Global Peak (Part 11.0 up 05/29/09).

[J]

By the time of the story I'll likely be living out my retirement in a farming community somewhere in southern Ontario, likely near the city of London. The climate is milder with rich land and access to existing railways.

[Hawkwings]

I'll probably be staying in the Pacific Northwest, possibly moved up to Alaska, employed (or used to be employed) as some sort of aerospace or nuclear engineer.

[Rye]

You just know you've got to put me in it somewhere. I'll leave it to your discretion as to what job I'm in or what gender I am.

[The Duchess of Zeon]

You just know you've got to put me in it somewhere. :P I'll leave it to your discretion as to what job I'm in or what gender I am. ;)

Obviously you're a girl, we don't have enough otherwise.

[Xess]

Obviously you're a girl, we don't have enough otherwise.

Well you could make me a girl if you want. I'd suggest Andrea or Kim as the name. Also if you need a Manitoban religious rural stronghold I suggest my current hometown, Stonewall. 5000 people, 3000 of em YECers. It's a bedroom community for Winnipeg too, so it'd be right fucked by Peak Oil.

[aerius]

Well, I suppose I can be an ex marijuana grower who ends up applying his knowledge of hydroponics to greenhouse hydroponics farming. The neighbours love me for the hash brownies I still bake on occasion.

[The Duchess of Zeon]

NEW YORK, NY.
August 1, 2047


"What's your name, Miss?" The gruff looking immigrations officer stood glaring faintly at the next in line. She was alone, curly dark hair and a somewhat large nose; maybe Jewish, maybe not. But it didn't matter where she was coming from, or going to. Her body was so emaciated that she might as well be a boy from the lack of any feminine fat; though a good six foot she must have weighed scarcely a hundred pounds.

"Ryka Upton, err, customs officer." She was wearing a tattered army surplus greatcoat, a wool skirt, black boots, and a faded and tattered t-shirt that looked like it had been for a death metal band; a threadbare duffle-bag with obvious tears in it held her earthly possessions, and it looked as heavy as she was.

"Comrade customs officer," he responded, making the 'comrade' sound more imperious than 'officer' without it, somehow. "Former residence in the United Kingdom?"

"Manchester," she answered quietly; her voice hadn't immediately betrayed it, and the customs officer assumed she must have moved there before her final relocation to the states. Probably because of the Ship Canal.

"Very good. Age?"

"Twenty-six."

"College education? Understand that the punishment for lying on immigration forms is ten years forced labour of strict regime."

"Two years of experience studying for a linguistics degree before the university's social sciences department was closed."

"Work experience?"

"About seven years doing electrical maintenance."

"Job training?"

"I played around with sound and stage electronics as a kid extensive, and on the job training.."

The fellow nodded, and checked a computerized list of openings, and chuckled. "Well, well. Lucky you. We're in need of linesmen for the Pennsy mainline west of Youngstown. You go into the skilled labour force. Follow the blue arrows to the holding area for skilled labourers, and," he handed a punchcard over to her. "Don't lose that."

"Thank you." The sigh of relief was audible as she walked forward, following the lines very closely. There was a great number of people here in the grandly named FREEDOM PROCESSING CENTRE OF ELLIS ISLAND, but the buildings had been historical monuments and showed it, and it was ghastly hot compared to her native Britain. Her native britain.... It brought to mind horrifying images of BNP party cadres executing Jews, Muslims and homosexuals in the streets or 'just' savagely beating them, and the imperious representatives of the Front Nationale living large. And raping my girlfriend. The tears had been burned out of her, however; that had been five years ago, though she did not, and probably would never know, what happened to Tanya after she'd tried to report it... God. There were other images, and worse; the corpses of babies exposed rather than daring to try and raise and feed them, and the people who'd disappeared, even her old landlady, and a few days later there'd be perhaps a few individuals taken away for summary execution for the crime of cannibalism.

The voyage over, where they'd been fed only bread and water, was nonetheless the first regular time where she'd had two meals a day in the past five years, and she'd been one of the lucky ones who could find work. No more thinking about that. With fascist France dominating Europe economically and militarily, there was no hope back at home. At least the FedGov of North America represented something vaguely progressive.

She was alone now. Most of the people had followed the yellow lines: "Unskilled", which meant they would either go directly to labour battalions--which were grandly advertised along the corridors with stylized, Socialist-Realist images of strongly hewn New Socialist Men swinging pickaxes or digging with shovels while water and barges flowed through a canal in the background, with slogans such as "Work Is Strength" or other images the staunch atheist could more readily sympathize with, such as the grand show of an idealized Worker smashing with a giant fist a church and sending its cross--grossly deformed into a Swastika--flying: "Smash Reaction -- Report Clericalist Propaganda!" Other posters showed a Quebecois soldier shaking hands with an African-American soldier, declaring: "OUR NATIONS AS ONE RESIST RACISM AND FASCISM", or an imagine of a stern-looking man in a wheelchair with a dam and high-tension lines in the background: "Imitate the example of the New Deal and support SOCIALIST LABOUR."

Ryka wasn't sure about all of it, of course. She knew that the only reason she was here is that the openly fascist Front Nationale in France had cut a cynical deal with the United States: We'll give you Britons so we don't have to feed them. The French had occupied Britain to teach a lesson in fear to the rest of the EU to keep it in line--where French food and French electrical power and French transportation resources guaranteed their dominance of the continent--but at least 10 million Britons had already starved to death and there was not enough food for the survivors even as most social 'undesirables' were steadily being rounded up and dealt with by the BNP stooges of the occupying Front Nationale. Conversely, the North American FedGov was in desperate need of warm bodies; it was rumoured back in the UK that they had also lost ten million dead--as combat casualties against the Free States alone--along with another ten million of starvation, disease, and innocents killed in FedGov territory by the enemy during the war so far.

That meant that they actually had manpower shortages, and hundreds of thousands of British who would otherwise starve to death were being brought over, like Ryka, crammed into the holds of bulk freighters by the tens of thousands. The conditions had been indescribable; she had not washed in two weeks; and she reeked of it all, shit, filth, and sweat, but, again, survival was what mattered. Indeed, she was relieved to be here, for all that she had heard of the situation in the FedGov, for at least here she'd have a chance at survival; at home, a hundred thousand people were starving to death every month, and the occupying Front Nationale didn't give a damn, just squeezing British industry for all it was worth to further enrich France.

Her only fear had been being sent to the front line, where it was rumoured that the life expectancy of the British levees was only six weeks, after six weeks of ad-hoc training. Since she had avoided that, she figured that at least she'd have a fighting chance. And there were many who were willing to come even when they knew that their fighting chance would be holding a 90-year old rifle and three grenades on the Front. The situation in Britain was truly that bad.

Then she didn't have any fears at all. She smelled something that she hadn't smelled in seven years, and nearly ran despite the wearying weight of the duffle bag. Entering the holding room for the skilled workers, she saw it: A massive metal, electrically heated pot with steam swirling over it. There were, she could scarcely avoid it, tears in her eyes. "Of all the godless joys--Is that REAL chicken?"

The black man standing there laughed and grinned broadly. "Aw hell, Miss, but it's the faces of people like you when they see my stew that makes me keep this job. It sho' is, Miss, as real an' Jamaican as I can make a regulation chicken stew my own self. Damn all but it's good to see people so happy in days like dis," he added as he took out a full round of bread, cutting out the center and cutting off the top. He filled it with a hearty helping of the stew, put a spork into it, and covered it with the bread 'lid'. "Why, there you go for your meal of the day, Miss, an' there's water in the corner... An', ya get the center too," he added as he handed her the cut-out section of the bread.

"Thank you, oh thank you... You can't imagine, but, I.. Hell, I haven't had this much food in a day in seven years!"

"Well, you'll get that much every day, no matter what, s'long as you work hard, that's the honest truth. Mebbe not meat every day, 'cos it's pretty scarce, but we try our best."

Laughing happily, Ryka smiled, but couldn't say another word as she tore into the bread center first before daring to eat the stew, smiling like she was utterly possessed, and far to gone after the years of hardship to even bother washing her hands. For the first time, it seemed like a dream could come true, after all. Perhaps, just perhaps, if she worked hard enough during the war, she'd have a normal life when it was good and done.

[Rye]

Ace! She sounds hot, aside from the skinniness.

And wow, that's all pretty grim and unpleasant, which is very metal. Reminds me of Threads and the last harvest with machines. I would also think Ryka would murmur "Between shit and piss we are born" as she left the conditions on the ship.

[The Duchess of Zeon]

Ace! She sounds hot, aside from the skinniness. :D

And wow, that's all pretty grim and unpleasant, which is very metal. Reminds me of Threads and the last harvest with machines. I would also think Ryka would murmur "Between shit and piss we are born" as she left the conditions on the ship. ;)

Well, Britain is probably the worst off country in the industrial world, except for Japan. And that's a very suitable thing to say, heh. Your female avatar is very lucky, because a basic knowledge of electronics means she is in the fairly important position of working on putting up cantenary and maintaining electrical equipment as part of railroad electrification in Ohio, never closer than fifty miles to the Front. The luck of some other people who have volunteered to be in the story is..... rather less.

[phongn]

Sure, throw me in as a FedGov person.

[TimothyC]

Is it to late for more characters? If it isn't I'd like to be added in, preferably as someone who the side I'm on can't afford to lose (I'll take either FedGov or Free State as I'm from Ohio).

[The Duchess of Zeon]

Is it to late for more characters? If it isn't I'd like to be added in, preferably as someone who the side I'm on can't afford to lose (I'll take either FedGov or Free State as I'm from Ohio).

I bet everyone wishes they weren't expendable.... Unfortunately, the majority of the population is expendable here.

[Coop D'etat]

Nice start to the fic, if somewhat info-dumpy.
Knowing the fellow citizens of my province very well, Albertan succession is no suprise to me, however I am curious about the rationale behind the other prairie provinces leaving as well.

Also, if the casting call isn't closed yet, this humble and lowly newbie would be extremely tickled by a bit part for a Edmontonian biochemist-in-training with loyalist tendancies, surnamed Cooper.

[The Grim Squeaker]

Ace! She sounds hot, aside from the skinniness.

And wow, that's all pretty grim and unpleasant, which is very metal. Reminds me of Threads and the last harvest with machines. I would also think Ryka would murmur "Between shit and piss we are born" as she left the conditions on the ship.

Well, Britain is probably the worst off country in the industrial world, except for Japan. And that's a very suitable thing to say, heh. Your female avatar is very lucky, because a basic knowledge of electronics means she is in the fairly important position of working on putting up cantenary and maintaining electrical equipment as part of railroad electrification in Ohio, never closer than fifty miles to the Front. The luck of some other people who have volunteered to be in the story is..... rather less.

I suppose I'm lucky that I have a Electronic engineering and programming degree from school then, as well as army service in electronics, Neh? .

And surely Japan wouldn't be the worst off, after all there's always Singapore, Hong Kong, the Indians in the US once the white's start eying their land again or selected African states .

[Mr Flibble]

I'd just like to throw my name into the ring as another Aussie, Adelaide Australia. Just give my character the first name Simon. And I'm a geologist/geophysicist and am currently in oil exploration for what that is worth, but can handle mineral exploration as well.

[JointStrikeFighter]

And whilst you probably don't need another geologist [albeit still just a student] from Australia you can always throw me into the mix with the first name of Zak.

[Ford Prefect]

While one might complain about how much information gets dumped, I have to say it's really building up a grim and gritty little world. I like it a lot.

[Zwinmar]

Call him Zwin <yeah i used this name a lot> anyways former US Marine with a background of being able to survive in the wild. Currently in the midwest.

[Surlethe]

Let's see. Name: Neal. Location: Central Indiana. Skills: math, physics, radio broadcasting.

I enjoyed the second vignette. Keep up the good work!

[Prozac the Robert]

NEW YORK, NY.
August 1, 2147

That's a typo, right?

I knew I wouldn't want to know what you'd do to Britain. Personally I think you are being a bit harsh when you assess us as the absolutely worst off industrialised nation, but that's an argument for somewhere else. However, as an Englishman I really must protest about you having us invaded by the French of all things.

Actually, I can almost sort of see it working. The BNP Front alliance makes a sort of sense. But I have a bit of trouble with the mechanics of the invasion. Shouldn't we still have some sort of nuclear capacity at this point?

[Illuminatus Primus]

2147? It seems to be set contemporaneously with the former 2047 story.

Oh, and you, seem to be sympathetic to socialists and collectivists, which is strange to hear from you. But looking at Cuba in 1991, I'd rather have that than fascists or religious freaks.

[Redleader34]

Your Jamaican accent seems a bit off Duchess, and speaking of Jamaica, did the Caribbean collapse into total Anarchy yet? Those countries all seemed to be unstable as of now.

[The Duchess of Zeon]

2147? It seems to be set contemporaneously with the former 2047 story.

Oh, and you, seem to be sympathetic to socialists and collectivists, which is strange to hear from you. But looking at Cuba in 1991, I'd rather have that than fascists or religious freaks.

That's a major typo, sorry.

[The Duchess of Zeon]

Your Jamaican accent seems a bit off Duchess, and speaking of Jamaica, did the Caribbean collapse into total Anarchy yet? Those countries all seemed to be unstable as of now.

Yeah, well, I'm not very nuanced at local dialects in my writing, frankly; I understand that it is the only large down-point. As for the rest, the Caribbean isn't in total anarchy. There is something called the Caribbean Bolivarian Republic which exists.

[Alferd Packer]

The luck of some other people who have volunteered to be in the story is..... rather less.

At that risk of my character's moral and physical integrity, I'd like to point out that the historical Alferd Packer was one of the only men ever convicted of the crime of cannibalism in the United States.