1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Fife

Name: Dustin Fife
Genre: New Adult Science Fiction
Title: The Nexus

Quincy Sturgess—dead. My wife and child—gone. Humanity is without intellect. What else must I suffer to atone for my careless comment? But I can’t give up. Quincy died for this.

Journal Entry from Gene “the Ancient,” dated four years after the Genetic Apocalypse.

#

President Akram of the Malkum marched down the hallway, his stride long and brisk, traveling with the vitality of a much younger man. People would guess him to be less than half his age. Or less, for the man was 243 years old.

Frozen in time--an immortal among mortals. Gray peppered his slick, black hair, yet he looked young—smooth skin with a hint of wrinkles, blue eyes with an intense gaze, and the build of a lightweight boxer.

Akram cleared his throat.

Spencer Burton leaped from his chair, nearly spilling his potato chips. Akram clenched his teeth. After centuries, he grew tired of people like Spencer—men who coasted, waiting, reacting. Had Akram reacted 200 years ago when nuclear winter threatened the world, Spencer's progenitors would have died, leaving no chance for this plump little man to live.

Spencer wiped perspiration from his blond eyebrows. “Sir.”

Akram nodded toward the door. “Custodial closet?”

“Yes, sir.” Spencer waddled to shift his massive frame.

“I assume you didn’t summon me to inspect maintenance records.”

“No, sir.”

Spencer hobbled into the room. Akram followed, pushing aside cobwebs.

“Sorry about the dust.” Spencer hacked. “This room probably hasn’t been touched for centuries.”

Akram coughed, side-stepping a toppled shelf, empty cleaning bottles, and a desiccated mop. The stale air smelled of molding carpet and insect carcasses, garnished with a dash of mouse crap.

Akram scowled. “I hope this has a point.”

“You’ll want to see this, sir.” Spencer pointed to the vent.

“A vent?”

“It’s what’s behind it that’s interesting.”

Spencer removed the gridded cover and shone a flashlight down a dirt tunnel. Akram bent. The light disappeared into darkness.

He furrowed his brow. “What…?”

“It’s about 100 yards long. It leads to a room with computers, electrical cords, blueprints, journal entries. But the strangest thing was the newspaper clippings. These clippings—they’re centuries old.”

Akram raised an eyebrow.

“And…” Spencer grabbed a spiral-bound notebook. The wires were bent, and the cover had nearly separated from the binding. The faded ink bled into the yellowed pages. Spencer thumbed through the book and pointed to text.

April 18th, 2042. The rebellion begins.

Akram’s eyes widened. Sergeant Drakes—had he been right after all? Could there be a rebellion?

“It seems that Sergeant Drakes was right,” said Spencer.

Akram shook his head. It couldn’t be. The whole story was too unlikely. And he’d worked too damned hard to see the world fall to ruins again. Another rebellion meant more war, and more war meant death.

He thought of those he’d chosen to forget. Over centuries, the sting of their deaths hadn’t diminished—Paul, Jeanine, Skyler.

And Adam Gianni.

Ancient friends and family members who had died in the war—killed by weapons developed using his damned research.

War wouldn’t come again.

Akram stood. “How long have you known about this?”

“Couple days.”

“And why haven’t I heard anything before?”

“We—” Spencer cleared his throat. “We wanted to be sure.”

Akram scowled. As Spencer shifted his weight, he resembled an elephant side-stepping a rodent.

“Need I remind you, there’s only one man who was alive when they formed their little rebellion?” Akram threw his hands in the air. “Dammit, Spencer.”

He paced the dusty room. A rebellion? It was impossible. The entire world was dead of intellect. But if it began from within? And they escaped unnoticed?

He stopped pacing. The faint outline of a memory tugged at his awareness—an event, long forgotten. Escaped unnoticed. Yes, there was a man once—a man who had died trying to escape, or so they had thought. Yet he returned, only to die again. What was his name?

He shut his eyes, focusing on the thought. Two hundred years of memories flitted through his mind, like a swarm of bacteria-infested flies. Attempting to retrieve one thought among the billions was—

His breath caught. He smiled. “Quincy Sturgess!”

“Pardon, sir.”

“Quincy Sturgess. He’s our dissenter.” Akram marched toward the door. Spencer remained frozen, his mouth gaping.

“Where’s Sergeant Drakes?” Akram asked.

Spencer followed, struggling to keep up. “H-he’s been detained. At level one, sir.”

“I want to see him. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the mean time, find out everything you can about Quincy Sturgess. And search the tunnel and room for anything that will help us hunt down this rebel group. Do a background check on everyone who worked here 200 years ago. Search security personnel, scientists, janitors, everything. And double the number of men searching for this rebel group.”

“Um sir, I believe we’ve exhausted recruits from Fahrquan.”

“Then recruit outside Fahrquan.” Akram stopped walking, bending toward Spencer. “This group must be found.”

Akram turned and marched down the hallway.

“President,” said Spencer.

Akram stopped and lifted his head without turning to face him.

“Sir, did you want us to destroy the tunnel?”

“No. Let them think their secret is safe.”

#

Cole grunted as Suta jumped on his back.

“Wake up, Coe.”

Cole stretched. “It’s Cole. Collllllllllla.”

“Coe…la.”

“No. Colllll.”

“Coe…” The boy cleared his throat. “…el.”

“Close enough.” Cole spun and lifted the little villager. The boy giggled.

“Wets count,” Suta said.

Cole chuckled. “You wanna count, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Cole gazed at the rising sun. The orange light peaked over the evergreens, casting long shadows across the meadow. He inhaled the crisp morning air.

Suta hovered above him. The sunlight reflected off his light green eyes and illuminated his olive skin in warm light. Like the rest of the villagers, his tattered clothes were caked with dirt.

“Alright,” Cole turned to lay face-down. “Let’s count.”

The boy jumped on his back. Not for the first time, Cole half-regretted teaching the boy to count this way. It had been fine when he could only count to ten.

But now?

“You ready?” Cole asked.

The boy wrapped his arms around Cole’s neck.

“Not too tight,” Cole said. His voice sounded like a frog with a cold.

“Go!”

Cole began doing pushups.

“One. Two. Free.” Suta giggled. “Faster, faster!”

“Four, fife, six.”

“I’m getting tired, buddy.”

“Seven. No yer not. Eight. Nine.”

“It hurts!” Cole said.

The boy giggled. “Ten. Weven. Twelf. Faster, faster!”

Cole pushed faster.

Suta squealed. “Tenty. Tenty one. Tenty two.”

“Twenty,” Cole shouted.

“Tee-wenty free. Tee-wenty four.”

Sweat began dripping from his face.

“Firdy. Firdy-one. Firdy-two.”

Never once had Cole failed the boy—as high as he could count, that’s the number of pushups he did. But Suta was learning to count faster than Cole’s body could keep up…