The End of the World... Again or Hitbodedut, Book Four, Awakening: The End of the World... Again or Hitbodedut, #5

By JM Dark

Book four, "Awakening," A collective of loosely affiliated families struggle to maintain their relationships as seafaring homesteaders struggle when the earth's magnetic poles shift. Their habitat vessel serves as a backdrop for the political friction and turmoil caused by the cataclysm. The ship takes on water due to the reliance on robotic technology and results in several crewmembers being lost. The surviving crewmembers slowly recover and are stranded on a barren shore. The team eventually finds relief at a resort sanctuary run by the spiritual leader of the ACoG, but their added burden causes the community to split in hopes of survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JM Dark
• Release date: Mar 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463955741

JM Dark

J M Dark is a systems engineer by trade (techno stuff), that by night is an inventor, writer, and "tinkerer" who enjoys sharing new and unique concepts. "The End of the World...Again" is his first novel and weaves many thoughts and principles of a techno-guy into a gritty vision of what could easily be our future.

Book preview

Life Afloat

The sun shone brightly through the roof panels and the garden palms swayed gently as waves from the south caused the habitat module to rise and fall slowly. The nav. computer is reporting a storm due south and the satellite data’s predicting a big one.

Brian Southwick grabbed the communication headset from its hook and pulled it on his closely cropped, curly, brown hair. Keying the mic, he lowered his voice and tried to sound mature. This is Shiitake, one-three-four-seven. We’re reading a foul weather warning from the south. The seas are picking up so we’ll be battening down for a few days. We’ll report status on a six hour rotating schedule.

As unofficial chief of the watch, he felt considerable pride at how well he had handled the alert. I know it’s just make-believe but that’s the trouble with this place; too much time to just think.

Doug will be up soon to see what the commotion is all about so I’ll be off the hook before anything important happens. All the same, the view out the canopy shows a clear blue sky and the waves are just gently swimming around the cockpit. The radar scan is clear and all is well with the world as far as I can tell. Maybe this foul weather thing is a mistake.

Brian thought about how he and his parents got here. We’ve been living on the Shiitake for a little over three years and we’ve been at sea for just over two of those years. At first, I was so excited. Any fifteen-year-old would be. Everything was new and different. The ship seemed so big. The sponsoring institute still had two living units unsold and they still needed to install a bunch of the seagoing support equipment. The newly planted trees made things look so open back then. The skylights seemed miles above as I stood in the gardens for the first time. Now, I can see the tops of the trees level with the command bridge and everything seems so much smaller.

My folks wanted to get away from the pressures of the city. I think they’re just trying to ruin my life. They sold everything they had and moved aboard the Shiitake expecting …a simple, natural, life drifting the oceans, at piece with the universe. A brave family with a warm nurturing tribe of friends cast onto the currents of time… Well, maybe they bought that line of sales crap, but I don’t get it.

The excitement of the first few months is gone... Now, times not spent aboard the boat are the best. It works out well enough when we’re in port or moored in a township cluster, but that’s in the past now.

The last ‘town’ we moored at was more of a pirates den than a "nurturing village, and the crew voted to spend a few months in drift mode. That’s another thing... this dumb boat is a current-seeker," not an active navigator. The motor can nudge the hulk this-way-or-that, trying to ply the currents, but it isn’t what you can call real navigation. We’re at the mercy of the elements.

The Coral Shoals was a township where we just spent several months and, while it provided some protection from pirating, and supported a brisk market of goods and services, it harbored an ‘adventuresome’ element that made for many a loose deal. The nobler concept is that a small community of likeminded people will congregate for mutual benefit while remaining independent tribes and families. More important to me, it provided the opportunity to hang out with a bunch of kids my own age.

His lean, swimmer’s, body thrived on the hours of swimming and boating amongst the moored craft that formed a shark-cage. Most of the boats were like the Shiitake with a large surface saucer and undersea stem that served as the business end of the particular guild that inhabited it. The entertainment cluster, of course, was the greatest interest to me and my friends. The ZenDogy Prime, arcade, was our favorite, followed closely by the food court on the Shoal Master. Lord knows, it’s not the food that attracts me, it’s the people. Everyone that lives in the town, or is just passing through, eventually ends up in the food court, so you can watch people for the cost of a small coke.

It was some of those people that my parents decided were going to lead to trouble. The cross section of humanity that’s taken to the concept of ocean homesteading varies from, naïve, eco-do-gooders to wealthy entrepreneurial types. Unfortunately, some of those entrepreneurs tend to be those that flourish best in a free form society with few legal constraints.

Shortly after an incident with some of the people on a neighboring craft, the crew decided to set sail. The shark-cage is a patchwork of wire nets strung between some of the more permanently moored vessels and forms a common lagoon that many of the town’s people use to host fish-farm cages. Since the Shiitake was a new arrival to the cluster, they were obliged to place their cages outside the nets. When a couple of our cages turned up re-located to a stack owned by one of the council members, it became apparent that the Coral Shoals would be a hard place to call home.

The Shiitake crew decided that they would be better off at a smaller cluster further along the Philippine’s, so we re-fitted the craft as best we could afford and, as soon as the drift report showed signs of an increased southern flow, we slipped mooring and motored toward a reported eddy. When the gauges showed the temperature gradient of the southern current, we shut the power down and the craft began to meander slowly toward the Solomon’s. I know the trip will take weeks, if not months, but this directionless drifting is just so frustrating.

He HAt first, I tried spending all of my time in my room, but that was too boring, so I tried to spend as much time as possible outside. That was OK until a storm came and we drifted too far east into cold water. I quickly ran out of alternatives and settled into a general funk and displeasure with life aboard the mushroom. That’s another thing that bothers me. I mean, I respect the Japanese for their appreciation of vegetables and all, but to name the damn boat after a fungus is just too much, he grumbled.

What the hell is going on here? Doug Jones swung up the ladder leading to the command bridge in his normal gruff manner. His dark skin and wiry black hair looked as if he had just come out of the shower.

Oh, nothing, it’s just a weather warning I thought you ought to know about. They keep saying we need to avoid this front moving in from the south. Brian fingered the weather scope. I didn’t know which way you think we should go so I figured I’d just respond to the beacon monitor and let you figure it out.

You did exactly right kid. Doug poked at the display menus and moved from the main panel to the subsystem controls. OK kid, let me have the chair. You move over here and help me get things on line.

Brian had forgotten that he was sitting in the pilot’s chair. He swung around quickly and jumped to the deck. Aye Cap’n. He liked to give Doug a verbal jab when he started shouting orders like a real sailor.

Doug was the designated tactical commander of the Shiitake. That didn’t really mean much; except he stood control duty every day, and he didn’t have to do any of the gardening. He and his wife, Emily, had signed on late in the program and they didn’t have the cash they needed to buy a full share. They negotiated a deal that secured the crews’ quarters at a reduced price but Emily had to agree to take over primary cooking and sanitation billets and Doug had to agree to be the tactical commander. It was a good deal for him, but Emily was no one’s choice for head chef. She didn’t like cooking and everyone knew it. She was a legal assistant and had never imagined herself as anyone’s cook. Her cocoa colored skin, dyed red hair, and busty stature made a striking image that didn’t fit well in an apron.

Doug was one of her clients. He was having a hard time finding a good paying job and felt it best to remove himself from the pressures of high finance. He wasn’t exactly running from the law, but the legal community had suggested that he find a new line of work far from the temptations of investment account management. The option of signing on the Shiitake came just days before he was to face an ethics hearing summons, so he jumped at it, and went to the hearing able to show how he had changed career paths and that society was going to benefit immeasurably. They were glad enough to rid themselves of him that they paid his way to Osaka to be sure he didn’t miss the launch.

Emily had to admit that, while she was a little unprepared for the head-cook-and-bottle-washer job, she did find the leisurely lifestyle aboard the boat to her liking.

With time, Emily worked out a task-sharing arrangement with a couple of the other crewmembers so she spent a little more time in the garden and they did a little more time in the mess hall. Everyone was happier with the results.

The crew’s quarters, where they lived, were directly below the command bridge. That meant that it was half of the size of most of the other living units. It was a simple single bedroom suite with a small living room, kitchen space, and private bath. Like all the units on the boat, the interior walls were glass and opened onto the garden, and the living space and bedroom had large viewing ports that looked out into the sea. It gave the rooms a feeling of cool openness during the day and frequently provided entertainment watching the waves and exotic creatures exploring the vessel.

Brian lived with his parents directly across the garden. Their unit was a full size bungalow so his room, and a common living area, were on deck-two while his folks shared a couple of rooms and the bath at the garden level. The interior of the vessel enclosed the garden and each of the six sides was either a two-level unit, like his, or a single level unit like the Townsend couple.

Brian liked having the rooms on the upper deck all to himself, he could see the stars and the open sea through the port in his bedroom, and it made him feel a little less confined when he could look out and see the waves surging gently across the horizon.

Main thruster to standby, Doug commanded.

Standby—aye. Thruster answers green. Brian complied in his best crewman like manner.

Doug grabbed the mic. and switched the com-panel to address the whole vessel. There’s a reported sea-state 6, due south, about 200 kilometers. We’re going to have to batten everything down and see if we can get around the main storm cell. I’m reading that the Maxwell’s and the Fisher’s are diving. Can someone please see if they can confirm their return? Doug closed the mic. and returned it to its hook above the throttle quadrant. Bri, do me a favor, go below to be sure the weather hatches get secured when those people get back aboard?

Brian nodded and headed for the ladder. I’ll be back as soon as I check in with my folks.

Don’t slide... Doug called out to him as Brian straddled the handrails and disappeared with a swish. You’re going to get hurt doing that!

As Brian made his way across the garden, he caught sight of Cynthia Maxwell. She was nearly his age so everyone expected them to be friends but he found her to be conceited and a little dull.

She’s cute enough, he thought as he watched her nubile blond form tend to her job. She’s just too stuck-up most of the time. He gave her a low wave as he jogged past the vegetable patch where she was working.

She simply kept working without acknowledging him.

He called out to her as he got to the sublevel ladder. You better get ready. We’re going to have a big storm. He paused for a moment hoping that she would at least look up at him. She didn’t, so he mounted the ladder and slid down in one quick motion.

Below Decks

Brian spun his landing and paused for a moment at the view port to see if he could see anyone tending the fisheries. When he didn’t see anyone, he quickly headed down the last sublevel ladder. At the bottom, he stood for a moment catching his breath. He was about forty meters below the wave-churned surface and the air was thick and damp from the diving gear hanging in lockers that lined the walls of the utility room.

Each family has a section of lockers, and each shows variations in gear selection and tidiness through their closed wire frames. ‘Families’ is an exaggeration for some of the people on the boat. The Townsend’s are a retired couple with no kids and the Fishers are a couple of guys in their mid forties that show little interest in family behavior. The Maxwell’s have two kids, Cynthia and Philip, but the folks seem to hate each other. My family is the most normal of the bunch but even they spend a lot of time bickering about who does what or who should’ve done what. That’s one reason I decided to spend as much time as possible on the bridge with Doug. He understands me better than my folks do.

Peering through the view port into the pressure chamber below, Brian noted that the Fisher boys were in the airlock but that they hadn’t closed the outer hatch behind them. He thought to himself, maybe there’s someone else coming, or maybe they’re just really stupid.

The chamber was a small closet that’s just big enough for two adults and some diving gear with a ladder that ends at the dry deck hatch in its ceiling. The hatch had a small view-port through which Brian watched as the largest of the pair dried himself and grabbed the release lever. It, of course, didn’t work and the puzzled look on his face was almost worth all of the effort Brian had spent getting down this far. After another futile attempt, it must have occurred to him that he needed to close the wet deck hatch first.

As the outer hatched closed, a pressure port opened somewhere in the plumbing running up the wall, and the air from the chamber rushed up the pipes stirring fixtures and fittings as it passed to the surface. At last, the interior hatch responded to his urgings. Brian assured himself. If it weren’t for this simple interlock, somebody would’ve sunk this tub three years ago.

The Fishers climbed the ladder into the dry deck, dutifully hung their gear, and connected their tanks for servicing. You down here to keep an eye on us? James, the smallest of the pair, spoke to Brian.

Yeah, sort of, we’re having a storm lock-down and the skipper told me to check the hatches.

Oooh, the Skipper? That sounds so—official. James pulled his dyed black hair back from his pudgy face and mocked an effeminate salute.

Oh let him be, Don Fisher chided. He’s just having fun.

Well if you want to have some real fun…

James... enough! What have I said about that? Don was tall and slim and served as the dominate character of the pair as they turned and headed up the ladder to the next level.

Brian was glad they were gone. He didn’t like the way they acted sometimes and right now, he wasn’t in the mood for their innuendoes. A buzzer sounded nearby as the dry deck hatch closed. As soon as the hatch seated and latched Brian went to the view port again to see who was coming in.

The clanking and hissing of the airlock began again as the valves and pumps sprang into action letting the Maxwell’s enter. They hadn’t bothered to break down their diving gear so they just barely fit into the chamber. They were wearing re-breathers instead of full tanks, but they still bumped and jostled each other squeaking and sloshing in an openly hostile comedy of pushing and shoving.

It struck Brian as he watched. I must be missing something. If they weren’t wearing their gear they wouldn’t have to be bumping each other so much, and then they wouldn’t be so pissed at each other.

The pipes rattled and clanked as the pressure from below vented to the surface. The Maxwell’s struggled up the ladder carrying their basket of fish and greens along with what appeared to be lots of unnecessary diving equipment. He had a spear gun and she was carrying four shark-slugs.

I can understand taking a ‘slug’ along when there’s been a sighting, but four of them seem excessive under any circumstances. Especially, since no one’s reported sharks for over two weeks. Ah—Mrs. Maxwell, you should put the safety on those things before you get up here. Brian dutifully reminded her.

She spun quickly to face him and snapped. You mind your own business little boy, I don’t need your opinion.

Mr. Maxwell shyly secured the safety on his spear gun and then opened the cage door of their locker. He ignored both his wife and Brian as he went through the, all too familiar, routine of stowing his diving gear. They had been tending the crops and so had been using the ship’s air hoses, but they still had plenty of things to stuff into their lockers. He turned and jostled his wife as she bent over to remove the knife from her calf. Sorry dear, he said as he pushed his way past her considerable bulk.

Brian noted that she had finally set the safety latch on the shark slug and was putting the small explosive sticks into a drawer with a label bearing her name in small uniform letters. She gave Brian one last look of contempt, slammed the door and rattled it to be sure that it had latched then followed her husband up the ladder to storage deck two.

Brian stood in silence for a moment and shook his head as he watched her disappear up the ladder. He cleared his thoughts of the little melodrama and set to work securing the wet deck by slipping down the ladder into the airlock and slamming his palm on the warning alarm. He knew that it wasn’t necessary since he had accounted for everyone, but he was following the safety procedure just to be sure.

The alarm sounded not only in the wet deck itself, but also outside on the diving platform. The fish in the cages darted about in confusion at the sudden claxon but soon settled into their station-keeping hover centered in their caged spaces. The wild fish that had taken up residence in the kelp patch on the garden platform darted deep into the protective maze of dancing leaves. Brian moved the wet deck hatch lever to the closed position and put the locking pin in place then pushed the intercom button and announced in his most official sounding voice, Airlock secured, 14:20 hours.

He went through the same exercise with the dry deck hatch then quickly inspected the lockers tugging the door on each to be sure it was closed. The compartment was a big hexagon lined with family cages. He noticed that there was some loose gear in a couple of them. It doesn’t look too dangerous. If the weather gets real bad somebody’s stuff might get wrecked, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to cause damage to anyone else’s stuff. Besides, the doors on most of the cages are locked so it’d be a big hassle to do anything about it.

Satisfied that he had done a good-enough job, he climbed the ladder, unlatched the hatch from its stowed position, and swung it closed. Slamming the lever home, he pinned it in place. Again, he tried his best to sound official. Dry deck secured, 14:28 hours.

Storage deck #2, or ‘S2’ (pronounced Stu), followed the same hexagonal form as the other decks. It was nearly two stories high with a catwalk around the mid-level providing access to the second section of storage lockers. The central core was clear of all obstructions except for the column of vent pipes and plumbing that wound their way up the centermost location like sculpture. Standing midway up the ladder, he could see the latch-flag on locker #12 was open. #12, he thought… Who’s #12? The Fisher’s, I think. He quickly made his way along the catwalk kicking the latch handle closed and deftly spinning back toward the ladder as the bright orange flag confirmed that the latch was set.

At the top of the ladder, he again closed and secured the hatch. This time he didn’t sound quite so official. Stu secure, he spoke into the intercom. ‘S1’, or Swun, was nearly an identical copy of ‘S2’. The only difference was that the storage lockers were more specialized. A large refrigeration unit took up half of one of the segments on the upper level, and two full sections of the lower level were just large flat panels labeled sewage in small block letters. Like we need a label for that, he thought.

All of the utility lockers on the lower level showed as