Exiled: The Nommuns Compendium, #1

By Sloane Swinton

Space... long considered the final frontier to the vast majority of people on Earth.

 

However, for the powers that be running the United Nations, it represented something totally different—an escape. An escape from an environment ravaged by centuries of war, greed, over-population and hyper-industrialization—now having been altered into a decaying brown globe of pestilence and death.

 

No one understood this looming threat more than Dr. Myron Bethea, a renowned geologist working for the UN. Through his exhaustive research, Bethea discovered that our beloved home-world was on its way to becoming like the rest of its neighbors in the solar system.

 

In essence, it was only a matter of time until the planet itself was uninhabitable.

 

His ill-advised attempt to shed light on the severity of their situation transformed him into persona non grata with the government, condemning him to the worst penalty known to man: EXILE.

 

Doomed to die slowly amid a plethora of society's worst in a freightage silo, Bethea and others awaken to discover that they have landed on a strange new world—offering them an uncanny reminder of what the Earth used to look like.

 

Unfortunately for them, looks can be deceiving as their newfound freedom just may come at a price none were willing to pay. The harsh reality being that in space... whistles don't blow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darn Pretty Books
• Release date: Jun 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781955476355

Sloane Swinton

A native New Yorker, writing has been a passion for Sloane Swinton since pubescence. Instructors in high school and college alike noticed the raw talent and creative enthusiasm Sloane displayed, encouraging the author to pursue fiction as a trade. Little did the author know that a bohemian lifestyle of low wages and even lesser praise awaited. Swinton is an avid basketball fan and lover of mathematics, classical music, sweatpants, Black Cherry soda, Fruit Punch Snapple, fried plantains, the New York Mets, and the occasional ham, egg and cheese on a French roll for breakfast. For the latest information regarding this author and more, please be sure to follow @darnprettybooks on Instagram and X.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Sloane Swinton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First Edition: June 2023

Cover Design by Mad Wlad

Library of Congress: 2023911373

ISBN: 978-1-955476-35-5 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-1-955476-36-2 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-955476-37-9 (hardcover)

Published by Darn Pretty Books

Instagram: @darnprettybooks

ExiledBy Sloane SwintonIn Space... Whistles Don't Blow

PREFACE

The great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie, deliberate, contrived and dishonest, but the myth, persistent, persuasive and unrealistic.

— John F. Kennedy

APPRECIATIONS

To the artist known as Felle Jones.

To those who don’t know him. He is a very gifted illustrator and animator, who I am also happy to consider a friend.

His ability in helping me visualize the universe of Exiled and The Nommuns Compendium, is a major reason why this novel exists this very day.

Maybe the day will come in the not-so-distant future that I will go ahead and turn this wonderful story into a graphic novel, like I had originally intended.

You never know. Stranger things have happened.

- SS –

PHASE 1

D

ay thirty-three of solitary confinement and each one was worse than the day that came before it. Resting on an oblong slab, made almost one hundred percent out of concrete, was Dr. Myron Bethea, an influential geologist based out of Southern California, who up until a little over a month ago, was gainfully employed by the United Nations. His reputation and dignity, along with what little freedom he had left, had been completely stripped away.

The technological uprising of the early twenty-third century was not the boon that the global powers that be had hoped it would become for civilized society. The arms race for perpetual energy had shepherded in a zero-sum world of pandemonium on planet Earth. Exploding populations, coupled with idle minds, transformed many of the globe’s most fashionable cities into un-governable megalopolises. And even for the relative few who had been fortunate enough to escape those tense environs, they were met with difficulties beyond the scope of reason.

The rising temperatures across the heartlands made it nearly impossible to consistently produce crops and livestock. And yet, through all of this hardship, somehow humanity had found a way to increase in the raw aggregate. The will to procreate and leave a lasting legacy had not left the people. Bethea included.

Religion, on the other hand, had long since abandoned the masses. Far too many zealots had waited their entire existence for an apocalypse that simply never came. The unfortunate truth was that their god wasn’t a vengeful one after all. No, their god was indifferent to their suffering. When it was all said and done, their demises were going to look exactly like the non-believers. The irony of it all. Civilization had truly reached its peak more than a century ago and had been on a steady, depressing descent into self-annihilation ever since.

Bethea! Wake up!

The good doctor unclasped his hands from covering his face and opened his eyes. Since the lights never went out in this sterile chamber, that was the only way he could ever hope to receive a good night’s rest. He raised his head and looked back towards the confinement door. There were two correctional officers standing behind it. The technology allowed Bethea to see them via a transparent anomaly. For their protection, of course. Not that he was capable of being a threat to them. He was drained, malnourished and depressed. It was obvious that they were never going to allow him to see his family ever again. Those privileges were lost forever.

Looks like today’s your lucky day. Put this on.

A plastic parcel slid across the floor and bumped up against the slab. Bethea finally sat up and looked at it. Judging by the size of the parcel, he was about to be on the move.

Am I going somewhere? He asked.

You’ll find out soon enough. Now put it on. You know what happens if we have to come in there.

Bethea sighed and reached for the parcel. It was heavier than he had anticipated. He placed the parcel on his lap and tore the perforations. This wasn’t a new jumpsuit at all. This appeared to be a spacesuit—one designed especially for him. Over the suit’s right pectoral was a letter ‘E’ and the collar had his identification code embedded: B573996A. He didn’t hesitate to put the space-suit on over his prison jumpsuit. The suit also came equipped with gloves for his hands. They were a perfect fit. And for the first time since his unlawful incarceration, he wasn’t shivering like a lowly street urchin.

You done yet? You sure are taking your sweet time over there. The senior officer shouted.

Jesus, Neuhaus. Give the man a break.

He turned to them with his hands extended. After thirty-three days, Bethea had resigned himself to his fate. The junior of the two CO’s entered the cell with a pair of wrist and ankle shackles that worked as one. He shackled Bethea’s shrouded wrists first before moving down to his ankles.

We good? Neuhaus asked. His weapon pointed directly at Bethea’s head. Any slip of his trigger, and that would have been all she wrote for the good doctor.

On the last one now. Gimme a sec.

He secured the last shackle and stood before Bethea.

Ready to go sweetheart?

Bethea stared back at him with a blank expression.

I don’t think he likes me very much.

Consider it a badge of honor. Now let’s go.

The correctional officer led Bethea out of the cell and into a dimly lit corridor. There were several solitary cells located here aside from the one Bethea called home. And strangely enough, they all were empty. Apparently, he wasn’t the only prisoner who was going to be on the move.

Let me guess. Trash day?

You’re very perceptive, Doc. Now keep walking.

PHASE 2

G

ullixson drifted towards the galley’s refrigeration unit sans her helmet. Planetary re-entry was imminent and she had a deep desire to quench her thirst before it was too late. Once she went back to her pilot’s seat on the United Nations Fleet Command Railsplitter’s bridge, Gullixson would no longer be free to move about the distance freighter—until they were safely within Earth’s lower atmosphere at the earliest.

She opened the fridge and removed a mini-plastic squirt bottle that contained a delicious, carbonated caramel soda. Its taste was almost exactly like a Dr. Pepper—which was her all-time favorite growing up in Oslo. Using aluminum or worse yet, glass, to store beverages were simply a relic of a bygone era. One of the bonuses of being an aeronaut for a government affiliated spacecraft was that their libations and rations were typically well stocked.

Along with her co-pilot, Abegglen, their interstellar missions ran the gamut as far as their duties were concerned. They were typically tasked with ferrying government scientists, structural engineers, machinists, skilled laborers, equipment and artificial intelligence.

There were rumors that some of the freighters were assigned to transport convicted felons and eventually jettison them into space, although the powers that governed the UN had officially declared those reports as malicious accusations spread by agent provocateurs to undermine trust in their authority. While she did consider herself to be a good soldier, it was trying not to wonder if something heinous like that was actually going on. After all, the world’s governments were building these stations all throughout the system—right under the noses of the general populace. 

Gullixson bit down on the pop-top and reared her head back.  She closed her mouth around the top as the liquid flooded her esophagus down to her stomach. She nearly swallowed it all in one sitting because once the top was popped—the carbonated fizz would only last but for a few moments. She crushed the squirt bottle and floated over to the rubbish bin to drop it inside.

Earth to Wenche. Come in Wenche. Abegglen could be heard over the ship’s communication network.

She floated over to the galley’s communications relay and activated it.

Yeah.

You coming back or what?

Why? You miss me?

Always. He chuckled. But seriously, we’re coming up on the checkpoint. Under five—point of fact. Need you to get your keister back here ASAP.

On my way.

Gullixson disabled the com-relay and re-positioned her legs towards the floor before re-enabling the gravity inside. Her feet landed against the floor with a thud. Gullixson was a seasoned pro at interstellar travel by now. The first couple of times she had tried playing with the ship’s gravity controls—she ended up with more than a bruised ego.

She re-entered the corridor and raced back to the flight deck. She waved her hand over the biometric scanner and entered to find Abegglen seated—with his helmet already on. He was ready to rock and roll. She approached the flight controls and paused upon noticing the visual ahead of them.

I still can’t believe what we’ve done. We had it all and we blew it. We’re never gonna live this down.

Abegglen had the freighter on a steady approach through the epic blackness towards the formerly bountiful planet known as the Earth. What was once a bluish green orb—filled with deep oceans and rolling landscapes—had been transformed into a cloudy, brownish husk. In the twenty-third century, Earth shared more in common with their interstellar neighbors in Mars and Jupiter—than at any other point in recorded human history. She tapped on his helmet before sliding into the seat beside him. She secured her helmet to her suit.

Cutting it a little close, aren’t you? He said.

You’re always so grumpy on the returns.

Can you blame me? I mean, look at that? It’s a fuckin’ joke.

She secured her harness across her body and glanced at him.

While I share your sentiments, I’m about to open the hot-mic so—you know what they say about unwanted opinions.

It’s your show, Cap.

He motioned that he was locking his lips. She saluted him and opened the communication relay from the freighter to the base satellite station that had been erected on Luna.

This is Captain Wenche Gullixson of the United Nations Fleet Command. Distance Freighter codename: Railsplitter. She held for a breath. My crew and I are requesting planetary re-entry at this time. Please acknowledge.

There was a ten second delay while the station scanned the ship’s diagnostics. This was standard operating procedure. While this was her sixteenth roundtrip to the cosmos and back, there were still many inefficiencies to this interstellar shipping business that had yet to be figured out. She had heard the rumors of entire families attempting to stow away on the departing vessels—only for them to be caught and never heard from again. These were dangerous times for everyone and they would have been wise to mind the company they kept moving forward. They were blessed to be in the position they were in—at least in comparison to the general population.

This is Lunar Base One, Railsplitter. You are clear for re-entry. Welcome back.

Thank you. Appreciated.

She muted the relay and began checking the instruments to make sure that everything was on the up and up.

You know, I find it hilarious that you always say my crew and I—

Gullixson turned to him.

Like it isn’t just the two of us up here.

Can’t get away from protocol, Love. It’s part of the job. Now would you be so kind as to take us home?

I aim to please.

Abegglen took the reins and initiated their descent towards the Earth. He held steady on the acceleration as the gravity well would soon be tugging against their suits and helmets. The freighter breached the exosphere. Even at such a lofty elevation, the skies were brown and dirtier than anything she had ever seen before. It had only been twenty-two weeks since they were last on the planet. The atmosphere was deteriorating at a rapid rate. God only knew what the surface looked like.

Ninety minutes to LA touchdown.

The space freighter glided over the southwestern portion of the United States at approximately seventy-thousand-feet. She glanced out the viewfinder. The climate change enthusiasts were certain that rising tides would lead to the demise of the human race. They were half-right. In some places, the tides did rise, but in many others, the waters eroded, if not evaporated. The greenhouse effect caused by hyper-industrialization in emerging markets all over the world saw the global population expand to an unbelievable forty-eight billion.

The city of Angels—which had become one of her home-bases—had been turned into an automated mess. What used to be known as a relatively small downtown with snowcapped mountains visibly above it, had been replaced with hundreds of skyscrapers. At last count, approximately two-hundred-million people called the county of Los Angeles home. Civilized society had boomed to unsustainable levels.

Gullixson was fortunate to be a member of the military. The Air Force to be specific. Someone with her skillset and training would be needed for the future. There was no question that the Earth was nearing its crescendo as a habitable environment for humanity. The only thing she could hope for now was that she and her loved ones were already gone before the bill came due.

And make no mistake—it was inevitable.

PHASE 3

F

or over ten generations, at least one member of the Spalding-Capaldi family had patrolled the streets of Los Angeles, donning the uniform of the famed LAPD. For the predecessors of Boyd Spalding, it was an honor to serve and protect this city and its citizens. In the year 2212, however, that distinction held less and less significance—for the citizens themselves and the heroic men and women who served along-side him.

The facts were undeniable. Los Angeles as a city had seen its best days. The resources were dwindling, people were angry and no matter who was chosen to lead politically—nothing seemed to ever change. It wasn’t just that the United States of America was in decline. The entire world was circling the drain. The only thing that kept chaos from ruling the day, were people like him who still believed in civilized society. But make no mistake, those numbers were dwindling faster than ever.

Spalding stood on the corner of Flower St., wearing tactical military grade gear and a special apparatus inside their helmets to protect his lungs. The air quality had bottomed to levels not seen before. Spalding was one of a dozen members of this unit, who were given the weekly assignment of rationing.

The crowd was getting huge and antsy—chanting their desire to receive their allotments. Spalding hurried back to the super-market that had been commandeered by the city to make sure that food dispersal was equitable for everyone in attendance. When their numbers were called, one household at a time would be allowed to fill one bag full of groceries that would need to last them a minimum of seven days. However, in recent weeks, that minimum was approaching closer to fourteen.

A large shadow was cast over the area for approximately ten seconds. One of the distance freighters was flying overhead. The ships were louder and larger than any commercial airliner he had heard or seen.

Spalding. Up here with me. Now.

His lieutenant, Rodolfo Jimenez, was waving to him from his perch atop one of the department’s mechanized pedestrian immobilizers or MPI’s for short. If this crowd were to become unruly enough and thus endanger the safety of law enforcement, the vehicle would send out an electric vapor that when coming in contact with human skin would temporarily incapacitate them, allowing the officers—whose tactical gear protected them from the controversial device—to regain control. The only issue with using the MPI—was the fear that some of the unruly might never wake again. But in an overpopulated cesspool, their options were few and far between.

Sir.

Take a look around. What do you see? Jimenez said.

Spalding complied and took a look out over the crowd. There was an air of desperation among them—unlike anything he had ever seen before. Like a zombie movie before everyone became infected. Every man, woman and child in attendance was wearing a homoeopathic façade to protect themselves from the elements and conceivably to conceal their identities. As rationing took place in strategic locations all across the city, county and country at large, concerns were rampant regarding how to deal with