Author: John Foster. John lives Dumbarton, Scotland. John has worked in local government for over twenty years and is a project manager. He is passionate about writing, an interest he pursues in his spare time. He especially likes exploring the use of different narrative forms and distinctive voices to convey compelling stories in interesting new ways. He has contributed shorter pieces to online blogs and publications, and have also self-published two books through Amazon (one fiction, one non-fiction) with another novel on the way. Amongst my favourite authors are Graham Greene, Aldous Huxley, Anthony Burgess, George Orwell, Hunter S Thompson, F Scott Fitzgerald, Nevil Shute, Gore Vidal, Ernest Hemmingway, W Somerset Maugham, Isaac Asimove, and Alexander Solzhenitsyn. 

The bright shafts of sunlight breaking through the cloud cover momentarily dazzled Agent Wilson until the windshield polarised to compensate. As he sped along the route-way in his transport a tone sounded, his a reminder to check in with Central. The time was exactly fourteen hundred hours on the fifth day of the seventh month of the three hundredth and thirty fourth year A.M. (Anno Mill), all calendars being realigned one hundred and thirty-four years ago following the Great Reconstitution and the social tenets of the Most-Glorious Philosopher John Stuart Mill. Wilson activated his in-ear communication device and spoke. The reply was instantaneous and delivered in dull, calm monotone. “Agent Wilson, this is Central. Position verified. Proceed to sector seven-gamma. Viability quotient violation. Investigate and action. Remain diligent.”

The transmission severed and Wilson methodically checked his instrumentation. Estimated time of arrival was four hours, fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds. With the transport on auto-drive, the low drone of the engine and the warm dim glow of the sun lulled Wilson into reverie, and he became vaguely aware of his thoughts drifting back to his Learning Period days at the Academy, the origin of all his earliest memories. As always, one was more prominent than the rest. His defining recollection. The Book of Mill. Again, he felt that unending swell of awe and wonderment as he recited a passage to himself with reverent pride:

“I have a hundred times heard him say that all ages and nations have represented their gods as evil, in a constantly increasing progression, that mankind have gone on adding trait after trait till they reached the most perfect conception of wickedness which the human mind can devise, and have called this God, and prostrated themselves before it. Think of a being who would make a hell – who would create the human race with the infallible foreknowledge, and therefore with the intention, that the great majority of them to be consigned to horrible and everlasting torment.”

The words continued to reverberate in his head, a welcoming refrain to mollify the mind and soothe the soul. Then the transport began to shudder, and Wilson was brought back to his senses. He’d never been this far from home, from the comforting embrace of the Spire and the protection of the Domes. Out here, beyond weather control, everything was different. Peering through the windows he watched the landscape change, becoming barren and uneven, terrain angular and alien. He steeled himself against a growing sense of unease, watching the clock tick as the increasingly rutted carriageway rumbled beneath him. The sun dipped and the sky darkened, windshield polarisation incrementally fading till no longer required. Eventually his destination beckoned, signs of urbanity once more emerging on the horizon, lights, buildings, street grids. This was sector seven-gamma. Wilson felt only partial relief. The township appeared deserted. Forgotten. Dead. Ahead, a collection of tower blocks cast long shadows across the broken concrete, looming overhead as the transport slowed and made its approach, halting beneath an umbrella of darkness.

Wilson exited to a cold stiff wind which whipped his face. His first step drew curiosity. A thin layer of white power which lay everywhere. He paused, then stepped again. The stride brought an unusual sound. It crumped. Wilson found it strangely satisfying. He looked back and noted his preceding footsteps, freshly outlined. Not dry, but moist. This, he realised with surprise, must be snow. He continued to gaze in some amusement as he traced his way to the entrance, pushing through the doors and inside to the hive-like warren, its atmosphere solemn and subdued, sepulchral. His boots clattered across the floor, resounding through the central atrium as he clip-clopped with white-flecked imprints to the elevator which pinged faintly at his direction. Alighting at the appropriate level, he proceeded to the subject’s front door. Wilson checked his timepiece: eighteen-fifteen and twelve. He allowed the remaining seconds to expire. His timepiece beeped. Central was never wrong.

Wilson knocked. From inside he could hear movement which gradually drew closer. Presently there were the sounds of locks being operated before, at last, the door opened. An old man in a wheelchair stared back at him.

“Uh…hello?” he asked warily. “Can I help you, sonny?”

Though puzzled by the familial noun, Wilson introduced himself. “Good day, citizen. I am Agent Wilson. I have been assigned here by Central. May I enter?”

The old man stared blankly. His furrow creased like topographical lines on a map. “Don’t get many visitors,” he said, raising a wizened eyebrow. “You got any identification?”

Wilson unzipped a pocket on the breast of his uniform tunic, opening it to reveal his digital ID. The old man leaned forward and screwed up his eyes. “Seems official enough,” he said. “You’d better come in then.”

The old man reversed his wheelchair to let Wilson enter, then led him through the hall and into the living room. Wilson quickly scanned his surroundings. The hall was brightly lit but plain, with two doors to the right which, Wilson surmised, led to the bedroom and the bathroom. They passed the opened door of the cramped kitchen on the left as they continued through the last door straight ahead. The living room was small, spartanly furnished, yet colourfully decorated. Strings of lights and idealised images of a primitive family scene hung on the walls, and, to Wilson’s shock, a small artificial tree festooned with vulgar trinkets stood in a corner. He’d never seen anything like it.

“Please. Have a seat, sonny,” the old man gestured to Wilson. “Seems like this is important. What is it? Government stuff?”

Wilson recalled the word government from his Learning Period. It was such an arcane word, foreign to his ears. He tried to remember its precise meaning then discarded it as a distraction. Still standing, Wilson opened a large pocket on the thigh of his trousers and removed a sleek black metallic slate. The device lit up into yellow and orange life and he began reading from the screen. “You are citizen Joseph Alexander Smith?” he asked.

“Yes, sonny,” came the startled reply, “that’s me alright.” He grunted. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

Wilson continued, “Central assesses that you are in viability quotient violation. I have been assigned here as your agent.”

The old man shrugged, shaking his head as he leaned back in his wheelchair. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, son.” Then he jolted forward. “You accusing me of something? Look at me. I’m just an old man. What is it that you think I’ve done?”

Wilson raised a hand. “Please, citizen. That is why I am here. It is your inactivity that has caused the infraction, your lack of productive employment for the past eight years, during which you have received the benefits of Central’s mandated welfare provisions programme. As of today, at precisely eighteen hundred hours, regulation one-one-four-point-two-five now applies.”

He watched the old man’s face fold from bemusement to shock. With frustration Wilson realised that his choice of words had been inadequate. Hadn’t he been clear? As he stumbled towards a more suitable phrasing, the old man began to speak. “What are you saying, sonny? I’ll lose my benefits? But what then? What will I do?” The agitation was clear, emotions bubbling readily to the surface. The situation was uncomfortable, and Wilson knew he had to act, to interject. But, before he could, the old man rejoindered. “So much for the bloody spirit of Christmas…”

It caught Wilson by surprise. Somewhere, somehow, long dormant and deeply buried, a flash of recognition sparked. Christmas. He’d heard it before. “That word?” he asked. “What is it?”

“Christmas?” the old man laughed. “You don’t know about Christmas? Today. Twenty-fifth of December? The nativity? You know? Jesus Christ?”

Wilson was utterly perplexed by this jarring jumble of gibberish. And yet each term seemed vaguely familiar, carrying an air of ancient meaning. He was both intrigued and suspicious. He glanced back around the room. “These…icons?” he motioned to the pictures on the wall. “These are Christmas?”

The old man laughed again. “Well, I suppose so.” He pointed. “That’s the nativity. The birth. See? The Virgin Mary. She’s the mother. That other fellow, on the other side. That’s Joseph. Same name as me. He’s the father. Sort of. The real father is, well, you know…” The old man nodded his head upwards.

Wilson looked to the ceiling and saw nothing. He glanced back to the picture. The old man was still talking. “My grandmother taught me all this. Long ago now. Forgotten most of it. A time for family. That’s right. For sharing. Everyone would come together. And there’d be presents. From another chap called, uh, Father Christmas. But he wasn’t a real father. Not like that.” The old man went quiet and turned his attention to the tree, staring at it is wistfully. “Not sure what the tree means. Or the baubles. But we used to do it every year. Dressing it up. Everyone together. Seemed important. A link to the past.” He trailed off, “Guess it still is…”

Wilson was keen to understand more. He should file this in his report. “And this…father. Not Joseph. The other one. He’s…upstairs?”

The old man turned. “Upstairs? You could say that. All the way upstairs. In the sky. Doesn’t get much higher than that, sonny!” he chuckled.

Wilson grew concerned. “In the sky?” he asked.

“Yes,” the old man nodded. “Heaven. You know? God.”

“God?” Wilson enquired with instant gravity. “You mean…religion?”

“Beliefs,” the old man answered. “Tradition. What we can’t see. What holds us all together. Love. Charity. Family. You know?”

Wilson recognised these words. He’d heard them before. Been taught about them. They were poisonous. Toxic. This, he felt, was a test. He had to meet it, confront it with every vestige of his being. Central would expect no less. He spoke with the authority duly vested.

“What you are saying,” Wilson announced, appearing to grow taller, “is dangerous superstition. The utilitarian ideals of our forefathers, which we strive to uphold, eradicated racial and religious prejudices. Disharmony, persecution, these are remnants of the past. But there is a price. A cost. Responsibility. Duty. To society. To Central. We must all follow the edicts.”

The old man sensed the turning atmosphere, understood the changed tone, the inflected voice. This was no longer a discussion. This was a proclamation. “Calm down, sonny,” he called with raised hands. “No need to get your knickers in a twist. I’m no danger. I’m harming no one…”

But Wilson would not be diverted from his task, his mission. “We must all play our part,” he continued. “You speak of charity. But what of collective productivity? This is how society endures, how we measure and maintain the needs of the many.” Wilson grew quiet. “Surely you understand this, citizen?”

“Within reason…”

“And you are no longer productive…”

“What more could I do?” the old man appealed. “I worked all my days. Until I got injured at work. That’s why I’m in this wheelchair now.” Panic began to overwhelm him, agape, stricken. “What does this mean? You’re going to throw me out on the street? Where will I live? How will I survive?”

Wilson could barely comprehend the old man’s obtuseness. “No, citizen,” he responded. “That could never happen. How would it benefit society? You’d only remain a burden in a different guise. Imagine the consequences, the unwanted outcomes. No. That could never be tolerated.”

Wilson’s speech had a placating effect, the irrefutability of simple logic. The old man finally appeared to relax, reassured. “So, you’re not going to throw me out on the street?”

“No. That is impossible.”

“But I still don’t understand. What will happen to me? Why are you here?”

Wilson gazed upon the old man with benign indifference, his hand reaching casually, mechanically to unholster the neural disruptor: swift, clean, painless. Not like the old age. Such barbarism.

“This is your retirement.”

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