up high as she walked up the steps into the First Resurrection Church. While in her heart she knew that anytime one walked into a house of the Lord, one's spirit should be uplifted, she felt only misery now at whom she would find inside. But she pressed on, through the massive wooden doors, through the narthex, down the side aisle of the nave, past the dozens of Grunts who even without the Deaconess still sat on bended knee, their hands clasped together as they murmured short, cumbersome prayers, begging the Lord to change their lot in life.

She went through a small door to the side of the altar, and down a set of dark, tight steps, to a series of small rooms below in the sacristy.

"Dawn—is that you?" chirped an excited voice from below.

Dawn gritted her teeth, and resigned herself to the next few moments of misery. "Yes, Pamela." She stood in the tight hallway, her body limp, listening as she heard small, eager footsteps racing towards her.

"Oh my—don't you look pretty!" The Deaconess kissed her gently on the lips, a kiss Dawn didn't reciprocate. She merely kept her face as stone, tolerating the slimy moistness that pressed on her. "Oh, when will you give in, my dear thing? Ah well, I suppose one can't have everything, or everyone. If nothing else, the Lord teaches us that. Come on, come on!" She grabbed Dawn's hand, and dragged her back to the small room the Deaconess used as a study. It was cramped, with only enough room for a desk, a chair, a tall bookcase, and a narrow cot pressed against the wall that still reeked of sex. "So . . . tell me . . . how did things go?"

"He's leaving. Tomorrow he flies out to take care of some business."

"And . . . what would that be?"

"He didn't say, and the conversation didn't flow in that direction."

Pamela shrugged. "Well, you would know best. I have never met someone with so great a command of conversational and listening skills." She almost licked her lips as she drank in Dawn's silent, youthful form. "So, any more secrets about our arch-nemesis? Any psychological weapons we can use against him?"

"Not much. I learned Charlie only decided to seek power when the Countdown happened. Prior to that, he wasn't a model solider, but he came from a wealthy family, and seems to be yet another sloth from the faded world of decadence."

The Deaconess nodded. "I can see it. But . . . what keeps him going? Why is he so single-minded?"

"He is seeking another to take over—one of the prototypes. He's waiting to see which one will show leadership qualities."

"Why?"

"He knows that he won't last forever, and that this new world needs someone young to take it over."

"So . . . he sees himself as something temporary?"

"I believe so. It seems that he also believes not in the human race, but in the fictitious 'America,' that he wants only our people to succeed, to rule over all."

The Deaconess nodded, putting together the pieces of the puzzle. "I see it now! He never seemed the type to want to sit on a throne and tell people what to do. He just wants as many toys as he can get, as many women as he can have, and to be left alone. Any idea who the best prospects are?"

"He mentioned none, and other than the crew of Enterprise, I know of no other standouts."

The Deaconess nodded to herself. "Then when we attack, that ship and its crew must be our priority. "

"When?"

The Deaconess rubbed her hands together, smiling a toothy grin. "Tomorrow night. Charlie will be far enough away that he'll be unable to help, and the base will be relaxed, celebrating how well everything went with him." She took out a cigarette and quickly lit it, then took a long drag, venting a cloud of smoke. "How they worship him – it utterly sickens me! Well, I'll need to get our force mobilized, and get weapons passed out. Can you be off Scott tomorrow?"

"Yeah. There's nothing planned that I need to be part of."

"Good, good. You've never told me, why are you doing this?" Pamela took another long drag off her cigarette, feeding herself the courage to ask the question that long percolated on her lips. "When you came to me, with your command of the scripture, I knew you to be a true believer. But you've shown no interest in me," she said, with pouting lips, "and told me of no ambitions for power. Why are you doing this?"

"Because there will come a time that the world will follow the true word of God."

"And . . . what about me? When I take over the Homestead? Won't they then?"

"No. You are self-serving, and only desire power and sex."

The Deaconess' lips curled into a sneer. "Ever the honest little bitch, aren't you? So, you think me to be something temporary? Some passing storm that you can wait out?"

"Yes."

"And what if you were to be killed after all this happens?"

"I won't be. As you have me inside Scott, so I have hundreds of followers inside here. They may give you their bodies, let you ravage them, but their minds belong to the Lord. And they know only I represent the Lord truly."

Pamela came close, itching to break this young, arrogant body standing defiantly before her. "Why haven't you stopped me before now?"

"Because you serve a useful purpose. Because the Lord works through all kinds of people. Because you've done some good work, and deserve these last moments of greatness in your life. You're old, Pamela, and won't last long after this revolt. I won't trouble you while you still live, and neither will I hasten your death. But do not stand in the way of my ascension. It will happen, whether you like it or not."

Dawn stood, and for a moment the Deaconess saw someone else in front of her, someone shrouded in darkness, someone even to be feared. Then, a wide smile spread across her lips.

"Damn I want you," she grumbled in a low voice. "Damned Charlie for being able to have you."

Dawn replied firmly and confidently; "he has never had me. He has had my body, but never my soul. In the eyes of the Lord, I am still a virgin, for what I have done with my body has been in His service."

The deaconess watched her leave, and then sat back in her chair, taking another hard drag off her cigarette.

Damned she isn't some kind of fucked up.
Chapter 15

Brian made it into Scott about an hour and a half late. He stopped by the showers, and then sat through a class before lunch was called. He didn't get anything, couldn't bring himself to stomach any food, or deal with the innocuous teasing that was an integral part to life on Scott. Instead, he went over to Gustav, who was sitting with other Archetypes.

"Can I speak to you?"

Gustav quickly got out of his chair, and Brian led him to a corner of the cafeteria.

"I need someone killed."

Gustav nodded, with a smile creeping over his face. "How badly?"

"Very badly. I need him killed, and his home destroyed."

Gustav nodded again, with an even wider smile. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning. He is hiding citizens in the basement of his house. I need them brought out, executed, and I need him to load the bodies, like you did with those who attacked me before. Then, he is to be executed."

Gustav laughed out loud. "Nothing would make me happier!" Suddenly, his expression turned serious and grim. "You know, you have a warning against you from the Homestead."

Brian sighed. "Yeah."

"You need to take care of that—tonight. I don't need a doc's note for proof—I'll trust in your word. But you need to do it tonight."

Brian nodded. He turned to leave, when Gustav stopped him.

"I'd also like a favor from you."

"Yeah?"

"You're scheduled to go up on Eve, to the watchers?"

"Yeah."

Gustav's eyes bored into Brian with an intensity he found unnerving. "I'd like you to stay."

The strength almost all faded from his limbs. "Why?"

"We are . . . conditioned, to take orders from you prototypes. But some of you are better at it than others. I can tell you have more compassion than others. I know you're trained to command, but while others would use us as expendable bodies, you would think twice before making us senselessly risk our lives."

Brian thought for a moment, on giving up his dream. But the faces and laughter of the old men were all he could see and hear.

"Yes."

Gustav grabbed his arm, as he tried to leave again. "I need you to promise this. On your honor, you will stay."

Brian nodded. "I promise, on my honor, I will stay."

Gustav saluted him. "We are at your command."

Rape is not a crime . . . rape is not a crime . . . rape is not a crime . . .

Brian got in a car, and drove up a road he had driven hundreds of times before. Through fiercest duststorm, through thickest snow and rain, through the dead of night he had driven that path, always with a joy in his heart and lightness of spirit.

The car was one he kept about a mile from his house, in a garage to which only he had the key. More than that, he always kept the starter in a secret spot, so no one would ever move it. He loved this car—it was red, thick, and had an engine that made him feel like a man every time he started it up.

Tonight, the car raced at full bore, the engine growling in the moonlight, dust billowing in its wake.

Rape is not a crime . . . rape is not a crime . . . rape is not a crime . . .

Around one bend, then another, he pushed the machine relentlessly, trying to channel his anger and fear, frustration and humiliation into the leather-clad wheel, through the metal pedal under his feet. But it was just a car, a machine made of steel, aluminum, leather and rubber, and was unable to siphon off any of those emotions.

The car screeched to a halt, one block from the place it had always gone to. It was used only for this trip—to her home, back from her home. Tonight it sat, the engine rumbling, the steering wheel gripped tightly as its lone occupant sat and stared at the home up ahead.

Rape is not a crime . . . rape is not a crime . . . rape is not a crime . . .

The pedal was pressed, the Machine moved on.

Brian got home late again, and he stood outside the door of his home, thinking.

Why do I even go back in there? Without Iris, it feels . . . it's just awful. He sat on the steps out front, pulling up his mask, putting on his goggles as another dust storm was whipping up. It clouded the sky, obscuring any and all light from falling. Why did this happen to me? Why didn't those old men do that to someone else? God, I feel so dirty, so dirty I'll never be able to wash it all offa me, ever. He avoided the eyes of his friends all through the rest of the day, knowing they would be able to see right through him, know what was done to him. It hurt when he sat, and every time he felt the pain, he wanted to cower into a ball and cry. But something in him was broken, and had grown cold and hard, and a part of him knew he would never cry again.

He opened the door, and found his father was waiting in the darkness.

"I told you about getting home late, boy!"

His father wound up his hand to strike him, but Brian stood in the doorframe, unmoving, his eyes gleaming like black pearls.

"What? You think you're better than me?!"

"I know I'm better than you."

In an instant, Brian let loose all the anger, all the frustration stored in him over the years. He punched his father in his gut, and then brought his fist down across his face. His father tried to stand and strike out, but Brian brought up his right arm and punched him repeatedly in his mid-section. While he may not have liked to use physical force, all prototypes were trained in the methods of physical combat, so they would know what they would order the archetypes to do. His father groaned and spat blood, but Brian could see nothing but fury. He threw his father down onto the floor, and kicked him once in his head with his boots. He groaned, moaned with pain, but Brian got on his knees and let loose his fists, breaking ribs.

Then his father made a sickly, gurgling sound. It took Brian completely by surprise, this sound of impending death, and it scared him like nothing else in his life. He let go of his father and scurried away, letting loose tears that he never thought he would feel again. His father coughed a few times, after finally sitting up.

"I'm sorry."

"What?!" cried Brian, never, ever hearing those words out of his father's mouth.

"I'm sorry, son. I've been an awful father to you." Brian rushed over, and gripped his father's wide frame with his arms, pressing the life back into him. Joe let out a long sigh, then coughed some more, spitting blood. Brian wiped it off with his sleeve. "I'm supposed to be old, son, supposed to be losing my spirit and strength, but I can't! I see on the damned TV all those other old men going soft, going sentimental, as whatever's inside them goes quiet, but in me it still roars! Oh, how it roars . . . I want to fight, I want to kill! I want to fuck so many women I could cry. I have this seventeen-year-old mind in a sixty-seven-year-old body. I wanna drive off, run away, be free, and I can't, because this old body won't let me."

Joe took a deep breath, his face contorting in a grimace of pain and regret.

"I shouldn't hate you, son, but I do. I hate all of you! I hate how you will all sweep us aside, push us down, and take it all over. I see the same look on every single damned kid I work with. They all look like they want to jump me and rip me apart and the man in me wants to fight! The man in me wants to tear them apart—teach them a lesson, but my bones ache and my eyes are foggy and I wheeze when I run."

"Oh, Dad."

Joe started to cry. "You know, I could've saved Iris! I was so damned stupid. That fucking prick of a doctor and his smug little smile, soaking everything out of all of us. As if it isn't bad enough all you kids wanna kill us, we hafta have our own kind doin' it too? So I said no, and next thing, Iris was bein' dragged out the back by those crater-faced punks." He grabbed onto Brian's shirt, gazing into Brian's eyes, with a mournful, pleading look. "I begged him, son, I begged him! Me, down on my knees, sobbing, begging him to let her go, shouting at him that I'd pay any price, but he just laughed. He laughed, and they shot her, and she fell, so softly, without even crying, without even begging." He sagged in Brian's arms like a sack of flour. "It was my pride that killed her, son. I've lost her, just as I've lost you."

He wiped the tears from his father's eyes. "You haven't lost me, dad! I'm here, and I won't go away."

"You've got that space thing, and—"

"I've made a promise, father, one I intend to keep. I will be staying here, and making some people pay."

Joe glanced up into his son's eyes, and saw the death staring back. And the man within himself howled with glee, that somehow, someway, the vengeance he wished to exact would be paid. He reached up, and drew Brian's face close, and said, with a wildness in his eyes and a maniacal smile;

"Make 'em suffer, son—make 'em all suffer!"
Chapter 16

Brian got on the bus, as he usually did. And as usually happened, the old man came and sat next to him.

"Well, didn't expect to see you again!" He put his hand on Brian's knee, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "But, I suppose you've gotta go to work, and there's no other way for you to get there."

"Yeah."

"Well, I hope there's no hard feelings. Ooops—didn't mean to make a funny!" He smiled and chuckled to himself. "It's just that us old folks don't get to have much fun, and we're just kids at heart. Why, I might be seventy-two, but I'm really just thirty! I would be going out to parties, doing dome drugs, drinkin', and gettin' with every tight piece of ass I could see! But no tight pieces of asses want anything to do with me or my friends. Besides, we'll be gone soon." He paused for a moment, looking at Brian. "What's wrong, young man? You ain't sayin' much."

"I'm coming with you to your house again."

The old man's face lit up with a grin the size of the sun. "I knew it! I knew you liked it—I could tell that whole time!" He snuggled close to Brian, and ran his hand over Brian's chest. "Oh my, we're gonna have such a good time! And if you like, we can tie up one of my friends and make'em suffer—they'd really love it!"

The bus came to a stop, and Brian walked with the old man who could barely control his drooling. As they rounded the corner leading to his house, a contingent of archetypes could be seen standing at attention outside the old man's house.

"What's that?"

An archetype came out of a shadow, his weapon leveled at the old man.

"Don't move! Raise your hands!"

"What's going on, young man? What're they doing?"

Brian shoved him to the archetype. "I'm gonna have a little fun, now."

The archetype searched him, and then pushed him towards the house. As they got there, more archetypes could be seen herding a group of old men out from the house.

"What . . . what are you doing?!"

"Be silent!" shouted Brian, as he slashed into the old man's stomach with his hand. The old man coughed, and began to shake, fumbling for his canister of air, which Brian took great delight in slapping out of his hands. Gustav came up to Brian.

"Ready, sir!"

"Then execute."

"Take aim!"

All the archetypes raised their weapons, as the old men began to beg and plead. A few of them fell to their knees, or staggered forward, shouting and crying, screaming to be let go.

"Brian!" shouted the old man, "you wanna know where that bird came from? Do you really wanna know?!"

"Not really. Not now."

Brian nodded at Gustav, who brought down his hand. "Fire!"

They all fell in an instant, the wall behind them stained with flesh and blood. The old man stood near Brian cried in shock, his pants now wet with the contents of his bladder and the hot, runny excrement from his bowels.

"Now, load them onto the truck," ordered Brian of the old man. "Load them all!"

A pick-up was brought around, as the old man gazed at Brian, shell-shocked. "Why?"

"Just do it!" yelled Gustav, as he shoved the old man forward.

As the old man lifted the bodies of his fallen friends, he started to ramble to himself. Brian couldn't help but listen, no matter how much he hated him. "Yeah, guess this is what it comes to. Dead at the hands of others. We lived this long, beating out the mighty Countdown, sacrificing our lives to build a better future, only to have the very instrument we brought back to life, cut us down. What a terrible irony! I always wondered what that word had to do with ironing." About half the bodies were loaded, and he panted under the brilliant sun, sweat drenching his clothes. The archetypes laughed at the sight of such a pathetic creature, until Gustav motioned them to silence.

"Move it!" yelled Brian, "we haven't got all day!"

An archetype fired a bullet at the old man's feet, making him jerk up as if dancing a jig. He bent down, and went back to pulling the bodies to the truck, still mumbling to himself.

"Yeah, I sure could dance. I remember when I still played with women, in school, how pretty it all was! All the paper and flowers and dresses. All the young bodies smiling and pressing close, not caring what was going on outside, not seeing, or knowing that all . . . this . . . would come. Then, going out into the night air, hearing a few . . . Brian!" He stopped, dropping the last of the bodies next to the truck. "Do you know where the birds come from?! Did you hear of the plague that happened five years ago?! That's when they took 'em. When the Homestead finally had the chemicals, and the will, to do what needed to be done." He broke down, and knelt on the ground. "And it was with these hands that I helped them."

Gustav stepped forward, raising his gun, but Brian held him back, and bid him to retreat, just out of earshot.

"The only way to bring back the frozen embryos of all the animals we needed was to put them into a body. We tried with the dolphins, with the whales, but just couldn't make it work. Then someone had the bright idea of putting an inseminated pig embryo into a human woman, one that was injured and in a deep coma. We pumped her with every anti-viral imaginable, forced her body to adapt, not to reject the foreign, disgusting birth inside her, and it actually worked! She was mother nature incarnate, in fact, we even named her, and all that came after her, the Eingana!"

"So we came up with the plague, and stole every child born that year. There is a facility, on Beaver Island, filled with the thirteen year olds, the missing generation, tied down and drugged up, and forced to bring back the animals of this world." He stared hard at Brian. "That is where your birds come from—the Eingana, sentenced to a lifetime of abominable birth for the race of men. From them come your pigs, your cows, your sheep, your birds, your snakes—everything we had an embryo of, we have put into the wombs of those little girls, and made them carry it to term. I didn't lie to you, Brian; I have much information on the homestead. Only problem is, I'm an integral part of it."

Brian nodded to Gustav, who came back and fired another shot at the old man's feet.

"Alright, alright." He lifted the last body onto the truck. "Guess I deserve it. But don't you think I deserve the young pretties of my own, deserve some recompense, other than the nightmares and guilt that have hung over me ever since? To see the world reborn, in the bowels of the enslaved?! To have to live with—"

"Enough!" shouted Brian. "Now, come here!"

The old man came over, his clothes stained with blood, his face covered in tears and mucus.

Brian turned to Gustav. "This man is guilty of the heinous sin of homosexuality. He does not deserve the bullet, rather, he deserves the blade!"

Gustav smiled, as he pulled out his knife. "Yes sir!"

The old man staggered back, terror gripping his soul. "Even after . . . all I told you! Even after . . . I know you liked it! I know you did!" Gustav advanced, and the old man's eyes were transfixed by his blade, regarding the instrument of his doom. "I'll be on your conscience, young man! Maybe not on the minds of these . . . animals, but—" Suddenly, Gustav plunged forward, striking deep in the old man's side. "Damn! I gave my life . . . gave my soul, for humanity!" The other archetypes drew their blades, and advanced on him, but his eyes were focused only on Gustav's blade which now dripped with his own blood. Brian sat on the ground, his arms around his legs, and smiled as they patiently played with the old man, tossing him back and forth, cutting deep, but not so deep that their fun would evaporate too quickly. Finally, the old man collapsed onto his knees, as the archetypes closed in around him.

"What . . . what is this? Who lives . . . who—"

The archetypes pressed in, hacking into skin and limb, until there was very little left to go onto the truck.

Gustav wiped his blade on his pants, and came next to Brian, who now stood in the light of the rising moon, his eyes distant and vacant.

"Is our work done?"

"No," answered Brian, with a thin smile. "Our work has just begun. Formation!"

The fifty archetypes ran and formed three short lines in front of him, with Gustav in the lead.

"There is a doctor who is killing fertile, pregnant women, in the name of power and greed. This violation breaks codes 113, 78, 45, 209, and, most importantly, the Prime Edict, that nothing shall happen to terminate unborn life." He took a deep breath, as his smile widened. "As such, this doctor is sentenced to euthanasia! May his euthanization further improve our Homestead!"

"To the Homestead!"

In five Hummers they were loaded as the pickup with the bodies of the old men pulled away into the distance. As they crossed over road and bridge, Brian felt a new ego take control of his being—a more focused imperative. All the training and education he had received in leadership and military command surged forward in his mind, purging his immature desire to venture into space. It was late in the day as the Doctor Melon's home came into view, and Brian smiled the smile of a man that knew his place in things, and understood his destiny.

"Break out the flamethrowers!" he yelled, as they pulled to a stop. "Unit one and two, assume standard pacification formation." Two lines of Archetypes formed, one on either side of the house, as eight men carried flamethrowers and took up equidistant points forming a ring around the house. Brian stood for a moment, reviewing their formation, and then pulled out a bullhorn.

"Melon!"

A light went on, and the door slowly opened. The frail, old body of Doctor Melon came out, wiping his eyes.

"What . . . what is it?"

"Do you know who I am?"

"No—are you daft?! It's too dark out, and these old eyes can't see a thing."

"I am Brian Torres, and you murdered my sister, Iris."

Melon's hand dropped from his eye, as realization spread over his face. "Your . . . your sister—she was infertile!"

"Liar!"

Brian went for a pistol from the nearest archetype, but Gustav ran over and stopped him.

"You give the orders, we do the killing," he whispered softly. "You know that. That is the order of things."

Brian nodded, as his face went blank. He put the megaphone to his mouth again.

"You have been found guilty of treason, guilty of breaking codes 113, 78, 45, 209, and, most importantly, the Prime Edict; that nothing shall happen to terminate unborn life."

"No!" screamed the doctor, falling to his knees. "Don't do this, Brian! Please!"

"As such, you are condemned to euthanization, sentence to be carried out—"

"Please!"

The word reverberated in Brian's skull, for a moment stirring sentiment and compassion. Deep in his heart, he knew the doctor just felt frustrated and old like his father, and was growing tired. He knew the doctor probably did more good than evil, was probably, in the end, of more value to the Homestead alive than dead. But the face of his sister was as a thick blanket, killing warmth instead of stoking it.

Melon began to laugh. "You think you are so in control now, Brian, just because you've got these jack-booted thugs behind you? You know nothing! Why, you don't even know that Jacob isn't even your—"

"Fire!" screamed Gustav.

The guns fired in a short, one second burst, riddling Melon with hundreds of bullets. Then, the flamethrowers spit their accelerant and flame, converting the home and its former occupant into dust and ash.

"What was he going to say?" asked Brian, as Gustav motioned his men back into their trucks.

"In my experience, men facing death utter either all truth, or all lie, and either way, it does no good to listen to them." An aide ran up to Gustav, and whispered in his ear. When he finished, Gustav came to attention before Brian, and said; "we have reports, sir."

It was the first time Brian was called 'sir' in that manner, and he liked it. "Yes?"

"Scott is under siege. A large group of grunts are attacking, under the leadership of Deaconess Rodriguez."

"Why?" he asked, confused.

Gustav shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Brian smiled, and nodded. "Not in the least. All archetypes; load your guns, board your vehicles, and head for Scott!"

"Yes sir!"
Chapter 17

Explosions bloomed around Scott, as a large mass of five thousand Grunts under the Deaconess' command pressed forward. The perimeter of the base was littered with hundreds of semis and tour buses, all parked to form a metal moat, blocking forces inside Scott from escaping. The invasion commenced just after taps was played over the loudspeaker, as most just laid down for a night's rest. The barracks were stormed first, with over five hundred archetypes killed before the general alarm could be sounded.

The grunts carried not only guns and knives, but sections of pipe and propane torches. The men were organized to bear the brunt of any assault, while the women set fire to buildings they captured with the torches. Almost twenty percent of the base was now engulfed in flames, sending billowing black smoke over the rest.

Most of the prototypes huddled in the hangar bays or in the cafeteria, for though they possessed the aptitude with which to command a battalion, none of them had ever seen battle, ever had to hold a position as an enemy fired relentlessly. Conversely, the archetypes charged without logic, packs scurrying forward sputteringly only to be rebuffed by the unified front of the Grunts. The Deaconess remained in the rear, observing the action from a metal bucket suspended high in the air by a crane, directing her commands by cellphone, conducting the battle as if she were Napoleon on top of a hill.

Brian's small team rushed into the base and quickly established the locations of the various section leaders. Gustav signaled to all that Brian was in charge, and within a few minutes, various section leaders phoned in their situation.

"We're pinned down outside the armory!"

"The fuel depot has been hit by explosives, and the motor pool is under their control!"

"The cafeteria is under heavy fire, as they seem to be targeting the prototypes!"

"We have two squads trying to protect Eve and Enterprise, but they are using our own trucks against us!"

Brian scanned the area, seeing that they were setting afire property they seized. They must want to break us utterly, so that would mean killing all prototypes, and destroying Enterprise. "We must decide where to make a stand—where to set our rally point," he said to Gustav. "The most important prize is the main hangar complex, with Eve. Second is the protection of the prototypes, though their cowardice will not go unnoticed or unpunished. Rally all other troops not protecting prototypes at the main hangar!"

"Yes sir!"

The archetypes moved in unison across the base, scurrying figures clad in black, wielding short, squat guns that were matte in the faint moonlight. The grunts noticed their movements, as did the deacon atop the crane.

They have a leader, she thought to herself. Charlie would love to know this! What will he or she do? They are rallying around the main hangar. Then there they shall die!

She ordered the grunts to attack the main hangar en masse, as Brian arrived there in a Jeep. Before him stood almost a thousand archetypes, many with some form of injury. Though strong, their morale was sorely sapped. Their guns hung around their shoulders, as their clothes were disheveled. Brian whirled to Gustav.

"These are your archetypes? These are the pride of the Homestead, the soldiers that will defend our borders, and ensure our survival?!"

Gustav nodded brusquely. "Straighten yourselves, soldiers! Get your sorry asses to attention!" In the distance trucks could be seen approaching, spitting machine gun fire. In their wake, the women set fire to every structure they could, as explosions ignited further back. "This is a review! You are archetypes of the Homestead, and you must be crisp and tight!"

The soldiers sprang to life, tucking in their clothes, adjusting their weapons. In less than a minute, they looked polished and ready.

"Ready for your orders, sir!" they shouted in unison.

Brian scanned the forces closing in. "Form protective battle lines! Front line low, next high!"

The troops assembled into two lines, with the front line kneeling, the rear standing.

"Draw guns!"

They did, leveling their guns at the approaching enemy, who was now in firing range. A haze of bullets felled some of the archetypes, yet none broke formation.

"You will not move, until ordered to do so!" yelled Gustav. "We are archetypes, and we are strong!"

"Yes sir!"

"Now," bellowed Brian, eager to test their mettle, "one, then three bursts. Fire!"

The front line fired repeatedly for a second, then paused three seconds. After the front line had fired, the rear line fired for a second, then rest for three. Back and forth they went, until the group of approaching forces was completely wiped out.

"Now, advance! Five meter advance, ten second barrage . . . go!"

They got to their feet, and ran ahead five meters, then assumed their original firing positions. More and more grunts approached, but were unable to advance on the archetypes. After almost an hour of fighting, Brian glanced back, and saw they had secured the main hangar bay.

"We've done it!" shouted Gustav, clenching his fist.

"Not yet," replied Brian. "We have a big base to take back. Leave fifty men here. Send another eighty to eradicate those damned sluts with torches. The rest, follow me to the armory!"

"Yes sir!"

They ran at full bore, Brian ordering them to charge the small forces at the armory. As most grunts had been situated in search of prototypes, they easily got inside. The archetypes pulled out crates full of weaponry, and distributed it among their ranks.

"Now, three line platoon! Front; flamethrower! Middle and rear; machine gun!"

They arranged into the three lines, the front line priming their throwers.

"Now, advance at march speed! Flamethrower five second, then one/three interval firing for middle and rear. Engage!"

They moved forward, the fire spewing first, then the archetypes with guns mopping up behind. They pressed around the perimeter of the base, gathering more archetypes as they went. Soon, the cafeteria and most of the base was under their control, with the grunts taking up a defensive position inside the motor pool.

"What now?" asked Gustav. "They hold the advantage with that position. It'll be hard to break them."

"And yet, they must be broken. Everyone in the Homestead must know that the archetypes cannot be challenged, cannot be defeated!"

Gustav came to full attention. "Yes sir!"

"They all must die," ordered Brian, crossing his arms on his chest. "You now have control of the armory. I leave it to you to choose how they will perish."

Gustav grinned. "I was right about you."

"Who knew?" asked Brian with a shrug. "If you had told me, a year ago, I would be supervising the deaths of so many, I would've called you insane. But sometimes, events change a man, or a boy, and turn them into something of survival and vengeance. That is what we, what the Homestead, must be about. Survival, and vengeance."

Gustav grasped his hand. "The archetypes shall follow you, until our last breath."

"And until I breathe my last breath, I will be someone worthy to follow. Now, dispatch our enemies!"

"Yes sir!"

Brian sat back and watched, as the archetypes broke out surface-to-air missiles and grenades by the boxload, and began to hurl it all into the motor pool. Within a half-hour the pool was on fire, forcing the grunts to flee. But they archetypes were waiting, and with bullet and flame ended their lives.

The Deaconess was brought to Brian shortly after the last of the Grunts were killed. They threw her down in front of Brian, who sat now in the passenger seat of a Jeep.

She laughed as she looked on him, this still-young boy with his first taste of killing. "So, you're the whelp who defeated me, and my faithful?"

"I would think that would be obvious."

"The insufferable arrogance of the prototypes. So, what will you do, now that you have won? Kill me? Kill the council? Turn on the 'Machine'?"

Brian nodded, absently. "It is long past time the Machine was turned on. We have cowered long enough from the threat of another Countdown. We have held our breath long enough, as the dust whips around our world. It is time we felt pride again at being human, and gained control over this world!"

"What of God?" she pleaded earnestly. "Have you no faith? That's why I did this—why it must be done! Those such as you would lead us into an immoral future, devoid of faith, of compassion, of love . . ."

Brian got out of the Jeep and stood over her, his crotch in front of her face. "We have come to the brink of destruction, my Deaconess. All you knew is now gone—the future is in our hands. Someone said to me that this was the Age of Doubt. I tell you this is the Age of the Man! God is no more, for surely he has forsaken us, left us at the mercy of who knows what! All we have to believe in, all we have to rely on, is ourselves." Brian pulled out a pistol, and jammed it into her mouth. Gustav started to come over but Brian motioned him to be still. "I must be able to do what I ask others to do," he said evenly. His face then softened, as an echo of who he was returned. "When you see God, ask him why he abandoned us. Ask him if he still cares."

A single shot rang out, sending the Deaconess' soul out into the void.
Chapter 18

The last of the fires were being extinguished as Charlie's helicopter touched down near the center of Scott. When he got out, he knew something had changed.

Where are they?

No archetypes ran to greet him, to preen and pose for him. No prototypes huddled around him, eager for his words, desperate for his attention. Frank took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag off it.

"Guess we both knew this day would come."

"Yeah," morosely replied Charlie. "Guess we did. Time to see who rose to the top."

"You know, we could just nuke the whole base, and keep on goin'."

Charlie patted Frank heartily on the back. "Yeah, but there are limits, even for me. Come on."

He walked briskly with Frank over to the HQ, and found Gustav just inside. He was a little relieved to see Gustav's rigid salute.

"At ease, Klendricks. Who's in charge?"

"Brian, sir! Brian Torres sir!"

Charlie nodded with approval, even if he didn't recognize the name. "Take me to him."

He led Charlie into the HQ, down a few halls to a small war room where Brian was speaking to the other prototypes, filling him in on the events of the day. He waited as Brian wrapped up, watching him speak.

He's got the authority, alright. Well, if he rebuffed an attack from the Deaconess, and had the guts to shoot her in cold blood, then I imagine he's ready for the whole thing.

The prototypes filed out past Charlie, still with some admiration in their eyes, but cowed with the knowledge that Brian was still nearby. Charlie took a deep breath, assimilating the new order of things, and came over to Brian.

"Well done, young man, well done!"

Some part of Brian was immensely satisfied hearing those words, even if he already knew it was true. "Thanks! I've officially taken over control of this base. I hope . . . this doesn't inconvenience you?"

"No, no. Never was much for the whole 'General' thing. I'd much rather be a rogue element, free to come and go as I please. So, what's your first action?"

Brian motioned him over to a wide dry-erase board, on which were outlined his priorities. "First, the launch of Eve. Second, the repair of this facility. Finally, pacification of the people, at which time the Machine shall be activated. Nothing like this can ever happen again."

Charlie nodded. "You ready for that kind of responsibility? For the weight of the survival of the entire human race?"

Brian's jaw squared, as he grew stiff. "I wouldn't have taken command of this base, and defeated the Deaconess and her grunts, if I wasn't ready for it all."

Charlie nodded, impressed by his bravado. "Anything I can do?"

Brian came closer, and whispered, "the Eingana?"

"Where'd you hear of that?"

"From a dead man."

Charlie nodded. "Well, you're in charge, and this is something you'll need to know about, and decide what to do about."

Brian flew in Charlie's helicopter, leaving Frank to stay behind to help the cleanup of Scott. Brian had never been up in the air—not even in his training for Eve. Fuel was too precious a commodity to be wasted on training for any but the pilot, and several weeks ago he learned Todd would be the captain and pilot. So, he enjoyed the helicopter ride, and contented himself with the knowledge that as commander of Scott, he would be able to go into the air like this whenever he wanted, for as long as he wanted.

"Kinda nice, ain't it?" asked Charlie, banking hard to the left and right, showing off.

"Yeah." They started to pass over a large body of water, which Brian guessed to be Lake Michigan. It sprawled under them, the most water Brian had ever seen in one place. "Where are we going?"

"A small island in Lake Michigan, called Beaver Island."

They arrived at the small island, near the northernmost tip of Lake Michigan. The air was cold, and Brian drew his jacket tight around him. Charlie touched down in front of a massive building that looked more like a barn, with dozens of trailers parked nearby. A mist hung low, and for the first time in a long time, Brian actually felt fear.

"Never liked coming here myself," said Charlie, as they disembarked. "I've always taken a great interest in all the projects of the Homestead, but this one I was more than happy to turn over to someone else."

"What is this place?"

"This is . . . this is where the future of our species is ensured. This is not only the greatest achievement of mankind, but the most foul abomination at the same time. I warn you, Brian, once you see this, you will never be the same."

"I've seen plenty, and done things that have changed me irrevocably."

"That may be true, my young prototype, but I've been alive far longer than you, and I can assure you, you have no idea what's to come."

As they headed to the tall building, Charlie told him that this complex had been in a state of suspension, ever since the first skirmish with the Deaconess. Archetypes were pulled back to Scott, in case anything should happen.

"So, you probably should thank me. Normally, our troop levels at Scott would've been half what they were."

"Thanks," replied Brian absently.

Charlie gritted his teeth, as he was unused to the arrogance of youth. Now I remember why I've spent so little time with the little shits. "Anyway, they aren't many who know of this facility, and fewer still who have the knowledge of the technology behind it. The chief engineer and researcher was an old red-haired man, who we allowed to retire a few years back."

A chill ran up Brian's spine. "What was his name?"

"Kloud . . . Klaus? No, it was . . . Klonhagen! I remember now. Never liked the sonofabitch, always lookin' at me twice, with a look in his eyes that men shouldn't have for other men. But, without him, we never would've come as far as we have."

Brian thought back to the plaque he saw in the old man's house, the name he couldn't figure out how to pronounce. "I . . . think I've met him."

"Really? How's he doing?!"

"I had him killed, so he's doing pretty badly."

It was like walking into a giant farm. The building was archaic, obviously built after Countdown, as it was uneven and slipshod. The low-hanging lights flickered on and off, and puddles of standing water ran the length, as the roof was obviously leaking. As they walked, Brian had to keep slapping at flies and mosquitoes that hungrily bit at him. There was an odor that smelled of manure and wet fur and slaughter, and it all pressed in as if the entire atmosphere on that island was in a terribly strong vise.

"We had to throw this up pretty quick. It gets better once we pass in."

They walked past empty pens and stalls, in which hay and animal excrement could be seen. They were all empty, but they numbered in the hundreds and lined the entire perimeter of the inside of the building. They went through another door, this one heavy and airtight, passing into a white, pristine complex. Brian took a deep breath, as the air was now purified and smelled of delicate sweetness.

"Nice, ain't it?" Charlie led Brian to another door, on which was scrawled 'Eingana' in thick, black marker. "Well, this is it, my young prototype. You have earned the right to see this, though you might hate me, and all the Homestead once you do."

Brian gritted his teeth. "I'm ready."

Charlie opened the door, and the first thing that hit Brian was the foul stench of organic waste. It was a powerful scent that almost brought him to his knees.

"Here," motioned Charlie as he yanked a respirator from a line of them that hung near the door, "put this on."

Brian put it on, and managed to breathe clean air again. They toured the perimeter, and Brian almost vomited at the sights and sounds.

The main floor was filled with what must have been five thousand people, lying on their backs. Brian only knew they were people because they still had a head, two legs and two arms. Their torsos were all distended, with their bellies ballooned out, as two breasts lolled on top like helium-filled sacs. Each figure was hooked up to dozens of wired and tubes, through which various fluids flowed.

It was as if all creation swirled around Brian, for that moment, making him nauseous and sick. He was seeing something no human ought to see, much like being the first outsider to see the Concentration Camps of Nazi Germany, or the Killing Fields of Cambodia. The enormity of the abomination stunned even his now jaded senses. To see so many people transformed into living, breathing, breeding machines for animals, to see the masses of tubes and wires and clamps and rods sticking out of the girls who were only a year younger than him, broke his very soul. If not for one year difference, I'd be dead, or nailed down like them, sacrificed so farm animals could fester inside my belly.

He came close to one of the breeding bodies. A girl of caramel skin, she was bald, with three tubes inserted into various parts of her head. Her eyes were hidden under a dark, metal visor, but her body lay bare. Her breasts were thick and full, and undulated as a pump attached to them mechanically siphoned her milk away. Her belly, itself as massive as an adult male, was placid one moment, turbulent the next, as four separate entities gestated within.

"This is . . . the genesis of our future," said Charlie quietly. "These are the Eingana, the birthing vessels. From them, all animal life has sprung again."

Brian ran his hand along her naked skin. It felt hot and slimy, with a texture that was distinctly . . . inhuman. Her mouth opened, as if she was about to say something. "All animal life?"

"Yes. We have made it so these human wombs can bring various species of animals to term. The pig, goat, cow, horse, they all are birthed here, in the wombs of the forgotten generation. Even the eggs of reptiles and birds are created in the wombs of these little girls, and then placed in a hibernator until they hatch."

"The plague?"

Charlie nodded, as they moved slowly around the other birthing vessels. "I don't remember who came up with the idea of using the plague for a cover, but it worked. After we announced that an entire generation was ruined, we took all the children, killing the males, then pumping the girls full of drugs to negate the bodies' natural rejection of foreign substances."

They came to a stop in front of a tall, pale-skinned vessel, whose belly was obscenely large. It had drawn the skin so tightly, that faint impressions of the fetuses within could be seen.

"How . . . how many?"

"Some vessels can carry up to five fetuses—so long as they are of the same species. We've segregated them, so we never put different species in the same vessel."

Brian thought he heard something from the vessel before him, so he bent his ear close to its mouth. "What's she saying?"

Charlie stood by what once was a young girl, who lay without sight, and put his hand along its head, stroking it lightly and tenderly. "They never learned to speak, but they know how to whimper."

Brian took a step back, aghast.

Charlie nodded, appreciating his reaction. At least, he still has some moral core. I can't have some damned sociopath running things. "Well, that's why I brought you here. I'm giving you the chance to start fresh. We have enough animals produced, so they can mate with each other, and bring those species back. We could . . . destroy, all you see before you. And when the switch is thrown, when the Machine rises, it will be clean and untainted by the sins of the Homestead."

Charlie went into a nearby room, leaving Brian alone, in the sea of perverted humanity.

Iris could have been here, and we never would have known. It was almost a . . . gift that she was taken as quickly as she was. How could we do this to ourselves? How could anyone . . . service . . . these living, quivering horrors?

Charlie returned with a large flamethrower, primed, and ready for use. "I give you this chance."

Brian took it from him, and gazed again on the field of human abominations.

"If you do this, you need to know that if another Countdown happens, it will need to be done again. There is no way to bring back the animals otherwise. And it must be done, for there to be any balance to our ecosystem, for our species to thrive."

Brian hefted the thrower in his hand, and glanced back at Charlie. "An old fool once told me that we live in the Seventh Age of Man, and the skeptic that he was called this the Age of Doubt, which has its merit. But now, after seeing this, the true nature of this time in human history is finally revealed to me. This is the Chemical Age, for all that we are is due to some chemical biological mutation. The prototypes are smart because of chemicals, the archetypes strong because of chemicals, the workers and breeders live because of food grown in chemically altered bodies of children." He spat on the floor. "We owe all we are now to chemicals, and if something isn't done, they will be the death of us."

Brian switched on the thrower, spitting accelerant, then flame on the vessels. They caught fire quickly, and soon, the machinery began to explode. Charlie pulled him out, as the complex quickly became engulfed in flame.

"I disabled the fire suppression system while I was inside," said Charlie. "All of that generation will perish in this flame."

Brian stood back, and watched as Charlie gazed on the burning building, as they both heard the screams of the dying. Brian couldn't tell if they were screams of joy or pain.

"There are two more buildings, like these, on this island. If you like, we can—"

As Charlie turned around, he found Brian had pulled out his handgun and leveled it at Charlie's chest.

"What's this, my young prototype?"

"It's time the machine was turned on. All it takes is a flick of the switch."
Chapter 19

It had been two weeks since the old man was knifed to death, since Charlie perished in an accidental fire on Beaver Island, yet Brian couldn't get either of their faces out of his head. A part of him still felt compassion, still felt guilt over letting himself be abused, over ordering his death, over killing the one man who seemed to truly care about the future of humankind.

But he was learning to smother that compassion.

It helped when Dawn suddenly took an interest in him. While he never trusted her, she had a newfound strength that was oddly compelling. She broke ties with Todd, and began to run a prayer service at Scott. While Brian never believed, never really cared about God, seeing her everyday bring some joy, some hope to those under his command, warmed his heart to her. And when she pursued him aggressively, instead of the teasing he endured with Rachel, something in him broke, and he became hers as she became his, and they, as a team, began to plan for the eventual takeover of the Homestead.

Gustav beamed with pride everyday he saw Brian. All the archetypes saluted him and paraded for him as if he was a new, younger Charlie. The prototypes quickly fell in line behind him also, and soon Brian had Scott organized as it should be, with clear delineations of hierarchy.

Joe found a new respect for him, and they spent some time together. Brian even invited him and Jess to watch the final takeoff of Eve and Enterprise. They now sat in grandstands set up at Scott for the launch, watching as final preparations were made to the ships.

"Are you sad, the way things turned out, son?" asked Joe.

"Not as sad as you were. I understand you so much more. We were both victims of circumstance, as was the whole world. All we can do is make the best of what is given us, and forge ahead."

"We have launch!" blared a voice on the loudspeaker.

Eve took off, bearing Enterprise and its cargo of ten team members, with Todd as captain. It was a graceful thing, like a gangly white bird, rising confidently and effortlessly into the sky. There was no bombast of thrust or roar of rocket motor like in the old videos of the STS takeoffs, but it was still immensely satisfying to all present. A part of Brian was supremely envious of Todd, but it was fading to a dull roar in the back of his subconscious.

"What do you think they'll find up there?"

"Does it really matter? They can't bring all the dead back; they can't bring back all the plants and animals. We've got to do that."

"You mean you've got to do that."

Brian put his arm around his father. "You know, a lot is going to happen, now that Eve has launched.

"I kinda figured that," said Joe, with a wry smile. "You and Dawn are really gonna get rid of the council?"

"Yeah. It's time. My generation will never be settled, until its own kind takes over. The council may have to die, but I know I can make it so they will be the only old ones that do."

"No riots? No mass genocide?"

"No, father. Rest easy."

Joe slung his arm around Jess, who giggled in reply. "Wish we could have another child. I do miss Iris."

"Me too. Me too." He slung his arm around Dawn. She wasn't much for that kind of behavior, but she quietly tolerated it, while they were in Brian's parents' presence. "I'm sure we can give you something more to care for." His thoughts suddenly grew nostalgic, as he thought on Rachel lying dead somewhere, with his unborn child inside. While rape may not have been a crime anymore, he did want to start things off fresh in his new rule, and didn't want any lingering issues to complicate matters. He glanced down at Dawn, and set her free of his grip, meekly cupping her hands in his. She beamed with joy and understanding, and drew him in for a long kiss.

"Ten . . . nine . . ."

"Is that?" The whole complex got to their feet, as an androgynous voice could be heard on every radio, as numbers flashed on every screen.

"Eight . . . Seven . . ."

People bolted for the main pool, a cacophony of bodies tumbling over one another. Dawn broke into a mad dash, while Brian tried to pull his father, but Joe wouldn't budge, just sitting with Jess at his side.

"Six . . . five . . ."

Joe shoved him away, and smiled at the same time. Brian understood, and ran with all his might to the pool, watching as Dawn dove in.

"Four . . . Three . . ."

He paused, just outside the pool, debating if he really wanted to live.

"Two . . ."

A hand, Gustav's hand, suddenly reached out, and pulled him in.

"One . . ."

As the waves of time washed over the world, Brian looked out of the water, at his father's smiling face, his tears mingling with the water of his salvation.
Chapter 20: Interlude 1

"Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . ."

The Countdown began as Enterprise reached minimum orbital altitude. Todd whirled in his seat, double checking the instruments.

"It can't be!" he yelled. "Not now—not when we're so close!"

"Seven . . . six . . . five . . ."

"What will happen if we don't go with the Earth?" asked Sarah, his co-pilot, as the rest of the crew unbuckled their harnesses and gathered around them. "What happens to us?"

"Four . . ."

"The fabric of space time will snap back with a terrible shock," answered Gordon, the scientist of the group, "most likely destroying us."

"Three . . ."

"But I can see the Watchers! They're right there!"

The crew of Enterprise could see the faint detail of one of the ships of the Watchers. It was a golden ship with white stripes along its length, and it hovered tantalizingly close.

"Two . . ."

Todd suddenly switched on the comm. system, frustrated and angry beyond belief. All his life had been building to this launch, all the hopes of humanity pinned on him and his crew, and now he knew, that no matter what, he was going to let them down. It seemed immensely unfair to him, and he knew there was precious little he could do about it.

"Watchers—are you friend or foe!"

"One . . ."

"Tell us—please!"

The Earth suddenly vanished beneath them, taking the moon along with it. And just before the shockwave of the fabric of space-time snapped back, obliterating their ship in an instant, one word came over the comm. system;

"Friend."

CONTINUED IN SEVENTH AGE OF MAN PART II: MATURATION

