Those the future left be.., p.25
Those the Future Left Behind, page 25
“It’s simple. We were … are in love. Is there a better reason to do anything?”
Solara opened her eyes again with a gentle smile, and I knew I would never be able to convince her otherwise.
She had obliterated my uncertainty.
EPILOGUE
Dissolution and Dissemination
Before I weighed a life in my hands for the first time, a wise woman asked me a simple, yet essential question: “Do you feel satisfied doing what you do?” At the time, I had barely done anything in my capacity as a Collector, and I felt as though I lacked sufficient data to furnish a responsibly contemplated response. The mutant seed of my existence, once discarded in a cave divested of promise, had been recovered and sewn into a soil brimming with untapped potential by a gardener who would lovingly tend it for weal or for woe. Once it had been glutted on that uncommon nutrient of stimulating conversation, rewarding the words of its forerunners with little more than an allelopathic assault, it germinated to find itself not the flower it might have fancied, but a foolish, recalcitrant, and hypocritical weed. And yet, even a weed has a purpose. Even a weed has a possibility.
Throughout my Collections, I have collected more than just lives. I have had the privilege to play spectator to the spectrum spanning the ever-lengthening gap between the very best and the very worst of what humanity has to offer and, though I never knew it at its outset, being able to witness the breadth of human quality has indeed instilled within me a sense of fulfillment, and there are few callings of which I can estimate that would afford a better seat to that opera of opportunity than that of the Collector.
When I think back to the motivations, the driving forces, the reasons for existence, that most of my Collectees, my mentors, possessed, the underlying root nurturing their unique and various blooms was the same. It was love. Love for a bygone world. Love for worlds fantastic that could never truly be. Love for a childhood stolen. Love for what others could become. Love for the notion of friendship. Love for the responsibility of life. Love for another’s unwavering love. In the end, and you may rest assured that I am terribly embarrassed that it took me so long to settle upon it, I realized that my motivation, my reason for existence, my purpose, had become exactly the same, and it might meet the same end. The Bureau of Fortune was responsible for bringing my love and me together and the Bureau of Fortune was now threatening to tear us apart.
I had initially conceived this record to assist in the composition of my thoughts on the Bureau of Fortune’s progress for presentation at a standard and formal feedback meeting that is scheduled for every Collector after every three-year period of performance, at least, that is what they told me. My gardener, who is preparing herself for an exodus in the next room at present, has assured me that she has attended a few of them. I found it humbling that the Bureau might possibly possess a vested interest in what the expendable digits of its regenerative and extensive arm of the law might have to say regarding its efficacy. Nevertheless, this meeting will inevitably be the one black mark in my record of perfect attendance of Bureau functions.
While the Bureau may have yielded to me the bench in a moment that the puppet might play the judge of this farce purported as an “elective, merciful, and desperately needed alternative population control method”—a method that, along with mandated birth control and other means of suppression, succeeded in herding the NER population below its estimated regional carrying capacity six months ago but will still “remain active in order to continue to oversee population development to ensure we do not make the same mistakes again while offering the same opportunities as always to those without means”—I do not consider myself fit to preside. It is, after all, the jury that pulls the strings of fate in a true court of justice, and the lingering voices of my victims have petitioned me to play the plaintiff. And so, I will present instead to you, the masses, via a time-released viral packet that will, hopefully, infect not only the screens to which I am sure you will still submit your senses, but also the minds to which these often-disguised details deserve to be disclosed. It is quite possible that I will not live to see your judgment rendered.
The catharsis from which I emerged only hours before now revealed to me that I had gained the enduring love of another, something I felt I really never had, effortlessly, undeservingly, luckily. This afforded me a significance of self to which I assigned tremendous value. It’s all I ever wanted. To feel special. To feel different from the masses in a way that seemed meaningful. To fill in the blank that was my existence. All this time, I had been searching for something that would strike me in its grandiosity, as if the clouds would part, and I would know undeniably that this was my purpose. Reality was mundane. My purpose was to live for the love of another and the possibility of every moment with her.
As I attempt to conclude with a selfish closing statement, in place of a will, I would feel remiss in my blathering if I were not to attempt to atone for one pervasive thought that often plagues people fond of looking back on their predecessors, seeking to cast a blame that will go unheard by those long gone. My slightly younger and much more naïve self used to indulge in disparaging previous generations for their lack of forward thinking about preserving the future for people other than themselves. I would decry them for their iniquity, accuse them for irresponsibly giving birth to the current state of the world, and purport that I would have done better had I been in their shoes. When I had done so, I had very little to lose, very little to risk, and even less to protect.
Human society has evolved to the point that we have to consider our limitations. The superior intelligence with which we are burdened compared to other organisms has gifted us with the foresight to recognize the impending threats to our species, and it has also developed within us an altruistic sense of the other while simultaneously suppressing mechanisms of competition in which other organisms more readily engage. Competition for resources and aspirations is inevitable in the pursuit of idyllic lives, and humans are, at our core, more selfish than we seem. Does the lion feel remorse as a consequence of fatally wounding a competitor for a mate? Hardly. We are not so cold as that, yet, but it is these socially developed sentiments that will continue to force us to make harder and harder decisions as competition for something once plentiful and thoughtlessly taken for granted increases in ferocity. Chief among the motivators that will continue to warrant consideration of the application of the methods behind my employ is another socially developed sentiment: love. A love of possibility. The same love by which I have been struck and the same love I will risk my life to protect.
When I had judged those previous generations, I thought I was different. I thought I would have been different. I didn’t have anything that allowed me to understand why we humans had reached this point. I had nothing for which I felt I had to compete. I had not been living in the moment.
Daria came along in one moment.
My best option to increase the likelihood of having the chance to see her again in the competition to keep her in my life was to join the Bureau of Fortune. Now, in this moment, I know I was wrong to judge those that came before so casually. After all, I am poised to engage in the same selfish behaviors because I have happened upon enough meaning to take the risk.
That’s all that life really amounts to: a series of risks and the competition involved in taking them. I now understand why we live primarily in the moment and why it is so easy to concert lesser effort towards the future. It is because our loves exist now. In every competition to seek a love, one competitor will be favored the more fortunate, and to gamble on that chance of being so is life’s greatest pursuit.
May you be fortunate in yours.
BoF Addendum
“This concludes the case study. Collector H 66K28 has since been captured, convicted of desertion, and executed. Future attempts at desertion will be met with the same end. Let this be a lesson to all of you prospectives. The Bureau always finds out. You cannot escape your commitment. Why would you even desire to? Furthermore, copies of this transcript that have not been approved for internal use at the Bureau are still circulating the public in electronic and, would you believe it, print forms. Any civilians found in possession of this transcript are to be detained and processed Bureau–side, pending approval of our new bylaw.”
Welcome to the fold and happy hunting,
Prime Director Flehr
10.13.2172
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Though many would consider it to go without saying, I would be remiss if I were not to thank my friends and family first. Without your steadfast foundation, the worlds I build would rest on tremulous ground and my words would ring hollow. Thank you for the support, quiet and cacophonous, known and unknown, past and future.
I would especially like to thank Claire for her serial ministrations of verbal confidence. Without your indefatigable enthusiasm, the walks through the woods of anticipation would have been agonizingly arduous.
I would like to thank the wonderful women at SparkPress for their patience, diligence, and for the chance they took on cultivating what I hope will be an auspicious career of the page.
Finally, and foremostly, I would like to thank you, my readers. Each of you is an unexpected treasure and, though I may never be able to repay the debt I have accrued from you lending your eyes, ears, and spending the time to ponder my words, know that your curiosity has made me feel wealthier than the richest sultan to ever live. Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© Adrianna Werneke
Patrick Meisch is a high school science teacher who has harbored an ambition to write ever since his literature classes influenced him at a young age. He is passionate about educating future generations of people who can make a difference on topics such as climate change, resource management and sustainability, and responsible use of technology. His writing is often used as a vehicle to broach these topics in an engaging format. He lives, works, reads, and plays a lot of video games in Minnesota. Those the Future Left Behind is his debut novel.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SPARKPRESS
SparkPress is an independent boutique publisher delivering high-quality, entertaining, and engaging content that enhances readers’ lives, with a special focus on female-driven work. www.gosparkpress.com
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Sky of Water: Book Three of the Equal Night Trilogy, Stacey L. Tucker
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Patrick Meisch, Those the Future Left Behind
