The End Has Come

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hugh Howey is the author of the acclaimed post-apocalyptic novel Wool, which became a sudden success in 2011. Originally self-published as a series of novelettes, the Wool omnibus is frequently the #1 bestselling book on Amazon.com and is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller. The book was also optioned for film by Ridley Scott, and is now available in print from major publishers all over the world. Hugh’s other books include Shift, Dust, Sand, the Molly Fyde series, The Hurricane, Half Way Home, The Plagiarist, and I, Zombie. Hugh lives in Jupiter, Florida with his wife Amber and his dog Bella. Find him on Twitter @hughhowey.

BLESSINGS Nancy Kress

We move by night, silently, widely separated. It’s impossible to know how much the enemy can detect. Their technology is, of course, better than ours. But we have had many successes. We will have more. And we will not give up.

* * *

“Jenna? You awake yet?”

Nothing. I raise my voice.

“Jenna!”

She emerges from her bedroom, my sweet daughter, sleep-tousled hair and dream-wide eyes. “I’m sorry, Dad — I overslept! I’ll be ready in five minutes!”

I pour two more coffees, one for her and a half-cup for me. Four minutes later I hand her the ceramic mug; she drinks it as we walk to the lab. People smile and greet us as we pass, and Jeanette Foch — whose son brought her down from Quebec twenty years ago and who still speaks no English — murmurs, “Tres belle, tres belle.” At twenty Jenna is prettier than her mother was, prettier than my mother, much prettier than my grandmother, whose faded picture hangs on the wall of our bungalow. My grandparents, Sophie and Luke Ames, once saved this settlement from horrors I can’t bear to think about, during the first years of the Blessing. Their photograph used to hang in the Common Hall, but of course nobody else could bear to think about what Sophie and Luke did, either, so the picture stays in a drawer.

I don’t know how my people survived the constant violence during the early years of the Blessing.

Jenna stops to greet more people. Old Mr. Caruthers has his breathing mask on today. CO₂ is 1.9% and falling. A generation ago, it looked like all of us might have to wear breathing masks.

Jenna kneels by his wheelchair. “Are you taking your pills, Mr. Caruthers?”

He nods, although I’m not sure he understands. I make a note to remind his granddaughter yet again about his zinc and iron. Kay Caruthers is among the sweetest people in New Eden, but not all that bright.

Unlike Jenna, I think, and then chastise myself for ridiculous pride. Jenna’s intelligence and beauty are no more my conscious work than is Kay’s dimness, and comparisons only undermine Mutuality.

In the lab, Dant23 greets me by waving a tentacle. I’d forgotten that he is observing today. The Dant — who look like a cross between a flower and an octopus — show up on a semi-regular schedule. Five tentacles where we have arms and legs, an elongated head that on top flares into segments that resemble petals, skin the color of prominent human veins. But they are DNA-based — panspermia is the usual conjecture — and they can breathe our atmosphere. Which is, of course, why they’re here.

Humanity owes them a debt we can never repay. Sharing our planet does not even come close. Without the Blessing, we wouldn’t have gotten the runaway CO₂ caused by sociopathic industrialization under control. We wouldn’t have stopped interpersonal violence and that most unthinkable of acts, war. We wouldn’t be free people, living in peace and Mutuality. The Dant remade us.

We cannot, however, talk to them. They understand us, but their speech is pitched too high for human ears. All that we have learned from them has been by demonstration, gesture, pantomime. It is enough; it is more than enough.

Jenna kisses Dant23’s cheek and says, “Good morning! How are the children?”

Dant23 nods and waves a tentacle. After more ritual greetings, we get down to work. I look at the new plant samples in the greenhouse.

Overnight, they’ve all died.

* * *