Free Vyyda Book 1: The Haver Problem by Kevin Bliss Page A

the unbelievably confining shower.
    Peeling off his official Sykes vestments, Dorsey made a quick check of his kitchen cupboard.  His dwindling supply of syntho-cheese had gone bad.  He set it on the table to keep from forgetting to discard it.  That left only rebro-paste, semi-stale breadstuffs and sweetwater (which was also on the old side).
    Opening the FTC-45 materials that Witt had sent on his ether screen, Dorsey focused in.  It was difficult initially to make sense of what he was reading.  Most of it appeared to be information related to transport manifests.  There were also shift assignments and official decrees of death for half a dozen or so of the settlement’s citizens.  Uninspired, these in no way offered meaningful revelations.  And then, the flow of information from FTC-45 was interrupted by a personal note from Witt, separating the underwhelming appetizer from the main course of the exercise:
     
    Dorsey,
    No more numbe rs.  One man’s story.  Scour it for clues in the language:  syntax, idiom, vocabulary and the rest to tell me you believe it to be as old as its written date indicates (and I’m confident you will). 
    p.s. – No shame in joining a cause late in the day…so long as you join.
    Tomas
     
    Dorsey read on:
     
    7 February 2163
     
    I am a refugee from planet Earth.  This record of the days following removal from my home in Islington is the best available means to maintain sanity and exert some measure of control over my life.  That is my purpose in this exercise.  I've no way of knowing if anyone besides myself will ever read these words, nor if they'll be sympathetic to my point of view.
     
    I've heard that similar attempts to chronicle what's going on off-Earth have been met with hostility by those running the relocation centres of the sort I'm in right now.  Some have been beaten and, rumour has it, others killed.  As a physician, I've been given greater freedom and special treatment to administer to the sick.  Consequently, I've been left out of personal searches thus far.
     
    I can't say exactly where this place is in relation to Earth, but all indications suggest that we are far beyond the outer reaches of the solar system and destined never again to be any closer to the planet on which we were born.
     
    Around seventy of us from Islington (complete families and all) were gathered and eventually joined with several hundred more from other parts of London.  We were then transported to the space elevators just outside of Bath.  Years ago, as a boy, I saw the Bath lifts from a distance at night.  That image of soft, green glowing tentacles rising from the surface of Earth and disappearing into the sky provided the most exotic, imagination-stirring sight of my young life.  Platforms were racing up and down those glowing lines, back and forth between the near reaches of space and the ground on which we all walked.  I commented on the incredible nature of it all.  My parents remained silent, not even acknowledging that I'd spoken.
     
    Riding one of the lifts just days ago for the very first time gave me anxiety equal in measure to the enthusiasm I felt as a boy.
     
    The transport onto which we were loaded from the lift carried a total of more than three hundred people.  In turn, when we arrived at the relocation facility, the three hundred from our vessel were herded into an area that held thousands.  I heard French and Spanish spoken in close proximity along with the English that can only come from Americans.
     
    We were provided meals twice a day and padding on which to rest, but the food was bloody awful and sleep only came as the result of days on end without slumber.  The chaotic, rumbling quality of the large, unpartitioned area we were in made it difficult to lie down, close eyes and find peace.
     
    They left us with nothing to occupy our time; only the uncertainty of the future to contemplate.  After nearly a full day under these conditions, it was a