2121: The Battle for Survival Begins

By Geoffrey Charlton-Perrin

The year is 2121. The place is England. Alec Brassington is shooting cans off a wall, one of his favorite things to do — It helps him to relax in these unsettling times. He's looking to go to university to study mechanical engineering, but his plan is abruptly upended when he is captured by the Renegade Lords, a ruthless militia group. Fortunately, he is rescued by the Jacobin Warriors, a rival militia group, where he forms a lasting friendship with the leader, Jermaine Bake — as well as with his attractive sister, Lili. From Jermaine, Alec learns of a plot to put his country under the thumb of a foreign power.
At first, he is skeptical. But the more he learns, the more he is won over. Before he knows it, he is deeply involved, fighting alongside his new-found friends to defeat this evil plan. As battles begin raging in major cities all over the country, he becomes a vital part of the resistance. But when Jermaine is captured by the enemy, Alec isn't just fighting to save his country. He's also fighting to save his friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667860619

Book preview

Chapter 1

Alec brought the pistol up to his eye keeping the barrel straight and true. He squeezed the trigger — an action that was more a loving hug than a harsh pull — and fired. There was a satisfying clack as he hit his intended target, one of five empty soda cans carefully arranged on a fence some twenty feet away. Alec, who was eighteen going on nineteen, had had his beloved BB gun since he was fourteen, a replica of one made in 1958. There was no such thing as a BB gun in 2121. It was regarded as hopelessly crude; clumsy compared to today’s Remnant guns.

Alec remembered the day he got it as if it was yesterday. He was fourteen; his dad had given it to him for his birthday. Alec didn’t much care for guns, to be honest, but to his way of thinking an air pistol was kind of neat. It shot little pellets, and while you have to be responsible when you use it, it’s not a lethal weapon. His dad had gone to a Brabazon Center where they can recreate tools and devices from up to 200 years ago – even when no original still existed. Brabazon could pull down the original plans from a history stream created back in the twentieth century; a kind of digital record of everything that was made back then. If you gave the folks at Brabazon a plan or a drawing, sometimes even a rough sketch, they could shine a revizeo beam at it to create a digagram and 3D-print it in the metal of your choice.

The air pistol birthday present was sanctioned, reluctantly. by his mother. She had asked him what he wanted most for his birthday. He requested a BB gun or air pistol, to call it by its other name. Alec knew exactly the make and model he wanted and was very specific in the details he gave to his father. He had never really had much interest in the Remnant guns they made today; the ones that can create a variety of digital scenes for you to aim at — you can specify the distance — and the screen explodes with an appropriate sound effect when you hit the target. But the photos of air pistols Alec looked at as he thumbed through an antique Walmart catalog in the library fascinated him more. So with an old plan they scanned from the catalog, his Dad went to a Brabazon center and had an air pistol made for Alec — plus twenty boxes of pellets, a hundred to a box — just to keep him going for a year or so.

That was four years ago in 2117. Now his father was dead. He died from a terminal illness — colon cancer, Alec assumed, they never actually told him — leaving him to take care of his mother. It brought him closer to his dad when he used that air pistol. To Alec, there was something elemental about using a pistol that actually propelled an object through the air and physically hit whatever he was aiming at. Like the soda cans perched on this fence. The act was finite, concrete; a fact, not an illusion. Alec liked that. His dad had always had a fondness for mechanical things, with interconnected parts that worked together seamlessly; not some digital illusion that signals you’ve hit it when you never even saw it hit. Alec felt the same way.

Do you really want a gun? his mother had asked frowning. I really don’t like you having a gun.

Alec put his hand on her shoulder – he was taller than her these days – and said firmly, Mom, I won’t do anything foolish with it, I promise. He laughed and added, Don’t you know your own son by now?

His question was appropriate; he was, always had been from a toddler, a responsible boy even at that young age. He came by it honestly, he supposed, from his parents. They were kind, socially responsible people; had taught him to be considerate and not act thoughtlessly or selfishly, putting his own interests before those of others. And even though his father was now gone, his passing had not changed Alec’s quiet, responsible demeanor.

Which was why he could be found this day on a lonely field about a mile from his home in Manchester, in the northwest of England, enjoying a little private shooting practice. He liked the silence, liked being somewhere he would not be disturbed – or at least disturbed only by the susurration of a slight breeze blowing across Clayton field. And, of course, the quiet popping of the gun as he shot and mostly hit the cans. The cans were already squeezed and crushed by idle hands after being emptied by their thirsty owners and discarded. What he liked most about this activity was the concentration, the focus it took to look down the barrel at his target, and the satisfaction when his aim was true. Yes, it was peaceful out here. Except…

Except he could hear a slight noise. Somewhere. Not very loud. A kind of suppressed murmur. As he turned from his quiet occupation to listen, he surmised it was people arguing a long way off. He dismissed it and returned to placing the cans on the wall, aiming, shooting, hitting his targets. He stopped again. The noise was growing louder. More clamorous.

Alec dismissed it from his mind a second time, continuing to shoot cans off the fence with the same rhythm. His air pistol had a retractable barrel; you pressed it in, aimed, then fired. The barrel shot forward launching the pellet. For Alec, it had become almost a ritual: depress the barrel, aim and shoot; depress the barrel, aim and shoot. The repetition calmed him. Soothed him. Made him forget about these troubled times.

But soon a group of Renegade Lords emerged over the brow of the hill. He knew instantly they were Renegade Lords from their brown uniforms. They wore field caps like German soldiers back in World War II, and the brown uniforms had black pockets on the front and red chevrons on each shoulder. Renegades wore pants tucked into high black boots and at the hip they each carried a rayscope. The rayscope was a sophisticated ray gun that could be changed from a pistol to a long bore gun like an old-fashioned rifle with just a shake of the hand. It had become the weapon of choice for the Renegade Lords because it was so versatile and didn’t require much skill; the gun would probably find its target whether you were an expert marksman or a novice. Which was another reason Alec despised modern weaponry. Anybody could be an assassin – no skill, no brains, no honor required.

No surprise to Alec then that the Renegade Lords loved the rayscope; they were a scruffy bunch, men and sometimes women, dredged from the slums and ghettos that fringed large metropolitan cities. People that society had forgotten in the mad race to conquer space and colonize new worlds. The educated, the rich, the scions of industry, were all consumed with amassing wealth by exploiting the mineral deposits and less polluted climates of newly-discovered planets where a person of means and ambition could make a fortune in no time. Which left the poor, the uneducated, the dregs of society to fend for themselves. Their only outlet was to thieve and murder. They would steal weapons and form bands to rob and pillage and prey on the unsuspecting. Admittedly, Alec had sympathy for them at first. But as crime hardened them, they lost their humanity and became a plague on society. Sympathy, empathy, were wasted on them. You simply had to avoid them, stay out of their way.

Approaching, the ragtag group of RLs started to gather around Alec, who acted as if they were not there.

What ya got there, son? asked a squat, fireplug of a man at the front of the crowd.

Alec ignored the question. The fireplug man, who looked as though his hair hadn’t been washed in years, tried again.

What is that thing you’re holdin? I mean, where did ya dig that up from? Looks like a toy or somethin’. Ya gotta license fer that, boy?

The group cackled raucously, thinking it a huge joke.

I’m not bothering you, don’t bother me. Be on your way. Alec did not hide his contempt.

Ooh, get this whippersnapper, retorted the man mockingly, looking to his compatriots.

Cheeky little bugger, said a voice from the crowd.

Askin’ fer a fist pie, if you ask me, said another voice.

I say cut his balls off. Teach ‘im a lesson, this voice, a woman’s.

The situation was ripe for escalation if the remarks continued. It was cut short by a man who looked like their leader, shouldering his way to the front.

All right boys, stow the chitchat, he said quietly. Then turning to Alec: Who are you, lad, and what‘re you doing here?

I’m minding my own business and I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same.

This brought another angry chorus from the group but the leader waved them quiet.

Be very careful how you speak to me, my lad, the leader responded, or you will regret it.

He walked up to Alec, who had remained with his back to the RLs, grabbed him by the arm and flipped him around.

I will ask you once more and this time I will get a respectful answer or it will be the last thing you ever utter.

He did not shout or curse. His face did not betray emotion. But his quiet tone made the threat ominously real.

Alec opted for discretion over defiance.

I am shooting at cans on that fence, doing no harm to anybody, he replied, polite but not intimidated.

What’s your name?

Alec Brassington, though it’s no business of yours.

Another round of collective outrage from the group.

The leader set his jaw; Alec could see the muscles in his cheek stiffen.

Your name’s Brassington is it? Well, you’ve got brass balls, I’ll give you that. I think you’d do fine in this unit. You’ll come with us.

I wouldn’t join the Renegade Lords if you paid me, retorted Alec.

It wasn’t a question, was the short answer. Take him with us, he said curtly, glancing at his soldiers.

Wait! said Alec, panic seizing him. I can’t leave my mother, she’s all alone.

She’ll be childless if you utter another word, the leader replied through clenched teeth.

Though Alec resisted, too many hands were laid on him; he was roughly dragged away, the band of RLs treating him to a chorus of threats.

She’s not well! She needs me. I have to go back to her!

Shut it! said one of the men slapping him, or I’ll break yer damn neck!

Oh and give me his gun, added the leader to no one in particular. It looks interesting.

Alex struggled and fought but the air pistol was snatched from his grasp and handed to his captor as the Renegade Lords resumed their march.

Jermaine Baker was eating dinner with his partner Byron Cooke when Jermaine’s sister Lili ran in breathless.

Some Renegade Lords are heading this way and it looks like they’ve caught someone.

Jermaine was unmoved.

Damn. Why do they always have to interrupt me when I’m eating? he muttered.

He laid his cutlery down, wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin and got up to see for himself. Through his laser-powered binoculars, he recognized Diablo Benjamin leading a pack of RLs walking east. Focusing in more closely, he could see a young man writhing as he was strong-armed and dragged along by two burly henchmen. Jermaine returned, planted two fists on the dining room table and declared, We’re going to rescue that young man.

Byron looked at him in surprise. You don’t even know who he is.

Yes, I do, responded Jermaine. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. That kid is my friend.

As he started to gather his equipment, he looked at Byron still sitting at the table.

"Get your gear together. We’ll follow