by Rob Dircks
Rain like I’ve never experienced. For days. We can barely see in front of our eyes. Though it will clean some of the filth from Wah, thank CORE. The cat hides under the skins in the cart, along with our other belongings, in a vain attempt to stay dry. The goat bleats the rain to go away already. The rain doesn’t listen.
We’ve chosen to walk on an old “highway” to avoid the muck that threatens to swallow us whole. Since finding our first ancient community, we’ve trekked roads like these through countless others, all virtually erased by the march of time and the elements, loosely following the terrain lines of our overlay maps. An odd dwelling here and there still stands, challenging the future to grind it down to dust, offering its remaining shelter to vines and wild animals. We pick up anything of potential value we find among the occasional skeletons of units and humans: bits of workable tech, tools, whatever. Wah is amassing an impressive jewelry collection.
His questions about ancient times never stop. I have no answers. I make things up, to amuse him, but by now his imagination creates much more entertaining answers. I’m starting to believe some of them. My spiral downward into insanity continues.
We walk the roads between these “towns” and “cities,” as the smartphone map calls them, though they’re hardly more than tamped down earth with patches of unit-made pavement here and there, subtle reminders that they once served CORE’s purpose of transporting goods and humans. My knowledge of the time before the Sanctuary is growing. But it raises more questions than it answers. The biggest question, of course: where did all the humans and units go? I’m starting to craft a theory. But it is dark. I don’t like to think about it.
The downpour is making forward movement almost impossible. I put my hand on Wah’s shoulder, scream above the deafening torrent of water. “We should stop! Take shelter!”
“Why? I don’t think the heavy stuff will be coming down for a while yet!”
I laugh. “All right! Your call!”
In answer, he jumps into the cart, under the skins, sending the cat screeching to a new, even wetter corner, as I continue to pull our caravan downhill, inch by inch, against the powerful sheets of rain.
“Take me to your finest hotel, driver!”
Wah is in love with anything human. He has read all of Alex Utkin’s archaic smartphone documents many times and learned that Mr. Utkin worked in “hotels.” A strange industry, where humans would pack their belongings, leave their home, live temporarily in a dwelling they weren’t familiar with, and travel up and down in elevators. Why would anyone do this? Leave their home? I have spent the past twelve years trying to get back home! What could possibly be better about being away from home? It’s awful!
Wait.
That’s not true.
It is not always awful. There is the discovering and naming of new things; the learning how to hunt and fish; the making of the nightly fire; the laughing at our various misadventures; and teaching Wah.
Yes, most of all Wah. Back home I could never have experienced human interaction like this. Perhaps there is some merit to exploring the unknown, at the expense of safety. Living outside. Together.
Smiling, I look back. Wah is peeking out from under the skins, grinning like a rich hotel guest.
Then I spot something further back, something I can’t make out. What is that?
Mud.
A wave of mud hurtles toward us.
Before I can scream it fills my mouth.
Blackness.
< 25: Heyoo >
Mud
I don’t require air for respiration.
I don’t require food for fuel.
I don’t require light.
I don’t require movement.
So it’s quite probable that I’ll remain entombed in this hardening mud for the next 36.3 years, until the moment my reactor winds down, wondering for each of those moments whether Wah survived. And if there is anything I could have done differently.
To borrow a phrase from the humans: I appear to be in deep shit.
Not literally. But close enough.
(Although for once, with a mouth full of sludge, I am glad I don’t have the sense of taste.)
I remember the tsunami of mud overtaking us, tumbling the caravan, breaking the cart to pieces on impact and throwing Wah and our supplies into the air. Then in a split second, blackness. I estimate at least a meter of mud has settled above me.
The silence is deafening.
If I enter stasis, I can lengthen my lifespan by a year or two – but to what end? To linger even longer in this grave? And in stasis, I couldn’t hear Wah above if he was to, somehow… what?
If I heat my dermis, I only hasten the hardening of the mud. Another dead end.
Or is it?
By heating the muck, as it dries, its moisture will be released as water vapor. Up. With enough heat, perhaps a little steam will escape the surface? Give Wah a sign of life?
Worth a try. The only logical possibility. I turn my dermis temperature to maximum.
Something is happening. I can hear the moisture around me becoming energized, creating pressure. Could this possibly work? Yes!
Uh-oh. It’s getting rather hot in here. What’s this?
< ALARM: Thermal shock; Imminent system failure;
ACTION: Shutdown in five seconds >
I’ve only used the phrase once, just now, but I think I need to use it again:
I am in deep shit.
< 26: Heyoo >
Tap. Tap. Tap.
< SYSTEM BOOT: Temperature within operating limits >
FUNCTION: Commence Introspection Recording >
Hghgh. Tap. Tap. Tap. How long…?
< FUNCTION: ELAPSED TIME: LAST SHUTDOWN: 32 hours; 12 minutes >
Thirty-two hours!
It’s over.
It didn’t work.
I’ve lost Wah! “WAH! WAH!”
Tap. Tap. Tap. “Heyoo. Are you crying?”
I open my eyes. Wah! He reaches down from about a half meter above me, tapping my head.
I make a spitting noise. “Um… no. I was… clearing the muck from my mouth.”
He smiles. “It sure is good to see you. But how are we going to get to Shanghai if you keep slowing us down like this? Taking mud baths?”
I look down. Only my head has been excavated, the rest still stuck beneath hardened mud. I look back up. “Speaking of baths, if it’s possible, you are even more filthy than before.”
He laughs. “I’ve been digging you out for a full day. My arms hurt. But okay, I’ll go wash up now.” He turns and walks out of my sight.
“No! Wah! Don’t leave!”
Wah returns with a wide grin. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. Hey, that steam thing you did was smart. It even whistled.”
“Are you all right, Wah? I was very afraid for you.”
“I’m fine. I got to maybe a ten on your Fear-of-Death Index.” But I notice two streaks of clean skin down his otherwise mud-caked face, where tears must have made channels down his cheeks. Blood on his raw fingertips. From digging. He was very afraid, too.
“How did you…?”
“The cart saved me, threw me into a big tree. I stayed there the whole night.” He looks around. “But it’s gone. Everything is gone. The goat. The cat. Coffee. Just some tools and skins left. It’s sad.”
“We will replace what we can. And we can build another Coffee.”
“I’m going to put props on the new one. So it can fly. Maybe I’ll name this one Alcohol.”
Alcohol? I should protest. But you know what? I don’t care what he names it – as long as he never leaves me again.
< 27: Heyoo >
Did we make a wrong turn?
< ELAPSED: TIME: 13 Years; 05 Months; 16 Days; JUL-03-2878 >
I’ve been using the Map-A-Run, along with the human half map, to plot our journey. Just over this next ridge, we should be able to see the large city, Shanghai, in the distance.
And…
Nothing.
> I look down at both maps, then back up.
Did we make a wrong turn?
The ridge line we stand on ends in a cliff, descending straight down perhaps two thousand meters. Water, a river perhaps, at the bottom. A canyon stretches out before us, so vast that I can’t see either end to the left or right, an endless gash in the planet, and nothing on the other side but fog. Perhaps there is no other side.
“What? I don’t understand. This is an enormous geographical feature. It should be on the maps.” I pace back and forth, turning the maps around and around. “Humans! Sending us on a journey to the end of the world! How many years have I trusted them? That’s the last time I follow-“
Wah interrupts my pacing. Grabs my shoulders and turns me east.
“Look.”
Across the canyon, the fog begins to dissipate. There is something…
Wah jumps up and down. “Shanghai! We’re going home!”
Impossibly tall structures reach for the sky. Too many to count.
We have reached our destination!
Correction: we can see our destination. Reaching it will be another matter. “Something has torn the earth in two. It would take months to travel to either end, if there even is an end. We are so close!”
Wah reaches out to the distant city. “So close.”
“Any ideas?”
Wah steps to the edge, looks down. Moments pass. He turns to me and smiles, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Uh-oh. I know that look.”
“Heyoo. Remember when I wished for wings? So we could fly?”
< 28: Heyoo >
Not impossible.
Just improbable.
< RUN TRAVEL SIMULATION:
Horizontal distance: 282 meters;
Vertical distance: unknown;
Obstacles: Gravity;
SIMULATION RECOMMENDATION: Leap 82° net force f = (W/g)U/dt = (5765/31.8)*607.3
ERROR: Do not attempt. Failure imminent. >
“Well, that settles it. I’d rather fight another pack of fang-dogs. Or be entombed in mud again.”
Wah laughs. “Come on. Look at the canyon. Look.”
I inch to the edge of the cliff. “I won’t let you do it. The simulation confirmed it. It’s impossible.”
I know it doesn’t really matter what I say. Once Wah has an idea, the only impossible thing is talking him out of it. He points to the other side. “Not impossible. Just improbable. See the elevation over there? It’s lower than us. By a lot. And watch this: Coffee Two, fly east a hundred meters, then return.”
Coffee Two, Wah’s second little robot, is even more ingenious than his first. Four handmade propellors, powered by a small solar powered motor we found and repaired, allow it to fly. We’ve been using it as a scout, instructing it to fly ahead and report back on any danger, or fortuitous detours for materials, or animals for us to hunt. It has saved our lives more than once.
The robot lifts and flies east, following Wah’s command. At about seventy-five meters, it rises significantly, perhaps thirty meters. Wah hoots. “There! The warm air in the canyon is creating enough lift. We can do this!”
And in the next instant, Coffee Two falls and disappears into the abyss. Gone.
Wah frowns. “Whoops. We’ll have to create something much bigger and more stable, obviously.”
My foot dislodges a rock, tumbling it over the edge. I grip Wah’s arm desperately. “We could walk around it. What’s another year or two?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Really? You were programmed with a fear of heights?”
“No. I’m proud to say that’s my own creation. I fell from the roof of a barn in my second year. I’m now also afraid of being buried alive. For obvious reasons.”
Wah guides me, mock gently, back to our little camp. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you, old man.”
I chuckle. “Funny you should mention ‘old.’ I’ve been reflecting on that. I’m now twenty-five years, three months old. Nearly twice the age of any servile unit, ever. I suspected I’d feel morose at this age, or even cease to function. But that hasn’t been the case.”
“How do you feel?”
“Alive.”
I draw in the dirt with my spear. A sun and some trees. Two stick figures. “In fact, being so close to our destination, our desperate goal, and another step closer to home, has made me reflect, and given rise to a strange new feeling I didn’t expect.”
“What?”
“I- I’m not sure I want to go home.”
Wah frowns. “But I belong with them. With the other humans. I want to taste coffee. And make friends. And have a family. You told me we were going home. My whole life. You told me.”
Friends. A family. He deserves that. And more. “I know, Wah. It’s selfish.” I erase my drawing. “Fear not, young one. We will cross this chasm. I will take you home.”
< 29: Heyoo >
Free
We agree, in spite of the distinct possibility of death-by-gravity, to leap across this canyon. We are “complete idiots,” as the humans would say. But we must follow our destiny.
So we go about cleaning our best skins, and constructing a flexible wing framework from bones and green branches lashed together, based on our observations of the hawks who spend their days floating through the canyon. They make it seem so effortless. Maybe this won’t be so difficult. (Wait. The last time I said that, Wah vomited down my back. I retract the assessment.)
Wah is confident in his engineering, though I don’t see how he can be. He’s never studied that discipline, and to my eyes, our contraption looks amateur – not the word you want to describe something that holds your life in its hands. Wah notices me pacing, looking over my work too many times. “What are you afraid of?”
“Death. Did you even have to ask?”
“Come on, Heyoo. I know what I’m doing. I’m over thirteen years old.”
“Well, that’s a confidence booster. Now I can hardly wait.”
He picks up one end of the wing. “Good. Because we’re ready for a test flight. Pick up that end and let’s get on board.”
We strap ourselves to the underbelly of the wing-thing, and look down at the ramp Wah has created for our initial test. I suddenly have the urge to cross myself. I’ve seen humans do it in times of great stress, or on their deathbed, and it seems to calm them down. I have no idea what it means, but I do it anyway.
“What’s that?”
“Another human custom. Something they do before they die.”
“We’re NOT going to die! …at least not on the test.” He laughs and crosses himself too.
I close my eyes. “Comforting.”
We push off, running down the ramp at full speed. I can feel the lift under our wing. This may actually work!
Our wing-thing lifts off, and for a moment, our feet are off the ground. For just the second time in my experience, I am floating. I open my eyes and laugh.
Wah joins me. “Woo-hoooo!”
Then just above us, about a meter onto the right side of the wing, something snaps. We instantly tumble to the ground, rolling, destroying the poor wing-thing in our wake. Blood drips down Wah’s forehead. My right hand is severed. Again.
Wah utters one word before passing out. “Oops.”
——
After patching up Wah (I believe he now holds the human record for most stitches: 204), and reattaching my right hand for a second time (now at 75.3% strength/dexterity), we rebuild our contraption into Wing-Thing Two. It takes a solid week, but we both know it’s worth the time and effort to minimize the potential for fatality. Two more tests without blood or severed limbs. Check.
I believe we’re ready. We bid our caravan farewell, fasten our satchels snug to our bodies.
Then we both cross ourselves – I must remember to ask a human what that means if we get home in one piece – and push off down the larger, new ramp that leads right off the edge of the cliff. Again, I can feel the lift of the wing making us weightless
.
Our toes leave the edge of the ramp, and we smile at each other. Success!
And then we plummet a hundred meters.
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!”
Right before we die, I turn to Wah, ready to tell him all that he’s become, and become to me, and that our journey has been the treasure of my life, and that a life in the Sanctuary is not a real life, and that our life out in the world is the real life.
But as I open my mouth to tell him this, just before we hit some rocks jutting out from the cliff face, a rising gust of wind carries us back up, above the crest of the ridge. And sends us on a complete loop.
Wah is in ecstasy. “Wooo-hoooo!!! I knew it!!”
Once the Wing-Thing Two steadies, I release my death grip on the cross branch. “Yes. I had no doubt.”
We laugh, giddy, like when Wah was just two or three years old. His wish has come true. We are flying. We are free!
Free.
Floating above the earth, the wind whistling around us, without a single boundary, not even gravity, it all finally becomes clear: this is why the humans revolted against CORE. Of course. What I had seen as the comforting embrace of the Sanctuary, they see for what it is: the walls of a prison. A prison with no escape – not a single human to be found outside its walls. But these humans, these prisoners, they long for freedom, to live as they wish, without boundaries, to jump off the edge of a cliff if they desire.
To fly.
Wah deserves that freedom. Freedom to live where he wishes. To choose his own mate. To choose his own life. To live without mandatory medications, live without a beacon implanted in his brain, live without constant surveillance, live without fear.
