Nicholas Smith - The Biomass Revolution

“Get moving,” another guard said, nudging his rifle into Mulia’s ribcage. He moaned in pain but continued forward, cringing at the sound of the two ton gate slowly creaking open. It was a sound he heard every day, multiple times a day, and one his ears still rebelled against.

“Let’s go,” the guard said again, his voice muffled by the breathing apparatus inside his helmet.

Mulia hustled towards the customs station. He was a gunsmith, having been taught the trade by his father in the trading town years ago. It was there he learned how to build guns, change out parts, and fix pretty much any gun that came his way. This made him invaluable to the guards, who constantly needed their weapons serviced. It also meant he was strip searched at the end of every working day to make sure he wasn’t stealing any parts. In the past four years, Mulia had made certain every part he did steal for his TDU contacts was never detected.

A sharp pain shot down his leg while he ran, reminding him of the secret place he kept bullets and parts squirreled away for the TDU. He stopped for a second to massage his thigh, where a loose piece of skin covered a hollowed out piece of flesh, just large enough for a round of ammunition or a part to a gun. The wound was a result of the radiation poisoning. It was one of many places where the amateur TDU doctor opted to remove flesh rather than let it heal properly when he was first brought to Tisaia. At first the pain was excruciating, but over the years of hiding weapon parts he grew mostly numb to the pain.

After his strip search he was free to head back to his corridors where his tent mate, Kalah, would be preparing dinner from their rationed food.

The camp was set up in three rows of tents with 30 in each row. The middle row was reserved for families, while the outside rows were used by single occupants. With four guard towers rising far above the camp, it was designed so the CRK would have full range of view at all times.

Most of the guards were Knight Cadets and were training for service, but some were veteran Knights who transferred to the camp for a variety of reasons. The most infamous veteran was Royal Knight Nemir. His hatred for immigrants dated back to when his brother was killed in an uprising at the camp years ago.

Mulia made it to his tent just as the street lights glowed to life.

“Just in time for dinner, my friend,” Kalah said, without looking up from a pot he was stirring. Mulia nodded and sat down on his cot, slowly slipping out of his work boots. He leaned back and watched the old man stir the stew slowly, checking the density with every other stir.

Kalah was a master cook. It was the only thing keeping him from being deported to the Wastelands. The Knights grew so fond of his cooking, they continued to delay his paperwork so he could stay in the camp’s main kitchen.

“I heard Nemir beat another young man today.”

Mulia shrugged. “Someday he will get what he is owed.”

“That day may be approaching quicker than we thought,” Kalah said, a sly grin streaking across his old dark weather-beaten skin.

Mulia sat up, his interest sparked. “What do you mean? I thought we lost contact with the TDU after their headquarters was destroyed.”

“Ah, but we both know the TDU had other locations. The Tin Cans can never kill them all. New freedom fighters will replace the fallen. History proves the just are always victorious in the long run.”

Mulia shrugged again. He wasn’t in the mood to argue tonight.

“There is something else you may be interested in,” Kalah said, picking up on Mulia’s solemn demeanor.

“The Samoan is fighting Royal Knight Tinus at the Golden Dome tomorrow night. Many of the immigrants believe he can win.”

Mulia finished taking off his work boots and caught his friend’s excited gaze.

“Don’t get your hopes up. Tinus has never lost a battle in the arena and I don’t expect he will tomorrow. Besides, you know the fights are rigged.”

Kalah frowned and looked back down at his stew. As a young man he had driven a cab in New York. He survived the nuclear blast in Manhattan and escaped to a refugee camp set up on the east coast before Tisaia was ever formed. He immigrated to Tisaia a decade ago when the refugee camp finally collapsed from disease and famine. He had seen so much in his years, but he wasn’t sure if he would ever see an immigrant win their freedom in the Golden Dome.

Kalah took the pot of stew off the fire and placed it on a pad atop a crate between their two cots. He scooped a steaming spoonful of the dish into two small bowls, sprinkling a pinch of salt into the bowl before handing it to Mulia.

“Hope you like,” he said, with another grin, revealing the last three teeth in his mouth.

“Thank you. I have something for you too.”

Slowly Mulia pulled up his pant leg and peeled back the three inches of dead skin on his thigh. He reached into the opening and pulled out an inch long piece of metal.

“Is that what I think it is?” Kalah asked, beaming.

“It is. This should complete the sniper rifle I have been working on for over a year. When the riots start, we shall be ready,” Mulia said, his voice at a hoarse whisper.

He picked up his bowl and began to shovel the hot stew into his mouth, stopping momentarily to cool it with his breath. Kalah quickly followed suit, and the two men ate the rest of their dinner in silence. When they were finished, Kalah rinsed the bowls with a small bit of left over water and placed the bowls neatly on top of the crate.

Normally Kalah would tell a story before bed, or the two would read, but tonight he was exhausted. Mulia blew the flame out in the lantern hanging from the wood rafters of their tent and lay back down in his cot, pulling the covers up to his chin.

“Goodnight, Kalah,” he said, closing his eyes. He listened to the sounds of the camp in the distance, the chatter of voices and the smell of fires cooking exotic dishes he had never heard of before. He felt oddly at home for the first time in a very long time. The sensation lasted only a few moments and was interrupted by the memory of the pirates, the Knights, and the world he lived in. He would never have a home. Not until the Knights were gone and the TDU restored peace and human rights to the last great city on Earth.

“Goodnight, Mulia,” Kalah replied, blowing out the candle on the wooden crate. “Soon we shall be free, my friend.”

Time: 8:14 p.m. February 24, 2071

Location: The Golden Dome. Lunia, Tisaia

It was no secret that violence from the Biomass Wars spilled over into everyday life. Those who survived the radioactive holocaust became accustomed to it. In fact, many of them yearned for it. State workers flocked to the arena every week to watch the Royal Knights fight refugees and criminals trying to win their freedom.

Tonight was no different. The Golden Dome was packed full of State workers waiting to watch blood spill. Even the workers who normally skipped the gladiator fights came from all areas of Tisaia to watch Royal Knight Tinus fight his final match.

Alexria and her husband Roni were two newcomers. They had heard word of an immigrant known as the Samoan, who was one fight from winning his freedom—a freedom no other refugee had been able to win. The couple was curious. Did he actually have a shot at winning his? After the fall of the TDU headquarters, many sympathizers believed he was the revolution’s last hope.

And they weren’t the only ones. The crowd was packed with immigrant supporters and TDU sympathizers. Many of them believed immigrants deserved the same rights as any other Tisaian citizen.