“I am sorry to hear that. The world is sick, I know.”
I don’t answer.
“I also know that you have been cultivating.”
I stop walking.
She must have seen my fear. “You are safe here, I promise.”
“How can I be safe when you’ve been spying on me?”
“I want to show you something.” She opens a door at the end of the corridor. We enter a room that looks like all the other rooms: made for relaxing. There are soft couches, so soft, I long to lie on one. There are books on the shelves. I have never seen so many, owning just one myself, a story from my childhood. She goes to a bookcase and pushes on a red spine. A section of the wall becomes a door and opens. She beckons to me to follow her.
It’s dark inside, and even cooler than the big room. We’re about twelve steps down when she pushes on the wall and another door opens.
I gasp.
A multi-scape, a cornucopia of plants, a well-developed system is in here. I smell life. I even see insects.
“Your last visit quite got to us,” she says. “We started on this not long after. We already knew, of course, that the ecosystems of the earth were failing, but we felt immune, we wanted to believe that some solution would arise. After you came, we started building our own, discreet, garden. We have a clean and mature compost.” She shows me a giant beehive pattern on the wall. “Each drawer contains a separate mix. We’re using a remnant and safe mycelium network to speed up decomposition. We’ve also been able to grow some new bacteria.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
She smiles wryly. “There’s no reason for you to trust me, but the truth is that we, here, in this EverLast, are sorry. We understand that we took everything, that we were selfish. This is a small way to try and fix that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come back in a week and you’ll see.” She stands up and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Promise me you’ll come back?”
“Okay,” I say.
“And keep this conversation to yourself. I don’t need to warn you of the dangers.”
WHEN I GET HOME, CASPER is still in bed.
I sit down next to him.
“What did the life-sucker want?” he asks.
“I don’t know, exactly. But I think she is doing something to help.”
“You sure?”
I don’t answer, just put my hand on his hand and hope that he can hold on to find out.
I REPEAT MY TRIP THE following week. The storm has abated to reveal a hazy, scratched sky. The door to the EverLast opens automatically. I am scanned and decontaminated. I know immediately that it is empty inside, the breath of humans absent. All their stuff lies dormant.
“Hello?” I call out, actually hoping that Rita will appear to guide me. No one responds. Not knowing what else to do, I retrace our steps back to the room with the corridor to the plants. I open the bookcase and walk slowly into the dark space. Feeling with my feet and hands, I find a small notch. I trace it with my hands and press on a small indent. I take a deep breath.
The door opens onto the light, onto the green. It’s so strong I close my eyes. Steadying myself, when I look again, I see a note resting on a bench. I pick it up and read:
We are sorry. We were wrong. We disregarded the effects of our actions for our own benefit. After taking almost everything, this is what is left in our power to give back. Everything here is self-contained. The security is high. Do not trust the other EverLasts: you are right to be suspicious. If you keep up normal communications, no one will notice. We have left instructions in the appropriate places. This is your garden to tend. Seed small pieces of its soil outside, here and there. It will mostly die, but somewhere, at some point, something will take. It will be slow: many generations. But now, at least, you and all the other living things, just might have generations.
I LOOK ACROSS AT THE honeycomb drawers and realise that they are coffins, that the EverLasts had finally returned themselves to the earth. A tear falls from my eye, to my cheek, to the soil.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ELEANOR lives in Sydney with her husband and young child. She is hoping to add a pet to the list in the near future. Eleanor has been published in SQ Magazine, Not One of Us and Meanjin. Her story, ‘A Thousand Million Small Things,’ was included in Tangent’s ‘Best Online 2017 Recommended Reading List.’ That story was about extinction, and she hopes the tide will turn on that front—and fast. You can find her on twitter as @elewhitworth or more backstory on eleanorwhitworth.com.
Fire Audit by Kingsley Benjamin
THE AUDITOR DRIFTED smoothly through the outer atmosphere of the planet. It was a relatively small world, and unremarkable, consisting of a commonplace combination of water, rock and basic life. It was unusual for any being of thought to be found this far beyond the frontier, but signs of rudimentary intelligence had been heard, crude electrical signals that nagged at the galactic silence, and it was the Auditor’s purpose to investigate.
It had taken patient observance to distinguish the primary source of the intelligence, for a long time the Auditor had focused on a class of insectoids that dominated the surface of the world. Eventually though, it was forced to acknowledge the endless, incessant crawling was truly random, and that the larger species of primate, though less dominant, was the true source of growing thought on the planet. And when the Auditor turned its great, insidious mind to the humans of Earth, it was, for the first time in aeons—surprised.
This wasn’t the Auditor’s first planet, not by a thousand-thousand cycles, but it was the first where the balance of thought was so close. Its mind flickered through the decisive moments it had captured, each one unique and frustratingly contradictory. For every voice of reason and calm, it found a snarling face contorted in rage. For every shared blanket placed over tired, shivering shoulders, it found a child crying alone into the long night. Unspeakable things nagged at its consciousness, pressing it into a decision that could not be reversed. Time was running out for the people of Earth, it could not linger here forever . . .
The Auditor spread its consciousness across the planet; a vast net of thin, invisible thought. It cast out and felt for its prize—collections of thought, poignant moments in the species group-think that felt like little bumps against its form. What horrors or joy did the human race have for it today? It seemed for this species, they went hand in hand.
As usual it felt a draw towards the centre, the continent directly below, it felt like a huge boil growing against its thought-net. The Auditor had captured many horrifying moments from the place known as Africa . . .
Other bumps, less defined and younger, also snagged against it: Xinjiang province felt like a rising blister, a series of vicious boils spread across the Middle East were well documented and the shadow-thought over Central America was continuing to seep into the north. The scourge of chemical lobotomy, an anachronism to a being of thought, was a heavy weight on its mind.
But today something new captured its attention. The focus of the species had shifted to the oft-forgotten continent tucked away from the rest. Upon closer inspection it realised the source of conflict was, for once, not human upon human, but a battle with nature itself.
Even during its short watch, the Auditor had noticed the impact of human activity on the planet. It considered the great tragedy that in humanities’ attempts to shelter themselves from the realities of nature, they would drive it to destroy them. Now it looked down at a poignant herald of that looming destruction.
This was to be the decider, it would capture one last moment from this planet, at this final place, and then it would be time for judgement. The Auditor brought its form back to a single, focused point and drifted down into the fires below.
THE SKYLINE WAS BURNING. Even without corporeal form the blaze was vivid enough to warm the Auditor’s senses. A human male stood with feet firmly placed, gripping a small garden hose and grimacing as embers flickered against his blackened, smoky skin. He stood alone in front of
a small property, his water supply dwindling to nothing more than a trickle. Did he even know his house was already on fire? Did he even care? There was steel in the man’s eyes that was unbroken as the skyline came down to greet him. The Auditor moved on.
A deep-red haze overshadowed proceedings, reminding the Auditor of the photosphere of a red giant. As its senses adjusted, it recognised the sands of a small beach head on which lay hundreds of human women and children. Mothers clutched sons and daughters to their chest as they coughed out soot from smoke-filled lungs. There was no shouting, no raised voices, just a quiet calm amongst unfortunate souls. It could feel their desperation, their fear, as they waited for rescue. The fires had taken everything and left them as refugees on their own land. And yet, when a yellow orb of light from a boat pierced the hellish scene, there was no rush, no fighting, for the limited space. Those in the most need were ushered forward and those left behind settled themselves back onto the beach, waiting for the next rescue, hoping it would come before the fires. The Auditor moved on.
A lady sat at her desk, there was no fire, and at first the Auditor didn’t understand the pull of her thoughts. Then it noticed the bags under her eyes—she hadn’t slept for days. On the screen was a simple spreadsheet, but the Auditor could see that it represented the locations of safety, shelter and sustenance for those who needed it most. All held together by the will of this tired and weary soul. The lady sighed and closed her eyes, just for a second, and the Auditor did something it was forbidden to do. It reached out and gave her a little energy, a tiny portion of its vast power. Her eyes sprung open and, shaking her head, she returned to her task. Without regret, the Auditor moved on.
A house came into view, well-maintained and modest, it sat alone on a quiet piece of land turned black from the flames. Remarkably, it stood intact, somehow untouched by the devastation. Three men stood gathered on the porch, one of them pulled at the door forcefully—he obviously didn’t belong to this place. They gained entry to the property that was not their own, one of the men threw a picture of a smiling young woman onto the floor. Another stepped on the frame and broke the glass as he hurried to find anything of value in the home of the displaced. The Auditor was disappointed to find carrion feeding off the bones of disaster. Such stark contrasts in this species! It moved on.
Sick with the previous collection of thought, its hope for this species was draining and it felt the pull of judgement running heavy on its mind. Still, there was one final moment to be found in this place, a little nub of something that almost escaped notice. It soon found the source, a child, a tiny human thing of a few years. She clutched an even smaller creature made of fur and delicate features. It wasn’t long for this world—the burns had seen to that—but she refused to let it go. The Auditor could see the thin strands of her will were the only thing tethering this creature to the world. It watched her for a long time, much longer than it had any other moment in its time on Earth, much longer than was its duty. It watched her stroke the creature throughout the long night and considered the tears in her eyes as she watched it finally slip into the unknown, just as the dawn broke with inappropriate brilliance.
The Auditor had seen enough.
WITH A SIMPLE DRAWING-in of its immense will, the Auditor brought itself back to a singular point and perched again in the outer atmosphere of the planet called Earth. The intensity of its thought was so great that it began to create a localised pressure system in the corporeal realm below. Earth meteorologists would be confounded for days trying to explain the phenomena, that is if they were permitted to continue to exist. For that was the decision that so absorbed the great mind from beyond the stars.
Were they worthy?
There was little doubting their intelligence, they were quite capable in that regard, but already there were the warning signs of the artificial thought-machines into which they would eventually evolve. The stepping stones to eternity were a well-trodden path. The question was what they would do at the summit.
The Auditor had been formed in a time when all intelligence had been allowed to ascend, before the Great Enemy had risen to celestial heights with nothing but rage in their hearts.
They were gone now. And at great cost.
Humanity had the potential for this same evil, it festered in their souls, a by-product of an evolutionary past. A viciousness that brooked no prisoners. The Auditor recognised it, and yet still it hesitated.
The cure was simple—it would take away their capacity to resolve complexity. Within two generations they would be back living in trees, the planet would slowly heal itself and balance would be restored.
Yet it hesitated.
A fraction of a fraction of a second before enacting its will, the Auditor paused. The image of a dying, innocent creature flashed across its consciousness, and with it, the feeling of peace bought with the will of a human child . . .
Hope. There was that, at least.
A stay of execution then for this species that hung so finely in balance, no reprieve for their crimes and no further mercy would be forthcoming. The Auditor would leave, but it had already resolved its return and the currency of their borrowed hope would not sustain them a second time.
With a final, weary sigh the Auditor turned and began its long journey back to the stars.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: KINGSLEY is a former British Army Officer who served in the Royal Engineers. He now lives in Darwin, Australia and works for the NT Writers’ Centre, helping writers of all descriptions realise their potential. He mainly writes speculative fiction in the form of novels and short stories. His first book, Drake Peters: One Minute to Midnight, was published in 2018. Go to www.kingsley-benjamin.com to learn more.
The Kangaroo said to the Emu by Victoria Greenaway
KANGAROO, COCKATOO and Emu all stood at the graveside in the quiet of the morning. The rising sun turned the sky a blood red and Kangaroo, Cockatoo and Emu saw it was so. The blood-red of the morning sky made them sad for a time long past when the morning sky blushed pink.
“We’re sorry to see you go, Wombat,” said Kangaroo, scattering into the grave some leaves he found on the ground. A small miracle in hard times.
“We’re sorry you were too slow, Wombat,” said Emu, picking up a couple of small bush rocks with her beak and dropping them into the grave. One of her tears fell in with the rocks.
“We’re sorry we won’t share food with you today, Wombat,” squawked Cockatoo, transferring a charred gumnut from her foot to her beak. She dropped it in the grave.
Using his strong hind legs and mighty tail, Kangaroo started pushing the red dirt back into the hole in which Wombat lay. When Kangaroo had finished, Emu pushed a stick into the loose dirt so that those who pass here might remember where Wombat had fallen to the fires of this summer. Emu was swift and she ran. Kangaroo was strong so he leapt. Cockatoo could fly and she flew. But Wombat was slow and ended up here in his grave.
Kangaroo, Cockatoo and Emu looked about themselves in the alien morning light. In the distance, the fire traced a livid line along the horizon, belching out the smoke that turned the morning sky red, eating the leaves and burning the bark with endless appetite. Who might pass here and remember where Wombat lay, the three asked themselves? Was there anyone left? Frill-neck lizard? Goanna? Numbat or Echidna? No, they were all gone from here. Fled ahead of the fire or buried like Wombat.
“Do you think anyone will remember?” Kangaroo said to Emu.
“Yes,” Emu said to Kangaroo. “This summer will be remembered, when the land burned from edge to edge.”
“Where will we go?” Kangaroo said to Cockatoo, because Cockatoo was smart and good with words.
Cockatoo looked about herself from high up on the blackened branches of the gum tree. “We cannot stay here.”
“Do you think we will return?” Emu said to Cockatoo, looking up at the white and yellow bird, brilliant against the livid sky.
“I don’t know,” Cockatoo said to Emu.
“Cockat
oo, would you like to ride on my back so that we can stay together?” Emu said to Cockatoo.
“Yes,” Cockatoo said. “I do not want to fly up there, against that horrible sky.”
So, Cockatoo flew down from her tree and landed on Emu’s back. The three of them walked away from Wombat’s grave, turning their backs on the fiery hills in the distance, feeling there was more to say but not knowing how to say it. Not even Cockatoo, clever with words, knew how to express herself. Their grief was for Wombat, a stoic friend to them all. Their grief was for the land, the ancient sustenance of them all. Their grief was for each other because they had a long way to go.
As Cockatoo rode on Emu’s back, Emu said to Kangaroo: “How will we live if the place we are going to is burnt, too?”
“I don’t know,” Kangaroo said to Emu. “I suppose we will have to wait and see.”
But all Kangaroo, Emu and Cockatoo saw as they walked was red dirt, red sky and black eucalypt. Their stomachs grumbled as they walked with no food. Their thirst raged as they walked with no water. But finally, they saw in the distance a great rain-making mountain, blue-grey in its coat of eucalypt and topped with white clouds. Even from this distance they could hear the life that lived there.
Kangaroo, Emu and Cockatoo eventually reached the rain-making mountain and were made welcome by all those who had lost someone or something to the raging fires of the summer. They took their rest in the gentle breeze that rustled through the shady gum trees. They ate fresh food and drank sparkling water. As time moved forward, Kangaroo, Cockatoo and Emu talked of Wombat so that the world might not forget him. The sadness and the loss would now pass into legend as the animals on the mountain went about composing their stories. Cockatoo was clever with words, so she was much consulted in the process.
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