Novum Initium: A New Hope Arrives

Frank Awakens

Monday, November 5th, 3612 CE - 8:52 AM

Frank's head was splitting. Darkness, except for the warm red of light against closed eyelids. Silence, except for the throbbing in his temple. He was sitting, uncomfortably, as he'd slept in the same position he was now awakening in. His neck was kinked, his left arm laying limp in his lap and his right arm numb. Frank opened his eyes to a blinding beam of light, a product of Nova's victory over the horizon of tree-covered slopes beyond his property.

“Shit.”

Frank was late. He jumped out of his armchair, a Caspani design, and saw why his arm was numb. The glass he'd held onto all night was still half-full of the previous evening's top-shelf refreshment, the last in his stockroom. He took a swig of the two-grand-a-bottle whiskey and threw the rest, along with the five-hundred dollar snifter across the room.

“Butler!” he shouted with a slur, calling for his housekeeper to clean up the mess, causing his head to throb even harder.

“Yes sir? At your service,” the mechanical servant replied as it wheeled around the doorway.

Judging by the robot's velocity, as well as the smell of bacon, Frank surmised breakfast was ready.

“What the hell happened last night? Why did you let me oversleep?”

“I came to wake you this morning but you shooed me off, so I prepared your morning meal and day's attire,” the robot informed his creator as he cleaned the broken glass and spilled whiskey from the floor. “As to your first question, I believe you had a bit much to drink last night in celebration of today. I made sure to show your... guest out shortly before you passed out.” Then he added, hesitantly, “Henry stayed a bit to help clean up.”

Great, thought Frank, wondering if the Accountant had seen him in such a state. He looked at himself in the ornate, gold-framed mirror above the fireplace. God I look like shit. His favorite smoking jacket was ruined, a hole the size of his thumb burned through its fine fabric. At least it wasn't a surprise to Henry, his best friend since their days in Higher Education; he'd seen Frank in plenty worse states.

“Not so sure if celebration is the way I would describe it,” Frank responded groggily, embarrassed. “And why would you let Henry help clean up,” Frank added in disapproving rhetoric.

It certainly was a celebration, but for Frank, it also marked a spike in the risk he would be taking going forward. The rest of his guests might as well have been in the clear. Frank made his way to the dining room as he wiped the exhaustion from his face. He pondered what led him to drink so heavily the night before: worry, uncertainty... fear. Fear was an understatement.

Frank wasn't just afraid to lose his job, or his membership in the Leisure Class, or even being sentenced to a lifetime in the Undergrinder Society. Any of those would be terrible enough, but all were punishments he could work his way back from. What he was about to do would be justification for his life itself to be revoked. If he was caught, he would be put to death. His account would be emptied and the Life-Force left in his body would be drained without remorse or question. His lifeless body would be discarded as a failure, the most shameful fate for any member of the New World Civilization.

Frank sat down, closing his eyes for a moment, looking for a recollection of at least part of the night. He had played host to his co-conspirators on the eve of culminating three years of clandestine work. Today, the long Winter would end as the seeds they had sewn would begin to sprout.