Othella (Arcadian Heights) Read online

  Othella

  Arcadian Heights

  Book One

  Therin Knite

  Copyright © 2014 Therin Knite

  For news, updates, and more, please go to:

  www.therinknite.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Clarissa Yeo at

  http://yocladesigns.com/

  To Contact the Author

  [email protected]

  @TherinKnite

  Contents

  Dedication

  A Record of Events

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  To Be Continued

  Sample of Echoes

  Dedication

  To those who read my debut novel

  and didn’t run away screaming.

  A Record of Events

  From Library of Congress Audio Record #18564729

  Label: "Arcadian Heights, Grand Opening Speech"

  "...and it comes to this: this hour, this year, this century. We stand on an unfortunate brink, all of us. We have watched climate change wreak havoc on our homes and livelihoods. We have watched diseases overcome our every medicine. We have watched international cooperation bend and break. We have witnessed brutal war and senseless retaliation for petty arguments. We have watched entire cities disintegrate under the weight of weapons we swore we would never use again. We have watched humanity shatter.

  "But I stand here today to tell you, you twenty-five brave souls, that the end is not upon us, no matter how bleak the future seems. The end is not upon us because you are here, because you are willing to devote your lives to making the world a better place, because you are the elite, the brilliant and devoted, who have the power to lead this world to a state of peace unlike any you have ever known. Behind the gates you stand before lies your future: everything you need to save ours. And so, it is with great honor that I invite you inside Arcadian Heights."

  — Quentin Belmont,

  Arcadian Heights Spokesman

  March 15, 2083

  ... [ Chapter One ] ...

  1

  Georgette

  ( 6 Months Ago )

  The one with the gun knows my face.

  When I stop at the rickety, rusted fence checkpoint, two guards break away from the line and stroll toward me. A shock baton hangs from the belt of the skinny douche with the pre-approved press list in his hands. The other, a fat, squat guy with a patchy beard, has a gun on his right hip. Recognition transforms frown to scowl as he closes in. Then his gaze drifts to my cleavage and the scowl slackens.

  V-neck. Good choice. Go, me!

  I roll down the window as required, watching fat guy with my peripheral vision only. To project the impression I don’t give dirty rent-a-cops the time of day.

  "Georgette McClain," says fat guy, fingering his gun. Muckraker bitch is a thread of spit hanging off his tongue. He swallows it and smiles, tight and snake like. "Didn’t know this kind of thing was your territory." He tries to keep his eyes on mine, but they drift down, down, down, and I bite my cheek to suppress a laugh before I gift him a reply.

  "The world is my territory." I tap my manicured nails on the steering wheel. Had them done three days ago, an hour before I got the call that brought me to this dump. "I go where I’m requested."

  Fat guy snorts. "Yeah, yeah. What’s your business?"

  "Someone wants coverage from my point of view. Like usual."

  "And what point of view is that?" Skinny douche with the list leans over his partner’s shoulder and cracks a yellow grin. "Going to topple the evil Nebraskan regime?"

  "Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid. Just a few pictures and some words."

  "Isn’t it always?" Fat guy bumps his buddy with an elbow and nods for him to check the list. It’s displayed on a small flex tablet that folds like paper, a newer model than the one I keep hidden in the lining of my purse.

  "Yup," says skinny douche, "she’s on here."

  "Aw, hell." Fat guy kicks a rock up from the road. It rattles against the underside of my car. "And here I was hoping we’d get to have a fun show—kicking a Pulitzer winner out of town."

  I don’t respond. Fat guy watches me with his beady eyes and mops up the sweat dribbling down his neck with his filthy uniform sleeve. "All right. We’ll let her in. Guess we don’t have a choice in the matter." He stares at my chest for five seconds straight. Doesn’t bother with the false front back and forth now. Doesn’t care to pretend he has manners once he’s lost the upper hand.

  After fat guy has his fill, he and his partner retreat to their station next to the wide opening in the fence blocked by a weak wooden barricade. The "press entrance." On almost any day other than today, there would be no guards and no list and no special entrance for people with cameras and stories to find. But today is a special day in Jackson City, Nebraska.

  I aim to find out how special.

  I put the car in drive and advance as fat guy and skinny douche drag the barricade from my path. I make no eye contact. I don’t have the energy to waste on things meaningless to my endeavor. Save the effort for the exceptional things in life, darling, Momma drilled into my precocious little head. The juicy, joyful, scandalous things, Georgette.

  Fat guy’s head turns on his beefy neck to observe my entrance. With my rearview mirror, I spy him scowling at me again.

  Me, the winner.

  Him, the loser.

  Ha.

  Rent-a-cops are never exceptional.

  2

  Quentin

  ( 5 Years Ago )

  "Jesus!"

  I stumble backward and catch the edge of the carpet with my heel. It folds over itself, revealing a line of dust missed by the cleaning bots. Dust that flies into the air when my flailing feet scrape the floor as I lose my balance and fall. My forearms absorb the brunt of it, but my jaw smacks the thin carpet, causing my teeth to clack together so hard I can’t see straight. I lie prone for half a minute, dazed.

  "Quentin! Are you okay? Can you hear me? Do you need medical attention?" A pause. "Oh, wait. I can scan you, can’t I?"

  A red beam sweeps over my body, and I cringe when it flashes across my eyes. I take stock of my limbs—everything bends and unbends—and sit up. On the wall-to-wall window overlooking the Sims Center courtyard is a massive, translucent image of Howard’s face. He’s gnawing on his bottom lip, apologetic. A few seconds pass, and a medical report appears on the window next to him. The text is small. I have to squint to read it.

  Howard beats me to the punch. "You’re fine, Quentin. Some bruises, it looks like. Maybe take an aspirin?"

  "Ha. Ha. I’ll need about twelve for this." Using the plush chair next to my bookshelf, I haul myself up and wipe the dirt off my suit. "And you need to reprogram the bots, my friend. The floor underneath the rug hasn’t been cleaned in a decade."

  "If I do that, will you forgive me?" His digital eyes track my movements.

  "Sure. I’ll forgive you this time." My voice is high and raspy. I sound like a s
choolboy who’s shit himself from fright. "But one day, you’re going to give me a heart attack, and then I won’t be around to forgive you. So how about you don’t appear in the window unannounced and scare me half to death, huh?"

  "Will do." A smile blooms on his bitten lips. "Guess I got too enthusiastic, eh? We have a great batch of recruits coming in today. You checked them out yet?"

  I straighten my tie. "Of course. Who do you think I am? This isn’t my first rodeo, partner. I’m not a university freshman. I’ve thoroughly researched all the recruits."

  "Really? What’s Juan Garcia’s favorite food?"

  Good heavens, what a patronizing spoil sport. "I meant relevant research."

  "Food isn’t relevant?"

  "They only have one meal. Then it’s transfer time. Being unaware of their food preferences is hardly the worst offense I commit against them. Wouldn’t you agree?"

  Howard’s smile wilts into a constipated expression. "I would. Unfortunately."

  I reach over and pat the area next to his face, where his shoulder would be if he had a body. "It’s the way it has to be. You know that. I know that. There’s nothing we can do but ride this catastrophe out and put the pieces together again after it settles down. Our solution is far from ideal, but it’s the best we’ve got. Unless you’ve found something better?"

  He shakes his head. Or, rather, the image of his face transitions from a left-side view to a right-side view. "Sorry. No go on the better solution. The numbers are the same as they’ve been for the last sixteen years. I’m always running them. Hundreds of times every single day. I can’t get the human productivity measure any higher, and its maximum falls far short of our technology goal. If we revert to the old system, we’ll end up eight years behind the level of advancement we need to achieve before the world hits the failure point."

  "So we stick to the modified system, then."

  "The modified system, yes." His computerized face sighs, the sound emanating from all the speakers in the room. "As immoral as it is..."

  "The alternative outcome is the worse."

  "Indeed." Howard shakes himself out of the depressive stupor and smiles. "Can you double check the roster?"

  "What? You have command of all the security programs." I shuffle around my desk and plop down in my chair. The leather is cracking. Note to self: order replacement soon. It’s ridiculous how long it takes to import foreign products these days. Isolation policies. The Chinese Civil War. Other bull. "Why don’t you do it?"

  "I have. I’ve run the check one hundred eighty-four times in the last six minutes."

  "Then why do you need my inefficient human self to do it?"

  He rolls his eyes. "Because I could have made a mistake."

  "Howard, you’re not human anymore. You’re an AI running on the most powerful computer in the world. You used the community database—which contains the entirety of human knowledge—to build the defense grid, including our facial recognition software. Are you telling me you think I’m more capable of finding a fraudster than you?"

  "No. Not at all. I am far superior."

  "Oh, naturally."

  "But there is always a chance my system has been corrupted. And there’s no guarantee I would know it if the attacker was sneaky enough. All that knowledge I have is old knowledge, Quentin. Don’t forget that. Knowledge keeps marching on. That’s the point of the community. But we aren’t the only ones advancing it. There are others, and not all of them are friendly."

  "All right. All right." I tap the main screen of my workstation and let it scan me. Once it confirms my identity, I access the recruit roster and the front gate feeds. The recruits have all arrived. Twenty-five in five lines. Most of them are fidgeting. Some are whispering to each other. A few have wide eyes locked onto the patrolmen pacing the perimeter. Hm. I guess the faceless black helmets and weapons of instant death can be intimidating.

  I scroll through the roster listings and check them against the faces in the recruit lineup. Each record contains two pictures: an official ID photo and the photo taken two days ago when the community representatives arrived to tell each boy and girl the good news. All the pictures appear to match, as do the faces in the crowd.

  I take an extra moment to examine the group closely, searching for any signs of strange behavior. Alas, I see nothing except the usual range of anxiety, egotism, and complete ignorance concerning what’s about to happen. I shrug. "Looks good to me, Howard."

  Howard’s face slides across the window until it aligns with my desk. Lips pursed. Forehead scrunched. "Okay. Proceed as usual, I guess. Same speech. Same program."

  "You ready on your end?"

  His tongue pokes out at the tease. "You bet. Finished the patrolman software upgrade last night. And the transfer protocol’s been cleared. I ran another diagnostic a few minutes ago. I even managed to tweak the upload program—shaved about thirty seconds off the transfer time."

  "Ooh, thirty seconds. Maybe we should take all that extra time to, I don’t know, have an ice cream party or something."

  Howard’s cheeks redden. "Efficiency is my prime directive, Quentin."

  "Oh, now we’re talking old-school sci-fi, are we?"

  "Will you go get ready for the opening ceremony?"

  "As you wish, sire." I stand, stretch, and snag my coat from the rack. Awfully cold in Nebraska. Especially with the perpetual doom and gloom from that last nuke incident.

  Heading for the door, I pass Howard’s window and peer out at the decaying streets beyond the fence. Two different crowds have gathered at the gates, one on each side of the recruit lineup. Family and friends on the left. Protestors on the right.

  Shivering people with flimsy signs who flew five hundred miles or more to whine about internet rumors.

  What a bunch of loons.

  I tap open on the door’s control panel, but it doesn’t budge. I try again. Nothing happens. I turn on the pads of my imported shoes and stare at Howard’s digital face. "Yes, your highness? Do you need something?"

  "Before you head outside," Howard says, "make sure you check your refrigerator."

  "Howard..."

  "It’s not over the top this time, I swear."

  "How many times have I told you not to celebrate my birthday?"

  "But it’s the big five-O! Come on. I swear. It’s nothing much."

  I hold up my hands in defeat. "Right. Got it. Will do, your kingliness."

  The door slides open. Howard’s grinning face disappears.

  I emerge into the hallway shaking my head. The first true AI in human history, and he has the temperament of a spoiled-rotten eight year old.

  Some things never change.

  3

  Georgette

  ( 6 Months Ago )

  Jackson City is two parts sad and one part powerful.

  I venture through the saddest part first. The dying limbs—a center of poverty. A few neighborhoods crawling with those too poor to leave and getting poorer all the time. I pass what was once a swanky penthouse apartment complex, now a boarded-up mess of graffiti. The lobby has no door. There are lumps on the floor that may or may not be people who may or may not be dead. Yikes.

  Various objects block my way. Shopping carts. Burned-out cars. Trash bags galore. Piles and piles of human waste. At least one skeleton. I shudder at the thought of trudging down those grimy sidewalks. My poor stilettos.

  Some kind of farmer’s market lines a side street, but there’s no one manning it. Rotting fruits and vegetables sit in boxes, on tables, on the pavement. A sickly sweet smell follows me down the road. Either the farmers have all been driven out of public for the day, or they’ve gone to get front row seats for the special event I’m attending. And by "gone," I mean forcefully dragged there by authorities under threat of being "disappeared."

  Lovely place, Jackson City.

  The meager signs of life fade away a few miles farther up. I enter the Dead Divide, as they call it. Great title. Wish I’d thought of it. But the credit goe
s to a blond bimbo from that horrid California tabloid.

  The Divide is a straight line of abandoned city buildings between my target location and what remains of Jackson City. Everything in it is crumbling, rusting, collapsing, degrading. Nature is moving in again. The road is cracked with weeds. Vines are creeping up and up brick walls. Not a single window is intact.

  What a fucking tragedy. I’ll add it to my list. My unfortunately long—

  A dark blur streaks into the road. I slam on the brakes. My tires squeak as they hard stop on a sheet of plastic in the middle of the lane. More dark blurs dart in front of my car. They empty out of the surrounding buildings. An old gym. A daycare center.

  Kids.

  Kids wearing masks.

  I know they’re kids because they all have that underdeveloped scarecrow look. Malnourished teenagers struggling to reach adulthood without enough food. Most of them are sticks jammed into the sockets of sunken stumps. The rags they wear as clothes hang off their frames.

  There’s a flutter of pity in my chest. I groan. Don’t be a dumb bitch, Georgette. Made that mistake in Baghdad. Got beaten to a pulp and robbed of every penny you had.

  These kids don’t have any pretense of kindness though. Every single one is armed. Blunt objects, mostly. A few of them carry machetes. The one in the middle, the tallest, the least underfed, brandishes a knife when he nears my car.

  Are they orphans? Street kids? Beggar children?

  Or are they a guild of play date thieves who return to Mommy and Daddy when the sun goes down and the cold creeps in?

  Does it matter?

  I lean over, open the glove compartment, and remove my SIG Sauer. I hold it up for the kids to see. I flick the safety off.

  The leader halts. He eyes my pretty face. My flashy makeup job. The buxom breasts half-exposed by a four-figure designer shirt. Checks the gun again—disbelief. I smile, bright and cheery, like I did on that late-night talk show with a pompous dick for a host, where I revealed his six extramarital affairs. Live. To a national audience.