by YS Pascal
“They were resting on the lawn right by our feet,” Spud explained as I stretched and sat up. In his hands, he held his “stopwatch” and my “smart phone”. “The compass reading confirms the same latitude and longitude from which we had departed for Benedict’s brane,” he added, focusing on his Ergal’s watch face.
“Well, at least they’re working.” I jumped up and made a quick scan of the lush forest. “Wow. Sure looks different around here. So green.” I nodded at the instruments in his hands. “What do you think happened?”
Spud tossed me my Ergal and shrugged. “I tried to find out, but I am only able to get simple, local functions such as the compass to operate. Communications aren’t running, and we can obtain no global metrics. Fortunately, the library and internal data banks do seem to be preserved. But nothing that actively connects with and utilizes Zygfed technology is operative.”
I fiddled with my Ergal as well. “You’re right. Mine, too. No non-Terran functions operational.” I tried several settings. “No morph, no lev, no invisiblizing. Damn.”
“And no weapons. I was unable to Ergal a stun gun, or even a Colt 45. Our Ergals had now become what they have been disguised to resemble—personal digital assistants and timepieces.” Spud pulled up a historical file and began to scan its pages. “Obviously, things here are not as we left them. The question is why?”
And then I remembered. “John!” John was lying a few feet away from where we stood, breathing softly, his eyes closed. “He still hasn’t woken up!”
“Wrong again, Sis,” he growled, opening his eyes. “I was hoping I’d wake up in Benedict’s suite tasting another dose of Anesidora’s divine nectar.” He sat up with a grunt and muttered, “And yet, here I am. Where the hell are we?”
“Area 51, Nevada, United States, Terra,” Spud recited as he continued his Ergal study. “However, we do not seem to be able to communicate with Earth Core, nor Luna Outpost.”
John cursed under his breath. “How’s your Somalderis? Still there?”
I felt under my blouse. Yes, the Somalderis was still wrapped around my chest, intact. But there was no Nephil Stratum within our sights.
Spud shook his head. “I did not expect that she would be making the trip back with us.” He sighed, and snapped off his Ergal. “Well, our historical records are of no assistance. We are on our own. I propose we start ambulating towards the main base structures, which, I recall, are approximately 2.69 miles from the transport portal.” He pointed beyond a grove of bushes. “There is a dirt path over there.”
As I squinted in that direction, John ambled over behind me and rested his arms on my shoulders. “I don’t see it. Where?” he said, as we saw Spud heading off ahead.
Spying a narrow trail in the distance, I raised a finger to show him. “Ow!” The arm holding my Ergal was twisted back, and I lost my grip on the Zygan tool. I tried to spin around, but John’s other arm had trapped me in a tight hold. “What are you doing?” I cried.
Struggling to get free, I felt John’s arm reach into my blouse and pull on my Somalderis. His strength now far surpassed mine, thanks to Anesidora. “Spud! Help!” I cried.
John cursed as he dragged me towards, towards the portal, while trying to manipulate my Ergal that he’d caught with his free hand. “Just stay still. I won’t hurt you,” he muttered. “Now!”
I saw Spud turn and start running towards us. And then one eye saw flashing light and the other morbid darkness. John’s arm floated away in pursuit of his legs. My own limbs were somersaulting in orbit around my nose.
A sharp thud, and I felt the warm grass under my supine body once again. A second thud and John lay next to me, panting as I was, catching his breath.
I flung open my eyes, and saw an ashen Spud standing over us, glowering at my brother.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” John joked as he sat up with a grunt.
Neither Spud nor I were laughing. “You should be aware that transport requires both the fleece and a functioning Ergal.” Spud picked up my Ergal from the ground next to John’s feet and shook it. “Neither of our Ergals are able to provide the necessary power in their current state.”
“Dammit, John. We could’ve been killed!” I was furious. “For your stupid, stupid obsession.”
John rubbed his eyes, and didn’t meet mine. “Benedict and the Syneph are on the brink of a journey that no living human has been a part of, Shiloh. The chance to visit Heaven, Level 3, without the curse of death. How could I just walk away from that?”
“Nephil Stratum wouldn’t have sent you back with us if she wanted you on that voyage.”
John spun to face me. “And who appointed her God?”
“Who appointed you God?” I returned.
A harrumph next to us. “As a Deist, I find this conversation fascinating. As a traveller in what is now an even stranger land than your America, however, I suggest we postpone this discussion until we can deduce why this Nevada is no longer a desert, but resembles the Canadian tundra.”
John seemed poised to shoot back a reply, but held his tongue, murmuring, “You’ve got a good point there.” His brows knitted together. “If the topography of this region has changed so much, we’d better be ready for other changes. These Ergals don’t work, so we don’t have any weapons, right?”
Spud picked up a large branch from the brush and held it towards us like a cricket bat. “Better than nothing. Just in case we meet any other hikers on the path.”
We did the same. John used to be a Little League champion, and took the opportunity to practice a few swings with a thick cast-off. I could feel the wind brush past my face as he swung high and strong. I bet he could still hit a home run.
“What’s your name again? Ascot?” he growled at Spud.
“William Escott.” Spud’s tone was ice cold.
“Well, William Escott, I say we don’t take any chances. Do you have any evidence we’re even in the same century we left? What if we have to fight off rifles, spears, bows and arrows? Or go back even farther—dinosaurs? My batting skills won’t stand up to a T. Rex.”
“The date on my Ergal is one day after our transport to Benedict’s brane,” Spud said. “Even with a global catastrophe, there would not be enough time for our Jurassic ancestors to reclaim their lands in one day.”
John rolled his eyes. “I meant we should keep hidden. Parallel the path, but make our way through the woods. Let’s see them before they see us.”
Maybe my arms crossed over my chest gave my feelings away. John lowered his voice. “I had to try, Sis. It didn’t work. It’s over, okay?” He favored me with a hint of a smile. “We’re on the same team.”
“We were,” I grumbled. Clutching my makeshift club, I nodded at Spud to lead the way. Would that I could trust this, this stranger standing by my side. Another one of John’s favorite phrases was resonating in my memory. Patience is the champion’s best tool. Was John just biding his time until we could get our Ergals working, and he could try again to escape back to Benedict’s lair?
I watched my brother set off after Spud, and tried to swallow down the lump in my throat. I’d spent the last three years dreaming every night that I’d see John again. Where was the John of my dreams?
Chapter 11
New World Braves
We followed John’s advice and kept a low profile among the trees on the path, using Spud’s Ergal compass and the sun as a guide. Aside from some scurrying wildlife, there were no signs of habitation; human, at least.
After two hours of trekking, we had long passed the location where the Area 51’s offices, warehouses, hangars, and other buildings should have been. The mountains surrounding our valley looked little different than they had when we’d left, except for the tall pines that blanketed them in a coat of green. Far off to the northeast we could catch the first glimpses of a shimmering lake.
I was grateful for the hearty breakfast of “Eggs Benedict” in Valholler this morning, but eager for some water to quench my th
irst. “How about we head that way and get some H-two-oh?” I suggested. “Doesn’t look like the base commissary is open.”
Ten minutes later, we had reached the water’s edge. I carefully swept a few ounces of the lake’s clear liquid in the palm of my cupped hand and sprinkled it my dry mouth. No side effects. I nodded, and we all ladled the liquid down our parched throats.
Spud sat on a flat boulder checking his Ergal as I splashed water on my face and neck. John, gripping his branch, kept a lookout on the horizon.
“Groom Lake,” Spud informed us.
“Really,” John said, sounding surprised.
“Huh?” I was just as confused. Wasn’t Groom Lake a dry lakebed? “How could it be so, well, wet?”
“It is only a theory, but I surmise that—“
“Sas filoxenoume, xenoi!” a voice interrupted from behind.
We all spun around to see a tall, smiling man, whose dark curls framed his sharp features, extending both arms to welcome us. He was wearing a flowing white garment that covered his shoulders and ended just below his knees. His legs were tanned and muscular, his feet wrapped in green sandals, toes peeking through the straps of cornsilk. He continued to talk. We continued not to understand a word he said.
“Nai, irthame apo makria,” Spud suddenly returned. He tapped his lit Ergal to explain his fluency—apparently the internal translation banks were working.
Dubious, I activated my Ergal. Was this language in its data banks?
“A combination of ancient and modern Greek,” Spud whispered in English before continuing in hybrid Greek, “We are seeking food and shelter.”
“That is the right of every man,” the man answered, as our Ergals translated, “and so we shall provide.” He pointed at a trail off to one side. “Please join me.”
We looked at each other, hesitant. John shrugged and returned the man’s smile.
“You will not need your walking sticks,” the man added, eyeing our branches. “We have assisted transportation.”
O-kay. I glanced at my companions again. Spud jumped in, “A good walking stick is hard to find. Perhaps you would allow us to keep ours for the rest of our journey.” Spud smiled as well. “I did not catch your name.”
“I am Heron of Nea Alexandria,” the man said, nodding at our weapons. “Alas, that is not possible. However, I can hold them and return them to you after you depart our town.” He waved a hand toward a three wheeled vehicle resembling a triangular golf cart that appeared parked behind a cluster of trees. How convenient. The cart had seats for four, three in the back and one in the front.
“Solar panels,” John said as we neared. “Look up top.” I could see the cells that absorbed the sun’s rays on the cart’s roof.
Heron took our sticks and stowed them in a vault under our seats. We sat, as directed, crowded together in the back, while Heron slid into the solitary seat in the front behind a notebook-sized screen. Heron then pressed a button on the cart’s dash and the screen lit up, looking—ha--like a colorful 2 D nav holo.
Heron’s fingers tapped several buttons on the display, and our cart lurched forward, its wheels crunching leaves and branches along the bumpy path. “Electric,” John relayed to us, “No engine noise.”
Less than a mile down the road, the cart steered onto a paved track, and we felt our seats jiggle and rise a few inches. “Maglev,” Spud inserted before John could open his mouth. “See the magnets lining the track there.”
I stifled a giggle at the sour expression on John’s face. Then my head shot back once again as we accelerated, sans wheel crunching, to a speed that rivaled John’s motorcycle on I-70. Without traffic. “Woo-hoo,” I ventured, but only the wind could hear me.
Giant windmills, tethered to the tallest trees, lined our way, and stretched for miles and miles on either side of us, their blades twirling as we whistled past. Every mile or so, a leg of the track would branch off in a different direction and disappear into the woods, a concrete spider web invading the forest. At each intersection, a small sign in the Greek alphabet as well as a few pictograph symbols identified the destination for each branch. The Greek letters on one sounded out as tł'iish Kóh, which my Ergal translated as “snake water” in Apache. Apache? Another sign read SháHashtaal in what my Ergal said was “Nabaxo”.
In minutes we reached a clearing and could see a settlement appearing on the horizon, shaded by luxurious maple trees. Our cart began to slow down, and I was able to hear our driver. “Nea Alexandria is only another twenty decastadia.”
Spud raised an eyebrow and did some calculations with his Ergal, as John and I focused on the landscape before us. “Is that a river?” I asked our host.
“Yes, the Amargosa. Our town is nestled against the bay.”
Another eyebrow from Spud. A quick glance at his Ergal showed he was following our trail on one of our maps. I shook my head. No point in trying to find our location on a world that clearly was not the one we’d left.
“And here we are,” Heron said as the cart exited the maglev track and, back on electric power, slowed to a stop in front of a tall stucco wall and polished brass gate. After we hopped out, the cart, wheels down, rolled by itself to a parking area filled with carts of various sizes and took an empty space in the lot.
“Where exactly is that?” John asked.
“Nea Alexandria is one of the larger Koinotist communities in the USA,” Heron boasted.
My question about the label Koinotist was trumped by my elation that we were in the US. Maybe we weren’t that far from home after all.
But Spud did have to pierce my balloon of hope. “The USA?”
“Yes, the Utopian States of Anatolia, of course.” Heron indulged, raising an eyebrow in Spudian fashion.
Double Doomed.
* * *
Nea Alexandria, USA—present day?
We had walked for what seemed like miles, winding through a network of paths paved with a spongy material that put a literal spring in our step. Lining the walkways were small one-storey cottages, each unique in its shape and color, but similar in size. The tree-lined streets of Nea Alexandria were filled with people, some tall, some short, some beige, some brown, some young, some old; most dressed like Heron, in toga-type clothes and sandals. Almost everyone smiled and greeted Heron as we passed. To our surprise, they also greeted us with the Greek version of “Welcome, Visitors”.
A few of the residents were using motorized scooters or wheelchairs to get around, but we saw no carts or larger motor vehicles inside the town. All that walking seemed to keep everyone fit, I noted, as the pedestrians seemed to radiate that trim, healthy glow that makes most of my fellow actors in Hollywood the envy of Middle America. I didn’t see any fast food restaurants around, so…
“I’m hungry,” John said after a half hour on foot. “Is there a place here we can get something to eat?”
Another eyebrow and patronizing look. “Of course,” Heron finally replied, “Luncheon service should begin in a few minutes.”
I glanced at Spud. A faint shoulder shrug came back at me, which meant “go with the flow”. We did.
Heron guided us to a large auditorium which was filled with tables and chairs—and Nea Alexandrians. “We can eat now and then you can help with the clean-up,” he said, gesturing for us to sit. “Visitors usually find it the easiest contribution.”
“Ah” was all I could muster. A grey-haired man with pruny, wrinkled features and a hunchbackxxxvi served us a 9 inch plate of what looked like vegetables, beans, and tofu. That’ll keep those figures in check, I told myself, as I dived into the lunch provided. I was delighted to find the tastes strong and appealing. “Mmmm.”
“Yes, it is quite tasty,” echoed Spud, swallowing.
“Not bad,” John agreed. “But for seconds I’d love some beef.”
Gasps came from Heron and the tables around us. As did glares.
John scanned the now scolding faces. “What? What did I say?”
Heron cleared his
throat. “We have evolved beyond primitive carnivorism here,” he chided.
John gulped down the veggies in his mouth and forced out the words. “Just kidding.” His eye roll to me made it clear he wasn’t. The sigh was superfluous.
Apparently, so were ‘seconds’. As soon as our plates were clean, Heron instructed us to collect them, along with those of the other diners, and carry them to the “processing room”-- which very much resembled a kitchen.
“Please scrape off any remaining food into the gutter and place the plates on the conveyor belts,” Heron instructed. I noted the few scraps left would drain into a bin labeled “Anakyklosis”. Yep, “recycle”.
“I must commend you,” Spud said after we’d finished ‘paying our dues’, “on your efficiency.”
Heron raised both palms. “How could we be otherwise? Our resources are limited, and we must live moderately and judiciously. Pan Metron Ariston,” rolled off his tongue.
I recognized the ancient Greek phrase even without my Ergal. ‘Everything in moderation.’ Hoo-boy. Spud may have been impressed, but a place like this would be torture for me before long. I liked playing it closer to the edge. And then taking a flying leap. John’s sour expression seemed to also betray “A need for speed”. We needed to find out where we were—and how to get out of here—soon.
Chapter 12
Socrates Caves
“You can’t tell me that life doesn’t get boring in this—this utopia,” John admitted, sprinkling scads of sarcasm on the last word.
I’d expected Heron would be offended, but he just smiled, stepping aside and waving us into another large hall. This auditorium was filled with recliners, some arrayed in groups and some stationed solo. Some of the loungers were filled with Nea Alexandrians—in the diverse groups, those seated were engaged in dynamic discussions, a few penning intricate designs with geometric and mathematical symbols with a stylus on clay tablets. The loners seemed to be staring off into space, oblivious to the world around them. Weird. A few of the townsfolk, eyes dancing, were holding clay tablets that, on closer inspection, were actually screens with pictures and writing that resembled one-page books.
