Devolution

Opening his eyes after a few minutes, Singh watched the world through the window. His private transport was the best place to be, actually second best compared to home or even third best if you included the chamber. The point was that anywhere indoors and safe from the suffocating humidity was infinitely desirable. Although he had lived in Mumbai for twenty two years he still missed the cool fresh air of Northern India, his birthplace: Chandigarh in the Punjab. Unfortunately he could not return to visit his hometown to once again enjoy those pleasures because there wasn’t any fresh air left anywhere on the planet, not even in the formerly pristine Himalayas.

Earth suffered under stifling temperatures with very little temperature variation from night to day, and the seasons that some parts of the world enjoyed before the war were now just memories. In 2112 it was always summer but nobody could see the sun. To be fair, cities like Mumbai, which had always been a very hot place had not changed much as far as the temperature went, but in other ways it had-for the better.

New York, in the United States, was the new Mumbai; a dirty and godforsaken city overwhelmed by crime, corruption and poverty despite its veneer of sophisticated cleanliness. Singh had done a political science degree at her most famous and ancient university and had hated every day of his three years there. There were other similar cities, mostly located in what was formerly called the developed world. Many other U.S. cities, Chicago and Los Angeles for example, had been left raped of all goodness after the war. They were hellholes of depravity where society’s dregs lived out pitiful existences. These places had suffered the most from excessive lifestyles and selfish attitudes, both of which had been contributing factors to the outbreak of war. That’s what Singh thought anyway. Many modern historians did not agree. They blamed religion, but Singh believed religion was used as a scapegoat because the truth was simply too unpalatable.

Mumbai was a modern city with lots of glass and polished steel designed to maximize the available light from a clouded sun, and at the same time reflect heat away from the buildings. The streets were clean, the footpaths wide and uncluttered. Power and telecommunications lines all underground, solar powered streetlights, small and unobtrusive yet powerful. Literally thousands of cameras were hidden discreetly, in shining street furniture, molded benches, transport stations, even in drinking fountains. Nobody knew where they all were but everyone knew they were there somewhere, and they did not mind at all. The general population had bought the line sold by the government about the necessity of such vigilance, while pointing to the non-existent crime rates in the city as evidence that the cameras, along with other deterrents were doing the job they were designed to do.

‘Stop here, driver,’ said Singh to the autodriver. ‘Park and open passenger door.’

Heavy blankets of hot air smothered Singh as he walked the ten meters from the RV to the door of the Hibiscus Club. Opening the door for him was a tall young man in a well made, expensive looking suit who nodded and smiled at the Senator. Singh ignored him. Inside the exclusive club, waves of cold air refreshed him as they carried the sounds of conversation and laughter.

‘Good evening, Senator Singh. Welcome. Follow me please.’

Following the usher as he weaved among crowded tables, Singh searched the room for familiar faces but there were none. Taking his usual seat, he ordered a drink and wondered about the atmosphere inside the club tonight. Normal. Comfortable. In this sanctuary from the troubles and pressures of life in the twenty two hundreds, they had apparently not yet heard the news of 1-11-15’s death. Could it be I am the only one in here who knows? Or am I the only one who cares?

His drink arrived but he only played with the glass, feeling swamped by a tide of negative emotion; depression, guilt, fear. Reaching for his drink he began to feel sick from a nausea swirling in his stomach so he decided to leave. Feeling invisible, Singh rushed through the stifling atmosphere towards the door longing to be alone. Longing to turn back time, longing for answers, longing for peace.

Speak-dialing the retrieval command for his RV into his badge-phone, Singh stepped toward the curb and was immediately intercepted by a man who burst from the shadows. Armed with an electrogun, he pressed it to the temple of Senator Harish Singh, pulled the trigger and hurried away, leaving his victim collapsing to the ground, dead.

The doorman saw it, but had no time to stop it. He telephoned the police who would also have seen it on their cameras. Running to the fallen Senator, he knelt to check for a pulse. He had never seen an electrogun used because they were illegal weapons to all but police officers and the Hibiscus never had any trouble, but he had heard from others who had. The only way a person did not die from an electrogun attack was if the weapon was faulty. A compressed charge of high voltage electricity fired into any part of the body of any living thing killed it almost instantly.

Soon surrounded by a teeming mass of onlookers, the doorman did his best to shield the senator’s body until the police arrived. Fortunately that was not a long time because the crowd, strengthened as it was by ghoulish curiosity, threatened to overwhelm him.

Before they did, word reached the students of Ladeeda High School.

The reports came from dozens of eye-witnesses and passers-by who were, within minutes, uploading their versions of the incident, some with theories about who and why, others without, onto news websites. There were tens of thousands of these unofficial news sites which were contributed to by anyone who saw anything or had an opinion about something. Ranging from small family and friends based networks, these webs of information exchange could be as large as internationally based sites with hundreds of thousands of subscribers. Although not illegal, these sites were not officially sanctioned and none of their contributors were licensed journalists. Despite all this, they were very popular and considered by many people to be authoritative: even more believable in fact than the official news.

Sometimes unofficial internet news stories which came from anonymous sources were actually untrue, so the wise always waited for the official, and by nature, more exact version of events. The ignorant and prejudiced masses believed what they wanted to believe. When a story, which would later be disproved or modified in some way, reinforced their own views, it would be accepted as gospel and not questioned. If the news was about someone you knew, then you especially hoped that it would be proved false. If the news was about someone else then you secretly gave thanks that it wasn’t you or anyone you knew.

During morning recess, this was exactly the situation 3 and Veena found themselves in, as they simultaneously received the news via different sources on the now confirmed death of their fathers. Neither could believe it. Neither wanted to believe it.

‘It’s probably a hoax,’ said 3 trying to add a note of self confidence to his voice, ‘It’s got to be a hoax. I bet your Adonite mates are responsible for this. You know, after what happened this morning.’

‘It’s too cruel even for them,’ said Veena softly.

‘Don’t put it past them. They can be pretty mean at times, even sadistic. I mean you have seen and heard the way they talk and behave. That bastard Hommy was having a great time at my expense in class this morning. Deliberately insulting me and my family.’

‘Come on Ted. You don’t believe that.’

‘Believe what, that they hate me and all Newtonians and would do anything to hurt us?’

‘Ted,’ said Veena but she didn’t have the heart to continue. She understood his anger.

He suddenly felt guilty about his inappropriate outburst so 3 shut up.

Wearing a sadder face than either 3 or Veena had ever seen on him, Joshua walked over to them and sat down heavily. His two friends exchanged looks, hoping for nothing because they realized Joshua was either upset because he also had heard the news about the assassinations, or because of some personal problem. In any case it was not good. He was upset and he was their friend. They suffered together.

Finally Joshua shook his head and spoke. ‘I don’t know what to say. I just can’t believe it. Your dad,’ he said looking into Veena’s watery red eyes before shifting his gaze to 3, ‘And yours. I just don’t know what to say.’

Feigning courage, 3 said ‘It’s not official yet.’

‘If it was a joke,’ said Veena to 3, ‘you know those Adonites trying to be funny, then why would they have sent it to Joshua as well,’ said Veena. ‘He wasn’t even there this morning.’

‘What happened this morning?’ asked Joshua.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ said 3, who was beginning to feel the truth push down on him like an elephant sitting on his shoulders.

One hour later, Veena and 3 were given special permission to go home early when they were called to the school principal’s office.

‘I regret to inform you,’ said the ashen faced old man behind his large desk, ‘that the official news webcaster has just confirmed the deaths of both your fathers in separate incidents.’

‘Incidents?’ asked 3 dumbly.

The principal shook his head slowly. ‘I am afraid I cannot give you any more information but you should return to your homes now.’