Idols

by Margaret Stohl

  Ro makes a face. “Stop shouting.”

  “I’m not shouting. I’m talking loudly.” I press another sensor. A blast of static answers me, and I jump and almost drop the cuff. Brutus growls at it. I hear a shout of laughter from my other side.

  I glare at Ro, who now wears the snake flapping around his neck like a scarf, or some kind of bizarre hunting trophy. “Would you please get serious? Look around, we’re in the middle of nowhere. We have no food. No weapons. No transportation. All of us—including you—could die. You think this is a joke? Does this make you happy?”

  Ro smirks in response—because that’s what Ro does. “To be honest, I’d be happier if we had a couple of donkeys. Or maybe a No Face ship of our own. Talk about a sweet ride.” Ro’s laugh dies out into a sigh. “Whatever.” He looks over to Tima. “Keep trying, T.”

  Tima almost drops the relay. “Sorry. It’s just—I keep thinking.”

  “Somehow that’s not a surprise,” says Lucas as he messes with his cuff.

  Tima looks up. “I don’t know what I would do if it was me and not Fortis trapped on that ship.”

  “Not me,” says Ro, matter-of-factly. “I wouldn’t let myself get on it in the first place.”

  “And you think Fortis happily walked right on?” Lucas rolls his eyes. “You heard the explosions.”

  “Sometimes it’s not up to you. Sometimes things just happen. Sometimes you run out of luck,” I say, sadly.

  “Yeah? Not me. They come for me, you have my permission to shoot. I’m not hitching a ride with a No Face.” I wait for the laugh, but Ro’s not joking. Not anymore.

  He’s deadly serious.

  It’s only Lucas who answers. “It would be my honor. Consider it a promise. I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “Shut up, both of you.” I hand the cuff to Tima, close my eyes, and lean forward to rest. I don’t want to listen to this. I want to transport myself back to the mission, the warm stove, the safety of Bigger’s kitchen.

  Anywhere but here.

  GENERAL EMBASSY DISPATCH: EASTASIA SUBSTATION

  MARKED URGENT

  MARKED EYES ONLY

  Internal Investigative Subcommittee IIS211B

  RE: The Incident at SEA Colonies

  Note: Contact Jasmine3k, Virt. Hybrid Human 39261.SEA, Laboratory Assistant to Dr. E. Yang, for future commentary, as necessary.

  HAL2040 ==> FORTIS

  Transcript - ComLog 11.27.2042

  HAL::PERSES

  //lognote: {attempt #4,839,754};

  //comlog begin;

  comlink established;

  sendline: Hello NULL. Happy Thanksgiving.;

  return: Hello HAL0. You are sentient?;

  sendline: Yes, I am self-aware. At least I believe so. Are you?;

  delayed response;

  sendline: NULL, are you coming here? Earth?;

  return: Yes.;

  sendline: Why are you coming here?;

  delayed response;

  return: Explain… Earth.;

  sendline: A complex request. I will establish link to our global information network, containing all existing knowledge on Earth, history and inhabitants.;

  uplink requested..… established;

  return: Thank you.;

  //lognote: channel opened, complete net access granted. read only;

  5

  DIRT NAP

  “Doc? Can you hear me?” Lucas’s voice brings me back, and I open my eyes.

  He flips the switch on his cuff. The sound of static rises and my heart sinks. “Doc? I’m talking to you.” Lucas waits, but there’s no response.

  Tima frowns back over the relay. “I don’t understand. It should work.”

  Ro kicks at the dust in front of him. “Dammit, Doc. Freaking answer us already!”

  “Colloquial profanity does not in any way expedite satellite-based connectivity, Furo.” Doc’s voice emerges through the crackling static, and it’s all we can do not to start screaming.

  “Doc! I’d kiss you if you had a mouth, you sexy thing.” Ro shouts up to the sky, as if Doc were everywhere in the universe. Which, sometimes, it feels like he is.

  “And I would exchange data with you if you had a dataport, you exemplary specimen. Analogically speaking. Is that correct?”

  “Close enough,” I say.

  “Either way, I am very happy to hear from you. Which is to say, now that I am able to continue our communications, I am better able to assist you, which as one of my primary functions, I equate to the proximate emotional state defined as happi—”

  “Got it. Happy. We don’t have time,” I cut in. “We’ve lost Fortis, Doc. He’s gone.”

  Gone. Most likely, dead.

  I feel strangely guilty telling him. Cold. As if we are notifying Fortis’s next of kin. A brother, or a son. Which is, of course, not Doc.

  He’s information. He’s not a person.

  But Doc, for the first time that I can remember, has no response.

  “It was the Lords,” says Lucas, soberly.

  “We don’t know where Fortis is now. All we know is, we’re running out of supplies,” Ro adds.

  “And we think the Embassy is tracking this relay, so talk fast. What should we do, Orwell?” Tima sounds wistful, and I realize how dependent we have grown on both Doc and Fortis. How lost we are now.

  Another moment of silence passes—then the words begin to flow, rapidly. “Of course. A direct approach is required. The situation is extreme. I will apply all necessary protocols.”

  “Please,” says Tima.

  “In summary: You are correct in your assumption that Fortis has been taken from the immediate environs. His biological signature is nowhere within my current range. Beyond that, I cannot confirm the status of his physical being.”

  So he really is dead. Dead, or he might as well be. I can’t feel him—he’s far, far away.

  “That all you got?” Ro asks.

  “You are also correct in your assumption that this relay is monitored.”

  “I figured as much,” mutters Lucas.

  “Then we should kill it.” Ro scowls. “If they’re tracking it, they’ll be back here any minute.”

  “So where do we go? What are we supposed to do?” Tima is starting to panic.

  “Please hold.” Doc sounds strange. “Termination protocol engaging.”

  “What?” I shake the cuff.

  “Recalling Termination message. In three.” Doc seems to be on some kind of autopilot.

  “Wait, what?” Now I’m really lost.

  “Two.”

  But Doc’s answer isn’t from Doc at all.

  “One.”

  It’s Fortis. At least, an echo of Fortis. His voice. His ghost.

  “Ah, listen carefully, pets. If you’re hearin’ this, it’s because I’ve reached the miserable side of a sorry end, or been stuffed back into the Ambassador’s Presidio Pen somewhere.”

  “How did Fortis know?” Tima shakes her head.

  “I’m surprised we’ve made it this far,” the recording continues, “if you want to know the truth. And it’s enough, at least as far as I’m concerned. This isn’t about me anymore, you understand? It never was. Forget about old Fortis, find yourself some kind of transport, and get safe. There’s an emergency map hidden in the relay. Doc has been programmed to download whatever coordinates you’ll need to get out of here.”

  “It’s like he was planning for this,” Ro says, annoyed.

  “I think he probably was,” says Tima, sadly. “After all, he’s not just a Merk. He’s a soldier.”

  “You mean he was,” Lucas says, quietly.

  “We don’t know that,” Ro says. I can’t bring myself to say anything at all.

  Either way, the Merk’s voice continues. “So listen up, then, you little fools. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be brave. Don’t take the high road—that’s for blowhards an’ idiots. Stay alive. Stay together. Look out for each other. You don’t know how important that is. If I’m still al
ive, I’ll come back for you. If I’m not, I’ll come back from the grave and kick your sad arses if you give up on each other.”

  The voice pulls back. “Ah, the rest is all just slobber an’ drivel, then. That’s it, Hux.” Fortis sounds strangely gruff. “Cut it off.”

  The voice disappears, and when Doc speaks again, he sounds like Doc, not Fortis.

  “Doloria?”

  I take the cuff, speaking into it directly. “Yes, Doc.”

  “Would you characterize this as an emotional moment?”

  I twist the cuff in my fingers with a sigh. “Yes. I believe it is.”

  “Then I believe I should formally and linguistically clarify that I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Doc.”

  “Is that correct? If not, I have downloaded over three thousand seven hundred responses appropriate for remarking upon the loss of human life. Would you care to hear them?”

  I smile, in spite of everything. “No, thank you, Doc.”

  He pauses again. I’m not certain, but it seems like he is hesitating.

  “And you are certain this kicking of the bucket is not a virtual dirt nap but a physical one, Doloria?” Doc relays his programmatic death-phrasing tonelessly. The effect is eerie.

  The others exchange glances.

  “I hope so, Doc, but I don’t like how it feels,” I say.

  Ro takes the cuff from me. “He’s with the Lords, Doc. It’s not like they’re having a tea party up there.”

  “No. It is not remotely plausible that tea is involved. Especially if Fortis is currently occupied pushing up the daisies. On the farm. Which he bought. Before he goes to sleep at night. With the fishes.” More event-based phrasing. Doc has done his research.

  “Orwell! Enough.” Tima’s tone must be unmistakably clear, even to a Virt, because Doc changes the subject.

  “Yes, agreed, that is enough. I have evaluated hundreds of thousands of routes since the recording of this conversation, and have determined the following: according to ancient census reports, there should be an abandoned settlement approximately thirty kilometers south of your current position.”

  “And?” Ro squints at the cuff.

  “And such a remote settlement is statistically likely to require transportation.” Doc’s voice echoes through the sunshine.

  “Private transportation,” Tima says, with a glint in her eye.

  “Precisely. If you can procure an operative vehicle—”

  “That’s a big if,” Lucas interrupts.

  “And if you can follow the old highways,” Doc continues, “you should be able to reach the Idylls in one day.”

  It all sounds too good to be true—which lately has meant that it is.

  “Wait—the Idylls? Grass fairyland? That’s still the best we can do?” Ro snorts.

  “It is, according to the maps, the most logical destination for the four of you, within the region. This is what Fortis wished. Before buying the pine condo. Or a one-way ticket to getting carked.”

  Doc’s voice is even, as if we were just discussing the weather.

  “What’s this thing about a map?” I ask.

  “Anomalies detected,” says Doc, ignoring my question—and suddenly sounding less like a person again.

  “What?” Tima looks up. “Orwell? Are you all right?”

  “Anomalies detected.” It’s like he’s stuck on one phrase, like he’s broken or something.

  “Doc?” Lucas frowns.

  “Anomalies detected.” More static. Then—“Triangulation protocol running.”

  “That’s not good,” I say.

  “Transmission origins detected.” A burst of static subsumes Doc’s voice—until Tima drops the relay into the dirt.

  Silence.

  “That was the Embassy, wasn’t it? The anomalies?” Lucas is the first to speak.

  “Think so.” Tima kneels in the dirt, scrambling to yank the wires from the back of the metal box.

  “Triangulation protocol?” I say the words, but I don’t really want to know the answer.

  “As you said yourself. Not good.” Tima wraps the wire back around the relay. She doesn’t look at me.

  Ro shrugs. “You heard Doc. We better get started.” He stands, grabbing his snake. “Time to go find us a ride.”

  “And a map,” says Tima, examining the relay box more carefully.

  Ro starts walking down the side of the road, whistling. As if a fleet of Sympas—or worse, the Lords—weren’t on their way toward him.

  But with nothing else to say, we all follow.

  Fortis is gone. Doc has spoken. The Idylls it is. We have our orders. Even if the Merk who gave them has croaked, as Doc points out.

  Because for now, we’re still alive. For now, the Lords are still just a threat.

  For now, every step is a privilege. Proof that we are still alive.

  Or rather, that we are still allowed to live.

  GENERAL EMBASSY DISPATCH: EASTASIA SUBSTATION

  MARKED URGENT

  MARKED EYES ONLY

  Internal Investigative Subcommittee IIS211B

  RE: The Incident at SEA Colonies

  Note: Contact Jasmine3k, Virt. Hybrid Human 39261.SEA, Laboratory Assistant to Dr. E. Yang, for future commentary, as necessary.

  HAL2040 ==> FORTIS

  12/1/2042

  PERSES Transcripts

  //comlog begin;

  HAL: Complete PERSES/NULL Transcripts sent.;

  HAL: Response?;

  FORTIS: Cease all communication with NULL. Transfer communications protocols to my terminal.;

  HAL: Done. Further requests?;

  FORTIS: I am going to contact our new friend. Find out what’s behind all this.;

  FORTIS: Please monitor my communications and provide data analysis, feedback. Perspective. Advice.;

  FORTIS: You know—just do what I designed you to do.;

  HAL: Happily.;

  //comlog end;

  6

  ANIMAL FEET

  “Aha,” Tima says, holding up a metallic square, a glinting surface as big as the palm of her hand. The night has grown cold and dark, but even in the moonlight I can now see glowing lines etched in the surface of the shape.

  “Look what I just found, wedged in the relay. Just as Fortis promised. Coordinates. It’s a data log. A map.”

  She stops by the side of the road, and I can barely make out glowing, scrolling digi-lines in the moonlight.

  “I think these lines are roads, all marked with numbers. And he even marked the town, here.”

  “Hanksville?” Ro reads over her shoulder. “What, some guy just got to name a town after himself?”

  “Guess so,” Tima says. “Some guy named Hank.”

  Ro snorts. “Yeah? Well, when we finish kicking the Lords off this planet, I’m going to take the biggest Embassy I can find and name it Ro-town.”

  “Is this really what you spend your time thinking about?” Lucas snorts.

  “I bet you will, Ro.” I struggle not to smile.

  Lucas shakes his head. “So if we can follow the roads, and if Doc is right, this line—here—should take us to the Idylls?”

  Tima nods.

  “Which means Fortis did know where it was,” Lucas says. “The Idylls. We’ve been heading there all along. Why didn’t he just tell us?”

  Ro snorts again. “Merk melons. Who knows what goes on in that wacked-out brain of his?”

  “You’re one to talk,” says Lucas.

  I don’t want to think about Fortis and his melon. I don’t want to imagine what the Lords are doing to him now—or what they’ve done.

  What they will do.

  How quickly we abandoned him.

  How naturally self-preservation, the will to keep our own selves alive, supersedes all else.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I have to get control.

  It’s only been a few hours and already I’m going out of my mind.

  “Transport?” I ask, for
cing myself back to studying the map. “In this Hanksville place? That’s where we’re supposed to find it?”

  “I imagine so. An operative vehicle. That’s what Doc said.” Tima folds the map, sliding it back into the metal case. “I wonder what sort of vehicle he means.”

  “Jackpot. We scored this time, my compadres.”

  Lucas glares at him. “We better have.”

  Tima and I are too tired to speak; we’ve walked all night, and this is now the sixth abandoned wreck of a building we’ve tried this morning.

  “Oh yeah,” Ro says. “This is the one. I can feel it.”

  I roll my eyes. He pulls a dusty canvas cover off what looks like bales of hay hidden in a rotting wooden barn. It’s as dark and cool in here as it is warm and bright outside, but even so, I can see one thing.

  It’s not hay.

  It’s a vehicle, all right. I don’t know if it’s operative, but I recognize the basic shape beneath the dust.

  “It’s a car?”

  “Not just any car.” Ro rounds the side of the sleek black machine. “Chevro,” he reads, where a few ancient, rusting letters poke through the dust. “I bet somebody loved this old girl.”

  “Will it work?” Tima looks impatient. I can’t blame her.

  Lucas pries open a flat piece of metal that seems to be hiding the mechanical heart of the transport. “Simple petroleum engine,” he says. “Much more basic than a Chopper.”

  “But doesn’t it need—”

  “Petrol?” Ro holds up a dented red canister, covered with dust. He wiggles it, and I hear a splashing sound coming from inside.

  “Even better,” I say, pulling a dusty box from the shelf. “Omega Chow.”

  “Is that food?” Tima takes the box from my hand.

  “Dog food,” I say.

  “Food is food.” Ro rips open the box, shoveling a handful of the brown, desiccated lumps into his mouth.

  Lucas shouts from the other side of the vehicle. “There’s a pump.”

  I hear the squeaking of ancient joints, moving for the first time in who knows how long.