Occupy Venus

A Story by kealan

A science-fictional rainfall metaphor.

Occupy Venus

A winter wind skims along the treeline as the quick cuts of voices croak and clutter, filling Kissinger Square with bustling, burly noises. Journalists roam around scoffing with protesters as a fresh chorus pipes up in the distance.

Everyone is wearing their standard attire for this part of this world: goggles and caps and rainers to keep out the drooling, gloomy sky.

There are no Orderlies yet, the atmosphere is relatively innocent. There is no sign yet of the disarray that is later to come. Playful music rustles relentlessly high above the heads of the crowd. The crowd itself is made up mostly of workers from Tier 3 unhappy (but not outraged, not yet), about conditions in the lower tiers. In fact, a lot of the attendees aren't even sure about their own motives for participating; they heard of a mass gathering involving chants and cameras, and were attracted by the coverage rather than the actual purpose of the protest.

Very few know the fully distilled cause for this unrest: The rain.

The endless stream of rain is an ongoing threat to this entire province of the planet.

And, it seems, the people of the lower Tiers 'have nobody to blame but themselves.'

The mainstream newspapers never neglect to mention that it was the people's choice to accept the deal -regardless of how disadvantageous �" for a better life on an Exo-Terran world.

And now the rain falls forever.

The designated province of Ubig, known to the locals as 'The Basin' is now the sole depository for all the rain on the entire planet of Venus. Without this subtle but monumental instance of terraforming back in the first days of colonisation, there would be no civilization here (so the governments says), so this sacrifice is not only permanent; it's unavoidable.

If you are born in the Basin, that's to say from Tiers 1 to 4, then you are brought up being told that the rain is your sacrifice, that the hardship of prolonged climactic intrusion into every day life is necessary to keep the system going….that without The Basin, the colossal green house effects that was Venus' defining characteristic in all the years before colonisation, would return, and the society built here would unfasten at the seams.

And a lot of government members have toed this line for so long that they've started to believe it themselves.

However, those in power know full well, and have since the very beginning, that this condition is unnecessary, obsolete even.

But in their minds, there are valid reasons to continue the illusion.

And so the illusion persists.

A fresh surge of sound blisters above the centre of the city. The leers of locals bark out rhymes and rhetorics, most concerning the clear inequality of living conditions for those in the lower tiers. The few Orderlies that have been tasked to observe the event are standing around in pairs chatting and laughing among themselves with no reservations whatsoever toward the display before them. The march of the crowd has stopped and now the field of people have settled in Kissinger square to band together in their cries of fury. The hazel sun is glazing dimly through the torrents of thick clouds shedding sheaths of faint light down on the spectacle.

Among the crowd is Vicky Morgan and a bunch of her friends including Shay, her boyfriend of three years. Despite being together for so long, this will be the first rally they ever attended together. Out of the two, Vicky is by far the more idealogical, and has been going to events like this since they began a few months back.

Before they had started to pop up around the globe Vicky often stated her surprise at how a system such as this could have survived for so long with so little interference.

And now that a level of unrest has been established �" no matter how small �" her spirit, and the spirits of numerous others, have been lifted considerably. The excitement in her tone is obvious even if you didn't see the glow on her face. Shay, however, is not as ecstatic about the whole thing. To him it's more of an ordeal than an opportunity; he only agreed to come because less than three weeks ago they found out they were pregnant, so his decision to tag along this time is out of concern more than anything. There's been no casualties at all since the protests came around, but still, he'd rather be here, just in case.

A well known song from the charts back on Earth begins to ripple in the distance as the gatherers sing along with their alternatives lyrics condemning the climatist oppression of the masses, and the detour in wording springs many smiles along the vast basket of faces.

The group have just found a spot outside a closed shop that once sold cleaning accessories for an older generation Bio-Net, and are stood around on the curbside chattering with others as the waves of rain fall loose and lazy through the air in thrifts of white mist.

Vicky and Shay have taken a seat on the curb , enjoying the rare break in the rain, sitting, trying to locate the pin of the sun through the soup of the sky. Shay guzzles down a good gulp of fizzy orange, passes it over. The blaze of people are comfortable in the heat, more like holidaymakers than disgruntled citizens. When she hands back over the bottle, Vicky's gaze is slashing through the crowd, and her reactive expression is indignant.

“This is some f*****g statement,” she says and her fire-blue eyes dart to Shay. Despite spending his entire life in The Basin, where blue eyes are condemned by their comparison to the rain, he's always had a weakness for those eyes. Intelligent. Fierce. And yet soft, and relentlessly affectionate. Coupled with the intensity of her wisdom and vigour of views, the mere presence of her in his life is like a third lung or second heart; proof of a superior mental and physical state.

“Would you prefer a few beatings?” he says jokingly. The joke is lost on Vic as she plummets the distant hills of the city with it's countless buildings weaving in and out of the soaring skyline. She says, “I've seen some of these people crying.....f*****g crying, because of where we live,” her lips thin with a grimace, “and the fuckheads on Dalman Street let us have a few hours of sunshine, and then we're all sent back the our tiny, s****y tiers, and they return to their peace and light.” The anger comes quick, manifests quick; she yells, “What the f**k's your problem?”

It's so abrupt a few of the surrounding people jolt slightly, including Shay, who is sat on the curb right beside her. After the startling, he giggles instinctively, but he can see her mind wandering at the scene before her, the disdain shining from her eyes, the subtle �" probably accidental �" shaking of her head, and the slight sighs from her sweet mouth.

“What would you prefer?” he asks. She pauses with casual pondering, then with a vacant mutter, says, “I probably wouldn't know it if I saw it.”

On the last word a sudden cheer from afar sounds out followed by awkward wails and quivers. Something is happening over there, something big enough to grow moans in all directions. Heads turn, people stretch and peek above others, and an irate middle age man with worn features roars out abuse as if prompted by an unseen force.

Vicky has risen, trying to see what's happening, but they're positioned a good hundred feet from the action. Going by the tuts and hisses in the distance she assumes, correctly, that some episode of violence has occurred. At this early stage in the movement �" nobody is even calling it a 'movement' yet �" even this little instance of conflict unsettles the more passive paraders.

Two separate news jets come whizzing along the murky green Venusian sky with their silent beams focused on an area at the centre of the mass. The commotion is increasing; the chants are turning to screams; smiles gored to grimaces.

Something serious is about to happen.

“I really need to see what's going on” she says, breathless.

But they both know she's going nowhere near a place with the potential for combat. They've spent the last two days arguing over Vicky's participation in the march. Not that Shay is possessive or anything. In fact, he's the most passive man Vicky's ever known, and she finds his laid back attitude charming, despite her life-long preference toward ambitious, politically-minded men. But on this topic he's adamant. Attending a protest so soon after finding out they're going to have their first child, has given them fuel for a thousand debates.

However, Vicky can argue. Vicky could persuade the sun to go green if she wanted. Her debating skills are unrivalled by anyone either of them know.

So they had come to a compromise, and here they remain on the outskirts of the main circle of action. But now she's getting restless. Not just because she wants to know what's going on, but because she's built up a fairly substantial reputation as an outspoken, articulate member of the opposition, and is afraid her absence at the epicentre of happenings will degrade her reputation.

“Just for a minute,” she says, and Shay snorts like she's joking. When he sees her stern response he can't believe it.

“You have to be messing.”

“Look, if anything starts happening, I'll leave straight away.”

It's yesterday morning all over again: him arguing that if something breaks out there might not be a safe route out of it. Her reminding him there there's been dozens of protests on a range of subjects and there's never been a single injury,

“It's not the f*****g 2060's,” she says grinning winningly, and before her jocular face recedes to solemnity, Shay makes an offering.

“Right, I'll go and have a look. Okay? It's probably nothing, but if there's anything going on, I'll tell you everything, and you'll be able to work it into the next march speech.”

He waits for thanks, but no thanks come.

“Fine,” she says with her ears still pricked out trying to figure out what's going on. She sits back down on the curb. Shay passes down the bottle of fizzy orange, says, “back in a few minutes,” and leaves.

Shay is more than uncomfortable as he tries to navigate the maze of flesh. The crowd itself isn't moving in any direction, but smoulders about in it's place. People sway and chant, clapping, sending out waves to friends afar. But their attention is definitely aimed at something to the north, and the closer Shay comes to the origin of the attraction, the harder it becomes to wedge and shuffle in the gaps between people.

The news jets have lowered considerably; both vehicles now hover on opposite sides of Kissinger square like massive, intrigued insects.

A few metres from the scene the source of the commotion becomes apparent. A man Shay estimates to be in his sixty’s is sitting in a sparse opening between the protesters and the Orderlies, with blood fuming fiercely down one half of his face from a gash on his left eyebrow. He's rubbing his forehead smearing blood down his face, and this gives the injury a startling quality.

The Orderlies are looking increasingly nervous and are now standing closer together as if privy to some upcoming disaster.

Which, in a way, they are.

Shay is unsettled but not disturbed. Despite the appearance of blood there's very little aggression spread about and it's obvious the wound is from a fall or some other innocuous accident, because a few of the grins return on both sides, as the older, bleeding man is helped from the ground shaking his head with embarrassment.

Whap!

Like the swatting of a ten foot fly. The popping of a wooden balloon. That's the sound the rubber bullet makes as it studs against the bulk of her flesh. Screams. Two more pops in quick succession, and a flock of teenagers go scuttling, scattering in all directions. The frantic curve of air as the news jets swiftly switch direction to head toward where the blasts are emanating. Close by, a man with the shriek of a ninety year old woman is screaming at someone in disbelief, “You! You!” More asking it than anything, “You?”

A last burst of sound goes rocking through the air annulling cries for help, cries of terror. Shay is distracted by shock for just a few seconds, but as soon as Vicky's image floods in, he sets off on a direct line to where he left her. The faces are dotted around, the sweat and fear dripping and floating like steam. Before he's even got halfway back a young girl, no older than thirteen falls to the concrete and is trampled into unconsciousness till a huge bald man swoops down and sweeps her up, fending off the torrent of yells and limbs with the shield of his left flank.

As Shay nears the curb where Vicky had been, the crowd begins to thin, though the frantic fuss of flesh is still rife. Slowly, second by second, gaps in the bodies appear, and what they show horrifies him. The Orderlies have regrouped and now form a compact barricade of shields and batons. With their riot gear they are faceless, asexual. It isn't until Shay sees they've removed their squad numbers from their patches, that he realizes how bad this is becoming.

He has no idea how bad it is all ready.

END

Kealan Coady Febuary 2014