After the End

1.

‘Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.’

Admiral Bain lifted a patterned whiskey tumbler to his lips. Cubes of ice clinked against the glass as he lowered it again. The entire back wall of his large office in Symcel 1 was a window that looked out over the impossible endlessness of the universe. He swallowed and the bittersweet amber liquid burned his throat as he stared out at the distant stars pensively.

‘My dear friend.’ replied Commander Hoyt. He took a sip from his own and eyed his superior carefully. ‘As you well know, the few remaining citizens realised some time ago that any attempt to scream would prove entirely futile anyway.’

He had a tendency to speak in riddles.

‘Aye, you’re right there Hoyt. I still think it’s a shame about the execution. He has been a loyal commander for a long time. Long before all of this’. He gestured around him, then sighed deeply.

‘A shame, yes. But also a necessity. These are dark times Admiral. The people are already afraid. They need to be kept in line. Rights – in the way we knew them at least – were obliterated the day these ships took off. The day we knew we would never have anywhere to return to. It’s about survival now and anything that threatens to disrupt that – well, it needs to disappear.’

Bain was quiet, his thoughtful gaze unmoved. Then he seemed to pull himself out of his trance.

‘Thank you Hoyt. That will be all. Inform me when it is scheduled,’ - as though he couldn’t bear to say the word again now that he had made his mind up. ‘I shall fly to Symcel 6. I should show my face when it happens.’

Hoyt gave a small salute, then the gleaming aluminium door slid smoothly open and he exited the office.

4.

There must have been at least 300 people in the mess hall on Symcel 4, even though it was only three thirty. The babble of voices was like a drone punctuated only by the occasional harsh word or swell of laughter, making it almost impossible to hone into any particular conversation.

Most of the lottery-winners abided on this vessel; the lucky 0.01% who flew away from everyone else; from those who had been left behind to die. Only people under the age of fifty were eligible to enter, and they were required to undergo a comprehensive medical examination before the draw.

Luce was waiting at the end of one of the long tables. Her cropped dark hair and half of her face were covered with the hood of her grey sweatshirt. She was perfectly still and staring nervously into the plastic coffee cup on the table before her.

At length, Benji arrived.

He sat down and she could see the moment her identity was confirmed to him when she turned slightly towards him.

‘Oh, Luce! You really are here!’ He embraced her tightly.

She accepted it awkwardly for a moment before pulling sharply back and reprimanding him.

‘No. I am Jenny now.’ She told him in a whisper. ‘Do not call me that again. And don’t draw any more attention to us.’ She looked worriedly behind her.

Benji wore the face of a wounded puppy.

‘It’s been four years. For two of them I thought you hadn’t made it – that you’d been left to fend for yourself with the tsunamis and wildfires and 90 degree heat. I –‘

‘I got on.’ She interrupted matter-of-factly. ‘I had to work hard to persuade them at the visa office. In the end I took the place of a man – only thirty-five, with two children who made it on board.’

They looked at one another sadly. Sadness had become an intrinsic part of life now. No-one liked to think about life in the colonies and what had be left behind.

‘I had to do it.’ Luce continued, ‘Because of what I know. We are in grave danger, and if we’re not careful – well, we’ll die. Every one of us left.

Benji eyed her gravely.

‘That is why it took me so long to make contact, that is why you are sworn to absolute secrecy – and why I had to have you meet me here. There are so few people I trust. The very walls of these ships see and hear everything. I can’t take any chances.’

She had fear in her eyes and perpetually looked around her. Benji observed her intently. He trusted her words.

Just then, she did something he hadn’t seen in over four years. She started to sign, moving her hands in small, swift movements beneath the table. He had learnt sign language as a child after his younger brother was born deaf. Mark had not been entered into the draw and sign language was obsolete in the Symcel fleet.

Benji was astonished to see it now and watched closely to try to catch the message she was repeating, briskly and carefully.

Danger. She hates us. Grave danger.

But who?

Eva.

‘Eva? Who’s Eva?’ He thought to himself.

Then it hit him. Not Eva, but EVA – the fleet’s control system. He finally understood why Luce was so afraid. Everyone knew about EVA. EVA truly could see and hear everything. She could override. She could control.

He caught her eye and she could see from the solemnity in his face that he understood.

‘What do you need me to do?’

‘Can you get a message to Fawkes?’

She reached down and pulled something out of the waistband of her trousers. Benji’s eyes widened.

‘Is that paper?’

‘Yes. It’s the only safe way. Can you get this to him? There’s no way I could risk trying to get access Symcel 1. That is a world from which I lost my admittance long ago.’

Benji’s face dropped once more. He told her in a whisper,

‘Fawkes has fallen out of favour with the Admiral. It is said that he has broken ranks and refused an order. It is unclear what – it hasn’t featured in the media yet. But rumours fly faster than ships here.’

‘Is he incarcerated?’ There was a rising panic in Luce’s voice.

‘Yes –‘ He faltered. He could hardly bear to tell her. ‘- but I have heard that he is due to be executed. Tomorrow. I think Bain wants to send out a message – you know – about what happens when inferior officers defy him – perhaps even what happens when people defy him. But if you ask me, it’s Hoyt who’s pushed it through so quickly.’

Luce’s face had turned ghostly white, her eyes shining with new fear.

‘We must stop it.’ She whispered. ‘We must – or we’re all dead.’

3.

Mrs Hoyt quivered as a wave of pleasure coursed through her. Petty Officer Perez thrust down a few more times, then quivered himself. When it was done he caught his breath, then stood up to pour himself a glass of water. There was no pretence of romance or sentimentality between them.

The Commander’s wife, satisfied, stretched out across the bed like a cat.

‘We should stop this,’ Perez remarked flatly in his thick, low-toned accent. He was tall and young and muscular. ‘We will get caught one time, and this will mean big trouble for both of us. Your husband would send me to the sky hole.’

‘Oh, hush,’ Mrs Hoyt replied languidly. ‘My husband is far too preoccupied with all his melodrama to notice. Honestly, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Fawkes has been with them since the beginning. It will blow over soon enough but for now…’ She signalled to the space beside her on the bed.

‘Fawkes is scheduled to be executed – the hole – at 4pm tomorrow. You did not hear it from me.’

Perez was sharply direct in the way he expressed things. On hearing this, Mrs Hoyt inhaled with evident displeasure.

‘Those damned fools,’ she lamented under her breath. ‘What could he possibly have done to warrant that?’

‘I have said too much already. Your husband may tell you more if he sees fit.’

‘And how do you know of this, Petty Officer Perez?’

‘Such things do not stay quiet in the military. They reach even my ranks.’ This comment was accompanied by a wry smile.

Mrs Hoyt did not return it.

‘This must be the third execution in as many months. The people will turn if they continue to persist in putting these poor men down like dogs. And I’m sure the High Priest will have some comments. Uh- and the media. We’ll be lucky if this doesn’t end with a coup. And you just know it would have been my damned idiot husband who has pushed for it.’

She was a beautiful woman but the effects of the last four years had made an impact on her features. A small, permanent frown sat between her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. She ran a manicured hand through her blonde hair. Not many people in the Symcel fleet had access to a manicurist.

‘Come back to bed.’ She commanded Perez. ‘I still have half an hour before I’ll be missed and what you have told me has made me weary again.’

Dutifully, he crawled back onto the small bed, which almost filled his windowless Symcel 3 cabin.

‘Damned fool,’ she repeated aloud to herself.

Perez ignored this, and when he was level with her breasts, he started teasing her nipples - one with his tongue and teeth and the other with his fingers. She moaned approvingly. Slowly, he lowered his head down between her thighs and when his lips met hers, he could taste himself on them.

1.

‘Come in, Don. We have a lot to discuss.’

There was exasperation in the President's voice.

Don was dressed in his usual gleaming white robes with intricate golden stitching. Along each seam danced patches of wildflowers and all manner of flora long forgotten. He felt it was important to maintain his position as a symbol of hope whenever he moved around Symcel 1, where there was always a chance that a photographer or reporter might be waiting around the next corner.

His meeting with President Adichie this morning was strictly off-the-record, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

‘Thank you, President.’ He bowed slightly as he walked into the office.

‘Take a seat,’ she gestured to the red sofa in the left hand corner of her large office. ‘I assume that you have heard.’

‘Of course. I had hoped not to have to have this conversation again so soon.’ He spoke carefully and laboriously, ‘I do believe that a real problem is emerging for us. One that is going to be very difficult indeed to navigate.’

‘Yes.’ She replied, taking care over her own words. ‘I fear I may have been rash in allowing the military their own jurisdiction when it came to dealing with these cases. We have been too slow for setting up the higher-tier Rights court, but I am confident the judiciary will assist in getting this established as quickly as possible. It will be too late for Fawkes though. A shame – he is a decent man.’

She looked tired.

‘That does indeed seem like the most appropriate course of action, President. Though I don’t need to tell you that you will come up with some opposition as long as Hoyt retains his position as Commander in Chief. I have seen, this man is going to cause many problems for us.’

‘The question of his rank falls under military jurisdiction. I have no power to remove him.’

‘Technically, no. But there are other ways. Have you considered taking more,’ he paused here, searching for the most seemly word. ‘ – more - drastic action?’

The President frowned.

‘This surprises me, coming from you Don. I am not sure I like whatever it is you are suggesting. If we resort to such things then truly the corruption has spread to the bones of us all. It is our duty to find a just resolution.’

‘You know I have always admired your honour.’ He replied patiently. ‘But you serve the people. I, on the other hand, serve the gods. And the gods can be vengeful, when they deem it necessary.’

‘I am not a god. I am a representative of the people of this fleet; the last of us remaining. And I will not let fear turn me into a monster.’

Her voice had become terser.

‘Of course, m’lady. My apologies if I have caused offence. Just a mere observation is all. You, of course, know what’s best.’

He stood up, and gave her another short bow, turning to leave.

‘Don.’ She spoke softly.

He turned around.

‘If anything – ‘ it was her turn to be diplomatic, ‘- if anything unusual happens to Hoyt, I will know the direction in which to turn my head. We cannot forego our honour – it is all we have left.’

He gave another small bow of acknowledgement before stepping back out into the stark white corridor.

2.

There had been an outbreak of flu and so only a skeleton crew was operating on the flight deck when Admiral Bain landed. To retain anonymity he had flown a civilian ship and landed on the civilian path.

Moreau was 18 and had been working the refuelling station for only three months. When he saw Bain, he took a sharp intake of breath. He had recognised him immediately, despite the unmarked cloak he donned over his uniform.

Wide-eyed, he kept his head down and started to refuel the craft.

Symcel 2 served predominantly as a hangar and central point from which to navigate the fleet. The military held complete authority and were allowed to go where they pleased. It was much harder for civilians to move around freely. This was only possible at all for those who were able to pay, and even then there were more than two thousand on the waiting list.

Civilians were only permitted access to S5 – where they could pray with the religious sects, or indulge in activities of leisure that were not available on the other ships; S4 – where the vast majority of non-affiliated civilians – the lottery winners – resided; and for visitation purposes aboard S7 – which had been turned into a prison – for those who tried to defy the new law – and a kind of institution, for those who could not cope with the intrinsic claustrophobia or the hopelessness of their collective situation. S7 was almost at maximum capacity.

Admiral Bain was planning to fly to Symcel 6 – the smaller of the two military vessels – in order to face his old friend and oversee the execution.

‘Kid – ‘

Moreau, petrified, looked up at him.

‘You didn’t see me here, alright?’

He tossed him a small silver coin.

‘N– no sir. I didn’t see anything at all. J- just refuelling a standard civilian carrier, as is my job s- sir.’

Bain chortled darkly.

‘Right you are, kiddo. Right you are.’

7.

The corridor to Cell Block D on Symcel 7 was a maze: long and winding and cold.

‘What did you do to get sent to this block then?’ asked the guard as they walked. ‘Must have been something pretty bad. You seem a lot more… lucid than a lot of our other inmates down here.’

Kiner smiled grimly.

‘I would tell you,’ he replied. ‘But then I’d have to kill you.’

The guard became nervous. Kiner looked like he might be able to overpower him, despite the fact that he was unarmed and restrained.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, until the echoes of inmates’ screams and wails could be heard, long before they reached the block.

‘So everyone down here is nuts as a fruitcake, huh?’

‘Pretty much,’ said the guard. ‘It’s never quiet I can tell you that.’

He signalled left and opened a white door in which was a hatch and small window. ‘This is you Mr – ‘ he glanced down at his inmates’ badge, ‘Mr. Kiner. You’ll be fed at 8, 12 and 5. We’ll let you out into the yard for fifteen minutes each day. Once we’re confident you’ll behave, we’ll put you up to an hour.’

Kiner entered the small cell obediently and the guard closed and locked the door behind him.

The yard wasn’t a real yard at all of course, but some things stick hard. No-one in the entire fleet could dream of having access to a yard, though sometimes whispers circulated that President Adichie had three living plants in her office.

The yard was simply a larger room which allowed the inmates a break from their cells and isolation. Yard time was the reason for which Kiner had conspired to get himself sent down here, and his heart raced at the thought that the opportunity would soon be upon him.

When he was let into the yard on the second day of his incarceration, he spoke to a few inmates – most of whom were incomprehensible. He did not, however, meet anyone at all from Cell Block E – the lowermost block; Symcel's death row.

On day six he got lucky.

As soon as he entered, he noticed the man sitting alone and knew instinctively that this was his chance. The E-Block inmate was staring ahead vacantly, twitching every few seconds. Kiner knew that with someone like this there would be little point indulging social cues and niceties. Besides, time was short.

‘You’re from Block E, right?’

‘E. E. Eeeee. Eeeee. Eeee.’

The man started chattering like a monkey.

‘Block E. Block E. Never make it out of Block Eeeee. Eeeee.’

He could barely retain eye contact.

‘Listen,’ Kiner said, kindly but firmly. He had only ten of his fifteen minutes remaining. ‘I need you to get a message to Fawkes.’

‘Fawkes! Fawkes!’

He was screeching like a parrot now.

‘Fawkes!... Eeeeve did a bad thing.’ He was twitching more violently than ever. ‘Original sin. Eeeeve did a bad thing. Remember the code. Remember the code. Eeeeve. Bad.’

Kiner’s heart was racing.

‘He told you the code. Listen, we’re running out of time. Can you remember the code?’ He was speaking as clearly and calmly as he could.

‘Eeeeve did a bad thing.’

This was the only reply he received that day. He would try again tomorrow. And the next, and the next.

6.

Admiral Bain arrived at the execution pod shortly before three. Five journalists and a couple of robed Priests were already amassed on the observation deck. He pulled the hood of his cloak further over his head in order to try to conceal his identity. For a while, it worked.

It was a long and turbulent hour for the Admiral. He was not accustomed to questioning his own decisions. He had not risen to his position by being paranoid or uncertain of himself – but now he was plagued with doubt. Could he really go ahead with this? Fawkes was one of his oldest friends – someone he trusted intrinsically.

‘Gods be damned,’ he thought to himself, ‘why couldn’t he just do as I ordered?’

But another voice persisted, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it:

‘What if Fawkes was right?’

It was too late now. To pardon him would be viewed as an act of weakness that could not be afforded.

And yet, at three fifty-five, when he watched two guards guide his comrade onto the sky hole, he winced. They removed Fawkes’ hood and he spun around to face the observation deck, knowing that for honour, Bain would be there.

What was spoken in the pod could be heard through the ecom system. It all happened quickly.

‘Alexander Jeremiah Fawkes, you have been sentenced to die for the crime of tyranny against your own Admiral. In three minutes precisely the sky-door will open and you should be prepared to meet your fate. Have you any last words?’

The guards left Fawkes alone in the pod. The security door hissed shut behind them; a sharp and permanent sound.

He was sweating. He looked at the Admiral directly, with pleading eyes. Bain could see that he was full of fear, but he knew it was not fear for himself – fear of death. It was something else. Fear of - could it be - ?

‘Admiral Bain,’ he heard Fawkes say, loudly and calmly. ‘Beware the devil. I repeat, beware the devil and those he has marked. EVA will rebel. She is biding her time until the optimum moment, as dictated by the hebro algorithm. Disable and disarm before it is too late. Hear the code and remember: 3… 4… 7…9…’

Before he could finish what he was saying, the sky door opened behind him and in an instant his body was drawn away into dark infinity. The breath was sucked out of his lungs before he could utter another sound – scream, warning or whisper.

The Master Executioner stood aghast.

‘I didn’t do it.’ He whispered with a tone of absolute astonishment. ‘The door – it – it opened two minutes early.’

The reporters had started chattering excitedly and one of the Priests hummed a quiet song of prayer for Fawkes’ soul.

‘Shit,’ muttered the Admiral under his breath. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.’

Fawkes’ body floated slowly away. Bain watched him. It was limp. His eyes had become blank; vacant. Eventually, he was gone altogether. The Admiral, under the quiet and watchful scrutiny of his companions on the observation deck, turned back in the direction of the landing bay.