Diamond on the Horizon

By Scott G Buchan

This is our future. This is how it will be. Surprisingly, everything turned out rather well. At least, for a while.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447567165

Book preview

DIAMOND

ON

THE

HORIZON

Scott G Buchan

Copyright © 2009 Scott G Buchan

All rights reserved.

Published by Lulu.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-557-12570-8

eISBN: 978-1-44756-716-5

Surrounded by mutilations; in the room alone, Saskia Greek lets it all in. Her chair slowly rotates. The ceiling displays the grey kites that waft over war zones; the walls are bruised with the evil of the previous age: the prior world that they refer to as Arvel. This is Argila. The woman’s feet squirm upon renderings of massacred children; this is what they used to do to one another. This is how bad it was, before some awoke and silenced the alarm. Kids were stolen and fucked into bits; there were tower block prison cells where females were kept as sockets. Thugs would take to the countryside and obliterate their neighbours, and become leaders. People do not need to be led. Humans are as bright as anything in the universe. The young only require the reinforcement of the knowledge that all Argilians are equal, and that it is essential that they respect, and have consideration for, everyone.

Saskia watches the pulsating history of man, feeling a soreness in her throat, imagining that her heart were being pushed across concrete. The visions of mass executions and military experiments wring the damp from her eyes. When she thinks that she’s sure that she has wept enough, Saskia leaves of her own accord. The lady will resume her evening.

*

The man was filtered into consciousness by the snow settling on his hood. The lenses of his headgear warm sufficiently to prevent the flakes from obscuring his sight. The resultant droplets cannot bury themselves into the firm black of his attire. As well as deflecting the elements, the material also helped to endear the man to his sleeping companions. By detecting when potentially dangerous creatures were about and then, dependent upon the situation, emitting the requisite signal or scent, his suit would either frighten a beast off, or entice it as though the human were a member of its tribe.

He lifts his arm from the prodigious skull of a resting bear, and unhooks the other from the coil of her cub. Blessing AB43 stands up, points himself southwards, then saunters off into the gloom. The bears dissolve into a blank page.

After two hours of crushing the frost, the man summons his breakfast. Blessing AB43: food, he says; the call is not especially loud. An illuminated parcel drifts down through a murky archway. The man could catch it, if he fancied a jog. He strolls over, and collects the rubber sphere from the ground with his nimble gloves. He pulls its chute out of the way, then taps a button for a straw to extend. Blessing connects this tip to a valve at the front of his mask. He drinks the different segments of his meal from various tubes. He hurls the ball into the sky once he is full, knowing that a magnet will guide the orb back to the invisible airship whence it came.

He reaches the edge of the ice much later in the day. He pursues the ridge in search of an easier entryway to the sea. After having eventually found a safer berth from where to launch himself, Blessing pauses. The opaque rug churns before him. He bids for a toilet. The wait gives him time not to reflect but to allow for the scenery to rinse his mind.

A rectangular form descends from wispy slates. Its parachute drags it out over the water; propellers heave it towards the cliffs. Eight nacelles swivel to execute a flawless landing. The portaloo docks where it can. Its sail is sucked into the roof. Blessing climbs into one of the dozen compartments. The heat inside compels him to remove his hood and unbuckle promptly. Blessing lowers his trousers. He commits himself to the throne and defecates. He flicks a switch when his bowels have been adequately vacated; the excrement drops into a chemical tank. A circular sponge protracts from beneath the toilet’s rim. Blessing chews off a glove then cups his testicles and leans forward. The gently spinning cleanser absorbs what mess there might be, before a puff of dry steam towels his crevice.

Out in the snow, and with his clothes reattached, Blessing sends the lavatory home. Rotor blades disseminate the terrain; the contraption is thrust upwards, through the clouds and back to the hold of the mother craft.

The sea is close enough for the man to step onto; that portion looks like it might be able to support his weight. This will be some exercise; this will be quite a feat. Blessing should be up to it, though. This, however, will be greatly more difficult than speed-scaling Everest; this challenge exceeds that jaunt. This will be a crawl through six hundred kilometres of syrup. This is akin to sprinting across Russia; this is like mountaineering in the west, all over the Nunavut territory, with bound wrists. This is not a certainty. There will be an audience, possibly. People across the planet, and perhaps even farther afield – on the moon, or out on old Rusty – folk might have happened upon Blessing’s frequency and be following his progress. Possessed by all Argilians, and entwined with their brains, a morsel of circuitry will permit them to witness this man’s every stroke through his eyes. They could watch, and if they sense that he is struggling, the people will subsequently shriek, and then maybe some wardens or blue Metals will whizz over to fish him out. Blessing AB43 hopes that this will not be the case, and that he will be allowed to toil unimpeded.

He braces himself by the water, then dives in.

*

One woman slips a soapy hand down the crease of a man’s behind, while another gamely sucks on his penis. Dandor Marbert thumbs Elysa Vird’s ears in appreciation. He allows Shanice Rah to penetrate him with a solitary digit. Through the shower spray, Dandor observes a screen. In New Zealand, a concert continues late into the night. Dandor is responsible for that. Destino had inquired if that festival would be an appropriate allocation of resources; the human had decided that it would be, and now the people enjoy themselves. He is glad that they do; all involved are content, from the musicians to the patrons to those with the fireworks. Dandor ejaculates into his lover’s mouth. He thanks Elysa with a kiss on her crown. Shanice moves past her man to help the other female from her knees; she then slurps the semen off of Elysa’s tongue. Dandor commands a jet to cease its flow. Steam polishes away transparent veins. Dandor’s lips have delicate things to impart to both women. The three of them exit the cubicle; this terzetto enter their bedroom to dress for the day.

*

The principal singer of a fifty-strong band occupies a stage between a sated chunk of the public, to the fore, and, to the man’s rear, an enormous screen, which presently depicts a precise digital reconstruction of his dreams from the previous evening. Broadcast are images of a melting forest. Yerazig Alrek forgets his lyrics. There is a girl down there by the front who bewitches him. Pupils query a brain that consults a chip that peruses a database in the hunt for elucidation. Yerazig learns that her name is Tunde Nessa; she is a youngster at thirty-six. He is seventy-five years old. The woman is the product of Kirabo Oni and Agnes Roebling; she has had no lehm of her own. Furthermore, Tunde is einzeln, much like Yerazig mostly is. Neither he nor she has a confirmed pareja. The man jumps from the stage; his cohorts make do without him. Over the din, Yerazig asks Tunde if he can walk with her somewhere. She is swift to inform him that she is fine with this. The crowd doth part for the pair.

*

Coffee is classed as a luxury item, and thus the purchase of which does result in a deduction from a person’s monthly credit allowance. Although, Amadeus Gerhardt, being of the Retro persuasion and opting to serve said beverage of his own volition, does not inversely see a rise in his personal purse whenever a brew he dispenses. He wears his apron and stands at the opposite side of a counter from some tables and drinkers, and seeks no monetary bonus beyond the adequate wage afforded to all. Amadeus is not here for that purpose; no one in this world is motivated by financial gain. People don’t have to work. Amadeus Gerhardt has a job, for which he is not paid. His intentions are vague even to himself. Had he not arrived at the café this morning, Amadeus wouldn’t have elicited some penalty. There is no boss to censure him. A blue Metal would have just officiated in his stead. Amadeus is not, however, the only human who works in this establishment. Sabbir Hyun, a one-hundred-and-sixteen-year-old parejan male, whose blends those are that attract the punters, is occasionally spotted on the premises, trialling new flavours. Sabbir’s partner, Araceli Marek, ninety-three, did come in most mornings to prepare her pastries. Cheerfully, she rolls her dough, off to Amadeus’s left, in plain sight of their loquacious customers. A lady steps up to the counter, away from Amadeus Gerhardt, to be served by a Metal. The robot provides her with a cappuccino. This transaction is completed when she swipes her palm above the desk. Amadeus notes that the woman who ordinarily would have sashayed in by this time for her caffeine and croissant has not.

Araceli explains the logic behind her latest creation to an android. Blue Metals are built for the purpose of assisting people in a vast range of circumstances. These machines, like their red, green, orange and yellow cousins, are humanoid in shape, though devoid of gender traits; beyond the colour-coding system, Metals are identical to one another. The robots are also shorter and slighter of frame than the majority of adult males, so as not to intimidate Argilians when passing them in the street. In addition, Metals do not have faces as such; the frontal segments of their globes comprise a patch of criss-crossing mesh, a lot like a fencer’s mask. This tapestry does alight in amusing patterns when they do speak, with their voices being soft but unmistakably inorganic. Metals are not regarded as titanium people; they are not beloved. The Metals are bolts on a bridge. They are equipped with imagination enough to improvise solutions in their specific roles. Their programmers, though, were mindful not to inadvertently embellish them with the quandary of ambition, that gift which separates the humans from all else.

Amadeus Gerhardt acknowledges his next customer. A man with a small moustache inquires politely about the availability of tea and oatcakes. Amadeus pours him a cup and fetches a biscuit. The man then scans his hand as if he’s still not convinced that he is doing it correctly. He takes that which he has bought to a circular table, where he sits by himself; his back is to the windows of the frontage. This man is purported to be in his fifties; to Amadeus, he could be a hundred years beyond that. In truth, neither figure is anything like his real age. Next month will bring with it this individual’s first birthday. The man prefers to be called Adi, apparently. He is a quiet and somewhat bewildered character; he’s proven to be a fascination for many. The croissant lady sat with him the last time that the two were in here together. Amadeus studies this character. Adi sips a liquid, then nibbles a solid. He laces his arms as though that will keep them busy for a while. Adi’s mother had been Klara Polzl; at least, in a prior incarnation. She had mated with a man who had worked as a customs official. They had bred like mice. He had given her six children. Adi would have been the fourth of which. Amadeus Gerhardt is incapable of reproducing; Destino has yet to choose him for de-sterilisation. Both Amadeus and Adi are currently yermo. Puissant males can be quickly identified by the blue sclera of their eyeballs. Amadeus is uncertain as to whether or not Adi is eligible to ever become fertile. A man had to be between the ages of thirty and a hundred-and-fifty to be in with a chance of being one of the sixteen million males randomly selected each year to receive the jab, and have their vas deferens tubes unblocked for a period of twenty-four months. Adi is not quite a year old. Amadeus ponders how that infant could have yet accumulated the wisdom and experience to justify ownership of a lehm. However, there are those memories that the Beakers would have supplied him with; inside of Adi’s skull, a splinter will be replete with a wealth of narration and information. The cono, or conocimiento, will inflate the man’s brain with the relevant data. Amadeus, though, isn’t sure if, regardless of their years, clones can replicate.

The distant son of Alois Hitler finishes his oatcake and swallows the rest of his tea. Uncomfortably, Adi greets some chirpy onlookers who are in a booth, and then he leaves. He ambles along the pavement, beneath granite hedges, and gazes like the toddler that he virtually is at the flying cars that periodically bite into the sunshine.

Amadeus Gerhardt is fifty-six years old. He was produced by Walenty Tadzio and Niebla Ochoa. He has a job; he could be referred to as a Retro. He is yermo; he is einzeln. Amadeus stares down into a glass cabinet, and at a croissant that remains unclaimed.

*

Tushar Rezanoy lags behind the cluster of a bouquin. The nucleus of this distinct learning group consists of seventeen kids, ranging from a ten-month-old girl to a faintly distracted fifteen-year-old boy. The sayfa, a bouquin’s lehm, are accompanied by a broader hoop of thirteen adults. This bunch roam on the shore of a lake. The afternoon rebounds from a crest of altitudinal chalets. As knowledge is leaked into a person via cono throughout their lifetime, and because of the necessary population control policy that’s in place, Argilians cannot discern any validity in regimented schooling techniques. Fate usually moulds these bouquins, as parents with young drift across the plains. The cono not only drip-feeds its host with the sap of science and the arts, but it can be instructed to alert a body when particular parties of interest are in the vicinity. Bouquins congeal when broods move in to sniff each other out; such shoals are thought to assist in the sharpening of social skills, as well as providing the youths with a more comprehensive education. Einzelns and yermoes tend to swell these bands, being drawn to the children that they can’t, as things stand, themselves manufacture. A bouquin will usually disperse after a few days, although they have been known to hold for as long as a couple of months.

Tushar is an einzeln; the whites of his eyes reveal his barren status. He stops on the grass, whilst the bouquin continues to trace the spill. He has had troubling thoughts; persistently, he torments himself. This man is forty-seven years old, and he is wise to what he should do. Aloud, he speaks, but not so as to disturb the posse with his declaration. He says, Tushar Rezanoy: help request, zero two. He does not perch on the slope as he waits.

A volantor glides between hills. Fans within its four nacelles punch craters into the Traunsee on its approach. A quartet of side-fins clutch these pods, and pivot to cushion the automobile’s descent. Sailors ogle the craft from their decks. It plants its tyres on a flatter tract behind Tushar. This vehicle isn’t the largest of the carriers that wardens patrol in. There is space in the back for this man, however, if the two wardens surmise that it would be beneficial for Tushar that he be taken to a care facility. Should he opt not to comply with their ruling, the wardens will have to issue a detention request, a scenario which has materialised on no more than six instances in a century. If a prefect concurs with the wardens’ suggestion, then the subject is firmly obliged to accompany these bastions of societal decency. None of the six did reject the prefects’ verdicts. To renounce the authority of the Board can not only induce sentencing by a judge, but it also undermines their entire way of being. So little governance is there that Argilians are dissuaded from arguing with the individuals who briefly occupy the wheelhouse for fear that their quibbling will unbalance the set up and invite a return of the old systems.

Tushar hasn’t been a warden yet, and might very well never be. Only one million adults are chosen to be wardens per year, via that same loose selection process whereby Destino finds society’s fathers, and the dozen members of the Board of Prefects, and, increasingly rarely, judges to devise chastisements for violators. Wardens are plucked from an identical age spectrum to that from which the males are picked to become puissant for a while.

The vol’s wings fold upwards. The male driver and his female colleague exit their vehicle, and hail Tushar in the light green of their uniforms. He is told silently, as one remembers a phrase, that the man is Ulansky Luvhengo and she is Gabija Basira. There is no training to be a warden; a person is selected, and it is their choice as to whether or not they accept or decline the calling. If they are uninterested in pursuing such an endeavour, they can declare their reluctance either vocally to the clouds or through their fingertips. However, should they feel compelled to fulfil this prescribed post, cono will guide them towards their nearest station, where they will be paired with a partner who has had at least a month’s experience in the field. Each warden is encouraged to utilise his or her instincts in the handling of a situation. To be, or have been, a warden is a respectable, though not highly sought after, enterprise, which, similarly to being a prefect, will not ever engulf in excess of twelve months of a person’s time. Argilians are aware that anyone can become too comfy in the seats of power. Unlike becoming puissant, a person can only be a warden, a prefect or a judge once, and then they’re eliminated from the candidacy list for that job. Although there is no ordinance forbidding someone undertaking all four tasks during the sprawl of their years, this has yet to happen. The yearlong stint of a warden is not regarded as being a perilous venture. Owing to the predominantly open and relaxed manner of Argilians, the predicaments that wardens confront will seldom endanger their lives. Matters involving flames and explosions or the unintended release of hazardous chemicals are dealt with by red Metals. Wardens provide an essential function in that they are assigned to incidents where reasoning and human logic is required. Nobody receives extra credits for the duties that they perform in the servitude of their people.

Ulansky and Gabija had responded to the man’s notification of distress – help request 01: mental problems. The wardens can see that he is not enraged or weeping, but that he is saddened by something. Visual contact stimulates a burst of facts. The pair know that Tushar Rezanoy is forty-seven, and lonesome, and without passions. He partakes in activities, though never to any competitive standard. Tushar seems to lack verve. He is content to be a Resident; he has not applied to go into space. He does not desire to be a Comet. Tushar is intrigued by bouquins, however. He lingers by the constructs when massas pool together in the areas where he is. He likely wishes to be puissant and to procreate; Tushar is perhaps perturbed that he is unable to produce lehm, and that he also has no pareja. The wardens will soothe him, and assure him that he could live to be well over two hundred years old, and that good things will happen to him; everyone cares about Tushar. His health is as important to this duo as is anybody else’s.

Ahead, grown-ups umpire a stone-throwing contest. The boats are safe from the children’s might. Tushar tells the wardens that lately his mind’s been conjuring these sexual fantasies about the youngsters, about the under twenties, about the much younger than that. Hairless, and tight, and awful. The man says that he’s been thinking about acting upon these inclinations, and he cries because he thinks that he’s evil and he didn’t mean to be. He feels like he’s let the world down.

Gabija takes Tushar’s hands, and then she hugs him. Ulansky stands back by the bonnet of their transportation. He asks the sobbing man if he would like to come with them. Tushar nods without hesitation; his attempts at speech echo the sloshing of water. The woman skims a droplet from his cheek with the hook of her index finger; she smiles through her own tears. She moulds an arm around Tushar, and escorts him to the vehicle.

*

The intelligence woven into the fabric of Adi’s clothes means that a dip in the temperature propagated by a chill that snakes through the city’s gorges is automatically countered with a flourish of warmth the length of his being. This day is dry; neo-classical shards and Art Deco spikes sieve the sun’s glare. Another faculty of Argilians’ outfits that Adi is aware of is their ability to change colour, either in response to the wearer’s psychological or physical condition – flashing red denotes anger, while pale blue insinuates sickliness – or by way of outside interference. The man is enticed through the city towards the black and gold Gothic-tinged prong of Hood and Fouilhoux’s masterpiece. It was erected in his original lifetime; close to when he had first become leader of the Nazi Party, but before he’d been officially recognised as a German citizen. Adi knows that citizenship means nothing to these people, and that, to them, nationalism is an absurd concept. Patriotism entails claiming a thing as one’s own, and Argilians do not have possessions. They eat when they are hungry, drink when they are parched, sleep where it is convenient to do so, and do right by each other always.

These people are at peace; they regard one another as acquaintances, even when they have not previously met. They are not shy about connecting pupils in the passing; there is no compulsion then to halt and converse. Sight is acknowledgement enough. The graceful stitching of the skyway motorcade bewitches the man. Adi watches from the pavement as a volantor lowers itself onto the road, tucks its arms in, then zips off down the street, braking for a pedestrian without issuing a hoot of frustration. A squadron of jet-pack attired blue Metals buzz about the channels, washing windows and such. The riot of chopping blades and blending propellants would have generated an insufferable din were it not for sonic dampeners that quell much of the noise.

Work is not compulsory. A lot of these jutting buildings have seen their interiors reorganised to remain relevant to the populace. Where once there were tiers of offices and boardrooms, there are now stacks of easels and bedrooms. A jobless society that wants not for money produces an overabundance of art. Argilians, however, have developed beyond the stance that creative expression is mainly a solo pursuit to embrace the process as being one that is fundamentally collaborative. From painting and poetry to sculpting and dramatics, the prevailing attitude is that art is a team sport. Many will donate their ideas in the assembling of a portrait or a musical piece. The tangible outcomes of these group efforts are largely immaterial.

This plethora of odd-sized fence posts that form the district have, for the most part, retained their basic shapes since their initial pitching. Although, some of the buildings have had their shells revived with a coating that reveals their residential status. This is so that the likes of Adi can know at a glance which flats are unoccupied. Abodes that glow softly white are already taken; those that are dull of stone or steel are worth the investigating. It costs not to dwell anywhere, but there are some rules involved with the acquisition of a pad. Firstly, a person can only assert proprietorship over the same apartment for a year, and then they have to pass it on. However, should that person be parejan, their partner can adopt ownership of the place, and thus he or she is free to reside there for an additional twelve months. If the couple have a child, then they can extend their lease by another year, and so on. The year-occupancy limit exists to encourage motion and to offset notions of dominion. Adi has a flat on the eleventh floor of a tower. His neighbours are apt to intrude. Secondly, in relation to home appropriation regulations, a person must not tweak the bones of an edifice without the consent of a prefect. An orange Metal is expected to be present and contributing during any construction work.

There are further colour codes that divulge more about a residence. When a black sickle appears upon a white wall it signifies that the person or persons within are open to any company, but for conversation only. Should the exterior of a domicile turn red, then this is the signal that a male requests female company. Green stipulates that a woman seeks a man. A pink hue indicates that a lady wants another female. Purple is the colour displayed when a male is after a man, whilst gold announces that, inside, anything goes. Green lights draw a multitude; when selected by the woman, a male will behold the transformation of his attire to match the tint of the alluring walls. His peers will then scatter with a grumble. Conurbations have a tendency to appear as if they’ve been flicked at with several brushes. Customarily, the painter favours red over green. At night, cityscapes are especially enthralling.

Adi is fond of his travails around Manhattan; there is little sign of Neues Bauen, the architectural modernism that is so bereft of respect for its ancestry. He esteems regions that will disintegrate well. Or, at least, the man believes that he does think that. The facts are accurate; but do they resonate? The dark spear of the Radiator Building has brought Adi to a park. He is poised upon a pathway at the end of the turf; beside him on the cement is a monument to man’s former dependence on fossil fuels. This artefact comprises a huge, glass atlas, filled with translucent petrol, which dangles from an appendage of metallic gallows. A single cable supports the orb. Down the field from Adi, and past those pockets of picnickers, is an impressive, Beaux Arts-style marble structure.