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Well folks, we're finally upon shouting distance of the end of this story. It's hard to believe the scenes and ideas I first envisioned years ago are finally out for everyone to read. Just a few more and we're done.
As always, a big shoutout to all of you who've stuck with me on this weird journey. Your comments and support have meant the world to me. As always, you can send your comments and feedback at: inaccesiblecardinal@protonmail.com
Thanks, and brace yourselves!
Additional Author’s Note:
I'm dedicating this story to the public domain, which means I'm waiving all my rights to this work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law.
You can copy, modify, distribute, and perform this work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking for my permission. For more information visit: creativecommons.org/publicdomain
Soundproof glass doors slide open. The puffs of pneumatic tubes and hum of medical machinery fill in the air.
An eighteen-year-old Ramesh steps into the milking stanchion, clipboard in hand. A sterile, antiseptic smell combined with sweat undertones and a whisp of boy-cum immediately hits his nostrils. A fragrance he once detested, now one he looks forward to.
It smells like power.
Before him, rows and rows of nude boys tied to high-tech ring-shaped rigs. Their legs and arms spread far apart like preadolescent Vitruvian men.
Virtual reality helmets secured to their heads. A spiderweb of tubes and electrodes connected to their twitching bodies. Both ends of their digestive system carefully monitored and tended for.
Their small and erect penises vibrate inside warm, lubricated sleeves. A red tube inserted into their urethras connects to a cooled, transparent container near each boy. Cloudy, white liquid slowly dripping in.
In this place, kids are little more than cattle. Prisoners of an orgasm-filled nightmare. Sustained by the cold embrace of technologies intended for BDSM community, for much more innocent purposes.
Some of these poor souls have been plugged in their rigs for days on end, trapped in a VR, porn-filled purgatory. The algorithm adapts to the boy’s fetiches, keeping them maximally aroused. Living, breathing, sperm producers for a world gone mad.
Ramesh weaves through the rows of ‘drones’ getting milked today. His pristine blue mono suit in stark contrast to the chrome and white surfaces of the stanchion. Clipboard in hand, he checks vitals and scribbles numbers for each boy’s yield. Data too important to be stored in digital media.
On the clipboard, he writes collected sperm milliliters up to the third decimal point. Instruments report each drop of boy cum contains less than a million spermatozoa. More than an adult man will produce for the rest of his life.
Sometimes, as Ram writes on his clipboard, the drone he inspects kicks and quivers as yet another orgasm thunders through his young body. The child’s grunts silenced by the mouth guard feeding him. When it happens, Ram doesn’t react. He simply erases the latest measurements and writes in the new number as fresh, cloudy droplets drip inside the glass container.
Then, an abrupt jolt in the mechanical symphony. Ramesh's keen eye catches sight of a drone in disarray on the other side of the stanchion, where the older milking rigs are.
He sighs and walks towards the commotion without a hurry. Some of these milking rigs are so ancient they need currency to operate. Such are the drawbacks of purchasing second-hand gear at a discount.
He finds a naked ten-year-old fighting and tugging against his restrains. His virtual reality helmet loose from a worn-out strap. The boy’s eyes wide with terror, panic etched across his face.
“You gotta calm down, kiddo,” Ram says in a thick Indian accent, his voice sharp yet comforting. “Otherwise, you’ll hurt yourself.”
“P-please! No more! I want out!” The young boy pleads in a thick accent, desperate. His feeding tube half-way out.
“Now there,” he reads from the clipboard. “’Férnan’. Take a deep breath and calm down.”
“I want OUT! TAKE ME OUT!”
“I know how you’re feeling. Everything will be alright.”
“You don’t know how I'm feeling! Is horrible! Pleaseee!” The boy starts to cry. “I don’t do anything to you! I don’t do anything to ANYONE! Please! You’re boy too. Let me go!”
Ramesh sighs, a touch of empathy in this mechanical world. He places a hand on Férnan’s bare shoulder.
"You’re right. You don’t deserve this. None of you do... But, you see," he looks around and whispers as if confiding a secret. “That’s the point. You think we need your sperm so badly? These rigs are expensive! And sperm counts only keep dropping each year,” he taps the transparent container with a teaspoon of Férnan’s cum. “Nowadays you need SIXTY of these to make ONE woman pregnant. In a few years we’ll need HUNDREDS per pregnancy. By 2100, it’s likely we'll be able to fill a whole water jug with nothing but boy cum and only find a few swimmers inside.”
Férnan seems confused. Ramesh smiles, anticipating the boy’s next question. A slimy, diabolical smile. As if proud of what he’s about to say.
“Then why are we doing this? Because the real money nowadays isn’t in milking boys who hit spermarche. It’s in preventing OTHER countries from milking their fertile boys. Selling your sperm is, how do you say…? The icing on the cake.”
The boy shakes his head, horrified. Any ray of hope in his young soul evaporating away.
"N-no! Please! I nothing to do with rebels or civil war! I'm just a kid!"
The eighteenth-year old nods.
"Hey, hey, children are always victims of conflict. Besides, in any other era, your enemies would be using good ol' genocide to accomplish the same goals. Nowadays,” he shrugs, “They hire us to place you and your countrymen ahead of the line towards extinction. I call that an improvement."
Then, with swift, expert motions, Ram plugs Férnan back into the machine. The boy doesn't fight back.
He sighs and makes a quick note on his clipboard.
A shady tattoo parlor at the edge of town.
Hand drawings of skulls, flames, and Pokemon hanging from the walls of the dimly lit establishment. Pegboards with gold and silver piercings in small sterile bags. A glass showcase with state-of-the-art body implants, most of them illegal. At the center, a retro barber-style chair.
"You got quite a mess in there my friend," the parlor’s owner muses. A grizzled old man with a white beard, mohawk, and rockstar aura. "But no worries, nothing we haven’t seen before. Your eyes will be blinking again in no time. And if you're in the mood, how 'bout a little ink to go with 'em? A treat for yourself." He signals at the drawings on the walls.
The twenty-year-old Ramesh sitting on the chair doesn’t respond. The skin of his temple held open like the hood of a car. The flesh inside pulsing with every heartbeat.
The old man cradles the young man's head in his arms, his hands steady despite the years etched into them. His soldering drill connects human and machine with confidence. His chat as relentless as the sound of his work tool.
“This is all clumsy work. It’s a wonder your head hasn’t melted yet. You sure you don’t want an update? I have some new babies on the back that are SICK! They scan the entire light spectrum. You can see through walls, infrared, night vision. We only need to switch your retinal sensors with-”
“No.”
The old man sighs but doesn’t insist. He removes the drill from inside Ram’s head and motions at his nine-year-old assistant waiting nearby. A freckled boy with a mop of messy hair and eyes full of curiosity.
“Go fetch me more soldering pins! And not the local brand, the Chinese ones!”
The boy nods and runs out the parlor.
"You shouldn’t let him be outside by himself," Ramesh says, somber. His eyes gazing at the ceiling. “He’s almost fertile.”
The old man chuckles. "The kid's fine. He can handle himself."
"That's what everyone thinks,” Ram’s eyes narrow. “People say they take precautions. But in reality, they behave as if bad things could never happen to them. That’s what makes the job so easy..."
The parlor’s owner frowns. "And what job is that?"
Ramesh doesn’t respond. Dark memories dancing across his eyes.
"If people were smart, if people REALLY cared, they would cut their boy’s balls the moment they’re born."
The tension in the room spikes. A terrible reality creeping in from the seams of their conversation.
But before the old man can react, his young assistant returns with the new soldering pins. The artisan snaps back to his task and, with practiced precision, completes the repair. He uses a tool with a nanobot-warning sticker attached to the side of it and seals the skin back into place.
Ramesh's irises flicker as the implant reboots. He moves his hands to confirm the interface works again.
"Thanks." He types in the air to make the payment. The injured Indian man limps out the tattoo parlor without a word.
Outside, crowds start to gather, heading downhill. Ram walks in the opposite way of where everyone else is heading. A lone, disheveled figure in the night.
“Find the White Whale,” he scoffs under his breath, disgusted by the words.
Back at the parlor, the young assistant runs to the door and shifts the sign to ‘CLOSED’. He turns to his mentor.
“Is almost time for the King’s speech! I’ll go watch it on the big screen at the beach!"
“Wait.” The old man commands, a hint of unease in his voice. “Stay inside. We’ll watch it from here."
"Birthday boy? What birthday b...? Oh right! That was our original cover story...! I mean! Yes! Miguel is alright! Kinda. He may be a vegetable already, we don’t know. We're going to pick him back right now... Well, Caro is."
Becks giggles and looks at Carolina and Samantha on the back of the yacht. The luxury vessel cruising at full speed over the dark surface of the ocean. The gibbous moon above lighting everything with an eerie, silver light.
The black girl's afro flutters in the hot, salty wind. Her combat outfit adorned with a variety of cute ribbons and stickers. She talks with a smartphone pressed to one ear. The other covered with a hand to hear her parents better.
"How much sex I’ve had? Uhhh, Some, yeah... No, no! It's alright. I'm starting to realize there's more to sex than how many times I cum. Like, just a few hours ago we were all eating out this one girl, and it was A-MAZING! I didn't even cum, but I didn't care! I'll tell you all the details if I surviv-, I mean! When I return!"
"Becks!?" Shouts Samantha. Rebecca waves back.
"Mom!? Mom! I got to go! Um! Tell Dad I love him! And, uh, I'm sorry I'm moody sometimes. I'm sorry I don't always clean my sex toys, and that I'm late with homework. Kiss Astrid and Arieli goodnight for me! I love you all guys SO much! I'm so happy you adopted me!" She rolls her eyes. "I'm fine mom! Don't worry! I'm having lots of fun!"
The twelve-year-old hangs up and walks to the back of the boat. She hands the phone back to Samantha dressed in similar military fatigues.
The blonde girl slides the phone inside a pocket in Caro's tight-fitting, white environmental suit. A combination of high-tech scuba gear and sexy astronaut costume. She hands the Asian girl a small red parachute and yells close to the earpiece in her ear.
"When I give you the signal, throw this behind you and brace yourself! Like this!" She crosses her arms in front of her chest. "The 'chute will absorb most of your speed! But be aware, it will hurt!"
Caro glances at the edge of the boat inches behind her heels. Water rushing underneath them at a breakneck speed.
“Can't we slow down!?" She yells.
Samantha shakes her head. "The Farm monitors all surface traffic! If we slow down, they'll suspect we know they're underneath!"
"And you've done this before!?"
Sam nods. "Yes! Many times!"
Her irises blink. The blonde girl taps Caro's shoulder and hands her a big spherical helmet.
"Put this on! And don't lose it! We're almost there! Wait for my signal and throw the 'chute behind you! Good luck!"
The eleven-year-old girl nods, unconvinced. Samantha moves away to let Rebecca hug her.
"Good luck finding prince charming!"
Carolina rolls her eyes. Becks giggles and walks away, leaving her alone at the edge of the boat.
The eleven-year-old puts the helmet on, twists it close, and gives a thumbs up.
Rebecca and Samantha raise their thumbs in response and retreat further out, closer to the yacht’s warmth. Sam raises a fist, readying her signal.
Becks elbows her. "Are you sure she'll be alright?"
The blonde thirteen-year-old shrugs. "Y-yeah."
"What you mean? Didn't you say you've done this before?"
"I have. But never while travelling this fast. Your friend is very brave."
Becks swoons. "She is. She's the coolest person I know," she bites her lip. "Can't wait to give her a strap-on and let her rail me silly."
Sam is about to say something when her irises flicker. She chops the air with her arm.
"NOW!"
Caro throws the parachute behind her and curls her body, bracing herself. The red parachute flutters in the wind and vanishes in the darkness behind the boat.
Nothing happens.
"Did you-? EEEEEEEEEEEEEH...!" she lets out a high-pitched scream and is yanked backwards as if snatched by a giant ghost hand. She too disappears into the night.
Becks and Sam run and press themselves against the railing on the back of the yacht, squinting their eyes. What little they can see under the moonlight looks awful. Repeated hits and bounces as Caro's body skips the water several times like a ragdoll. The two girls squirm from each painful hit. It all concludes with a big, loud splash at the end.
"Having a boyfriend is hard…" says Rebecca.
Silence. The sound of water slushing around the helmet.
"Hello...? Are you still alive?"
Bubbles and splashes. Carolina turns on the water and floats on her back feeling like she was run over by a truck. Her whole body hurts. There are parts of her she didn't even KNOW could hurt.
The yacht is long gone, not even the sound of its engines can be heard. She's alone and adrift in the middle of the Gulf. Hundreds of nautical miles away from land, let alone civilization. Space trash and a gibbous moon above her only company.
Almost.
"We got to get moving, the current is taking you off course," says Sam's voice inside her earpiece.
"I know, I know Sam. I just... Need a moment."
"I'm not Sam, don’t forget that. Call me Sung."
"Ok Sam."
The artificial intelligence scoffs. Caro turns on the water and swims following Sung's directions. The movement causing a renewed cascade of pain on all her joints. The eleven-year-old girl can only clench her teeth and endure it.
"Now dive. The Farm is right below us."
Caro nods. She takes a deep breath and plunges down.
"Why you took a breath? The recirculating system gives you air for hours."
"I-I know! It's just a reflex, ok? Are you going to be this assertive the whole time?"
"Only if you don't hurry up. Swim girl! Swim!"
Beneath her, the ocean stretches out like a vast obsidian abyss. Carolina tries not to dwell on the immense, fathomless depths below her. She knows there’s little life on the sea nowadays. Yet can’t shake the feeling of being observed by colossal, ravenous creatures somewhere in the inky blackness.
As she dives deeper, the water pressure against her body increases. And as it does, the smart fabric of her environmental suit fights it back. It's a weird feeling.
Sung sounds impatient. "Don't slow down! Keep going!"
Caro grunts, her breath heavy. “I know! I’m trying!”
“Are you tired? Think how you’re lucky to feel the burn of lactic acid on your arms. Some of us don’t even have arms.”
The girl doesn’t respond, annoyed by the AI’s sarcasm. Yet not a minute later, the blackness below her starts to dissipate. replaced by a pearly, flat desert spreading in all directions. It's surprising how shallow the ocean is around here.
“Are you sure we're in the right location? There's no submarine here.”
Sung seems confused by the question. Nervous even.
"What you mean? We're not even halfway there."
"Then why are we almost at the bottom?"
"Bottom!?" A pause. Sung’s voice blasts inside Caro's earpiece. "GO UP! GO UP!"
Caro stops swimming, confused. Yet has the odd feeling she keeps sinking at a fast pace. The seabed getting closer and closer.
Her stomach drops. She feels for a moment like an ant on the path of a speeding eighteen-wheeler.
"SHIT!"
She spins around and swims up, kicking her legs and arms in panic.
"Watch out!"
Something big and hard hits her from below. She stumbles on her back and feels herself propelled by a massive object. She watches in awe as the moon-lit, mirror-like ocean surface rushes towards her.
The Farm breaks out of the ocean. A colossal cruise submarine stretching almost a thousand feet in length and half as tall. Its surface a pristine, bone-white nanotube shell sculpted in smooth, organic contours, reminiscent of a fish. Originally meant to lure investors and tourists, the vessel now resembles a massive, pale monstrosity rising from the abyss. A vengeful god demanding the sacrifices of countless innocents to quell its primordial wrath.
When the ship finally stops moving the Asian girl stands up on trembling knees. She finds herself near a giant 'fin' on the back of the beast reaching almost a hundred feet in the air. An array of antennas with a green navigational beacon on the top.
"Climb that structure! Hurry! Before it drives back!"
Caro nods. She twists the spherical helmet open and secures it from a strap on the back of her environmental suit. She runs towards the giant fin, Sung points her to a ladder running along the edge.
"Not again..." the girl mutters.
"You're not afraid of heights, are you?"
"N-no, no! I can do this...!"
The tween girl climbs the fin with a nagging sense of déjà vu. By the halfway point of the seemingly endless ladder, her muscles burn again from the strain. She pushes on. Her gaze fixed on the green dot at the top of the tower. Trying to distract herself from thinking of what lies beneath her —or rather, what ISN'T below her —.
"Look!"
"I-I would rather not to!"
"They're deploying combat crew!"
Caro clenches the ladder rungs and dares to look around. Big mistake. The view is beyond dizzying.
Black, flat ocean spread in all directions. The Farm lurking underneath her like a ghostly, haunted island. The sense of vastness feels like a punch on the gut. If scale was a sound, it blared like a chainsaw.
Yet Sung is right. Giant doors have opened at the back of the submarine, a combat skiff emerging from within. Even from this distance, Caro can distinguish dozens of heavily armed mercenaries perched inside. Their weapons ready.
"It has begun. Sam's mom is sending all her forces to raid the boy's Sanctuary. That boat is probably just one of many."
"How many 'pirates' she has?"
"Based on the payrolls we sent to the journalist, enough to overthrow a small government."
The bay doors close. The entire structure vibrates under Caro's hands and feet.
"Better hurry! The Farm will dive back!"
The preteen girl nods. She resumes climbing the ladder as fast as her trembling limbs allow. And yet, her height above the water surface only seems to diminish with each step. The vessel is sinking!
"You should put your helmet back on. I don’t think we're not going to make it."
Carolina agrees. She holds herself from the rungs again and fiddles with the helmet hanging from her back.
Her fingers slip. She watches horrified as the helmet falls and plunges into the whirlpools of seawater below. Most of the submarine is already gone, the giant fin about to be swallowed.
"Whoops! Ok, NOW hurry up!"
Caro needs no further encouragement. She climbs the ladder at full speed, scared as hell. The submarine descending faster and faster under her toes and fingers. Almost making it easier to climb.
She finally reaches a metal balcony surrounding the tip of the fin. Some kind of maintenance catwalk lit under the beacon’s green light. Sung leads her to a semi spherical hatch on the floor.
"Twist it open! Before we plunge underwater!"
Bawling, Caro opens the hatch, jumps inside the airlock, and pulls the heavy door right as water rushes against it, slamming it against her hands. She twists the handle and closes the leaking seal. A red light turns green.
The girl’s heart beats like a jackhammer. Sweat drips off her nose. She feels about to puke.
Sung sounds excited. "Well... That was fun!"
"NO! IT WASN'T!" the girl sobs. "I just want to go home..."
“Motherfucker!”
Ramesh turns the ignition key one more time. The gas engine rattles, throttles up, and promptly dies.
The twenty-year-old sighs and rests his head on the console. The purple speedboat still moored to the pier. The tacky, Christian/Mesoamerican motifs airbrushed on the boat’s ‘beak’ shining under the moonlight.
Further away, Ram sees people gathering around a big, inflatable projection screen. On other boats and yachts around him, people do the same. The whole world seems to be gathering around their devices and screens, waiting for the broadcast to start.
All except for him.
He tries the ignition once again. Between his bare feet, empty beer bottles swing about. The sound of glass hitting glass combined with his drunken state tugging his brain over and over to a certain moment back in time…
A thud, followed by the sound of glass bottles rolling across the floor of the milking stanchion. An eighteen-year-old Ramesh looks up from his clipboard.
“What now?”
He walks toward the source of the sound behind a metal workbench, peeks under the table, and feels his heart leap into his throat.
There, sprawled on the cold, sterile tiles, lies The Boss dressed a blue mono suit. Her body immobile.
He kneels beside the skinny old woman fearing the worst, panic tightening his chest like a vise. For the first time in his life, Ram doesn’t know what to do. It’s a horrible sensation.
He taps his temples summoning the interface of his eye implants. Yet his finger movements are imprecise. Rather than the communication App, his tear-soaked vision gets flooded with the sensationalist headlines he read while on the bathroom. Something about a shuttle who disintegrated upon reentry.
He waves the interface away. The Boss’s upper body cradled in his muscular arms. He screams.
“H-HELP! Somebody! HEEELP!”
“F’uk sake… Shut up…” the seventy-something slurs.
A pause, then relief washes over Ram as he realizes the Boss is not lifeless, just highly inebriated. Only then he also notices the empty Corona bottles surrounding them. Silent witnesses of her intoxicated state.
The Boss grabs one of the bottles, reads the label, and scoffs.
“Sixty million dead and the bastards changed the name back…”
She turns and nestles in the eighteen-year-old’s arms, for a moment looking like a little girl.
“He was one of the last ones, you know…?” She babbles, as if unaware of Ram’s presence. “He was scared… It was the first time I saw fear in his eyes. He couldn’t talk, not with the breathing tubes around him. But I saw it. Saw him realize it was real…”
Ram’s composure gradually returns. He brushes tears off his eyes.
“Come on, let’s get you back to your cabin before someone sees you.”
The old woman grumbles, too comfy on his lap.
“What a moron… He outlives eleven and a half Presidents, two wars, an armed insurrection, and falls dead in six hours from a fake virus everybody already forgot about.” She imitates a man’s voice. “Don’t worry kiddo! Just make sure these woke doctors don’t inject me with 5G! Ok?” she laughs, then starts to cry. “Oh daddy… You dumb, STUPID moron…!”
With great care, Ram helps the Boss regain her footing, dodging beer bottles like an obstacle course. They leave the milking stanchion, zigzagging between the labyrinthic corridors of the Farm. Careful to avoid other crewmembers.
All the while, the Boss keeps on mumbling.
“Men aren’t going extinct... Men already WENT extinct! And HE was the last of them…!”
“Yeah, yeah, he sounds impressive. Is that what this is? You got drunk to mourn your beloved father?"
The Boss scoffs. "Only Democrats get drunk when they’re sad! Me? I’m celebrating! We’re going to find HIM!"
Ramesh frowns. It’s obvious the alcohol is making her talk nonsense.
“Sure, sure we will. We’ll find your papa.”
“No, you ding-dong! Not him! The other one! The one they just announced on the news!”
They finally reach the captain’s quarters. A large, yet unassuming room full of nautical decorations and old photographs. The air conditioner set at near-freezing temperatures. Ramesh eases the Boss onto her small bed and turns to leave, grateful this bizarre adventure is over.
But then, she grabs his arm and pulls him close with surprising strength. Her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
“We'll find him! The first REAL man in over fifty years! He'll make us richer than God! More powerful than taxes!”
“What are you talking abou-?”
“The White Whale! The hunt has begun. And WE’LL be the ones to find it!” She declares with drunken determination. “But SHHH! It's a secret. No one needs to know. Not yet..." Her voice slurs as she falls asleep. "Find the white whale… Secret…"
“Y-yeah. Sure,” he removes her hand. “Get some sleep.”
He walks away throwing concerned looks back as he exits her quarters. The Boss still mumbling under her booze-induced reverie.
"We're going home… Back to ‘Merica, baby!"
The gas engine spurts, gaggles, and roars back to life. Ramesh raises his fists.
“FUCKING finally!”
He jumps out the speedboat and hurries to unmoor it. Then sits back on the pilot’s seat and taps the air with a finger.
His eyes blinking fast as he opens maps to chart a winding path towards Antarctica. It will be a long journey, but he can’t wait to leave this cursed continent.
He stops, his expression shifts. His face one of conflicting thoughts and motivations. As if both tempted and tortured by a big decision.
If one were to study the images reflected on his irises, one would notice a blinking notification in one of his maps.
A red dot on the Gulf.
Ram’s hand on the steering wheel clenches hard, his knuckles white. He slams the wheel.
"God dammit!”
He slams the throttle and accelerates.
“Richer than God. More powerful than taxes…” he mutters to himself, driving out the dock and into the open ocean. The repeating mantra keeping him awake and sober. “MORE POWERFUL THAN TAXES!”
Carolina exits a wardrobe and closes the door behind her.
"This feels dumb."
"Says the one with actual hips. Now get moving!"
The preteen girl obeys. She wears a blue mono with a stuffed bra to make her look older. Luckily for her, most of the working adult population is female. Meaning it's not uncommon to meet coworkers the height of a child. On her head, Miguel's red MAGA hat hides the ugly bruise on her forehead.
Caro walks in a hurry, uneased by the contrast of her colorful outfit against the white, stark industrial vibe of the submarine. Yet after crossing paths with the all-female crew in near identical outfits, she realizes Sung was right. This was the perfect disguise.
"Which way?" she whispers.
"Shh! Write with your fingers when we're not alone!" says Sung in her earpiece.
Carolina sighs but complies. She navigates the labyrinthic insides of the Farm following the AI’s instructions. Once a ship for sleepy cruises, now a disturbing combination of prison ward, sleepy office, and border town sweatshop, all compressed into one. Steel bars, armed guards and barbed wire living alongside coffee machines, conveyor belts, smelly solvents, and OSHA signs.
"Stop ogling everything you see! This is all supposed to be old news for you!"
The tween girl nods yet is unable to comply with Sung's request. Everywhere she looks, something outrageous makes her stop on her tracks:
Rows of nude boys leaning against a concrete wall with their hands in the air. A crewmate in a hazmat suit power washing them.
A call center with rows of nude boys wearing glasses sitting on plastic chairs masturbating. All while helping bots from all over the world troubleshoot obscure social and technical challenges. The kind machines are unable to solve by themselves.
A makeshift arena where two naked boys fight with each other. Female crewmates cheering them on as if witnessing a cock fight.
Crews of kids assembling a giant, pale humanoid android. Their small hands braiding artificial muscles one at a time. As if Lilliputians performed surgery on an alien Gulliver.
Adorned cabins for live sex shows. Some with only one boy masturbating for the camera. But most consisting of several deadpanned kids engaged in acrobatic orgies. All led by crewmates yelling at them like animal handlers.
Communal prison cells so shock full of bodies the kid's small arms and legs poke out the bars like a big, flesh-colored porcupine.
Armed guards patrolling rooms full of preteens operating sewing machines. Despite decades of advancement in robotics, clothing remained an elusive challenge for automation. And a very lucrative one.
On this last one, one of the nude boys sewing a child-sized work boot glances at Caro and does a double take.
"Meteor?" he mutters, following her with his eyes. He elbows the naked tween working next to him and whispers on his ear. Soon enough a murmur spreads through the whole work area.
Carolina makes another turn. Sung's voice leading her every move.
"Open that door! The left one."
The girl obeys. Inside, a simple office with a desk, an old computer, and a box full of colorful keycards, like a valet parking.
"Now, follow my instructions to the letter. This is a very, VERY important part of the mission!"
"Y-yeah. Okay."
She turns the computer on and types in a password. Then opens custom-made apps with dull interfaces and inputs information between them. It’s all dry, corporate, head spinning lingo the middle-schooler can't begin to understand. Without Sung's help, Carolina wouldn't even know where to start.
"Now, paste the authorization code back on the previous window, the one we minimized... Yes, just like that... Now click 'CONNECT'!"
Caro stops. Something about the way Sung gave that last command rubbing her the wrong way. It was almost... Triumphant. As if clicking that button was the end of their mission.
"How's all this going to lead us to Miguel?"
"It's essential. Click 'CONNECT'!"
The mouse cursor hovers over the green icon. The tween girl frowns and moves it away.
"What are you doing? Click the button!"
"First explain how this helps me find my boyfriend."
The artificial intelligence doesn't respond. Caro breathes deep and moves the cursor over the "CANCEL" icon.
"FINE! It doesn't! He’s at the milking stanchion on the other side of the ship. But forget about him for a moment! We’re about to get crazy rich! Play along, and I can add your name to the trust fund. How does 5% sounds?"
"Trust fund?"
"Ugh! We don’t have time to explain! Look, I mirrored the code inside the peanut flash drive. Sam was too busy having sex with you guys to notice. It's a single use blockchain instruction to specify who can access the Farm’s massive fortune. Ramesh tried to make himself the sole beneficiary, but with some fiddling, I put my name instead!"
"Your name? But you're a bot! You can't own money."
"That's where you're wrong! I'm Samantha, remember? There's no difference between her and me as far as the blockchain is concerned. If that girl wants to live like a ghost, so be it. But that doesn't mean I want it too! Help me get hold of this money and you can score a 3% cut!" A pause. "Don't you get it? We're talking billions of dollars!"
"N-no! This is all blood money. Made from kidnapping and exploiting boys!"
"Duh! Which is why we're STEALING IT! And this may very well be our last chance! Have you even been paying attention around you? Have you been following the news!? Everything is about to go down! Sam's mom is about to lose it! She’ll be in so much trouble once the Crescent Califate realiz-"
Silence.
Carolina turns the smartphone off and pockets it. Her mom was right, AI’s are evil!
She turns the computer off and takes a deep breath. She just wants this to be over. To go back home and sleep with Miguel. She doesn’t even care for sex at this point. Cuddling with him sounds great enough. It's the only thing she can think of.
The preteen turns to leave when something on the valet-parking-box catches her eye.
Caliph Mohammed Abdulaziz al-Qurashi —known simply as ‘King Abdulaziz’ — , steps in front of the camera.
Unlike his previous speeches framed against incredible views of the Crescent Califate’s Moon Castle, today she speaks from inside a simple studio room. Warm lights, bookshelves, plants. A wooden coffee table in front of him, a Persian cat purring behind. The scene is calming and inviting. as if beckoning the viewer for a casual conversation amongst friends.
As always, the middle-aged man is nobility made flesh. A sharp face, perfectly trimmed beard, curly hair with whisps of grey. Deep, intense eyes that seem to stare into one's soul. An aura of regality not even his simple robes can diminish. As if he was unable to look anything other than majestic at all times.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Esteemed friends on Earth and beyond. You have my deepest gratitude for all the prayers and support you've extended to me in these trying times. Please, forgive me if I haven't had the chance to personally acknowledge each of your messages,” he rubs an eye. “I’m afraid sleep has eluded me lately.”
Abdulaziz’s voice is both silk and silver. Reassuring, commanding. Inspiring. The man could read from a dictionary for hours and not a single person watching would yawn. A unique, almost supernatural ability to make everything he says seem utterly, disarmingly fascinating.
The effect is immediate. Crowds watch the speech all around the world inside bars, plazas, and famous landmarks. Eyes transfixed on the gorgeous man projected over giant screens. For many, he’s a joke. A fraud. But for most, he represents the last bastion of hope for the future. Humanity’s last chance at survival on the long term.
Whole families gather around their TV's —either real or augmented —, listening in silence. Machinery and forklifts sit idle inside countless factories and construction sites. Their operators occupied watching the speech on their phones, glasses, or implants. Even on the combat skiffs navigating towards the Sanctuary, the Boss’s mercenaries perch over one another to listen the King speak.
Other than the World Cup, it’s the most viewed broadcast on the planet. Humanity watches intently as the regent of the Crescent Califate produces a small, rusty object from within his robes and places it on an empty saucer in front of him. The camera follows.
"This, my friends, is a 1/4-inch ASME hexagonal nut grade 6.8. It was made on June 15th, 2015, in Shenzhen, China, flown amongst thousand others to Hawthorne, California —in what was formerly known as the ‘United States’ —, where it was assembled with insufficient torque into a fairing assembly which sat quietly on a warehouse for years.”
The King grabs the deformed nut.
“Then, on February 6th, 2018, this nut was launched into space. There, it got loose, separated from the rocket, and circled our Sun for 58 years. Then, two years ago, it finally found its way back home..."
His expression darkens. The small object turning between his fingers.
“And a second before re-entering the atmosphere, it hit the control circuit of a passenger shuttle passing by.”
Gasps around the world. People glance at each other, wide eyed. Those who have been following the story immediately realize what this means. It’s the conclusion to a media frenzy that ebbed and raised in intensity for over two years. An endless fountain of drama, gossip, twists and turns, controversies, and conflict reaching all levels of society. Now reaching its final crescendo.
For those following the story of course. For everyone else, all this made little sense.
Abdulaziz deposits the metal item back on the saucer. The camera refocuses on his face. His expression indescribable.
“My wife’s shuttle reentered the atmosphere shortly after. Only it did so at a steeper angle, outside its optimal parameters,” a pause. His gaze lost in the distance. “There were no survivors.”
A small office behind a blast door. The Boss, dressed in a pristine red military uniform lined with medals and decorations, opens a metal cabinet.
Inside, a water jug full of a white, cloudy liquid. Above it, a pistol rack.
She pockets one of the guns and looks around, searching for something. She finally remembers where she left it and drops her shoulders. She buzzes her adjunct.
“Anita, get your fat ass over here.”
No response.
"Anita?"
She grabs her cane and exits her office. Outside, all crewmembers are watching the speech. A chubby girl with rainbow hair amongst them.
The Boss is about to yell something when she sighs and limps away.
What a bunch of sheeple! Does she have to do everything around here herself!?
The King leans forward, fingers touching.
“This conclusion by the international committee brought great relief to my heart. It provides answers in the wake of unspeakable tragedy that still rests fresh in our hearts. Yet let me be clear: I do not blame this humble nut for the loss of my family. Rather, the responsibility lies with us all. On humanity as a whole.”
He points at the nut.
“For you see, this isn’t the only ghost from our past circling the planet. You may be wondering what would have happened had this nut missed Alma’s shuttle. It was, after all, a one in a billionth chance.”
“But if you can do me a small favor, ask instead why she was there in the first place? Why was Alma travelling to the ruins of Greater America in a humanitarian mission, bringing my children alongside her?”
Behind one of the screens projecting the speech, Samantha’s body double emerges from between a pile of bodies. The girl’s dress torn and wrinkled, her hairdo and makeup a complete mess.
“Wait! I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be doing this! I mean, I haven’t received Sung's instructions in a while. What if she-?”
“Forget about her!” the Nigerian teen grumbles and kisses her. The blonde girl resists at first but succumbs. She rejoins the teenage orgy happening behind the King’s giant face. A massive silent crowd on the other side.
“I remember I implored her not to go. But Alma’s heart was too great. Her love for the poor and dispossessed stronger than graphene. She didn’t travel to your planet out of her own volition. Its horrors sucked her in.”
A makeshift antenna pointing at the gibbous moon. More specifically, the green dot under its south pole.
Boys in various stages of undress gather around a bullet-ridden wall where the King’s face is being projected. The youngest kids load ammo into magazines. The oldest load sandbags and dig trenches. Their work slow from everyone multitasking to hear the speech.
“How it looks?” asks Samantha perched over a paper map of the amusement park. The cartoonish map peppered with small rocks signaling defensive positions.
Father Santiago removes his fogged-up glasses and rubs his face. The young man looks exhausted.
“Could be worse. Wish we had more time... We’ll give them hell, that much is sure.”
Sam grimaces and walks away. On her way she scolds Rebecca for flirting with the oldest boys and reminds her to help with the sandbags.
A small, adorable nude kid approaches the Afghani priest. His chin resting on the edge of the table.
“Are we going to die Father?”
Santiago smiles. He rustles the kid’s head.
“Don’t worry, everyone will die. The world is ending, remember?”
“But… What happens after that?”
He shrugs. A reassuring smile on his face.
“Who knows? But I can promise you one thing. We’ll find out, together.”
He taps the boy’s nose. He giggles.
Carolina’s heartbeat spikes. The milking stanchion is right ahead. She looks around, confirms everyone is busy watching the speech, and starts running.
She presses herself against the bulletproof glass around the stanchion and suppresses a scream. She can see Miguel from here, held spread-eagle inside a horrifying machine. He’s the only boy being milked.
An alarm blares without notice from speakers on the ceiling. A bot speaks.
ALL CREW, PREPARE FOR SURFACING.
The floor underneath vibrates. A gentle pressure like that of an elevator. Caro sidesteps around the glass chamber until she finds a set of sliding glass doors. A sensor with a red light the only way to access.
She produces a white keycard with a ‘STANCHION’ legend scribbled across it. She waves it in front of the sensor.
The light turns green. The hermetic doors slide open.
“Moreover, why did her shuttle reenter Earth’s atmosphere from the South, over the Gulf of Mexico, and not from the North, where the danger of space debris is lower? Would my kids be alive today if not for China’s petty squabbles around their airspace?”
Caro rushes inside the soundproof room. A stinging, putrid smell immediately hits her nostrils. She forces herself to ignore it and runs towards Miguel tied to an old milking rig. A commercial device not nearly as pristine and modern as the rest.
Nonetheless, the sight is striking. Tubes, electrodes, and whizzing machinery surround the boy's nude body. His ankles and wrists held wide apart with heavy clamps.
Without a clear place to start, Caro pulls and thugs at everything, disconnecting wires and nozzles wherever she sees one. When she removes the vibrating sleeve around Miguel's penis the device trashes in her fingers like an angry critter. She screams and throws it away.
Next, she pulls the red tube inserted into his urethra and discovers it's much longer than expected. It reminded her of a magician pulling an endless string of colored handkerchiefs out of a hat. Miguel jolts when the long tube is finally out.
She turns the ring holding the boy until his body stands vertical. His face at the same height as hers. She fiddles with the heavy metal clamps around his wrists but finds there's no way to open them. They appear to be remotely controlled.
She pushes the VR helmet off to reveal the boy’s face. Miguel is dizzy and sweaty, red marks around his eyes from the helmet.
Their eyes meet. He smiles.
“So, you want to be my novia?”
Caro laughs, tears in her eyes. She holds his head and kisses him.
“No.”
The boy’s face flashes with surprise. Then, resignation.
“Oh…”
“I can’t be your novia. I don’t think I want to be a girl anymore," she giggles." But I can be your novio if that's okay with you.”
Miguel’s face brightens up.
“Oh! Ok. Cool!”
They laugh, then kiss again. A tender, long kiss amidst countrless cold, efficient machines of torture.
“Would we still enjoy Alma’s smile hadn't the company who printed the nozzles of her ejection seat cut their quality checks to save a few pesos? Would a HUMAN pilot found a way to land her shuttle using the spark of ingenuity and wit not even our most advanced AI can imitate?”
Caro tugs the metal cuffs, the only thing keeping Miguel in place.
“Shit! You know how to open these darn things?”
Miguel shakes his head. He motions at the console connected to his milking rig.
“Over there! They put some kind of chips inside.”
Caro stands in front of the control panel featuring a dirty touchscreen and taps buttons at random. The interface is old and antiquated. It seems the device came for some kind of kinky swinger club.
“I-I don’t know how to… Oh…!” her eyes grow wide. On screen, a sample of the porn Miguel was being fed to before she arrived. It seemed the software adapted to his fetiches VERY quickly. She eyes the glass container collecting his sperm but finds it empty. It seems not even this algorithm was able to make him cum.
She shakes her head. Her hands roam over the console until she finds a vertical hole, the kind you sometimes see in old vending machines. A coin slot! Wait, why would this machine need money to…? Never mind.
A few button presses later and she finds what she’s looking for. On screen, a request to introduce 1.25 dollars to release the subject. Exact change only.
“I-I got it! But we need money! Coins!”
Miguel scoffs. “Coins!? Like, real coins!?”
The alarm blares again, startling them both.
ATTENTION ALL NON-COMBAT CREW. SILENT RUN WILL ENGAGE AFTER NEXT DIVE. THIS IS THE LAST CALL. FIBER OPTIC LINK DISCONECTION IMMINENT. BON VOYAGE.
Caro babbles. "W-what does that mean!?"
"I-I think it means the sub will go underwater and won't resurface for a long time. I heard people saying they're heading south. To Africa or something."
Panicking, Caro turns on her heels. Surely there must be some kind of drawer or basket with physical money to operate the…
She stops. Her head tilts. This is beyond weird.
The Trump plushie stares back at her from atop a metal workbench.
Whatever! She’ll take it!
She grabs the toy and opens the flap under his butt. The coins Abuelita gave her bounce on the tiled floor.
“I got them! I got them!”
“For real!?”
The girl’s trembling hands introduce the ancient currency one at a time. The dollar amount shrinks.
$1.10
$0.65
$0.40
“Almost there!”
$0.30
$0.05
“Imagine if cargo ships still cruised the Earth's oceans. Would THEY have found my children's life raft? We will never know how long they managed to survive on the open ocean. The inefficiency and corruption of the bot bureaucracies prevented the truth from emerging. Two years after the crash, their bodies are yet to be found.”
Jumping in excitement, Caro inserts the last silver coin. It runs through the mechanism and falls on a metal tray at the bottom. The dollar number remains unchanged.
She introduces the coin again. Same result.
“Shit!”
“What? What’s happening?”
"It's not working!" The girl tries again and again. “Shit! Shit! SHIT…!”
A shadow over Miguel's face.
“Leave it! I have terrible luck with machines. Get out of here!"
"I'm not leaving you!" She walks around the rig and tries to open the metal jaws holding his wrists, to no avail. "There must be a way to...!"
"There's no time! Go!"
She grows angry. "NO! I'm not losing you again! Not after everything I went to find you!"
The boy smiles. "Caro… Look at you! You snuck inside a GIANT nuclear submarine to save me! You're like… A superhero from one of those old movies we watch! You found me once, you'll find me again."
Caro screams as she keeps yanking the cuffs. Her fingers slip and she almost falls on her butt.
She breaks into tears, overwhelmed. She approaches Miguel and kisses him.
"I'm sorry...!"
The boy nods.
"Don't be. This isn't a goodbye. It's an hasta luego. Ok?"
She nods.
“Ok. I’ll find you again. I promise.”
“It's easy to call this nut a killer. But I say it had thousands, nay, MILLIONS of co-conspirators.”
The King’s head drops. He lets out a heavy sigh.
“And yes. I, too, put myself amongst them. Had I lingered a few moments longer to kiss Alma goodbye, her departure would have been delayed for a few seconds. I keep wondering if that would have been enough to steer her shuttle away from the nut’s fatal path… One kiss, and my family would still be alive.”
The bot's voice booms again.
LAST CALL TO ALL NON-COMBAT CREW.
The Asian girl reluctantly steps away. The tips of her fingers tracing Miguel's smooth chest, struggling to unglue from him.
He seems to remember something. "Oh! But before you go, do me a favor!"
"Yeah?"
"Kick me in the balls."
Caro skips a beat. "WHAT!?"
"Kick me in the balls! As hard as you can!”
“N-no!”
“Please! They'll take off this machine if I’m not fertile."
She remembers something horrible.
"No! They'll kill you! They showed me a video where they shot a boy for trying the same thing!"
Miguel scoffs. "I saw that video. The blood that comes out the boy's head is a preset. It's fake! I laughed when they showed it to us, and it got them mad. It's why they sent me to work at the brothel."
"But...!"
"Hurry! Just do it!" He looks down at his still-erect penis. "Imagine you're scoring a penalty hit! Kick me and get out of here!"
He closes his eyes, readying for unimaginable pain. His body tensing in anticipation.
“A few days ago, what was in my youth the most powerful and prosperous country in the world turned 300 years old. What would have happened had THEY built and piloted Alma's shuttle? How would things be different had the minds and hands who built the Twentieth century hadn't whittled away from war, famine, and decay during the Twenty-First?”
“Yes, a nut killed my wife and kids. But they weren't any safer the second BEFORE it struck their ship at orbital speeds. The arrow of their fate was taught before they woke up that day, and WE were all pulling on the string.”
He grabs the nut.
“For it takes a pebble to bring a spaceship down, but it takes an entire planet to kill the Queen of Earth.”
Something warm and soft envelopes the head of Miguel’s boy cock. He gasps and opens his eyes.
Caro is kneeling below him, his hairless penis buried inside her mouth.
"What are youuuuaahh...? Aaaaaah! AAAAAAH!"
He cums. The suddenness of her fellatio combined with his inability to move his limbs ripping an orgasm out of his young body like a car crash. He trashes his hips forwards. His skinny legs quivering from the unexpected pleasure spike.
Despite the extraordinary circumstances, it was one of the best orgasms of his life.
The Asian girl greedily sucks him dry. Only a few drops come out this time compared to his massive load while on Samantha's bedroom.
She grabs the cooled glass container and spits the sperm inside. She closes the lid.
"I'm taking this,” Caro cleans her mouth with the back of her hand and smiles. “For when we have babies."
Miguel nods, heaving.
"Good idea... Now kick me... Before the afterglow runs out."
The girl nods, mortified. She swings her leg backwards readying her penalty kick. Eyes locked on the boy's testies hanging between his held-apart legs. A pair of small, innocent bystanders, unaware of what's coming to them.
"There you are," the Boss mutters and grabs the Trump plushie from the floor.
A pause. The two kids stare wide-eyed at the old woman with a cane who stares back at them, just as surprised.
"Kick me!" Miguel shouts. Caro nods.
The Boss draws her pistol as fast as a gunslinger and shoots.
“Today I implore each one of you. People of Earth. HUMANS of the Solar System, to reflect on the seemingly insignificant choices you make each day. These decisions, like the kiss I failed to give my wife that day, ripple through time and space, altering destinies.”
A deafening gunshot. Caro's red MAGA hat flies off.
The girl screams, hysterical, and stumbles back. She touches her head but finds she's uninjured. It's unclear whether the old woman missed or purposefully aimed at her hat.
"Step away from the drone," the Boss hisses placing herself in front of Miguel. The gun aimed at the tween girl. "Wait... I know you! You were one of the sluts in Sam's yacht!"
Miguel fights against his restraints.
"Run Caro! Get away!"
The Boss barks over her shoulder. "SHUT UP!"
It's her chance! Caro launches herself against the skinny septuagenarian. Her palms leading the way, aiming for a tackle.
Yet the Boss anticipates her attack and sidesteps out of her way, kicking her with the cane as she passes.
The Asian tween stumbles and lands face down on the floor. Her earpiece flies off.
"Pathetic! First rule of warfare my dear: If your enemy opens themselves for attack, it's a trap. Now stay put!"
Gun pointing at the intruder, the Boss scans her surroundings. It's obvious what was happening here, and it makes her feel sick.
"Is that it!? You snuck all the way down here to rescue a drone? What? Is he your boyfriend?" She spits. "Color me impressed for going through so much trouble! I bet you thought your puppy love would be enough to pull this off. You imagined yourselves riding into the sunset holding hands like two cute lovebirds. Well guess what!? This is real life, and that NEVER HAPPENS!"
The Boss’s grip on the pistol tightens, her face twisting into itself. She had to hop on the next skiff to lead a major military operation and instead here she was, dealing with stupid children! She didn't have time for this bullshit!
Caro turns on the floor and looks at Miguel. Both the kid's faces ones of despair. Almost saying goodbye to one another.
“What small, seemingly inconsequential decisions, will you take today? Choices that, unbeknownst to you, will steer your loved ones away from disaster?”
“How can you stop the slow fading of the light that has characterized this century, and turn it, bit by bit, into a shining beacon of hope that illuminates the next?”
The Boss kneels with the aid of her cane, picks a coin from the floor, and slides it inside the milking rig.
"Can't you distinguish a nickel from a quarter? Kids these days are useless!"
Miguel's cuffs pop open. The naked boy falls out the device and pools on the floor.
Caro rushes to his side and helps him stand up. They throw a confused look at the old woman in military uniform.
The Boss shrugs. Gun still pointing at them.
"What can I say? Life isn't a movie, but I'm a sucker for that soppy shit. You think you're the first girl doing something incredibly stupid over a pretty face?" She taps the Lindell's medal of honor on her lap. "Now, GET THE HELL OFF MY SHIP!"
The two kids jolt and scutter away.
Alone once again, the Boss holsters the gun and picks the Trump plushie from the floor.
She chuckles, incredulous by what she just did. There was no doubt, she was getting soft. She shakes her head and turns to leave.
Her cane hits something on the floor. A glass container with a few drops of boy cum.
“Is that not the legacy Alma would have wanted? Would her heart not swell with joy to see you dreaming of ways to make the XXII century, the Greatest in human history?”
“That, my friends, is what will allow me find peace in the stillness of the night. I know you won’t disappoint me. For I believed in Alma, and she believed in you all. Always.”
“Thank you, and may the stars guide your path."
"Goodnight.”
A mad rush.
Caro and Miguel sprint from corner to corner. One kid looks both ways to make sure the coast is clear and runs across before waving the other to follow. It's a maddening slow process.
"How much time we have left?"
Another alarm blares, answering their question.
ATTENTION. ALL OPERATIVES HAVE BEEN DEPLOYED. SILENT RUN ENGAGED.
They move faster, jumping behind crewmates and armed guards too distracted talking about the speech to notice the flesh-colored smudge bolting past them.
"Wait! We forgot our environmental suits!"
"Where are they?"
"Shit! I left them on the other side."
Miguel yanks Caro's hand. "No time!"
The floor underneath them vibrates. It doesn't sound like a good sign. They run holding hands up a spiral staircase that narrows and narrows as they ascend the giant 'fin' atop the Farm. The stair transforms into a narrow ladder near the tip, leading to an airlock.
Metal screeches and warm, salty air. The semi spherical hatch pops open, revealing the gibbous moon above.
The two preteens climb out the airlock. They find themselves atop the maintenance catwalk around the tip of the fin. The navigational beacon above paints everything green.
The good news is that they made it! They hug and yell in relief.
The bad news is that the ocean is still dozens of feet below and moving faster and faster. The submarine slowly diving while accelerating at full power.
Worst still, Miguel is still naked, and they don't have a life vest or anything else that floats. The dark horizon flat and empty in all directions.
Caro produces Sam's smartphone and turns it on. It immediately rings from an incoming call.
"Hello!? Sung!? We need help! We...!"
A boy with a French accent on the other side.
"Hellou? Can you hear me? Are you the dame who rescued me?"
Caro shakes her head. This day was beyond bizarre.
"YOU!? H-how did you find me?"
"Later Mon Chum! First tell me! Have you found your garçon? Have you found Miguel?"
"Y-yeah, I did! He's right here!"
The Quebecoise boy is aghast. "Calisse! GET AWAY from him! You hear me? Get away! Miguel is not the garçon you think he is! He-!"
The call disconnects. Sung's drowsy voice replaces him.
"Sorry about that, takes a while to boot up. What did I miss? Where are we?"
Caro's head is spinning, this is too much. She steadies herself from the metal railing around the catwalk and yelps. The ocean surface is creeping closer and closer.
"We're out! I got Miguel! But we don't have our suits! What do we do!?"
"Geez Louise. You do love getting into trouble. Hold on," a pause. "Try hailing the civilian boat moving parallel to you. On your left."
"Boat!? What boa-!?"
Caro turns and almost drops the phone. Almost 400 yards away, the purple speedboat bobs up and down. Its gas engine struggling to keep up with the Farm's nuclear-powered muscle. The pilot waving frantically at them.
"JUMP, DAMNIT!" Ramesh screams amidst the crash of waves.
Caro is ecstatic. She grabs Miguel's hand and runs around the catwalk to the back of the giant fin. The maintenance balcony ends on a thick pole holding the green beacon. She sits on the railing and beckons the naked boy to jump over.
He pulls back, scared. "Wait! It's too tall!"
Caro laughs. But then looks down and realizes the distance to the water has increased.
She grabs both of Miguel's hands.
"It will hurt! But only for a while! I promise, we'll be alright!"
He nods, fearful.
Lit under the harsh green light, both preteens step on the railing. They balance themselves over the beacon holding hands.
Below them, a speeding river roaring at full force.
"And after that?"
"Uh?"
"After we return home. Will we be alright?"
The girl doesn't respond. Everything she witnessed so far crosses her mind.
Boys treated as slaves and cattle. The all-powerful tools of capitalism wielded against the most vulnerable without check or restraint. Systems designed to squeeze the last drop of value out of them with pharmaceutical precision.
Above all, she remembers the piercing smell inside the milking stanchion. She couldn't shake the feeling that she would smell it again. Perhaps not today nor tomorrow, but soon. Certain terrors cannot be escaped. They lurk in the distance, watching. Forever.
Caro tightens her grip on Miguel's hand. In the distance, Ram keeps waving at them to hurry.
"We jump on three ok!? One...! Two...!"
The purple speedboat vanishes behind a curtain of water impacts. A heavy rifle firing from the other end of the catwalk.
Caro and Miguel scream and cower on the floor. Ram's boat spirals out of control and stops dead on the water.
"Fuck!" yells the female soldier operating the machine gun. Her eyes blinking nonstop from an implant malfunction.
The Boss rolls her eyes and snatches the weapon.
"Give me that!"
She steadies the automatic rifle with expert hands. Ramesh’s face framed inside the telescoping lens. She smirks.
"I KNEW that backstabbing faggot wouldn't die so easily!" She throws the gun back at the mercenary. She points at her adjunct. "Put Lieutenant Garcia and Sergeant Montenegro in the brig! The crew needs to learn that when I order someone get shot, I FUCKING MEAN IT!"
The adjunct nods and walks away. Flanked by two giant guards, the Boss limps along the catwalk around the fin. Her red military uniform pristine. Her face impassible.
They stop a few feet away from the two scared kids hugging on the floor.
"I'm sorry..." Caro whispers close to Miguel's ear.
He shakes his head. No apologies were necessary.
"G-get away from him!" She yells shielding him with her body.
The two soldiers hit their heels and stand firm, like on a military parade. They kneel with their rifles on the floor.
The Boss kneels as well, albeit with more difficulty.
"My most sincere apologies, prince Yusuf Ibrahim al-Qurashi! We didn't recognize you!"
Even under the beacon’s green light, its obvious color has faded out of Miguel's face. His eyes popping.
Caro’s jaw hangs loose. She holds the boy by the shoulders.
"Prince!?"
"Your Father will be rejoiced of learning about your whereabouts. He's been most upset since the accident," the Boss continues. "Your Majesty's memory may not have healed completely. I myself have a hard time believing you're real. But the evidence is undeniable! Your royal sperm contains over 300 million spermatozoa per milliliter. No man has been so fertile since the 1950's. Should he choose to, your Majesty could singlehandedly repopulate the whole Solar System, and beyond."
The Boss can't contain a smile escape her lips.
"But don't despair your Majesty. You're here with us. Safe, at last…"
To be continued…
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