Ozymandium

I can still remember a time when we were content. Though I’m not as young as I once was, my memory remains tragically sharp. When we were more hopeful—some would say naïve—Foster and I came to New Sacramento. Our dirge brought us to the center of recollected civilization, the jewel of the sunset isles. This jeremiad begins and ends in what my ancestors used to call the Golden State. I urge you not to handle this telling with kid gloves, but with gauntlets. I caution you not wander idly into the past. It’s a mirage, promising the world and robbing the present. And like Narcissus you’ll end up trapped in longing, gazing into nothing.

--

Foster adjusted our short wave to see if any broadcasts were happening today. The makeshift sailboat groaned in protest over our newest voyage. I leaned against the wheel, and looked over a world of contrasts. Blue inlets, and orange sands, all magnified by the setting Sun. I wondered how different it must be from the sight my grandparents would have seen here. I have been told this used to be lush wine country. After a century of flooding, quakes, and desertification, the azure Pacific and rusty sands have squeezed out whatever green was once between them. It’s all island and desert now. After the loss of San Fran, and the ecological disasters further south, we were desperate for a break so we headed to the capital of these flooded orange lagoons, New Sacramento.

My daydream was broken by Foster’s cursing. Who knows what he was on about, but it made me chuckle. He was always dissatisfied. It was a good balance though. I couldn’t care less, and he was always pushing forward. In that way, we took care of each other. Though on the outside it may be easy to see how I evened him out, he kept me from sinking into apathy. Today was the day I got to do my part and keep him relaxed.

“Fos, make sure you lock up the lazarette,” he already locked it, I just enjoy tormenting him.

“Would you stop hovering? I already did it,” he growled.

Foster and I tied off at the dock, and I kissed him on the cheek, “I’ll see you around 9 at Kubla’s, I’m going to catch some sleep.”

In his usual grumbling he protested about maximizing time, and I shooed him off, “Go do some shopping then, here’s some credit from our last job,” I swiped my holo at his, and climbed below deck. Sleep was sweet, and came quickly.

--

The bar room was crawling with the usual drifters like us, filthy, desperate, and inebriated. The room smelled like day old dried beer, lingering trash, and the floor clung to your shoes with each step. Kubla’s Den was like a new world trade center, it’s where we did business. It is the center of all that disquiets men, prompting them to cast themselves far afield. After a drink or two, a man is likely to forget the old saying, “One in the hand is better than two in the bush”. Kubla’s is where jobs are posted, a chance for people like Foster and I to make some credit. Whatever corpo, government, or businessmen may have that month is what we do.

“Find what we need?” I grinned at Foster.

“Yes. Get your beauty sleep?” he chided.

“Absolutely,” I gloated, then laughed.

I took a seat at the bar and ordered us drinks while Foster made his usual rounds. After a drink or two, he slammed back into view next to me.

Wild eye he pointed to his holo projection, “Do you see this?”

It was an eye-popping credit reward for the locket of renowned technocrat, James Jensen. His death was all that has been repeated on the holonet for the past week. The employer was Jensen Corp, the tech giant that helped established order in the wake of the fall of the United States, his father’s founding empire.

The heart shaped locket slowly rotated before our eyes, and on every other holo in the room. The description outlined Jensen’s disappearance in the subterrain of San Fran’s ruins, and the files thought to be on his person kept secure in the locket. The money would mean we’re set for life, but the risk far outweighed the reward in my mind.

“Fos, we can’t do this,” I cautioned slowly, “we don’t have the right equipment and we may not come back.”

“We would be insane not to try!” he shouted drawing more attention than was comfortable.

He impatiently cut off my protests and continued, “This is bigger than us! Not only could we finally be stable, but we could help others climb out of this hell.”

“I don’t know…” I hesitated.

“Imagine us not having to beg and steal anymore? We could be free of all this…” he gestured around the room at the dazed, miserable, and stumbling mercenaries.

“Our life isn’t perfect, but we have each other! Do you want to jeopardize that? What if something happens to one of us?” I pressed back hotly.

“Hey—” he took my hand, “—I’m doing this for us,” he spoke softly.

He’s a very persuasive person when he’s focused. It’s one of the reasons I love him. However, I would be lying if I said that my love for him and his reasoning are what persuaded me. They greased my descent, but the human heart is capable of incredible self-deception. Like Foster, my greed camouflaged itself as something more benign and admirable. I told myself I was concerned for him, I had to keep him safe, and that if he was going to go, I should go with him.

--

The night was eerie and still, except for our paddling. The wind failed us, but we were determined to make it to San Fran ahead of the bull rush.

San Fran’s rusted and ruined spires towered all around us. People avoided this section of local waters. It was dangerous, yes, but more importantly it was joyless. It was a reminder of a better age. Perhaps this is what the Vikings felt sailing through the ruins of a long-lost Roman Empire, a double wound. The despair of paradise lost, and the sour realization that perhaps it can never be retained. I looked at the back of Foster’s head as he worked and thought about life being that way. Losing him would be much worse than losing all this.

I shook myself out of that line of thinking, now was the time to stay alert. The natural dangers of this place were doubled with other mercs on the job. We may toast together in the den but out here friends are few. Jensen was last seen headed into the underwater reaches of Jensen Corp’s first campus. What he was doing, or searching for, remains a mystery. But the contents of that heart locket drive have the world on edge. What was on it remained anyone’s guess, but the corpo was gambling big on it.

We arrived at the tower, and decided this first section of it was as good as any.

“Here, I brought some charges—" Foster began

“—Are you insane?” I snatched them away from him, “These towers have been half submerged as long as we’ve been alive, and could come down at any moment. And you think we should breach them with explosives?” I objected.

“Well, when you say it that way…” Foster sheepishly looked down.

I composed myself, “Sorry…I’m just a little on edge is all.”

“It’s alright, so am I, you’re right though. Let’s not blow stuff up. Besides, the whole neighborhood would hear us.”

We used our drill beam, typically used for our mining expeditions, to cut a hole into a skyscraper office window. It did the job clean and quietly.

After we secured the boat, we stepped into the office. It was like stepping back into a freeze frame of my grandparent’s Americana. The rot of mildew hung in the air, and the night did us no favors with visibility. Making sure our holos were freshly powered, we clicked on our flood lights and made our way down the hall.

--

Jensen Corp’s schematics were dated, and only had estimations of what wings were likely flooded or impassible. But hour by hour, with quite a few breaks, we finally arrived at the projected location of Jensen’s body, the lower research and development wing.

We unlocked the 21st century mechanical seals on the flooded wing after hours of careful cutting with our mining equipment. Further down the stairs, it was time to dive.

I leaned back against the wall of the stair landing, and Foster and I took a breather. We took inventory of our equipment, and I began to take account of him.

Foster is the man I have loved for years, he’s relentless, and a great provider. He tirelessly aspires for more. I couldn’t help but wonder as we sat in this endless curated catacomb if he had led me too far along this time. Maybe if I’d been a little more insistent to stay, he would have relented. And yet I think what’s wrong with Foster is misaligned in most of us. In all this time, with all the love in the world, I don’t think he’s been satisfied for a day in his life. There’s always more to be had, celebration doesn’t come naturally for him.

We took a break for a few hours before the dive to sleep. It was restless, bitter, and flitted away from me.

--

The whirring of the equipment to life roused me from my suspended half-sleep. Rubbing my eyes, I began assisting Foster in silence. After checking the tanks, we secured one another’s straps. Donning our masks, we waded into the icy salt water, and flicked on our headlights.

The dive took us down, and then up in a horseshoe shape to the air pocket we hoped acted as Jensen’s sarcophagus.

Though the journey was long and anxiety inducing, it was, thankfully, uneventful. We passed unharassed into this diluvian chamber.

The first thing that hit us was the horrid smell. The trapped scent of decaying flesh filled the rotunda with a nauseating miasma. It seemed out of line with the spectacular beauty of this place. The reinforced glass above served as a window into the dancing sea life, cut through with the first rays of dawn. And yet the admirable view about us was obscured by the scent of death.

James Jensen, our defacto king last week, sat dead, clutching the locket.

“We found it!” He grasped the locket victoriously. He pressed his forehead against mine, grabbing the back of my head in jubilation.

Placing the locket on a desk, he pressed the center to activate it. It sputtered to life, and projected simply a picture of his dead son for us. Next to that was an audio link, that was all. Confused, we eyed one another and pressed the message.

“You have sought an Empire, and found ruin. Like the Atlanteans before you. What is wealth? I lost all mine when Julian died. Look on all these works and tremble! Shelley warned us all those years ago. Here I am at the close, an Ozymandias, given the disservice to see my ruin while I yet live. I hope whoever finds this, you know the real treasure is hidden in real hearts, not this one.”

Foster sank to the floor, defeated by its contents. I’ve added this journal entry to the locket to remind you to take heart. I hope you find your treasure, and see this man’s poverty as a warning. What would it profit you to gain the whole world, and lose yourself? Julian Jensen famously died of an overdose. Cling tightly to the ones you love, and let Ozymandium stay buried, where it belongs. Wealth is the people who love you.