THE STICKS (eBook)

Chapter 3

In the morning, he ran.

Running helped Baker relax. It was both his exercise and his transportation. As he ran, he simultaneously emptied his mind and filled it. He filled it with the sights and sounds around him. He filled it with thoughts about his past life. He filled it with his fears about the future. And he emptied it.

With running.

He had chosen his pre-dawn route partly because it was the most rigorous. It ramped up to the fifty-seventh floor and then descended back down. It was also the longest way to get to his destination. He was in no hurry.

New Moon City curved in a gentle, three-mile arc. As Baker ran up the sloping skyway, the interior of the city opened to the feeble morning light. Below him, he could see the lower levels of the metropolis and the vast atrium extending throughout its entire length. Fruit trees, flowers, and vegetables proliferated on every level, like the hanging gardens of Babylon, turned out-side-in. The abundance of plant life made the air rich with oxygen, which he gratefully inhaled as he ran. Underneath the main atrium, he knew more vegetables grew in enormous hydroponic gardens. Artificial lighting enabled crops such as broccoli, cabbage and beans to grow around the clock, supplying a never-ending bounty of fresh vegetables to the grocers.

On level five, the horizontal light rail was not yet crowded. As the main public transport of New Moon, it would soon be thronged with school children, workers and shoppers. A waterway flowed parallel to it, separating the tram from a broad walkway, where sleepy cafe workers wiped off tables in anticipation of the morning rush. A few avid fishermen practiced their skills by the banks of the stream, doing so more for sport than sustenance, since the largest fish were harvested in mass quantities at the end of the artificial river.

He often wondered what life had been like when the city was new, over sixty-five years ago. There was no doubt New Moon had regressed since then, but at least they had survived, which was more than could be said for ninety-five percent of humanity. Many of the things taken for granted in those days had disappeared. Automobiles were obsolete. Televisions and cell phones had ceased to exist because nobody had the resources to manufacture or repair them anymore. People had returned to writing letters and reading books, which was probably not all that bad. They still had art and acoustic music. Dance. Theater.

Simple electronics could be cobbled together, but the more sophisticated equipment was very expensive, putting it out of reach of most consumers. Various parts of the aircraft he flew were cannibalized from older models to keep them operational.

As he ran higher, Baker crossed bridges and ramps interweaving throughout the atrium in a lacy filigree, connecting the two converging arcs of the city at multiple levels. A few early risers passed him on bicycles and pedicabs as he made his ascent to the top, while he similarly passed slower runners and pedestrians. He had emerged from the residential area, run through the commercial zone, and entered the heart of the metropolis. There, the interior widened out to create a huge public plaza, bounded by the performing arts center and the municipal complex on one side, and the university, with its large sports arena on the other. Grand staircases marked the large civic space, and elevators whisked their passengers vertically to their destinations.

The religious center of New Moon City stood next to the sports arena. A multi-denominational facility, it was officially known as “The House of Worship.” On significant holidays, its growing congregation overflowed into the adjacent stadium. However, for most occasions, the modest-sized chapel sufficed for such things as baptisms, weddings, and funerals.

Baker had attended more than his fair share of funerals at The House of Worship. When he was fourteen years old, thousands of lives had been snuffed out during the Great Infection. One of the dangers of living in a totally enclosed environment was that any disease, if not quickly and effectively dealt with, could run rampant. The Great Infection had started with a mold growth. By the time it was finally scrubbed from the ductwork, it had laid waste to ten percent of the population of New Moon City. His parents were counted among the unfortunate.

One particular funeral though, three years ago, had been different. When his younger brother, Art, succumbed to cancer, his funeral marked not only the conclusion of Baker’s only sibling’s life, but an ending for Baker as well. Art had been Baker’s only surviving relative. Once his brother passed on, he was alone.

Baker painfully recalled when the minister of The House of Worship approached him in an alcove after the funeral, wearing the obligatory look of solemnity and compassion on his face. Baker never had much interest in religion, so his attitude was skeptical at best. Bemused as well, on occasion. But not on this day.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Captain Baker. Arthur was a fine and … interesting man.”

Baker joined hands with the minister as they paused for a moment of silence. Reverend Hardesty was a narrow man, all angles and elbows, with a bobbing Adam’s apple, and a few sparse remnants of hair clinging to the top of his head. His hands felt like clammy pieces of pork as he slid them on to Baker’s palms. He exuded the opposite of warmth. But here he was, attempting to provide comfort to Baker.

“Thank you Reverend Hardesty. I will miss being able to talk with him.” Baker had felt a close bond to his brother, although they had grown apart in recent years. Art. Nobody ever called him Arthur. Nobody who really knew him. Just … Art. In the absence of their parents, Baker had been more than just a big brother to Art. He had always looked after him, had taken care of him since they were children. It was just the way he was wired. He felt it was his duty, his responsibility. His promise.

He irrationally blamed himself for his brother’s death. He felt he had betrayed a sacred trust. He was disappointed in himself, although there was nothing he could have done to save Art. In many ways though, Baker felt he had also been a disappointment to his younger brother, while he was still alive.

“You are always so violent,” Art had said, even at the slightest things. He would critically comment about minuscule habits, comparing Baker’s heavy footsteps to his own gliding way of walking. Or the fact that Baker ate his food quickly, and talked with his mouth full instead of chewing slowly and contemplating every bite. “You should be more mindful.” But Baker wasn’t mindful. He liked a good stiff drink every now and then. He chased women. He enjoyed flying airplanes, which was why he’d joined the Air Force, something Art never condoned. He was different than Art.

Art had led a simple life of study and contemplation. He was always questing, exploring. A person with tremendous curiosity. Contrary to Baker’s inclinations, Art had delved deeply into religious studies. He adopted religions faster than a spinster acquired cats. One year he was a Sufi, the next he was a Jew. Hindu, Buddhist, Catholic, Jain. He wanted to know them all. He followed different dietary restrictions with each new faith. Meat … no meat. Fasting … not fasting. But he was not a follower of fads. He was a seeker of wisdom.

Baker even looked quite different than his younger brother. It was said Art looked a lot like their grandmother, Aliyah Estrella. Delicate build, small stature, and very curly hair. Baker, by contrast, was much larger than Art. He was more squarely built, and had arrow-straight, dark-brown hair. One feature they did share, however, was their distinctive eyes. Hazel, almost to the point of being golden, with black streaks radiating out from the center.

Reverend Hardesty motioned for Baker to follow him. They made their way through the sanctuary, passing through an obscure side door into the minister’s office. It was a quiet place, with dark wood paneling in an old-world style. Behind him, an antique wind-up clock ticked away. “Your brother left something for you. He asked me to give it directly to you.”

He opened the top drawer of the credenza next to him, withdrew a large manila envelope, and handed it to Baker. It had a metal clasp covered by a paper stamp. It did not appear to have been opened.

Baker held the envelope in his hands, awkwardly. “Go ahead,” the minister said, a note of anxious anticipation in his voice. “Open it.” He rubbed his bony hands together.

Carefully peeling back the stamp, Baker undid the clasp and unfolded the top flap of the envelope. He inserted his hand and withdrew a green notebook. Pulling it all the way out, he began to flip through the pages. His brother’s work. His findings, condensed into a chaotic scrawl. Handwritten notes scribbled on scraps of paper. Drawings. Clippings. Quotes. There were sketches of demons and grotesquely ill people. Little loose bits of napkins with brief memos were stuck into the edges of the notebook.

Seeing Reverend Hardesty craning his neck for a glimpse of the package, Baker quickly stuffed the notebook back into the manila envelope. “Um … thank you Reverend Hardesty. This is kind of a lot to digest. I’ll have to take a longer look at it later.”

“Yes, of course, I’m sure you will,” the minister sniffed, sounding out a sour note of disappointment.

Baker chewed on his lower lip, a bad habit he had acquired in childhood whenever he didn’t know...