We called the authorities, of course, at the same time we took off. There was no point staying there, when they came to town looking for borgs.
Nick was wrong. Narcis had indeed been borged and was in the asteroids and coherent enough to testify before they put him out of his misery. His testimony was the death sentence of Fontes and Doyle. Peura also met a death sentence for borging even if he’d not done it personally.
Reelen, suddenly the sole heir of the system, sent us a fat check. Not for finding her brother, but for finally finding out why Mars Rosen hadn’t come back for her. Yes, he too had been borged.
As for us, we stayed away from all worlds for a while, floating in the night of space, bound by our routine.
When we didn’t have clients, Nick read in the office, while I did my filing, called Jim to report what had happened, and caught up on news and trivia.
Two earth-days out of Peura system, I woke with my bedroom door opening. Nick stood in the doorway, his eyes lights dimming and brightening.
“Yes,” I said. “Nick? What do you need?” I thought perhaps he’d run out of fluid or something had gone wrong with the machine.
The voice that answered me was curiously hesitant, “Lilly,” it said. Nick rushed into the room, fell to his knees beside my bed. He has no expressions, of course, but I got the feeling he was searching my face. “Lilly!” he said. And then, after a long pause, “I remember. I remember. I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I said, while he lay his hard, smooth head on my shoulder. “You didn’t choose to be borged. Someone else did it to you, Joe. There was nothing you could do. And you’re still helping people.”
“But, oh, Lilly,” he said. “You don’t deserve this.”
“No. But that’s not how life works. It’s not what you deserve. It’s what you can do. Sometimes the only thing you can do.” I ran my palm gently on the hard steelglass surface that hid my late husband’s still living brain. “I just do what I can.”
He’d forget again. He’d done it before. But for these brief moments I had Joe. I didn’t know if that made it all better or worse.
Because he couldn’t, I cried for both of us, holding the unyielding mechanic body that held all that remained of my love.
BIO
Sarah A. Hoyt, under various names, is the author of over 30 books—she gets tangled up when she tries to count them and always misses a couple—in science fiction, fantasy, mystery, romance, and historical fiction.
Her first published novel, Ill Met by Moonlight, was a finalist for the Mythopoeic Award. Darkship Thieves, the first novel of her popular Darkship Thieves series is a Prometheus Award Winner.
She’s published over 100 short stories in magazines such as Analog, Asimov’s, and Weird Tales (and others, some no longer in existence), as well as an array of science fiction, fantasy, and mystery anthologies.
Sarah was born and raised in Portugal and now lives in Colorado, near her two grown sons, with her husband and a varying clowder of cats. English is her third language, but she can swear fluently in seven. When not laying down words on the latest manuscript, she can be found refinishing furniture, walking, or studying history.
LINKS
Author Website: https://accordingtohoyt.com/
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Sarah-A.-Hoyt/e/B001HCVAX6
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SarahAHoyt
Look Me in the Stars
Christopher Husberg
A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Are not too much to pay for birth. - Robert Frost
My name is Elizabeth Towner. (If you’re reading this--call me Lizzie!)
I’m probably the last person on earth.
This is my blog.
Thursday, December 21st, 2023
In(de)finite Hiatus
Remember when I said that checking this blog, and writing in it and everything, was worth it? Because of the whole hope idea? Remember that whole thing about choosing to fight?
I think that’s done with, now. I think I’m over it. I won’t be updating the blog any time soon. You can only hold a one-sided conversation for so long, right?
Look for me, in the stars or otherwise.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 08:17:00 PM 0 Comments
Labels: none
Wednesday, December 20th, 2023
A Parallel
I picked up a book I haven’t read in some time, today. Found this:
... and I even remain alone to write the sad tale of the destruction of my people. But behold, they are gone... And whether they will slay me, I know not.
That’s from something I used to read all of the time. Something I, and a lot of other people, used to think was scripture. But everyone else is dead, so I guess they don’t think at all anymore, and as for me, well...
I guess I don’t know.
People would tell me this book was written for “our day,” that the prophets who wrote in it saw each of us and knew what we would be doing and what we would look like and everything. I wonder if this guy speaking, Moroni, saw me when he wrote this. I wonder if he knew how alone I would feel.
Even if he didn’t, though, I... I think I might know how he felt. And that’s something.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 10:40:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: the book of Mormon, annihilation, loneliness, Moroni
Friday, December 15th, 2023
Life’s a Bitch and Then You Die
This is true, except for that last part. At least for some of us. At least for one of us. Life’s a bitch. No denying that, because sometimes your little brother gets leukemia. Sometimes he suffers and you watch him get really thin and lose his hair and turn white as chalk and he sobs and sobs from the pain and then he’s gone. Or sometimes your dad touches you, makes you used and worthless and even though you want to kill him you still love him weirdly because he’s your daddy and he calls you his little princess and you just want to make him happy. Sometimes your mom dies before you can say you’re sorry. Sometimes you hurt the people you love.
I wonder if it’s just as bad if you don’t hurt them when you should.
Am I the only one who doesn’t get to die after all of this? Am I the only one who still has to live, alone, no one left to abuse me? No one left to abuse? Maybe this is the real definition of loneliness: I have no one left to hurt.
Life is a bitch. Coin’s still in the air about the dying part, though.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 04:38:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: none
Wednesday, December 13th, 2023
People I’ve Killed
In no particular order:
Samantha Marie Pickett
Jimmy Lenkersdorf (Lankersdorf? Lenkersdorfer??)
Man at the gas station
Sean and Shana Willis
Krysta Towner
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 2:22:00 PM 0 Comments
Labels: people I’ve killed
Wednesday, December 6th, 2023
A Question, Revisited
Been a while, I know. I just haven’t been in the mood to talk, lately. I haven’t been in the mood to think, either, but that seems about all I can do.
Had the first snow of the year a few days ago, and it actually stuck. A few inches are still on the ground right now, even though the sky is clear. Looks like this will be a cold winter. I’ll need to stock up for that. I haven’t had any encounters recently—not close-up, not at a distance. They’re always thin out in the winter. I’m not sure many of them survive the cold.
I think, maybe, perhaps, it’s possible, that they’re dying out. I see fewer and fewer of them each summer. Isn’t that a good thing, you ask? I guess so. But can I ever be sure? Can I ever live free of them? Even if most of them die—er, again—some could still lurk in the shadows. Some could still sneak up on me. And it only takes one. Then I’ll b
e gone, too.
But let’s say, let’s just say they all die. Let’s say one day I am truly free of them. I’m not sure what I would do then, either. Not sure how things would change. I think I’d be more alone than I ever was. I mean, what am I supposed to do when they leave me, too? What will I do with my hours of checking, patrolling, recon? Read more books? There are only so many books left in my world.
I used to ask a lot of questions. Way too many questions, actually. I would whisper them at night, in bed, shivering. I would scream them during the day, desperate for a response, angry and alone. I would think them to myself, would hear them echo inside, bouncing against my skull.
I guess, mostly, I asked them when I prayed. When no one else is around, you kind of get used to talking to God. I used to pray a lot, like a million times a day, when this whole thing started. At some point, I stopped. You can only hold a one-sided conversation for so long.
But I did pray a few days ago. It was the first time since... it was the first time in a long time. And this time, I didn’t ask any questions. Not that I didn’t want to. Just didn’t even think about it at first. I started talking, blabbering on about what’s been happening, what I’ve been doing, what I’ve been thinking. Wish I could say it was a conversation, but it was just me, monologuing. When I realized I hadn’t been asking any questions, I tried to think of something to ask, but I was fresh out.
How’s that for irony?
Being honest, a part of me still yearns for a response. Maybe there is a God. He or She, I don’t care. Part of me wants to think I have Heavenly Parents, you know? Wouldn’t that be nice? Part of me wants to remember that I’m their daughter, that I mean something to them. I used to know those things. I used to believe them, with fire and feeling and without any doubt. But I’ve forgotten too much, I think. Because now I just think of where I am, of what’s happened—not just to me, but to all of us—and I just wonder how, you know? I’ve never had kids, so I guess I don’t know, but I just wonder how.
Maybe this blog is a prayer. Based on how many replies I get, there’s not much of a difference. (Ha ha.)
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 01:55:00 PM 0 Comments
Labels: it only takes one, A Question, the meaning of life, prayer
Wednesday, November 8th, 2023
Early Thanksgiving (or: A Happy Thought)
I’ve been looking back through my posts—checking for comments, of course, I can’t help it—and I’ve noticed a trend. A depressing trend. A depressing trend of depression—all of my posts seem so sad! So, here’s a thing remotely happy:
Thank God for George A. Romero. If it weren’t for all the nerdy but knowledgeable experts that he educated and inspired, humanity wouldn’t have stood a chance when the dead rose. Of course, standing a chance doesn’t equate to coming out on top, as you can tell. But, I imagine, we did better than we would have. I’m still around, aren’t I?
Anyway, George, here’s your shout-out. Take it for what it’s worth.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 08:59:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: george a. romero, the apocalypse, happy thought
Wednesday, November 1st, 2023
My Brother
I was thinking of a video, earlier today, of me and my brother. (I was hoping I’d still be able to find it on YouTube, but whatever powers ran that ship seem to have abandoned it some time ago. Like all the other social media websites, it’s long gone. Strange that this one is still around, when I think about it.) Anyway, it’s this video my father took of us raking leaves in the fall; it’s pretty funny. And... we were both so little, my brother and me.
Hmm.
I’m throwing a tantrum in the video. I mean a real tantrum. I’m screaming and crying and jumping up and down. Can’t remember why, anymore. I keep saying something about a pocket dolly, or a Polly Pocket, something like that, but I don’t remember now what I was talking about and it doesn’t matter because that’s not the point. My brother, he’s only three in the video, thinks what I’m doing is hilarious. He keeps dancing around, throwing leaves at me from the pile we’ve made, and the whole time he’s laughing hysterically, like little kids do when they just get to laughing and can’t stop. So, there we are, I’m balling my eyes out, lying in a pile of leaves, and giggles are bubbling out of my brother from deep in his chest, like the laughing itself tickles on the way out. But apparently I don’t take my brother’s laughing very well, because what happens next is a clip my family would watch later, over and over, rewinding again and again and watching it in slow motion, all laughing around the computer together. It even became this mini internet sensation. Auto-tuned and everything, no joke. (That’s right—I was an internet celebrity long before this stupid blog.) Anyway, what happens next, or what you see on the video, is my hand shooting out, right into my brother’s crotch. But I don’t just hit him there. Oh no, seven-year-old me apparently thinks blunt trauma is too good for him, so I grab him between his legs and squeeze, and I don’t let go. My brother shuts up instantly, for a moment, but then his eyes kind of get wide and he lets out this high-pitched moan, like the prolonged hoot of an owl. Then he just topples over into the leaves with me.
My brother is lucky, in a way. Not about me grabbing his junk, although that did get a few million views. He’s lucky for other reasons. He’s lucky because he died long before any of this shit happened. He’s lucky because he died when my family was still unbroken. The moment he passed, we were all with him. Even my father. My brother was nine years old, but I guess he was the lynchpin that kept our family together. He kept Mom sane. Somehow, he stopped my father from hurting people, from hurting me. And my brother made me smile, even when he was sick from chemo.
Mom held me when he died, and my father held him. I remember my father’s tears, strange things I’d never seen before, things I’d never thought possible. He whispered between sobs as he held my brother close to his chest. Please God, please God, please God, please god please godpleasegodpleasegodpleasegodplease. That was the last prayer I remember hearing from my father.
My brother, despite all of the pain and sickness, smiled at me and whispered something I couldn’t hear. Then he was gone. That was it. No angels, no voices, no bright lights. He was there, and then he wasn’t. Mom tried to reach out to my father, to bring him into our embrace, but he shied away, clutching my brother’s body. My father seems a wounded, wild animal now in my memory, flinching away from human touch. A predator, guarding his prey.
Anyway. My brother got the best years of us. I’m glad he did. I’m glad he didn’t see what we became.
Monsters all, in the end.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 08:57:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: my brother, family, sinning, death
Wednesday, October 25th, 2023
Wilderness Writing
Some of what I wrote while out and about:
I’m sitting here, gazing out at the empty road. How long has it been since a car drove along that road? It used to see traffic often—it’s secluded, sure, but every few minutes or so you would see a car pass by, and you could often hear an engine even if you couldn’t see anything. Now, there’s nothing.
I’m afraid. Every time I come out here, into the wild, I’m afraid something will happen. Not with them—that fear is so constant I hardly notice it anymore—but I’m afraid of other things, more mundane things. Things that wouldn’t have been much of a problem a few years ago. What if I broke my leg? Well, I’d die out here. What if I got heat stroke, or dehydrated? No one would be around to save me. No one to call, no emergency services, no one to helicopter me out, no one to report my death, no one to find my body.
In light of all that, I’ve really been trying to understand why it is I come out here at all. And it’s the same reason I do anything, now. The same reason I get up every morning, I guess.
I think—I hope—I’ll find someone.
Out here, in the wilderness of all places. But if there are people anywhere, why not here?
If there are people out there, why wouldn’t they be doing what I’m doing right now? Wouldn’t God send us somewhere like this, to finally meet one another? Wouldn’t God want us to stop being alone together?
The land here is beautiful. All gently sloping upwards and westwards, ridges and waves of rock moving like an ocean paused, or moving so slowly that my senses can’t register it. Rounded red rocks, like strange shaley animals. One looks out below me. My guardian.
Is there anything like me left in the world? Was there ever?
Not my...best writing? Not that anyone would care; it’s the best writing in the world, as far as I’m concerned, and I kind of own the vote. (I guess, by those standards, it’s the worst writing in the world, too. Damn.) But anyway. There’s something I did while I was away. Take it for what it’s worth.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 10:12:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: the wilderness, writing, Capitol Reef
Monday, October 23rd, 2023
Back Online
I’m finally back. Although I’m not sure why; there really isn’t much to come back to.
Here’s what happened: I went on a sojourn into the wild (something I do every few months; it calms me, I think, puts things into perspective), and when I came back the generator was dead. No amount of pedaling on the exercise bike or fiddling with wires and buttons and switches would make it work again. A few weeks of searching later, I came across another one, and when I finally got it up and running, I found out the router had crashed, or something. Of course. So, it took me a few more weeks to find a router that would work again. And here I am, back online. Alone, yes, but back online. And in case you’re wondering, nothing’s changed: I’ll still be in Temple Square every Wednesday from noon to 3 PM. I would say I’d update you more on what’s been happening, but, well, that’s about it. Maybe I’ll publish some of the writing I did out in the wild in the next post or so. We’ll see. But anyway, I’m back.
Parallel Worlds- the Heroes Within Page 4
