The Seventh Age of Man: Maturation

Brian lay almost unconscious in the water, floating for what seemed to be an eternity. For those moments it was as if he had no bounds, as if his consciousness had no vessel and his ego drifted in the currents of creation, borne along like a fallen leaf in the dawn of autumn. He suddenly felt a hand, sure and strong, one that coalesced his discorporate id first into his hand, then his arm, then into the length of his submerged body. The hand pulled mightily, confidently, breeching him from the deep to burst unto the light of reality. He coughed, opened his eyes, and found Gustav's smiling face shaking him awake. He seemed older, and even wiser.

What . . .

Countdown has passed, Brian, and it looks as though the water didn't quite protect us like we thought it would.

Brian glanced past Gustav. My father? Mother?

Only desiccated husks remain of those who didn't make it in the water.

***

Brian and Dawn stumbled back to the administrative buildings of Scott Air Force Base, the de facto capital of the Homestead, as Gustav took some archetypes to do a perimeter search. He felt tired, worn, and beaten, but more than anything, he felt supremely afraid. The first thing he did after regaining his bearings was to call his brother Jacob. After ten long rings he finally answered. Jacob had survived, but Mary, Jacob's twin sister, didn't. Jacob was in tears on the phone, but Brian couldn't cry. He was numb, and after consoling his brother, he lay down the phone and stared blankly ahead at nothing.

Brian so shaken that Dawn had to help him out of his wet clothes and into dry ones. Part of him wanted to play the invalid, to escape the looming responsibility he had naively volunteered for. Dawn could see it as they sat at a small white table in next to a window that looked out onto the base.

It's a lot to handle, isn't it?

Yeah. He put up his arms and yawned. He suddenly wanted to sleep forever, close his eyes and never wake up, at least, not while the nightmare that was now Earth still played around him. I wonder how old I am.

She took a moment and scanned him with her penetrating brown eyes. Brian was a typical prototype, with arms that, though toned, were thin. At 6'2, his muscle mass was evenly distributed, showing his body had been trained in many martial arts, but never subjected to extreme muscle-building like the archetypes. He had a thick mop of dark brown hair, and a thin face with an angular jawline. For the first time, Dawn noticed how much his eyes had lost their warmth and compassion. His brown eyes seemed more set into his face now, as if his very soul had retreated from humanity. You look younger than Charlie was, but not much. I'd say . . . thirty? Does that look about right for me?"

He quickly glanced at her. She had no grey in her hair, but her face was that of a woman's, with a crisp, more focused gaze and more defined cheekbones. Her brown eyes seemed doe-like to him, and coupled with her long light-brown hair, for some reason he thought of what a deer might look like in real-life. Her hips were larger, and even with the weight of the Second Countdown on him, his eyes lingered on her ample bosom. She was no longer pretty but bordered on being beautiful, as her features resolved into someone unique. Yeah, 'bout thirty, I'd say.

So, if we in the water gained roughly fifteen years, what about those still on ground?

Brian glanced anxiously out the window. Guess that's what Gustav'll tell us. If they've aged sixty-five years, they're completely useless to us. They won't be able to have kids, can't do any work. At eighty-plus, many of their minds might be going. They'll be only good for some research, basic monitoring of power plants, simple unloading --

There won't be any powerplants -- at least not for a while, she said. There isn't anyone to run them. At least Scott has its independent generators, and while we can keep those going, we won't be able to support anyone who lives outside its confines. I'll bet it'll even get difficult maintaining running water.

Brian's eyes remained focused on the window, waiting to see Gustav's figure walking back.

She kept talking, as she didn't know what else to do. I imagine food's going to be tough to come by, after the first few months. But we don't have enough people for large scale farming -- we're going to have to make something small, and then grow from there.

Brian drummed his fingers on the table, waiting for Gustav. A shadow passed by, and he almost got to his feet, before realizing it was just the wind blowing some cardboard down the road.

Dawn continued, I imagine we're going to have to get a breeding program up, and figure out how we can make more food. It's not going to be like after the first Countdown, when people had all the supermarkets to draw from. And then there's --

"You let me worry about that, snapped Brian, I'm in charge here."

Dawn restrained the urge for a snappy comeback, or a snide gesture. She merely put her hands in her lap and smiled faintly as if she was back with the Deaconess. Brian turned from the window and sighed as he looked on her.

I'm sorry.

I know.

It's just . . .

Yeah. It's a lot.

You don't know the half. He slumped on the table -- one of the last times Dawn would see him do that. If those people are as old as we think , well, we're gonna hafta do a lot of things that'll keep us up at night.

I didn't think things like that bothered you anymore.

You haven't seen what I've seen. He caught a glimmer out the corner of his eye, of Gustav's hulking figure running back. And if it's in my power, you never will.

He rose to get the bad news, as Dawn watched him with a mix of love, admiration, and pity.

Chapter 2

Word was relayed to the survivors that the base radar showed seven immense hurricanes danced above North America, part of a violent weather system that was making its way around the globe. Along their periphery hundreds of tornadoes wreaked havoc, and those in Scott quickly retreated into the main bunker. It was a deep structure, able to be the command center for many fighter wings. With fifteen levels buried in the Earth, it had more than enough room for the survivors.

Over the next several days, thunder and lightning the likes of which no one had ever seen laid siege to stone and soil. Columns of white power danced along the countryside, connecting earth and sky with ribbons of fire. When the storms passed, the sky turned black and starless, filled with masses of swirling grey clouds. Those in Scott barely spoke; they huddled against each other instead, not knowing what would come next. Fear struck them mute, and neither Brian nor Gustav was able to conjur the words to dispel their terror of what would come next.

Tornadoes pounded the countryside, crisscrossing violently, as if the Earth was venting her rage over what was done. Explosions could be heard even down in the bunker, and the few that ventured outside reported that a great deal of Scott was on fire. After several days of tornado activity, sheets of heavy, muddy rain fell from dawn to dusk, and when it was over, and the survivors emerged from the bunker, they found a desolate, broken world caked with mud. The buses, heavy machinery, and helicopters -- anything not stored in a hanger or put underground was mired in mud. The storms may have temporarily passed, but the wind whipped furiously through the open spaces, knocking the weak-willed and weak-limbed down to the ground.

People shuffled and stumbled back to their homes as if they all were still asleep. The long nightmare that was reality left most in shock, unable to cope. They retreated to their homes, lay down on their beds, and cried. Nights were filled with howls of anguish and pain over lost loved ones, over lost futures. What seemed to be a meager life just a week ago now appeared as a glittering utopia that may never be seen again.

Dawn and Brian were no different. After they returned home, Dawn kissed Brian weakly on his cheek, and went to bed. Brian lay down with her, for a time, but was unable to sleep. His heart pounded, and though he dearly yearned for the oblivion of sleep, his body commanded him wake. Quietly, he slipped out of bed, and sat at the kitchen table with a pad of paper and a pencil, trying to map out the resurrection of a species.

1 . . . food.

2 . . . shelter. But how will we find the food?

Brian crumpled up the sheet of paper, threw it, and missed the overflowing trash can. He tried to put his head on the table and close his eyes, but his heart wouldn't stop pounding. Reluctantly he paced around the small table in ratty black slippers that he had worn for most of his life, slippers that now felt too small. The hum of the refrigerator caught his attention, and he withdrew a can of pop from its body. There was no spray as he pushed in the aluminum tab, no hiss of carbonation, but it felt good going down his throat just the same. He sat back with the can of flat pop and went back to work.

The night was cold, and the sky dark, devoid of any pinpricks of light. The wind howled, shaking some windows and shattering others, knocking over billboards and trucks, turning the debris into projectiles. It was hard to breathe, and the few prototypes skilled in climate engineering had told Brian it was only going to get worse. Now that all the work they had done to build the topsoil, grass and insects was gone, the dust would be whipped up by the wind and deposited into the atmosphere. Soon that dust would fall, and it would pollute any and all water supplies.

Damn. Alright, so we need food. Hopefully there will be some markets with canned goods. But there's nothing around here -- it was all taken long ago. We have two storehouses, but I know they only have about a three month supply in them, and with the power out, all the perishable goods won't last another two days. It's just too much work to restore the power lines! There might be some canned goods left in the far eastern or western cities, but . . . how will we get there?

1 . . . food. Send out scouting parties to East and West Coasts. Whatever city has the most food is where we'll head. Alright, that sounds good.

2 . . . shelter. Somehow we're gonna need to get there, and eventually the dust storms will start up again. Thankfully the population count stabilized after moving everyone into the main facility of Scott. At final count, there must be around nine-thousand people left, though we haven't yet seen how many are of strong body and able to work, or of sharp mind to solve problems. Damned – so much work to do. Slowly he tore the paper in half, then half again, feeling fear grip him and twist his mind and soul. He wanted to cry, but knew he couldn't. Because once I start, I probably won't stop.

How can we rebuild . . . again? He thought on the Council hiding in their damned submarine, and for the first time, truly appreciated what they were, what they represented. They, and Charlie, were the establishment. We could act like cocky sons-of-bitches, curse them, even scheme against them, because they took all the responsibility. Brian walked aimlessly in the darkness, pacing again on the cold tile floor. Now they're all gone. Anyone and everyone with original knowledge of how things operated, what life was like . . . before. He forced a smile on his face. I should be happy! I get to start with a blank slate. I get to have a community who will answer only to me! No government, no committee, just me. No Deaconess to plot against me, no Charlie to nurture dissent in the younger generation. I shall be a God to them . . .

He clenched his fists, trying to will the terror away. His stomach constricted, his lungs grew heavy, and a thick weight settled on his heart, which pounded in his chest. He stood in a corner, facing the intersection of two walls, and in that allowed himself no distraction. He grit his teeth and cast his gaze upwards to a God that was supposedly watching from above. Never had Brian felt so small, so impotent. The future imposed itself on Brian's mind; of endless scrounging for food, choking on dust, moans and cries from sickly newborn children. And in the back of his mind, one black terror loomed larger than anything else. The one thing he personally would have to order into existence, the hell he would have to condemn innocent children to.

The Eingana.

He broke down, finally, crying through gritted teeth. It was painful for him, because he knew it ultimately would accomplish nothing. He was crying in the darkness, with no one to hear, no one to console him, no one to be changed by the intensity of his passion. And he knew why he was crying, because when the Eingana were brought back he would feel more secure. In the pain of others, in their hideous imprisonment, lay the foundation for fresh meat, clean air, fat, healthy children gorged on cow's milk. There may still be caches of unspoiled canned goods, of dried milk and powdered protein, but a society, a civilization couldn't be built on the afterburn of another. One was directly dependant on the other, and he must take the responsibility for starting it all in motion.

There was a rap at the door. Brian hurriedly wiped his face, and took a deep breath before cracking open the door. It was still night, and a chill rode on the fall air. Gustav stood before him, dressed in full uniform, with his helmet in his hand.

You still up?

Yeah, come on in. Gustav took a chair at the table that was circled with a ring of crumpled paper, placing his helmet on the floor. What'cha doin'?

Trying . . . trying. Brian flopped down in the small, creaking chair, dejected. Sometimes I feel like I shoulda been an archetype.

Gustav shoved him. You tryin' to insult me, or somethin'?

I'm sorry. It's just . . . one wrong move, and it's all over.

So?

Brian was confused. Whaddya mean?

It shoulda been over two times so far -- it's only luck that's kept us alive, said Gustav, as Brian lazily drew a doodle on the paper. And we've been kept alive twice, so we must have been meant to be here.

Sounds like religion, Gustav.

Gustav smiled wryly. I ain't no damned Deaconess, so don't worry, and I sure don't want any of that pathetic God worship back here. Gustav squared his gaze on Brian, as if he were settling in for an interrogation. Brian felt it immediately, and in an instant, knew something was coming. Why did you have me kill that old man and his friends?

Brian leaned back, twirling the pencil casually in his hand, his mind now working feverishly. Gustav knew all his secrets or at least, the beginnings of what they were, and if he chose, he could probably bring Brian down with but a few well-chosen words. Why do you ask?

Gustav allowed no respite from his intense gaze. 'Cause I need to know.

I think you already know. Why do you need me to say it?

Gustav put his hand on the hilt of his gun. 'Cause I do.

Gustav always had the attitude of a sociopath – a quality that had served Brian well – but now it was coupled with a man's body. Brian hated to admit it, but the first sight of seeing Gustav out of the pool actually filled him with fear. He was slightly shorter than Brian, but with arms that were almost as big as Brian's legs. Gustav had hands that could handle machinery, and as such they seemed dangerous to human flesh. His face, a full, round Mexican face had eyes sunken in under thick brown eyebrows and a thick bushy black mustache perched over his lip. Any potential for weakness in body was burned away, leaving a hulking mass that would take many men to break. To say his aspect was mean, or cruel, would be understatement; Gustav now appeared as the essence of murder. The gun Gustav's hand rest on Brian had handled a few times in his own training, and he always found it unwieldy, with too much kick-back and too heavy to run with comfortably. But on Gustav's side, it looked like a child's toy.

Brian leaned back in his chair, trying to remain calm. He wanted to cry, wanted to shout, wanted for a tornado to rip the roof off, just to give him some distraction. But deep down, some part of him had known this day would come. So he took a deep breath, and focused his mind on dealing with it. He raped me. He tricked me into that house, and his old friends pinned me down, and they all had a go at me. He grit his teeth, commanding himself not to cry. You happy now?

What did it feel like? pressed Gustav, his gaze unrelenting.

What kind of shit --

"Don't raise your voice -- we wouldn't want to wake sweetie upstairs. I asked what it felt like."

Brian labored to breathe, as the room suddenly felt too close and warm for his liking. "I felt like shit. They took control, and I had none. They laughed at me, played with me, and part of me wishes they had killed me."

Gustav nodded and sat back, giving Brian some physical breathing room, though his intense gaze of death was unrelenting. Ever wonder what it would be like to do that to someone else?

Brian resisted the urge to turn away, to betray his inner turmoil. "No."

"You lie. I know you lie! he said in a hushed scream. You think we archetypes can always find a woman to satisfy us? You think all of us prefer that? I've been where you were, Brian. Except I got to get back at the guy that did it to me. And I can tell you, it all changed when I was the one standing up, looking down."

His heart thumped louder and louder. What are you saying?

"You've proved you can lead, but now you need to be absolute in your control. You cannot allow room for doubt. You can't be sitting up all night writing on scraps of paper, crying in a damned corner. You've got to make a decision and stand by it, no matter what. You need to be singular in your focus, and your little sweetie ain't doing the job."

I say again; what do you mean?

Gustav got up and put his gun on the table, though even without it he still seemed as a machine of death. We do this here, tonight, and I guarantee tomorrow, you'll be like a new man. You will have broken the one man that can break all others. You can order me what to do, but that only goes so far. There is something . . . permanent, about doing that to another man.

You would . . . do this . . . for me?

Only for you, Brian. I have enough secrets on you, that this could never come back to haunt me. And you would have this on me. We must be as brothers, from this moment on. Your brother may still live, but he's a sickly whelp that will never lead. Too much depends on us, Brian.

Brian nodded, and they went down into the basement, which was soon filled with his triumphant laughter. And when Brian returned to bed, he couldn't hear or feel his heart at all.

***

Two weeks after the Second, after most had gotten over the emotional shock of all they had lost, Brian held the first meeting of what remained of the Homestead in a massive central hanger at Scott. Brian could remember training in this very hanger with SpaceShipOne, and watching as Charlie strutted by, the envy of all prototypes. Now it was cold, dark and muddy, and seemed an unlikely place for a beginning.

Almost eight-thousand people came, which was actually substantially more than what he or Dawn had anticipated. They related stories of diving into the Mississippi just as the Second came, of looking out the water as those too slow to make it in who withered and died before their eyes. For two full hours they paid their respects to the dead, retelling good deeds done or how precious they were.

A catalogue was made of the names of those left and the skills they had learned. Long lines filed past seven tables, behind which Brian paced back and forth, watching what skills were written. Most were grunts skilled with heavy machinery, and Brian almost jumped every time he head of someone who had chemical or other scientific knowledge. When it was all done, he could count only three-hundred with solid scientific knowledge, and another thousand with the potential to learn. While Brian was disappointed, Gustav was relieved, as over four thousand archetypes remained.

It was at this meeting that Brian made the pronouncement that would define the mission of the new Homestead:

The Watchers have proven not to be our friends, or even our protectors. They seek nothing less than the complete annihilation of the human race! While they may not use guns, or tanks, or planes, or any weapons of war we are familiar with, they do wage war on us. They seek to wipe the Earth clean of its human population. Well, we will not go silently into the void. We will show them our war machine, show them we can fight back, show them our grim determination! From this day forth, all concerns of community or environment or even simple human compassion must be set aside. We must find a new sword, one that can reach into the heavens and strike down our cowardly foe.

They cheered him, finally channeling their hate and despair, their frustration and impotence into something constructive. Before the meeting a few archetypes were mumbling about challenging Brian's authority, but after his speech, they knew the battle was lost. Brian looked on those few, marking them for death.

After Brian chose his command staff, he settled in for the first meeting of the new Homestead. Fifteen people formed the governing council – all handpicked by Brian and Gustav. While Brian had no desire for a 'government,' as he loathed the thought of running his decisions by anyone for approval, he realized that having a government gave him a safety net. If anything went wrong, he had fifteen people he could blame, fifteen people he could shunt the responsibility onto, fifteen people who would be executed before him. He knew it was a cowardly act, but he also knew self-preservation was the most important imperative, and that he would survive no matter what.

The atmosphere was tense and somber, as no one wanted to take responsibility for the failure of the human race -- not even Brian. As they sat at the long rectangular conference table in a lower level of the Scott, Brian for a moment thought back to the council before the Second.

Is it really all gone? It seems like just a few days ago that I visited that stupid sub to see those old geezers. Brian glanced down at his reflection in the polished wooden veneer. I wonder if that's what will be said of me, after a while. Will I grow old and irrelevant?

Gustav laid a hand on Brian's shoulder. He looked up, and saw everyone gathered.

Good. Let's not waste time. What is the status of our computers?

Harry, the man in charge of operations, leaned forward. Brian was loathe to give out titles, such as 'Minister of Power' or the like, so he kept things informal, referring to people as 'the one in charge of security,' or 'the woman running the food supply.' For now, everything is working as it did before the Second, said Harry. Power to the base has been restored, but we have been unable to get power to any homes outside of the base, though we have allocated several dozen generators to provide basic heat and refrigeration. He shook his head in frustration. We just have almost no one who has a good working knowledge of power grid operations.

No electrical engineers?

No, none of them. Dexter Williams, who was our expert, didn't make it into the water.

What about his understudy?

Harry shook his head somberly. "Nope. He's dead. Most of the archetypes survived, he said snidely, but the people who could help rebuild our technological infrastructure couldn't seem to make it."

"Archetypes survived because of our training, snapped Gustav. Because when an alarm sounds, we are trained to respond without hesitation, and not let our anxieties get the better of us."

Are you calling us cowards? demanded Harry.

Stop it, both of you, said Brian. "The reason one made it and the other didn't is irrelevant; we need to work with who and what we have. To replace those lost, we will need for people to learn, said Brian sternly. The remaining prototypes must rise to the challenge, and learn as much as they can from whatever they can. We --"

How many days of food do we have again? asked Bibi, one of the oldest prototypes. A tall, muscular woman, at one time she even caught Brian's eye, before he learned what a pain she could be. She always challenged authority, questioning every decision, even if she had no viable alternative. There were many prototypes like her; born in-between generations, they had neither the brute of the archetype, nor the refinement of the prototype.

My soldiers have just finished culling all edible foodstuffs from the outlying homes and transferring them to the two storehouses, said Gustav. After rationing, I estimate we have about four months of food left.

And exactly what is the breakdown of our population? pressed Bibi, as Brian leaned back, seething.

Greg, the guy in charge of the census, cleared his throat and spoke; seven-thousand, six-hundred and seventy-six remain, with all archetypes or prototypes in reasonable health. Thankfully, priority was given to us in terms of proximity to pools or bodies of water. The grunts are in poor shape, but useable. We have three-hundred ninety-five adolescents who are now seniors. And another two hundred citizens or soldiers unable to make it into the water, who are now seniors in grave medical condition. They are in the worst shape, as we have limited medical care, and no one with much knowledge to administer it.

What of the older generation? demanded Bibi. What are we going to do to help them?

They all need to be euthanized, ordered Brian, as he leaned forward to re-engage. We cannot afford to keep them alive.

Euthanized?! screamed Thaddeus, one of the most educated prototypes. One of the physically weakest prototypes, gossip