Bard Constantine
The Girl who Lived
Other Books in the Havenworld Universe
The Troubleshooter: Four Shots
The Troubleshooter: New Haven Blues
The Troubleshooter: The Most Dangerous Dame
Havenworld: Tales of the Cataclysm and Beyond
Silent Empire
Vigiclass="underline" Knight in Cyber Armor
Nimrod Squad
Syn City: Reality Bytes
The Gunner Chronicles: Fire and Brimstone
After the Cataclysm nearly wiped out humanity, the remnants of mankind survived in Havens: city-sized constructs built to reboot society and usher in a new age of mankind.
However, the new age was not the type the architects had envisioned. The same greed and lust for power that existed before the Cataclysm resurfaced and the Havens quickly became quagmires of political and economic conflict, threatening to destroy the future envisioned by their founders.
This is a world where an indecisive young man can witness the end of all things. Where a boy's impending death can lead to a new life. Where a girl's escape from captivity still may not free her. Where the naivety of youth can be manipulated for evil deeds. Where taking on that last job might be the worst mistake a desperate hacker ever makes.
Welcome to
Chapter 1: The System
The machines do not know me.
They don't see as I do, nor do they possess instinctive reasoning. I've been raised in the habitat since I was an infant, so I know. My earliest memories are of cold, unfeeling metallic bodies, gleaming gears, and silent, whirring parts. My sisters are like I am: human, fleshly. Alive. The machines bred us in laboratories for unknown purposes. They don't bother to tell us what that is.
The automatons are my parents, my caretakers, my teachers. They provide healthy food, adequate clothing, and protective shelter from the savage wilderness, deadly superstorms, and roving marauder bands that abduct and enslave the defenseless. In return, the machines control every aspect of my being.
They gave the name Michelle, but deep inside I have another name. A name I gave to myself, one they can't take away or control. I took a name to match my brown skin and thick, curly hair that speaks to me of the fiery sun and untamed beauty of the land of my genetic origins.
My name is Zina, and I am the first. Daughter of no one with a destiny of my choosing. The machines do not know Zina. I allow them to see what they wish, but I watch. And I wait. Patience is paramount because one mistake can end it all.
The other girls aren't as cognizant as I am. I don't know why I differ from them, but where I observe and calculate, they accept and submit. They depend on the machines for everything, so much that they're almost machines themselves. They fall into docile acceptance like the domestic animals we learn about in our history lessons, docile and compliant. I like to remind myself that those peaceful, domesticated beasts were slaughtered and eaten every day.
My daily schedule is one of monotonous routines: exercise, education, exercise, sleep. Lines of girls in navy and white uniforms march in unison, walk in single file lines and sit in square cubicles with holovisors on as synthetic humanoids instruct us in literacy, mathematics, and earth's catastrophic history.
Of all the instruction, it's history alone that captivates me. I'm fascinated by the world as it used to be before the Cataclysm shattered its foundations. I eagerly take in the crowds of differing faces, the glittering cities, the breathtaking landscapes of yesterday's world.
It's the tragedy that attracts me for some bizarre reason. From the holographic projection of my visor, I witness the abuse of power and fathomless greed that led to hundreds of millions slaughtered in wars and conflicts, and even more dying from poverty and famine. I witness the woeful ignorance as religious and political entities tried to force their will upon the people, resulting in slavery, genocide, and insurmountable divisions.
I find it hard to believe such an advanced society could not find the means to save themselves from their own obliteration. The Skygate Collapse may have destroyed the known world, but it was almost an act of mercy. The earth was already suffering the throes of global cancer, shuddering in a slow and painful demise which happened to be punctuated by a final desperate act that unleashed the gates of a swift and sudden destruction.
The Cataclysm.
Or so we're told. I have reason to doubt everything, every so-called fact, every command given. How can one trust a cold and impersonal machine? Some fashion themselves after adults, simdroids designed to imitate humans as if to supply some artificial familiarity to our lives. But there are only circuits firing within their chests, clicking cameras behind their eyes, and cold, artificial flesh covering their gleaming insides.
So I feign obedience, supply the automatons with a mask of compliance. I learned early on that bucking the status quo only results in more attention, more time strapped to the holovisors with endless streams of submission-inducing images flickering across my eyes. I mentally sleep during those times, eyes open but my mind far away in a daydream of running through tall grasses coated with freshly fallen dewdrops that sparkle like a million liquid crystals. The air is wet and I feel alive, free to run and breathe and laugh.
When the session ends, I have learned nothing except to be more careful in the future. Machines are pattern-based, and behavior is just another pattern to them. So long as my behavior falls under their accepted parameters, I have nothing to worry about. During the day, I fall into place, follow the established routine: exercise, education, exercise, sleep. I engage in mental games and physical challenges with the other girls. I give every indication that I'm submissive to the program.
But at night, my world comes alive.
I have skipped taking my sleeping pill for years. Swift sleight-of-hand while pretending to ingest the drug is enough to fool the simdroids. While the other girls drop off into comatose slumber, I practice expanding my senses. At first, I would listen with my eyes closed, acquainting myself with every whir and hum. I memorized the patterns of the machines, the paths they were programmed to follow. That was when I realized I could fool them.
Ten minutes after lights out, the Moths enter the barracks. They are slow, hovering machines that scan every bed, verifying each bunk has its registered occupant. After the first batch of Moths exit, there is a two-hour window before the next wave arrives. Plenty of time for one to explore if one is adventurous enough.
I pad on bare soles, enjoying the coolness of the slick tiles under my feet. I carefully stick to the blind spots of the numerous cameras that alert the Rovers to any unusual activity. It took me months of careful observation to negotiate the system, but my windows of freedom are worth every second of planning.
When I hear the metallic clicking of the Rovers, I climb atop a stack of supply boxes and lie as flat as I can. Gleaming spheres the size of ball bearings roll across the halls; hundreds of tiny metal orbs programmed to detect abnormal movement or intrusive activity. I wait until the last of them rounds the corner before I resume my haunt. I keep a silent, continuous countdown in my head to track how much time I have left.
I pause by a corner as a simdroid activates one of the hallway doors. When it enters, I run as fast as I can as the door slowly closes. I slide through at the last second, almost snagging my sleeve in the process.
The simdroid is only a few paces away, walking in its methodical manner. The matronly glide is almost human but too precise to be anything but synthetic. I freeze, holding my breath, but it never turns to look behind. It has no reason to, and because of that lack of human cognizance, it does not detect me.