May 6th, 2242
Control Station Enclave, Deck 5
86 days till the Project
Deck 5 was primarily administrative in nature. Administration was not combat, nor could be called soldiering with any degree of honesty. Yet D5.11, a sub-office operated by the Financial Corps was were Sutler found himself, counting down the last few weeks of his rotation with the same inventory reports he'd been processing for the past year. He shared the office with Sergeant Elliot, a slightly older man than himself. He had a smutty pin-up calendar over his desk, presently depicting a very unprofessional way of cleaning a Vertibird, with the printed year "2239" crossed out along with another two handwritten years; the boxes marked with snipped miniscule script so that they could be re-used. His breath stank of stale coffee, which he was forever drinking, cleverly beating the ration by reusing the grounds more than the socially acceptable amount. He was the perfect joyless, penny-pinching drone for this kind of drudgery.
"You mock this place Sutler," Elliot was lecturing, without provocation at the back of Sutler's head. "But someone's got to do it, you think all the soldiers at Navarro could do their jobs if the Depots were run by robots? You should know Sutler, you're from the lower decks; it's not the soldiers that keep this placing running."
"You know you are still a soldier as-well right? This is still the Army." Sutler sighed. It pained him somewhat to call Elliot a soldier, even in a technical manner, the guy had opted out of the bi-weekly combat sims they all still ran by training to be an Army Dentist – another perfect job for this man.
"Yeah well you know what I mean; you're not a kid another Private and the Army isn't like the short-stories. You're going to the ECC next right? He spotted Sutler's almost unperceivable head-nod. "Yeah well that's not all that fun either, I've done that too, just training drills and the occasional flight to one of the Caches'. And this Sergeant Granite guy you've got, I've met him before and he seems like a bit of a dick frankly."
"I'll reserve my judgement till I've met him sir," Sutler would be damned if he'd take character statement from Elliot. Trapped between the flickering computer and this excruciating conversation, the sudden announcement pips from the PA speaker was a welcome relief. In-unison, they both inclined their heads towards it in a token gesture of acknowledgement that it wasn't just going to be a standard announcement. It was not.
"Attention, attention. All U.S. Citizens. A televised Presidential Address is imminent. All non-essential personnel are given leave to view. I repeat…"
Non-essential was certainly an apt word and, without asking permission, Sutler reached over and locked his computer screen before getting up.
"Have you…" Elliot turned around, noticed the locked screen on the computer before turning back to his work.
"You're not coming sir?" Sutler asked, the anticipation possibly noticeable in his voice.
"It'll be over the PA and I have work to do," he said dismissively.
It was with no small amount of relief that Sutler stepped out alone into the central corridor, taking in a breath of clean air. The corridor was already becoming more crowded, a sea of blue jumpsuits mixed with tan fatigues like his own heading to the public television mounted onto a support column further up. He followed them, settling into the back a dense hemisphere of people gathering around the screen and its static image of the Presidential Seal. Office workers stood around gossiping and Sutler say a man lift a boy onto his shoulders so he could see over the crowd. The screen flickered to life and the visage of President Richardson, the old man whom had served in that office for so-long, his gaunt complexion (even for the Enclave) and wispy silver-hair almost indistinguishable in the monochrome screen.
"My fellow Americans," he began, sombre and professional despite the lightness of tone and jovially nature he was known for. It made every address a ticking time-bomb through the preamble, unable to gauge whether it was giving everyone good or bad news.
"The pictures from the mainland have filled us with disbelief, sadness and an un-yielding anger at the acts of mass-murder perpetrated by the Chinese aggressors. This terrible act of a dying, failed nation was intended to force the destruction of our nation, but they have failed. Our country is strong and we, the American people, have been moved to great acts in order to ensure its survival.
I speak of-course of The Project, for there is no other. It is simply The Project, and in it we have invested all of our hopes and dreams of a future for our children. A land of homes instead of quarters, and of picket-fences instead of walls. For as-much as we love the ENCLAVE for the shelter it has granted it has granted us not where we belong. Our birth-right, the land of our fore-fathers, rests across the sea in the hands of the enemy. And we here have toiled endlessly for a return to the way things should be for the future does not belong to the faint-hearted, it belongs to the brave.
And it is with great honour, and pleasure, that I bring to you to-day the news I have been given from Lieutenant-Colonel Doctor Charles Curling of the U.S. Chemical Corps. That The Project will reach Stage 4, deployment, in three months."
Sutler felt a wave wash over him, a shock to the senses he hadn't felt since hearing of his father's passing; a mixture of great change to the natural order of things that he was only just beginning to process. Even the President fell silent at the words, allowing the entire Enclave to take breath.
"At times it has seemed hopeless, even impossible," the President continued. He spoke with a rising gravitas, as though the weight of his own words had affected even him – the President of all people.
"I remember, as do many of you, when the Project was first announced all those decades ago. And like the Great War it became a fact of life, a natural order to the world. 'The Project will be finished one day'. Well compatriots, I tell you that that day is upon us and our salvation is at-hand.
What we have achieved is not just a victory for the American people, though it will stand as our greatest accomplishment I'm sure, but for the human race itself. And in this great act we will have not only secured our future, but affirmed our right to exist. That our nation shall have a new birth in freedom and that government, of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the Earth. I'd like to take you all in the national anthem now, united in song as-well as in spirit on this occasion."
Sutler felt his back stiffen as the tune washed over him.
"From the ashes of war, compatriots stand
Between their loved ones and nuclear desolation.
United we fight, to reclaim our homeland
Praise the Enclave that saved and preserved us our nation!
For the Red rockets' glared, and atom bombs burst in air
But we proved through the fight, that our flag is still here.
And that Star - Spangled Banner forever will wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave."
The Enclave was silent for a moment.
"Effective immediately, all non-essential personnel are granted leave. God bless you all. And God bless America."
The image of the President vanished from the screen, replaced by a static image. The text read "Project Phase 4 in: 86 days."
The hallway exploded. The noise was deafening, reverberating from the walls and echoing down, and indeed from, everyone in the Enclave. Somewhere before Sutler, a young man in olive fatigues took a women by the waist and kissed her. Beside him a much older women was crying silently, tears running through creases of her face.
"By golly, I can't believe I lived to see the day…" she murmured reverently to herself.
It was the same everywhere, the young were joyous and bounding with energy whilst the old and middle-aged stood reflective and silent. Sutler felt more in-common with these people at the moment, they whom had sacrificed their time and he who had lost his father to The Project. On what was the greatest celebration of his life, the President's words just made him think of his father and how he wasn't here to see it all. But it was a happy day and he felt a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth regardless.
"We've won the war," Sutler said to himself. "God damn-it we've actually won."
Already though the crowd was dispersing, given leave for the rest of the evening to spend in common rooms and mess halls alike. It was probable that rationing had been suspended like it often was for public holidays and he knew that there'd been a trip to a mainland cache not long ago. Navigating the clusters of people he made his way back to D5.11. Elliot sat at his desk, ignoring the flickering green text on the monitor before him.
"I can't believe it," he said softly and Sutler felt all the animosity in him drain away. Elliot logged out of his terminal. "It's actually going to happen."
"What are you going to do sir?" Sutler asked.
"I think I'm going to go home to be with my mom and dad," he said, standing up and getting his tunic. "You?"
The door to the Deck 11 Galley slid open and a mixture of sweat and stale grease hit him in the face along with a raucous din of music and loud voices from inside. There were few olive uniforms in-sight, just a mess of shabby overalls. A young man in a reactor red jumpsuit was dancing the Lindy Hop on-top of a table with a women in mechanical green – her hair still wrapped up in a kerchief from day of working over a lathe. The jukebox belting out the Bugle Call Rag. The usual gang of old-boys by the bar, hands wild in gesticulation mid-way through some old story. Even the box with a rebreather mask in that he'd picked up at the Deck 8 reception that slapped off his thigh with every step. He was home again. No dull military talk over light music, constant saluting and two-drink maximum.
He got a few looks as he entered, nods and waves of recognition that he returned in-time as he weaved through the crowd to the bar where Perivale, the Handy bartender, he been deployed so that the regular staff could enjoy the festivities.
"Ah Mr Sutler, good evening," it said in the faux-British accent. Truth be told, Sutler didn't like robots or the false emotional layers that had been placed over them. "I haven't seen you in a long time, what can I get you Sir?"
"That's Private Sutler, Percy," Sutler said sternly he produced a ration book and a couple of dull dollar coins. "Just beer will do for now," he made to hand them over. The robots hand deftly plucked the coins from his open palm but refused the book. "Rations off for to-night sir," he continued, un-phased by Sutler's earlier dismissiveness. "Alcohol anyway, a gift from His Excellency President Richardson."
Fucking British programming.
"Yeah thanks," Sutler grabbed the non-descript bottle and took a swig before hearing a familiar cry behind him.
"Alan!" It was his mother, skirting through the crowd she through her arms around and kissed both his cheeks before stepped back and beaming. "What a great day eh? Come-on, your Grandfather is here."
He followed her back through the crowd to a space near the wall were the aged Alfred Steinmetz sat in a wheel-chair. He smiled warmly and offered his hand which Sutler took.
"Hi Grandad."
"Damn," he retracted his hand. "They've certainly made a man out of you ain't they, you were nothing but skin and bones a few years ago son."
"I suppose so," Sutler said with a laugh. "It's not all just sat around in simulations like you told me."
"Yes well," he said gruffly, taking a quick sip of his own beer. "You been sat on your ass all day at that place they've had you in for the past year. That's not proper work for a Steinmetz, it means stone mason you know. Working with your hands like, proper work; I'll never know why you went off to be a soldier."
"It just felt like the right thing Granddad," he kept a smile on his face for the sake of appearances, there was no point trying to explain the simulations to him.
"Don't be so hard on him Dad," his mother interjected, tapping him roughly on the arm. "He's worked really hard… is that your friend Autumn over there Alan."
"I shouldn't im…" he exhaled derisively but was cut-off mid-sentence. Autumn was indeed stood there in the doorway, looking around with puzzlement at the scene he had walked into - looking up and down the dancing couple several times.
"Oi! Autumn!" Sutler shouted; Autumn turned, noticed and a smile of pleasant recognition washed over him.
"Figured I'd find you down here Sport. Why good evening Mrs Sutler," he offered her his hand and received it with a slight incline of the head. "And this gentlemen?"
"Oh err, that's my Granddad. This is Private Autumn Granddad."
Autumn offered him his hand which Alfred took after a moment of hesitation.
"Just Augustus Autumn tonight thank you," he said with a placating smile.
"Hark at you," Alfred said taking the man's hand. "Slumming it down here with the snipes tonight son? Alfred Steinmetz by the way." It was an odd union, his Grandfathers old and weathered hand, bruised with burns and calluses and Autumn's fresh hand.
"Yes well I as I say sir, I figured Alan would be down here."
"Yeah but why are you?" Sutler asked. "Wouldn't you rather but up on the top-deck with your father?"
"No," he responded flatly. Sutler didn't pry any further, Autumn had always been cagy about mentions of his father and despondent when people lauded his work on the Project.
"Well it's good to see you anyway," Sutler continued, breaking an akward pause. "Honestly didn't think I'd be seeing you till we join Granite's squad. Fancy the odds of getting the team back together?"
"Well actually I…" Autumn began sheepishly, "had a few strings pulled after I you mentioned your rotation."
Alfred made what was probably intended to be an inaudible grunt at Autumn's words.
"I'm honoured," Sutler was genuinely taken aback. "Not enjoying life back up-top?"
"More like you couldn't survive without me sport," Autumn laughed. "And… no not really. I didn't sign-up to be my father's adjutant."
He looked around.
"I'm not intruding am I?"
"Don't be silly August," Lily-Ann Sutler made shoeing gesture with her hand. "A friend of Alan's is welcome here."
"Well thank you ma'am," he performed another of his soft, placating smiles on her. "Actually I'd like to ask Mr Steinmetz a question."
"The chair or the scar son?"
Alfred had, around his right-temple, a large circular indentation which continued in a small furrow across his forehead.
"The scar sir, if you don't mind."
"Oh of-course," he fidgeted in his chair, sitting up. "It's not one of your 'traumatic' war wounds son. Got it on the job down here didn't I?"
"Yes, Alan tells me you did external repairs?"
"Oh yes that was it," he'd become much more animated, it took something from the obvious hostility that he laced his every word with Autumn which was certainly not as subtle as the old man thought. "I was an abseiler you know, went down the legs of this great thing – down to sea level at-times mind you – to repaint and get rid of all the rust. In full Hazmat too and those things don't carry their weight like that fancy armour of years. And that was when it happened, down there right above the ocean. This great big wave blind-sided me, smashed me against the platform against this big bolt sticking out of it. Went straight through the visor, into my head and I was dragged across the damn thing."
"Incredible," Autumn said. "It's funny, you don't think about the ocean, even though we live on an Oil Rig."
"Maybe not you but I certainly did," Alfred continued. "Luckily I didn't go fully under with a cracked visor, got me back up and on a Rad-Away drip. Could have been the snip for me otherwise, then you wouldn't have young Alan here."
"Dad," Lily-Ann interjected. "Don't be disgusting."
"It's the truth Lily, a splash to the face was passable but if I'd swallowed some of the stuff…"
He trembled slightly.
"Well it doesn't bear thinking about really."
"Copy that," Sutler said with a nervous laugh.
"Well you thank you sir," Autumn said politely.
"For what son?"
"Putting yourself out there to keep the Enclave up and running."
"Oh," Alfred too was genuinely stunned to silence. "Thank you son. I appreciate that."
"You want to get a beer Autumn?" Sutler asked. "You're looking pretty thirsty."
"Why I do declare that is the most sensible suggestion you have ever made sport."
"Make it one last one Percy," Sutler said, digging the last few dollars out and slamming them onto the bar.
"Coming Private Sutler," the robot scuttled by and picked up the coins. "And do please mind the counter-surface sir. I am authorised to deduct repair costs from your paycheck."
"Fucking Robots," Sutler muttered. He glanced at Autumn who was staring back across the room. The hour was late, Sutler's mother having taken his Grandfather back home. The music was softer, a slow jazz arrangement of Battle Hymn of the Republic to which remaining couples were slowing dancing.
"You remember Sutler, years ago," Autumn said. "Top-side about relaxing on our porches on the mainland."
"Yeah sure,"
"Don't you think it's all bullshit?"
Sutler frowned before taking a swig of beer.
"Not really, fuck are you talking about?"
"Why do you want to own a house, with a front lawn and just lay in the Sun? Do you even want to do that?"
Sutler was quiet for a few moments, Autumn was always getting at something and he could never figure out what.
"Yeah why not, isn't that what we're supposed to do when we're old?"
"Yeah but why, you know the answer."
"Because that's what people used to do."
"And it's what you want to do? Mix and match slacks and shirts, mow the lawn… et-cetera?"
"Oh fuck," Sutler sighed. "Philosophical Autumn's here. Fucking Oorah! Go on, go on say your piece."
"I just don't know, doesn't sit right with me. I like the Oil Rig and I like my uniform. Why can't we just stop pretending to aspire so something we're not? Look past the picture books Sutler, if we ever met one of them. A pre-war. I don't think we'd like them."
"Why? We're all just Americans."
"They were different sport; like really different to what we are. And I don't think they'd like us either. Do you really think the average pre-war would just sit back and let the government kill everyone else in the world?"
"I don't know Autumn… but the war, they kind of did. We're just putting things back to normal again."
"But do you want their normal?"
"Look," Sutler was exhausted. "I don't fucking know, nor care at this point. You think too much Autumn, that's your problem."
"And sometimes you don't think enough Alan," Autumn said with a smile.
"I just know one thing Autumn. Everything on this Oil Rig has just been the build-up for a new life after the Project, it was going to come in our life time. It was out of our control. This was always going to happen. We are the future."
"To the future then," Autumn said, raising his beer. "And what-ever it may bring."
