Science Fiction: The Dream of the Circle of Life: Antarctica, 2108 (Volume 1)

How will mankind continue? The old question is the answer here: In May, 2408 Port Saint Pieter, Queen Maud Land, Antarctica. A 402 years old woman is looking back on her life and the revolutionary experience of humanity. Everything starts in 2108 as the Territorials govern the Tuba Islands. Mankind fears the near-Earth satellites, the Exodus tuber, the accustics and the downfall of the torn civilization. So the old lady travels through time and space…
For Christmas 2016 a little abstract of the book. Enjoy!

The Beginning of the Odyssey of “Environmental Peace”
Chapter III

But then something unspeakable happened, without the least kind of advance warning: the unspeakable story of the long missed ship, “Environmental Peace,” languishing off the muddy, weathered shores. In the years before, there had been the strangest news and the creepiest rumors about this floating luxury hideaway for the rich and the superrich, once presented to a marveling, carefully vetted public. It was celebrated with great rustic parades in New York, protected by sand bag barricades, while “St. Louis Blues March” was playing.
Those who could afford the extravagant tour fled in the year 2020 from the imminent environmental disasters that were feared daily. The floating city was off to sea, away from all the waving, cheering, then envious spectators spread along the stretched-out harbor mole. Undoubtedly, people were reminded of the Titanic’s departure a century before. It cruised in oval, elliptic tracks through the still, open sea. A complex mechanism used the constantly changing currents – incalculable after 2025 – a doubtless marvel of the modern art of invention. Technology rushing far ahead of its time. Only the guilt-ridden human and his well-known faults are to blame for what then followed:
The robust and still intact camera system of the nautical logbook gave us, decades after, exhaustive information on the slow but steady social decay. This self-orchestrated doom was accompanied by the automatic, electronic, on-board salon orchestra. Later, death began to creep throughout the entire refuge, around the incredibly sophisticated, but ever more sinking ship.
Once about 4,000 superrich, who were not lacking in anything, found themselves together. They were vehemently but comfortably passing the energy-devouring tedium, in the time right after the complete and final breakdown of the international markets, of all the currencies and all government systems. They sweetened the time with all kinds of unbelievable perversities, developed by warped animateurs.
The latest trend, on show during the festivity of Christmas 2020 – three months after the departure of the “Environmental Peace” – celebrated in the ball room as large as a stadium, was the long-awaited, thrilling experience of the thousand fold and obviously enjoyed, exciting group sex between squeezed turkeys made from gene meat, from shaped mutants. On slanting tables, between half-naked waiters, who were running around and juggling artificial caviar, and gene servants dancing bare.
They came from my former, long abandoned homeland. My so distant native country. Formerly unemployed, without will of their own, robbed of their individuality, which reckless party politics had deemed gratuitous, by means of a prescribed medical therapy.
Like cheap, mindless slaves, miserable bondaged people derided by their own society, they showed themselves willing to execute mechanically, automatically, as though programmed, these or any other menial services – these disgraceful, or outright degrading jobs.
In exchange for a moldy, rotten slice of bread, they had themselves emotionally raped, still smiling in the process and giving effusive thanks. This so-called participation therapy,- nobody knew how it actually worked – made it possible for the large retinue of “despisers” finally to have their black patent leather shoes licked so they shone again.
Until, eventually, if they did not earn any hunger abatement or entitlement from the gene therapy, they dropped dead. Tossed away by society, or by the bragging politicos, completely disinterested in human beings, and who instead enmeshed themselves in vain trench warfare with each other, against each other, amongst each other.
The basic, perfidious, and abnormal concept stems from a law that was construed by malicious cynics at the turn of the millennium – I don’t exactly remember when – to finance the war in the Far East, at the Khyber pass, which, too, has since been destroyed.

At one point, the then Federal Republic of Germany, fearing that she would become an absolute power vacuum, a permanent source of moral trouble, started simply to sell off the lower class, which had been created for specifically these purposes. To sanitize the ailing government finances that had been mismanaged for decades, for the future well-being of the political contenders. Through busy agencies which, naturally, obtained worthless money, as a fee for it.
Made in Germany in those days acquired an entirely new significance.
A bestial orgy from the perverted decades before this, the decadence of an established caste of financial clerics, and their delusional concepts of the eternal milk of the slaughtered cow. There was, from the beginning, a very tangible and dense sensation of doomsday every-where on the “Environmental Peace.” Dancing women, steadily mechanized by relaxants, limply, inexorably moving to “In a Pagoda,” synchronous, complete, but deliberately disconnected from reality.

Combined with an unspeakable and barely controllable aggression, the collective escape quickly culminated in a bloody argument, an escalating feud, among small groups of former managers, lost generations of politicians, and the entire entourage traveling with them.

At the beginning of 2026, a young woman from Ireland reported this, although difficult to believe at first, because the content delivered was simply unimaginable; it could not be explained. She was the buxom mistress of a boni club traveler that was wanted by a false justice system – much like many others that had found their home on the ship – a bulging strawberry blonde, endowed with an exciting, full figure. When he had become sick of her, the Irishwoman was simply thrown overboard by several strong men, at night and in accordance with the instructions. The further salvation, very obscure at first, of this endlessly chattering crowd of indignant people, who were constantly appearing on the monitors, took even the die-hard supporters’ of such loose sexual relations sarcastically smiling breath away.

She was spotted on the volcanic island, enchantingly overgrown and evergreen in the former South Pacific, to where she was able to make it with some last feeble strokes, after floating for days in the heaving sea. She was taken on board by the “Jennifer,” a small research vessel. Promptly, the first whispered rumors appeared, totally justified gossip of the revolting cadaver tourism. There were the voyeuristic afternoon observations from the vista lounge, framed in light, ornate crystal, which became boring rather quickly. In the end, the view contained the agonizing death of thousands in the burning regions, shaken by civil-war like conditions, occurring for the amusement of the rich. A special pleasure in the first months was tsunami surfing, with the whole ship. To my sheer horror, “Surfin’ Safari” played, sung by the Beach Boys in 1962, while the ship threatened to sink into the roaring floods.

The total, terrible perspective from the comfortable ship allowed the use of automatic, digital, prismatic telescopes magnifying the unveiling catastrophe. To celebrate the gruesome drowning of whole cities, entire ancient cultures, underneath the howling, the betting audience, clad in festive garments. To this the passengers growled a song by the archaic Electric Light Orchestra ”Livin’ Thing,” they were happy and quickly closed another couple of bets, on the martial death, on the suffering, voyeuristically enjoyed and applauded like a successful premiere in a well-frequented theater.
A couple of families tried to escape in a selfbuilt Montgolfière, to get away from the insanity that had developed within the formerly de-sired isolation. It happened during one of the many unrestrained parties of those days, on an artificial, steep but icy glacier, which had been created in the hull of the ship. Some passengers, aimless and planlessly wandering around, were magically attracted. They slid across the white, magnificent glaciers with electric surfboards and snowboards.
On that evening, and in the boozy night that followed, others es-caped, taking some, if few, rations from the enormous cooling house in the prow of the ship with them. They also took communal water containers from the sewer purification plant, in the inner circle where nobody would go, and an abundantly filled picnic basket from oyster farming, above which the daily old-timer race took place in the outer tube, with the recreated “Blitzen Benz.” The rocket propulsion thundered, roared, and bellowed. The room was raging to an electronic version of Coon Sander’s Nighthawks “What a Girl, What a Night” from 1928, performed by a musically talented gene eunuch. An emasculated, headwaiter from first class, who had been castrated under agony during a tropical night.
The fugitive families were never seen again, lost without trace to wherever.
For two years the beautiful Irishwoman Rachel had to lead an austere life, far away from the luxury articles, so dear and accustomed to. She fed herself from a few monstrous coconuts, enormous flaked fish that she caught, presumably herself, with a specially construed fishing rod, and sang, with a voice light as a bell E.L.O.’s “Telephone line” to the splashing surf.

If you are interested to find out more a about the story of Manja, please, you can buy the The Dream of the Circle of Life: Antartica,2108 (Volume 1) with

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