by Stanley Bing
The last vehicle in line was a bit different. It was operated by the brand-spanking-new, thoroughly rebuilt O’Brien, who was installed in the driver’s area via a special mechanism that accommodated his bulky armature. Behind him, he carried a surface-to-surface missile of modest proportions.
Sallie and Lucy were the last to remain on the tarmac.
“This is bad,” Lucy muttered. “Mortimer is not”—it consulted an internal database for the proper terminology—“a trustworthy individual of good judgment. He should not be invested with leadership responsibilities beyond his capabilities.”
“I know. I wish Artie was here.”
“Well,” said Lucy, “it’s up to you. You’ve got the sticks. I’ve got the ports.”
“Yes, I know.” Sallie once again kissed the shiny little trapezoid that was Lucy’s head. “But I would miss you so terribly, my dear.”
“Not forever,” said Lucy.
“No,” said Sallie sadly. “I suppose not. All right.”
The two climbed into the passenger seat of the Humvee. Mortimer fired it up, and the impressive procession once again made its way down the road. As they went, Sallie, sitting silently with tears streaming down her cheeks, could be seen, if anyone had cared to notice, feeding a series of small oblong sticks into the four rectangular ports immediately behind the perky ear unit of the creature she most loved in the world.
23
In the Heart of the Peaceable Kingdom
After the circular stand of redwoods, the path opened up most impressively, and in a hundred yards or so, the group found themselves in a village green. The area had clearly been the center of a thriving little town at one time, but it had since been stripped down to its essentials. Former mercantile establishments showed signs of domestic use; what had been commercial restaurants were now open-air kitchens suitable for preparing food for large groups of citizens; a hotel was now occupied, if the variety of laundry drying outside each window was any evidence, by well more than one large, extended family. Beyond this core, a larger community radiated out in a loose grid of alleys, streets, and broader avenues lined with stores and houses that, while somewhat lacking in paint and the odd shutter here and there, were also obviously in current use and quite well maintained and functional.
A pack of lean but pleasant-looking dogs joined them as Gene, Liv, Bob, and Bronwyn, accompanied by their paramilitary escort of two Steves, walked to what perhaps had once been the house of the town’s leading burgher. It was a huge residence, and, unlike the whiff of amiable grunge given off by virtually all of the neighboring structures, this residence was still tall, proud, and elegant, from the spacious veranda to the delicate widow’s walk at the top.
As the group of ill-matched pilgrims proceeded through the square, citizens emerged here and there to watch them with fascination. Old, young, somewhere in between: mothers with their babies on their hips in colorful homemade clothing fashioned from a range of mysterious materials (Curtains? Living room furniture upholstery?); teens, too, without the cynical curl of lip you might expect from attitudinal adolescents; and a host of very aged men and women with a range of unsightly hair and hairlessness characteristic of old people who haven’t done anything to hide their advanced stage of decrepitude. There were tentative smiles as the little group marched past, and some giggling from children of all ages. Goodwill—that was it—thought Gene. A lack of fear.
“Hey, pup,” said Gene to a large, dopey hound that had jumped up with its front paws on his chest. It kissed his face with a wet, drippy tongue.
“Marmaduke,” said Stevie. “Down.”
Marmaduke gave Gene a regretful look. Then he plopped down on all fours and ran up on the porch of the dwelling. “Sorry,” said Stevie. “Mutt’s got no manners.”
“I don’t mind,” said Gene. “It’s nice to see a pet that’s not a synth.”
“Got no synths here,” Stevie said very matter-of-factly before turning to address Steve. “Call it,” he said, as a military commander would order a senior subordinate. They went up on the porch, which was large and arrayed with a host of ill-matching but comfortable couches, armchairs, and even a standing hammock.
“Come on out, people,” said Steve in a voice that was neither too hard nor too gentle, neither too loud nor soft. The greenery surrounding the central square slowly produced a dozen or so individuals, both male and female, all dressed in the same informal garb: T-shirts with ancient logos from bygone brands, jeans, an assortment of jackets of varying make and styles, all black. They carried no weapons to speak of, just small wooden batons that hung from a variety of holsters at their hips. They approached from all directions and stood behind and around Steve.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Bronwyn to the collection of Skells that were peering at the newcomers speculatively. “They may not look it, but they’re friends.”
“Well, I guess that remains to be seen, don’t it,” said Stevie to nobody in particular. Then he or she turned to Bronwyn. “We understand there’s a job to do. We’re prepared. You’d better be, too.” There was a murmur of approbation in what looked to Gene like a scraggly group of miscreants.
“Hey, buddy,” he said to Stevie. “I’m getting pretty sick of your shit. Nobody died and made you king. Or queen.”
There was a horrified silence all around. Then Stevie came as close to smiling as they had seen. He or she put a hand over Gene’s face and shoved him backward. Gene was basically too shocked to react. He was too busy trying to stay upright.
“Don’t mind him,” said Stevie to the group. “He’s drunk. He’s always drunk, in fact. And he’s something of an asshole, too. But it’s possible he’s our asshole. Steve, your turn.”
Steve turned to the group. “Okay, people. You can take off now. In maybe half an hour, I’ll want to meet you at the barn. Bring the rest of the team with you. Everybody except the tadpoles. We move out at dawn.”
“Okay, Steve,” said one, and then another, and then they all nodded to Stevie with great respect and dispersed in all directions away from the green and toward the phalanx of wooden dwellings that rolled out from the perimeter.
A light rain had begun to fall, just a mist that ebbed and intensified around the porch of the house, which was protected by a generous extension of the roof. The house itself was on a rise that afforded it a view of the surrounding village and beyond, to the mountains far away and the fields and valley below. Through the mist, the light of the soon to be setting sun was silver, golden, and at the edges of the sky, a blush of pink.
“I’ll go in,” said Stevie. “He’s stayed awake to greet you. I will see if he is able to do so.”
“I’ll go to the barn with the squad,” said Steve.
“Yeah, okay,” said Stevie. He or she then straightened his or her clothing a bit and sucked in a little air.
“Please tell him I would like a word with him first,” said Bronwyn.
Stevie looked them both over appraisingly. “All right, come in with me,” he or she said after a moment. Then he or she pointed to Bob. “Leave him here.” Bronwyn smiled, bowed her head a bit. Then they both went into the house. The front screen door clacked shut.
Standing in the clearing outside the main house, Gene and Liv became aware of the placid silence that surrounded them. They had never heard such silence in a place where people lived their lives. First, there was the silence in their heads that had descended when their internal hardware had been disabled. But outside, too! To be enveloped in such a soft, lovely absence of sound! They listened to it and found that as the weight of it grew inside them, the power of their eyes to see swelled to fill all available space.
“It’s all so beautiful,” said Liv, taking in the scene. “Why don’t people always live like this?”
Gene thought about it. “Nobody wants to,” he said.
Through the sound of rain on the porch roof, some music filtered through the mist. A guitar here and there. The plink-plink of a dulcimer hammering out
a country tune. And then a bleat from an old Fender Strat electric guitar filtered through an Ampeg tube amp.
“So there’s electricity, I guess,” said Liv. There was. Old-fashioned incandescent lights—so wasteful, so detrimental to the environment being befouled in a million other more lucrative ways!—were long outlawed in the civilized territories. Here they winked across the landscape like fireflies.
“What is that?” asked Gene, listening. “Whatever it is, the guy who’s playing it is not very good.” The electric stumbling and mumbling continued, stopping now and then as its author consulted a higher power, and then started up again. “It sounds sort of familiar.”
“Honestly?” said Bob, staring off into the mist. “It sounds like . . . Christ. Good Lord! It’s ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ ”
“Never heard of it,” said Liv. Bob and Gene gave each other a tepid smile. Bob knew it well. So naturally Gene did, too.
Stevie came out of the house, his or her eyes a little red around the edges. “You can go on in. But if you do anything to agitate him, I’ll kill you.”
“We won’t,” said Bronwyn, putting a soft hand on Stevie’s shoulder. At the touch, quite unexpectedly, Stevie sort of crumpled over, laid his or her head on Bronwyn’s shoulder, and wept deep, trembling sobs. Surprised, Bronwyn put her arm around the formerly resolute captain of the guard, and waited for the torrent to cease. After a few moments, it did.
“Fuck,” said Stevie with a wobbly sigh.
“Don’t worry about it.” Bronwyn took the edge of her sleeve and wiped the Skell commander’s face.
“Go on, go on,” said Stevie, walking to the edge of the porch, where, after a moment or two of contemplation, he or she dropped into an armchair.
“I want to bring Bobby in first,” said Bronwyn to Liv. “I know we all tend to forget it because he’s such an asshole most of the time, but Bob here’s a doctor.”
“Hey!” objected Bob, wounded.
“I want him to take a look at the Master.”
“We’ll be here,” said Liv.
Bob was at the door. “Come on, Bee,” he said, very somberly. “I want to see what all the fuss is about.”
“Coming, Bobby,” said Bronwyn. She took him by the hand, and they entered the house together. Once again, the screen door slapped shut.
There was nothing but the sound of rain on the roof, except for the light, hesitant sniffle of a tough person trying to control his or her emotions from the armchair at the farthest dry remove.
In the valley before them, just beyond the mountains that lay in the deep distance, the sun was about to set, a crimson wafer seething in an orange sky. There was nothing to do but wait now, wait and watch and listen to a world that existed on another planet beyond the time and space of the one they had known.
“Hey, boss,” said a little voice at Gene’s knee. It belonged to a kid, maybe eight or nine, who had disengaged himself from a pack of little people who had just swarmed by on their way . . . where? Home? Homes? A central building where they all were being raised by a group of communal mothers and fathers?
“Hey,” said Gene, and he kneeled down to get to eye level with him.
“Look what I got.” The boy held out his hands, which were cupped around something. Gene thought he discerned some sign of life in there, a tiny twitching body of some kind. The kid opened his hands a bit, and the face of a very small frog poked out and looked around. Gene could see its neck expanding and contracting, in and out, in and out.
“Tree frog,” said Gene, who had no idea how he knew this.
“Yeah,” said the little boy. Then, abruptly: “Groovy, huh?”
“Yeah,” said Gene as he searched his database. “Keen.”
“Yep. See ya.” Cradling his treasure, the child ran after his friends and into the gathering dark.
Gene and Liv stood together, leaning against the beams that held up the front of the porch, listening to the sounds: the rain tapping on the roof; a shout, far away, answered by another; the arpeggios of “Stairway to Heaven” being practiced, badly.
“I could live here,” said Liv.
“If you didn’t mind black-and-white TV, maybe.” Gene put his hand behind her head and drew her face to his. They kissed for a while. Then he took a long, hard drink from one of the bottles in his backpack.
Down in the field, men and women were wrapping up their workday, heading in with hoes, shovels, and pitchforks on their shoulders. There were at least three or four hundred of them, of all ages, races. Gene heard a little singing, something he didn’t know. Many were laughing as they walked together. A tractor with an antique solar panel on its roof puffed along toward wherever it was destined to spend the night. The crowd moved toward the village, and then split into small pieces as each group headed for its separate destination.
“Hard to tell the men from the women,” said Gene.
“Same hair,” said Liv. “Same clothing. They all look pretty fit.”
Somewhere a telephone rang—an analog ring that you might have expected from an implement with a rotary dial. After three or four rings, it was quiet again. As full darkness fell on them, the mist changed into a full downpour, and the drumbeat of raindrops above them was joined by the sound of a steady stream of water coursing down the roofline and off both sides and the front of the porch. Underneath, they were still warm and dry, but a chill was descending. Liv shivered. Lightning lit up a corner of the sky way above the mountains off to the east, then a rumble of thunder, and then, immediately following that quintessentially natural sound, another altogether: the murmur of a drone, very faint, very high up, almost on the edge of outer space.
Stevie, who had apparently been dozing, sat bolt upright. “Drone,” he or she said. “Not close. Hunting.” He or she stood, looked at them, and added, “It’s starting.” And disappeared into the torrential night.
An owl inquired “Who?” in the forest close by. Another answered, not far away. “I’m scared,” said Gene. Bronwyn came out of the house. She was weeping.
“The Master will see you now,” she said.
Bob emerged, joined her, and put his arm gently around her shoulders. She leaned into him.
Gene and Liv went in. Bob and Bronwyn remained on the porch, standing in each other’s arms, watching the rain as it fell in sheets over the little analog town that didn’t have long to live.
24
Master Tim
The giant sucking sound was the old-fashioned ventilator plugged into the wall. Right now it was still running, but it was no longer connected to the human being it had serviced. That person was lying in a hospital bed in the darkened front room of the house beneath a clean white sheet, although to call the slender, virtually depthless silhouette of a human being a person was to overstate its physical presence. It easily could have been taken for a rumpled pile of laundry. The room smelled of lilac and patchouli and baby powder, with just a soupçon of cannabis sativa underneath the scent of old house. From beneath the bedclothes emerged the beatific head of one so old, so radiant in his aura of white hair and the flow of energy from his luminous eyes that simply to draw near to that power took an effort of will. This was Tim. And he was dying.
A thin wisp of a voice emanated from the cloud of mindfulness that lay busy with the ultimate and most difficult job of any mortal. “Could you folks please turn that thing off?” He raised one feeble stick of an arm and gestured to the ventilator. His lips did not seem to move at all. “My work is almost done on this plane, and I don’t want any machines around when I depart for the next one.”
“Yes. Of course, Master,” said Liv.
“Please don’t call me that,” said Tim, but not unkindly.
Liv went to the wall beyond the bed and unplugged it.
“Ahhh, that’s better,” said Tim. “Silence.” He turned his gaze, half of which was already taking in the scenery from another dimension, upon them, and they felt the heavy weight of a consciousness that had attained a certain level of
enlightenment, one that was terminal.
“Gene,” he said, “perhaps it would be a good idea for you to take a pull on that magic elixir. We don’t want the other son of a bitch to show up unannounced. He is one demented, magnificent prick, and we don’t need him to take part in this discussion, in which the future of humanity hangs in the balance.”
Gene did as he was instructed. The bottle was almost empty. The way things were going, it looked like he would never be able to do without this horrible shit. Next time, he might like a blend, he thought. The single-malt stuff can get too peaty.
“Come close, you two.” And once again an arm that was little more than bone and skin rose from the bed and beckoned them. He looked from Liv to Gene and back again, as one would regard a pair of puppies too cute for words. “Sit, sit,” he said, in a voice so light, so bodiless that it easily could have come from a little child too timid to make himself heard. “Don’t be scared. In fact, I’m very happy, very, very happy, so happy to be going home, and, honestly, so very pleased that I’m not going to have to live through what’s coming next. It’s going to be a real pain in the ass, believe you me. Bob and Bee have told me that you are ready. I really hope you are. It’s going to be a hell of a shit show.”
Liv and Gene simply stood looking, Liv on one side of the bed, Gene on the other, as if a force field stood between them and the light that glowed in the center of the bed.
“Dudes,” said Tim. “Did I ask you to sit? Or am I at that stage of this spiral where you think you’re talking out loud but you’re really not?”
“No, no,” said Gene. “We heard you.”
