The Satellite
The mechanical spirals contorted wistfully with a determined
desperation to transform - manufactured, metal DNA suspended in the outer
atmosphere. Various landing platforms, which contracted on demand, concealed
the entire left side of the spacecraft, primed for the inevitability of a new
arrival. The place was devoid of sound, for modern technology had never
mastered the control of a vacuum, and, therefore, the slight buzz of the
transmitting signals could not be heard. Inscribed into the side of the ship,
adorned with a sinister logo, were the letters: A, B and C – (an ancient
abbreviation).
The spacecraft oversaw Earth - a horrid mutation of the
concept of God. Though it bore no visible windows, humans were forever reminded
of its prominent capability to see.
And what a civilisation to observe.
A morally distorted world on the brink of super nuclear war,
Earth, and its surrounding web of miasma, was shattered beyond repair. Broken
from battle, defences frail, the 121st century brought nothing but
desolation to its overbearing population; so, when the amount become too much,
The Satellite was used in overdrive.
Immediately, an oblongated ray of translucent light – (the
transmit beam) - entered the planet’s atmosphere; the end undulated like the
spine of some gargantuan sea monster, plucking the weak from within the murky
depths of the globe. Those deemed unfortunate enough to be selected were
swiftly transported to The Satellite, where they waited to discover their uncertain
fate.
***
Light hit the multicoloured walls, producing a shimmering
palette of red and yellow in thin tiger stripes. Recessed ceiling bulbs offered
a solution to the darkness of the space outside. The intensity of a sudden wave
of increased temperature unsettled his perfect equilibrium; his face found the
floor in seconds.
Curling his fingers around his gentle locks, in an effort to
combat the scorching sensation that had besieged his mind, he twisted his body
into a foetal-like position, waiting out the pain.
Jonathan Maconie stirred unwillingly from his point of
advent; he carefully opened an eye, the clouded face of a younger girl the only
sight to form within his vision. Everything began to move in a calculated
montage of sound and colour - the outside world seemed to have been morphed
into a disorienting haze of adrenaline.
“Oh my god, I don’t believe it!” An American drawl threw his
whereabouts into uncertainty. As Jonny gave the first proof of the free and
proper action of his lungs, he hauled himself upright, flexed the defined
scapulas of his muscular stature and cocked his head somewhat.
“I’m sorry, what?” His soft tones were flecked with a
strained accent. The wonderfully statuesque red-head held an expression of an
altruistic nature. Obviously, the blankness of her eyes supplied arguments
against the assumption that she had been genetically engineered, like many of
the modern breed, though her beauty said otherwise.
“Oh my god, you’re from Scotland!” Jonny’s eyes widened
incredulously. His outsized horns struggled to recede and he smiled
sardonically.
“How did you guess?”
Her face crumpled, before a strident voice imperfectly
articulated the words, “Sorry, ignore her, we just haven’t heard from the Scots
since their independence from Briterica.”
At that, an animated discussion took place.
“Right… I’m still at a bit of a loss here, where am I?”
asked Jonny, stopping short, and darting at his new acquaintances a look of
intense irritation.
Kate flashed him a tremendous smile.
“You’re a housemate! You’re in the house! Isn’t that
brilliant? You’re playing the game!”
A sweeping gaze of his new surroundings revealed as such.
In prime position, adjacent to the side wall, was a large
eye. Its centred iris, fringed with red, had become an international icon; the
design lacking eyelashes paled into insignificance. With a vixen-like
intensity, those who dared glance, however fleetingly, at the image was
immediately laboured with the thought of never-ending surveillance. Cameras
ruled every corner, capturing every hour; every minute; every second to be
broadcast live to the entire population.
Mark, noticeably clinging to the ruby settee, said: “That
really isn’t fair, seeing as we have an eviction in five minutes!” The
red-head’s attitude changed in an instant; she quickly instigated an argument.
Its sound fading into the background, the ring of the intercom produced a
well-known theme tune.
“You are live on Channel Thirty-five Thousand. Please do not
swear,” Jonny stifled a snort at the inanity of it all, “Alex, Kate, and Mark,
you have all been nominated for eviction.”
The trio turned to the television without a single lapse in
concentration, grasping one another’s hands in their own.
The mainframe’s voice continued, “And the eighth person to
leave the Big Brother House is,” there was an elongated pause, “Kate!”
There was a cry of anguish. The red-head’s friends gave her
a thousand embraces.
“You have thirty seconds to say your goodbyes and then we’re
coming to get you!”
“I’m so sorry,” Mark murmured, a feat unexpected from the
arrogant Englishman. He imprinted his cold white lips passionately on her
forehead; Jonny observed this act, perplexed. The grip Mark had on Kate’s
shoulders failed to loosen, before she mastered the courage to shrug him off. A
flash of sheer panic crossed her eyes before they became impressively
impassive.
Slowly, she walked towards the exit door, the laser beams skulking
from sight. It slid open, and, with a sad glance towards her comrades, entered
the cubicle.
There was a hum of power.
The bolt of white light slammed into Kate’s chest, exposing
the raw muscle, flesh and bone as it was transformed into a thick, red shower.
The air was suddenly electric with the guarantee of bloodshed.
She gazed wildly round, shuddering; fell back and died.
Jonny fell silent, appalled. He had seen everything – they
had transmitted the butchering on their very screen. He turned on the other
housemates, eyebrows raised in a question that need not be spoken.
“She’s been evicted,” Alex shrugged, “From life.”
And then the world uncoiled, shooting back to speed.
