Utopia Gone (2 page)

After he was taken out of the transport, the man
was escorted through the building. His group was stopped many times
to verify their credentials. After he was through all these stops,
he was placed in a small room—
Confinement once again—
that
had two chairs and a dim light hanging from one of the dank walls.
In a way it reminded him of a cave, but without the snug feeling of
comfort.

The wait could have been minutes or hours.
Without a view of the star it was impossible for him to gauge how
much time had passed. He hadn't grown extremely tired or hungry, so
he inferred a full day had yet to pass. The man couldn't comprehend
why all this was happening to him.

Just as he was deciding to sleep on the hard,
uncomfortable floor, the single door opened and another man walked
in. He was tall and lean with pale limbs and a yellowed complexion.
Something seemed familiar about the newcomer, and the longer he
looked at him, the more hatred welled up inside the man.

“My name is Sunderson,” the newcomer said, his
voice slow, as if speaking to someone stupid. “Do you understand
me?” As he asked, his already buggy eyes popped out even more.

“Yes...yes I do,” was all the man could offer in
return, his voice was hoarse and rough around the edges.
Where
do I know him from? And why do I hate him so much?
He cringed
slightly as Sunderson sat down in the chair across from him, his
popping eyes closer than ever. The man could see that Sunderson was
enjoying the moment, savoring his discomfort.

“You wouldn't know this, but your name is Gaul,
John Bosemer Gaul. You also have no idea why you are here, or how
you got on that pleasure moon.” The words were said with
confidence, no hint of question.

The thought of not knowing his origin caused a
queasy feeling to swell in the man once known as John Bosemer Gaul.
He didn't like the sensation and he didn't like Sunderson.
How
did I never think of my past?
He quickly searched his memory
and found it lacking for anything about his origin or how to deal
with Sunderson. He didn't know what to do, so he just blurted out
the first thing that came to mind: “How did you know I was on the
planet?”

Sunderson looked puzzled for a moment. This made
his popped eyes look even more grotesque and Gaul flinched away
from him. Sunderson seemed not to notice and began speaking again.
“Your skewed view of the cosmos had me slightly confused for a
moment. Congratulations, that doesn't happen very often.” After a
slight pause he continued, “You, Mr. Gaul, were on the moon, while
we here on New Terra were on the planet. You seem to have your
labels confused. We knew you were on the pleasure moon because we
put you there.”

Gaul was shocked, not so much because of the
revelation itself, but because he couldn't remember it being done.
That was scary. He could have wept in frustration and confusion,
but he held himself back because some deep part of him knew
Sunderson would get a kick out of it. He couldn't give the pop eyed
man the satisfaction.

“You've grown awfully quiet. Don't you have any
questions?” The buggy eyes bored into him for a moment and then
Sunderson continued, “I've given you quite a shock I see. I'm
sorry.” Sunderson's voice sounded kind and gentle, but the look on
his face proved otherwise.

“As a matter of fact,” Gaul replied, his voice
steeled with determination and resolve, “I do have a few
questions.” He then paused for a moment to take a deep breath that
belied his bravado. “Tell me why I was placed on this pleasure
moon.”

“In order to explain that, I'll need to go way
back,” Sunderson said, his eyes bulging with excitement. “I'll need
to brief you on certain historical points. Of course, your full
memory will be restored to you quite soon which will make all this
information quite superfluous, but we have nothing else to do until
the techs get the mental model downloaded, so why not?.” His eyes
seemed to pulse in and out with the anticipation of his coming
monologue.

“New Terra's population has been growing
exponentially. The wealthy can't keep the poor population out of
their sectors, no matter how hard they try. There are just too many
people on this planet. Those who can afford it want to get off
world, but the closest habitable planet is too far away for their
convenience and nearer worlds would be too expensive to terraform.
Nex-Delta, a leading corporation, has created a solution.

“Towing asteroids to New Terra orbits was
costly. The process of creating atmospheres, landscapes, and
ecosystems was even more so, but Nex-Delta, believing in the
profitably of the venture, never balked at the expenses.

“Once the asteroids were nearly finished,
Nex-Delta began advertising these perfect locations. Many of New
Terra's wealthy flocked to lease space on one of the six newly
created 'pleasure moons'. Before anyone was able to begin building
though, the U.E.N. stepped in and put a halt to the burgeoning
enterprise. Citing numerous regulatory laws with dubious ties to
such a venture, they mandated the moons could not be habited until
they had been extensively tested and proven safe. The truth was
U.E.N. officials wanted moon properties, but couldn't afford them.
So they used extortion tactics. Nex-Delta said they would rather go
through the testing process. It would take more time, but would be
cheaper in the long term.

“That's where you come in my fine friend,”
Sunderson said as he got up and began to pace around the small
room. “You were the test. We wiped your memory—we certainly can't
have you thinking all those old, dirty thoughts while in such a
beautiful place—and then we let you live there for a while. You
soaked it all in. The moons stayed in a stable orbit, there were no
natural disasters. You were happy and fit, living in one of the few
uncrowded and unspoiled areas known to humanity. We brought you
back and saw how you were functioning. We tested you for radiation
damage, along with a lot of other diagnostics. Apparently, you are
doing quite well, at least from what the doctors on the U.E.N. ship
tell me.” He stopped pacing and resumed his seat, bug eyes staring
directly into Gaul's own. It took all of his willpower to continue
to stare back.

“At any rate,” Sunderson continued, leaning so
far back in his chair that Gaul thought it would tip over, “you
were brought back early. Those morons up at the U.E.N. Regulatory
Commission changed a law in a last ditch attempt to extort
Nex-Delta. We can no longer test on convicts and all experiments
involving convicts must immediately cease. Thankfully, we've
already gathered enough info between you and the other five
subjects that we should be able to force the U.E.N. to allow us to
start building residences. There is nothing harmful on the pleasure
moons.” Sunderson glanced at Gaul as he continued to talk, and look
of astonishment on the Gaul's face made him to stop momentarily.
“Please forgive me,” he resumed, his voice not conveying any type
of regret. “I keep forgetting you have no long term memories. The
convict reference will be explained shortly, after your memories
are returned.”

Just then, the single door opened and a short
man in simple white clothes walked in. “We are ready for him,” he
said, his accent strange to Gaul's ears.

“Time to go,” Sunderson exclaimed, voice
brimming with a happiness that made Gaul feel sick. Sunderson then
stood from his chair and motioned Gaul to walk before him.
Ultimately, he knew he had no real choice, so he went obediently,
trying to stay as calm as possible. The strangely accented man
proceeded them, leading the way.

Their journey wasn't far, just a couple doors
down from the room they had previously occupied. On the way, Gaul
noticed a large logo on the wall for Nex-Delta. Underneath it, a
smaller sign read: “Special Projects Division”.

Once they entered the new room, Gaul noticed
several more white clothed men stationed at various types of
equipment. “Sit, sit,” Sunderson said expansively. “All we be
explained soon.”

The chair Sunderson was motioning at was quite
simple, but it had some type of halo on top that Gaul found
unnerving. Once again feeling he had no other option, he sat and
the white clothed men attached the halo device to his head.

As soon as they finished, Gaul began to feel
sick. The room swam and his vision blacked out. He could still hear
what was going on around him. The men chatting and laughing,
talking about their plans for that evening. His head felt as if it
were growing and shrinking convulsively. Gaul had no idea what was
happening, but before he could analyze it further, his vision
returned in a blinding flash of light.

For a brief moment he remembered everything. He
recalled how he had been taken out of the prison and told by the
Nex-Delta representatives he was being transferred. He would be
alone. He would be in paradise. Pushing into even older memories,
he recalled how the girl had screamed, bled, and died. He
remembered how they all had. But then he felt something, a nagging
twitch in his brain, as if something was being plucked from
him.

He blinked.
Why did they take me out of my
cell?
He blinked again.
How did I
get in this chair?

The lack of windows in cell block 7 gave Del
Markum nothing to look at, unless you called the drab walls
interesting, which he didn't. He had no idea how long he'd been in
the block, but he knew he would be here until he died. Everyone in
cell block 7 was there till they died. That was just the way things
were.

Time dragged on in the block, a slow, painful
drudgery that drove people crazy. Yesterday was different. They had
brought back old John Bosemer Gaul, Butcher of Nine Points. Markum
could remember when Gaul had left the block, skin white and pale,
limbs thin and gangly. Now he was fit, his muscles rippling under
tan skin. The time between Gaul's leaving and his return was so
boring that Markum couldn't remember any of it. It was like Gaul
had never left. He was glad they had brought back the Butcher,
because now he had something to watch. And they had placed Gaul in
the cell directly across from him. Didn't get much luckier than
that.

Night and day, the Butcher cried. Big sobs
racked his body, making him look like he was having seizures. It
was unlike his old hard-as-synth-dimond self. Markum liked it
though, and hoped it would never end. Pain, no matter what form it
took, never lost its savor for Markum.

One thing he couldn't understand was the meaning
of the Butcher's words. The man kept sobbing, relentlessly saying:
“It's gone. it's gone.” He would repeat the words as if they were a
mantra, tears flowing down his sunken cheeks. “It's gone, it's
gone. My utopia is gone...”

###

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this
short story, I'd really appreciate it if you would share the
experience with your friends and leave a review. Also, please use
the links below to find me on Facebook and Twitter. I would love to
keep you updated on new releases and blog posts. Until next
time...

May the fires of the black star be quenched
in your life,

Zachariah Wahrer

***

Zachariah Wahrer is an author and blogger
from Colorado. In addition to writing, Zachariah enjoys rock
climbing, traveling, and being in the outdoors. When not deeply
immersed in imaginary worlds, he loves spending his time climbing
at the crag or in the mountains.

[email protected]

www.wahreroftheworlds.com

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