** Based on George Orwell's 1984.

Fly South: 2048

© by Raymond Tong, 22 May 1996

One

"Lies lie around every corner, behind every door, within every mind. The Ministry of Love, or more accurately, the Ministry of Insanity, Pain, and Lies is not a place to cure the presumably insane, but it is the hammer which nails the people into The Lie. We, the enlightened, are not the insane, but people of reason--the struggling remains of humanity. We struggle against the over-shadowing and over-powering lie that the Party tries to crush us with in order to gain absolute power over reality. Too bad The Lie will be their downfall."

· Winston Smith. 23 November 1999.

The blood-chilling wails of torture and fear gradually flooded the long, white-tilled hallway. Already the nauseous smells of sweat, blood, vomit, and worse started flowing steadily out of each room. A ghostly shriek pierced the air from somewhere deep within the echoing building.

It was three o'clock--wake up time.

Cott Boman marched down the hallway in the usual military style. He was headed for Room 101, nine units down. He was used to all the smells and howls, and learned to ignore them, as was every other Inner Party member. In any case, they could never be totally immune to the presence of the repulsive odors. Somehow, the Ministry of Love maintained its slaughterhouse- like smell ever since its establishment roughly a thousand years ago. It was a well known grade school fact that the Party has always been in existence since the beginning of time; Miniluv was still at its birth. The place was an insane asylum, a rehabilitation center, and a place of justice all in one. And we are the saviors of all, thought Cott proudly.

His mind drifted back to material reality as he approached Room 101.

"Open," Cott ordered. The door de-materialized, revealing the plain, but infamously terrifying room. He marched through, maintaining his stride even as the door flashed back with a solid clank! A smooth metallic chair floated nakedly in the center of the room. It had no cushion, no helmet, no straps, no electropads--nothing. But Cott know that there was more to the chair than met the eye.

Cott approached the holoscreen. "Inbring Johnson, Thomas W. 4005.A6EP3." Almost ten seconds later, the guards, armed with meter-long stunners, roughly ushered a scrawny fifty year old into the room. They lifted the stick-like figure onto the floating chair. Metallic restraints snapped out of chair almost instantly after, gripping down the head, body, arms, and legs. It was now impossible for the bruised prisoner to move anything but his mouth and eyes, which was what the chair was originally designed to do. Thomas Johnson was impossibly white with terror and confusion.

"Good morning, Thomas," said Cott warmly. "Sleep well? Good, because we need you to be wide awake today. By now, you must be wondering where you are now. Well, this place is where you will receive the last dose to your cure. Room 101 is your vaccination shot, I guess you could say. Now...."

Cott walked over to the holoscreen. He ordered: "Voice-optics scan. Letin level 57C. Boman, Cott R. 63B6-NF12. Miniluv 101R."

The holoscreen, maintaining its usual holographic image of Big Brother's rotating head, replied: "Inlet level 57C confirmed and granted - Boman, Cott R. 63B6-NF12."

"Askwant code 59 sec 15," said Cott. With that, a curved metal device floated out of an open slot in the table on the other side of the room. The metal device was also plain and had no markings whatsoever on its smooth, glossy surface. Nevertheless an aura of lethality radiated from it.

Cott picked up the device and weighed it in his hands.

"W..wh..wha you gonna do da me? Hahen't you done anough da me alweady?" sobbed the toothless man in the chair.

Cott looked at him with a amused grin, "Well, my friend, you already know. You've known that this would come to you sometime in your life." The dark-haired Inner Party member placed the device over Johnson's eyes. There was a quick snap! as the device locked itself onto the man's head. Another sharp, high-pitched noise indicated that the device had been activated. Cott then plunged a syringe filled with a psychologically-effecting drug into Johnson's arm.

"You are now on top of a hundred-storey building, high-above the bustling streets of Airstrip One," Cott said in the man's ear. The drugs had taken effect and Cott's words suddenly became reality.

* * * *

Thomas Johnson was high-above the world, looking down from the Ministry of Plenty, where he worked. The sight was dizzying and Johnson lost balance. He plunged, the terrifying rush filling his veins. He screamed at the top of his lungs and eventually found that not a sound came forth anymore. Down, down, down, he plummeted. He raised his dead-loose arms in front of his face right before he splattered all over the cold, hard pavement.

* * * *

Cott stood in stiff silence as Johnson screamed an impossibly high-pitched shrill. A couple of hours had passed since he first put the virtual reality visor on him. Johnson had most likely fallen nearly 100 times already, the fear still fresh in his mind. He'll figure it out soon and give up, thought Cott. Big Brother's the only love of his life, not his wife.

Oddly enough, he couldn't feel the usual rush of the torture this time, for it was all routine. Just another day at the office.

Two

"When one discovers his own identity for the first time, that person is changed forever by its undeniable truth. The question is, how is that person changed?"

· Winston Smith. 21 March 2001.

It was late at night when Cott returned to his residence at Diamond Heights. Unlike his father's Outer Party member residence, Triumphant Homes, Diamond Heights was indeed a home of splendor and warmth. Though, not a place where everything was made of gold, like Big Brother's legendary home, Diamond Heights deserved its name. The walls were spotless and had no traces of grime or dirt on them, the floors were carpeted, and the lights were not the standard flickering fluorescent lights that adorned almost every building in Oceania, but the quality ones that seem to emit from nowhere. The holoscreens were crystal clear and easily accessible. The voice-activated gravitubes ran smoothly, and almost never broke down, bringing the passenger to the desired floor at the blink of an eye. The complex also offered many other services, such as fine dinning, a community area, conferences, holonews room, and much more. A prole would definitely die from the shock of seeing such a place.
"Unlock and open. Boman, Cott R. 63B6-NF12," Cott said. The door, recognizing Cott's voice and eye configuration, de-materialized, the clank! muffled out by special modifications.

The year was 2048, the Age of Death. Five years earlier, a deadly virus, nick-named the Plague, struck the planet. Everywhere, millions upon millions were infected by the airborne virus, the victims ending up destroyed mentally. Neurodeaths, the victims were referred as in the struggling Newspeak. The Plague caused mass hysteria, psychological breakdowns, everywhere people were jabbering like heretics, raving that life was wrong and that the Party should be destroyed for ruining it. Not only did it destroy the people as a whole, the Thought Police had unimaginable difficulties trying to distinguish the neurodeaths from the thoughtcriminals. As a result, the Ministry of Love (Miniluv in Newspeak) was overcrowded with people needing a "cure." Unfortunately, the neurodeaths were incurable, and all of them eventually die from the exhaustion of their ravings. Mysteriously though, there were a few who were immune to the virus. Among them was Cott Boman.

Cott Boman was not married and did not have kids, and his parents were Outer Party members. The brown-eyed 33 year-old was pretty much average in height and build. He was always taught to be forever loyal to the Party and to love Big Brother with all his heart. So far, he had done so perfectly. But lately, since most of his "friends" were vaporized, Cott's values towards the Party were losing their effect. He remembered the time, not long ago, when he had to "cure" two of his friends. It was then that Cott started to reflect--but in secret.

Cott sat at his desk, tidying up his work space. Just then, by accident, Cott knocked his Big Brother statuette over the side. The statuette shattered mostly in half, with little pieces broken off. It had been given to him as a present by his grandfather right before his death.

Frustrated by his clumsiness, Cott shut off the observing holoscreen in embarrassment and got down to pick up the pieces. It was then that Cott noticed a little piece of paper that must have come from inside the statuette. Curious, he picked it up then sat at his desk. It read plainly and simply: "Smite, W. S. 403-5M/./+RP3 go 6." Cott understood immediately.

The six foot tall Cott approached the holoscreen and re-activated it.

"Smite, W. S. 403 dash 5M slash dot slash plus relay person 3 go 6," Cott read out the instructions. An instant later, a file slid out of the file slot and a box with a voice-recognition lock on it appeared in the delivery slot.

Shutting off the holoscreen again, Cott picked up the file and the box and returned to his desk. He went over the file twice. All that it was was the known records of Wilbur S. Smite, an Outer Party member. Except, only this file was green, instead of the usual blue, and the format of the record was pretty outdated.

Cott absentmindedly read out little bits and pieces from the file. All of a sudden, the lock on the box snapped open. Cott realized that he must have said some code that was contained within the file that unlocked the lock. But why was it configured to recognize my voice, he pondered.

In the box was a note and a fairly aged leather-bound book. The note, yellowed with age, read:

Dear Cott,

So, you have finally broken my present, my boy. Though you had the statuette ever since you were six years old, I'm sure that you're the same good boy that I loved. With this note there should be a leather-bound book. This is my diary. Please read every page therein and choose your path. If there is any humanity in you, like the one I saw in your eyes the first time I saw you, then please consider my words. May God be with you, my boy.

Your grandfather,

Winston Smith, 19 Nov. 2021

Cott was dumbstruck. A few moments passed before the full force of comprehension hit him. Was this all the work of his grandfather? Why did he go through all that trouble just to give the diary to him? Of course, in this world one would have to take the proper precautions to do so, but why Cott? He only saw his grandfather once in his life. It was his sixth birthday when he dropped by. His parents seemed pretty disturbed by his unexpected visit. He remembered his crinkled and skinny face. His hair was a white-grey and his voice was quiet and mysterious. But his eyes, Cott would never forget those eyes. Though only six years old, Cott noticed passion, love, kindness, and peace in those strange eyes. He sensed immediately that he was a person that anyone, even the most fanatical of Party members, would want to have a friendly chat with him. Too bad he died the next day from a massive haemorrhage.

Another thought struck him. Wasn't his grandfather a William Boman, and not Winston Smith? Which one was the true name? Or was this message a mistake? No, it has to be for me, it's too coincidental, he concluded.

Cott put the whole package away and turned on the holoscreen. "Search level 50. Name: Smith, W," he requested.

"Search complete. Smith, 6079 Smith W. 1984: convicted of 15 counts of thoughtcrime, sexcrime, and terrorism under Emmanuel Goldstein. Released from Miniluv in 1986: scheduled for termination in 1987. Termination incomplete: could not locate subject. Level 3 searchfind of subject aborted in 1995. Current status: unknown. End report."

Cott thought for a while and gathered the information together. Smith had disappeared before he could be shot by the termination squad. A routine search was initiated immediately after and was abandoned 8 years later. Was his grandfather this man who did the impossible and evaded the system about 60 years ago? Did he change his name to William Boman and started up a family? Cott knew the answers already, but needed to verify them. So he shut off the holoscreen and started reading the diary.

Three

"Understanding how the entire system works is essential to life in this cruel world. But if one does in fact understand, that person must keep it a secret. For the truth will be the death of you."

· Winston Smith. 20 April 1994.

Returning to his home was indeed a great relief. Cott had finally finished his work at the Ministry of Truth. The traditional Hate Week was all reared up and ready to go. All over Airstrip One, once known as London, the people had been stressfully preparing for the dreadfully needed event. It was a chance to let out all their quelled emotions on the most hated things to the society: Asia and the UFO. About 30 years ago, Oceania valiantly conquered almost half of both Eurasia and Eastasia's territories. Out of fury and strategy, both of the Asian powers combined (Asia) against Oceania. Lately, with the Plague going around, war was at its worst. As for the UFO, the United Freedom Organization, it was probably the biggest problem to both Asia and Oceania. It was an international organization of terrorism "for the good of mankind." 60 years earlier, there was a similar, but weaker group run by Emmanuel Goldstein, the Brotherhood. Unfortunately, its members eventually lost faith in their cause and the group quickly melted away. Immediately after, almost overnight, the UFO appeared mysteriously. With the help of doublethink, the art of blocking out the truth with an acceptable truth, the Party maintained its hatred of both forces.

Cott slumped down onto his satin couch, with the holoscreen off again, and started reading again:

15 September 2021

There was a time, a long time ago, I hoped that I wasn't the only person on the planet who had the thoughts that I had. It was then that I discovered the Brotherhood and its thoughtful leader, Emmanuel Goldstein. It was a group that constantly terrorized the order of society in order for a better life--in the end, destroying the Party. Unfortunately, the results were long term, and everyone was expendable. This and more I learned when I thought I had joined the group. But now, and for many reasons, I believe that the Brotherhood and Goldstein are both non-existent--just another product of the Party. When the Brotherhood died off, I saw a window of chance. In no time whatsoever, I founded the United Freedom Organization (UFO). How I did it, is a secret that I will carry with me to the grave, for I'm afraid that the Party will be able to use it for its own putrid needs. The last thing I want to do is to help those maniacs at the Party.

At first, the UFO started off with a couple dozen members. A few weeks later, the group expanded to an unbelievable thousand. The purpose of the organization is to bring freedom and joy to all by destroying the Party's power over society. Basically we want freedom to live. The group isn't restricted only to Oceania, but to Asia too. It is an international organization, the revival of humanity. It is much more powerful and influential than Goldstein and his pitiful Brotherhood.

We work because we keep three basic, but essential, slogans, each representing our values:

· Sense is Peace

· Love is Strength

· Will is Freedom

With these beliefs in mind, we accomplish what most cannot even dream. These very beliefs are the things that helped me elude the Party and it's bloodhound-like Thought Police. They are the very things that kept me going all these years.

Soon, I will be gone. I have lived a good and full life, and it's time for peace. Ever since my "rehabilitation" in the Ministry of Love's Room 101, I have been more hopeful. So I guess my eternal peace after death would be to join God in Heaven. I do not want to leave though, for there is so much more to do, so much more that I can help to make life a better place for all. I guess that's why I started the UFO. With my departure, the UFO will be leader-less, but I'm sure that the organization can take care of itself in matters of continuing "terrorism," as the Party puts it. But the organization will not be able to embark on larger, more important missions. It needs a strong hand to do this, so that it will be in order and not in chaos. I hope that one day that leader would be one much stronger than I. I can feel that the next leader will be the Messiah of all, the one who will end this tedious life and revive sane life.

The United Freedom Organization, Cott reflected. Lately, there had been quite a lot of news going around about the UFO. Of course, the Party usually covered everything up by saying that they had beaten attempt acts of terrorism by the UFO or they would simply accuse the UFO of anything they could throw on it. No one knew who the leader of the organization was. Some believed that there were several leaders, like a council, while others believed that the leader was a descendant of Goldstein himself. The Party made it's own assumption by branding it a communist society, out to ruin the peace and harmony of Oceania. This is probably the main contributor to the society's hatred of the UFO. Cott had always been neutral to the organization, but he was sure that it existed.

Standing up to get to his desk, a piece of paper fell out of the diary. Cott picked it up:

Fly South

The South is where I am headed

With the birds, free and whole.

Away from the harshness of winter

Away from the bitterness of life.

The South is where my home will be

Until the time when its safe to return

To a land, free and whole,

Like the birds headed South.

· From the Hidden

Poems of Ampleforth.

Behind the piece of paper was another note:

My boy,

Cott, I know you pretty well, even though our eyes have met only once. I can tell instantly about people, and I know with all my heart and soul that you're the one. If ability permits you, please, Fly South. I know you're a smart boy, you'll understand. If you haven't done so already, get the necklace that is hidden under the leather covering of my diary. This will help you Fly South.

· Grandpa Winston Smith, 20 November 2021

Cott sat, reflecting hard on all that hit him these past weeks. Everything seemed so clear, suddenly, ever since he started reading the diary. He learned of many lies and truths about the Party, the kind that could get him killed. But Cott took the risk anyway. He felt so terribly deceived and gullible. How could the Party do such a thing as to deceive the masses in order to gain power. There was no point in doing so. Cott read the note again. And he understood what to do.

Four

"In this day and age, people do not know whether to believe what they hear or see or do anymore. There was a time where there was a thing called trust, a lunatic's fantasy if referred to if at all. Falsities become truths at the will of the Party, and thus people never know whether something is true or not, not even themselves. Common sense and humanity are the only things to turn to when interpreting these confusions."

· Winston Smith. 10 June 2006.

The dung-smelling prole turned the corner into the dark alley. With a hand in a rag of a pocket, she cautiously crept along the wall, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. It was late at night and it was dark enough in the rat-filled alley.

"Black lightning can create light in the darkness," she whispered into the darkness.

A sinister voice replied, "But the dark will never be lifted." The voice seemed to come from every shadow, and had a touch of deadliness in it.

"Ye requeested fer me, guv'na?"

"Yes," answered the voice. "Spread the message that Smith has returned and that he will bring the ‘South' back to Oceania and Asia. Warmth, emotion, and pleasure will return."

"Yer ‘is blood-kin, ain't ye? Where's yer proof?" The prole squinted into the darkness.

Without a sound, Cott Smith pulled out the necklace of Winston Smith. On the necklace was the UFO insignia, the mysterious metal glowing in the darkness.

There was a sudden gasp of astonishment as the thin woman laid her eyes on it. She had heard that the founding leader of the UFO, a Winston Smith, possessed that very necklace. It was well known for it's mysterious glow emitting from the metal of which it was made of. Presumably, the metal came from a meteor which crashed outside of Airstrip Three thirty years ago.

"I'll relay the message, guv'na. We'll contact someone near yer ‘ome. The contact will receive yer orders. Codename: Carl Phillis. Best o' luck, Smith!" With that, the ragged prole sneaked out of the alley.

* * * *

Cott poured himself some wine back in his residence at Diamond Heights. He took slow and deliberate sips from his full glass. He felt pretty proud of his accomplishment just a half-hour ago, in the proles section. The danger and the show of mystery that he displayed filled him in one great, exhilarating rush. After years of "curing" in Miniluv, Cott seemed to have perfected his ability to sound deadly sinister. He could not risk revealing his full identity, not even to a faithful member of the UFO. For not even a UFO member can escape the unrelenting eye of the Party. Dozens of UFO members were caught and sent to Miniluv daily.

The holoscreen beeped rhythmically. "Boman, Cott R. 63B6-NF12. Wantcall."

Cott walked over to the holographic face, "Wantcall reply. Whatwant?"

"Subject review: Phillis, Carl M. B612-166PL."

"Review begin," Cott replied, understanding the hinted code. "Secure channel start."

A computerized voice sounded: "Secure channel initiated. Recorder off."

"Good. Carl Phillis here, at your service, Smith. How are you doing?" said the beatle- like man.

Surprised by the sudden casualness and cheerfulness of the man, Cott managed, "Um... Well... uhh... I'm fine, thank you. And you?"

Carl replied, "Just super, thanks! Now, any orders in mind at the moment, Smith?"

"Hold on one second here. You can control the holoscreens? I mean, you used it to call me officially."

"Why yes, there are quite a few of us here that help run the holoscreen. We are editors of the newspapers, we are in Pornosec, we are Inner Party members, we are proles, we are everyone. A lot of us are even members of the Thought Police! In fact, UFO members have grown to just a little over a million. Can you believe that? Cause I sure can't. That's why we can do just about anything. Nothing major of course."

Cott thought for a while, then said: "Okay, write this down. There are quite a few things that we need to do."

"What are we trying to do?"

"We're going on a one way trip South."

The holograph grinned.

Five

"‘If there is hope, it lies in the proles.' That was what I used to believe. The proles can definitely crush the Party like a 50-ton weight would surely crush an ant. But the proles aren't enough, as I have learned over the ages. The Party has to be destroyed from the inside as well. This way, the Party would have nowhere to go, literally being crushed to death."

· Winston Smith. 3 December 2013.

It was the cold day of 23 February 2048, when holoscreens all in every household in the proletariat section of Airstrip One, the capital of Oceania, appeared all of a sudden. Holoscreens of every size, from penny sized to building sized, appeared, breaking, dropping, de-materializing their hiding places. They were behind picture frames, under chairs, in watches, and they were even whole buildings.

Then, 50 voices spoke simultaneously from the holoscreens, the holographic head of Big Brother, the non-existent dictator, mutilated. The voices said:

"You have been deceived. Ever since the actual initiation of the Party in the 1950's and 60's, these holoscreens and telescreens have been in your households, spying on your everyday lives. You were guaranteed privacy by the Party, but all the promises that they made with you, the lower-class, were all lies. Punish the Party for the 100 years of lies, murder, and oppression! Revolt!"

With that, the fuse was lit. The Liberation had begun.

Meanwhile, in the Party section, holoscreens everywhere displayed the same marred head of Big Brother, speaking with the same 50 haunting voices:

"You have been fooled. For over 100 years, the Party has been subjecting you with their nonsense, suppressing your emotions, controlling you like puppets. The Party has ruined your lives so that they could simply have pure power. They do not care who you are or what you are or what you do, just as long as they keep their absolute power over everything. For over 100 years, they have been changing history to their own needs and "vaporizing" the innocent who understood the Truth. Avenge yourselves! Freedom!"

Immediately after that, images of the dead, deception at work, valorizations, and the like flooded the holoscreens. The real news about the war's progression and the current supplies were told over the screens. In fact, the war was not doing too well against Asia, and the current supplies were down at a critical level. The people were not pleased.

The people joined in the revolt as the proles charged down the street towards the Ministries. Proles, prostitutes, Outer Party members, Inner Party members, even the Thought Police swarmed up by the millions. The few who stood faithful and fanatical to the Party died at the hands of their one-time comrades. The four Ministries were besieged from the outside as well as the inside. Within hours, Airstrip One was free at last.

The next few days, the indestructible tide of the Liberation swept over the planet. The planet was freed 30 February 2048. Oceania, Asia, and the Party were all non-existent. Vaporized.

The United Freedom Organization had accomplished the impossible. No one knew who really lead the UFO to victory. Only a name was claimed to be responsible--Winston Smith.

* * * *

The teen shut the text book and put it aside. History reviews were always a bore. Then again, Jack had to get his grades back up if he wished to go out anytime this month. There was a great new movie out that he was dying to see with his girlfriend. He thought back to his review. Winston Smith was a pretty cool guy to have caused all this to happen. But everyone knew that Winston had died long before the Liberation had started.

Jack stopped for a break and snacked on a bar of chocolate as he watched the holovision. A comedy was on. Abbot and Costello he believed it was. Nothing like a good laugh to relieve some stress, he thought.

The year was 2069, and life was good.