Verticality

[The following is not Elite: Dangerous related.  Just a short story I whipped up on a warm spring day.]

Isaiah stretched on his lounge chair and reached for the highball he was nursing on this warm summer day.  The ice cubes that floated inside the amber mixture of rye and seltzer made a delicate tinkling sound that contrasted sharply with the basso booms and sharp cracks of the battle being waged a few miles away.  The fingers of a warm breeze briefly tousled Isaiah's salt and pepper hair, the simple pleasure bringing a smile to his lips.  Isaiah had become a connoisseur of simple pleasures these last few years as the Decline progressed from low to new low.  Long gone were the more complex fare of the fat and happy times.  Now a man had to make due with what he had, which was often not much.  Cheap booze, ad hoc sports, and simple comforts were pretty much it these days.

The small electric fan Isaiah had brought with him to the rooftop of his apartment building slowly spun to a halt, bringing a frown to Isaiah's face.  He took another sip from the rocks glass and put it on the rusting HVAC unit next to his lounger, and made what seemed to him the monumental effort of swinging his legs off the chair and sitting upright.  After stretching a bit more, he grabbed the fan's small white cord and shook it a few times to no effect.  He made sure the plug was secure in the nearby GFI outlet, which it was, and shook the cord again. For the heck of it, he flicked the power switch off and on a few times in hope of a miracle, but the fan still refused to cooperate.  Isaiah sighed.  Another blackout, then.  Even the pleasure of a reliable electrical source was beginning to fade. 

Isaiah stood, took a third sip from the cool glass, its exterior damp from condensation in the humid air, and walked to the chest-high safety wall that lined the roof's perimeter.  He leaned on it, feeling the warmth of the brickwork that had been baking in the sun all morning.  He absentmindedly ran his fingers along its rough surface as he peered towards the battle that raged in the nearby woods that encircled the northern edge of the city.  Wisps of smoke rose from the thicket where the two sides' infantry were slugging it out for control.  From his distant perch, he could not make out any details of the fight or gauge who the victor may be, not that it mattered one way or the other. Not to him.  Not any longer.  For Isaiah, the outcome of the battle was more of an academic interest; an idle intellectual curiosity to distract his mind during the uncomfortably warm summer days of a sunset nation.

Without warning, a firework-like display of colored starbursts, much like the discharge of a Roman candle, flashed into existence over the patch of woods that was engulfed in the fight.  It was followed by a series of small blasts as the starburst-like shells struck the ground and, no doubt, many unseen soldiers.  A bank of black smoke overspread the area, as did a sudden silence.  Somebody just took a nasty hit, Isaiah mused with detached interest.  The stunned pause didn't last long, and the fight suddenly intensified again, no doubt the result of the Roman candle's master attempting to capitalize upon the blow.  The crack of small arms fire increased noticeably, as did the laser-like streaks of red and green tracer rounds lancing through the woods.  Isaiah noted with amusement how some ricocheted off the ground and tumbled through the air as they bled off energy.  Neat, thought Isaiah.  “Quite the show,” he said to himself outloud.

“That was an IP smart munition, prof,” a voice unexpectedly opined at his left ear.

Isaiah was so absorbed by the firework display that he hadn't noticed that Jimboy had come to join him on the roof.  James Olson was his real name, but he hated being called “James” or “Jimmy,” so Isaiah started calling him “Jimboy” as a last resort, something that seemed to amuse the kid.  Officially, Jimboy was a courier by day, a necessary profession in an age of electronic unreliability, but he liked to brag that he ran with a gang at night.  Every young man claimed to be part of a “gang” even if it was just three guys who liked to play craps in a back alley, but Isaiah could see Jimboy being the real deal as the kid was young enough to be that stupid and definitely quiet enough to be a thief.  These days, it was not unheard of for people to have all sorts of “gray” careers to make ends meet.  Whatever the truth might be, Jimboy had taken a liking to Isaiah and had started following him around whenever he wasn't doing his own thing.  “An IP?” asked  Isaiah without turning to face Jimboy.

“'Infantry Portable'.  I read about the thing on the 'net.  Some new anti-soldier hunter-killer missile by Lakeland Marlin.  Been getting a good rep by the way it can seriously ruin someone's day on the receiving end.   I bet the suits over at Lakeland cheer every time one goes off,” he said with a smile in his voice.  Like most young men, violence excited him.

Isaiah grunted.  “I think I can hear the applause from here.  It's only slightly drowned out by the weeping from the widows.”  Isaiah turned from the fight and walked back to his lounge chair.  He bent to grab his drink, straightened, took a long sip, and wiped the damp, cool glass across his forehead.  Now that the fan was no longer running, he was really feeling the heat of the midday sun.

Isaiah glanced at the sky.  In the distance, threatening cumulonimbus clouds were slowly approaching the city, promising both fury and relief.  Isaiah took another slug of rye and seltzer and stared into the whitewashed blue of the sky that was immediately overhead.  Far above, a long, thin cottony contrail betrayed the path of a lone airliner heading to parts unknown.  Not many could afford such a passage anymore, so probably a government charter flight to safer environs.   Big shots fleeing their handiwork in air conditioned luxury. 

Jimboy called from where he was still watching the fight.  “Looks like this will be another NatPop victory, don't you think?”

Isaiah was pulled from his reverie by the question.  He thought it over.  “NatPops.  Progs.  The outcome is the same.”  Isaiah returned to his lounger.

Jimboy began to fidget at the wall, a tell he had when he was wrestling with something he disagreed with.  Finally, he turned to Isaiah with a challenge.  “But how can you say that, prof?  The NatPops are fighting to empty the cesspool.  We all know the Progs just want to continue with their fat cat politics.”

Isaiah chuckled a bit.  “'Fat cat politics,' eh?  Let me ask you something.  Did you catch Seamus Flannigan's show last night?  The one he did live from Maximilien Stadium?”

“Sure did!  He was cool last night.  Really stuck it to the other side.”

“Did you see he has a new paid podcast debuting next month?” asked Isaiah.  “Called something like, Impractical....”

“...'Impractical Advice',” finished Jimboy for Isaiah.  “Yeah, I am so stoked for that!  Sounds like it is going to be friggin' awesome!”

“And only a hundred bucks for a year subscription; a yard of cash to listen to a guy spew his dime-a-dozen opinions, and during an economic collapse, no less.  At least Thomas Paine gave his pamphlets away for free during the Revolutionary War.”

Jimboy turned back to the fight, a thin bead of sweat running down the back of his neck.

“It's a con, kid.  A sad, sad con.  And you're the mark.”

Jimboy suddenly turned from the fight and stalked over to the inert HVAC unit next to Isaiah's lounger and sat on it.  Like much else in the Decline, the HVAC found a new, simpler purpose for its existence now that its more illustrious days had come to an end.  “Somebody's going to win.  Might as well be on the winning side.”

“Can't argue with that.”  Isaiah paused to take another sip of his highball; he could feel the rye working its magic.  “Problem is, we have one of those 'Heads I win, tails you lose' situations going on here.”  Isaiah glanced up into the blue sky again, willing to be far above the heat and hate of the summer.  “You know those IP things from Lakeland we got to see demonstrated a few moments ago?”

Jimboy nodded absentmindedly as he stared off into the distance, his red tee beginning to darken with expanding pools of sweat.

“Do you know who supplies weaponry to the Progs?”

Jimboy shifted his focus upon Isaiah and waited.

“Broad Energenics.”

Jimboy shrugged.  “And?”

“And Broad Energenics is the wholly-owned overseas subsidiary of...wait for it...Lakeland Marlin.  How's that for a kick in the pants?  They're supplying both sides!”  Isaiah chuckled sardonically.  “So, tell me:  how do you get on the winning side of that?  I mean, short of being a stockholder.  You own stock in either, Jimboy?”  Isaiah smirked when Jimboy didn't answer.

As if to underscore the point, a fresh series of detonations erupted from the fight.  Jimboy hurried to the wall to see what was going on.  “What's happening?  One of Lakeland's new toys?”  asked Isaiah from his lounger, tired disinterest coloring his voice.

Jimboy held a hand up to shade his eyes from the overhead sun.  “Part of the woods is now in flames.  Looks like something big exploded because the trees are all bent kinda funny around the burning area.”

Isaiah already was getting the first whiffs of smoldering oak.  It was a spicy smell.  The idea of the woods burning, of the flames adding their heat to the already hot day, made Isaiah's forehead bead with sweat.  He took another slug of rye and seltzer, and imagined once more he was sailing high up in the clear blue sky where it was cool and quiet; where trees didn't burn and people didn't die.

The rooftop access door squealed in protest as someone new joined their roost.  “Oh!” he heard a feminine voice exclaim.  “I guess I'm not the only one with this idea.”  A summery pink sundress fluttered past Isaiah.  He squinted to make out who it was.  “Professor Zak!  I see you came prepared,” she finished with a smile.

Isaiah hoisted his highball in salute from his lounger.  Peggy Franks, then.  Jimboy followed Isaiah, and Peggy followed Jimboy.  It was a type of ecosystem for the apartment complex; a food chain of camaraderie.  Nobody wanted to be alone anymore, especially now that so few tenants remained in the building.  “Welcome to the observation deck,” replied Isaiah with a wink and smile, the smile having to do with Peggy's continued inability to understand that his name wasn't “Issac” but “Isaiah.”  It amused him no end that she couldn't understand the difference.  People were funny that way, and that is what made them interesting, thought Isaiah.

“When the power went out,” she said in a flirtatious voice that she liked to use whenever Jimboy was around, “my apartment became stifling.  So, I decided to come up here for some air.  Guess you had the same idea.”

“Ya think?” said Jimboy with more than a little sarcasm.  “We could have decided to hang out in the boiler room instead.”

Peggy whirled to face Jimboy, the smile on her face wavering between mirth to apprehension; she ultimately decided on the former.   “Are you up here too, Jimmy?”

“Puh...lease,” was his only response.  Isaiah knew “Jimmy” secretly liked her attentions but wouldn't give her the satisfaction of letting her know it.  Just two wet behind the ears kids, kids who may make it to adulthood one day if the trees stopped burning and the days were allowed to grow cooler.

Peggy sidled up to Jimboy and began babbling about stuff Isaiah had no desire to hear.  Instead, he stood from his lounger and took a walk to the opposite side of the roof that faced towards the inner city. Rooftops of all sizes and descriptions spread out before him, some now lost in the shadow cast by the towering thunderheads.    He glanced at the sky and noted that the storm would soon be upon them.  Like a creeping vine, it had extended angry gray runners into the milky blue sky; an advanced guard reconnoitering the terrain and preparing for expansion, mused Isaiah.   A gust of wind whipped around him, for a brief moment making the heat relent in its choking embrace.  A bolt of lightning and a peal of thunder followed, reminding Isaiah of Tuchman's proverbial “guns of August.”  It wouldn't be long now.

Isaiah headed back to the opposite side of the roof, finishing off the last of his highball and folding his lounger and grabbing his fan as he passed.  He stood to Jimboy's right as Peggy was doing her best to eliminate any daylight between her and Jimboy's left.  Isaiah could see that a large portion of the woods were now engulfed by flames, the odor cloying.

“I think the fighting stopped.  Or maybe shifted,” opined Jimboy.

“Like vandals, having done sufficient damage, they flee the scene and leave others to do the cleanup.”  Isaiah rubbed his chin in thought.  “Assuming there is anyone left to do the cleanup.  Has anyone heard a fire engine recently?  Or did emergency services vacate as well?”

Peggy fanned herself with her hand.  “No, no, I am pretty sure I heard a siren a few nights ago.  And when I passed the firehouse on Highland, there seemed to be some life there.  I mean, the lights were on anyway.”

Isaiah turned his back to the flames and looked at the approaching storm again, now threatening imminent rain.  “Fire department or not, we he might catch a break this time as it looks like God is sending some help.”

Peggy and Jimboy turned to look.  “Gonna pour on us tonight,” said Jimboy.

“It's all such a shame.  Such a terrible, terrible shame,” mumbled Peggy.

“What are you going on about now?” asked Jimboy.

“When I was a girl, I mean a little girl,” a quick smile flashed across her freckled face, “things seemed, I don't know, happier.  Now...now everything is so sad.  Like a different world.”  She stared at her pink sneakers for a bit.  “Sometimes I feel like that girl from the Wizard of Ozland.   You know what I mean?”

Jimboy suddenly barked a laugh.  “It's 'The Wizard of Oz.'  Oz, not Ozland, you dumb broad.  Don't you know anything?”

“Don't ride her down, Jim,” snapped Isaiah.

Jimboy suddenly straightened, and for a moment Isaiah thought he might have a fight on his hand.  But the anger at being rebuked soon left Jimboy's face.  “Aww, she's knows I'm just teasing.  Don't you, Peg?”

Peggy's face went from uncertainty to being lit up by a smile.  “Oh, sure.  I know you were just kiddin',” she said to Jimboy.    “Don't you worry, Zak.  I know he was just kiddin',” she said to Isaiah while glancing at her sneakers.

An awkward silence descended, one only slightly disturbed by the swishing of Peggy's sundress as she nervously swung her hips from side to side.  Isaiah broke the mood by clearing his throat and said, “I know what you mean.  I understand, Peggy.  Things were different, so very different when I was your age.  This land was never utopia, of course – we had plenty of problems.  But there was a, um...,” Isaiah struggled for a few moments to find the right word, “...a contentment to be had, a gratefulness for what he had.”  He thought some more.  “But now...now life has dried up; the hope is gone.  There are no pure days of joy left.  The few bouts of happiness left to be found always seem to come mingled with equal parts grief.  Summer days and burning forests.”

“I think people stopped loving,”  Peggy added softly, then blushed by her vocalized realization.  Jimboy squeezed her shoulder and smiled, something that lit up her face.  “I think that is where things went wrong,” she finished quietly.

“I think you are right,” Isaiah answered while nodding.  “We stopped loving and started consuming.  I've heard it called 'frenetic intemperance.'  We devoured.  We conquered.  We mastered.  But we stopped loving, stopped cherishing,”  added Isaiah, smiling at Peggy's wisdom.

“How do we fix this mess?” asked Jimboy.

“'A higher pin cannot be set. Nor can you go back. You hadn’t even known the face was vertical,'” recited Isaiah.

“What kind of answer is that?” asked Jimboy.

Isaiah shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly.  “Just something I read a long time ago."

A loud crack of thunder made the rooftop trio startle.  Silvery drops of rain fell from the now darkened sky.  Isaiah took one last lungful of outdoor air, grabbed his folded lounger, fan and glass and ushered the others towards the access door.  “I think it might be time to pack up this soiree and head indoors.”

It rained that night, all night.  The fire in the woods sputtered and then went out, leaving a black scar across the landscape.