A Case of Time-Travelling Shorts

When the Earth fights back

 

3/4/63

There's been nothing. No updates. No announcements. Even the soldiers on duty don't have a clue what's going on. Mostly they just tell me to get back to my berth, and stay there this time.  Dad says that we'll be safe down here, but I have a terrible feeling that we're going to die before we see the sun again. After all, I'm certain that we aren't over 5 km under the Earth. If what happened in Newcastle happened here, we'd just disappear too.

 ***

Dave's mom, Marissa, is the head scientist working on the Genesis project, which is basically a moon-base loon project. She told me that they're trying to create human life without gametes, just chemicals and electronic enhancements; like a human being is a recipe you can just create on a whim. I like Dave much better than his mother. Though now I wonder about his origins.

P.S. There's no shampoo down here, and my hair's going crazy. It looks less like a neat regulation bob, and more like a rising, unruly mane. Just thought I'd get that sort of stuff down too. In case...

 

4/4/63

Still nothing. It's been a week, and we're still no closer to getting out of this dump. It's a good thing the rations are set to last for years rather than days. I forgot to mention: we are sector 54B, which means we are fifty-four stories down from the first Lazarus shelter level, and then second closest from the lift. There's no one near to my age: they all seem to know Dad though, which is probably how we've been assigned here. Sometimes it sucks being under-age.

***

I've noticed that Dave's got the same freckles and auburn hair that his mother in the berth across from him has. She calls him "Her little angel," and he scowls back. Dave is rubbish at writing. He can't help it, I guess, being six, and only having used a keyboard before. He can spell his name alright. But he mangles mine. Maizey gets its M turned into a W, and a backwards z whenever he gets hold of the pen. Mostly, Dave just tells me what to write, and I write it for him.

For example: There was a soldier who loved his family, then he got blown up and turned into a cyborg. He fought a lot better with his gun-hands. But he forgot about his family. He never saw him never, ever again. The End.

***

Dave's mum heard me reading him the story and teared up and stormed of the room. Dad tells me that it's partially a true story. "Tony was a good man. He was good to Marissa and Dave." And now he's dead. Everyone seems to be dying these days. I hate it.

Maybe Marissa is trying to recreate her husband. That's my theory. But the models she's shown me of her work are all baby-sized. I can't imagine her wanting to raise her husband up from being a toddler. The models are terrifying: the 'pods' open onto a clear roofed laboratory, so techno-baby can enjoy the sights of stars and solar flares. She seems so happy about her achievements; that she's got a fleet of Bots to carry out all the important stuff while she's here. 

5/4/63

Finally. The holo-sphere sorted itself out. There was an address from the Prime Minister this morning. I still can't get my head around what she said. All the usual jargon about conferences with the rest of the world's leaders. The holo-sphere showed images of Newcastle, New China's Lin district, and what used to be Sydney, Australia. They looked like craters: like the Earth popped the cities like zits, leaving ugly brown gauges in its wake. Then she utters the word. "Aliens."

Mutters are shared through sector 54B. No one believes in aliens like they used too: not after some Austrian Billionaire impersonated 'alien' life by bouncing messages off his own private, moon-orbiting satellite. Seeing is believing though, the holo-sphere pans to show a glimpse of it.