Short Story Fiction Contest May 2014 | Page 107

Horizon. The citidomes always had names like that, inspirational titles meant to arouse hope when there seemed to be nothing left to hope for.

By that time, construction on Bright Horizon was nearing completion, but life was still livable Outside, albeit barely. The patroi had long since settled into the safety of their subterranean villas, where the thick rock walls provided an extra layer of protection against the deadly solar radiation of the world above; and, after a long process of applications and screening, the eugenicists had finalized their admittance list, hand-picking the most promising plivoi workers to be given the gift of life in exchange for service to the Society. Their less worthy, less useful peers, on the other hand, would be peacefully euthanized. It was a sensible solution, far preferable to the slow death by suffocation and exposure Outside.

Ketros and I were the ones who got to deliver the verdict of life and death to the plivoi. It wasn’t a pleasant job, of course, but it was necessary. It was my duty.

The once-fertile valley the farm was nestled in had become almost a desert, I noticed as Ketros and I rode our gurzas down the slopes of the surrounding hills. The air that whistled through my nostrils was dry and bitterly cold. I could see a narrow strip of green bisected by a tiny trickle of a stream that was all but gone, leeched away by the vicious winds that sapped more of our atmosphere every day. Parched, dead shoots, remnants of failed crops, checkered the rusty patchwork of ground.

At the foot of the hill, I touched a finger to my earpiece, pulling up a holoscreen outlining all the details the System had about this case. The System was the very heart of Iamos. It was more than a computer