| A storm front stretching across the expanse of the eastern coast, had settled in for days, providing a relentless pour of water and stirring wind that saturated even the driest and most well hidden nooks below. Watching small drops of the stuff forge erratic paths across the window, Syrus Finn sat in the back seat of his heavily armored motor coach. His fixation waned as they passed by a stand of majestic, green pines. In the obscure lighting they were the sole recognizable feature, suggestively pointing to the sky, reminding him that above it all was the God, he knew, Who watches over all things. He savored those hints. The car sped along the mostly vacant highway, occasionally making way for a twenty-car cargo vehicle to pass. Other than those robotic vehicles he was alone on the broad expanse of pavement. Citizens weren't allowed road cars, and the few government passenger vehicles in commission, were used for official business. Once on the road, they were under the complete control of the Federal Transportation Commission's control system, TRACK. Every paved surface was under TRACK control, and no vehicles were ever driven by humans these days. The roadways were used mostly for transit of commodities and military personnel between locations. Once in a great while an exception was made, for people like Syrus to move about the country, keeping safely in contact with the ground. Air travel was the norm for those who had clearance, but Syrus couldn't stomach the experience, so he had his own motor carriage, assigned to him by the government. It might be an enviable privilege, if he ever actually traveled. Today was a rarity though. God had dragged his haggard bag of bones out of bed and set him off on a mission. Not one he relished either, but who was he to question God? Just twenty-nine years earlier he had been on a similar mission. He, along with two assistants roamed the country in search of someone to be named the Grand Imperator of the country, to appease other people who stubbornly demanded a new ruler. He had been reluctant at first, wondering at the wisdom in it, but through diligent prayer he knew that God was allowing his replacement. The country had only enjoyed a short four years of relative peace at the time, quietly trying to recover from the Collapse. That's what they called it, the Collapse. It was a horrid part of their history, and was too atrocious a thing to describe, so they packaged that period of hell up into a single word, and then tried to forget the details. In reality it was a historical disaster. A time in which the bankrupt, corrupt U.S. Government had become desperate, and began a period of severe oppression of it's people. Poverty and starvation drove overwhelming crime, and the final blow, that broke the country for good, was a viral disease called K-11, that killed tens-of-millions-of people. In desperation, and to save his position, the President ordered the assassination of all Supreme Court Justices. He would be successful with the exception of one lone member who was rescued by the military leadership, which had separated itself from the President's control. Syrus was the fortunate one, and over the following days, he watched as a civil war annihilated the government of the United States of America. Military rule began. Quickly, a new governing body was formed by the Pentagon, and Syrus, affectionately known as The Judge, was granted the leadership role. A new poor, but safe and uncomplicated country was born and named itself United America. A name which was mildly dipped in irony, as two month later the entire western half of the old U.S. formed their own country, Pacifica, and separated to find their own way in this new world. This left everything east of the Rocky Mountains, looking to the leaders in the wrecked and shaky governing city—now called the District—to lead them. Syrus shuddered at these memories. Out of the window the pines were now giving way to tall, thick-trunked, hardwoods, and the rolling hills began to soar up to higher, ragged peaks. They were entering the ancient Appalachian Mountains. A mild mechanical man's voice broadcast all around him saying, “Excuse the interruption, Judge Finn, but we will be exiting the through way in a moment, and will be arriving at the Center in twelve minutes.” Even the computers called him Judge. What an empty word it had become, leftover from an era that no one wished to remember. Law as he knew it, was dead, and disputes, once settled in courts, were now resolved by local puppets, assigned to geographic areas. The coach slid effortlessly from the through way, decelerating at an alarming rate. Somehow these amazing machines could do that without discharging their occupants through the front window. “The Center should be in view, out of the front window in a few minutes, Judge,” said the car, almost as if it were providing a distraction from the tormenting thoughts coursing through his mind. Soon he would see it, wrapped around the base of a small mountain. Officially named Cultivation Center 7, but most often referred to as C-7. It was one of twenty-three similar facilities spread throughout U.A.; constructed for the sole purpose of evaluating, raising, and training children from birth to their eighteenth birthday. These facilities were the brain-child of the sitting Imperator, Samian Stygian. By all measures, a great ruler while the war raged when he led what had been a weak country to a surprising victory over the invading Pacifican forces, and provided a new found unity and prosperity. Soon after his early success, however, he lost his mind, and his heart began to fill with a black cloud, inducing paranoia and fits of irrational rage. Syrus had watched helplessly, as this great young man, slipped away. Even though he had been led by God to appoint Samian, he couldn't help feeling some personal responsibility for him. So he tried to stop him from the deterioration: day after day, soothing his torment with kind words, trying to guide him back to reason. But if Syrus pushed, Samian would fly off in a newly kindled fit, leading, in the end, to hopeless mumbling over too many glasses of wine. The luxurious, genetic leather of the carriage seat felt soothing under his arthritic fingers, and he ran them up and down the stitching, gently trying to ease his tension. This was the first time he would visit a Cultivation Center, and the anticipation sickened him. The road softly curved around the base of a mountain finger, and then headed into the interior of the range. The trees were thick here, tall majestic, old, and filled with life. It drew him to memories of camping trips his father would take him on as a child. How he missed his father, and those days before the Collapse. Rain began to pour down in sheets. He caught sight of a little red fox at the wood's edge, scurrying into some brush for shelter, and he longed to join it. Dig in, hide. The Cultivation Centers were constructed by Samian as Phase One of his “Reinvention” of modern society. His plan, he told the people, was to free them from their bonds of responsibility, and to entrust the government to take away the burdens that kept them from being productive citizens. So, he proclaimed the institution of family dead, and shared a vision of a world where children are never abused or misused by bad parents again. A society where no child is neglected, or misled by ignorance in households that held to antiquated philosophies, and backwards religious views. Therefore, Resolution One of the Reinvention Proclamation concluded that all children were to be turned over to the state; where they would be properly cared-for and trained, before being reintroduced into society as adults. Parents of already living children had one year from the day the law was instated, to say farewell to their children. It was brutal anguish waiting for the extraction date, and many parents tried to flee the country with their children, or even, in their desperation, sought remote hiding places. The Government News Network, for months, broadcast features, following the Enforcement Agents who hunted these frightened, brave families down. It was an abomination to humanity, and most sickening of all, people watched it for entertainment. Lodged in his memory was one report in particular, that held a standing engagement in his nightmares. It featured a young couple and their two children, who were pulled from a sewer pipe on the side of a canal. It was pitch dark, no moon that night, and heavy duty flood lights were meticulously placed around the scene by an emotionless, voyeuristic press. They were covered in filth, and shivering with cold and dampness, and like animals, they were physically dragged from the pipe by black clad officers; hoisted up in nets made from inch-wide canvas straps, woven together. Despite their battered condition, and the fact that dozens of Enforcement Officers had guns trained on their heads, nothing dissuaded them from the fight to save their children. It was desperate and heart wrenching to watch as four officers wrestled the smallest child from his mother. It took six to restrain the father while the oldest was removed from his arms. The children were young, maybe three and five, and it was the image of them being handed over to the heavy, stern-looking, middle aged women in white uniforms, hysterical, and screaming, “Mommy, Daddy please!” that tore Syrus's heart out. He sat in his safe living room, unable to move as the truck containing the broken and wailing children drove off. Because it was good television, and a message needed to be sent, the cameras stayed on, as the parents were beaten and then arrested for their resistance. Scenes like this were broadcast daily to show the people that there would be no tolerance for resistance. Syrus never watched another one. His fingers began to pick at the stitching of the seat, fraying the finely woven threads. The pain in his knuckles, as he strained against the fibers, brought on tears and oddly, emotional relief. The memories were much more painful, and defensively his mind focused on the burning in his joints. Newborns, beginning the very day of the signing, were to be immediately taken into the custody of the state. All records of their lineage were kept strictly confidential, and hidden from the children. They were instantly people without a history. It took Syrus a long time to figure that one out, but soon it became clear that the Imperator was creating a culture where no one knew anything of their lineage, so there would be no inter-social dependency. It would be a population solely relying on themselves and the government. Soon after, all marriages were annulled, and huge tax incentives were provided to encourage people to feed children into the system. Syrus's efforts to stop this madness, eventually separated him far enough from Samian that he was forced to accept a lesser role in the court, consulted only when he was summoned, which was almost never. “We have arrived at your destination,” came the announcement from the coach, as it rounded one last bend, and there it was. “We are switching from the National TRACK system to the facilities TRACK.” There was a brief, barely discernible deceleration, as the car relayed, and then it took off again. C-7 was magnificent; if something terrible and imposing can wear that title. They were speeding along a broad, four lane highway again. Two lanes in, two lanes out, and down the middle was a raised bridge for the rail system. Trains were the main mode of transportation feeding the center babies, and extracting freshly groomed adults. This main vein of access cut through foot hills that were covered with beautiful rugged farm land. Herds of grazing beasts in some areas; finicky perfect lines of crops in others. Dotting the countryside were barns and silos. Straight ahead, though, was the thing that caused a stabbing ache in his stomach. Rising directly in front of him was a stand-alone mountain, maybe 2,500 feet high, and at its base stood an enormous building. Its exterior, shelled in polished black stone and charcoal tinted windows, which made it baleful against the magnificent mountain. At its base, it was enormously wide and deep, and as it’s elevation increased, it curved in elegantly and quickly narrowed to a plain, black, and opposing monolith that stretched twenty stories into the sky. It was flat on top, and though the misty clouds partially obscured it, he could just make out the glowing red lettering at its crown that read, “ADMINISTRATION.” The roadway began gradually cutting into the earth, heading below ground level, and Syrus could see that the train rail would be engulfed by the building above, while the roads entered a tunnel opening below. There were no parking lots or even doors at the building's ground level, just grass, and some nondescript landscaping. To the back, the lower half of the building was joined to the mountain, giving the impression that the earth was just an extension of the structure. Syrus could see just as his vehicle sank below the surface of the ground, that a hundred yards from each side of the edifice stood tall, fierce fencing that stretched from the mountain, out into the country- side. Beyond the fences were harmonious small towns of like-designed buildings. Then they were gone, replaced by flat cement walls. Syrus had really only read about these places before they even existed, as Imperator Samian, when he still thought of him as an ally, shared his entire Reinvention plan with him. In its pages, a diatribe on families and marriage; where he condemned these institutions as dangers to the state, and praised government successes in child rearing and training. The central character in it's pages was the framework for the Cultivation Centers. That was fourteen years ago, and it was the last time he gave the centers conscious recognition, despite almost daily updates on GNN over the six months that it took to get all twenty-three Centers online. This moment, as his vehicle cruised underneath it, was a dose of the reality of C-7 and all of the Centers, and into his stomach coursed a stabbing anxiety, so severe, he rolled his window down for fear of vomiting. The coach passed from daylight into artificial, as it entered the tunnel below the Administration Building, and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he found he was in a large underground parking area where hundreds of vehicles were parked. Most of them small, simple cargo transports, but parked along the back wall, were a few nicer, human hauling vehicles, similar to his own. The nucleus of the open area was a grand entrance, and this is where Syrus's vehicle came to a halt. Despite how arduous and tiring traveling was to him at his age, he couldn't help but wish he could stay in the back of the motor car and return home. He knew he couldn't though; that God had willed him to this task, and he would have to persevere. Out of his window was a large bank of elegant, gold plated doors, and through one strode a young man in a gray, neatly pressed jumpsuit, identified with a C-7 patch on it's breast pocket. He approached Syrus's door, and opened it for him. “Welcome to C-7, Judge!” he said, enthusiastically. Syrus slowly climbed from the back seat, forcing his now aching, stiff knees to straighten. “Thank you,” he said. “We have a guest apartment prepared for you, room 1427, which I am sure you will find to your liking.” He handed Syrus a necklace which would electronically open the doors in the facility. “We will have your bags taken there, right away.” He smiled curtly, then his expression turned cold, and he added, “Imperator Samian will see you in the Head Administrator’s office, right away.” Continues... | 
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