Beyond the Dome

I explore the camp for the first time. I distribute water to refugees from a large trolley. Nathan hands them soup. Seconds are permitted, as confirmed by the guards, and Nathan is generous.

Tents are everywhere. I didn’t know we had so many mattresses in Commonplace for the injured and sick people. I briefly wonder if they brought their own, but it’s unlikely when fleeing a war. A voice inside my head says they could have.

Children play tag fearlessly between the tents. They wear basic cotton garments. Same here. All individuals have short hair, just like us. Are rules in cities random or is there a governing body in 3045? We have treaties for sustaining human life, but none for clothing and hairstyles.

I observe how alike we are, the people from West City and myself. I had never met anyone beyond our dome. Now, I’m distributing water to them. I am also generous with water. The guards instructed me to be.

I hear someone call my name, “Thalia.” I turn around and see Nathan. He motions for me to approach him, and I comply.

I greet Nathan with a smile. “How’s your day?”

“I’m good,” he calmly says. “We expect more refugees soon after the recent attacks at West City from The South.”

I gaze at him, curious. I know I shouldn’t ask things. My knowledge is limited to what I’ve learned in my classes: Lessons from History and Sustainable Environmental Management. Our other classes include State-of-the-Art Science and AI, which stand for Agriculture Innovations, in which we unironically use AI.

“You’re curious how I know, and how they got here,” Nathan says, reading my mind.

I nod. Transparent, steel-strong domes surround each surviving city. There is no way to come or go.

“Underground Tunnels.”

My eyes shift from Nathan to the refugees. I was unaware of the underground tunnels.

“The tunnels were constructed to facilitate trade with other cities. We have traded for centuries. My job is to transfer goods from the tunnels to the storage units.” Nathan’s expression suddenly changes. “Please don’t share this with anyone else.”

I nod. Jobs are highly secretive. At 18, our Great Leaders assign them to us, and we silently go to work every day. I long for a job that cleans the atmosphere, so we can leave our domes. However, the job’s existence is uncertain and leaving is improbable. Creating a magical way to absorb toxic nano-particles doesn’t eliminate the need to solve other problems. For example, water. It does not exist.

In Lessons from History, we learned that when the supposed saviors of the planet, such as billionaires and their wealthy associates, migrated to Mars for good, the remaining survivors on Earth understood that things would only worsen. They drained the oceans, filtered the water, and stored it in stainless trunks for cities with domes. Due to politicians leaving for space, some cities couldn’t build domes, resulting in the death of billions worldwide. However, some politicians stayed. Filled with a sense of compassion, they wanted to help.

Nathan pulls me closer and whispers to me. “The tunnels are not just for trading.” He pauses, glancing at the refugees. I get his point.

“How did it-?”

I want to know how it happened, but I stop when I see guards approaching.

“Is everything fine?” One of them asks.

“Yes, sir,” Nathan confirms. We’re taking a breather.

“Remember the six-feet apart rule.”

We separate swiftly. Our city prohibits close proximity between people with different jobs.

“I’ll make sure they stay separated,” one guard tells the other.

My heart pounds, anticipating reprimand. But once the other guard is gone, the remaining one smiles at me.

Nathan introduces the guard, Vikter, and he says, “It’s okay.”

Is it a test? Talking to guards forbidden for anyone under 18. I observe Vikter in silence. He is the thinnest among us. Vikter’s front hair is long. He shaves the rest of his hair, except for a lock in the front that he separates and places behind each ear.

Nathan shakes his head, looking at Vikter. “Any idea how this happened?”

“Well,” Vikter begins, his voice filled with seriousness, “Approximately 200 years ago, The South disregarded the Sterilization and Anti-procreation Treaty, as well as the Plant-Based Treaty. They have been breeding and illegally keeping animals for human consumption for years. They have exhausted their land and water resources for their population. Running out of water and land means running out of food-”

I tune out. I feel nauseous. Animals? Where did they even find animals? I’ve never seen one survive in my 16 years. No one has eaten flesh since the Plant-Based Treaty was signed in 2035. Forced insemination, confinement, and slaughter were considered unethical breeding practices. As resources dwindled, our ancestors had to transition to sustainable agriculture.

I try to recall our city’s size. We utilize cutting-edge methods for sustainable agriculture and crop growth. We still ration. Having animals would increase the need for land and water resources.

Aren’t all animals in the world dead anyway? Animal pictures from our Paleontology class flash before my eyes, making my stomach turn. Which animals specifically? Are traditional animal dishes still consumed in The South as they were in the early 2000s? Do they eat exotic animals? Or pets? Bugs?

We no longer have pets or insects. Homo Sapiens is the only surviving species. In AI class, we learned that humans started pollinating plants themselves after bees and other insects disappeared.

The thought of eating flesh crawls up my throat, choking me, but I don’t vomit.

“Poor girl,” Vikter says, tapping me on the back. “Did the animals they eat or their sexual activities make you sick?”

I remain silent. Rules must be followed.

I find sex disgusting, but I’m unfamiliar with it. In Human Biology class, we learn about our reproductive system and that we are sterilized at 10 to prevent overpopulation. Sterilization and shots suppress sex drive, leaving us unaware of what sex truly entails.

“Are we in danger too?” Nathan’s interruption snaps me back to reality.

“Commonplace in danger? No. Both this city and Terminal are very safe.”

“How can you be sure?” I ask in a barely audible voice. I’m scared someone might have heard me talking to a guard, so I glance around.

Nathan and Vikter were the only ones who heard me, unfazed. “I’m a guard,” Vikter says, reassuringly.

I excuse myself and return to the refugees, giving them water. They were talking about how disgusting The South is. The people that invaded the city had long hair and a large stature. The South falsely claimed strength through meat consumption, when West City was just outnumbered.

In bed, I wonder about Commonplace’s safety. Nuclear power sustains us. I’ve read in Lessons from History about nuclear destruction of populations. It’s possible that the Southers are not stronger. They targeted a city with no chance of resisting, due to its smaller population. The cities that rely on nuclear power would never become targets of an attack.

Before class on Monday, I need to find Vikter. I wander the city, but he is nowhere to be found. Refugees continue to arrive in large numbers. The teacher mentions transferring some to different cities.

“Will they have nuclear power?” I don’t raise my hand, but I ask.

“Yes,” our teacher Vera responds, “why do you ask?”

“Nuclear-powered cities are currently safer.” I observe my hands.

“Thalia, please explain.” I am challenged by Vera. She consistently does that. She says it’s to improve my communication and critical thinking skills.

“The Southers’ overpopulation in The South may lead to overpopulation in West City or other solar energy-based cities they may target.” I stop as everyone stares at me.

Vera’s face turns cross as she asks, “Thalia, what are you talking about?”

“The South. I’m talking about the disgusting long-haired, flesh-eating, breeding people of The South, with their–their enormous bodies–”

A gasp in class makes me stop. I shouldn’t have said this, but Vera and the kids in class were trusted. That’s what I think.

Vera draws closer to my desk. “Thalia, why say such terrible things about people?”

I inhale deeply. I can’t say it was Vikter. Talking to guards is out of limits. In a rush, I admit, “I overheard the refugees while volunteering.”

Another gasp from class.

Vera seems calm. “I’m certain you misheard.”

“But-”

“No more talking, Thalia.”

With my nod, the discussion concludes.

I walk to the northern neighborhood after school, where we have solar panels for the kitchens. The rest of the city exclusively uses nuclear energy. The panels are the size of my bedroom.

I walk past the panels and through the thick forest surrounding the city, providing fresh air and blocking the view from the outside world. The world beyond the dome is disheartening. I see abandoned electric cars on dry land, the entire planet a dumpster for useless vehicles, leaked batteries, abandoned infrastructure, mountains of clothes and garbage wrapped in plastic. I try to picture the old roads buried under dust. The atmosphere is heavy with a reddish hue, as if dirt permeates both the ground and the air. Suffocating danger outside.

I wish I lived 2000 years ago when people freely traveled and met others. They had a wide range of job options, including retail, office, and movies. I’m not interested in money or the internet, but I desire pets. It’s frustrating that our ancestors enjoyed a great life but didn’t pass it on to us. Their selfishness is unbelievable.

Lessons from History taught us that scientists warned politicians and the public, but were they listened to? No one has ever made money by reducing mindless and endless consumption. It seems unjust that we have to live in these circumstances because our ancestors were selfish. Based on the theory of evolution, humans have proven to be highly successful in terms of survival and reproduction. Does true success, though, exist when we are bound by limitations?

I wish I could drive an electric car with my partner and fall in love. I’ve read about love in books. It’s both wonderful and painful simultaneously. We’re not supposed to love each other here. Love could overturn the Sterilization Treaty, allowing for natural reproduction instead of lab-created babies. At 10 years old, we are sterilized and given a hormone to suppress our sex drive and need for affection. Our reproductive specimens are kept, tested for genetic issues, and used when an older person passes away, if they meet the criteria. We’re placed in the Home–this used to be an orphanage according to the plaque outside–until 14, then moved to apartments. We are in a hospice during our last days. I long for a friend. I long for a family.

This is our reality. Everything is sustainable, benefiting present and future generations. Our Great Leaders emphasize the importance of learning from the past and trusting scientists.

A negative footprint implies no trace left. The suggestion that I never existed. After death, my body will be dissolved into fertilizer. I will leave nothing behind. That’s the plan. I am angry at our ancestors. They left us books, TV shows, knowledge, an uninhabitable world. And now my notebooks are illegal. I document events to preserve my life’s history. I appreciate our leaders and scientists, but I feel the need to leave something behind. I want a subtle reminder of me to exist. We are created solely to serve our community, leaving no trace of our existence for future generations. Leaders alone are immortalized in the extensive digital database of biographies and history books.

The refugees are gone, and it takes months for me to notice. They stopped letting me volunteer, so I was clueless.

“Are they integrated?” I ask Vera one day.

“Oh, no,” she says cheerfully. “They were sent home.”

“To war?”

“Thalia, there was never a war.”

“What about The South?”

“Please, let’s continue.”

Class continues. And after class, Vera warns me not to discuss The South and what I heard from the refugees. Ever. She leaves me speechless with her comment about my best interest. I nod obediently.

Since then, I roam the city daily in my spare time. Vikter and Nathan are both gone. I hear elderly people talking about them. How they were unable to keep quiet. There are rumors that they were abducted, brainwashed, and underwent forced plastic surgery to be unrecognizable before being placed with the refugees and sent back to West City to avoid suspicion. One theory was imprisonment for treason, another was death. Another that they were forced into exile and faced deadly living conditions.

I’m 18 and work at a hospice. I’m unsure about Vikter and Nathan’s whereabouts. I avoid discussing them, or I would have to mention The South. Vera had warned me, but overtime the topic became prohibited and eventually illegal.

The elderly have valuable insights about the war. They are dismissed as having brain diseases, even though chronic diseases were eliminated in 2063. Still, no one listens. I pay attention. I’m silent. Elderly news reports are reliable when fact checked. Their statements about The South, its history of treaty violations, and the conquest of seven cities seem believable to me. However, Commonplace remains safe. At the moment. Observing the elderly, thoughts of my own future inevitably arise–will I live long enough to experience old age at a hospice, or will The South get here first? Ultimately, there will be nothing left of me, regardless of the outcome.

I must find the underground tunnels and escape.