Searchers: The Recycled Earth #1

By J J Mathews

Year 998 P.E. (Post Earth)

A thousand years ago humans destroyed the Earth.

Dead. No life. Gone.

Life is regimented, predictable, and controlled. Personal freedoms are a long-lost memory, but survival of the species is paramount.

At the age of eighteen, everyone goes through Selection. Assigned a job and a life-partner, each new couple must produce a child in their first year of marriage, and exactly one more after that.

We now live in thirteen Arks orbiting the dead planet, hoping it will someday recover and support life once more. One point three million people are all that is left of the human race, one hundred thousand per Ark. No more, no less, closed loop, until the Searchers find us a new home.

​​​​​​​However, what should have been a standard Selection was anything but. Miya soon fears for her life when she discovers that things are not as they seem, and people are disappearing...

• Language: English
• Publisher: J J Mathews
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9780995136441

J J Mathews

James Jacob (J J) Mathews grew up with his nose stuck in books. A voracious reader in his youth, he devoured all of the science fiction and fantasy books he could find at the local library. J.R.R. Tolkein, Isaac Asimov, Ben Bova, Larry Niven, Voltaire and Greg Bear were some of his early influences, with many other authors added to his bookshelf as time went on. Broadening out to read more genres as an adult, J J has always held a special place for fantasy and sci-fi.J J is married and lives in Hamilton, New Zealand with his wife and three boys, and writes in his spare time.

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The Recycled Earth

Book 1

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J. J. Mathews

Copyright © 2023 J. J. Mathews

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

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First published in 2023

Cover artwork by Mail Creative / @mailcreative

https://www.instagram.com/mailcreative

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

Print ISBN: 9780995136458

eBook ISBN: 9780995136441

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Mouse Moon Press

PO Box 27055

Garnett Ave

Hamilton 3257

New Zealand

www.mousemoonpress.com

Dedication

For my sons, Michael, Liam and Daniel.

Preface

Year 998 P.E. (Post Earth)

A thousand years ago, humans destroyed the Earth.

Dead. No life. Gone.

We now live in thirteen Arks orbiting the dead planet, hoping it will someday recover and support life once more.

Life is regimented, predictable, and controlled. Personal freedoms are a long-lost memory, but survival of the species is paramount.

One point three million people are all that is left of the human race, one hundred thousand per Ark. No more, no less, closed loop, until the Searchers find us a new home.

At the age of eighteen, everyone goes through Selection. Assigned a job and a life-partner, each new couple must produce a child in their first year of marriage, and exactly one more after that.

She knew why she had to do it. Few people liked Selection, but the alternative was far worse.

This is Miya’s story.

And as with all good stories, it begins with a boy, a girl … and a wrench.

Sanitation

Year 998 P.E. (Post Earth)

Not again, Miya cursed as she dropped the heavy wrench onto the deck with a harsh, metallic clang.

That’s the third time today. Zac reached down and picked up the wrench, just out of Miya’s reach. With the slow spin of the Ark, things never fell straight down; the Coriolis force always pulled them to the side, just a bit. Not that anyone actually noticed that, of course; growing up in a cylindrical space habitat ten kilometres long and two kilometres in diameter orbiting above a dead world, you just got used to things like that. Nobody remembered how gravity was supposed to work on a planet, anyway. The refugees from the planet below had been living here for close to a thousand years, and they estimated it would be a lot longer before the world below could sustain life again — if ever. What they had, they had, and what they had needed to last. And things were what they were, including wrenches falling just out of reach, just off to the side instead of straight down.

Thanks. Miya wiped her forehead with the back of her grease-stained hand. I don’t know how this old unit is still running, anyhow.

Zac squatted beside her, helpfully directing the beam from the flashlight onto the problematic valve. They built this stuff to last three thousand years, at least.

Miya re-seated the wrench and braced her feet. Could have fooled me. It’s been what, a third of that, and a quarter of these valves don’t turn properly anymore?

Zac shook his head. You always get like this near the end of a shift.

Like what? Miya strained, then banged her knuckles when the valve suddenly loosened. A sluggish flow of fluid soon turned to a steady flow, and the pipe began thrumming under her hands. I hate this shit.

Like that. Zac moved aside as Miya squirmed her way out between the tanks and fell to the deck in a heap. She groaned and put her hand against her back.

Get that stupid grin off your face. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Next year, it’ll be you wedged in between those tanks, flushing the system.

Zac nodded. Maybe not. You need to be small enough to fit, but strong enough to work the valves. I had a growth spurt. I might miss out. But you might still be small enough to fit. They might hold you back.

It doesn’t work that way. Miya gave him a wicked grin. Of course, a sturdy boy like you would make an even better scrubber.

Zac’s eyes widened. That’s not funny. I don’t want to go into those tanks, not after hundreds of people—

Thousands. Miya smiled. And all of them probably had big dinners, and afterwards…

Zac made a face. Stop it. You know you need me as a spotter.

Miya grinned and poked the wrench down through a loop in her tool belt. You’d be good at it, though. I’m sure of it.

Approaching footsteps echoed in the corridor. Miya hurriedly stood up and motioned for Zac to do the same, as she stood at attention.

Job’s done, sir. Miya snapped off a sharp salute as their supervisor approached.

A middle-aged male with a spotlessly clean one-piece uniform stopped in front of them. You don’t need to salute, Miya.

Zac struggled not to smile as Miya kept a straight face. Just showing the proper respect, Kasem, sir.

Kasem sighed and ran a hand back through his thinning hair. It comes across more like sarcasm down here in this shit-hole, you know that.

Miya shook her head. I don’t know what you mean, sir.

Zac grinned. He means the tanks are full of sh—

Miya elbowed him in the ribs. Shhh.

Kasem raised an eyebrow. Of course, if you like the job this much, I might put in a word for Selection. You’ll be eighteen in what — three weeks?

Miya stared straight ahead, her face impassive. Three days, sir. And thank you, but that won’t be necessary.

Kasem put a hand on his hip. "Is that so? One minute you’re saluting me, which I know is a crock, and then handling shit is too good for you? Now, that’s disrespectful to me. The next Selection is in ten days. You’ll just make the cut."

Miya’s face fell. I’m sorry, Kasem, I didn’t mean it. I know it probably wasn’t what you wanted—

Kasem put a hand on her shoulder. Every job’s important, Miya. Even the shitty ones.

Zac tittered, but Kasem ignored it.

Miya’s face coloured. I’m sorry.

Kasem gave her shoulder a squeeze, then let go. Don’t be. I’m happy with this job. Do you want to know a secret?

Miya nodded, her colour slowly returning to normal. Sure.

Kasem gave her a wink. "I wanted this job, and I’m happy Oversight selected me for it. Because even the highest member of the Council has to have a shit once or twice a day, and that makes them the same as everybody else. And I kind of like it that way. In the grand scheme of the Great Recycler, their shit is no better than anyone else’s."

Zac nodded slowly. So you wanted to deal with everybody’s shit?

Kasem grinned hugely. Not really, but if you want a bit of solitude, there’s no better place than down here. Not too many unexpected visitors, and that suits me just fine.

Miya bowed her head. I didn’t mean to disrespect you, Kasem. I mean it.

Kasem lifted her chin with a finger. Don’t worry about it. And now that you’ve got the diversion pipe flowing again — good job on that by the way, number seven’s been a right bitch lately — you can go home and have dinner, confident in knowing it’ll be flowing through the valve you just unstuck in about twelve hours.

Separator

Your home’s not connected to tank seven, is it? Zac whispered as they came out of the corridor to drop off their tools with the quartermaster. Even Zac’s flashlight had to be checked in and examined for damage, before they placed it in the charger.

It flows to six. Miya unstrapped her tool belt and dropped it on the counter, earning a sharp glance from the heavyset older woman behind the counter. The woman pulled out the large wrench and studied it closely under a large magnifying glass, spotting a new dent. With a shake of her head, she yelled out repair! and a young boy scurried out from the back room to take the tool from her outstretched hand.

It was a really sticky valve, Sola. Miya shook her head. "I didn’t try to damage the wrench."

Sola ignored her and made a note on the tablet beside her. Demerit, two credits.

Miya’s eyes went wide. But my entire shift was only worth twelve!

Sola flipped up a visor covered in lenses of different sizes and looked Miya right in the eyes. Zac shuffled to the side, trying to hide. Tools are supposed to last a thousand years, you know. Demerit, two credits. And take more care next time.

Miya stared defiantly at the hunched-over woman for several seconds, then let her gaze drop. Yes, Sola.

Sola nodded, a small smile on her face. Respect the tools, respect the job. Our lives depend on it.

May we go now? Zac asked, his stomach grumbling.

Sola swept the tool belt off the counter. It fell into a large cloth bag with a clanking sound.

Miya’s eyebrows shot up. Hey, take it easy! I need those tools next shift!

Sola’s thin smile spread, but didn’t reach her eyes. So you can learn. Hmm.

Zac tugged at Miya’s arm. C’mon, dinner’s probably ready, and I don’t want to miss first serving! If I don’t get the first, how can I ask for seconds?

Miya turned away from the desk, but Sola had already flipped her visor back down and was busy ignoring them. C’mon, hollow legs. Let’s get you home.

Separator_1

Oops, sorry. Zac stepped aside as a visored police officer approached them in the centre of the corridor, dressed in a glossy black uniform. The officer said nothing as Zac and Miya moved aside. The officer soon disappeared around a corner, out of sight without a backwards glance.

Good work today, Zac. Miya gave him a quick jab of her elbow in his ribs.

Thanks, Miya, Zac grunted.

See you tonight? Miya raised an eyebrow as Zac opened the front door to his family’s unit.

Wouldn’t miss it. Zac grinned, his stomach growling.

Remember to have a shower first, said Miya.

Zac shook his head. Stop acting like my big sister. I’ll see you at eight.

Miya frowned as Zac closed the door behind him. Was she being bossy? She was just being practical, right? Most kids with weekend jobs probably had it easy, maybe put on a light sweat after a few hours. Miya preferred the hard, physical work that Sanitation provided. And even though she didn’t want to admit it out loud, she felt exactly like Kasem did. Like him, she liked the solitude, even with the additional fractions of a G on the lower decks, and she enjoyed spending time with Zac. Not that anything would ever come of that, of course. The all-knowing Council and their traditions made sure of that.

She’d stolen a kiss from Zac once, while pretending to need help. It had been three Saturdays ago, when she’d lost her footing, squeezing out from between two tanks. She’d missed the pipe and had spilled out awkwardly onto the deck. To tell the truth, she’d been winded, and she suspected she’d twisted her ankle. As she lay there recovering, catching her breath, Zac had rushed to her aid, his voice full of concern. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly lay still. Zac dropped down beside her, his face a hands-breadth above hers. Feeling impish, she’d suddenly lunged up at him, quick enough to press her lips to his. Or almost. She’d caught his chin and banged her front teeth.

Zac had been angry, accusing her of pretending to be hurt. But the truth was, she actually was hurt — her ankle, and now her tooth, but those were nothing compared to the ache she’d felt inside, and the sudden flush of her cheeks at feeling like she’d been caught doing something … illicit. Wrong. Forbidden.

She hadn’t tried that stunt again, and Zac had been suspicious of her for days. It didn’t stop her from wondering what it would have been like if she’d managed to kiss him, though. His lips looked firm and soft, and she dreamed — no, there was no point. In ten days, her childhood would be over. She’d have a new job-for-life, and she’d be matched with a breeding partner by Oversight - the AI that ran nearly everything in this orbital habitat, and the dozen others just like it. Even though Ark Three had a population of a hundred thousand, apparently it was nothing compared to the diversity that had once existed down below in the now-desolate wastelands. One point three million people were all that remained of the human race, following the global catastrophe of a thousand years before.

But all that meant to Miya right now was that she didn’t have a choice in her life, none of them did, in their carefully controlled, closed-loop society, waiting for the Earth to one day be inhabitable again.

And that, she reflected, as she opened the door to their family unit to be greeted by the wonderful smell of her mother’s cooking, was the shittiest thing of all.

And she would know.

She worked with it every weekend.

Separator_2

You’re late. Her father accused from where he sat at the dining room table.

Please wash up, dear, her mother called from the kitchen. I’ve been keeping your plate warm.

Miya hung her jacket on a hook by the door and walked to the bathroom on auto-pilot. She knew that ‘wash up’ meant to get herself thoroughly scrubbed and washed down, head-to-toe in the shower. She was greasy and sweaty, of course, but that was it - though her father would turn up his nose at the imagined smells of biological waste if she didn’t do a thorough scrub before she sat down to eat. It wasn’t really fair, but her father was … well, her father. And his refined nose could apparently smell things that she couldn’t. She closed the bathroom door behind her and stripped down to bare skin, carefully placing her work clothes in a specially marked clothes hamper before stepping into the shower. Her mother had freaked the one time she’d left her uniform on the bathroom floor, touching her designer floor mat, and her father … well, you know.

They hadn’t really punished her, of course, other than to let her dinner cool to a tepid state while they berated her once again. Not for the first time she wished that she’d had a sibling, so that she didn’t cop it every time something was slightly off in their perfect home. She rubbed a greasy thumb against the wall of the shower, but the black mark soon disappeared under the stinging spray. Miya couldn’t even leave her mark on the place that way — everything was too tidy, too perfect, too clean — and she hated it. She loved her parents, sure, and suspected they loved her too, but more often than not she wanted a sibling so that their particular style of parental affection could be shared with another hapless soul. Not to mention that it would be handy to blame someone else for a change.

With a sigh, Miya stepped out of the shower and let herself drip onto her mother’s designer floor mat, leaving wet footprints and a general wet spatter. Even that would disappear once she left the bathroom, the cleaning unit swapping in a fresh one and putting the wet one in the chute for washing, separate from her work clothes. Her mother complained about the extra work of separate washing systems, an extravagance for any family home, but necessary, in her opinion. Not that she touched a single piece of fabric, the entire process being entirely automated. Her father just complained about the cost a couple of times a year.

Miya reached for a towel and buffed herself down, then let the towel fall to the floor. She opened the door into her bedroom and walked over to her closet. She actually had her own en-suite, which seemed like an extravagance, but it wasn’t by her choice. The opposite door connected into what should have been a younger brother or sister’s bedroom, but now served as her father’s study, the door firmly locked from both sides, for each other’s respective privacy.

Thoroughly clean and now overly hungry, she slipped on a set of fresh clothes and walked out into the dining room. With impeccable timing that showed that her mother had been waiting-without-waiting, she set Miya’s meal down before her, steam wafting upwards as her mother removed the cover.

Thanks, Mum. Miya smiled as she picked up her utensils.

Did you clean under your nails? her father stared down at his plate as he cut a tiny slice of protein in half, his plate almost empty. He’d obviously been waiting for her, but refused to clear his plate. That meant that he wanted to talk. Or give her a lecture, which was pretty much the same thing.

Miya nodded, fully aware that he wasn’t looking at her. Yes, Dad.

Miya’s mother sat down beside her, her own place setting long since cleared. How was your shift, dear?

Same old sh—

No! Miya’s father slammed a fist on the table. "It’s bad enough that my daughter — my only daughter — chooses such a disgusting job to make weekend pocket money, but I will not have that filth brought to our table."

Miya’s mother patted her husband’s hand. They’re just words, Melvyn. Words.

Melvyn carefully set down his fork and knife beside his plate, the much-abused tiny slice of remaining protein momentarily forgotten. Words have power, Cherisse. Words affect thought, thought affects deed.

Miya took the momentary distraction to scoop some food onto her fork and pop it into her mouth. This, of course, meant that her father had to wait until she’d swallowed. She chewed slowly and carefully, knowing what was coming. She prepared another forkful, hoping to sneak another mouthful in, but her father raised a hand.

We need to talk.

Miya nodded, wiping her lips with a white napkin. Can I eat a little more first? I’m starving.

Her father frowned, then came to a decision. Fine, but make sure you’re listening. You’ll be eighteen in three days.

Yep. Miya nodded, and popped in another forkful. She chewed slowly and carefully, savouring her mother’s cooking.

You know what that means, dear. Her mother smiled.

Miya swallowed and nodded. Yes. Selection.

Exactly. Her father nodded, his expression stern.

"Not that I get to select anything." Miya scooped up another forkful and resumed chewing.

Her father was getting visibly annoyed, having to talk to his daughter as she chewed. Selection is a very important part of a young person’s life. It affects everything that happens to you from then on.

For the rest of your life. Miya’s mother nodded fervently. That’s a long time.

Miya shrugged. Somebody makes that choice for me, or maybe Oversight does. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Job, partner, kids, same as everybody else. It’s all out of my control, anyhow.

Melvyn took a deep breath, a scowl etched onto his face. Most people don’t have a choice.

Miya shook her head. Nobody does.

Cherisse nervously looked between Miya and her father. Some do.

Melvyn nodded. Your mother is right. It’s not very common, but it happens from time to time. Exceptions can be made.

Miya looked up from her plate in surprise. So you mean I can get to choose? I don’t believe you.

Melvyn shook his head in exasperation. "You can’t just go up there and say that you choose something, of course not. There would be complete chaos. But if your preferences were known in advance, a few options of job, for example, suggestions could be … offered to the Selectors. You might get something you want, but then again, you might not. You never know if you can get something you want until you ask the right people."

Feeling suddenly very bold, Miya blurted out, Then I want Zac.

Cherisse’s eyes went wide, but Miya’s father was livid. No! Never.

Miya felt like someone had slapped her. Then I don’t get a choice.

Cherisse shook her head. You must understand, dear, none of us — not even your father, or his father, could choose something like that, even though they both wore council robes. But jobs, something less—

Something less important? Miya asked, spearing a vegetable with her fork.

Her father had wrestled his face back into submission. The cool politician now faced her, and it gave Miya the chills. Something practical. A practical choice. Like a practical job.

What if I like Sanitation? Miya asked.

Her father waved a finger at her. Don’t try me, young lady. It’s bad enough that you chose that for a weekend job; don’t ask me why you did such a thing, perhaps it was just to spite me. I understand that perhaps you’re rebelling, and that’s perfectly normal, even though I don’t like your choice of weekend vocation. But you need to be practical about your future. Do you want to be a teacher? Work in food production? Governance? Leadership and management? Because right now, based on your accumulated job experience, if I don’t intervene, then your future career may literally be going down the toilet.

Miya pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. I’m no longer hungry.

Sit back down, young lady. He glowered at her. We’re trying to help you here.

Miya sighed. She knew her parents meant well. Fine, then. Searcher.

Her parents stared at her, stunned. Her father recovered first. At most two Searchers are chosen from an Ark each year, and the qualifications are quite stringent, I understand. Pick something else.

Miya crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you saying your daughter, the daughter of a Councillor, isn’t qualified to be a Searcher? Didn’t you provide me with the best schooling you could? I’ve been consistently near the top of my classes."

Her father gaped at her. You’re serious.

Miya sat back down in her chair and pulled it in to the table. Her half-eaten plate called to her still-grumbling stomach, but she ignored it. "Yes, father, I’m serious. I want to help those who search for signs of recovery, down below, and look for alien life or hospitable worlds for us, out there. And wouldn’t it make you proud, for once, if your daughter were to be amongst the first who found signs of recovering life on the barren planet that