2112 The Underground

They returned to Earth when I was a child, 100 years removed from their departure. They seemed to be a different breed of man. I remember the gleaming off-white suits and the beautiful powder blue insignia with a tip of a red rocket bursting through a fluffy cloud emblazoned over their hearts. They smelled of plastic and chocolate. They were clean, well spoken, and gracious toward all our gifts. We observed their every move; we noted their proud gait. We went to our homes underground and heard the stories of the prodigal son and Icarus, both warning us of the hubris of man.

I dreamed of their adventures travelling off planet, meeting space creatures, and proving the mettle of the human race. At twelve, I wanted to be a space engineer, a pioneer in space travel, and an expert mechanic.

While working in the mines, my Pop admonished, “They were of weak stock, deserters — — all of them.”

I asked, “Can they all be defined by the decisions of their parents- parents? One hundred years ago their ancestors decided to leave Earth, but they decided to come back.”

He looked at me with his dark coal miner’s eyes replying, “They poisoned the skies, blocked out the sun, and left us, my mother and father,” he paused to gather the full wrath of his words, “your Nana and Doddy for dead.”

Gritting his teeth, he spat, “Those traits are deep in the marrow. One hundred years can’t replace those genes.” His finger wagged in defiance as he spoke.

His ancient wrinkled face seemed weary, almost worried that his oldest child, his only daughter, would feel the full anguish of his words in acceptance.

I considered my next question carefully. To escape the impending Artificial Intelligence uprising, they had to fight, run, or both. I couldn’t explain it at the time, but I sympathized with their decision to forfeit the Earth. They found hope in the skies while we dug deep, deep within the Earth to restart and wait. No decision was more noble than the other.

With defiant eyes, under the glint of the electric lamp, I asked him, “What are waiting for if not for them? If we kept the fight then why not return to the surface and reclaim what’s ours?”

His head fell in disappointment at my incredulity. He turned away saying, “There is no savior; we adapt and survive.”

#

2120 The Underground

At Pop’s funeral, I recited one of his favorite miner drinking songs.

There were infinite machines all over the Earth

In all of our greed, we give them new birth

They cared for our infants, they healed our disease

They fought our old wars, and lived for our needs

They grew wiser and stronger, we didn’t take heed

We’d escape to the Skies and Core, only after we bleed

There’s planned obsolescence for 100 years

The sun was forgotten, the rain was her tears

We survive ‘cus the fight is still in our bones

We survive because Earth chose us for its’ home

The miners wept, and drank, and wept again at the loss. I considered those words, his legacy, each day as the Federation gave the call for colonist to populate their first surface habitat. It took me four months to enter myself into the lottery. It took another two months to be selected and pass the examinations. Dismayed, my family considered me a lost sheep, a stubborn optimist, like Pop.

The Federation cleared and terraformed a habitat with a two hundred mile radius, fit with all the amenities of a Martian Colony. We, the remnant from the Underground, were the first citizens of this new metropolis built on the rubble of the failed uprising. Outside, the atmosphere was toxic, but the machines were gone, their rotting hulls repurposed and forged to create the first New Earth Colony. I took a job as a Level 1 mechanic in the maintenance department for Sector 4. Pop spent 118 of his 136 years of life building a new home for his family in the Underground. I was determined to create my own memories on the surface.

#

2124 New Earth Colony

I gathered myself as I stood to examine the repairs on one of the ten Federation rebreathers in my sector. I looked down at the vibrant green grass stains producing an intoxicating earthy aroma on my knees. I smiled, remembering how Pop would pilfer plant cuttings from the farm for my brothers and I to feel and taste before they were mixed and pressed into organic bars for consumption. I looked out onto the green fields of decorative grass and considered how easily forgotten each damaged blade crumpled under the toil of my work.

I pulled my hair back into a pony tail, turning to examine my work against the glassy sheen of the dome. A nearby outside viewport caught my attention. I looked out onto the poisoned Earth cultivated by the machines, sculpted in their image. The coast seemed to rise and fall with jagged edges, unpredictably exposed as the tide swelled and bubbled, a cauldron of poison cascading onto the wasteland. The wind thrashed, lifting chunks of rock and debris and dropping them precipitously into the ocean below. Out from the sea arose a dark, twisted mass of metal and hydraulics the size of Sector 4 itself. It seemed to calm the sea on command as it grew twice the height of the New Earth dome. Its processional scraped the jagged rocks, the debris shifting like pebbles against an anchor. I stood in awe of its seemingly evil gaze penetrating through the toxic clouds above. Just like us, the machines adapted and survived the 100 years of winter. In our hubris we rebuilt without the necessities of the Sun. In our hubris we ignored the natural energy of our homeland. We forgot about the current and the wind.