Metrofloat
New York
by
William Quincy Belle
Genre:
Science Fiction
A
Post-apocalyptic Sci-Fi thriller.
Several
hundred years in the future, Earth is a different planet. Antigravity
has been invented and “flying” has given way to “floating”:
giant platforms with cities remain above the growing surface
temperatures as enclaves of the privileged. A global pandemic has
wiped out 80% of those on the ground, and a virulent, flesh-eating
disease, necrofasc, has left most with artificial body parts. Insects
are the main food staple. A utopia for some, a dystopia for
others.
Metrofloat
New York, a futuristic city of thirty million, is run by an oligarchy
of five rich and powerful people. An unknown assassin, working from
within the system, attempts to seize control and declare himself
dictator by methodically removing all rivals. Detective Matthew Heart
of the Metropolitan Police must deal with his partner, a cyborg
policewoman, his unofficial family, a transgender woman and her
one-legged daughter, and a mysterious assailant bent on taking over
the world by killing anyone who stands in his way.
The
stars were out. The air was fresh. From the fiftieth-floor terrace, the muted
sounds of the city were a dull roar. Willard Bachmann, balding but commanding
in his sixty-fourth year, moved along the balustrade, sipping an arti-sour and
staring at the vista before him: to the one side, the skyline of one of Earth’s
largest floating metropolises — Metrofloat New York — and to the
other, a kilometer below, vast desert plains ending in the silhouette of a
distant mountain range. It was all his. He controlled it. He ruled it.
Years of hard work,
important decisions, and backroom dealings had amassed for him an unprecedented
amount of power and influence. The OligCouncil was no longer something he could
lead; it was something he could commandeer and rule. He could bend it to his
will. He could possess it and do with it what he wanted.
This was his
opportunity. Instead of going through the never-ending and often useless
democratic process of consensus, he could force his will on everyone. There was
no campaigning for buy-in. There was no vote for agreement. Everyone had to do
as he said. Period. Dictatorship: the fast and easy way to get things done.
Willard chuckled to himself. The word had such a negative connotation. He would
say enlightened absolutism or philosophical monarchism. He was taking
it upon himself to bring people together, to get them to pull in the same
direction, and remove the self-interest and deindividuation plaguing society.
Willard put one hand
on the railing and leaned out over the dizzying height. He held up his glass
toward the city panorama and said, “To you. Together we will be great once
again.” He took the last sip of his drink then turned and walked across the
balcony. Slipping through the open door, he waved his hand over a sensor to close
it. Tomorrow would be a busy day; he needed to sleep.
He sauntered across a
sizable living area to an open kitchen and set down his glass. As Willard
turned toward the bedroom, a movement caught his eye. He looked across the
expanse of floor to the windows facing the terrace. The edge of a curtain
fluttered. The door leading to the balcony was open — the door he had shut
moments ago.
Willard crept around
the kitchen island into the living room. He skirted a decorative shelving unit
and moved into the corner, his work area. Opening a drawer of his desk, he
removed a pulsed energy pistol. The charge indicator showed eighty percent.
He held the gun up at
arm’s length and scanned the room for any movement. Nothing. He grasped the
handle of a Japanese samurai sword displayed on the wall, slid it out of its
case, and moved from behind the desk.
Willard swept the
area and looked behind various pieces of furniture. He held his breath and
listened. From somewhere came the hum of machinery, electricity, and background
noises typical of any building in the city, but nothing else.
To the left, the
floor creaked. Willard whirled and fired. There was a thump followed by the
crackling of a fireball against the wall. Nothing was there. Willard glanced
left and right, waving the gun in preparation for a second shot. His ears
became accustomed to the silence and he remained still, listening for
breathing, the shuffle of a foot, anything. There was nothing but silence. Was
anybody there? The door was open, but he had shut it. He was sure of it. Since
this was the fiftieth floor, whoever came in from the terrace had chosen an
unorthodox way of dropping in unannounced.
Willard checked the
other half of the room, walking to the far end of the couch and looking behind
it. Nothing.
A tiny noise came
from his work area in the corner. Turning, he pointed the pistol in that
direction, but it was difficult to see in the subdued light. He could feel his
heart beating. Someone was here. Someone was waiting for the right moment.
As he stared into the
corner, trying to discern any movement, something registered in his peripheral
vision. But it was too late. A hand grabbed the gun and twisted forward while
another grabbed his forearm and twisted backward. Willard had tensed his finger
and the pistol fired at the couch, scorching the fabric.
The gun wrenched from
his hand, Willard turned toward his attacker and swung the sword in an arc over
his shoulder. The blade hit the upper arm of the attacker with a thud and
buried itself deep in the limb. There was no blood. Willard’s eyes widened as
he realized he had not cut into human flesh.
The assailant tossed
the pistol to one side and seized the blade, pulling upward to remove it from
his arm, then back to yank the handle out of Willard’s hand. He tossed the
sword aside, and it jangled against the floor. Willard leaped and kicked the
intruder in the stomach, causing the assailant to lose his balance and fall
backward. Willard dove for the pistol, twisted around, and took aim. There was
no sign of his attacker.
He jumped up and ran
back to the couch. Seeing nothing, he spun around, checking all three hundred
and sixty degrees around him. His heart was racing, his breathing hard. The
adrenaline had kicked in, and both Willard’s hands shook as he tried to steady
the gun.
“Mr. Bachmann.” The
male voice was sonorous.
Willard spun toward
the sound and fired. He saw part of the man’s head as he ducked behind a
bookcase, just before the fireball shattered a crystal vase.
“Mr. Bachmann,” the
voice said, “you’re making this far too difficult.”
Willard moved toward
the bookshelf, holding the pistol up with both hands.
“You must face the
inevitable. We all have our time, and you, sir, have had yours.”
Willard crouched
down, trying to see between the open shelves.
“This can be
painless, or it can be painful.”
Willard aimed between
two shelves, over the top of a line of books. His hands were shaking, and his
aim was off. The charge sputtered against the spines and a wisp of smoke curled
up.
He ran to the side of
the bookcase and spun around behind it, yet saw no one. Wondering what to do
next, Willard heard a step to his right. He fired. The discharge sizzled in the
middle of the man’s chest and singed his shirt. It did not stop him.
The attacker grabbed
Willard’s right arm at the wrist, held it over his head, then seized him by the
throat and squeezed.
“Please drop the gun,
Mr. Bachmann.”
The two men held each
other’s gaze until Willard let go of the pistol, which fell to the floor with a
clatter.
“Thank you.” The attacker
pushed Willard across the room into a straight-backed chair. He snapped
restraining devices in place, locking each wrist to an arm of the chair.
Willard looked at his
adversary’s arm but could no longer see the cut from the sword. “Auto-regen.
I’ve heard of it but didn’t think it had yet been perfected for the market.”
“If you know the
right people and have the money, anything is possible.” The man uncoupled a
tubular device from his belt and fiddled with the controls.
“Do I get a
cigarette? A last meal? A final request?”
“This won’t hurt, Mr.
Bachmann. Well, I’ve been given to understand it doesn’t hurt, but does anybody
know for sure?”
Willard gave a warped
smile. “Nobody who’s undergone the procedure has ever complained. Then again,
they’re too dead to speak up.”
His opponent leaned
over and pressed the device to Willard’s forehead.
“Stop!”
Straightening, the
man looked at him. “Yes?”
“I don’t suppose
anything I say will persuade you not to do this?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Money? Power? A job
in my organization?”
“Please, Mr.
Bachmann, my motives are of a higher calling.”
“Ah, yes, a true
believer.”
“I am merely a
reflection of your beliefs.”
Willard gave a sigh
of resignation. “I wanted to sweep away the past and bring everyone together:
the vision of a harmonious future.”
“That’s your future,
sir. That’s your vision. It’s harmonious in that people accept you on top with
everything and everybody else at the bottom, having just enough to get by.”
“Harmony brings
something for everyone. There will be inequities in life. However, the fighting
that results from people not accepting that truth is the problem. Do you want
war? Do you want continued conflicts between various groups vying for
authority? Stopping me won’t stop the system. Society is hierarchical. You
can’t escape it.”
Willard gave his foe
a pleading look.
“Let us begin,” the
man said.
Willard sat up
straight and shut his eyes in resignation. “Okay.”
The man again leaned
in and put one end of the tube against Willard’s forehead. He pushed a button
and the device hummed. A readout on one side counted out a percentage, starting
at zero. The man looked around the room and, from time to time, glanced at the
meter. When the number hit ninety-five he stared at the results, keeping his
thumb poised over a switch. The meter hit one hundred percent.
“Goodbye, Mr.
Bachmann.” The stranger pressed the button and kept the device held against
Willard’s forehead. There was a crunch followed by a slurping sound. Willard
spasmed, all his limbs shaking at once. The man watched a long glass container
within the device fill up with a viscous fluid. The counter showed a percentage
once again, and when it hit one hundred the man removed the device, exposing a
hole the width of an index finger in Willard’s forehead. The spasms stopped and
Willard became limp, his head slumping forward onto his chest.
The man recoupled the
device to his belt and removed the restraints from Willard’s wrists. He picked
him up and crossed the living area, stepping sideways through the door, with
the body lengthwise, onto the terrace. The man followed the balustrade to the
far side overlooking the plains. He looked over the rail. The building was
right on the edge of the metrofloat: the perfect spot.
He lifted Willard up
over the railing and let go before leaning over to watch as the body fell past
fifty stories and disappeared into the blackness. With the city floating at an
altitude of one kilometer, it would take Willard’s body approximately fifteen
seconds to hit the ground.
***
Alan and Terry were
skinny enough to slip through the security perimeter into the antigravity zone.
Already, they heard the pounding of the AG machines. Workers in the area often
wore ear protection, as the constant noise could damage their hearing, but when
one is young and foolish, protection is for wimps. They climbed down to the
lowest scaffolding and looked out over the panorama below. The ground was a
good kilometer down, speckled with the twinkling lights of the settlement. Each
light was a potential target for a jump-and-grab, so tonight looked to be an
excellent opportunity.
Rumors had been
circulating around the high school for over a year about thrill seekers doing
the unthinkable: bungee jumping from the metrofloat. Alan and Terry had pooled
their money and bought the latest in equipment, including a controllable
elasticized cable, a double safety ankle harness, and a precision-positioning
system with automatic height detection. The flexible anchor allowed them to set
up the bungee in any location in record time, so they could get in, jump, and
get out before the authorities knew they were violating restricted areas.
In the last few
months, they had brought along groupies of the informal thrill seekers club,
and because of those witnesses, the two of them had become underground heroes.
Who in their right mind would do such a thing? Tangible proof was good for
their reputation, so they brought things up from their jumps. Over open land,
they returned with a rock or a plant, but the real fun was over settled areas.
So far, they had taken pieces of clothing drying on lines, things on outdoor
tables, and toys and tools left out. Tonight they wanted to go an extra step
and steal a village marker. The other items could come from anywhere, but a
sign showing the name of the community would prove they had jumped over a
settlement. By using the max extension on the cable, they hoped to remain down
long enough to use their tools to unfasten a sign from its support.
Alan would make the
first attempt. He had decked himself by attaching various tools to his belt and
wearing a helmet with a lamp. He had double-checked his ankle connectors and
made sure the safety harness was in place. Terry gave him the once-over,
enumerating each item out loud so they both knew they had checked everything.
Alan climbed over the railing and held on as Terry fed out the cable so it was
free and clear of the scaffolding.
Quivering with
excitement, Alan looked over at his friend. Terry grinned and gave him a
thumbs-up. Alan turned back to the open space, took a deep breath, and spread
his arms out. He bent his knees, then pushed off into a swan dive.
Alan had ten seconds
of free fall before the cable slowed his descent. Ten seconds of weightlessness
as the wind whistled by his head. It was peaceful. And surreal. It wasn’t every
day somebody jumped from a height of a thousand meters.
Looking toward the
ground when he jumped, Alan twisted as he now fell, upside down, and brought
his head up to look off into the distance. The light from his helmet flashed on
something. He swept his head back and forth until the object was again visible.
There was a human body three meters from him, falling at the same rate. It
tumbled in the air. Judging by the looseness of the limbs, Alan guessed the
person was unconscious. Or dead. Wouldn’t somebody falling to their death be
thrashing about?
He looked toward the
ground. The lights were coming up, and he felt the cable tense to reduce the
speed of his descent. Alan looked back at the body, which continued to fall at
a steady rate and was moving away. He bent his head up so he could follow its
path. There was a crash followed by a thump. Holy crap! he thought. This was unexpected. They had better get the
hell out of there.
Alan slowed to a
stop, hanging upside down two meters from the ground. He fumbled with the
controller, pressing the button to ascend. The mechanism set into motion,
pulling him up. He looked back down and saw, in the semi-darkness, a hole in
the roof of a nearby building. What the hell was going on?
A global pandemic swept the Earth several hundred years ago
with a flesh eating disease killing almost everyone. Anyone who was left alive was
very lucky if the disease only took one leg or one arm. Most lost both legs or
arms and some even half their bodies.
Earth is now divided with the rich folks living in cities
floating above the ground and the poor people live on the ground and are called
grounders. Detective Heart one of the grounders once lived in the floating city
Metrofloat New York until he was thrown out. Heart has been a grounder for
almost five years now and works for the Metropolitan Police.
Someone is going around killing members of the oligarchy.
The members of oligarchy council consist only of the most powerful and rich. Detective
Heart is assigned to find out who is killing the council members. Detective
Heart also gets himself a new partner in the deal. His new partner is a woman cyborg
from Metrofloat New York. Who is going around killing the council members and
why? What do they hope to gain by killing the council member?
I love dystopian and science fiction novels and truly
enjoyed reading Metrofloat. The world building was awesome and I really loved
trying to picture the floating city and the cars, amazing. It sort of reminded
me of Bruce Willis’ movie The Fifth Element. Metrofloat New York pulled me in
from the first page and kept me hooked from beginning to end. The characters
were all amazing in their own way. I can’t wait to read more about the floating
cities and the two detectives Heat and Stanton.
If you like a good dystopian/science fiction with a twist of
mystery then you are going to love Metrofloat New York.
William
Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy
who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope,
accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over evaluating his
contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is
some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to
recite the following, which so far he hasn't been able to attribute
to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem."
You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness floating
around in cyberspace.
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