Ashes of the Fall: The Remnants Trilogy, #1

By Nicholas Erik

Sometimes the fall is only the beginning.

In the year 2048, the crumbling remnants of western North America are suddenly buried in ash, weakening the grip of the brutal dictatorship. A factional landscape springs from the ashes, con man Luke Stokes artfully navigating the clash.

But he can't remain above the fray for long, as each faction seeks the truth from Luke regarding his murdered brother's final project. A neural-interface technology that will forever shift the fragile balance of the ashen plains.

With the true believers, desert nomads, survivalists and existing regime closing in, Luke must delve deeper into his genius brother's secrets. And the truth about his last project will dramatically alter the remnants of civilization.

Because the fall isn't always the end - sometimes, it's only the beginning.

Seamlessly merging thought-provoking philosophical ideas with page-burning action, ASHES OF THE FALL is the first novel in the dystopian/post-apocalyptic Remnants Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Watchfire Press
• Release date: Oct 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781940708928

Book preview

Map of the North American Circle

1 DUST TO DUST

The transcontinental Hyperloop’s doors open, and I push through the throng of briefcase-carrying businessmen and sensibly-heeled career women onto the bullet-pitted platform. A dull, automated beep at the base of my ear—one only I can hear—reminds me that I need to be at my appointment in an hour. After fourteen stops and three thousand miles, it’s showtime.

I adjust the pack containing everything I own and survey the area. A poster celebrating the North American Circle’s 22 nd anniversary, complete with Chancellor Tanner’s smiling visage in graffiti relief, stares back from a nearby concrete column.

The tall mesh fences leading to the customs gates look like slaughter chutes as citizens stream through. Jackbooted thugs with high-caliber assault rifles patrol the turnstiles. I determine that Turnstile C has what I’m looking for: a pretty scanner of maybe twenty-three who refuses to make eye contact with people. A subtle contempt manifests through the nervous tightening of her jaw during each scan.

Life in some way has wronged her—and that makes her the right choice for me.

I rub the base of my neck, where the HoloBand install is still fresh. I push my jacket collar up to cover it and then I get to work.

I pull a piece of paper from my pocket, pen in the other, and write down the location of a bar—one I heard about on the Hyperloop intercom—and six o’clock. I also add come alone, for good measure. When I come up in line, I’ll adjust the note accordingly—if it’s those kind of drinks, or a secret meeting.

Build rapport, work the mark. Or maybe I won’t have to use the note at all.

And then I step into line, the ring-ting-ting of the scanner pushing everyone through at an amiable clip. The nervous thrum within the station is thick enough to cut through—heartbeats slightly askew, the rhythm off. Each confirmed scan might not be a happy chime, but it’s the closest thing that exists in the NAC—one that confirms you aren’t a threat to the status quo.

Wouldn’t want one of those coming into New Manhattan. Beyond the turnstiles, through the chain links and crowd, I can see the overhang of the station’s end segueing seamlessly into the city street.

Outside looks like freedom, an endless cascade of nano-bot assembled skyscrapers and self-driving cars. All the tech does, though, is grant citizens the privilege of cramming themselves in boxes that a mouse would find small. That shit hasn’t completely dominated the Western Stronghold yet, and I can’t say that I’m waiting for progress with bated breath.

But don’t think for a minute I’m one for the frontier—I just like being able to see the sunrise every now and again. Not just its reflection, bouncing off a thousand panes of glass and brushed aluminum.

A different chime breaks the rhythm, and I can hear the crowd’s collective hearts stop. It’s two turnstiles to the right, a slightly chubby woman with a nervous demeanor. She’s talking with the gatekeeper, whispering, her face red, trying to explain why her HoloBand scanned incorrectly.

I can tell, even before the gatekeeper presses the button beneath his terminal, that she’s screwed. Her movements are shaky—not the demeanor of the innocent. She’s trying to sneak into New Manhattan, just like me.

Problem is, only one of us is any good at it.

Two soldiers, their rifles at attention, boots shined to perfection, take determined, same-length strides over. They don’t hear her complaints, her explanations.

Everyone else does, though.

I need to see my son, she says, her voice a loud wail, he’s sick, and that—that charge was years ago! Almost a decade! I’m not a criminal! You can’t do this.

But the soldiers do, and she and her complaints are quickly eliminated, summarily dispatched so as not to intrude on anyone else’s day. The nervous equilibrium returns, everyone thinking damn, what’s it all come to and wondering how we all got here, all while thanking whatever invisible deity they choose to believe in today that it wasn’t them who got pulled out of line.

She’ll get deported, if she’s lucky, back where she came from, with a more permanent HoloBand injected into her neck—one that fuses with the top of the spine—to make sure she can never slip through the cracks. There are other scenarios, however, that don’t play out quite so well. But everyone’s telling themselves she’ll survive—and that, besides, there should be consequences when you break the rules, damnit.

At least until the Inner Circle moves the goal posts again, and this time they fall outside the lines.

The guy’s HoloBand chimes ahead of me, the gate light flashes green, and he’s through customs. I’m up. I close my eyes, feel the beating in my heart for a moment, and center my thoughts. Then I square my shoulders, wear my biggest smile—the one that says, hey, I see you, and rummage through my pockets.

This is not protocol—everyone else has their shirt collars down, spending as little time in the slaughterhouse as possible. Being different for the sake of being different is stupid—but being different for the sake of distraction, running a social shell game…that is what an intelligent man calls a calculated risk.

I bring my gaze up from the floor slowly, trying to catch the gatekeeper’s eye. The edges of mine widen, my features softening, as if I’ve seen the entrance to Shangri-La itself. I run a few quick calculations, redoing my assessment. She’s a vulnerable mark—now, I just need to identify the weakness.

I spot it, hanging around her neck: a simple silver chain.

You’re a sympathizer, right, I say, making no indication that I’m going to pull my jacket down and allow her to scan me.

She blushes, her hand almost immediately going to her throat, like I’ve threatened to garrote her. I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Don’t tell me that didn’t have a cross on it, once upon a time, I say, in a clandestine, conspiratorial whisper, maybe it still does.

"It absolutely does not," she says. Her eyes are focused on the touchscreen pad in her little booth, as if that thing holds all the answers.

I shake my head, walking toward the still-locked turnstile. A sympathizer working for the Circle. I can’t believe it.

Sir, you need to let me scan your HoloBand, she says in a small voice. I can’t let you through without a—

Okay, you can scan, I say, standing still. With shaking hands, she takes hold of a gun-shaped tool, red beams of light streaming from its end, and rolls down the collar of my jacket. I feel the cool metal press up next to my neck. It beeps. Not the good chime. The warning chime.

But I stay cool and ask her, like I approached her in a bar, What’s your name?

Carina. There’s a long pause. The person on the screen doesn’t match who I am. I know.

I run my play. You don’t wanna press that button. I’ll show you why.

I reach into my pocket, and pull out the note, bringing my hand out slow. There’s an impatient buzz growing behind me—why the hell is this taking so long, everyone wondering—as I put the paper in her palm with a soft touch.

I’m a friend. Then, with a reassuring wink, I take my hand away from hers and say, Tonight, at six.

Carina’s eyes grow wide, and we hold a stare for a few moments. Then she reaches underneath her touchpad terminal to press a button. I hold my breath—I know I’m good, but you never can really know someone for sure until they make a move. I hear a click and wonder if it’s over. But it’s not the one that calls the hounds. Instead, she hits the manual override, for when a HoloBand can’t be properly scanned.

The light flashes green, and I walk through the turnstile, winking again. Then I’m swallowed up by the towering city. I hail an auto-cab and input the address. As it winds through the city streets, real nervousness sets in.

Because I’m about to see my brother for the first time in fifteen years.

Despite the lack of drivers, congestion and traffic are still the real kings of New Manhattan—which gives me plenty of time to reflect on the circumstances that led to my arrival. Scamming your way across the NAC these days is no easy grift, even if you’re me. No credits and a criminal record make transcontinental travel difficult, particularly when you want entry into New Manhattan—the capital of this great nation.

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.

I cover my ears, trying to drown out his parable. But the voice literally comes from within my head, like the Circle has direct access to my mind.

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 levee, 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 declaring it 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 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 collective asses of the Circle, 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 toward 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 skyscraper forest grows denser. Nothing resembles my home.

I wonder if Matt will resemble the person from my memories. Last time I saw him, I was eight years old. One day he’s sitting across from me eating cereal, 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 make it real. Pops started drinking a lot, Mom couldn’t stop him. They were both dead by the time 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 toward 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 among the 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.

What are the chances of a massive volcanic eruption and quake within a few hours? Apparently none, according to the Circle’s reports. But all that exhaust, shifting soil and human wear and tear over the past century adds up.

Still, from the footage, it seems like it’s just a warning shot. Nothing to be worried about.

In tech news, the newsman says, his voice growing appropriately lighter, Golden Nectar, the manufacturer of the popular HoloBand 5, has announced that HoloBand 6 will soon be available. The upgrade, as with the last edition, is free for all current HoloBand owners with a ten-year subscription to the company’s HoloNet service. As a reminder, HoloBands will be mandatory to receive and send payment, traverse state lines and vote in local elections by the end of the year. Those refusing installation will be subject to sanction.

Local elections. What a sham. I touch the back of my neck, where the fresh incision still stings.

The elevator dings and the doors open to reveal a red-carpeted hallway. The news shuts off, with the words Have a Lovely Day written in a romantic script on the screen above the insignia of the Circle-owned real estate holding company. When I step out, the elevator doors snap shut.

An electronic arrow appears behind the pastel yellow wallpaper, flashing green to my right before disappearing in a soft, effusive glow. I follow its instructions, formulating an introduction as I walk along the rows of identical doors.

This should be easy.

It’s what I do: manufacture trust, belief and friendship out of nothing. But what if something really matters, where the cost of failure or saying the wrong thing is high? You could argue that I was always playing with fire—con the wrong person, end up with a noose around my neck, swaying from a well-buffed light post.

But that’s never been a particular concern of mine.

This, though—it’s a feeling I can’t quite describe, or handle, because it’s so damn unfamiliar. My stomach turns over with dread as I continue past the endless rows of doors. I listen for sounds of life within, but they’re either soundproofed or the occupants have been browbeaten into silence.

There are many things I could say to Matt, but one sticks in my mind.

Why the hell did you leave?

It’s an accusation, the wrong play, immediately sets the frame wrong. But it’s also the truth, and I can’t actually think of anything else, so I try to push everything from my mind as the hallway numbers tick down, the moment of reckoning growing closer with each step.

Then, like I’ve been transported here by magic, I’m in front of Apartment 3121B, still with nothing good to say, no angle. I run my hands through my dark, neat hair, consider turning

Reviews for Ashes of the Fall

[benboo-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Amazing book. Many books in futuristic settings are tough to get into - authors spend so much time setting the stage and defining new things that it can be hard to follow. This book managed to do all that without my even noticing - defining the setting happened smoothly as the story developed. And what a story. A lot of plot twists, great action, in depth characters and complex intrigue. I never knew what would happen next and the writing was so descriptive, I felt like I was there. I can envision the movie - can hardly wait.

[jimphillips8 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A good start to a dystopian trilogy with a unique plot and interesting characters. The world building is well done. There is plenty of action and lots of twists and turns. The ending does leave the reader wanting to find out the further adventures of Luke. I recommend this book and will be looking for the next book in the Remnants Trilogy.

[catherinehsu · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A fantastic adventure that follows Luke Stokes as he navigates his way through a world in ruins. I really enjoyed this story - it was exciting, full of action, and fast-paced.The main character is likeable as well; sharp and quick-witted - I really liked those sarcastic one-liners!

[c.j.shane · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Ashes of the Fall is the first in Nicholas Erik’s The Remnants Triology. Ashes is a dystopian sci fi story that is action-packed throughout. Our hero is Luke Stokes, a self-described grifter who is called from Seattle to New York City by his brother Matt whom Luke hasn’t seen since childhood. Matt is a genius who has come up with a “neural interface technology” and he wants Luke to help him keep it out of the hands of the dictator. When Luke arrives, he finds Matt dead in his apartment. Suicide or murder? Luke doesn’t know. He just knows he has to get out of town fast so he won’t get caught in a trap. This book has some interesting constructs that could potentially reflect reality. For example, the Yellowstone Supervolcano (very real, not fictional), if it ever blows again, is going to be just as destructive as described in Ashes. Areas of what was once the U.S. described in this book seem plausible enough – wastelands, wild lands inhabited by nomadic tribes, an area where people are exiled for not going along with the ruling government in yet another very urbanized area, the Circle. Erik has made a very fast-paced adventure as Luke attempts to figure out what his brother was up to and keep himself alive at the same time. Many characters are introduced, too many for some readers. But for me, Erik did a good job of keeping them sorted out. I never got confused. There was just enough character development to make Luke seem real, especially his efforts to keep away the “black dog of despair.” He was a bit too resilient at times, though. I mean, can a guy get shot and beat up and broken and still keep going like this? All in all, this is a great read if you are into dystopian thrillers with a lot of suspense and action.