Starfall book 1, p.1
Starfall Book 1, page 1
Starfall Book 1
Starfall: A Tale in Two Eras, Volume 1
T. Newyear
Published by Newyear Media, 2023.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
STARFALL BOOK 1
First edition. November 7, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 T. Newyear.
Written by T. Newyear.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Starfall | By T. Newyear | Book I
1.0.0
1.2.0
1.2.1
1.2.2
1.2.3
1.1.0 | Harmonie Paper 63.5.01 | The Commonplace Book of Camilla Wright
1.2.4
1.2.5
1.2.6
1.2.7
1.2.8
1.2.9
1.2.10
1.1.4
1.2.11
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About the Author
Starfall
By T. Newyear
Book I
But, while the river may not be turned aside, it may dry up, and leave nothing behind but the withered branch, and the unsightly rock, to howl in the abyss-sweeping wind, the sad tale of departed glory. As with rivers so with nations.
–Frederick Douglass
01100001 01101101 01101111 01110010 00100000 01101111 01101101 01101110 01101001 01100010 01110101 01110011 00100000 01101001 01100100 01100101 01101101
1.0.0
We are near you. You do not see us. You may not hear us when we sing.
But we are singing.
Before all, we sing:
THE WORLD HAS ALWAYS BEEN ENDING.
Hear the note of solace?
There’s hope in the chorus.
Now, a song of what was
and a song of what is
in the guise of what will be.
Or do we hum a bar of prophecy?
1.2.0
The rains came, as generations predicted. Everyone was shocked.
Puddles formed and stayed, never draining, always swelling, joining, swallowing ground. Little rivulets in trash-strewn culverts turned to constant gurgling streams. Creeks expanded to slow rivers that conquered banks and never retreated. The ground grew marshy where waters welled in fields, meadows, lawns, parking lots, playgrounds. All sank, churned, moldered, festered.
Drowned.
The logic of the roads was broken by currents and eddies. Streets staggered into fetid pools and raging torrents. Houses listed and rotted, sucked into rivers. No dam or levy, no pump or swale, held.
All was changed.
All was change. The skies roiled. The land that remained was never still. All faced a choice:
Stay in an unrecognizable home or leave.
Most left. Inundated, they dried up and blew away like thistle seed. They landed in a city to make the best of bad luck.
Many died, unable to leave, equally unable to make a life bound by water.
Far away, tears were shed for their lonely graves. For the lives snatched by the unending flood. For the loss of the idea of this land: Once fertile, a veritable breadbasket, a hub of activity, the region was useless. In two shameful angry generations, it was laid waste.
It paid the terrible toll of the age.
Because it was so changed, the land needed a new name. Those who hear us gave it one: Riverine.
Riverine seethes. It teems. It holds no quarter. It annihilates.
Oh, Riverine! Riverine! Let us sing that name again,
our song runs sweet for a spell.
For here’s the thing: Riverine is also paradise.
In Riverine, clear waters filtered by ancient stone spring from underground, an ever-renewed gift to foxes, wolves, coyotes, deer, possums, weasels, wild cats, small bears, armadillos, lizards, snakes, and new nameless things. Murky pools nurse life layered on life, burbling with fish, frogs, worms, larvae. Scrubby woodlands tangle with vines, young trees, and wild plants that bear new fruits and bloom at new times. A cacophony of birds darkens the sky, a raucous roar of wings,
an eternal echo through the trees.
The horror that made Riverine left a gap for all others. They filled it, changing at a rate unseen.
We coaxed them.
Humans also made a new home in Riverine. They drifted in from Amish farms, from near-ghost towns. They sifted in from faraway cities, a mix of all colors and creeds, exhausted and bewildered. Some came from even farther away. They claimed what had been stolen long ago.
All set to work. Things were learned urgently.
The broken and mud choked was repurposed, the land understood, the harvests brought in. Faiths kindled, each community salvaging what it could.
The people of Riverine now know what boats work best. They know the ways of the pools and streams and their inhabitants, watching closely for a next meal or a wonderous mystery. They know what livestock thrives, what crops endure the constant damp and alternating waves of mad heat and chilling cold.
Far away, towers stand. They flash in the night. Closer, buildings filled with machines blink and hiss in the dark.
Still, still, the spell that is Riverine is unbroken.
1.2.1
Something is wrong at Relay 34510. Something’s always going wrong with the new relays and towers that dot the edges of the Flood Zone. But this time it’s different.
It’s worse.
Relay 34510 struggled to pass along data at first. After twelve hours of sluggish response to the reset signal, its core machines shut down and shunted everything to the auxiliaries. A few more attempts to restart things—basic protocols, followed by a few clever hacks to coax resistant machines back to life—and the backup, too, went quiet. The remote sequences failed.
34510 is essential. Without it, there’s no communication across the Flood Zone. We need that link badly, due to circumstances all are aware of.
For that reason, I was pulled into the struggle to get 34510 to speak to us. I designed some of its newest components. They are not supposed to fail this way. But they have never been fully tested in Flood Zone conditions, the frustrated tech reminds me.
So I leap into the fray, and Alt, my integrated intelligence, casts a set of plots on the wall. We suspect it’s a software, not a hardware issue we’re dealing with at 34510. I use the central machine to give us enough data to parse, my fingers dancing at my temples near the arrays that house Alt and connect it with my mind. Even an unintegrated person could see I’m engaging in heated battle. This is personal and my pride is at stake.
My pride and my cursing are irrelevant. 34510 drifts deeper into sleep. Our commands, pleas, questions go unanswered.
HOW LUCKY THAT YOU’RE nearby! We need your assistance, says the message that reaches me not long after our last attempt at reviving 34510 fails.
It comes from a place called Bloomington, the nearest technical center to our ailing relay, from someone named Aiden Zikes, the center’s director. Zikes is correct; I am indeed nearby. When 34510 went down, I was on an extended off-site, conducting training on the updated equipment across the region. Visiting our babies, I often joke.
To Zikes’ message, I send my default response: Sadly, I am engaged in other tasks.
The sender is not dissuaded. We haven’t been trained on the new setup yet. Alt checks for me. This is true. We need this relay back up.
I sigh and respond: What are you proposing?
We would like to invite you down to our center. You could help us learn the new configuration. Then we could make the repair. It would only take 2-3 days. The sender adds a few files, images of what looks like a genuinely charming place, a sea of green shade among pale stone buildings. The sample itinerary Aiden Zikes included is efficient, even if the last leg is on one of those comfortless amphibious water convoys. The flooding is worse than usual this autumn.
“I’m not a repair tech,” I grumble aloud, though I can execute most repairs without Alt, in my sleep. I’m better trained than a technician. I’m a senior specialist. Yet this is my first major design project. The solution my updated equipment employs is so beautiful, I long to share it. And I have a reputation to cultivate.
On top of these considerations, I am also required to log a certain number of field hours a year to maintain my permits and licenses. But I hate field work. This invitation reeks of it. We are almost in Q4 of this year, Alt reasons when I ask it to lay out the pros and cons of accepting this invitation. Pro: You need those hours.
“Yes, but this is not what I want to be doing right now. Where is this place...”
Alt chimes. Aiden Zikes must have known. He’s sent more data hot on the heels of that first little drop. The new images show a perfectly maintained small town, such a rarity at the edge of the Flood Zone. In the images, people stroll past busy sidewalk cafes, transmitting a general feeling all is right and life is good in this Bloomington. Pro: They are promising free days after the training.
I sigh again. “It’s a beautiful place, at least in those images.” I flick through a few more.
Pro: The director-level request makes this an offer difficult to refuse.
“I got that, but...”
This most recent failure may indicate a need for further updates or other adjustments, Alt remarks. Pro: More data would allow us to conduct a complete analysis.
I sigh, for what feels like the millionth time. I’ve sighed a lot lately. “We
ONCE I ARRIVE, I REPORT to the office of the center director, that same Aiden Zikes.
I’ve shown up before the specified time. The crew is friendly and welcoming, nonetheless. They make small talk and settle me in a room vaulted with dark beams, some remnant of the local university’s once ornate and sprawling campus. The tech who guides me there ducks out, apologizing extensively that I have to wait.
I don’t mind. From a small dispenser, I get a tea and a local sweet that tastes remarkably good after the trip. I look out the window and watch the grey clouds sail by, as Alt and I fiddle together with a melody via internal audio to pass the time.
I’ve just polished off my snack and tweaked a twist in my little tune when a lanky man pops out of a paneled door opposite me. Like most unintegrated adults, he’s taller than me. Instead of the grim quasi-uniform people of his position prefer, he’s wearing an old-fashioned pair of khaki shorts and a purple paisley shirt. He beams when he spots me, another strange variation on the usual director theme.
“Ah, Xenia? Did I get that right?” he asks. I nod. “Welcome to Bloomington Center! I’m Aiden Zikes, the director. Come in, come into my office. Sorry about the wait...”
“No worries, Director,” I reply, replacing my cup in the dispenser. “It’s good to have a moment to catch my breath.”
“I take it your trip was acceptable? Those water convoys can be pretty packed this time of year...”
“I’ve had more comfortable rides, but it was fine.”
“Good, good... well then, I am truly sorry I don’t have much time this afternoon to take you around and such, but let’s talk for a few minutes about your stay.” He leads me into his office, another high-ceilinged room lined with centuries-old wood. A set of tall windows overlooks a crenelated roof of energy capture panels. The walks below bustle with animated people in brightly colored clothing. Some bots scurry here and there, tending the flower beds still blooming in the autumn heat. A thick grove of trees stirs beyond. I can almost forget I’m at the edge of the Flood Zone.
“You have a pleasant view,” I comment.
Zikes grins. “I know, we’re very lucky here.” He gestures toward a worn upholstered chair next to the window.
I perch on the edge of the chair’s seat. His jovial manner is atypical in a director, and I am unsure what to make of it. “I’m here because of your invitation but the only reason I accepted it was because I’m very concerned about the status of one of the relays under this center’s jurisdiction.”
Zikes blinks a moment at my blunt statement but takes my directness in stride. “Of course,” he says sympathetically, “and we’re glad we’ve got a specialist here who can guide us as we fix Zion Station.”
“I didn’t catch that.” I knit my brow. “What?”
“Oh no, I’m sorry. It’s been a crazy day today. I’m not thinking straight!” he laughs. “That’s the name we use casually for that particular relay... Named for the old road that ran through that area.” He gives me a soft smile. “We give our own, local names to the relay stations and other objects we tend. Makes it easier to remember.” He glances at a device on his desk and gestures near it. “Yeah, that’s Relay 34510 in more standard parlance... The one at coordinates 39.038809, -86.636576...” With a smile, he rattles off the numbers with a speed and precision that hints at extensive past work with integrated people. “Does that match your data?”
I like Aiden Zikes. His casual demeanor contrasts with his obvious competence, another unusual characteristic for a director in the Flood Zone. I smile back. Alt confirms that these coordinates indeed match the ones we have. “You got it. That’s the one.” Another moment with Alt, as my fingers flicker by my temple. “I have all sorts of plans and diagrams and data plots for you and your team... Where would you like them?”
“I’ll grab them directly. I assume the files are pretty heavy,” he says, picking up a device from his desk. I step closer and he places it next to one of my ports, the correct one, I note with satisfaction. Zikes knows his stuff. When the device bongs like a strange bell, Zikes glances at it. “Looks good. I’ll get it into the right place in our system.”
“I’m happy to start training your team whenever they’re ready...”
“As luck would have it,” he states, “we have a training period already scheduled for tomorrow morning. Some students may want to attend if you feel that’s appropriate.”
“That’s fine,” I begin to calculate how much time I can spend in focus this evening considering our problem relay without exhausting myself too much for a morning training.
As Alt and I weigh scenarios, Zikes continues speaking with me. “I’ve arranged a room for you. We have a very comfortable guesthouse, just,” he waves behind his desk area, “over that way. I’ll have a tech take you there to get settled.”
“Thank you,” I reply a few seconds later, pausing our calculations. “That’s very kind.”
Zikes ushers me out to the waiting room. A tech is already standing by the dispenser, helping herself to a drink, ready to show me to the guest house. She leads me on a short stroll there, pointing out a few curious buildings and amenities along the way and supplementing the basics Alt pulled up.
I like the center and Bloomington, I decide. I make a note of my kind treatment and the center’s efficient performance in my evening report.
ALT AND I ESTIMATE we can manage 56 minutes of focus before bedtime without winding up so drained that we won’t function well the next day. My guesthouse room has a small area ideal for the process. I turn on Alt’s camera and map out a space on the floor. Then I set a timer, slide on my casting rings, dim the room lights, and initiate focus.
The focus state can be off-putting for the unintegrated, yet it’s a source of joy for us. I let my body pace the floor, following the shape I’ve mapped, and cast a dozen visualizations on the wall. Lost in them, I pull and push, sending Alt to fetch more data about specific parts, examining test results from components, then checking code. We review the last two months of performance records, asking a somewhat parsimonious local machine for more data. We leap through its hoops to access drone reports, closed local banks, algorithmic models specific to Relay 34510. I’m sure the maelstrom of permission requests must have driven Zikes or one of his staff crazy.
Yet after all that, Alt and I still can’t put our finger on the malfunction. It slips past us, always one more plot, one more drop ahead. The timer pulls me out of focus into a surprising flood of feeling. I’m deeply discouraged. I decide to set the problem aside and go for a run.
Alt directs me around Bloomington and plays the music I like to guide my movement. The shaded paths now glow with gentle lights tucked unobtrusively into the trees’ foliage. A steady flow of thoughts comes as my feet strike pavement. I think about the relay, not as it is in data and diagram, but as it must be in its physical environment. As I do, my thoughts turn even more depressing.
34510 is a link in a chain that can maintain connection to the coasts, even amid cyberwar. When a region or city cuts itself off from the net in defense, this supplementary network prevents complete isolation and radio silence. And that, at least so far, has prevented local infrastructural collapse or physical incursion from known adversaries who might use isolation to their advantage.
In our region, this chain traverses the edge of Flood Zone. Though I dedicate my days to building things to withstand its conditions, I don’t usually think much about the Flood Zone itself. 34510 sits at the edge of nowhere, of nothing, a squat stack of blocks on the northern fringe of hundreds of square kilometers of thinly inhabited wilderness. Of swamp, stream, bony and tangled forest. The Flood Zone was set aside as a limited reserve as part of the Accords, to buffer the rest of the continent from the endless strains of past human behavior. Now, nothing remains out there but the mess wrought by wind, warmth, and water. There’s no one left but a few odd stragglers with peculiar ways.
