Envar Island

By C. W. Kesting

In the later years of Reconstruction following the Class Wars, enhanced human variants—envars—have outlived their initial purpose. Now, four generations of advanced genetic engineering lie sequestered on secret islands, awaiting disposal.  Faced with their own mortality, a small band of envars revolt and escape to the mainland in search of answers…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090299

Book preview

Dedication

For my father. I think he would’ve loved this story.

Mankind is something to be overcome. What have you done to overcome mankind?

~Frederich Nietzsche

from Also sprach Zarathustra

One

Their island burned .

A purifying inferno blazed across the swell of land from the eastern beaches to the western bluffs...

...and with the ravenous judgment of Dante’s furnace, another generation was consumed.

MICHAEL VALENTINE SAT alone with his thoughts as he cooled off under the sanguinary sky of encroaching nightfall. Behind the curtain of billowing smoke and flickering flames, he could still hear the weak and the wounded pleading hopelessly for mercy; while the dead had the gentle grace to remain dead.

Could there be some measure of grace in dying? he wondered. Or mercy in annihilation?

And in the end, what does all the spilled blood buy, anyway?

With the bulk of the necessary violence now over and those same agonizing questions still left unanswered, he patiently awaited the arrival of Kane. He hoped his mentor would bring with him the wisdom and guidance that would lift the confusion and melancholy from this moment and perhaps then, in turn, unburden Michael’s heavy heart.

Barefoot and clothed in loose cotton pants and shirt, Michael sat lotus style and motionless on a large smooth boulder, gazing over the frothing surf and into the deep indigo bruise of the approaching night. The sea breeze caressed his face like a compassionate guardian, feathering his hair with its constant, patient breath.

Michael sighed and straightened his back. With minimal conscious effort, he was able to will his heart rate back to a baseline of twenty beats per minute. Now that his Aretian-hormone Response Matrix had exhausted itself, he could feel the cascade of androsones tapering off as specific plasma enzymes rapidly metabolized the flood of excess testodrenaline within his bloodstream. With the parasympathetic letdown of his ARM, his core temperature finally began to cool in the brisk ocean breeze.

Kane had often preached: "Only their thirst for freedom gives them hunger for vengeance." It was not an original declaration, he had been quick to point out, but a powerful quote from some ancient lyric that he had borrowed.

Kane—an inspirational and exceptionally charismatic Fourth—was quite fond of the Elders’ relic arts, particularly the written word. He frequently pulled from a vast repertoire of retained literary allusions in order to accentuate a certain emotion or to capture the drama of a particular event. Usually, his efforts proved to be apropos if not inspired. Yet despite this impassioned discourse, the rhetoric did little to justify the carnage or to ease Michael Valentine’s angst.

Michael sat facing east with his back to the smoldering forest. Behind him, the sun was sinking rapidly—a wide slice of grapefruit that pressed against the distant rim of the scorched island, bleeding juicy smears of pink and crimson pulp onto the shimmering waters of the Gulf.

The evening tide pulsed with the hard apathy of time eternal, leaving ribbons of lacy foam as it swelled onto the unmolested beach. The water purled around the base of the huge stone with gentle insistence and then retreated, only to surge forth again.

The ocean breathed: an organic universe of water that inhaled and exhaled in rhythmic cadence—each undulating wave, an immortal breath. An eternal sigh.

Thirst for freedom. Hunger for vengeance.

The apocalyptic shadow of those words echoed mournfully in Michael’s mind, leaving loose skeins of doubt, like dusty spider webs, lingering in the chilly corners of his memory.

Memory. Now, there was vexing concept. Was it something real, tangible? Could it actually be found at certain physical loci within the brain—specific cells that actually stored precious treasures from your past, like an emotional vault? Or was it more a nebulous state of consciousness: a level of cognizance that you could slide through whenever you desired? Michael contemplated that mysterious abstraction as he reflected on the passionate and vivid recollections that bounced and surged within his own mind.

Sadly, most of Michael’s memories—even the happy ones—now only brought anguish and sorrow. But, regrettably, memory was all he really had to cling to. Now that Celladora was gone.

Michael Valentine inhaled deeply and then slowly exhaled, matching each respiration of the churning ocean, breath for sweet alkaline breath. He understood that eventually he would need to breathe in just this fashion—slow and controlled—if he were to make the long, dangerous swim across the oblivion. He maintained respiratory synchronicity with the sea while eyeing the gentle curve of the darkening horizon. He measured the distance across his field of vision with a gentle sweep of his head, tracking the arc of the earth from one edge of the island’s sandy coast to the terminus of the other. That frontier beckoned him, a promise that stretched to the limits of his vision as well as his understanding.

In his meditative solitude he often recalled Kane’s prophetic words, uttered only weeks ago in a moment of spontaneous enlightenment. Michael remembers Kane’s sad yet prideful smile as he gazed into his eyes, lovingly as a brother, and repeated the quoted phrase, forever linking those two words in his mind.

...freedom...vengeance...

Even then, while cradling Cella’s broken and unconscious form in his shaking arms, with the buildings burning brightly around them and the screams fading into the night, Michael had felt a peaceful and calming kinship with Kane. He had—at least at that time—unconditional faith in his mentor; he remained loyal to the crusade.

But then they took Celladora away from him. And that changed things.

Severely.

A shooting star suddenly burned across the sky—a brief flash of flickering fury that left a shimmering, razor-thin slice through the darkening canopy of night. He watched the star-streak twinkle and then fade as the atmosphere devoured the meteorite’s contrail. He understood the basic scientific explanation of this natural phenomenon from old books he had stolen from one of the less attentive Elders, but it was actually the more fanciful, mystical quality of the falling star that appealed to Michael.

So he closed his eyes and made one simple wish.

Michael read a lot—when he wasn’t free diving or fighting for Kane—but understood little of what he read without the proper context. He had quickly realized that universal observations and experiences were disappointingly relative and that the world was painfully contradictory in its objectivity. He could—and often did—speculate on many things, but when he eventually summoned enough courage to ask an aging First or Second a hypothetical question in efforts to clarify material he had read, he was often ignored. He imagined the Elders must think him annoying, mad, or both.

But Kane had understood him. Or at least seemed to have the patience to tolerate him. Perhaps not as unconditionally or as lovingly as Celladora, but...

Again, he breathed the ocean air, savoring the damp, green flavor on the breeze. The deep, ageless murmur of the vast sea surrounded him, blanketing him in its familiar power. For now, at least, his mind was at peace; yet he still felt a twinge of longing and heartbreak for what he would soon be leaving. This particular island wasn’t home but it still represented all that was safe and right within his limited world; while the ocean, though beautiful, was a constant reminder of the unyielding power of the universe unknown. The vast dark waters—nearly depthless and deafeningly silent—exemplified all that was mysterious and hidden before him. Every wave was a pulse beat of his future, each susurrant ripple a breath to be taken. It equally humbled and excited him to sit at the edge such enormity.

And yet, Michael felt supremely assured of his own individual significance. He was confident that, despite the enigmatic press of the future and the unforgiving void of the ocean, he was somehow vital to it all. Whether in the dry silence of his solitude or awash in the power of the rolling waves; he always knew, at his core, that he was important and that his existence was meaningful.

A loud explosion suddenly rocked the beach. The heavy trees in the forest behind him bent and groaned in protest from the concussion. He could feel the instant heat of the blast on his back. Brilliant orange-red flames blossomed over the treetops, a roiling flower that throbbed within thick petals of billowing, coal-black smoke. The floret of flames unfurled skyward, cooling and expanding into oily clouds.

Although the thundering blast jarred him—a deep resonance that slapped his skeleton in a single shock wave—he did not flinch. He had expected it. His rhythmic breathing remained tightly synched with the ocean’s tidal pulse. His eyes remained on the smooth arc of the horizon: the margin of purple sky as it interfaced with black sea.

The thick stench of chemical accelerants and catalyzing carbon wafted toward him from the fiercely burning forest, but the prevailing wind pressed the acrid fumes back inland. Secondary explosions drummed across the island, spiraling out from the epicenter of the initial blast. The ground trembled from the sequential percussions.

It had begun.

The Clarification.

And still, he remained unfazed. Seated atop the smooth boulder, awash in the rising surf, he continued to watch the distant horizon blend into darkness. The ocean murmured all around him, each recycling wave an exchange of watery breath.

Soon, across the island there were fresh screams of agony and death, overlapped by brutal shouts of violence and aggression. Some groups of voices were quite near, while others peeled away on the steady night breeze. The extravagance of bloodshed was audible in the wet, curdled screams; the totality and dedication of the destruction was equally as obvious in the bellicose ranting of some avenging creatures.

Yet again there he sat, indomitable, breathing in perfect cadence with the immense ocean while longingly searching the now completely darkened horizon. The lure of the whispering tide held him rapt.

There you are, my brother.

Kane’s soft, deep voice came from behind him. Michael held his breath for a moment and then finally blinked. He sighed and, with reluctance, broke his harmony with the sea.

Why aren’t you with the others? the mature Fourth asked.

Michael did not turn but closed his eyes and lowered his head, remaining silent.

Michael, the man said. We must go now. It’s time, and the others await.

Michael paused a moment longer, remembering—dubiously—their mission. Their history.

Then his memory went back even further, to another island in another time, when they were all younger and their world was quite smaller. It was now almost a month later and, still following Kane, Michael was preparing to leave yet another island in ruins.

Yet, he still remembered home.

And then with deep sadness, he remembered her as she was...

Before the Clarification.

WHEN THEY WEREN’T DIVING to extreme depths to repair a fractured well-head or climbing impossibly sheer rock faces to harvest valuable minerals, they could be found assembling vast and mysterious machines or simply practicing their various crafts.

That was the purpose of the Fourths, and the Thirds before them and the Seconds before them.

This particular day, however, they were free to go where they wished. The huge temple ships had again anchored in the bay, and that meant that the Elders were in sessions with the Primes. There would be no missions for this day or possibly even the next.

Energized by the unrestricted schedule of the day, they had playfully chased one another through the lush, humid forest. Dodging thick, braided vines and twisted tree roots, the two siblings had run up and down familiar game trails aromatic with animal spoor and fragrant flora. Exotic birds took flight ahead of their carefree crashing and easy laughter.

They eventually rested at the waterfall high atop the center of the island, breathing heavily from their chase but not at all exhausted. They sat close together on the quartz outcroppings of the wide riverbank and dangled their bare feet in the turbulent water as it crested the edge and then fell fifty feet as a hissing spray into the lake below.

They had watched the endless flow of water as it cascaded over the cliff, marveling at the brilliant prisms of rainbows that flashed through the hanging mist. They remained silent for some time, allowing the water to sing its uninterrupted song.

Soon, Michael rose and held his hand out to her. Celladora grabbed it and let him pull her to her feet. They sauntered lazily along the river and the trails.

Kane was angry again last night, she eventually said.

He’s always angry, he had answered.

She nodded sadly and walked a while before continuing.

Do you miss the Thirds? she had asked.

He had hesitated, giving the question thought, but then did not answer directly.

I do, she finally said quietly. I miss them terribly.

He nodded but remained silent.

ON ANOTHER DAY, THEY had sat in the cool sand just above the tide line, facing the gently rolling surf on the eastern shore of the island. Without the sun’s vibrant kiss, the pre-dawn sky was dull and corrugated, a textured ceiling of rippling gray cloud that draped over the ocean as far as they could see. Flights of small gulls darted across the tops of the shallow waves, their squawks filling the otherwise quiet morning.

Celladora shifted restlessly.  She dug her bare feet deeper into the cold sand and then fell gracefully back onto her elbows.

Do you believe there are other islands? she had asked. Her eyes narrowed as she searched the brightening horizon.

I dunno. I guess it’s possible, Michael responded dubiously. He kept his eyes on the silvery waters of the sea.

Do you believe everything the Elders have taught us? She tossed him a suspicious sideways glance.

Well, not everything, he answered and then smiled slyly. For instance, I’m fairly certain that when the Next arrive, they don’t just wash up on shore one night.

She slapped him hard on the shoulder and shot him a look of impatience that quickly turned to a smile. He laughed aloud and shook his head.

She beamed at him and then chuckled through her own words. I’m not talking about where the baby Fifths will come from, you undisciplined dolphin. After a few minutes their giggles subsided.

I mean about us as a people. Her body drew tight. Her eyes were soft and serious as they searched his open face. His tender look of concern urged her on.

Do you think this island—our island—is the last one of its kind? Her gaze was desperate now, almost forlorn.

What you really mean is, he corrected, "are we the last of our kind?"

She shrugged and shifted her gaze back to the ocean. "There just seems to be so few of us."

He watched her face turn melancholy, and it pained him. He struggled for words, feeling obligated to soften her anxiety. When he had finally answered, he did so cautiously, careful not to allow his own skepticism to taint his words.

If this is the last viable island—the final nest of civilization—then I guess, by extension, we are the last of our kind. He frowned and raised his brow hopefully.

She shook her head and sat up, brushing sand from her hands.

No. She firmed her jaw. I refuse to believe that. What about the ships and the Primes? She nodded to the north, in the direction of the protected cove and its bay full of enormous docks. He gazed over her shoulder and could just see the line of tall, slender reef towers marching away from the northern shore—jutting from the water, extending nearly one hundred meters into the sky and forming a network of invisible protection that enclosed the entire northern coastline.

Michael sighed. Well, sure there’s other islands, he began reluctantly. Not many, but it seems reasonable. Mathematically valid, even.

He gestured weakly with one arm to the ocean. I mean, there’s a lot of water out there, so it stands to reason that were not alone. But—

She froze him with a reproachful stare.

He sighed again and let his head fall back in frustration. But the Elders have established that there are no more inhabitable land masses. The Primes have confirmed it. We are the last. Responsible for the Next, he said, quoting the oft-repeated mantra of their early teachings. She pressed her lips together, her eyes moistened with threatening tears. It broke his heart to see her so openly overcome with emotion.

He let his arms drop to his sides in defeat and then played absently with the sand.

Where do the Primes come from? she finally asked. Or the ships?

He paused, gave her a sober look, and then turned back to the ocean.

"They’re afloat. Always at sea. This is the only place they dock because it’s the only place to dock."

And the supplies they bring?

Manufactured onboard the ships, from raw marine materials.

She huffed and shook her head. Have you ever been on one of the temple ships? she asked defiantly.

No, of course not.

Well, then. How do you know?

The Elders—

Bah! She tossed dry sand with both hands in a spray that left tiny pockmarks in the wet beach in front of them. I’m going to get on one those big ships and see for myself.

Look, Cella, he said in a calm, steady voice. You’re a Climber. And me—I’m just a Diver. He spread his webbed fingers and blinked; his nictitating membranes flickered and then retracted into the corners of his eyes.

Celladora flexed her elongated toes beneath the sand, watching the sparkling grains flow along the furrows. She laid her hands in her lap and splayed her fingers, studying the six angular knuckles on each long digit.

I know. She sighed quietly.

Besides, he added, we’re Fourths. Only the Elders can board the temple ships and commune with the Primes.

Cella nodded grudgingly, her face anguished, her eyes desperate.

She sniffed and then bit her lip, yearning to share something.

Kane’s been on board the ships, she finally whispered conspiratorially.

Crab-tails! he swore. Kane’s a Fourth—like us.

No, really, she pleaded. I overheard him talking with his team during a dive.

When? he asked. And how did you get close enough to a dive to overhear anything? He eyed her suspiciously.

I’ve been practicing my swimming, she said shyly. I was out beyond the reef towers, under the pulse range, when I saw their skimmer heading out for a training dive on one of the older tower stanchions. She nodded toward the snaking row of EMP generating towers—the island’s only defensive perimeter.

I swam to one of the towers and climbed, she explained quickly.

You climbed a tower? Are you mad? he stared at her, wide eyed with shock.

She shrugged.

Anyway, Kane said that the Primes are just machines. That the ships are entirely automated and that the Elders are hiding things from us aboard those ships.

What things?

He wouldn’t say. She shifted in the sand and reached for his hands. Her hex-articulated fingers curled warmly around his, pulling them into her lap.

But, he has a plan, Michael. Her eyes sparkled in the dawning sunlight. "A plan to get off the island and into the world. The real world. To see for ourselves what’s really out there."

Michael held his sister’s hands and watched the sad hope twinkle in her eyes.

COME, WALK WITH ME Michael. Kane’s firm deep voice brought him crashing back from his memories.

He rose from the warm stone and joined his mentor. They walked along the shore, barefoot on the cool, wet sand. Their footprints dissolved in the surf as they skirted the surging tide. The island continued to burn and smolder around them; pillars of pungent black smoke rose from the interior of the small atoll.

With a natural affection and calm confidence more typical of a father than a colleague, Kane draped his arm over Michael’s shoulder and smiled. They ambled in comfortable silence for some time before Michael spoke.

Are we at war? he asked.

Kane slowed his pace and looked to his protégé with a mixture of pride and curiosity. That’s an interesting question, he said. What makes you think this is a war?

The violence. Michael sighed and then grimaced at the taste of the word on his tongue. At the margin of the forest to their right, a tall tree fell in a swirling splash of sparks and glittering ash.

War is not defined merely by violence, Kane responded. "War is many things. It’s about change and growth. It tries the moral strength of ideologies and tests the resolve of men. It challenges the distribution of power and control within a system.

"War