The Wars of Zegandaria by Atanas Marinov, Atanas Marinov, Atanas Marinov, Atanas Marinov (find a book to read .txt) 📕

The sealing procedure was no less curious and innovative. Unlike the airtight doors of the past, the advanced future used manorium plasma disks, which, when closing the doors of zegandarian kevlarite, literally ‘fused’ with the metal into a homogeneous whole, even modifying the crystal lattice of its atoms after coming into contact with them - what's more the entire chemical reaction took place in mere seconds. But the foresighted architects of this place had also taken another feature of the terrain into account, for the Zegarai Mountains were only about two thousand zegandarian miles away and constituted a zone of serious seismic activity, and hence it was entirely logical that the entire immense mass of the facility should rest on a firm foundation deep in the bowels of the planet. Something far more solid than layers of hardened humiliated soil, which, while possessing somewhat different properties from its terrestrial counterpart, was certainly not capable of acting as a solid foundation. For this purpose, they had constructed a special drainage system with numerous holes, like a honeycomb, providing additional stability to the facility.

The huge underground bastion, which was designed to give shelter to a million human beings, was connected in a rather peculiar way to the fates of complete strangers, even their thoughts. Here, strange as it was, a peculiar kind of socialist order had reigned, one that suited the situation perfectly, since most people had abandoned their belongings and money on the surface due to the limited time the authorities had allotted for sealing the bunker. In other words, there were no concepts such as 'mine' or 'yours' here, but everything was 'ours'. The maxim that became the credo for these unhappy and tormented creatures was even in deriving pleasure from the sharing of the common grief and misery among all the members during the long agonizing days of waiting.

One of the most depressing features that loomed at first glance was the lack of true daylight, which could not reach even through the sintered hatches due to the great depth, so people were accustomed to the irradiation lamps casting a lazy greenish glare into the endless underground caverns and leaving their furthest corners in semi-darkness.

The quadrants were nine in total, connected by an intricate system of extremely well-fortified underground tunnels that gave the whole place an utterly confusing appearance to any newcomer. However, no one was able to leave a quadrant simply because they were bored or wanted to chat with their neighbor. If it was absolutely necessary though, special ghost warriors would accompany him as he crossed the quarantine zones between quadrants. The unpleasant news was that if he did want to return, he wasn't allowed to, as his companions treated him as a traitor to their quadrant.

Daily life was filled with a lot of mindless activities on the part of the inhabitants, with each quadrant having developed its own pastime.

The first quadrant was basically a game of some strange mix of poker and mahjong called ‘entosis’, with each player earning the losing player's ration of food. It was also the only way to get extra food, and it was for this reason that this ‘sport’ was particularly popular in this quadrant. Some of the entertainment was much more harmless, but there were also organized illegal fights, such as in the seventh quadrant, from which the winner earned only the right to a relaxed regime when crossing the quarantine zone.

Mark's father and mother were housed in the ninth quadrant, which in turn was also one of the furthest from the facility. They had only a slightly wider marching bed made of plexiglass, which was the equivalent of the rubber used in the past. The quizon wraps were a natural addition as they belonged to the military.

It was necessary to say that although the ghost warriors performed their function, complete safety did not exist and everyone was left to fend for himself. But as long as he was within his quadrant, each citizen was still acutely aware that, in theory at least, he could wait out the eventual end of hostilities on the surface.

'The unreasonable think of me

As some visible form.

They do not know my eternal

unmanifested, singular self.'

Unknown author

^^^

- 'Mommy, will they find us,' Roian cried, snuggled into her lap. 'I'm scared.'

- 'Don't be afraid, I'm here for you,' his mother whispered. 'I won't let anything happen to you.'

The limp woman didn't even fully believe her own words, but what else was there for her to do. And she, like the others, had fallen into a world she didn't understand. Everything was happening without any logic, and so her only thought was to find a piece of high calorie food. Not even a crumb! But the rations were dwindling every day, and no fresh replenishments were arriving from the surface. Even the game of entosis was no longer providing a supplement to the rations, because people were willing to bite their throats out for any food. They had been here for over four weeks and there was no prospect of the situation changing for the better. They were in the mythical seventh quadrant where clandestine fighting was taking place. It was the most bandit-like area in the Gardens of the East, but as bad luck would have it, this was where they had been assigned.

The mother stood up, wrapped herself in her quizon scarf, a gift from her husband. Pindor certainly had no other passion than philosophy and his family, which he always put first. The thought of when they were still together floated into her mind. She imagined lush meadows spreading beneath the vast sphere of Ensarian endosian. So many smiling faces. Children playing under the watchful eyes of their parents. So many happy moments. The rays of the sun were not so scorching, as the endosian, unlike a regular glossy, not only held back the atmosphere, but shielded against the relatively weak cosmic radiation of the outside world. It all seemed so long ago to her. And this had been their daily routine only a few days ago. She took Pindor's immediate disappearance extremely hard, but she could feel in her heart that he was still alive and had not forgotten them. As crazy as it was, she expected to see his clever face peeking around some corner down here. But no matter how much she stared, the walls around them remained as dark and deaf as their cradrant brethren.

- 'I'll go and look for something to eat,' she said. 'You wait for me here. Our luck may smile on us.'

The boy only shook his head in surprise, but said nothing. But so far his mother had not broken a promise of hers. Only this time doubts crept into his childish fancy as to whether she would really succeed. He might perish. Even down here, where the ghost warriors kept watch for the observance of some order.

- 'You'll have to do it on your own until I get back,' she added.

- The boy looked at her and his eyes flashed.

- 'I'm coming with you,' he said. 'It's too dangerous. There are all sorts of people here. I'll protect you.'

- 'No, you must stay here,' replied his mother, with a firmness in her voice that he had never heard before. I hope to be back as soon as possible.

She turned and without answering him further pointed him to the nearest soldier on post:

- 'Private Summers, keep an eye on him. He's the only one I have left,' her voice barely registered a tremor.

The ghostly warrior, though dressed head to toe in flashy gear and equipped with state-of-the-art communications equipment, seemed to nod only imperceptibly. No one noticed that nod. But even if he had noticed it he probably wouldn't have paid attention. Underneath the gear and the broad nararen of the armor was another woman who might have felt at least a fleeting sympathy for the plea made by a lonely and defenseless mother.

Private Summers. Perhaps the only female ghost warrior in this quadrant earlier was an avowed pacifist. But once she saw where the situation was headed, she realized the only possible way was to become part of this elite corps of protectors. She had escaped her broken family where she had to endure the oppression of her strict stepfather. Of course in time many of her colleagues had been replaced, some had died, she herself didn't know if this day would be her last but she gave herself wholeheartedly every day. She patrolled most carefully and scrupulously saw that the established order was observed.

Instances of fights between some of the residents were no exception. Quite routine ones at that. But she nipped them in the bud. She wasn't going to leave control of this place to pure chance, as it was their last refuge. Sometimes, though very rarely, she felt like a robot, devoid of feeling and obliged only to strictly carry out the instructions given to her. Ah, she was a woman after all. And she sensed that something bad was about to happen.

'The Archipelago is a world without diplomas, a world where you testify by self-description.'

Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago

^^^

Being left alone in the dark, all alone with complete strangers, waiting for the one person who could take care of you is actually not an easy task at all. Little Roian was trying to be obedient and not break his mother's order, but his childish curiosity was burning him. There were so many interesting activities down here that occupied most of the occupants' time. Staying away from them was definitely costing him effort. Private Summers, in between his patrol duties and keeping an eye on public order, kept an eye on him, but not too often so as not to disturb his little man's sense of frequency. He watched him with one eye, but he could clearly see that the little one was not some lil' boy or mama's boy. He would easily take on the duties of a patrolling ghost warrior if his age allowed. His mother had been lingering for a few hours now, and the son was beginning to worry if something had happened to her.

Roian had been waiting for her for two whole days, but a few minor incidents had still occurred during that time, one of which was noteworthy. Still, things hadn't quite gotten out of hand yet, and he was hoping to see her when he heard two men talking in the dark. Their conversation was quite ordinary, but interesting at the same time.

- 'You know, my friend?,' called the first voice, with a slight tremor. 'I was married! What to do! I had no other choice. But one thing I shall never forgive myself.'

- 'And what happened?,' the voice of the other stranger trembled.

- When she died, that is, shortly before she died, she shared something with me, something that was imprinted deep in my soul. Half-opening her eyes, she simply mouthed, 'You're not thinking of me.' I'm not being melodramatic, but then I became acutely aware of the cursed irony of our own survival and our ultimate goal of creating offspring to whom we can just conveniently pass on our own mistakes and failures. That stone I will drag to my grave. She was actually right, but maybe she didn't know what she was talking about. I still loved her, though. Or maybe I loved my own survival, because I saw my salvation in her alone. She was my guardian angel. But that angel was already dying.

- 'You're right ...,' his companion supported him, 'but can we do anything but wait and hope?'

- No, that is our greatest mistake. Death may overtake us at any moment.