The Sunlight District

Danton Gore checked the time as he parked his Mustang in front of his parents’ house; it was two o’clock in the afternoon. The house was located on city level 22, in the Sunlight District of Las Vegas. Gore unbuckled his seat belt and briefly considered the danger that he might be putting his parents in; they had no idea that he was a member of Free Vegas. He dismissed all doubts and got out of the car, he wanted to see his parents – this might be the last time he ever did so in his life.
As Gore closed the car door, he sniffed at the air; even in this part of the city, which had the best ventilation system in Las Vegas, he could smell the lingering stink of automobile exhaust gases. More than 30 million vehicles running on internal combustion engines travelled throughout the underground metropolis on a daily basis. He slowly shook his head from side to side. It’s crazy to allow vehicles that spew air pollution to operate in an underground city, he thought. Our air is even worse than the Los Angeles smog early last century. Will those bastards Negon Bush and Beem Cheney ever have enough money from oil and automobile- and tire-production profits?
Gore wore the bright green uniform of the Tunnels Protection Division of the Defenders of the Light, a special military unit originally tasked to defend the colossal tunnel system that was being constructed to connect the four American cities to one another. When that project was abandoned due to excessive cost in 2045, soldiers were stationed within individual cities. Domestic travel between them was infrequent, requiring expensive vehicles specially designed to withstand the ultra-high winds common in open terrain, and even in those travel on the nation’s tattered highways was often a mortal undertaking.
Captain Gore patrolled the “southeast quadrant” of the extensive tunnel system that served as the transportation network of Las Vegas. Measuring ten miles by ten miles, his quadrant included 10,000 miles of connecting tunnels located on city levels 1 down to 150.
Danton Gore walked up the short garden path to the front door of the lower upper-class house. The quiet, residential street was brightly lit by lamps emitting synthesized solar radiation that hung from the concrete ceiling thirty feet above. Green gardens dotted the easements between the private houses and small apartment buildings.
Bridget DiCaprio-Gore, an attractive, sixty-year old woman and descendant of the famous, environmentally-conscious Leonard DiCaprio, had been expecting her son. Waiting by the front door, she opened it and walked outside a few steps, giving him a big hug. “Danton, it’s so nice to see you. It’s been way too long.”
Richard Gore also came out of the house and gave his son an awkward hug. He said, “What’s it been? Since Independence Day, hasn’t it? You should come around and see your mother more often. You’re her only child, remember.”
“Yeah, I know, dad. It’s been hectic at work and stuff.” He put his arms around both his parents and walked them up the path and into the house.
The family of three sat down in the living room. Gore admired a one-inch wide beam of sunlight that shone down from the ceiling onto a small, cut, crystal ball that sat on a coffee table in the middle of the room; the light was refracted everywhere, the crystal ball a small, glowing sun.
“Nice sun today, don’t you think?” Gore commented to his mother, who sat next to him on the couch sipping a bottle of RiceWater filtered water. He had a sip of his bottled BushCoke filtered water. Both brands were owned, through subsidiaries, by ConAg Rice, Inc.
“Yes, yes,” she agreed. “We’ve been getting up to almost two full hours of bright sunlight every day for the last five days!”
Richard Gore commented, “Yeah, with all the bullshit at my government contractor job, at least we get to live in the Sunlight District of town.” In the Sunlight District, city levels 1 to 30, every house had a beam of sunlight projected into it like the one in the Gores’ living room. The sunlight originated above the city, in nature, and was directed throughout this district via a complex system of tunnels, tubes and mirrors. Only eight million of Las Vegas’s sixty million citizens saw a beam of actual sunlight on a regular basis.
The family finished their drinks. Bridget went to the kitchen to get the food she had prepared and they all sat down at the dining room table.
“The butcher had excellent suckling meatballs today,” she said, placing a platter of the genetically-modified guinea pig on the table. Known as a “meatball,” this animal was mass-produced in large, tubular underground farms called “agritubes.” Meatballs weighed up to ninety pounds and had replaced beef, chicken and pork as the main source of meat in America.
“Light meat or dark, son?”
“A little of both, please. Thanks, mom.” She caringly served him the nicest pieces on the platter. She finished serving her husband and herself and they all began to eat.
“So, son, how is everything going at work? Why are you wearing your uniform?” asked Gore’s father.
“Well, I just finished an early morning shift. It’s been quite eventful lately. Today, we had a near-miss with a Hun-Vee that was after the shipment of McMeatball’s product I was escorting. But, before they penetrated the tunnel, one of our tank divisions destroyed it up on the surface.”
“Oh my God!” exclaimed Bridget Gore, her voice laden with concern.
“Don’t worry, mom. It was nothing. We’re well trained and well equipped.”
“Can’t you apply for that job as a psychology professor again? Surely, they can put your university degrees to good use.”
“Mom, you know that no universities in the city are hiring due to government funding cuts.”
Richard Gore looked at his wife, but continued on anyway, “Son, what you’re telling me supports what I’ve heard lately. People are saying that for the last two months small bands of She-Huns have been attacking facilities located in the outer tunnel rings of Las Vegas with increased frequency. What do you think about that?”
Danton Gore lightly put his hand on top of his mother’s to offer comfort. “It seems like they’re testing us. Many think they’re building up to a much bigger attack in the near future. But, come on, let’s talk about something else.”
Bridget shook her head as she served the men more fresh vegetables, also cultivated in the agritubes.
“Dad, how’s your work going?” Gore looked at his father, who had bags under his eyes; he was exhausted.
“Not so well,” replied the older Gore, who worked for Climate Control Corporation, a private company owned by Negon Bush and Beem Cheney.