15:45 – June 15, 2047, Karlsplatz
David trudged across the marketplace in heavy boots. His heels seemed to stick to the tiled floor, as if slowly fusing with it. Each step felt harder than the last.
The noise of the firefight still echoed in his head, like an echo that refused to fade. He could still taste the residue of gunpowder, still feel the recoil in his shoulder, still hear the clatter of shell casings hitting the ground. The image of front sight and rear sight hovered before his eyes, searching reality for their next victim.
He forced himself to breathe calmly. Four seconds in. Hold. Six seconds out. Exactly as he had been taught during training.
Yesterday, he had stared death in the face—and still did not fully understand what had happened. Everything had unfolded automatically, mechanically, as if someone else had been inside his body.
At least, he thought, the militia training had been worth something. Weapon handling had been drilled countless times. Charging, disengaging the safety, aiming, firing, reloading—for a militia soldier, these actions were as natural as breathing.
And yet something gnawed at him. A dull, restless feeling that refused to leave him alone.
He had killed people. Enemies, yes—but they, too, had only been following orders.
Crusaders on the road to the Holy Land. Summoned by their poets to liberate sacred sites and the Promised Land from heathens and heretics. To reclaim Stephansplatz—defiled by atheists—and return it to the arms of the faithful.
How many loyal servants of Sol had died on this pilgrimage? How much blood had soaked the road to paradise? How many corpses paved the way?
How could people believe in something like God? Murder and pillage in his name. By what right were heathens forcibly converted, heretics burned, children terrified with visions of hell?
Or were they right after all?
Would the black veil of Judgment Day lift if humanity repented and atoned? If the rays of the Head of God once again reached the Earth and watched over paradise?
But how were they supposed to atone? Through self-flagellation? By declaring crusades against unbelievers? By building temples and offering sacrifices?
How much would humanity have to give until the radiation vanished? Until the dust fell from the atmosphere and the ice age finally ended?
What was the price of absolution for the sin of destroying paradise? How much blood must be spilled in penance? How many heretics must be delivered to the light through roaring flames?
How much—until God forgave them?
He shook the thoughts from his head. It was pointless anyway. If there had ever been a god, he had burned away in the atomic strikes—along with heretics and disciples alike.
David tried to distract himself. Maybe he should get a drink—wash the metallic taste of war down with some cheap liquor. Or calm his nerves like the others, with hemp tobacco.
Then a melody reached his ears. At first faint and fragile, then growing more confident.
Where was it coming from? Who was playing something so beautiful?
There—sitting on a wooden crate—was an elderly man with long, braided silver-gray hair and a beard that reached his stomach. Dust-covered, he nodded rhythmically to the performance of a street musician who played a slightly out-of-tune guitar, stamping his leather-wrapped foot in time.
Children hung on the sound, transfixed. They listened to a piece that seemed older than the post-apocalypse itself.
Art and cultural programs were supported by the Ministry of Information and Public Enlightenment. Artists received fixed compensation to sweeten people's lives—to lift them out of grim reality and guide them into an imaginary paradise. Free from scarcity. Free from suffering. Above all, free from worry.
Art, so the doctrine claimed, augmented humanity's natural state—creative, inventive, courageous in the face of the unknown and the new. That was why every citizen of the Union was to have access to this other world. Not just the rich and privileged, as in earlier times or other states.
Inequality had been abolished in the Union. Everyone was offered the joy of creative expression.
But was it truly art if it did not disturb, did not accuse, did not question meaning—if it was instead used by some ministry as propaganda?
Or was it controlled art—helping people endure hell, distracting them like a drug from their existence?
The images returned nonetheless. The stench of blood. The relentless hammering of gunfire. The screams of the wounded.
Blood everywhere.Bodies tangled in barbed wire. Mutilated. Still.
Among them half-children, no older than fifteen.
How many had he killed? How many young pilgrims had he robbed of their future? How many mothers had he deprived of their sons?
Nausea rose within him.
His mind filled with a chaotic flood of impressions. A yawning emptiness threatened to swallow him—drag him into a black abyss and never let go.
He needed distraction. Anything.
Then a loudspeaker announcement cut through the silence and tore him from his thoughts. It felt like salvation.
"The Spark announces that, as part of the Second Cultural Revolution, the Red Youth Brigade will host an arts and culture gathering in Residential Block 12-B—in honor of the Consul and the Party."
Warfare in these days differed little from that of the First World War. Each advance pushed the front only a few hundred meters forward. Each battle was a meat grinder, fed with people and material.
The goal was to overwhelm the enemy with waves of human bodies—usually with limited success. To the misery of those who had to fight.
David's unit had been lucky. Only four had been killed. Six more wounded.
What now? Shopping? Walking? Anything else?
Did he really have nothing better to do than wander the station aimlessly?
"Well then…"
He decided to attend the gathering.
Members of the youth collective stood in front of the residential units. Like all branches of the Organized Collective Youth, this brigade was a loyal supporter of the revolution.
They wore the typical red uniforms, standing rigid before a tightly packed crowd. Behind them hung a blood-red banner bearing the symbol of the Union and the slogan:
"Renewal through Revolution."
A young woman climbed onto a rickety bamboo crate, barely held together with nails. Then she raised her voice.
"Brothers and sisters of our great Union! Today we follow the call of our Consul. We follow the wise decision of the Politburo to renew our society!"
The crowd listened intently. Among them were pensioners with grandchildren in tow—though the children were more interested in cookies and treats like fried potatoes or schnitzel with mushroom bread.
Men and women stood together—residents, craftsmen, farmers, soldiers. A broad cross-section of the average comrade.
"We serve the Cultural Revolution to strengthen our workers' power. That is why today we present the social project 'Better Living'!"
She gestured toward old buckets and paintbrushes.
"Today we restore the murals once created under the spirit of the social revolution! We warmly invite you to support us in this endeavor."
Members of the brigade began restoring a faded wall painting. Children dipped their hands in red, blue, and green paint and pressed them against plywood panels.
Soon the mural bore the imprints of its inhabitants. Delighted by the most human of all motifs, the children carefully pressed their hands against the walls, laughing with joy.
Meanwhile, artistically gifted individuals worked in sweeping motions, brushstroke by brushstroke restoring portraits. Step by step, they erased the marks of time. Step by step, they created something new upon the old—a picture worthy of the revolution and its ideals.
The restored image depicted a woman holding an infant in one arm and a flag in the other. She stood atop a barricade, overcoming it with determination.
Beneath the image, in faded letters, stood the words:
"The Woman of the Revolution."
A tribute to the female industrial proletariat—and a monument to a time when hope and conviction had once walked hand in hand.