Aqueous

CHAPTER ONE

I missed the sun. I missed its warmth on a breeze that tickled my skin, and the blinding effect of its stare. I dreamt of running beneath it, breathless, chased by the laughter of sun-kissed siblings. Bleached locks and tan skin were the fleeting recollections of my terrestrial childhood lost, but the ocean created amazement too. It orchestrated new memories that I was thankful for, and the view from my pod was unarguably magnificent—a vast seafloor aglow with life. A place where fantastic creatures floated by, winding their way through the waving gardens our botanists had engineered. New species discovered us as we discovered them, curiously approaching the glass to observe humankind, or what was left of it.

I was a lucky one, one of the few who remained, and I was trained to understand that there was no benefit in longing for a time that had perished in the sun. Besides, my subterranean plant taxonomy catalogue wasn’t going to log itself. It was time to snap out of the past and into to the present, so I pivoted my chair away from the glass, back toward my desk.

I’ve lived most of my life two and a half kilometers below sea level in subterranean merstation number three, also known as Aqueous— an underwater utopia created during an ecological coup to save the human race. The mini-pod that I occupy is standard-issue for a trainee my age, and acts as my floating, spherical bedroom underneath the sea. Made of syntactic foam and borosilicate glass, it has translucency for privacy and transparency for optimal environmental observation. Tethered above a common corridor and uniquely designed, mini-pods seal with a bottom airlock so that in the event of an emergency, not that we have ever had one, they could automatically detach, allowing the pod and its inhabitant to drift upward and become, in theory, a one-way ticket to the surface, not that anyone would want to go there.

The shell of each mini-pod contains identical furnishings. My pod, MP124, has the all-important learning nook complete with desk, chair, keypad, and monitor. There are two bookshelves located above the desk that, for the most part, are never used because the educational manuscripts and essays studied by trainees are stored on the shared drive. I keep, however, a small yellowed satchel of beads on the lower shelf. It’s the only item that I own.

My berth, positioned above the nook, is a starry planetarium of twinkling station lights. It’s an observatory of departments towering high above my pod where the corridors and gathering spaces of Aqueous stand at attention, illuminating the surrounding water. As a comforting nightlight, it’s breathtaking, and I mean that quite literally. Outside of the glass, I would not be able to breathe.

My clothes hang aligned, hooked to the side of the nook. The few outfits I have are standard-issue based on rank and will be surrendered when my rank changes. Currently, I am ranked Y10 and have been allocated Standard-Issue Dress (SID) to reflect this. Like all Y10s, I have daytime SIDs, athletic SIDs, dinner SIDs, formal SIDs, casual SIDs, and sleeping SIDs. The residents of Aqueous are valued equally, making uniformity paramount.

Behind the nook is the lav, containing only the essentials: a sink, a washlet, a shower, and the tiniest mirror imaginable because while cleanliness is necessary, vanity is not. I am given one small towel per week, never any paper, and the all-in-one cleanser is restocked sparingly. To make matters worse, minimal water consumption is expected. Showers are not only timed, they’re infrequent. Washing thoroughly, quickly, is imperative because beneath the floor of each pod is an elimination chamber designed to recycle all waste. Reusing the water too soon increases the likelihood of becoming very, very sick.

In stark contrast to the ocean beyond, everything in a mini-pod is bright white. I was taught that this, in conjunction with applied photonics, counteracted the negative psychological effects of life in the dark, but our superiors liked to jest that the all-bright-white eliminated the mess associated with teenage bedrooms. It was difficult to imagine mess in the absence of possessions.

I was staring absentmindedly at my taxonomy catalogue.

Ugh.

I pivoted back to the glass once again, abandoning my log to return to the magic of the undersea. The minimalistic design of my mini-pod did not extend beyond the glass. The waters of Monterey Canyon provided a spectacle of habitats to delight any young observer. From cavernous walls, to rocky outcroppings, and sandy sea-floor, it was an aquatic playground of magnificent proportion. Pink, pompom anemones waved at comb jellies as fangtooth fish swam by. Tiny flapjack octopi propelled themselves through the saline as the ominous anglerfish searched for its next snack. It was a seafloor performance of endless entertainment until it was interrupted by my AI Assistant.

ATTENTION. ATTENTION. Empyreal Blaise has identified at your airlock, it alerted.

I quickly tapped the release, allowing an elegant woman to ascend. Irrefutably the most beautiful resident on Aqueous, I never tired of her pleasant face. Wide-eyed with high cheekbones and a long golden mane, she was effortlessly regal and every inch the admiral’s wife. Her hair was routinely knotted at the nape of her neck, emphasizing her height, and her lean frame allowed her SIDs to drape favorably over a heart true and pure. She was heaven personified. Intelligent and poised, her counsel was sought by many, making her an unofficial ambassador of the station, and a wave of calm washed over me as her expression relaxed into a loving smile.

Oh Marisol, you have the look of a lost little lamb. Are you still hard at work? she asked, floating toward me with outstretched arms to gather me into her familiar embrace.

A lamb . . . What did a lamb look like again?

There were too many marine species to catalogue to consider the characteristics of a lamb. I disentangled myself from her long limbs.

I’m stressed. I have no idea how I am going to get everything done before graduation. I’ve got to finish my taxonomy report, curate bacteria samples, review my labs on carbon cycling, finish the assigned code review, and log a few more hours of simulated dives. My thesis is nowhere near completion and grad is a week away, followed immediately by the anniversary.

But you’ll have a chance to relax at your party.

I appreciate that you want to celebrate my birthday, but could we postpone it? Or better yet, skip it altogether? I have no time for a frivolous party.

There’s always time for a party when you’re turning sixteen. You’re growing up too quickly for my liking, she said, stepping back slightly to scrutinize my overall well-being. Her visual analysis always made me uncomfortable because we did not look alike. My small stature was shadowed by her towering height and my hair had browned during a decade in the dark.

She glanced around the room.

"You’ll have your new pod and assignment soon. I’m so proud of you, Marisol. You’ve accomplished so much in ten short years, but many of those same accomplishments will be celebrated collectively by the Y10s at graduation, and I want to showcase you. Just you. You deserve the spotlight before we celebrate scholastic achievements with your peers, followed by station successes with all of the residents during the anniversary. I know you’ll enjoy it, and I’ll be sure to schedule it after the trials, once the pressure is off. You’ll have time to get everything done, so don’t fret."

Despite my heightened anxiety, I was relieved to talk of celebrations, not assignments. She was masterful at making me feel better and had always been my biggest supporter. My savior, in fact. I wouldn’t disappoint her by admitting that my nightmares were back, or that my thoughts often drifted to the past. To do so would dilute her role in my upbringing, diminishing the joy she associated with my unavoidable milestone birthday.

Come on. Let’s get out of here. You need a break.

I can’t spare the time, I argued in futility.

I know best, and I won’t take no for an answer. Besides, you’re not allowed to refuse your mother.

She extended a long, dainty finger to gently tap me on the nose before turning to glide toward the airlock. She expected me to follow, but I stood motionless behind her. Unknowingly, she had tapped into something painful. Something that had lingered for ten long years. No matter how much I appreciated her, or how much I loved and admired her, she wasn’t my mother. We had left my mother under the warmth of the sun.

CHAPTER TWO

It was dawn, but we were not high enough.

You must climb, Sunniva. We cannot stop. Not yet, said my mother.

It was hot and we were dirty. More dirty than usual. Our hands had torn and bruised black from crawling along the jagged hillside, but we needed to traverse the barren slope before the sun rose. The large rocks and caves of the mountains above would shadow us from the midday sun.

We had heard of a fortified, alpine village that was rumored to have rations. It was possibly the last food source in the area, making it well worth the climb, but we were not alone, and there would not be enough. Dozens of displaced families were making the same desperate ascent. Hopeless, defeated, empty, and silent, we snaked upward, together, to plead with those at the top.

The end of the world had arrived too quickly, and as many had predicted, rising temperatures melted the ice caps, flooding coastal cities. As the sun relentlessly cranked up the heat, we witnessed the largest global human migration ever recorded. People moved inland, placing a tremendous strain on food supplies.

What didn’t flood, burned, and viable farmland diminished. Crops turned to dust, fresh water dried up, and food supplies dwindled. Then our power grids overheated and failed, and without sufficient renewable technologies we lost air conditioners, lights, gas stations, internet, plumbing, and telephones.

No electricity meant no refrigeration, so what little food could be grown, spoiled. Farmer’s herds perished, as did wild animals and birds, making ground insects and roots a primary source of nutrition for those still alive.

We had angered the sun so greatly that it ceased being our regulator, our rejuvenator, and retaliated against our greed by scorching Earth in blistering reprehension for our disobedience and abuse. Stripping our biome to expose our fragility, the sun doled out a punishment so severe that most people died, and those left suffered perpetually burnt skin, cracked lips, and hunger as the indelible reminders of its wrath. Our only hope existed in the lower temperatures of higher altitudes, so we climbed.

As temperatures climbed, so did the topography of our planet. Alpine areas, formerly too cold to sustain vegetation, greened. The hippies in these areas, living off-the-grid, were initially the least affected. Ecologically minded, outdoor enthusiasts, they had purchased inexpensive properties, installing photovoltaic modules, cisterns, and wind turbines to power their modest retreats, but as prices skyrocketed for sustainable homes, many were convinced to sell. Enticed by fat offers from the wealthy and powerful, alpine homesteads changed hands quickly to the detriment of sellers, who were late to grasp the ephemerality of currency. Soon there was nothing left to buy and nowhere safe to go. Then the walls went up, fortifying alpine compounds where the rich could survive.

My mother had not been rich, but she had outshined, outlasted them all. She had been a housekeeper until there were none left to keep, and now her heat soaked hair lay tangled around her glistening face. It was the beauty of the vagabond life I knew. Her beauty, and I loved it. Her thick matted locks would fall to her shoulders when there was nothing to tie them back. They framed her face like a picture, and I liked to twirl them between my fingers while her inquisitive eyes inspected me.

In dire times we still found joy. She enjoyed playing tricks, like convincing me that my foot size had doubled and I would have no shoes, before revealing an extraordinary pair that she had recovered during our pilgrimage. She would laugh wholeheartedly at my surprise, throwing her head back in delight to let the notes of her happiness ring true. She was small, but resourceful, and her strength had endured, even under a merciless sun.

It is remarkable what the human body can endure when given no alternative. My mother would not surrender. She would adapt. She moved us at night to conserve energy because daytime temperatures were too hot. We scavenged for dwindling nourishment along the way, and though we were running out of resources, I was not aware. Her focus had shifted to keeping me content until it was no longer possible.

I was exhausted and had stopped climbing again.

Look here, Sunniva. You are a lucky one. I have found some magic story beads for you.

Her eyes twinkled with excitement.

What are they, Mommy?

I stared down at the crisp pine needles in the palm of her hand.

Each of these beads will grant you one fantastic story, full of bountiful treasure and gigantic beasts, but as a princess you will have to be brave.

I grabbed every bead as fast as I could and looked up into her wise, hazel eyes.

I am brave.

Yes, Sunniva, I think that you are, but have you ever seen a dragon?

No, Mommy. Have you?

She looked from side to side, slowly, deliberately, in a manner not to be overheard, despite a lack of listeners, before whispering, Give me one bead and I will tell you all about the king and queen who captured it.

I passed her the best pine needle that I had, careful not to drop a single one, for I would need them during our adventures ahead. That’s when I would prove to her how brave I could be.

She accepted the bead and resumed moving slowly up the hillside, and I, clutching my precious beads tightly in my small battered hand, eagerly followed.

I was an accident. Conceived beyond the failure of existence, long after couples knew their offspring would perish, I was remarkably celebrated as a gift from the sun. I was Sunniva, the youngest and only daughter of my parent’s three children, and I was spoiled. Not in the conventional way, with expensive toys and sweets, but with my father and two brothers vying to be my favorite. They kept me blissfully unaware of the peril we faced.

My father, Senan, was a mechanic. He could fix anything, but he was especially good at making dolls. I had a village of stick people, fastened with wire and clothed in trash and dry grasses. We named them together and created an adventure for each one. It was unusual behavior for a rugged, burly man, but he had a soft side he reserved for his girls: his daughter and his wife. He taught his sons to care for me as though I were porcelain, in the same manner he cared for my mother. Theirs was a love story that could not be clouded by smoke-filled air, and together they would curate our remaining days with imaginary adventure.

We danced and sang, made forts and played games well beyond the fires that forced us to abandon our home, and I was too small to understand our circumstances. It was never discussed. My fantastical education was rooted in whatever tale they told me. I never went to school.

My father and brothers were excellent storytellers. I travelled to the moon and back on the shoulders of Colm, my eldest brother. He was the tallest of our vertically challenged clan, with a gentle and agreeable demeanor. I would dig my hands into his thick, wavy hair as I rode on his back, racing through the galaxy, narrowly escaping the clutches of the black hole that wanted to pull us into its infinite abyss. My younger brother, Lorcan, played the black hole or the monster or the shark. He was whatever nemesis was trying to get us that day, but we always escaped and inevitably convinced him to join us, choosing good over evil.

My father had given each of us a nickname. With the responsibility of an adult and the playful antics of a child, Colm became the chameleon. I liked his nickname much more than mine. I was the ant. It wasn’t impressive at first, and the attempts of my brothers to stifle their laughter each time my father used it, failed, but he assured me that the little ant was far more powerful than it appeared. According to my father, ants were clever little creatures that could enslave other ants to do their work. He made it sound impressive, so I became fond of it. I was the fierce little ant that could control the entire family, and I loved it.

Lorcan was the dingo. Cunning and agile, he was a ferocious predator. Noisy too. He was loyal to his pack, but dominant toward others. It suited him. My mother was the raven. Exceedingly intelligent and opportunistic, my father explained that folklore credited the dark, feathered raven with dropping a rock into the ocean to form the first land. She liked it, and it pleased our father, who had nicknamed himself the eagle.

Combining the first initials of our nicknames, my father decided that we were the Crusaders of Adventure, Daydreams, and Rainbows Evermore (CADRE). A small group of people united and trained for a specific purpose, our cadre’s purpose was survival, but our bird-brained parents were trained and dedicated to the escalation of fun. Combining limited resources with an endless landscape of imagination, CADRE was determined to enjoy each moment of our expiring union. For example, I had never seen a real rainbow, it never rained, but I had crested one a hundred times on my journey to the Jungle of Judgement, where I would condemn the naughty giant to save the flyaway fairies. Lorcan was always the giant, I was the winged wizard, Colm and Dad played the fairies, and Mom was the judge. Befitting.

The Crusaders of Adventure, Daydreams, and Rainbows Evermore made every moment count, and the amusement of our actions stamped out heat stroke and hunger like firefighters stamped out flames, but the joys of our exploits could not sustain us, and my brothers ultimately died. We lost Lorcan first. He collapsed as we searched for elusive Aztec gold. My father told me that he would be taken by their gods to a sacred temple, and that we would find him at the end of the game. I was satisfied with that and our pilgrimage continued. Then Colm couldn’t stand up. I was told that Colm had been put to sleep by the spell of an evil sorceress and had to wait for true love’s kiss to wake up. But we would see him afterward, so we continued on without him.

I did not see my parents mourn the loss of their sons. They stroked their hair and folded their arms across their chests before giving each of them a prolonged hug, but in their determination not to upset me, not a single tear was shed. They simply walked me away. Until it was my father’s turn. His death was different. He was conscious, but could not stand or speak, and motioned with a shaking hand for my mother and me to leave. I was confused, as he was usually the leader of the game, but my mother told me that he needed to wait quietly for the queen of the butterflies to transport him to Mystical Cocoon, where Lorcan and Colm had started an enchanted game of hide and seek. If she saw us, he wouldn’t get to go, so my mother kissed him goodbye and we walked off, content. In fact, we walked past many people that day. Lifeless families drying up in the sun.

The king and queen were still searching for the dragon when we reached impassible gates at the base of the summit. The sun had begun to whip its unrelenting rays across our weary shoulders, so we tucked ourselves behind some rocks, in shade unclaimed by the other survivors mulling about. Upset and frustrated, they jostled for priority before the iron gates inscribed with the name Nebulous. I believed it was the fortress of the most royal nobility in the land, and I was disappointed that I could not immediately enter to tell them that I was a princess.

A curious hum resounded from within—electricity. The village had power that had not been extended to those suffering, and this discovery enraged the people trying to enter. Their anger turned to violence as the growing mob banged fists and hurled rocks at the heavy doors. Hours of unsuccessful attempts to scale the entrance led to scouts surveying the perimeter, which led to digging, which led to sobs and finally silence. There was no way in. The occupants were well prepared for our arrival. Their fortress was impenetrable.

I did not know that this stronghold had been my mother’s last hope, but defeat was visible in her eyes. There would be no food or water for us, and the shadows near the fortress walls were teeming with violent people. To remain as we were would result in injury, so she gathered me into her arms and carried me safely away from the others. Walking away from the gates, we settled into a nearby ditch where she cradled me in her lap.

You’ve earned your beauty sleep, my princess. You were a strong, brave girl today.

She stroked my cheek with her cold, unsteady hand as the color drained from her face. Unaware, I circled my left arm around her neck, letting my heavy head sink onto her shoulder.

I’m thirsty, Momma.

Sleep first, my darling. We’ll sleep under this dazzling sun until we can continue our adventure this evening. That’s when you’ll hear the best story yet.

Clutching my magic story beads in my right hand, my eyes grew heavy to the faint drumming of her heart. I wanted the story now, but I was too tired to stay awake.

CHAPTER THREE

I opened my eyes as the ground around us shook. I may never have woken were it not for those vibrations. It was getting dark and I was nauseated, struggling to bring my vision into focus. This night was different. The blistering daytime sun demanded silence. It sucked up sounds like we had lapped up dew drops before moisture disappeared, but in the sun’s dusky absence, people stirred. They scavenged like mice searching for crumbs in a dark kitchen, but the sounds of this evening exceeded the grumblings of hungry souls searching for food. It muffled the commotion of the survivors who, united, could not produce an equivalent force. This was loud, and my head pounded from the noise.

A mechanical orchestra, the deafening forte continued to build with each of my unsteady breaths, and great plumes of dust began rising high above the fortress, into the evening air. Then, in an instant, as if someone had summoned the sun, the village was illuminated in bright white light. The fortress had awoken like a gigantic beast, and its dusty breath began billowing over the walls. Spilling upon us, choking us out, the mob scattered in search of air.

I attempted to stand, but I would not run after the others. I could not leave my mother.

Momma! Wake up!

I tugged frantically at her threadbare tunic, but she was lifeless.

Quickly, Momma! Wake up!

I began to cough on the dust. It had filled my lungs, drying them, and creating a sound equivalent to a bark. It was this sound that caused my mother