"David! Put the book away already — your break has been over for a while!"
Startled, the young man lifted his head from the yellowed pages of the so-called chronicle he had bought at a distribution station. The historical account had been sold as a simple notebook. The on-duty clerk had suggested that he just tear out the written pages. For that, he had received a discount, which he had gratefully accepted.But David had never considered destroying this testimony of history — it was far too valuable.
His coworker spoke again and tapped him on the shoulder.
"I know it's fascinating, but we've got a quota to meet. The furnaces don't feed themselves!"
Now the slender young man with brown hair and green eyes fully raised his head and met the other's gaze. In David's eyes, his colleague saw the ever-present thoughtfulness that did not belong in a place like this. David ran his fingers once more over the worn, soot-stained cover and slipped the chronicle back into his rat-leather bag.
Nodding, he signaled that he understood. He put on his dust-filter mask and pulled the protective goggles — leather-framed with greenish bottle glass — over his eyes. The world shifted into a milky green haze.
He stepped into the corridor, and the heat hit him immediately — like the breath of a mythical dragon guarding its treasure with fire.
His foreman, a white-bearded man with a rough voice, called after him:
"And don't forget to cast your vote — the election for the new leadership post is still ongoing!"
He grinned broadly, almost fatherly.
David smiled faintly, his face smeared with soot and ash. Dark shadows danced across his forehead in irregular intervals. The light bulb in the corridor buzzed, plunging the world alternately into darkness and then into the harsh glare of its glowing filament.
"Sure, Franz. You've got my vote."
The old man laughed — an honest, hoarse laugh that ended in a coughing fit.
In the industrial zones, the air was barely breathable. Soot drifted downward like fine snow, burning eyes and lungs alike. Two dozen old oil drums stood in two rows to the left and right; charcoal was produced inside them. It was used as fuel for blast furnaces, for the manufacture of gunpowder, or as energy for improvised steam engines that powered generators.
The wood came either from what scouting parties recovered on the surface — furniture, dead, rigidly frozen trees — or from agricultural stations where bamboo was grown beneath fluorescent lamps. This woody grass was among the most valuable resources: useful not only for charcoal production, but also as building material and for consumer goods.
A carbonization cycle lasted thirty minutes: loading, burning, unloading. David prepared several small barrels and filled them with wood and bamboo, carefully stacking the material to be charred inside the soot-covered drums.
A worker wearing a leather apron, his face hidden behind goggles and a dust mask, called out to him:
"David, take care of the furnace near the entrance. It should be done!"
He pointed toward furnace number four.
David nodded, turned toward the kiln, and lifted the smaller barrel from its cradle with heavy, creaking leather gloves. The charred contents spilled into a metal trough where the product cooled. After two hours, it would be packed into hemp sacks and prepared for shipment.
Hemp — a plant that, according to legend, survived only because a few stoners had carried its seeds when the bombs fell. Today it was worth gold: clothing, ropes, tea, cigarettes, even paper — all produced from a single plant.
In this world, every source of energy was exploited to the last remnant. Electricity came from water turbines, plants grew beneath harsh argon lamps, and even the soot accumulating on the walls was regularly scraped off and pressed into briquettes. Nothing was wasted.
And so each day resembled the next: refuel, empty charcoal, package, store. The same motions repeated endlessly, burned so deeply into David's flesh that he barely noticed where he was or what task he was performing. Every movement was automatic, as if an unseen puppeteer were pulling invisible strings. Dully, he fulfilled his quota. Barrel after barrel, sack after sack.
Then a siren wailed — the end of the shift.
A loudspeaker announcement followed:
"Workers of the Union, your shift has ended. The Ministry of Epidemic Prevention and Health reminds all citizens of the mandatory monthly medical examination.Participation is required to safeguard the health of the collective."
Static briefly interrupted the announcement.
"At 21:30, the public sentencing of three enemies of the state will take place. For the honor of the Consul and the Techno-Socialist Party!"
David and the others went to the changing room, removed their heavy protective gear, and arranged everything for the next shift. The equipment was carefully hung on wire hooks. At the exit, each worker received their pay — one labor token per hour worked.
David stood in line to collect his hard-earned wages. On the wall of the changing room, a slogan had been painted in black:
"Collective of progress, workers of equality, soldiers of reason — rise!"
Above it loomed a shadowy image of the Consul, their guiding star, who — together with the Politburo — secured the survival of humanity and, above all, of industrial civilization.
In the so-called Techno-Socialist Union of Humanity — abbreviated TSUH, colloquially known simply as the Union — everything was planned down to the smallest detail by the leadership, in accordance with their ideals: progress, equality, reason. A technocratic-socialist state with a name that was its own manifesto.
When the sirens sounded, not only did the monotonous shift end — everyone lined up in precise order to receive their wages.
David was last in line. Ten men and women were assigned to keep the furnaces burning at all times.
Each received nine labor tokens in turn.
Franz handed David his tokens.
"Here you go, kid."
Labor tokens — that was the Union's currency. For every hour worked, one token was issued, regardless of the task performed. Absolute wage equality was the principle. Work was work. Labor power was quantified and used as currency, because labor was the foundation of all society. At the end of each day, a ten-percent solidarity tax was deducted. Thus, after a normal shift, David was left with nine tokens.
In return, every citizen received the same basic provisions from the Union: food, clothing, consumables, and housing — independent of position or function.
David slipped the metal discs with their functional embossing into a side pocket of his bag and waited. His foreman looked at him questioningly.
"Need anything else, David?"
Hesitantly, he replied:
"Yes… you were a soldier in the Great War, weren't you? Could you tell me something about it?"
The great war, the last conflict of the survivors in the subway.
Franz's face hardened.
"You really want to know what it was like?"
David nodded.
The old man inhaled slowly, as if preparing himself.
"Alright. But don't interrupt me."
He stared into nothingness.
"It was… hell. I only remember fragments. We thought it would be the last war — the war to end all wars. We fought over the last crumbs left after the collapse of the ZSOK.
I was on the eastern front — Messe-Prater Station, you know… the Blood Trench. Orders were to hold, no matter the cost.
Those gene-fanatics from the Eastern Corporate State sent wave after wave at us. I was a machine gunner… and I watched wave after wave fall.
Then the grenade hit. Two of my friends…"
His voice broke.
"They were turned into a rain of blood and flesh."
He swallowed hard.
"I kept firing. Maybe I killed a hundred legionnaires… and then… the flamethrowers…"
Franz's voice trembled.He began to cry.
"I'm sorry. I can't go on."
David lowered his gaze.
"No… I'm sorry. I should have been more careful asking."
Franz waved weakly.
"You couldn't have known."
They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways.
David took a small slip of paper, wrote a name on it, and dropped it into the ballot box. Despite the all-powerful avant-garde party, all workplaces were democratically organized. The workers elected their supervisors themselves — a luxury the last great state of humanity allowed itself to preserve a minimum of freedom.