In the cities, every material thing was bent by the wind.
On the frontiers, not zombies, but real starving humans, wielding guns and bombs worth less than bread. The ones society had rejected. Caught in the dust and rain storms. Homeless, addicts, freaks, the elderly. Psychos, morons, communist utopians. Everyone who did not fit the form of the State.
Child soldiers were always on the front lines. Garrison armies guaranteed no protection.
Some were ruthless orphans with nothing to live for but the next day. Some ate bread and whispered ideas of revolution.
"Too sentimental," thought Clay. His eyes glanced up at those glaring down, his eyes on his editor, silently reading his work.
"You need more statistics," he said. "No one is going to believe this bullshit," in between sips of swirling coffee.
"Anyway, it's not even about children. Maybe our grandchildren."
The editor laughed and spat and stood up in his office. He walked past Clay down the dim, damp halls. Cameras were everywhere.
He felt sorry for Clay. These stories were never published, but he could pass it off as science fiction. There is no penalty without truth. The lives he was responsible for-- the lives that have lost meaning, and cling to fantasy, they only wanted good media. If you lived in the lens of the State you had nothing to be paranoid about, because you were monitored forever. Outside the cities, well...
Clay felt the cold in the room, like all the excitement had been extinguished from his life.
The editor crept back into his office.
"What history, what land, and some people were forced to leave it all behind!" said Clay. And how do you know?
"Outside the walls, well..."
There weren't even walls, just geo-spatial monitoring systems. You could be looked up by international sensors immediately. You could be looked at.
A percentage in a program. Eliminated by estimation. Clay had gone on for several minutes now, but he was no longer interested. This idiot had been living with them.
"There were very few illegal migrants this year," said Clay. "I think they're worried about, you know, crazies. I think the public has a right to know."
The editor knew better. The threat of airborne disease was the source of that frontier paranoia. Pretty much everything but that was licensed by the bigs.
This story could fly, if he kept out the crazy noise. Even if most of it was true, he had a hundred robots to churn out more lies. The editor sat down and told Clay not to worry, stories like this always fall through the cracks.
