Chapter 1: Coping with Stress

Writing about the end of the world seems nearly redundant. It's not like anyone is going to forget what happened. It was over fifty years ago now, I was twelve years old. It was another lifetime ago. All that you really need to know is the people that ran the world 'before' screwed it all up to atomic proportions. I don't know much about pre-war politics but I know it was always a bit of a clusterfuck, and a lack of oil made things bad enough we all felt it would be easier to send each other into nuclear oblivion. I was one of around one million citizens of the great United States of America who lived remotely enough, and was smart enough, to survive. Not just survive though, but prosper.

But the end of the world is old news now, and my story isn't the point. It's not a heartwarming tale of triumph against adversity. I might be arrogant and egotistical, but I'm also acutely self-aware. I'm not a 'nice' person. I'm not even an 'interesting' one. All you really need to know about my life between the war and today is that I made some really smart decisions, I followed my best interests and I didn't let ethics and morals and emotions stand in my way. I'd have wasted away in the old world, I'd be living on a trailer park with an old shotgun, beer gut and an addiction to cable TV – instead, I'm here, enjoying the privilege of my station. Would I trade all I have now to stop the war, and bring those billions back from the dead? Let me try to answer that for you now.

"I'm satisfied with what I've seen, Lord Barrera." The adjudicator smiled thinly, putting a few newly stamped pieces of paper in a beaten up leather briefcase and extending a hand to Saul. A smiling adjudicator was often enough to send most nobles of the West Pacific Empire into a panic, but Saul was pretty certain this was a genuine smile, albeit from someone not particularly used to the expression. "Personally, your methods are a little extreme," the adjudicator continued, shaking his hand with a tight grip and looking out over the plantation, "but then again, we all have our vices. Keep up the shipments, keep down the chattel, and try to avoid anymore ... infringements, will you? The paperwork can really upset less, shall we say, 'bureaucratic' members of the empire."

With that, the adjudicator nodded to Saul and started off down the steps of the plantation house towards his car. Saul stood and watched the adjudicator's unhurried departure, waiting until the car was over the horizon before breathing a sigh of relief. The last two days of inspections had been a rare stress in Saul's life that he was glad to be finished with for another six months. The adjudicators of the chattel compliance and regulation authority were the only agents in the empire to exert any real power over a Lord, especially one with the particular reputation for results that Saul had established in the last few years, and that made him incredibly uncomfortable.

The Lake Hartwell plantation was responsible for nearly a fifth of the food consumed by the empire and despite the climate, was also a major producer of sugar, a cornerstone of the empires burgeoning economy. It had only been a few years since the Empire had officially been formed, and people who had their shit together as much as Saul had found ample opportunities for 'advancement' once the fighting was over and attention was turned to more economic matters. Saul was part of a new and growing class of nobility, which granted him a great deal of land, a beautiful colonial mansion completely untouched by any war, and a small plantation he had quickly turned into an economic powerhouse. The biggest benefit to being a noble for Saul wasn't the land or the status though, it was the chattel.

Hartwell was what would have been referred in the old days as an "equal opportunities employer". Saul had heard of the old plantations of pre-holocaust America, of the persecution of black slaves that became a vital part of the American economy, and the war that it eventually ignited. This plantation wasn't about color though, or age, or gender. It was about the weak versus the strong. The winners versus the losers. Those destined to become gods in this new world, and those destined to become loyal subjects. Saul looked out over his land at the dozens of men and women, some as young as sixteen and others well into their 30s, around the maximum average life expectancy for a regular citizen of the empire. A beautiful sight.

Despite the calming effect surveying his land granted him, Saul needed some more tangible stress relief. Walking down the stairs and across the neatly kept front lawn of the house, he passed a few of the Plantation slave-masters and nodded in their direction, but his target was Alliah, a young girl who had been sold to him less than two months ago, and one of his new favorites. She was carrying a bucket of water towards from the main well towards the western slave barracks when Saul caught up with her from behind, casually grabbing her both her arms with one hand and ripping off her meager linen dress with the other. The water bucket fell to the floor and she cried out. Not a loud cry, more of a terrified whimper of resignation from a person who had been utterly broken and knew exactly how to behave amongst nobility.

Of course Saul didn't think of this girl as a 'person', not in the traditional sense. Not in the same way he or the other lords were people. They sacrificed that right long ago. Some from being weak, slow, stupid or plain unlucky. Others - the younger ones - were just born into it. It was their destiny to serve his needs and his estate, just as it was Saul's destiny to serve the empire.

Saul tightened his grip on Alliah's arms twisting them unnaturally, and the girl's resignation turned a cry of pain. Saul felt a split second of defiance from her, almost certainly a kneejerk reaction to be grabbed like a piece of meat, an instinct which the girl brought under control within a moment. Still, Saul was already on edge, and it was enough to piss him off. He reached around and punched the little cunt hard in the stomach, keeping a firm grip on the back of her hands to stop her from falling over. She gasped and made a sound like she was being strangled, her head falling forward and her body convulsing despite Saul's hold on her.

No, people no longer, if they ever were. Objects now. Tools. Most importantly, in the eyes of the law, they were his property. They had no more legal recourse or right to complain than his truck, or his shotgun. In fact, those things were valuable commodities to be treated with care, worth a lot more than chattel, the most common 'natural resource' the empire had to offer. The adjudicator was here to monitor the situation and uphold the law of the empire, but that didn't extend to the welfare of slaves. They were concerned about production, and they were concerned about uprisings and rebels. They didn't exactly come out and support sexual violence and abuse, but if the job was getting done, who cared about the methods?