Authors: Nicholas Erik
The silent ultra-high definition screen embedded in the auto-cab’s divider—so lifelike it looks like I could touch the gray-haired bastard reading his party lines—announces, on a red scrolling band across the bottom, that the NAC Anniversary Day celebrations were a huge success.
There are photos of people pretending to be merry, many candid shots of Chancellor Tanner—all from years ago, since he’s had to stop making public appearances due to “state security concerns”—and even a pre-recorded message from Tanner himself, straight to the people.
I don’t bother turning on the sound, but my new HoloBand automatically flicks on anyway. Good thing I didn’t have one of these before yesterday. I’d be in shackles with the Circle constantly watching.
“My fellow citizens,” Chancellor Tanner begins, his voice containing a slight wheeze that even the Circle’s best sound engineers can’t fix, “the story of our glorious nation’s origins, some twenty-three years ago, begins during the Great Flood of 2025.”
My story begins in 2025, too, but you don’t see me announcing it to the rest of the world. Tanner’s a better bullshit artist than even I could ever hope to be. I cover my ears, trying to drown out his parable. But the voice literally comes from within head, like the Circle has direct access to my brain. A discomfiting thought, if there ever was one.
Tanners’ low, groaning drone cuts through like a razor blade, shoving my own thoughts aside.
“The world was in chaos. For those alive in those bleak years, it is a wonder humanity survived at all. But through our perseverance and sacrifice, we came out stronger.”
I stare out the window and manage to tune him out for a little while.
When the ice caps melted, there were some serious problems—particularly when entire continents plunged underwater. I have my doubts about the absoluteness of the flood’s destruction. But a lot of that old coastal land was fertile, served as important ports of trade—a vital lifeline for many countries. Billions of people died or starved in the aftermath. Some say it was a calculated move by the nations that didn’t flood to withhold aid.
Fewer people equals less pollution. An easy solution to a massive problem.
But really, it was simple economics: there wasn’t enough money to save everyone. Crews working around the clock managed to preserve most of the North American coastline with an exhaustively impressive levy, water pumping and soil raising system. The average point on each coast is now actually twelve feet higher than it was at the start of the century. But the cost of saving ourselves—compounded by the influx of refugees from flooded lands—was enormous.
And so the United States collapsed. Anarchy, not bells and excessive drinking, rang in the New Year in Manhattan when the calendar flipped over to 2026.
Still looking out the window, I find the auto-cab is passing the Empire State Building, which has a bright glowing sign announcing it as a historical monument. If not for the line outside, the building would be entirely swallowed by its neighbors.
The auto-cab inches forward and rounds a corner. The building disappears in a sea of taller ones.
“Still, there were those factions who did not like the improvements to our world,” Tanner says, noticeable irritation present in his voice. “These rogue terrorists found that our efforts to preserve civilization conflicted with their wanton lust for violence and chaos. You all remember this man well.”
A video plays, grainy archival footage of an execution from twenty-two years ago today. His death was the final symbolic nail in the coffin of any resistance against the Circle taking power. A man walks across the gallows, head held high in defiance. Even though it’s illegal to write about him in the history books, pull pictures of him up on the HoloNet, I know his face and name well.
Damien Ford, the man who terrorized the Circle for less than three short months. He was the only thing standing between them and absolute power after the fall. Too bad he was a damn nut. The Rapture believed that all our problems—the floods, the lawlessness, the overpopulation of the NAC—were God’s punishment for our excesses. And that the only way to atone for our sins was through sacrifice.
Human sacrifice.
In the clip, the crowd jeers as the noose slips around Ford’s neck. He appears to say something, but the hangman cuts the last minute sermon short, dropping the floor. His legs jerk for a while, the crowd cheering. Then he’s still. And, after that—not shown on the clip—the Circle was officially declared as the sovereign power of this fine, fine land.
Ford was a folk hero to many—still is, to do this day, depending on who you ask. But the Circle couldn’t stamp out his influence. The members of the Rapture who escaped the Circle’s net formed the Lionhearted. They carry on his ideals, although they’re a lot quieter about it.
They still manage to be a big, cross-sized pain in the Circle’s collective asses, who have deemed them terrorists and enemies of the state. Me, I don’t have an opinion on the matter. Worshipping a man responsible for what happened in the South and Atlanta strikes me as a little off, no matter how much you hate the Circle. Ford’s attacks between January and March 2026 left behind an uninhabitable wasteland.
Tanner’s speech catches my attention again near what I hope is the end.
“We established the Circle as a bastion against destruction. Against lawlessness. Against death. As a cure for anarchy. Leaders who could keep our beloved citizens safe from all the harms threatening to plunge our world into the darkness of extinction. And, since our party” —he calls it that, like there’s a political system that affords dissenters the opportunity to run— “saved what was left of our world on that bitterly cold third month of 2026, establishing the NAC as the last remaining country on this resilient Earth, we have regained much of what we’ve lost and pushed forward towards a brighter future. Later today, in honor of our country’s immense progress, we are proud to announce the beginning of a new initiative that, I hope, will provide you even more of the safety you covet.”
Safety for freedom. A barter that always looks good in the moment, when fight or flight triggers overwhelming anxiety. You’ll do anything to survive. And then you realize the life you saved was now worth nothing.
Or maybe I’m the only one to realize it.
“And remember always—progress lies in all that is larger than yourself.”
Mercifully, the mandatory listening broadcast ends, and I go back to watching Old Silver Fox the news anchor blather on about propaganda on mute.
With the growing problem of the Lionhearted, it strikes me that the Circle is probably considering a change in their official slogan. Tanner means government and the system—not God, or wherever else people place their chips on this cosmic craps table.
Whatever. Not my problem.
The auto-cab rounds a corner, past another endless row of towers. Deeper in the city, the metallic forest has been growing dense, any resemblance to my home is lost.
Will the connection with Matt be lost, too?
Last time I saw Matt, I was eight years old. One day he’s sitting across from me, eating bland cereal made of processed wheat and food coloring, the next he’s gone without even a note. Our parents wouldn’t say anything about it, as if even whispering about their lost son would bring calamity. Pops started drinking a lot, Mom couldn’t stop him. They both died young, when I was sixteen.
The auto-car chimes—everything in New Manhattan does, apparently—and I tap the screen to allow the vehicle to automatically sync with the HoloBand. Some credits I don’t have are deducted from whoever’s identity is on the chip’s firmware. Steven Reynolds, accountant from just outside New Manhattan, is gonna be pissed when he gets his statement.
The proper authorities can add it to my file.
I get out, staring up at the building where Matt lives. It’s all-glass, part of what you might call a campus. Further up the road, I can see a checkpoint, complete with guards, where you have to be authorized and all that to enter. The sign reads
Gifted Minds Research Institute
.
“You always were the smart one,” I say as the auto-cab zips off while I stare at the building. I’m left somewhat alone—at least for the city. With its green grass and tree-lined streets, this area isn’t a place for the proletariat. Turns out, even in New Manhattan, there’s high-value, then there’s
high-value
.
I take the letter out of my back pocket—yeah, a paper one—and slide it out of the envelope, careful not to crease it more. Even after a decade and a half, my brother’s penmanship is unmistakable, the giant, rolling “M” in his signature resembling a mountain cascade.
Luke,
I need to see you by tomorrow. Come to 1611 Park Boulevard. Enclosed is something to help you. You’ll have to figure your way through customs on your own, though. I have an urgent project that requires your skills.
Matt
For a first correspondence, it’s remarkably light on details or hidden meanings. Efficient. But the HoloBand he included was registered to Mr. Reynolds—good enough to buy a ticket without much incident, not good enough to get through customs without a little ingenuity. After all, our faces don’t quite match.
But I guess Matt trusted that Pops passed down the old family secrets. And he wouldn’t be wrong.
I take a deep breath and walk towards the seamless glass doors. A buzzer sounds, as a friendly voice says, “Welcome to the Park Estate Residences. Please stand still and wait for a HoloBand scan.”
I consider running, but if Matt didn’t clear my fake identity on the list, then his little project is already doomed.
The doors open, confirming that my genius brother didn’t suddenly become stupid in the last decade and a half. “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds. You are pre-approved for entry to Apartment 3121B on the three hundredth floor. Please proceed to the designated elevator and have a wonderful day.”
I walk through the lobby, noting the empty reception desk. Either the greeter’s job has been outsourced to the automated scanner, or someone’s on their lunch break. I smell what I think is tuna, and decide on the latter.
A potential obstacle to consider later—especially depending on the particulars. Whatever Matt has to say, the fewer lies and scams I have to run on the denizens of this fine city, the better. Overexposure would result in what the corporate folks have dubbed
career suicide
—except, in this case, the death analogy is actually apt.
I catch a glimpse of a wall screen. Old Silver Fox is at it again, talking up the impending official announcement. Rumor has it, the Inner Circle’s been planning something big down South. A solution to the comparatively rampant lawlessness in the West—and maybe even the Lost Plains. New Manhattan and its surrounding areas are largely spared the scourge of our criminal presence by stringent security measures.
To the right of the desk is a wide, welcoming hallway lined with dozens of elevators. Mine is already open, a golden-railed carriage inviting me inside.
“Welcome, Mr. Reynolds,” a different voice says as I enter the carriage—still robotic, but this one female.
I could lie and say I’d get used to it, but all the surveillance and eyes aren’t worth any amount of luxury. A little television screen above the ornamental buttons plays a news scroll. This building, though not quite as tall as some of the others in the city, stands over three thousand feet tall, and Matt—impresario that he is—has apparently secured a spot near the top.
Which means I’m in for a two or three minute ride.
“Allies of the Circle put down a group of rebels on the edges of the Lost Plains today,” Old Silver Fox announces with faux-gravitas, “ten rebels were killed, and another twenty-two were arrested for attempting to steal state property in the aftermath of what officials have dubbed a minor volcanic eruption.”
It cuts to footage of the area—asphalt cracked, a liquor store burning, cars overturned. I wonder who the Circle sent out there to capture the video. The fringe between the West and the Lost Plains is a place I wouldn’t ever go on foot.
The camera zooms in on two handcuffed men being led away by uniformed Circle officers. A couple of assholes who figured that, maybe, the borders would be vulnerable because Mother Nature crept in.
Well, they were wrong. Even in the Wild West, as I heard a couple of lawyers in the New Manhattan customs lines call it, there are still eyes.
“Experts have also been monitoring minor tremors and small quakes indicative of tectonic plate shifts along the Cascadia Subduction Zone. There is some worry amongst citizens that a quake of extreme magnitude could trigger effects beyond the immediate area. Circle officials have indicated that such worries are unwarranted, and have presented their own studies confirming that such claims are dangerous and irresponsible.”
I swear I can see the gray-haired newscaster wince when he says
confirming
—mourning the death of his own journalistic integrity. When he started out, sometime around the twenties, there might have been a shred of honor in the profession. Now, he might as well be the mouthpiece of the Chancellor himself.