Whatever Gods May Be

by George P. Saunders

  So Zolan had come to Earth. He moved about the world with ease, hopping to various locations of interest, staying anywhere from one year to ten before moving on. When Man discovered the jet airplane and radar, he restricted his movements, and eventually settled down in a remote desert for the remainder of his stay. He build a house and a barn, to cover the Rover, and continued his studies through the decades. He mingled with the natives, becoming familiar with varied cultures and customs. For obvious reasons, he could never get personally close to people; but this was hardly a problem for Zolan Rzzdik.

  For the most striking characteristic in Zolan's nature, both on his home world and on Earth, was his stunning capacity to be the meanest son of a bitch that ever walked. A very lonely creature, Zolan Rzzdik also possessed one of the softest hearts in the galaxy; and it was for this reason, more than any other, that Earth's impending, self-imposed destruction had turned him into something of a madman.

  Earth, for better or for worse, had been his home for a very long time; to leave it would be saddening, but to see it crushed, and by its own people, would be traumatic.

  The Mojave Desert on the part of Earth called California, was one of the most desolate and lifeless spots on the globe. Zolan tried to imagine a land looking even more dead than this desert could. It was a difficult task, but Zolan realized that after the bombs were dropped and the skies and land wretched thereafter for months and years, this parched, sandy wasteland would become an even deader moonscape, enshrouded by a radioactive hell that would make its present appearance look like a lush, rainforest in comparison.

  His mouth was dry and he was breathing heavily and he realized that he desperately needed another drink.

  Moving away from the barn, Zolan shuffled over towards his dry-rotted house a few yards away. It was really more of a shack than a house; box-shaped, with a small porch and canopy, it looked more like a cartoon shed for a stereotype prospector. One twisted, pipe-chimney spouted a lazy trail of black smoke towards the white-hot desert sky - the only indication externally that anyone had been living in the place for years.

  Zolan didn't in fact live in the crumbling shanty; it was barely large enough to store all of his accumulated relics and nonessential equipment that had piled up through the years. As for day to day living, the Rover provided the him with all the modern conveniences he required, including cooking and latrine facilities. But the house was an important front for the scientist whenever the occasional passerby or rare friendly neighbor was in the area. As a stranger in a strange land who was adept at preserving his unearthly anonymity, Zolan realized how important it was to maintain the appearances of terrestrial normalcy.

  Zolan moved to the rear of the house where several heavy barrels lay side by side one another. An extensive network of jumbled plumbing connected to each barrel, entwining itself around the side of the house like some bizarre, metallic vine growth. Zolan felt the tubes and pipes in certain strategic places, then reached down to one of the spigots that each barrel possessed.

  A pottery jug hung from a hook above the barrels; Zolan's emergency vessel each time he broke a flask in a temper tantrum. He tore it off the fixture and thrust it beneath the running spigot to allow a thick brown ooze pour inside.

  Resembling a revolting combination of tar and gasoline, Zolan's secret whisky recipe gave off a hiss of protest when it hit the flask's bottom. A line of steam shot out of the mouth of the jug. The smell emitted was nothing short of stomach wrenching, and it was interesting to note that the spilled drops around the barrels from previous servings had failed to attract the usual lot of mealy bugs, flies or ants; consistently reliable patrons to any waste in the Mojave Desert that was barely eatable, drinkable or suckable. Zolan hoisted the jug to his lips and drank deeply.

  Zolan swaggered over to the house, jug in tow. He kicked open the rotted door and stared inside. The place was a mess --yet an intensely private and personal one, full of relics and souvenirs of his one hundred year stay on Earth. All of his treasures, the petty accumulations of two human lifetimes in this world, would have to be left behind. There simply wasn't time to pack.

  A small transistor radio was perched on a box near the door; Zolan picked it up, tried to recall where he had gotten it, then turned it on.

  Immediately, harried broadcasts dominated the stations. Zolan had been listening to them for two days now, ever since the Rover made its ominous forecast; with each passing hour it seemed that the new headlines were increasingly more dismal.

  Already, major coastal cities were being guardedly evacuated as a precautionary measure taken by the United States Government. Other cities around the country were following suit, and highways and secondary back roads were hopelessly clotted with panicked millions rushing to escape the metropolitan death traps targeted for destruction. For two days, the disjointed exodus had continued unabated, though oddly enough, even with the declaration of war by both the United States and the Soviet Union, not a single hostile act between the two nations had transpired. The South American incident that had mushroomed from a trivial regional dispute into an international catastrophe had happened so quickly, and hardly seemed to merit the risk-taking and military escalation both superpowers were presently engaged in. Yet within a week, both countries held nuclear guns at one another's heads, with the rest of a frightened world watching - and running for their lives to escape the all too foreseeable outcome of such madness.

  No one had pushed a button yet, but the fatal mistake was in the offing; like the poor souls rushing out of their cities all over the world, desperately looking for someplace to hide, Zolan knew that disaster was certain.

  "...and the President and key government officials have departed from the nation's capital to undisclosed locations. The President has urged all state and federal authorities to implement martial law, and to clear major transportation arteries to and from potential population targets for authorized military use only..."

  The radio droned on into a blur of words. Zolan was very drunk, but his anger and disgust had not been dulled by the sting of alcohol. He had seen case histories of other planets similar to Earth scattered around the galaxy that had also succumbed to nuclear suicide; the atomic threshold was the single greatest threat to semi-advanced civilizations and their continued survival. Such eventual and self-inflicted planetary carnage was considered the prevalent outcome - and termination of the majority of planets that had nuclear capability. Zolan had always been able to study such cases dispassionately before, though it had always been done with a tinge of contempt. Where the GCPP was unable to extend its influence to prevent such calamities (as was the case with Earth due to the incredible distances involved), planets that "died" in this manner could only be sadly referenced in the deceased file and quickly forgotten.

  For two days, Zolan tried to forget Earth, and the time and effort he had spent in becoming an expert on the horrible, little world. Thus far, he had failed. Zolan had become an Earthman for all practical purposes, and all he could think of was that his home was about to be laid waste by several thousand hydrogen bombs.

  His world Earth was about to die - and he, the product of a civilization that specialized in miracles, couldn't lift a finger to save it.

  The National Guard has full control over supermarkets and food-distribution centers. The Governor of California is urging everyone to remain calm and requests that Highways 10, eastbound from Los Angeles, and Interstate 5, north and southbound..."

  A low humming noise began to grow from within the barn that housed the Rover. The ground began to vibrate beneath Zolan and loose pieces of rafter slid down the overhang to the porch. Zolan protected the mouth of the jug from falling debris and frowned at the barn in front of him.

  The spaceship was automatically initiating a systems check of its powerful engines, shifting them into their various complicated gears which would later allow it to achieve speeds of over twice the speed of light. Zolan had not taken the Rover out for a cruise in over twenty yea
rs. After he had set up his final residence here in the isolated wasteland of the Mojave, he decided not to risk taking the ship out and possibly expose it to the sophisticated tracking devices Earthmen had developed in the past decade. He had already been responsible for numerous UFO sightings before; now, with the advent of radar, his chances of being pursued or intercepted in the lower atmosphere by supersonic jets or worse, heat-seeking missiles, had up to the present been unfavorable for Rover-running. Since Zolan had completed most of his global jaunting-about in the years before men had developed his flight technology, the impingement to his travel had not been too painful to tolerate.

  The Rover, however, had not adjusted to the twenty year hiatus as well as Zolan. Its drive unit begged for use, and as Zolan listened to the unhappy groan of the Rover's boosters, he knew that the Rover would at some point berate him for being so negligent to its needs.

  The announcements continued to transmit unfortunate news “… with the order by the President to destroy all Soviet submarines within a thousand miles of the United States. He has informed the Soviet ambassador, who has remained in Washington, that such rash actions would be taken unless steps were taken by the Russian government to scale down the crisis..."

  Zolan pulled himself to his feet, radio in one hand and the drinking jug in the other. His head was swimming deliciously and for a moment he almost forgot that anything was wrong at all. The hot desert air blew coolly against his sweat-drenched face, and the droning of the radio voice became an indistinct mumble in the wake of the hallucinogenic stupor he was enjoying. If he could only forget for awhile...

  "Zolan," the Rover called loudly through its amplified audio system.

  Zolan snapped his eyes open and shook his head.

  "...In case of an attack, and you are not indoors, find shelter away from structures, gas and electric lines..."

  Zolan switched off the radio and tossed it carelessly on the rocker. He stepped off the porch into the blinding sunlight and downed another massive shot from the jug.

  "Whadayuwant, Rover," Zolan asked, approaching the barn with the cautious attention of a man who knew that he would miss it completely without such focused concentration.

  The Rover waited until Zolan had entered the barn and climbed up the ramp inside the flight deck. The television screens that had earlier been depicting various segments of battle footage, were all blank now with only the word EMERGENCY stenciled across them. Zolan didn't notice this, however, as he threw himself drunkenly into a cushioned pilot seat.

  "You're drunk, Zolan," the Rover observed tonelessly. Though the ship had been programmed for near-human response and conversation mode, it did not, at least as far as Zolan knew, possess any human characteristics, such as a personality. It was theoretically impossible for it, therefore, to be judgmental or critical in the way a human being could be. In this case, it simply acknowledged the fact that Zolan was indeed highly intoxicated, stated as much, and awaited possible verification from Zolan as to the accuracy of its computation. This Zolan did with a rather audible and lengthy burp and a nod of the head.

  "You're dammed right I'm drunk," Zolan agreed pleasantly, "And I'm going to stay drunk until we lift off."

  "It might not be a good idea, Zolan. I've completed another probability scan, based on worldwide military escalations in the past three hours. There is a ninety-eight percent likelihood of a nuclear exchange to take place in approximately two hours."

  Zolan moved to get out of the chair. "That's damn little time, Rover. Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

  "I just finished the computations as you entered, Zolan."

  Zolan just sat there for a minute with his chin resting miserably on his chest. "Two hours," he repeated in clear awe. Rising slowly, he spoke like a man completely defeated. "I'll pack what I can - "

  :There is another problem, Zolan," the Rover droned on. "Look!"

  Viewing screens lighted up -- and hell raged across them. Tidal waves, great storms, earthquake devastation flashed by, staring at Zolan as if casting a personal finger of guilt his way.

  "This is what the Hall is doing to Earth. It began about five minutes ago."

  Zolan sunk into his chair, his throat dry, his eyes bleary.

  "Oh no," was all he could muster. "Close it, Rover. Now!"

  "There is a problem, Zolan," the Rover interrupted, "that's why I called you in and submitted my recommendation to you to cease drinking."

  Zolan was still staring at the scenes of carnage before him; the cold, brutal scientific mind within swam through the drunken haze and said: You did this, Zolan. You're a murderer.

  "I have detected severe corrosion in the Hall-Sealant Unit. Unless it is cleared, we would be unable to effect a closure after we have entered the Hall."

  Zolan shrugged, not clearly understanding what the problem was. "The Hall seals itself, Rover, you know that."

  Perhaps," the Rover said quickly, "but in this instance, since it has been prematurely breached manually, containment manually would also seem to be indicated."

  Zolan preferred not to argue with his ship. "Alright, Rover. So fix the unit."

  "I am unable to do so without assistance."

  "Why not?" Zolan asked, a little irritably.

  "Anticorrosive feed lines are empty. I will need a complete fluid change on the HS Unit." the Rover paused for a moment. " I should have had a complete overhaul ten years ago, Zolan. You never got around to it."

  It was only a statement of fact, but Zolan felt as if the Rover was actually accusing him of negligence. He quelled the surge of anger that stirred inside of him. There was too much work to be done for fighting.

  "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

  The Rover took a second to race through its two million individual systems that controlled everything from the light drive to Zolan's wake-up bell in his cabin. The ship blinked and twittered then finally answered the man.

  "You can bypass secondary feed lines to HS unit once we are space borne. However, what is needed immediately is a powerful solvent solution to saturate the affected components."

  "Like what?" Zolan asked through increasingly bloodshot eyes.

  "You purchased a bicarbonate product on your last trip into town. The soda will melt most of the rust in a few hours. Afterwards, we will be in the Hall, and you can then effect the bypass procedure."

  Zolan looked at the computers around him rather sheepishly. "We don't have anymore soda, Rover." he said quietly.

  "Please explain, Zolan."

  Zolan looked down guiltily at the near empty jug in his hand. "I used it for the still." he said, feeling incredibly stupid and drunk. "It doesn't matter," he recovered' quickly, "like I said, the Hall will close up by itself and..."

  "The Hall activator also needs fluid circulation, Zolan. Besides, failure of HS unit would inflict enormous power drain to other Hall functions. Recommend, Zolan, that you return to Earth city and procure more bicarbonate."

  "Are you mad?" Zolan snarled, suddenly feeling twice as sober in a matter of seconds. "You just said that an attack was only two hours away. You don't expect me to stop for soda, do you?"

  "ETA into Five Corners by land transport, thirty-five minutes. You can be there and back well before departure schedule," the Rover said confidently.

  Zolan just stood there, stupefied into silence.

  "Is this really necessary, Rover?" Zolan finally asked almost plaintively.

  "I'm afraid so, Zolan. If the HS unit fails, there is a seventy nine percent probability that the Hall activator and scanner will also suffer impairment. If that should happen, we would be helpless as far as navigating in the Hall itself."

  Damn. He was in no condition to be driving, but he had no choice. Walking over to the pilot console, he put the jug to rest against one of the tv monitors.

  "One more recommendation, Zolan," the Rover added. Zolan took off his bispecs and wiped the lenses on his overalls. "Yes, Rover?"

  "Hurry back. The first wave
of attacks could come before the two hour estimate has lapsed. After all, the creatures we're dealing with are only human."

  TEN

  Five Corners, population 350, was the kind of town one could pass on nearby Interstate 5 and not even know it was a town at all. About a mile of the east-west freeway, it boasted only one general market, one tavern, and one gas station; together, these decrepit edifices looked like the wind-blown remains of some nameless ghost town, long abandoned and forgotten by the rest of the world; indeed, the wandering eye would have to search diligently for any signs of life to indicate the contrary.

  I5 was Five Corners’ link to the rest of humanity, but as far as folks there were concerned, it could take its promise to a noisy and bustling civilization and keep it. Quiet people lived in Five Corners; old ranchers, a few retirees and a dog or two made up the tranquil population. Few cars roamed the streets; most folks simply walked or rode bicycles or horses from their homes to take care of shopping or whatever. Rarely, did anything even remotely different shatter the mundane routine of Five Corners life. If there had been something to constitute an event, it probably would have been regarded as an unwanted intrusion to the quiet, stagnant inactivity that pervaded across the town twenty four hours a day. Until today, folks here had never had such problems.

  Zolan came to a screeching halt on a low tumulus that overlooked Five Corners and the nearby freeway. Drunk, hot and ill-tempered, Zolan leaned forward in the pick-up and stared at the unbelievable scene below.

  Five Corners had become a city besieged. The winding, cracked asphalt road that led from I5 into the town was hopelessly congested with cars and trucks of every description. Even the surrounding desert was smattered with more daring vehicles braving the sand and rock, to either enter the town, leave it, or to bypass completely the equally cluttered highway a mile away. Never - as he was sure was the case with the few people who lived in the town - had Zolan seen Five Corners so busy.