2049 is a world where men never grow old because they die by the time they are twenty. Women however, live long and productive lives and now must decide on the future of mankind. But do they have all the information to make an informed decision? Book 1 of the Angels Have Tread Trilogy is a fast paced dystopian thriller that invites you to enter the world where history has been replaced by her story.
2049 is a world where men never grow old because they die by the time they are twenty. Women however, live long and productive lives and now must decide on the future of mankind. But do they have all the information to make an informed decision? Book 1 of the Angels Have Tread Trilogy is a fast paced dystopian thriller that invites you to enter the world where history has been replaced by her story.
The Histories
September 2069
Country Victoria
Australia
"I think winter's about played itself out.”
The young woman standing by the sink, looking out the window, was talking more to herself than anyone else, but then a raspy cough from the other side of the room reminded her that she was not alone.
"No,” contradicted the Old One, “it has a ways to go yet,”
Gritting her teeth, the girl shut her eyes and silently counted to ten. That's what the last two days had been like. Every time the girl would ask a question or make a statement, it was met with derision or dismissal. It was difficult enough on the first morning but then that late winter storm had blown in suddenly from the west, taking everyone off guard and leaving the two of them trapped together in the small cabin.
Drying her hands on the dish towel, the girl threw it down on the counter and turned to face her adversary. She was not going to give in.
“Well, at least today the sun is out so the work crews should be able to clear the main roads."
The Old One started to respond but succumbed to another bout of coughs. Impassively, the girl filled a glass with water and brought it to the table. This interview with the Old One, had been organised by her undergrad advisor as the last of her admissions requirements for the masters program at MelbU. For the last four years, while her friends had taken jobs cementing their positions in the rural community, she had continued her studies, taken her tests and finally gotten a letter provisionally accepting her into the advanced studies program. All she had to do now was complete this last assignment and she was on her way to the big city. It had been her lifelong dream and while it was so close, she found herself struggling with this last roadblock. The interview, which was only meant to take a couple of days had become an ordeal which not only stopped her from finishing her entrance requirements but had now forced her into the temporary role of full time carer.
Standing over the Old One’s shoulder, she waited impatiently as the scarred fingers wrapped around the glass, lifted, then set it back down again as tremors shook water onto the table. The girl quickly retrieved the dish towel from the kitchen and began wiping up the spill, moving aside the old holographs, acrylics and flat photos that lay scattered in random piles on the table. These were precious artefacts but that didn’t seem to faze the oldie, who was oblivious to the water spreading across the table. Was this the real test; seeing if she could extract an oral history from someone who obviously had nothing of importance to say? She left the damp cloth on the table and returned to the kitchen to find a drinking straw.
While she searched through the utensil drawer, the Old One commented, "You would think that with all the changes over the last forty years, at least the climate would have stabilised by now.”
Returning, straw in hand, the girl stuck it in the glass and then sat down at the table. Idly she fingered a flyer with the slogan, “Stability to Rebuild”, printed in bold black letters.
"I suppose that’s what this is all about – change. I’ve certainly seen enough of that; some good, some bad and some yet to be categor--." Another coughing fit interrupted the sentence.
Jumping up restlessly, the girl grabbed the towel off the table. As she headed back towards the kitchen, she said flippantly, "If you don’t feel up to talking, I'll take you outside so you can enjoy the sunshine while it lasts."
Looking back towards the table she saw the misshapen hand wave in the air. What was that supposed to mean? Dismissal? Disdain? Derision? The Old One seemed to be contemptuous of this whole process and the girl was beginning to think her advisor had deliberately set her up to fail.
Then, as if reading her mind, the Old One said, “Your advisor is an old friend of mine. She asked me, as a favour, to tell you about the events that led up to the Great Upheaval.” There was a pause, then in a voice filled with resignation, continued, “It’s not something I like to talk about but if we’re going to do this, then I suggest we get started so you’re ready to leave once the roads are clear.”
Surprised by the sudden change, the girl saw how the Old One's jaw tightened and decided that this was likely to be her only opportunity, so she said, "The recorder is on the table. I’m ready to start when you are." Not getting a response, she plonked herself in the chair and adjusted the position of the microphone. “I just need you to say something so I can calibrate the microphone.”
The voice started thin and reedy, "The problem with history is that there's no clear beginning, just as there’s no definitive end. It’s just one big long continuum.” The girl was still adjusting the microphone when the elder asked, “Tell me, what do you expect to get out of this?”
“Me?” The girl stopped setting up the equipment. She was supposed to be the interviewer. “This is part of my admissions requirements.” She adjusted her position in the chair and added, “It's mandatory -“
“I asked, what do you get out of this? Are you just here to record some old person talking about things you already know?”
Grey, wiry eyebrows pushed towards each other, making the harsh features even harder. The girl was confused by the question.
“Aren’t you curious to know what it was like before everything changed? Don’t you wonder what it was like for mothers and fathers to take their kids out on a Sunday afternoon? Do you want to know what it was like to go out dancing or see a movie at the cinema? Does anyone in your generation ever talk about what it was like in the early 20s?”
The voice that had started weak, was gathering strength. “Because, to understand the full impact of what happened in 2029, you need to know what life was like before. Only then can you begin to understand how over night, everything changed.” The girl watched as the elder tapped the book sitting on the table between them, “Your history books talk about who was waging war on whom and the excesses and the greed and the bad men who were responsible for all the bad things that happened but it leaves out a lot. It’s like one of those magic shows where they convince you to see what they want you to see.”
A contemptuous sigh, followed by a flick of the finger indicated that the girl should start recording.
"We could stick to the well established facts. The ones that tell you that the Great Upheaval started with the elections of 2050. We could do that and then you would have your assignment finished and I could get rid of you. But as delightful as that sounds, it would be wrong. You see the Great Upheaval could not have happened if it wasn’t for the global pandemic twenty years earlier. Now, I know you've read your history books, but they can’t possibly describe what it was like to live through those times. During the pandemic, women had no choice but to watch helplessly while their fathers, and husbands, their sons and their siblings, and all the men they didn’t even know, died in numbers impossible to imagine. And those women who survived that torment, had no time to grieve because they were busy getting rid of the dead and keeping themselves alive. You see, men died quickly from the disease. You would see them collapse in the street, or pass out at their desks. Some made it to hospitals but even more simply went home where they died in their beds. Women, on the other hand, died slowly. They died from grief, starvation and the myriad diseases that tagged along on the heels of the pandemic. It took just over three years for the Desolation, for that's what we named it, to wipe out the world's population of adult males but it took women another twenty to recover.”
There was a small dry laugh that sounded more like a bark, “The survivors. They foolishly thought that the great die-off ended with that final wave. Mothers of young boys rejoiced as the post pandemic generation grew with renewed vigour. That was, until the unthinkable happened. As the new generation reached maturity, they too collapsed. With renewed horror, it became apparent that anyone with a Y chromosome was simply going to drop dead sometime before their twentieth birthday. Congenital heart failure was the technical term, but everyone just called it Collapsing.”
A knock at the door startled the girl, who realised she had been unconsciously holding her breath. She stopped the recording and went to the door. Left alone, the Old One reached over and touched one of the photographs. It was a faded colour photo of four young people. Just one of the many images that had found its way here because now the New Republic felt that enough time had passed to document what had happened. Pushing the pieces of paper and acrylics around, the Old One wasn’t surprised that most of the images featured the ever popular Evelyn Perkins. They showed her at various stages in her long career. One photo, still in its frame, pictured a young Perkins putting the Order of Australia sash over the head of a tall man. Another, an image from a news feed, showed the elderly Perkins being helped from a large black limo by a burly looking woman in a brown uniform. Mixed in with the newsfeed images, were pictures of other prominent politicians from that time. There was one of Monika Thomas when she became Acting Premier of The Greater Melbourne Republic and standing beside her was a young Catherine Williams. Other photos were just cell phone images of ordinary people who got caught up in the great events of the day. Their names were not likely to make it into the history books but the Old One knew that some of them were as important, or maybe, even more important than their famous counterparts. Flicking through the images, the old fingers paused here and there, then returned to the photo of four young people. It pictured a girl on the verge of womanhood wearing a simple outfit of black track pants and a white t-shirt; the preferred clothing of a uni student. Her long brown hair toppled over one eye and fell to her shoulders. The Old One's fingers caressed it, briefly. On either side of her stood two young men, or perhaps they were still boys; one tall with brown straight hair and a serious face and the other, shorter, blond headed and smiling. Kneeling in front of these three was a third boy man, with a round smiling face. The young men, like the girl, were all dressed in nondescript clothes, except for the blond haired boy's sneakers. The faded colours of the photo could not mask the garish blues, pinks and greens of those shoes. They stood out, bright as a neon sign on a dark country road and as the fingers touched them, a hint of humour deepened the wrinkles on the aged face.
"Sorry about the interruption," the young girl said as she reclaimed her seat. “That was someone from the SES asking how we were going for supplies. She said the road into town should be cleared in a couple of days. Now where were we?"
Pushing the photo back towards the pile, the Old One said, "We were about to tell the story of the Great Upheaval but perhaps not the one you know from your approved texts.” The girl looked up, her finger poised over the start button. “What if I told you that the real story was much more complicated?"
"What do you mean?” asked the girl. “Are you saying that the histories are incorrect?"
"Not incorrect, just incomplete. In some places the truth has been, how shall I put it, pushed aside, to create a more harmonious version of the events.” Taking a deep breath, the Old One added, “I think I know where to begin now.”
The Old One’s finger tapped on the photo of the youths and the girl, glancing curiously at it, pressed the record button.
“The moment, the seminal moment that brought about the Great Upheaval, started when a simple desire for freedom crossed paths with an even simpler desire for pleasure. The complexity was not in each individual’s actions but more in the interaction of their desires. You see, that’s were the complexity lies,” the Old One paused to sip some water. “Your books make everything sound neat and tidy but the truth is that the past is actually a mess of conflicting points of view. History is nothing more than the accumulated experiences of living people, flesh and blood; at times heroic, at times petty and self serving, but in the end just people like you and me. It’s their accounts you need to hear, not some list of this happened, then that happened. What you need to hear is-” there was a pause as the old hand circled in the air until finally settling on, “stories. Just people’s stories.”
The hand moved across the table, pushing aside photos until it settled on a grainy, faded out one, of a young man in jeans and t-shirt looking back over his shoulder. Shot from a distance and faded with age, it was hard to make out his features, never mind his facial expression. The girl looked at the Old One’s face, seeking some explanation. Not getting one, she returned to the photo and wondered, Who was he and why was he looking back? Who or what, was he looking at?
“The story begins with a man called Steve.”
“Steve? But that’s-”
“Hush child. Just listen. I’ll introduce you to all the players in due time. Some you know, or think you know, and others you have read about but never met, but I assure you, they all played their part. Now, our story begins on the night of December 4, 2049—"
When I first came across the premise of When All Hope is Lost, I must say, I was intrigued, albeit skeptical. After all, I reasoned, the old gender switcharoo has been done to death, especially in recent years, with the progression of egalitarian values in the world.
What I thoroughly enjoyed about this first book in the The Angels Have Tread trilogy was that the author managed to take this somewhat overused idea of women ruling the world, whilst men are reduced to playthings, servants, and of course, breeding apparel, and make it worth reading. That, in itself, is no easy feat. Because if you think about it, every story has been told before, in its more bare form, at least. So to be able to adapt and shape that skeleton of a story, and still make it interesting - now, that's saying something.
I also enjoyed the web of character that Elmore weaves, particularly the complex relationship between Monika and Evelyn. Far more than a mere mentor-apprentice duo, these two ladies enjoy this wonderfully rich and emotional chemistry. Personally, the chapters featuring these two were my favorites, by quite a margin. Zane and Karen probably would've come in second, as far as the characters go.
Speaking of character interactions, though, there was one element of the story that, for me, really brought the whole experience down. Much as I enjoyed the Old One, as a character, her little introductory exchanges at the beginning of each chapter just got on my nerves and stilted the story (I thought). While I think a little introduction would've been nice at key points in the story, the Old One's exaggeratedly suspenseful remarks, along the lines of the knowing "you'll see" were just too much. They made keeping up with the story's progression more difficult - so why do that?
In my opinion, the book, at 120k words, was overly long for what it had to offer. I feel that if the author would've compressed the action into a neat 90k words, then the story would've been much smoother, and more fast-paced.
All of that being said, I thought the final chapter was well-written, and among the strongest in the entire novel. For that, and for the other good aspects I pointed out, I might like to read the second book in the series. But I strongly suggest that you make up your own mind, since books are subjective, and what resonates with you might not resonate with me. And vice-versa.