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- Herausgeber: neobooks
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Deutsch
Year: 2035 Setting: The "New German Protectorate," surrounded by the "Wall of Light." The past: The "Great War" was not a conventional war, but a short, brutal conflict involving biological and cybernetic weapons. It caused Europe's ecosystems to collapse. The outside world is a contaminated, radioactive wasteland ("The Gray"). The Wall of Light: An impenetrable barrier of overlapping laser fields, sensors, and drone swarms that seals Germany off from the rest of the continent. Officially, it is a protective shield against the dangers outside. In reality, it is a prison. Society: Extremely hierarchical. A small elite ("The Architects") lives in well-supplied, clean sectors. The majority of the population ("The Mass") vegetates in dreary, overcrowded concrete blocks. Water and food resources are strictly rationed; access is controlled via "loyalty points." The manhunt: The ultimate entertainment and control tool. Criminals, "dissidents," and those selected by the elite are declared "hunted." They are hunted in designated hunting grounds (often abandoned neighborhoods or industrial sites). The hunters are volunteers from the "masses" or elite mercenaries. Those who capture or kill a "hunted" receive a life-changing reward: housing, water, food, status. The hunt is broadcast live throughout the protectorate and serves as a bloody bread-and-circuses circus to keep the population happy and compliant.
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Seitenzahl: 74
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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2035 - "The Last Hunt"
PROLOGUE: The Architects
The room was cold, not in temperature, but in aesthetics. Gray steel, glazed surfaces, the muffled hum of ventilation. Five men and women sat at a long black table, their faces only dimly lit by the faint light emanating from the holographic displays in front of them. They were the architects of the new Germany, the masters of the wall of light.
Live images of the "Eighth Season Hunt" flickered on the displays. A frightened young woman was seen running through a dilapidated supermarket, pursued by two burly men with modified weapons. The viewership numbers in the corner of the screen exploded.
"The ratings are excellent," said a woman with a severe bun. "Better than the last hunt. People love the desperation of the young."
"It's more than ratings, Elara," replied an older man with a voice like polished granite. His name was Silas. He was the primus inter pares, the first among equals. "It's psychology. We give the masses an outlet. They see the hunted and think, 'That could be me.' And they see the hunters and think, 'That could be me too.' Fear and hope keep them in balance. They're not fighting for survival, they're fighting for a chance to survive in our arena."
His finger pointed to another graph showing the consumption of water and nutrient pastes. "Resources continue to decline. The light wall keeps us safe, but it also keeps everything else out. Every hunt reduces the pressure. It eliminates trouble spots and reduces the number of mouths we have to feed. It's... hygiene."
A third architect, younger, with a nervous twitch in his face, looked away as the young woman was brought down on the screen. "What if they lose interest at some point? What if they realize they're just pawns?"
Silas smiled, a cold, calculating smile. "Then we change the rules. We make the hunt more dangerous for the hunters. We increase the reward. We reinvent the game. As long as they hunt, they don't hunt us. That's the only peace there is. The peace of the hunting ground."
He leaned back, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his colleagues. "Prepare for the next draw. I want someone who arouses sympathy. A hero, not just a victim. That brings out the true emotions."
CHAPTER 1: The Rationer
The smell was the worst. A constant mixture of sweat, rust, and the pungent, chemical "food paste" that was squeezed out of the wall vending machines. Kael smelled it even in his sleep. He smelled it now as he stood in the seemingly endless line in front of the water distributor. Three hours. Three hours for five liters of cloudy, chlorinated water.
A billboard flickered in front of him. "HUNTING SEASON 8! FINALE TODAY! Who will win the hunter's pride? Be there live!" The image showed the distorted, triumphant expression of a hunter whose face was scarred. In his hand he held a bloody trophy. The crowd around Kael murmured excitedly. Some were betting on the outcome.
Kael looked down at the ground. He hated the hunts. They were a perversion, a sign of how low they had all sunk. But even he couldn't completely escape the pull. The fear of one day appearing on the screen himself was a constant companion.
Finally, he was at the front. He held his arm under the scanner. A red laser swept over the chip under his skin.BEEP. ERROR 73: LOYALTY POINTS INSUFFICIENT. RATION BLOCKED.
Kael froze. "That can't be," he whispered. "I've worked my full shift this week."
The guard behind the barred window, a burly man in a gray uniform, shrugged indifferently. "System says no. Don't waste my time. Next!"
Panic rose in Kael. Without water, you were dead in a week. Without points, you were nothing. He was a "rationer," someone who lived on the absolute edge. One small mistake, one wrong comment, one missed shift at the recycling plant, and the points were gone.
"Please," Kael said, the humiliation burning in his throat. "Check again. It must be a mistake."
The guard looked at him coldly. "There's nothing I can do. But..." A sly grin appeared on his face. "The next hunt is still looking for participants. The draw is tonight. The reward for a hunter is ten thousand points. Clean water for a year. Fresh food." He leaned forward. "Or you could be the one being hunted. Even then, your registered family will still get a thousand points. A nice parting gift."
Kael recoiled as if he had been struck. He shook his head, turned away, and stumbled out of the line. The stares of the others hit him like lashes. Pity, contempt, indifference.
He pushed his way through the crowded streets of his sector, past dilapidated apartment blocks where people lived like insects in their honeycombs. High above the horizon, behind the artificial "security sky," he saw the muffled, steady glide of the patrol drones in front of the wall of light. Always there. Always vigilant.
Arriving at his tiny living cell, he threw himself onto his narrow bed and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. His mother had died of contamination shortly after the war. His father had been killed in an "accident at work" in the depths of the recycling plant. He was alone. The guard's words echoed in his skull. A thousand points for your family. He had none.
Then, at 8 p.m. sharp, a shrill sound filled the air. It was the nightly siren announcing the nationwide broadcast of the "hunt lottery."
Every screen, every billboard in the city showed the same image: a golden wheel filled with countless flashing faces and ID numbers. A smiling presenter with teeth too white chattered about fame and reward.
Kael wanted to turn off the screen, but an icy premonition froze him in place. He watched as the wheel spun, slowed down... and then stopped.
The world around him seemed to stand still.
His own face was visible on the screen. His ID number. His name.
KAEL ORION. STATUS: HUNTED.
The presenter's voice reached him as if from far away: "...and our first hunted for the Ninth Hunt! Good luck, Kael! You'll need it!"
Outside, the crowd began to cheer. A new game had begun.
Kael sank to his knees. The buzzing of the drones outside suddenly no longer sounded like a warning. It sounded like the laughter of his hunters.
CHAPTER 2: The Maw
The pounding on the door was not made of wood, but metal. A dull, vibrating roar that echoed through Kael's tiny apartment and ate into his bones. He did not move from the floor. He knew who was there. He knew what was coming.
The door burst from its frame with a shattering bang. Shadows filled the doorway, large, unnaturally broad, and clad in black, armor-like suits. The guards.
They didn't say a word. Two of them entered, their visorless helmets resembling the head-eyed insects of the patrol drones. A strong hand grabbed him under the arm and pulled him up from the floor. The grip was iron-like and painful.
"Can I... take something with me?" Kael managed to say, his voice just a hoarse whisper.
One of the security guards responded by hitting him in the temple with a metal rod. Not hard enough to knock him unconscious, but hard enough to make stars dance before his eyes and a throbbing pain settle in his skull. The message was clear: You no longer own anything. You are nothing.
They dragged him out of the apartment, his legs scraping across the dirty concrete floor. Neighbors stood in their doorways in the hallway. Some looked away, ashamed. Others stared with a mixture of curiosity and sheer voyeurism. A boy whom Kael had sometimes given extra rations to grinned maliciously.
A thousand points
