by Davies, WJ
No, Jonathas thought, this wasn't right. It wasn’t time for Night yet. This is all wrong, they should still have plenty of time.
“Jonathas, come on back! Please. It’s too dangerous.”
The suns disappeared, sinking below the horizon, casting the world into a thick blanket of shadow. The Spindroth, and other night creatures would be coming soon. He really should get inside.
“All right, I’m coming, wait for me!” he shouted back.
As he started toward the caretaker, the ground shook violently. She pressed a button, and the security shutters began clattering shut.
“Wait, please don’t leave me out here!”
“I’m sorry Jonnie, I can’t wait. It’s too dangerous out there in the Night.”
The door was sliding closed. He could barely see the caretaker or the shelter through the enveloping darkness.
“I’m sorry. Jonathas, I’m so sorry,” she told him. “You shoulda' come when I called you.”
He cried out to her as he ran. “Wait, please wait...”
The door was almost completely shut now.
He tripped over his feet and the sandy ground below him turned into hard stone.
“Please... wait.”
“Jonnie, I’m sorry. You shoulda’ come…”
∞
Jonathas drifted back into consciousness.
His entire body tingled as his eyes adjusted to the orange security lights which flashed overhead. The alarm no longer sounded, replaced by a flat, heavy silence.
He peered around, blinking and massaging his throbbing temples.
Linsya was nowhere in sight.
A terror seized his body at the thought of losing her. She would be here though, somewhere, Jonathas prayed. Looking for help probably. She might have even found a way through the security door, though he couldn’t see how. These doors were meant to withstand enormous blasts of energy. A failsafe measure, he supposed, in case of a pressurized explosion from the thermal processing section.
Jonathas realized there was something tied to his wrist. Looking down he sighed in relief as he recognized Linsya’s patterned hair ribbon. The colors slowly cycled through shades of phosphorescent blue and pink. Even when she came down here to meet him in the depths of the station, she always looked pretty.
No, more than just pretty. Jonathas closed his eyes and pictured Linsya standing there, tall and slender, her beautiful blue eyes shining through the darkness. He thought of her long brown hair and how it would fall across her face when she smiled.
He shook his head out of the daydream. This was no time to get distracted, he reminded himself, and started down the pathway, back into the maintenance corridors.
Jonathas walked quickly. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a purpose. He had to find Linsya.
Please, let her be ok.
Chapter 7
Skyia drifted awake on the terrace, lying on the remnants of a bamboo table. Shards of wood and shattered pottery were strewn in pieces around her.
She winced in pain, wondering if she was dead and if this was the afterlife. Her head throbbed and the light was blinding. Her body felt like it had been been attacked by a herd of wandering Spindroth.
There was no pain in heaven, was there? She closed her eyes and breathed in shallow gasps, deciding she wasn’t dead after all.
“Skyia! Are you alright? My sensors registered a severe disruption and then I heard the crash.”
MiLO wheeled into view, though Skyia couldn’t do anything but turn her head toward his voice.
“This is all my fault,” he said, “I shouldn’t have told you to come down.”
Skyia perceived the blurry shape of MiLO spinning around in circles, his rubber treads crunching over debris from her fall. Evidently, he was at a loss for words or action.
“I think I’m alright, MiLO.”
She coughed, and every bone in her body protested as she tried to get up. She shrieked in pain as the pressure hit her arms.
“Don’t move dear! Wait right there.”
Even in her delirium she had to give a little smile. Where else was she going to go?
At the far edge of the terrace stood the steel door that led into their home. The living quarters—hollowed out by the original settlers—were meant for the Signal Keepers, whoever they were at the time. Skyia and her mother’s home consisted of two large rooms, each with windows carved out of the south-western wall, facing the valley of Alexendia. The floors were adorned with beautiful multicoloured carpets and on the walls hung holo-pictures that her mom had collected from her years of traveling the planet with her scientific teams.
Skyia slipped back into unconsciousness and dreamed of her favourite holo-pic, hanging in the living room. It portrayed a tall waterfall that her mother had visited in Bangalia province. Ferns and vines wound their way up either side of the falls, and if she looked closely enough, she could make out tiny winged creatures flying about in the mist where the falling water met the river. The tiny insects glistened silver and gold as they flew, swirling around each other, immortalized in the shimmering illusion of the hologram.
Her thoughts swirled to the handwritten diaries, kept safe in a bin below the picture. These diaries were all that remained of the first Signal Keepers, now centuries dead. Skyia always felt thrilled when she had a chance to leaf through the weathered pages and read the actual handwriting of those brave people, back in the early days when Taran was a much more chaotic and dangerous world to live in.
∞
“Skyia.”
MiLO’s metallic voice drifted into her dreams, disturbing her thoughts and pulling her back into a painful reality.
When she opened her eyes she was lying on a table in MiLO’s workshop, a small chamber adjoining the living room.
A mechanical hand held a long cylindrical device which emanated a pulsing, green light. He passed it slowly over each of her limbs and over her torso. The searing pain in her bones dissipated and she felt the tension leave her body wherever the device passed.
In a few minutes MiLO had finished the light-surgery and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, even though robots could not sigh.
“There, that should do it,” MiLO said as he turned off the device and set it aside. “You’re incredibly lucky, Skyia. If you hadn’t landed on the bamboo table, there would have been nothing to break your fall.”
Skyia hesitantly pushed herself up into a seated position on the table and quickly discovered that the pain was all but gone. She hopped off onto the floor, leaned down and threw her arms around the small robot.
“Thank you so much, MiLO. You saved my life.”
Lights winked in waves across his front panel. “Not at all, Skyia. My job is to assist and protect the Signal Keepers. I’m only doing my duty to the Tower.”
Skyia gave half a frown and slapped his metal frame playfully. “Oh, I see. Just doing your job, eh?” She crossed her arms in front of her. “You’re always so formal. Should I start calling you by your full name then, Mr. Multi-intelligent Life-form Operations droid?”
MiLO beeped, not understanding her sarcasm. In response he simply wheeled off into the kitchen. He came back out bearing a tray of delicious snacks and a large pot of refreshingly cold tea.
“Ooohh thanks!” Skyia eyed the tray greedily. It had been hours since she’d last eaten. She reached for one of the star-fruits which were laid out on the titanium plate.
MiLO scanned her again as she nibbled the sweet fruit, savoring its tangy flavors.
“You did get a sunburn.” MiLO said. A shutter raised up on his metallic body and he removed a small tube which he held up in front of Skyia.
“Honestly, no. Don’t fuss so much, MiLO dear. After my fall, you’re worried about a little sunburn?”
“I most certainly am. What’s the point of saving you if you’re going to die of skin cancer?”
With a slight whirring sound he extended his arm closer to Skyia. She reluctantly took the tub
e, squeezed the clear liquid into her palm and rubbed the stuff over her sunburn. Wherever she applied the salve, her ruddy skin became smooth and icy, the coolness refreshing and welcome.
“Ok, so maybe I got a little burnt,” she admitted. “I’m sorry MiLO, but it’s so nice up there. I love Evening and can’t bear the thought of the suns disappearing soon. How long will the Day last, again?”
A few beeps while MiLO calculated. “At our latitude the suns will sink below the horizon in exactly seventeen days, nine hours, thirty two minutes and...forty eight seconds.”
She shook her head. “Show off.”
“Perhaps it would be prudent to take a holo-pic of the sunset when it’s at its most glorious?” he suggested.
Skyia smiled. “You know I would, but we don’t have a holo-camera anymore, remember?” Her face reddened as she recalled the day she’d accidentally dropped it over the edge of the terrace. She had been leaning over the edge taking pictures of a nest of cliff sparrows when the camera slipped out of her hands. At least it hadn’t been her that had tumbled down that time. Not even MiLO’s sophisticated medicinal treatments could have saved her from a fifty-meter drop.
MiLO twirled on his wheels and headed into the living room.
“Where are you going so fast? You’re taking the tea with you and I haven’t had any yet.”
“Please follow me, Skyia, I want to show you something.”
She smiled—this was as subtle as his programming would allow. She chased after him across the kitchen floor toward the living room, bubbling with anticipation.
∞
“Wow! Oh, wow!” Skyia exclaimed.
Sitting on the table and covered with a large red bow, was a new holo-camera. It’s shiny metal and synthetic polymer parts glistened in the orange light streaming through the living room windows.
“It’s beautiful” she told him. “Thank you thank you thank you! I promise I won’t drop it this time.”
MiLO wheeled over to the camera and lifted it up, showing her an attractive leather strap he had fastened to both ends.
“Oh, you’re so thoughtful, MiLO.”
“It was all your mother’s idea, all I did was build it.”
“Thank you all the same. I miss her so much.”
“As do I, she is a kind woman and an excellent Keeper.” He turned to go but stopped, lights blinking multicoloured on his various panels. “Skyia, one more thing about the camera.”
Skyia had already plunked herself down on the floor and was examining her birthday present.
She looked up at the robot, admiration beaming through half-moon eyes.
“There’s only one light relay in there. It’s all I could afford to take from the communication room. But there’s more being delivered.”
“A delivery all the way from Alexendia? No, that’s too expensive, don’t worry. This one will be just fine. I can print out the pictures and then delete them from the relay. You should cancel the order.”
“No, Skyia, there is no delivery from Alexendia.”
“But then… where did you order them from?” She was confused. Alexendia was the only city for five-hundred kilometers. There was no other place he could get them from. Unless—
MiLO beeped happily. “Skyia, you’re mother is coming home.”
Chapter 8
It was an unusual thing that at his age—fifty-six years last spin—that Reginald Horace Samielif found himself in his apartment in Alexendia gathering up equipment and preparing to disembark on a holo-documentary shoot in the jungles of Ganji province. Their prime target: the Spindroth.
As he organized his packs, Reggie contemplated what sort of documentary it would be when it was finished—if indeed they made it back alive after this one. This would be a film to end all films, the last piece in his sprawling legacy as a famous documentary maker.
He’d started young: When other boys were at school or apprenticing for their father’s trades, Reggie had travelled the world, earning his living as a research assistant for teams out exploring the harsh Taran landscape.
He started out as a saddle boy, maintaining equipment and lugging gear through the jungles. His skill and enthusiasm caught the eye of the man who became his mentor: Jacque Caraway. Caraway was the pioneer of holographic documentaries, and Reggie learned first hand how to glean compelling and heartwarming stories from the unforgiving landscape.
Reggie relied on old habits and muscle memory as he collected belongings from around the apartment. He paused, glancing at a photograph of himself and Jacque, standing on the precipice of a cliff, only months before the old man’s death. Screaming still filled his ears whenever he thought back to that horrific Spindroth attack. He had done everything he could to save Jacque, but it wasn’t enough. The Spindroth were too fast… too cunning.
After losing his mentor, Reggie had bought his own camera—the best he could afford—and within a few cycles was leading his own film crews deep into the heart of the Taran wilderness, filming the native creatures in their most pristine states.
His documentaries quickly gained traction, full as they were of enthusiasm, humor, and suspense. Critics praised Reggie for his unique ability to humanize the planet, take it from being something alien to that of an inviting home. Before long he became a mainstream sensation and suddenly Reggie Samielif was a household name.
He reliably released material every cycle or two until finally, at fifty-years-old, he donated his camera to the Museum of Film, hung up his hiking boots, and retired to his condominium in Alexendia.
Reggie was content, in a way. He had all the luxuries that a celebrity lifestyle could afford and more money than he could have asked for. And yet, part of him still longed for the feeling of being out there. In the real world. That’s where the true adventure lay. However, his rickety joints and back pains told him otherwise. The aches and pains in his joints were nothing compared to the old wound in his leg, the one that caused him now to limp and to occasionally have to resort to using a cane.
Ever since that Spindroth had raided his camp and got a hold of him, he had been prone to severe pain and immobility. As he got older, instead of healing, the old wound always seemed to be on the verge of getting worse. The fact that his faulty leg might cost him success in a mission to go after the Spindroth was an irony he was very much aware of. But if he was successful, perhaps the completion of this project would finally give some worth to his old injury.
It was after five years of retirement that Reggie finally went stir-crazy. He was done with sitting around all day, watching the world pass him by. It struck him to do one last holo-shoot, before he became too crippled to go on. This would be the final cap on his career. Even Reggie admitted he should end with something more provocative than his last film about Andelusian butterflies and their migration routes titled, “The Flight of the Butterfly”. Breathtaking, to be sure, but lacking a certain suspenseful intrigue.
Reggie checked his packing list, nodding his head as he went through the inventory in his mind. His old yellow travel pack—polymer mixed with Spindex fibres—lay on the redwood floor before him. He ran a withered hand over the canvas straps, smiling as he noticed the stains and frays that marred the surface of his old life lines. The wear and tear said this pack had been through its share of ordeals, just as its owner had.
He filled the pack with food bars and water purifiers and tied the top off in an expert knot, thankful that he still remembered the complicated weave. He pictured the girl who had taught him that, remembering her as if it were yesterday.
He ran through a forest, the girl laughing at him, beckoning him to follow her through the jungle maze. His bare feet sunk into the mossy ground, spongy and soft.
She was naked, but her long hair flowed down well past her belly button, covering her breasts. She reminded Reggie of Eve from the old bible stories.
Together, they ran through the underbrush, dodging branches and bushes as they stumbled along clumsily, lost in the intoxication of youn
g love.
They reached the tree line and found themselves on a sandy beach at the edge of a great lake. She helped him undress and then pulled him out into the cool water, gasping and laughing as she dove in—carefree. He chased after her, launching himself in a dive, his senses coming alive as his head broke through the choppy water.
Swimming up to the surface was like breathing new life, washing away the past and future, bringing him into one single moment of perfection. He pulled her close, kissed her as waves tugged at them—their lips warm and bodies numb.
Hands clasped together, they hurried back to the shore. With solid ground beneath their feet, they tripped and fell into each other on the sandy beach. He pressed his body into hers as gentle waves lapped against their feet. Wind moved water, water moved bodies, and bodies moved the earth—
Reggie broke himself loose from memories of his past and looked up at the wall, along the rows of holo-pictures shining out at him. His beaming face peered out from half a dozen portraits.
Looking from left to right he saw himself age, the youthful enthusiasm turning into hardened acceptance and then to exhausted reluctance. He wondered when was that moment? When was that time where everything came together in one’s life so perfectly? When you realized that even if death found you, you could die with a smile on your face, having accomplished all your dreams? Reggie had never experienced that moment, and wondered how much more he would have to accomplish to feel that. Would it ever happen?
His eyes rested on a group photo, everyone on the research team young and jubilant, all smiling like they shared some secret triumph that only they were privy to. Reggie brushed his hand slowly over the prints, feeling the grain, his fingers resting on one sandy-haired girl a little longer than the rest. He frowned, realizing there was room for a few more photos in the second row. If only he had pictures of children to fill the empty spaces. But he had neither children nor wife.
Sometimes he wondered whether he had anything at all. Did memories count? Money? He sighed and turned away from all the could-have-beens of his youth and set his attention back to the task at hand.
