May Writing Contest

Each month we hold a writing contest for our members, by our members. Writers are given parameters, such as a word count and/or a prompt. Entries are judged and discussed blindly. For May, writers had to write a dystopian story with a ray of hope in 1,000 words or less.

The Best People

by Chris Vannes

“Fuck yeah! It’s happening,” said Travis. For the sixth time.

He drummed his hands impatiently on the laser-cut steel railing of the control room

balcony, oblivious to the iron oxide now staining his palms and shirt-front. Barely two months in the island’s sea air and it was already rusting.

Hooray for climate change, forty degrees C in April and a billion percent humidity. I said we should paint those. Ana kept this thought to herself.

Below them, a study in asymmetry. On their right: the Empyrean, a hundred meters of

swooping carbon-fibre hull topped with a streamlined deckhouse and towering wingsails. She quivered at the wharf like a bird longing for flight. Dozens of passengers clustered at the near rail and filed down the gangway, clad in specially-commissioned olive-and-mango uniforms. From Patagonia, of course. The air filled with their chatter.

Like awkward flightless birds. Birds with Stanford and MIT PhD’s. Plus three Nobels.

On their left: the coastal trader Kolkata III, eighty meters of peeling paint and WW2

vintage Bengali iron. She bobbed placidly in the bay’s gentle surf, a wispy plume of smoke rising from her diesel engine. Burly men in faded overalls shuffled up the ramp.

“Run through the checklist,” said Travis absently. For the fourth time.

Ana didn’t even glance at the tablet dangling from her right hand.

“Freshwater and cooling systems, check. Solar and wind generation, check. Battery farm at seventy-nine percent, engineer says we can get eighty-two. Non-perishable food supplies, two years, check. Livestock all here and thriving.”

Travis waved his hand impatiently. “Yeah, yeah. What about the cool stuff?”

“Anti-ship and drone defense buoys will go live once the Kolkata clears the kill zone.

Nuke plant on schedule for next month, then the hydroponics and AI cluster can start up.

CRISPR lab started two weeks ago. IT infrastructure is all in place, cloud storage is online. The school—” Travis cleared his throat and Ana corrected herself, “—the Genius Factory is just waiting for students. Classes start—”

“What. The. Fuck!” interrupted Travis.

“Sir?”

He pointed at the Empyrean. “The fuck is that? The wheelchair. Who invited a cripple?”

Ana swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “That’s...that’s my daughter. Neena. You said

we could—”

“I did?” He frowned, shook his head. “OK, but the wheelchair? She, like, break her leg

playing soccer or ballet or some shit?”

“No, sir. She has a, a condition. From birth.”

Travis wheeled on her. “Jesus, Ana, really? How many times have I told you? This is a

system, to ride out the collapse of civilization. A precisely calibrated one. We only have room for the best people. The best genetic material. Grade-A talent. No freeloaders.”

“Freeloaders, Travis?” she retorted hotly. “This project was a year behind schedule when I showed up. And getting worse! Could you have made it another year? The jihadis will control the entire coast by spring. Some good a half-built compound would have been then.”

He showed her his rust-stained palms. “All right, calm down, Ana. You’re awesome. I

was just surprised.” He looked hurt.

Sometimes I forget how young he is. “If you want me to stay, she stays,” Ana said firmly.

She took a deep breath. “Besides, it’s not genetic. An infection during my pregnancy. One of

those bacterial epidemics in the Third Drought.”

He looked doubtful. “So if she’s stuck in a chair, is she, like, a savant? Like Stephen

Hawking or something?”

“She’s six years old, asshole. I love her, that’s enough. And she stays.”

But Travis had already moved on. “Fine. Let’s go greet our genius refugees. You have my welcome speech, right?”

Brilliant sunlight cast stark shadows from the shipping containers littering the wharf.

Travis donned his Vuitton shades and wiped his shaved head with one hand, leaving a trail of rust over his ear.

“These stairs right here, sir. You can give your speech from this container.” The olive-

and-mango flock was still some distance away. Ana took another deep breath. “A couple of questions, sir?”

“Hit me.”

“Our, uh, new community,” she gestured at the flock. “Do they have enough practical

skills to keep the island running? Shouldn’t we keep some of the laborers, at least for awhile?”

“Not a chance, Ana. I told you, we’ve run the simulations. All those brilliant minds can

certainly figure out the sewage plant and the cafeteria. And there’s so much genetic variation anyway; for the next couple generations we’ll get some duds. Some kids who are best suited to staff the watchtowers or drive the forklifts or whatever. We can track the genetics for whenever we need laborers.”

“Wait. So, like, breed different classes of people?”

“Don’t get all prissy on me, Ana,” he frowned. “It’s like you and me. I’m the one with the vision for the future, and the math for the simulations. And you, you keep track of all the

checklists and shit. It works.”

Yeah. Being immature is not the problem here.

With an effort she kept her voice neutral. “If you say so, sir.” She lifted the tablet, swiped at it. Hesitated. Then double-tapped a command.

Twenty seconds later: “Hey, what the fuck? What’s going on?” exclaimed Travis.

She followed his gaze. The burly laborers had reversed direction, were now flowing off

the Kolkata carrying bags of rice, bushels of fruit, and dark-skinned children. The genius flock was hemmed in by a half-dozen armed locals. “Change of plans, Travis. They’re all staying. We’re going to need people that know how to build things. And I don’t mean Powerpoint slides.”

He faced her incredulously. Focused on the snub-nosed revolver in her hand. “You can’t do this. This is my island! My vision!”

“It’s done. We’ll let the PhDs stay too, if they want.” She smiled wolfishly. “But not you.

I just decided: you’re leaving. On your ridiculous yacht. Today.”

“Why, for fuck’s sake?” he raged. “You need me!”

“Honestly? We don’t want the best people, Travis. We want good ones.”