And so he held off, until the day it all changed.
***
Barlin watched Tando’s rampage with horror, wincing at every swipe of the stormsuit’s titanium-hardened arm. Tando had been sent in to pick up some quilled freak who’d tried to start riots inside downtown limits, and as usual, he’d taken it way too far. The stormsuit bounced along the dirt street like some NASA moon astronaut, each time crashing down amongst the freaks in a spray of needles and swinging arms. Circular piles of moaning bodies marked the stormsuit’s trail into Beacon Hill as Tando flattened the crowds, most of whom had no idea why the Corporament had sent one of their worst sadists into their midst. Barlin watched as Tando reached the destination fire circle and darted the leader without so much as a “put up your hands”. Then the giant graphene suit twisted around and began methodically darting everyone in the vicinity. Dozens fell, moaning in pain.
“Tando, damnit!” Barlin shouted over the comm link. “Pick up the perp and return to base.”
But Tando pretended his comm link was down. He punched into the crowd, sending an antlered-freak flying for a dozen feet. Barlin doubted the guy would ever walk again.
“Tando, stop…”
Then, two things happened: First, Tando froze in place, and his helmet light went dark. Second, Sanny’s bulbous head appeared in the next vidsquare, watching Tando bleakly, as if the stormsuit was roadkill to be dissected and catalogued.
Barlin gaped. How the hell did you disable a working stormsuit, you cherry-skulled cartoon?
The Chief Egg looked straight into a Hummingbird camera and pointed behind him, to an old donut shop whose roof had caved in.
Near the donut-shop entrance, a pile of snarling freaks fought each other over a pile of giant containers, some of which had spilled to reveal a dark orange powder. Barlin stared. Cinnamon. He breathed deeply, trying to imagine a taste of cinnamon after life on servitor-provided starchtubes with no simulator to provide a hint of flavor.
Barlin looked back at Sanny, who was now holding up a piece of paper into which had been drawn a tic-tac-toe grid.
What the hell?
“Oh man. Barlin, the suit’s not working,” came Tando’s voice, thick with panic. He was being surrounded by a crowd of growling freaks, moving to cut off his escape. Apparently freaks didn’t mind committing suicide, but no one else better do it for them.
Barlin seriously considered leaving Tando to the mob — the world would be better without this twisted psychopath. But after a brief, viciously satisfying fantasy, his cop instincts kicked in. He surrounded Tando’s lifeless stormsuit with Hummingbirds, ready to dart anyone who came close. He spared a glance at the next vidsquare, and saw that Sanny was gone.
Suddenly, Tando’s suit was working again. He moved his arms, and stomped once or twice. The crowd moved back a foot, but didn’t run.
“I’m back, Barlin, I’m back!” Tando said, relief palpable.
“Yeah, now pull the damn circus sideshow and head to base.”
Barlin didn’t need to tell Tando twice. Tando’s boot and back air jets kicked in, and within seconds he was flying over the crowd towards downtown. When Barlin saw Tando would make it safely, he grabbed some papers off his desk, threw down his senso-ring and raced home.
***
He entered their apartment to a very rare sight: two empty electro-cocoons. Keliel was lying in bed, covered from toe to neck with blankets.
“Keliel, I saw him again!” Barlin said, rushing into their room. “Sanny! Now he’s pointing to an abandoned donut shop. Probably thinks he can sway the cops by playing to stereotypes, though if he handed me an old-style apple fritter, he might have himself a deal.”
She rolled over, smiling weakly. Her face was pale, but Barlin barely noticed. “Anyway, he showed me a tic-tac-toe grid, I have no idea why. Maybe we should check the donut shop out.”
“Why don’t you go? I’m a little tired,” she said.
It was then Barlin caught a flash of red behind Keliel’s ear. After a long silence, the papers in his hand fluttered to the floor, as the world unraveled around him.
“Keliel,” he whispered.
He rushed to her side and brushed her hair away. Behind her ear, a huge red scab was forming, and crawling up the side of her head. “Damnit Keliel!” Barlin shouted, cold water racing through his spine. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like!”
She reached out and cupped his cheek, tears streaming from her eyes. “I don’t know where I picked up the egghead virus, honey, but I’ve got it good, and I’m not the five percent. It’s been a couple weeks, but I’ve seen a hospobot, and it shot me with the quarantine serum. At least I’m no longer contagious.”
Barlin wanted to puke. A couple weeks… he’d seen her pale face, knew how weak she was, had assumed it was just fever. He’d been working so late, he’d never bothered to ask. If he hadn’t left early today, would he found her dead?
“No!” Barlin’s shout shook their apartment. “We’re getting you to a real hospital! You can’t trust a damn hospobot!”
Keliel was crying. “Go see Sanny, Fred. Go see him.”
“Damnit Keliel, where? I’ve gotten nothing but an image of some long lost ocean and a damn tic-tac-toe grid.”
Keliel said something, and Barlin handed her the glass of water from her nightstand. She cleared her throat, then looked at him. “SeaTac.”
Barlin leaned back, stunned.
It hit him like a falling piano. He knew she was right, knew it in a way that went beyond all rational explanation. The eggheads were telling him they were holed up in Seattle’s old airport, and in a way the Junebugs couldn’t record. Even a hair away from death, Keliel could outsmart him.
He pulled her to her feet, despite her protests. “We’re going to SeaTac for a cure,” Barlin said, “even if I have to carry you.”
“No, Fred. I have to… have to…”
“Have to what, die? No.”
“I love you Fred.”
“We’re getting you to Sanny,” he said.
He practically dragged her to the elevator; she seemed unable to move her feet on her own. And by the time they’d gotten to street level, Keliel had passed out. In a daze, he lifted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and began walking to SeaTac airport.
It was madness, but Barlin was in no state remotely close to sane. He knew SeaTac was too far to walk, knew there was zero transport through Freakland, knew he couldn’t carry Keliel far. But those thoughts were tucked away in some remote brainfold, one with no connection to any motor function.
He staggered through the campsites of staring freaks, Particul-Ash burning in his lungs as Seattle’s trolls followed him with eyestalks and glowing orbs. The slap of his shoes on dirt became a steady metronome, accompanied by heavy exhales that seemed in Barlin’s delirium to form a low chant. Step, pause, exhale, step, pause, exhale, a musical symphony that kept him stumbling forward.
But within minutes, a realization wormed into Barlin’s heat-stroked skull: The symphony wasn’t coming from him.
He stopped, shifted Keliel to the other shoulder and straightened. Freakish monstrosities surrounded him on all sides, each singing one word in tune to his steps:
“Seh-Tek.”
Barlin blinked, staring up and down the packed street. He was still trying to absorb the bizarreness of it all, when two large freaks with horns and barbed tails moved to block his path. Barlin clutched Keliel tight and growled — if Satan was here to collect, he planned to put up a fight.
The one on the left widened his mouth into a sharp-tooth smile and pointed at Keliel. Barlin’s arms trembled, and stars swam in his vision. He watched their sweaty red fur shift into and out of focus, wondering in his delirium how they survived Seattle’s tropical heat. He couldn’t imagine handing Keliel to these hallucinations, but strangely, sensed no malice from them.
“Haylp. Seh-Tek,” one of them croaked.
Barlin knew he had absolutely no choice — Kel
iel was a goner without their help. Reluctantly, he lifted her off his shoulder and handed her to the two devils, hoping he wouldn’t have to watch them eat her. Each took a side of her gently, gave Barlin a look that said ‘follow’, and walked away. The crowd parted, and after a stunned moment, Barlin ran after them.
They marched to a parking lot surrounded by barbed wire, and passed through a chain-link gate to an old army truck covered by green canvas. A line of freaks followed them through the gate, chanting ‘Seh-Tek’ repeatedly, like some LSD party conga line.
The two devils got in the back, carrying Keliel gently, while a pterodactyl-headed man opened the front door and got in the driver’s side. Shaking his head, Barlin ran to the back of the truck, grabbed an outstretched claw, and lifted himself inside.
Thank you for hoisting yourself into hell, Mr. Barlin.
The truck cranked, began spewing dirty smoke from its tailpipe, and lurched forward. Barlin was appalled at riding in this old diesel vehicle, blowing out the very gasses that had screwed the planet five ways to Sunday. Guilt-ridden, he found himself almost begging the driver to stop, but one look at Keliel slammed his mouth shut. He put a gentle finger on her throat, felt a pulse. Swallowing deeply, he turned away and gazed out the back.
Behind them, a mass of freaks danced and shouted as they followed the truck, chanting atonal melodies and yelling incomprehensible slogans. Junebugs buzzed the gyrating throngs like angry hornets, swooping in and out of mayhem.
Standing in the back, Barlin peered over the swaying crowds like a leper messiah, trying to fathom what remote corner of Alice’s rabbit hole had spawned this festival. And wondering how the eggheads were going to avoid discovery if every last Georgetown freak was planning to follow them to SeaTac.
His question was answered shortly when the crowd veered to the left as one, along with two other diesel trucks. The Junebugs followed the procession until it faded into the haze, and Barlin was left alone again — with only two devils and his beautiful, unconscious girlfriend for company.
They rode in silence for some time, as Barlin gazed out at the view. The decayed remnants of warehouses and industrial plants stood everywhere, like a cemetery for the twentieth century. Weedy grasses grew between the buildings, partially fed by the rising salt water. In the distance, brown hills marked the Rainier mudslide of ’60, when the last of the old dame’s snowcaps finally melted.
Eventually they hit the I-5, driving slowly around the chunks of asphalt, following the dike along the Duwamish channel to circle Renton bay. Autobots crawled along the concrete wall repairing cracks, and Barlin wondered who would fix the fixers as they slowly rusted into powder.
He must have nodded off, because he awoke as the truck came to a sudden halt. The devils carefully grabbed Keliel and stepped onto the SeaTac tarmac, and Barlin followed suspiciously. They climbed a ramp and stepped through a doorless opening into a cavernous room filled with boarded restaurants and rusting benches. The devils placed Keliel on a seat whose upholstery had mostly turned to dust, then turned and walked away.
Barlin stared at their retreating tails, fighting the desire to run after them. Exhausted, he turned around, and almost hit the ceiling at the sight of Sanny’s bland face, staring from twenty feet away.
“What the?” Barlin gulped, then leaned against the wall. He breathed deeply, pointing to Keliel. “Fix her.”
Sanny sighed. “I cannot.”
Barlin wanted to squeeze Sanny’s neck until that giant boo-boo head popped like a ripe pimple. He twisted away, feeling a meltdown coming.
“But I’ll keep her alive until we can.”
Barlin swung around. “And when will that be?”
“Two years.” Sanny blinked two beady eyes in his giant head. “I have every incentive, Mr. Barlin, for I’ve three years left myself. The same solution that arrests our brain growth will prevent the immune reaction that kills most who catch the neuro synth-stem.” He paused, watching two eggheads emerged from behind a Starbucks booth and walk toward Keliel. “Of course, she’ll have to become one of us. Once the contagion settles, the only option is death or full transition.”
Barlin gagged. “My beautiful Keliel, an egghead?” He rubbed his forehead, trying to imagine his radiant, sweet girlfriend’s face morphed into a hot-air balloon. Alarmed, he watched them inject Keliel with something, then pick her up.
Where are you taking her?”
“A place she can await a cure,” Sanny said. “She’ll be held in a coma until then.”
“Oh no, you don’t, you basketball-headed…”
“Fredric, you must trust me. Allow me to show you something. Only then can I describe where we’re taking her. Yes?”
Barlin’s fists clenched and unclenched. Any way he diced the starchtube, he had to believe these guys. He watched the two eggheads gently carry Keliel away, feeling a vice tighten over his heart. “Lead on.”
Sanny led him down an old escalator, its ridged steps rusted almost beyond recognition. They travelled along endless empty hallways, as Barlin marveled at an age where the common man had once flown. No one cared about travel anymore — what was the point, when you could visit anyone on the simulator, make it every bit as real as if you’d just spent three hours wedged between fat guys in tiny seats?
They’d begun descending another rusty escalator, when Barlin froze at the sight below.
“My god.”
Sanny twisted to looked at him, then continued to the bottom.
But Barlin couldn’t walk another step.
A huge metal structure filled the cavernous room, resting on square columns which descended through the concrete to the next story down. The structure was topped by a mottled dome like a giant golfball, which disappeared into the ceiling. Girders stretched out from the metal skin, and a ramp led down from an open doorway to the concrete floor.
Barlin finished descending, eyes never leaving the giant structure. Everywhere, eggheads and other freaks circled the metal contraption, pointing and checking remote sensors. A thousand questions swirled through Barlin’s head, but only one got top billing.
“Keliel’s going in there? And she’s safe?”
Sanny nodded. “She’ll be kept in stasis until we find a cure.”
Barlin exhaled slowly, watching one of the freaks pull on a collapsible structure mounted to the outside.
“Spaceship?”
“Starship, Mr. Barlin. And you came just in time; we’re leaving tomorrow.”
Barlin closed his eyes, his fascination swamped by massive disappointment. “So. You’re not going to save the planet. You’re going to abandon it.”
“No.”
Sanny said it with such ferocity, Barlin’s eyes shot open. The egghead’s face was impassive as always, but throbbing veins crisscrossed his head to disappear under his hat, like some twentieth-century metro grid.
“Well, if you’re going to just ride away…”
“The Corporament is closing in on us, Fredric. We’re two years away from solving the neurostem problem, three years from eliminating the red tides, a few more years from an alternative to Particul-Ash that will cool the planet while allowing the sun’s full radiation to reach the earth’s surface. All of these solutions require time to develop. Time we do not have on Earth.”
“So you’re going to circle the planet in this flying snuffbox, and all our problems will be solved?”
Sanny shook his head. “There’s only enough room for twenty of us to remain conscious. The rest, about eight hundred, will hibernate until we reach our destination: a planet in the constellation 18 SCO that has breathable atmosphere, vast oceans, gravity of 1.07G, and no life that we know of.
“And what happens then?”
“Once we’re there, we’ll establish a colony where we can finish our research. When we’re ready, we’ll send a crew back to Earth to implement the results of our work.”
Barlin scratched his brow. “A brand new world, ready for colonization by a super-race. Sound
s like a 1930’s Aryan wet dream.”
“We are not Nazis, Mr. Barlin.”
“For super geniuses, you guys don’t seem to get metaphors.”
Sanny was silent, and Barlin stared wistfully at the dome capping the starship. “What’s the dome for?”
“Fusion reactor. We’ve found a way to contain fusion without magnetic fields.”
“Of course you have.” Barlin found himself fascinated by this contraption, technology so far beyond what the rest of humanity could dream up, it might as well have come from an alien civilization. “So you’re going to ride a wormhole, or something?”
“We’ll use the fusion thrusters to push as fast as we can in our universe, up to 0.001c. Then we slowly shift most of the ship into what’s called S-space, while keeping only a tiny part of it in this universe. This allows us to use conservation of energy to increase our velocity to 0.999c. We get there in forty eight years Earth time, two years subjective ship time — most of which is spent accelerating and decelerating at non-relativistic speeds.”
There was a long silence, while Barlin absorbed this. “Well, that’s peachy, but sometimes reality slaps you down. I don’t suppose you’ve tested any of this.”
“We shot a test vehicle into space a few years ago, and everything functioned as expected. The hardest part is designing the chemical rockets to get off Earth. We have to be faster than the missiles they’ll send after us.”
Barlin’s eyes went wide. “The Portland event…” Several years ago, a rocket had shot out of the Portland metro area, chased by Corporament missiles. It’d made it into space well ahead of its pursuers, giving rise to rumors that the remnants of the military had split into factions, running an good old-fashioned arms race. Barlin felt strangely privileged to finally learn the truth.
“Okay, one mystery down. Here’s the next one: How the hell did you manage to show up in the videos but not in the playback? It’s like some kind of egg-voodoo, and it drove me crazy.”
Sanny’s mouth muscles twitched. “The insta-feed video is modulated at a different frequency than the signal sent to the server drives. It’s straightforward to allow one to get through while jamming the other and replacing it with old footage.”
Ruined Cities Page 7
