The Last Continent

by Edmund Cooper

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Space Opera

Synopsis

The devastated Earth had only a handful of inhabitants - now even their future was in the balance. The Twenty-Second Century had been and gone - and with it, the worst war in the bloody history of mankind: the War of the Black Rising. The Earth was devastated, the moon blasted out of the sky, it was only on Mars, many millions of miles away, that humanity had survived - in the shape of a few Black colonists. But out of that few had grown a new civilization - a civilization which now, some two thousand years later, had successfully launched its first space exploration - destination, the 'dead' planet Earth.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 185

Sample

It was high noon. The old man lay sprawled against the trunk of the tree, getting what shade he could from the dead branches. All around was an almost featureless plain whose only contours were small boulders and outcrops of rock half covered by drifting sand. The old man gazed vacantly at the rough wooden hand-cart that contained his few possessions. He had come a long way, but he didn’t have much farther to go. He knew it.

A rattlesnake, the only other living creature in the vicinity, lay coiled no more than a couple of metres from the old man. It regarded him with vague tolerance. The old man was too weary to want to kill it. The rattlesnake was too sick to want to strike. Together they savoured the comradeship of despair.

Presently, the old man recovered himself sufficiently to be able to stand up. He lurched towards the cart and groped among its contents. With a sigh of satisfaction, he found a small leather-faced box, one side of which revealed a recessed glass-covered screen.

He took the veecorder back to his bit of shade and fell in a heap. When he had recovered from the exertion, he looked to see if he had annoyed the rattlesnake. He hadn’t. There was, apparently, this understanding between them.

He fumbled with the veecorder. The replay stud didn’t work too well these days, and the micropile was low. Still, hopefully, it would last him out. He shivered again and felt the piece of bone discreetly poking through the shrivelled flesh on his chest. Yes, definitely, the veecorder would last him out.

He wondered why he had been doomed to live so long. Probably it was some kind of judgement. If, indeed, there was anyone or anything to judge.

The veecorder contained only one cassette of tape. It had been played many times. Too many times. There were defects in both sound and vision. But they were no problem. The old man knew every syllable, every gesture, every pattern of light and shade by heart.

“See, rattlesnake,” said the old man with difficulty. “I’ll show you how it was once. I’ll show you how the end began and how the beginning ended. I’ll show you it took only an ounce of titanium to cut down the hope of mankind.”

He pressed the replay stud. Nothing happened. He pressed the stud again and nothing happened. He shook the box and tried once more. Still nothing happened.

The rattlesnake appeared sceptical.

“Confrick it!” rasped the old man. “Confrick it!”

He hit the box and was rewarded with a low electronic whistle.

“Ha!” he said triumphantly. The rattlesnake remained unconvinced.

But after a moment or two, the screen began to glow. The picture stabilized, and a man in a null G bubble that seemed to be hovering high above a swarm of ants said brightly: “Lo, folks. As predicted, Kennedy Ground is filled full of those who have come to hear the word of the prophet. So let’s flip to E level and find out what that voice of our times, Thomas Mulvaney, has to offer this noble throng.”

Cut to a close-up full face of Thomas Mulvaney, a magnificent seven-foot negro with eyes of fire and features that would have grossed a billion for any old-time big shot in Hollywood U.S.A.

“Friends,” said Thomas Mulvaney, in a voice rich with sincerity and passion, “brothers, sisters, children. Our forefathers were slaves, our grandfathers were second class citizens. This we know. This we remember. But we—we are the salt of the earth. We who were oppressed are now free. We who were weak—and I mean only weak politically—are now strong. We lift up our heads. We carry ourselves high with pride. We are the living force of man. Tell me, brothers and sisters, what are we?”

Cut to the multitude, and thunder rolling from half a million throats. “We are the living force of man.”

“We are the future,” roared Thomas Mulvaney. “Tell me, brothers and sisters, what are we?”

Again the thunder. Again the affirmation.

“Our brother, the white man, has conceded our right to live,” went on Thomas Mulvaney. “Our brother, the white man, had to concede our right to live—because he did not wish to perish.”

“Yea! Yea!”

“Our brother concedes us the right to walk the Earth—a world which he has already over-exploited—while he soars out into space. I ask you a question, my dear family. I ask you a question! How many of us are there in Space Station Seven? How many of us are there in Luna City? How many of us have jetted for the bright new lands of Mars? The white man, our brother, has given us only the freedom of Earth, has he not?”

“Yea! Yea!”

“No, you are wrong, my generous people. The white man, our brother, our cunning brother, has not given us the freedom of Earth. We took it. But then the white man, our oh-so-clever brother, saw that the game was not yet lost. He looked up to the stars. He vaulted across the firmament, seeking new fortresses, new bastions, impregnable to those whose blood is red but whose skins are dark. I ask you a question, my loved ones, I ask you a question. How shall we gain the freedom of space?”

“We shall take it,” said the thunder. “We shall take it ourselves.”

It was then that the assassin’s bullet struck.

The old man switched off the veecorder as that magnificent black body convulsed among a crop of microphones like a spent scarecrow in a field of metallic corn. The old man didn’t want to see any more. It hurt too much. Besides, he had already seen it too many times.

The sun beat down as if it was determined to fry all living things. The old man shaded his eyes and looked across the arid plain towards the horizon. He thought he could see a high-way and trees in the distance. He even allowed himself to think that he could see buildings and hear the vague murmur of a great city. Then, after a moment or two, he killed the luxury—because luxuries should not be enjoyed too much. And because there was nothing there.

He turned to the rattlesnake.

“Rattlesnake,” he said, “that Thomas Mulvaney was a strong man, full of fire. Not a good man, maybe. Not a bad man, maybe. But somebody you felt you had to listen to. Somebody you felt you had to understand. He didn’t make no trouble, mind. Well, not big trouble. He just picked it up when somebody else left it lying around… Guess that’s how he earned his ounce of titanium…”

He broke off for a moment or two, wiped the sweat from his forehead and gazed vacantly around. Then he recollected that he was giving the rattlesnake a history lesson.

“You wouldn’t believe how much death there is in an ounce of titanium,” he went on. “You wouldn’t think there was enough to go round. Not for all of us! But there was, rattlesnake. Hell, there was. I’m telling you.”

The rattlesnake raised its head a little, but offered no comment.

“They gave Thomas Mulvaney a fine funeral, a real fine funeral. There was white men even that jetted half round the world to sing the twenty-third psalm. They gave him a fine funeral, and then they set up the Thomas Mulvaney Space Foundation. And then the Power Men moved in. Them Power Men! They weren’t anybody’s people. They moved in so quietly nobody knew they was there… And then a whole lot of negroes were trained for space. But mostly, they weren’t just negroes. Not just people. They were the special ones. They were the Power Men. And when there was enough of them in the Station, and enough on Luna and maybe enough on Mars—well, I guess that ounce of titanium just got tired of waiting… So they tried to take over the Station, and they took over on Luna and maybe they even took over on Mars. And then they talked to all the folks—black and white—down here on this old green ball. They said: ‘People, we got buttons, and we got missiles, and we’re up here and you’re down there. So listen hard.’”

The old man sighed. “Well, I guess nobody likes that kind of talk… So that’s why there ain’t no more Station and no more Luna in the sky and why the green Earth is just yellow and dry and empty. And that’s why there’s just you and me here, rattle-snake, talking some about that powerful ounce of titanium.”

The old man lost his balance and fell over. The rattlesnake rattled fitfully but without conviction. The old man picked himself up again with difficulty, and scratched the bone poking through his chest. He scratched agonizingly because it itched, because it hurt and because it felt very hot. Then he fumbled in his pocket.

“See here,” he said to the rattlesnake. “This piece of metal is a rare item. It’s worth ten thousand years of history. Look at it good.”

The bullet was scratched and misshapen. He tossed it at the rattlesnake, who received it without resentment.

The old man turned to his veecorder once more. This time, he got it going first try.

“Friends,” said Thomas Mulvaney, in a voice rich with sincerity and passion, “brothers, sisters, children. Our forefathers were slaves, our grandfathers were second class citizens. This we know. This we remember. But we—we are the salt of the earth…”

Tears were running down the old man’s cheeks, leaking precious moisture from his spent body.

He looked at the handsome face on that small screen, and murmured softly: “My son! Oh, my son!”

Kymri walked through the jewelled forest, exulting in a young man’s pilgrimage to nowhere. He was happy and miserable; and he thought he was sick. Because he was seeing everything as if for the first time. He did not care that he was alone. He did not care that Noi Lantis was many kaymets away. He did not care that the king might enquire for him or that someone else might lie between Yosseline’s legs this night. He cared only that he should enjoy his elsdykik while it lasted.

Occasionally, he prayed to Godfred for spiritual guidance. He received none, and was almost relieved.

The forest was green with life and wet with the promise of more life. The fine rain clung to his cloak of firebird feathers, as if enmeshing it in a web of crystals. The leather triangles of manhood slapped damply against his buttocks and his groin. Steam occasionally rose from the blade of his spear, and his sandals drew a soggy music from the living earth.

Monkeys chattered, birds protested and lianas bound the earth to the misty sky. The forest was emerald, beautiful. In the early morning it was a steam-bath of creation.

Suddenly, Kymri heard the great noise again. But this time he was awake and could not ascribe it to some prank of Godfred. The noise was real; and it was thunder yet it was not thunder. It was the greatest noise he had ever heard.

It tore through the air like a knife. It hit him and made him Wince with pain. It destroyed the squabbles of monkeys and birds, and made the forest wail with terror. It was the thunder of death, or the thunder of eternal life. Or both.

Kymri stood still and looked up, straining to see through the green roof of trees and the grey veil of the sky. There was nothing.

Sometimes the sky was blue, but rarely. Sometimes the rain stopped, but rarely. Sometimes at night the veil was drawn away to reveal the burning intensity of the stars. The priests said that the stars were other worlds, that each star was a furnace in the void, providing the warmth of life for other forests, other kingdoms, other men…

The noise died. Kymri began to breathe once more. Presently the forest shrugged off its fear and was as it always was.

He sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree and tried to think about his problem. Whether to endure castration for the sake of knowledge or retain his manhood and for ever be denied access to the lore of generators, wire messages, anodynes and curatives.

The tree-springer, looped high above him, thought that he was not aware of its presence. Kymri, his mind not on his problem, thought that the tree-springer was ready to drop. He guessed right.

As the powerful beast fell, its compact but heavy body ready to crush anything that breathed, Kymri sprang sideways. Disdaining the spear, he sprang back as the great weight hit the earth. With perfect timing, he delivered the stamp of oblivion, feeling a satisfying crunch as his heel struck the unprotected base of the creature’s head.

He stood clear as the dead thing, not knowing it was already dead, thrashed and contorted, blindly seeking vengeance. It was a pity that the tree-springer was too heavy to drag back to Noi Lantis. Its armoured body would have earned him much kamen, and not only with the women.

But Kymri’s regret was short-lived. For before the tree-springer was still the noise came back. Only this time it was louder. So loud that he fell to the ground, covering his head and ears, yet still screaming with the pain. It was so loud that surely it must fill the world and, by its very intensity, break all living things asunder.

Just as Kymri, realizing he could stand the torture no more, groped for his spear, the thunder that was not thunder became transformed into a roar—as of mighty waters falling from a great height.

He looked up, and saw fire in the sky. White fire, yellow fire, blue fire. Diamonds of fire dancing among the tree-tops, shrivelling the foliage, scorching the forest.

Surely, the elsdykik had gone too far. Surely he was being punished for his idiocy. Surely the end of the world had come.

But before he could take the final dive into a pool of madness, the roaring stopped. And he was left numbed. With a dead tree-springer and with the scent of burning in his nostrils.

The outward jump was over, and history had been made. The outward jump was over—it had taken seventy-three days—and back home the trivees would be pouring forth millions of D shots of this poor, parched, battered, worn-out planet in millions of homes. The Administration would be happy because it had guessed right, and the pure Vaneyites would be happy because their anticipations were justified. So all would be well in the world of the free.

Mirlena sprawled in a contour pod on the navigation deck and stared up through a plastiglass panel at the stars. Practically everyone else was in the saloon whooping it up. The ship was in a two-hour orbit, and before long there would be another of those agonizing sunrises. But there was still a little time to lounge in a contour pod one thousand miles above the nightside of the planet and contemplate the infinite sadness of life.

Mirlena was afraid of the stars. She had always been afraid of them. They were a visual representation of all that was unknown and unknowable. They supplied a disturbing perspective. They continued to burn indifferently through all the agonies of man. They were burning pinpoints of detachment. They were the cold clear eyes of a cosmic perspective.

“Dr. Stroza, are you here? Dr. Stroza, where are you?”

She identified the voice instantly. It belonged to Rudlan Others, the Senior Communications Officer. She had made love with Rudlan many times; but outside the G bunk—or, more correctly, when others might be present—he always called her Dr. Stroza.

“Well, Rudlan. What takes you away from the party?”

He switched on the blue light, and the stars dimmed. “People are missing you. They say: what has happened to our lovely psychologist? They say: why does she not grace us with her erotic splendour and drink all the cycloids under the table?”

Rudlan’s voice was firm and musical and very attractive. It was his greatest asset. In the dark ecstasy of love, it made him seem as tall as the Red Range, as warm as the Broken Lake. Interesting how, in romanticism, she used geophysical similes… In reality, Rudlan was small, . . .