by G M Steenrod
A blip came up on her wristband. Gramps was going out for the evening. “That's for the best,” she thought.
***
Mike had summoned an autocar. When he reached the end of the walk, the car was already pulling up.
The door opened. With a glance, he took in his surroundings, visible in the shadow light of a half moon. Cassie had built a wonderful life for herself. This was a place of peace and power.
When he entered, he stretched out on the seat, letting his body sink deeply into the cushions. The interior had striking similarities to the interior of a horse carriage. In many small ways, this time was a period of luxury. Even this vehicle, which he had selected because it was unremarkable, was more comfortable than luxury vehicles of his time, though not as elaborate in appearance.
With a gesture, Mike swept the address from his wristband to the car. It would take about an hour. 15 of those minutes would be spent getting to the hyperloop. 40 minutes roughly in the loop. More minutes to his destination. The time line had come up on a small panel mounted in the ceiling.
Mike quickly entered meditation. The Troubles had taught him to take rest and recovery where he could, since the next moment could be a fury of horrors. He released the stress within his mind. There were corridors of thought that radiated around him. Most of them could lead easily to despair or confusion. He needed to select carefully where he allowed his mind to journey, and suppress the others for now.
The car gave a brief tone, signaling that he was at the end of journey. He rose from the cushions, hinged his feet to the floor and stepped out of the car.
It was Oneonta. He was 3 blocks away from the address he needed to reach. It was an old section of the original town with a mix of commercial fronts, and houses. The maples that had populated the yards and covered the sidewalks died a decade ago, and had been replaced by shrubs and Birds of Paradise flowers.
Where the car had dropped him, he could see some familiar facades on the homes from before the Troubles. As automated construction had become established, most pre-Trouble homes had been demolished and replaced with models that could create comfortable living conditions in the new environment. Keeping an original facade was a mark of wealth. The interiors were entirely new, post-Trouble.
Mike adjusted his jumpsuit. He had shifted to a dark brown with a light blue check. His formal suit would make him too conspicuous in this world. He had already grown accustomed to the jumpsuit, and had to acknowledge its fit and function. The ambient temperature was 33 degrees Celsius. Sweat beaded on his face and ran downward to the collar of the jumpsuit. Built for this climate, the fabric did an excellent job at wicking the sweat from his body outward.
6 months had passed since he had last been here. Or so it seemed. It was actually about 20 years and 6 months, so his memory of the place was much different from what he saw.
Mike thumbed his wristband. His signal, thoroughly anonymized, was located by a GPS, and placed onto a map. It was two rights, and a left. He strolled the empty sidewalk casually. Everyone was inside and out of the heat.
His wristband pulsed slightly as he approached his intended address. The facade of the home was unchanged from twenty years ago. It was an exterior of white brickwork. The door was a thick maple, banded with decorative bands of steel. Window panels, thick, insulative, and one way were visible in the expected positions. A rose hybrid shrub ringed the lot, bred to be temperature tolerant and exceptionally thorny. At first glance, it was a period home. In actuality, it was a concealed fortress.
Mike strolled down the walk to the house. The walk was made of slabs of gray slate. At one time, a set of old elm's on each side had provided shade. They were gone. Mike waved to the air as he neared the house. It was an alert to the one watching him from the inside. He climbed the stoop, and knocked on the door.
An Abyssinian cat darted from the roses and up the stoop. It didn't want to miss the easy in. It sat on the step, back to the door, looking upward at Mike.
“Bas? Is that you?” Mike kneeled down to the cat and presented his hand. It affectionately rubbed a canine on him. The right canine had been lost in some legendary Abyssinian adventure, 22 years ago.
The door opened. Mike rose to his feet.
Back lit in the door frame was an elderly gentleman, dressed in a casual, blue Egyptian print. He was of Arabic descent, and had a thin ring of hair on his head.
“Osir, my friend, I imagine it's been awhile,” Mike said smiling
Osir stood dumbfounded in the doorway.
“You should invite me in. Cooling the outside is an impossibility.”
Osir made a welcoming gesture in, and Mike stepped by him as did Bastet.
“Mike, how is this possible?” asked Osir.
Mike turned and gently grabbed his friend by the hands.
“I'm real. I don't know how I am here or why. I suspect the why is with purpose.”
Osir hugged Mike.
“Let's drink some wine,” he said.
Osir had been 8 years older than Mike—20 years ago. He moved smoothly, but his steps were studied. Arthritis had been cured 10 years ago with stem cell technology. It would have been earlier, but radical factions in the Ecumenical Council had kept up steady global pressure against it. Stem cell treatments first became available for pets. The results for pets created an unstoppable din for human use. However, by the time the treatment had been approved, Osir's joints were swollen with rot, and beyond repair. His skeleton was now an amalgam of bone and cybernetic replacements.
Osir made his way into the dining room. It was a large room, once an area to host secret meetings. Small oak tables were placed tastefully along the wall to feature curios from his beloved Egypt. The floor was old, heritage wood plank.
He approached the bar at the far end of the room.
“Two red. The very best,” Osir said to the bar. Mike saw it then—a service bot similar to the kitchen bot at Cassie's folded out and started an artistic choreography of glasses and bottles.
“A bot, Osir?” Mike asked, earnestly. Osir had once felt that bots would subjugate man.
Osir glanced at Mike beside him.
“They may rule us yet, but Man has shown no desire so far for genius slaves.” He hooked his arm into Mike's. “Besides, my body is half bot now. And my friend, I am old. I move, but I feel it each day on me.”
Mike placed his hand on the back of his old friend. The bot wasn't an issue for Mike. He was curious as to what had unfolded. The Osir he knew was from 20 years prior.
“Let's sit at the bar. I suspect we'll need much more wine than this and I don't want to have to get up to get it,” Osir said. He also didn't want Mike fetching the drinks for him, since he was the host. Mike suspected that a service bot existed in the markets that could fulfill the task. Probably one too many bots for Osir.
The bar stools were backed and furnished in a luxurious red upholstery. The men settled into adjoining stools.
“How did Egypt fair?” asked Mike. Why not? Osir and Mike had been in remarkable circumstances many times together. Sometimes great things had to be danced around.
“Egypt...my Great Lady. Alexandria and the Delta are claimed by the sea. The rest of the land is in The Desolation.”
Mike nodded solemnly and raised a glass in a toast. Osir joined him. The two of them had met in Egypt, early in the Troubles. Their toast had originated in Egypt as a ritual they had for friends lost.
Mike had had only the time to look at the changes of the world in the broadest strokes. The term Desolation had emerged during his time. It referred to a growing band of desert that now circled most of the world at the same latitude as the Sahara. It had started to grow ironically at the same time as the inundations. Now, it engulfed most of the Middle East.
Egypt had been hit particularly hard by it.
“How are your people dealing with it?” asked Mike.
“I was there last year to see it for myself. It is better than it was 10 years ago. Mostly because
there is almost no one left. About 80% of the population has moved into more temperate bands. It's like it is all tombs now. All part of the ancient kingdoms.”
Osir had drained his glass. He tapped it, and the bot made a delicate pour. Mike caught up to him with a gulp and set the glass down for filling. The bot did so expertly.
“No one wants to be outside. Most of the time they live indoors, and only come out at night. The solar farms, well, that's a bright point!” Osir laughed. Mike laughed with him.
“I take it, they've cooled the area?” asked Mike. Energy in the natural environment was limited and like all energy was conserved. Converted to electricity, it didn't add to the thermal equation.
“I'm afraid of how hot it would be without them. The animals even use them as shade. Birds are rebounding because they've taken to roosting under them.”
“Life will find a way,” Mike said,toasting the air
“Solar also gives the country a regular income. Even the emigres get a residual from it. Not a great deal, but enough to live. More than the government ever did during your time.” Osir referred to twenty years ago. The solar farms had developed fully in Egypt about 5 years after Mike's disappearance.
Osir set his empty glass down on the bar and tapped it. Mike followed suit. The bot opened another bottle and poured. Osir showed no signs of being affected by the wine. Mike knew it would take several more bottles.
“Enough of my tales. I would say it is better than the time you knew, but I remember the time of my childhood. In my heart, I compare to then. So, what miracle brings you here? Your appearance would lend credence to the miracles that so drive the Ecumenicals.”
“It would, ironically.” Mike and Osir had been part of the underground resistance to the Ecumenical Council. The faiths now represented on the Council were historically used to spreading with the aid of force, resource control, and government support. As the crises of the Troubles had grown, the “Ecus”--a true ecumenical collection of faiths at the time-- rose initially to provide support services in the vacuum created by failing governments. Seeing the opportunity presented in the governmental gap, factions within the Ecus felt they could appropriate the Council for the purpose of reshaping human society. They were successful in getting control, and forced out those groups whose purpose was largely humanitarian.
Mike and Osir, neutral members of the Council that survived the first purge, saw the Troubles being exacerbated by the new Ecu Council and had moved against them, peacefully and with reason at first. In time, force and espionage became necessary to check their machinations.
Mike filled in Osir on the actions of the last couple of days, and his memories before his disappearance twenty years ago.
“You know basically nothing?” asked Osir rhetorically and with great surprise.
“My memory is slowly recovering. Based on the logs and reports, I would say that I can remember about two weeks before Mary's and my disappearance. The last memory I have now is of dinner with her,” Mike said.
“Mary! I forgot to ask about her. I am old, my friend. Forgive me. She did go missing at the same time as you, but it was twenty years ago.” Osir had a distraught look on his face. He had cared for Mary as one would a little sister.
Mike gripped his friend's arm in comfort. There was much that didn't need to be said between the two. He knew without asking that Osir had looked for them with the fullness of his resources. The two of them together had done so for missing friends before. Osir had mourned them as lost, but left a small light on for them. Sometimes in the Troubles, the missing did return alive, but not this way.
“I feel her still. I should miss her, but it seems she is with me. Maybe it is only that in my memory; it's like I saw her a few days ago.”
The practicality of the Troubles had compelled the two to be apart for weeks at a time. Initially to sell her art, Mary moved through the social circles of the wealthy, exerting her powers of persuasion. In time, she took it as an opportunity to steer policy, but at the cost of diplomatic “trips.” Mike would disappear into the actions of the resistance. Throughout Ada's childhood, they had attempted to make sure one parent was always at home for her. It was fortunate that she was an independent child that matured much more quickly than other children.
It was an undesirable situation for a couple, but both of them found a deep sense of meaning and reward from their respective adventures.
“Well, old friend,” Mike clasped Osir by the shoulder, “did you find someone to keep you company?”
“These last few years I have been mostly with my memories. And my dear Bastet. She keeps me company, but can be very judgmental. I have spent some time praying to the Old Gods,” he said solemnly, “but I have never been a monk!” The two laughed. His statement was especially funny, given that he had been a monk briefly at the age of 21, at least in name. He had never been a very good monk. As the ancient gods movement gained power in Egypt, he had come to the forefront as a priest of the Restored Temple. It was that faith, and the challenges that Egypt faced during the Troubles, that led him to join the Ecu Council as the Temple's representative.
The Restored Temple, as an emulation of ancient Egyptian faith, had no practices of celibacy.
“I have to tell you, Mike. I have lived a long share of life. A good piece of it with you, brother. I am alright with dying.”
“Are you saying...”
“I am okay with living too!” said Osir, laughing, “It's that I once fought to stay alive. I wanted to stay here, and live. Live in this world. I wanted to see Egypt renewed. Now, if death were to come, I would greet it. I would grab it by the shoulders.”
He grabbed Mike by the shoulders.
“Look it in the eyes.”
He looked Mike in the eyes.
“And say that it is alright. I am ready.”
Mike smiled at his friend. The wine was taking a hold of him. With Osir, it was always life and death, but the tone was different. Mike could recognize the feeling behind it. It was a type of fatigue—a weariness. He had felt it himself in small moments for the last 5 years.
“You've lived well, brother. You served the world without thanks or care. It is a bit brighter, and a bit more balanced, because of you. A life like yours has been well-lived,” Mike said. It wasn't the wine talking. Mike had a flair for speaking the truth.
Osir nodded his head solemnly.
“Now that you are done eulogizing me, Asshole, let's eat something,” responded Osir. Osir stumbled a bit dismounting his bar stool and moving to the dining room table. It was more an issue of having not moved for an hour than the drink.
Mike chuckled and followed his friend to the table. They sat side by side.
“So...do you have a cook...or should we...” asked Mike.
“Sure. Sure. I forgot. Mighty Ra, bring us your delicacies!” Osir shouted to the air.
He held up a finger as a warning to show silence and reverence. A panel opened in a side wall and a rectangular, sandstone-colored service bot emerged. It rolled to the table. A small hatch opened and a mechanical arm deftly produced napkins and cutlery for two settings. It laid the service out silently and swiftly. In the next moment, it produced plates of roasted fish and vegetables from its interior, and placed them before the two.
“I was expecting you, after all,” said Osir.
Mike laughed. Evidently, Osir's aversion to robots had been thoroughly cured.
Mike took a forkful of the fish and bit into it. It was nicely-cooked and well-seasoned. The flavor was delicate. The vegetables had also been roasted to a mathematical turn. In placement, the vegetables on both plates had been organized in the same geometric pattern. It was appealing.
“This fish, is it wild caught?” Mike asked.
During the Troubles, with ecosystems collapsing quickly and unexpectedly around them, the world governments had agreed to ban all fishing. The collapse of the seas meant the collapse of the world as far as anyone knew. Desperate to stop the cascading ec
o-failures, the lack of action at the beginning of the collapses was being compensated for with an extreme reaction in the opposite direction. While people out of technology zones were exempt from the fishing ban, famine initially mushroomed in many coastal areas of technological countries. People found that they could not eat machines and electronics.
Tank cultured protein slabs of fish emerged about 10 years into the Troubles as humans harnessed genetics and culturing. The initial results tasted like a bland white fish, but managed to provide a steady food source.
Osir ate with great zest, his fork clanging on the porcelain of the plate. He paused for a moment with a small piece of fish stuck to his lip. Mike filled Osir's wine glass, now that they were out of reach of the bar bot. Osir drank to clear his mouth.
“No, no one fishes. There is a hope that an increase in the wildlife in the oceans will somehow draw thermal energy out as the life binds the energy. Every place that we can get a thermal sink, the better.”
