Child of the Caste

 

Scott Jorgensen was enjoying a 1907 Glenfiddich, a vintage that had become exceptional in those days. But Scott could afford anything. Scott was born on the right side of the New World Order.

Comfortably seated in his armchair, he looked out over his Patagonian property in La Angostura, in the province of Neuquén. From the window, he could see the whole farm and the slaves who were working to make the place wonderful. Some were tending the gardens, others were feeding the animals or decorating the paths. There were more than a thousand people over whom he had the right of life and death. Some were conditioned for service, others for production and maintenance. Others were selected for the master's pleasure; only security required no humans. When it came to safety, Artificial Intelligence was the surest ally.

Scott didn't want to see these rascals. They were forbidden to enter his house in his presence. Servants, gardeners and maintenance technicians could only intervene when he was not present. Scott preferred to watch his people from a distance. Only the sex slaves he tolerated, obviously gagged and blindfolded. For what he did with them, he didn't need to listen to their impressions.

Scott was officially married to a woman of his status, a girl of his genetic rank. They had had a child, not together, it should be noted. His daughter's genetic mother was now living somewhere on the continent. She and Scott had not spoken since the beginning. He had no news from her and sent her nothing in return. He and this woman had had a child by exogenous insemination and development of the fetus in an incubator. There was no question of their having been intimate. She was not his type at all. They had done their patrimonial duty, they had nothing else to say to each other. His wife was gone, perhaps dead. He had not sought to know more. She was totally indifferent to him.

Scott had kept the child, she had his name. He didn't care about her at all, he had a host of slaves to take care of that. This kid, he had only seen her once, when she was still in the incubator. He had almost forgotten about her. 

She was living her life and would be his heir after his death, if she survived him. Scott had not innovated in any way, he had been born and raised in the same conditions. His parents had never lived together, they had conceived Scott in a test tube and had never taken care of him. Scott had the greatest difficulty in remembering his mother's face, he had only seen her once, at the age of fifteen, at an art opening. His father was hardly more familiar. Scott hated him, he didn't know why. Scott had received a huge fortune when his parents died. 

His father had died at the age of thirty, of an overdose, his mother had committed suicide a little older by throwing herself in front of a car. This act was rare. People of his caste usually committed suicide with medical assistance. The suicide rate was 56% before the age of 25 and increased with age, peaking at 85% for those who reached 60. People were tranquilized and monitored. Nothing helped, people wanted to die or, nihilistic and filled with hatred, wanted to kill everyone. It was a predictable end for a species drained by machines. From birth to death, individuals were monitored, controlled, managed by artificial intelligence. This kind of life had no flavor. One could perfectly well do without it.

Scott did not want to die yet, he wanted to enjoy his life. He was addicted to adrenochrome, the fear hormone that he was injected with almost daily, with a follow-up from his doctors. This substance was secreted by guinea pigs, usually his old slaves or punished people, whom he had subjected to torture so that their adrenal glands produced stress, anger and fear. Of course, the recipe was improved a bit by the biologists so that Scott and his cronies could get pleasure and rejuvenation from it. Scott was sixty years old; he looked, by the standards of centuries past, a good thirty. Of course, this was also achieved through genetic selection, ingestion of hormone cocktails and microsurgery. 

Scott's health was fragile, however, due to certain hereditary defects that could not be eradicated or the dynastic legacy would be destroyed. But Scott had a good team of doctors to look after these details. He had never felt any physical pain. The main thing was that Scott had, for the moment, a reasonable desire to survive his natural death.

Patagonia was one of the privileged places of this late 21st century when much of the planet was sunburned, many places were submerged by water or destroyed by subsistence wars. That's what you could call the Lemmings' massacres that were being carried out by the first level humans of these lands that had become unlivable. 

Scott knew all this. He was informed, several times a day, of the shaking of the planet. This was essential to help him manage his investments as best he could. But all this had been foreseen, planned and remained rigorously managed by the artificial intelligence technicians.

Scott was very grateful to his ancestor, Jeffrey, who had founded the largest digital company of his time and had jumped on the New World Order bandwagon. Jeffrey's membership in the small circle of the globalist oligarchy had allowed his descendants, like Scott, to live a privileged existence at the top of the pyramid of this new world organization, set up at the beginning of the 21st century. Yes, it was thanks to men and women like Jeffrey, and his predecessors in the destiny of the world, that the planet had been able to pass the 21st century at its best. In an uncertain climatic context, threatened by a terrible planetary cataclysm, humanity had been able to evolve, depopulate and reorganize itself to survive.

It took great minds to build during millennia the bases of a new organization of humanity. Generations and generations of men and women had patiently contributed to the domination of the planet, bound together by a sacred pact. The task had been immense, the obstacles countless.

Scott often pondered the fate and thoughts of Jeffrey, who had left a will for his descendants. In this document, which was handed down in his family, he spoke of his convictions and the difficulties of being an oligarch. Scott had, through this reading of a text written in the first person, directly addressed to his reader, found a substitute father, an elder reference who addressed him, through death, a message of compassion, of interest. Jeffrey was the benevolent father that Scott did not have.

The Earth was, in Jeffrey's time, populated by billions of poor people, souls without elevation, pathetic despots "of the people's cause" or anonymous pretentiousness without destiny. 

The overpopulation was causing sanitary, political and economic catastrophes. It was up to the leaders of the planet, not the political puppets, but the masters, to put order to all this. 

The exercise had been difficult, complicated, the object of an incredible tension, because the human matter was delicate to handle, highly explosive. Its reactions were both predictable and always susceptible to change.

The one and only issue was to drastically reduce the total number of inhabitants and to organize the survivors as perfectly as possible so that they would serve the whole as well as possible. 

Wars were not enough, there were damaged survivors, psychological traumas, lasting disruptions of the economy. It was therefore necessary to plan the depopulation by targeted and controlled bacteriological attacks, pseudo sanitary crises that caused stupefaction, allowing the establishment of a neutral, implacable general order. 

The use of social engineering, an old tool, had been improved by artificial intelligence, the only one able to rationalize to perfection the final implementation of the plan.

In a few decades, the combined efforts of the media, the pharmaceutical laboratories, the superior financial circuits and the multiple servants of the cause had achieved victory: for the first time since its origins, humanity was under control. This intrinsically anarchic species was finally restrained, scientifically managed, so that it obediently served the interests of the entire food pyramid. Each individual had its code, its function, its consumption time. It was a tool, a product, which was part of a worldwide database. It was the dream of generations of insiders that became reality.

Of course, there were those who resisted. This had been foreseen, like the rest. A few dying people had been left here and there to die in their filth, in the anarchy of their sick consciences and the disgusting environment of their animal biology. 

These resisters were useful. They served as an outlet, of course, but above all as genetic reserves. They were emergency seeds in case of crisis. They were regularly used for confidential operations, secret rites, manhunts. In short, for all the little pleasures of the hyper-class to which Scott and his friends devoted themselves. Among these indociles, Scott's wife Joan probably lived...

Joan was an heiress of one of the greatest reptilian families, even higher than the one of which Scott was the scion. Joan had the coldness, the stature and the exceptional intelligence, the one inherited by the alien genes. Scott was not attracted to girls of his caste, let alone pure ones. They seemed devoid of emotion, one didn't dare touch them, let alone defile them. He knew he was not worthy of Joan.

Scott understood that she despised him. She had an exceptional IQ, a queenly bearing, the reflections of Nibiru in the lens of her eyes. But her intellectual abilities had been entirely devoted to fighting the New World Order.

Joan abhorred humans, this crude species, a pale copy of its creators, who had been destined only to serve and had emancipated themselves by chance. But she did not want to join even the upper circle of the Luciferian elite. She despised what the heirs of the great ancestors had done with the Niburu legacy.

Joan never said anything about her opinions, her thoughts. But this had been spotted. The emotional management sensors had alerted: all her energy was directed against her co-religionists, against the New World Order. Contempt and disgust adorned her every word and look towards her fellow human beings. She ignored humans at best, but frankly hated the Reptilians and their vassals. 

The facial analysis software and the various artificial intelligence control instruments that monitored everyone on the planet were clear: she resisted. Since she belonged to the ruling families, she was untouchable.

Throughout her childhood and adolescence, Joan had not participated in any hyper-class ceremony that was not compulsory. In public, she remained silent, barely responding, when she did respond. She was detestable.

She had, however, against all odds, agreed to the sham marriage to Scott. She had, certainly, not given any look to her husband nor any of the witnesses of the ceremony, but she had signed the papers. More prosaically, she had submitted to the vaginal swab, signed the papers and disappeared. Scott didn't know what argument Joan's mother-in-law, the sole survivor of Joan's "parents," had used to get this result. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know details that wouldn't be pleasant for him to hear.

What Scott didn't want to know was the product of Joan's brilliant thinking, why she was so hostile to the New World Order and its champions. Yes, Scott knew deep down that his fellow hyper-class citizens were degenerate heirs, far removed from the intellectual brilliance, the infinite understanding of the universe, that their ancestors had brought. Thousands of years ago, almost gods had come to Earth and to this whole region of the galaxy. These humanoid beings had infinite knowledge of life, matter and all created energies. 

Scott and the few families were only the bastards of some of these progenitors, who had quickly returned to their planet. In spite of the continuity of the teachings, almost all the knowledge had been lost. What remained still gave an unquestionable ascendancy over the rest of the human race. But madness, depravity and inbreeding had followed. This knowledge was superhuman, it had introduced an exhausting virus into the souls of those who could only ape their divine ancestors. 

All the achievements of the New World Order, including artificial intelligence, were a fiasco, a pitiful comedy whose outcome was certain: the collapse of this titanic dream. The salvation of the human species probably lay in these few groups of resisters, of lice who survived in appalling conditions. Their refusal of vaccines and all protocols, their survival of diseases, had given them the keys to biological salvation. Among these beings, some would survive the apocalypse, this ultimate confrontation between the descendants of the reptilian families that was coming. 

Yes, there were clashes between members of the oligarchy. Each of the heirs of the great families wanted to be superior to the others. Instead of standing together, as in the beginning, they all hated each other and fought in the shadows, causing one war after another. The end of the New World Order would end in apocalypse, as usual. 

As always in human history, traumatized survivors would hide in the ruins, in caves or in the depths of deserts. They would keep confused legends of what had been a civilization from their global ancestors. Slowly, for millennia, it would be necessary to start all over again, to relearn life in society, codes, infrastructures, inventions, languages and common dreams. It would be necessary to rebuild a civilization. But there had been Mu, Atlantis, the Hyperboreans, Ys. Shambhala, Agartha, Yonaguni, Mihim or Avalon, to give only the names revealed to the masses, and these civilizations had been so brilliant. 

In comparison, what would the New World Order leave to the legends? That of a suicidal world, populated by genetically diminished men and vicious, depraved masters; that of a barren, mediocre world? 

Scott, after all, lived little better than an ancient lord, entrenched behind his walls, unable to tour the world, so much so that it was given over to chaos. Scott knew all this, but he didn't want to think about it. He quickly took another injection of adrenochrome to shoot himself up and fall back into unconsciousness.