skonen_blades

The power inside her thrummed like taught bowstrings. Her breath came quick in the darkness of the dungeon, cold beads of sweat dotting her forehead. Wendolyn didn’t take too many survive-or-die cases but money had been tight and this would let her live out the year in relative comfort. As much comfort as the slums could provide, anyway. Being alive was starting to feel like a luxury to her.

The noose of poverty had been closing for years on her strong throat. She was thirty-six years old. This made her an old lady back in the tent village of Youngtown. Refugees from both the impact craters and the virus rubbed elbows there, infecting each other with spell shreds and germ factories in a deadly two-way street. Wendolyn never left her den without her disease wards, protectorate charms, and breathing mask. Everything together cut risks down to less than 10% but nothing brought the risk to zero besides distance.

Distance was something only the wealthy could afford. The rest of the people existed in the crush, infecting each other by sheer proximity. The average death median in Youngtown was 27. Wendolyn was becoming a legend, sought out for wisdom she wished she had. All a person had to do to stay alive was not die but she didn’t know how she managed so far. It’s hard to tell seekers of knowledge that luck plays too huge a part in survival. They usually ask for their money back.

Heavy drops of water hung from the ceiling of the dungeon, pendulous and trembling, fattening from the rising clouds of Wendolyn’s breath. It was cold and damp here, this far underground. A sheen of cold dew coated her entire body. A warm bath was called for after this, even though that would cost a fifth of her payment. The cobbles under her feet were slippery with moss, water, and a biological slurry of fungus and lichen. Every step was careful. If she slipped and dropped her torch, it would be hard to relight. Claustrophobia was circling around her, waiting for a moment of weakness to take over.

The sound of her breath. The tight, flat echo of her foot taking another step. Another drip. The sizzle of a drop hitting her torch. Her world was reduced to these four sounds over and over again as she slowly made her way deeper to her goal.

All this for a rich man’s son. Pathetic. A boy who hadn’t been trained in any of the arts of defense or attack. He was a ripe plum on a tree that needed a higher fence around it. Antwyll Lichardman Orvine III jr. Kidnappings were up this year. A few of those laden with wealth had the mistaken impression that no one would dare. They didn’t understand that the punishment of death was not a deterrent to the living hell of Youngtown and the surrounding camps. This was just another form of dance to the criminals. The push and pull of what the rich called justice and what the poor called a vocation.

Youngtown was named not only because it was only fourteen years old but also because of its mortality rate. There were a few ‘Youngtowns’ scattered around the perimeter of the state wall. Also variations on the theme abounded. Youngville, Youngburg, Youngton. Childvale. Youthpoint. Wendolyn’s Youngtown was technically Youngtown Northwest 7 but that was only used for conversations with border guards and government officials. The villages were the gutters of gutters. Floods happened with every rain and washed the towns away with alarming ease if it got heavy. Naming the villages at all seemed to be hubris. Wendolyn’s Youngtown had avoided the fate for so long that every person living there felt doomed. The specter of ‘any day now’ hung dagger-like over every head. When things were too good for too long in these parts, it only created foreboding. There were no old poor people. Wendolyn’s age scared most people. A special death must be in store for her, they thought, and they didn’t want to be anywhere near her when it happened.

Wendolyn inched around another corner, getting less and less sure about knowing the path back out to the light, when she came upon the door.



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The rich are chipped. The poor are not.

Gerald Malted sometimes mused on how his life would look to someone from a past century. For instance, right now, he felt like going shopping. It was five in the morning but that didn’t matter in today’s world for those who could afford it.

He walked out to the store. His chip broadcast his position. His wealth and status were sent into the ether, both of them in the upper blues. Police immediately scrambled to tail him at a discreet distance to make sure that no one attacked him.

When he got to the store, the doors opened automatically for him after sensing his chip. For people without chips, the doors would remain closed and locked, impossible to break through.

He helped himself to some groceries, put them in a bag, and walked out of the store. His account was automatically debited the moment he crossed the threshold to the outside night air.

The walk home was uneventful. His personal radio had six suggestions for songs that he might like. He said yes to all of them. His account was debited. His head swam with figures related to his investments, letters in progress, and other matters of wealth. They even operated while he slept.

Both his hands were full of groceries but it didn’t matter. The door to his building swung wide for him. The doors of the elevator parted like the red sea. The elevator quietly selected his floor and rose. His apartment lit up like a Christmas tree when he entered the already open door.

Gerald thought about the poor people who weren’t chipped. Their entire existence was one of paper money, keys for locks, and hands-on living. They had no voices in their heads other than the ones that were born with.

They were called ‘logs. After analogue. Their existence was low tech.

Gerald mused on the damage that a well constructed EMP would do to the rich. The poor would barely notice a difference. Building a fire hasn’t changed since the stone age. Neither has killing and cooking.

The rich, however, would be locked in their suddenly dark homes, prisoners behind blind doors without knobs.

Chilling thought but totally impossible thanks to the level of insulation in all the buildings, though Gerald.

He would have seemed like a magician to someone from a hundred years ago, having inanimate objects open for him and get out of his way.

He got started on making breakfast with his own hands; an eccentricity he liked to indulge.



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