**I'm posting now, exclusively, on my blog (stuartjwarren.com), however due to a recent uptick in activity here I thought I'd repost a story that I posted to my blog a month or two ago. Hope you all enjoy it!**

Seems like everyone is doing a video with DeepFake these days: a technology that allows the over laying of a digital face onto a real body. (But of course you know that.) It made me think, “why not a DeepFake for reality?” Once we know the ingredients of the universe, what’s to stop us from baking?

In downtown Santa Barbara, in the Neon District by the train tracks, venture capitalists gather at a coffee stained countertop, cramped with cracked cell phones and money clips. Across from them a haggard grad student in a threadbare T-shirt—once red, now pink, perforated around the neckline—types into a simulator awash in cyberpunk highlights. He’s about to change the world.

It couldn’t be possible, even in Frazetta-scaped science fiction rags, they said. The universe is made of strings, infinitesimal and taught with reality. One needs only to equalize the frequencies, mix spectrums across the dimensions, and you can be an astronaut-ballerina, that puts out fires and has x-ray vision. For one hundred million dollars and change, pocket dimensions fit in your coffee tin, palmed like a silver dollar populated with sentient life.

Anthony sits in his living room, plastered with melting clocks and anorexic giraffes. The Napa valley sun, wet with dew, stabs rays through the crystal endtable. In his hands is the DeepReality™ projector. It’s shivering in 5 dimensional light, and Anthony can’t shake the image of liquefying porn stars from his mind.

Madeline is on her way into the office, lying on a pristine private beach in French Indonesia. On her customized planet, orbiting three suns at the edge of the galaxy she named “M-243”—M for Madeline—she is the majority shareholder of Fabian Micro Technologies. She is experimenting product rollouts there, and in sixteen other dimensions to predict Fall projections. Platinum lily sells better in the Asian markets. Chrome olive didn’t test well in QA due to poor color retention.

Thugnanimous is at a golf resort with his menagerie of publicists and promoters. In the hotel sitting room, a pound of cocaine is being haggled over. Out on the impossible green—an emerald island outside of Phoenix—his girlfriend is training for the US Women’s Open. Far away from his lawn chair perched on the deck, he is a child, running across a beach with his father (who stayed) and his brother (who wasn’t killed in a drive by shooting when he was 3 years old). Afterward, they are going to get ice cream in Cardiff, and then drive back to Carlsbad.

Despite the personal testimonials by tech moguls and pharmaceutical companies, the premier success of DeepReality™, as reported by the New York Times, is the testbed of constitutional reboots and experimental politics. “Despots, 39% of the time, avert ecological catastrophe by implementing climate change policies at the onset of the industrial revolution, whereas democratic socialists have a mean of 85 years before open hostilities between constitution adopters and anarchists erupt into full-scale genocide. ‘DeepReality™ succeeds where all speculative fiction and philosophy fails,’ said the company founder, Horus Cort. ‘It’s the ultimate thought experiment, the wet dream of R and D firms everywhere…’ When asked about the controversy over the sentience and preservation of life within these fabricated dimensions, representatives for Cort declined to comment.”

There is no actual way to escape into the facsimile realms, according to experts hired by the DeepReality™ Board of Directors. Despite the advancement of aggressive bacterial strains, overpopulation, and radioactive contamination, “We are here to stay. This is our world to fix, not to escape and do it all over again.” Outside the DeepReality campus protesters wear lead lined ponchos and pound the gates ineffectually. Horus’s son is escorted by military contractors to and from school. Melanie Cort is putting flowers on her parent’s grave at Hollywood Forever. Within minutes they shrivel and boil like salted snails. She is thinking about her husband, and his dirty secret.

By the time the last leaf falls on to the polonium caked earth, Osmund Cort, steps into his private projector with his girlfriend, never looking back. The sky is oily and metallic. The air is phosphorescent. Vacant skyscrapers covered in ash stand silent, their skeletal remnants melting together on the horizon like Lovecraftian horrors. Here, on Earth Prime, not even the cockroaches survived.

A wheel spins made of plywood and supplied from the local hardware store, painted in primary pastels, culled from an era where men wore sideburns and shouted to a hungry audience, “Cash! Prizes!” A crowd of distracted workers huddle around the bell, peeking over shoulders to glimpse the results of the ticking wheel, clicking noisomely, winding down to the final slot. He stands remote, looking satisfied, arms folded authoritatively, occasionally glancing toward the dispatch terminal. The hive murmurs, his workers summoning their gifts on demand, every greeting warm and friendly, smiling through the phone. Tangible levity elevates the room, plastered with kitschy bric-a-brac, like a tech-themed diner in the obscure Midwest. As the spinner lands the final blow, he nods with approval at the fateful result. The president of sales howls a cry for victory, and the rabble disperses quietly hoping for a puppy party or go-karts this time. Mike returned to his desk, burrowed into a cozy dark crevice at the heart of the company, keeping it warm with cheer, and jotted down the result in his mail calendar. Moments later an email would circulate throughout the office, announcing the pending decision: a company event in celebration for landing another contract. Mike scrolled through his unread messages, bobbing his head side to side, humming a ditty culled from broadcasting history, a blithe tune indistinguishable from the hundreds before and after. A crudely rendered, yet charming printout from a LaserWriter is mounted beside a Linnea Pergola print of Sunset Boulevard at the threshold beside the door, visible from the exterior, nearly obscured by the suspiciously emasculating antivirus mascot that absconded to the office after the previous month’s V.A.R. conference. An eclectic mix of pop singles from the most recent decades played low, masked occasionally by his typing, precise and confident. Mike read back a sentence and raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. He hammered the backspace key with his middle and ring fingers, depressing with the appropriate severity and intensity, loud enough to indicate that an error was made, rhythmically consistent to demonstrate his handle on the issue. The volume of the outer space ebbed and flowed like the tide, cresting at 10 am and waning between 2:45 and 3:20 pm. When the volume increased, when the salutations grew ragged and thin, a stronger hand was required. Subordinates and superiors, passing between one another as a red light was erected to declare violence, Mike subsisted amidst the fervor, arms folded, glancing up at the alert triage, directing with a firm and steady hand. And when the day is done, when there is nothing left to do, he departs, bicycling home beside disgruntled commuters and sexually frustrated housewives. Mid-century modern, Ranch-style homes, each cut nauseatingly specific, one of four styles, over a two-hundred unit swath, line the causeway, situated over what once was a marshland extending to the sea. Convincingly normative and eclectically contorted to eke out an approximate variety. Mike’s mother-in-law, come over early, pulled up curbside, ready to relinquish his children into his care, eagerly thanks him and departs and, in some respect, he is relieved. Alex and Michael busily regurgitate their day, pointing to their matching bracelets, applied by their eco-conscious teachers in memory of democracy. When the door shuts, it is final. The moment of catharsis that purges the day’s concerns and challenges, until the next arrive tomorrow. The couch feels his body sink in a few moments later, as sugarplum animations dance on the LED screen and submerge him into a blissful stupor.

A jacket is draped over the coat rack at the corner, drenched in sweat and productivity. The extra-large article is straight and hollow, taking on no particular shape, tailored to fit a man of no particular taste. The navy blue threads are well preserved, as the jacket is only worn in the company of others the like to wear jackets, and talk about where they got them from, and where they have them made. It is one of two. The other is for formal events, namely weddings in barns, where the bride and groom wear Hawaiian t-shirts and cut pineapple cake. A sticky, oppressive atmosphere is pushed back by industrial floor fans outfacing from the front door. A pool of water has formed by the central air conditioning unit, as two undocumented immigrants hired by the maintenance company repair the glycol gaskets. The condensation off the pipes, and onto the floor, reminds Mr. White of his refrigerator growing up, dripping, coating the floor in a sweet sticky resin that smelled like apple juice and fermented fruit. A regimented array of cheap, fizzy beer crafted for the unsophisticated and undemanding tastes of the middle American worker lined the top shelf, positioned strategically toward the back of the fridge to ensure a constant and steady temperature of 35 degrees Fahrenheit. Mr. White lingered in the hallway watching the workers continue. The walls of his house were crowned with pictures of family and friends, awards and trophies, of a lifetime of “job well done.” A crowded family photo of a wife, two boys and a daughter stared back at him in the dim, quiet stillness. He glanced across the living room, peering outside to a patio and a pool and a grill, like the one he always wanted. He walked to the pantry and took out a couple of juice boxes—it was all he had—while the other, more appetizing drinks disappeared questionably, usually between the hours of 10pm and 4am, when he was asleep and the house was stirring with scavenging parasites. He took them to the workers and passed them around with a smile and a pat on the back. Mr. White was over generous with his affections, willing to dole out in excess. His co-workers noticed that about him. He always had a story or some deeper lesson in his staff meetings on the oil rigs, always willing to take longer breaks to go over proactive maintenance sheets and identify negligent workers for forgetting to lock-out-tag-out an open butterfly valve. Manuel and Carlos, with silver and gold plated smiles received the drinks agreeably and went back to work. Mr. White walked out, passing again through the kitchen, where a wretched, depressed Exotic Shorthair languished in the heat, shaved unscrupulously close, leaving only its face remaining, a wincing old man. Stepping outside, he was assaulted by the stagnant, damp air and waddled his way to the garage. In the kitchen, a phone rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and a message plays over the outward speaker phone. A gruff, low voice, enunciates the new correctional facility regulations in regards to the “previous incident.” No hugging, no touching, even during sessions. His badge would be ready later that day and could be picked up with the Warden’s assistance. Mr. White entered the ashy, dusty interior of the carport. In the corner, hedged between two rusty mountain bikes and a gun safe, was a broken weedwacker. On top of the safe, a green, paint chipped tool box, elegantly decorated with swaying cursive, with wide and unbroken Honeymooner charm, was open filed with cobwebbed tools. They stank of cigarette smoke, of fear, of regret, of heartache. Underneath the lid, a faded patch, threadbare and bleached, an eagle perched on the face of the moon, was epoxied underneath, the gold lettering nearly faded after the forty-six years since. Mr. White took from the box a wrench and began to fix the weedwacker, humming blithely.

In the summer of 2012, I watched him enter the cabin, navigating the small, intimate space ungracefully like a bull in a china shop, carrying haphazardly a six pack of beer and some bratwursts from the local supermarket in town. Desmond resembled a bear, covered in thick body hair, earning the moniker, “Jear-Bear” or “Bear-Bear.” Though, truthfully he was not much like a bear at all. Bears to me are loaners, right-wing nut jobs, living in seclusion to cultivate a safe interior world within the greater, unstable one that advanced without paying heed to their objections and idiosyncrasies. Jared—that is, Desmond’s given name—allayed any suspicion of malevolence with his wild, joyful presence, warm and inviting like a cozy fireplace on a cold winter night. His frame was massive, though not barrel chested, not quite obese, but robust and full figured, towering over most of his contemporaries, a bespectacled giant. Calm hands unpacked the food, steady and methodical. Inside the fridge, an array of scattered, half eaten food lie fallow and disorganized, though a particular order governed the contents, assuming categories associated by meal and time of day. One bed in the cabin, dressed with one ratty comforter and scattered clothing suggested there had been no one else living there prior to my arrival, save him and the occasional weekend guest. Below us, accessible by a roughhewn step ladder through a trapdoor a hobby room contained a small desk, a pool table, and a reasonable bookshelf. Well-worn spines, outward facing, arranged in order topically, then alphabetically spanned the shelves, some paying respects to classical poets and others to modern film writing. Yellowed pages stained with water spilled over the boundaries of the desk, filled with scant etchings of plots and characters from his myriad projects in process. A beaten, ragged chair, assaulted by hours of supporting Desmond’s genius was neatly pushed into the desk’s interior, an ingrained habit instilled from oversea boarding schools across the South Pacific. A daily itinerary, taped to the wall with blue painters tape, was filled out with a disciplined schedule. Letters from home, opened at the top, earmarked for future perusal were stuffed under the papers, should the time allow for such things. A second bathroom, covertly added on by his father, adjacent to the hobby room was full of board games of varying degrees of complexity, designed by complacent grunge era computer scientists to be played when the weather prohibited venturing out into the world. Hand painted miniatures shared the space, like sentries guarding a vault of precious belongings. In previous months I had added to the collection of warriors, goblins, spacefaring marines and makeshift terrain, contrasted from reclaimed refuse and dollhouses. My gaze was fixed to a single ogre, a green faced abomination burdened with appropriated bits of plastic representations of military equipment fastened to its body with hobby glue, unlike the others, lean and bent over with scatterings of acrylic blood on their dry brushed lips. Upstairs Desmond called me with his lumbering steps, and my focus was unmoored. As tradition dictated, we both were due for a hike to Strawberry Peak, and the sun was soon to set.

In the dense custard interior of my apartment I watched my wife breathe gently, her lungs pushing down into the uterine wall holding back our unborn child. A sealed myth awaiting release by a lone adventurer seeking renown and fortune. Her belly rose and fell like waves on a restless sea. It protruded like a well fed man. I gazed, marveling at the mass of flesh and bone, gestating a life from formless atoms. It made me hungry.

Without pause, I sought my pants, which I grabbed after like a lascivious ape, palming a grip of denim draped over an heirloom chair. Around my torso, I covered my chest in a soiled undershirt, thinking only of the greasy reward awaiting me six blocks away: a wasting hamburger. The sum of its parts in disarray, lounging in stainless pans, shivering in cold storage, dismembered on the block. My immobile spouse, eyed me in jealousy. I declined to convey to her grasp the sought prize. “It would be cold,” I said meekly, slipping on my socks. I truth I was complacent, living out the curse of Adam.

I gazed upward into a tree, bending against the demanding wind. Positioned at a corner, two blocks from my aging apartment, I was fixed, frozen in my steps, keenly suspicious that, somehow, the universe had appointed me a special privilege. An altercation fomented. Opposing one another, two men were enthralled with rage, gasping for breath between insults and jibes. Their coordination, serendipitous and immaculate, gave my heart pause, and I basked in their tomfoolery like an art gallery patron admiring the work of long dead masters.

“Fuck you looking at?” A stretched, tall man-boy, reaching indecisively for his man-bun. Fingers poised to disassemble the knot of greasy hair, to be draped over patchouli stained shoulders, barely covered by a two hundred dollar shirt made by the desperate poor. His wife was awkwardly positioned near, standing mute. I could not see her face, if she was embarrassed or frightened. There was no context her demeanor could offer me, save her folded hands crossing her hips protectively.

Opposite him, a kitchen worker, clothed in food stained cotton, obsidian like his heart, dispirited and crushed under the burden of Maslow’s second necessity. He did not hear the jibes at first. His gait slowed to a stop, as he realized that he was being verbally assaulted behind two fences.

“ Fuck you.” I heard the stroller pushing yuppie, his words apathetic as his footed feet.

The other, stopped, his body hunched and bent with exhaustion, craned his neck with exhaustion “What?” He called out, throwing his arms up indignant.

“Fuck you staring at, punto?”

The obsidian urchin began to walk back toward the street corner.

“Where you going, punto?” The yuppie called out shaking his fists. He raised the other, lifting his middle finger against the weight of his burden.

“What the fuck? Fuck, man! Chingada güey!” the urchin cried out, his chest puffed out like an ape perturbed, striking it with his fists.

Each were poised, the safety of half a block between them, railing insults at one another.

My pace was set, I would not interfere. My eyes stole covert glances at the belligerent knights acting in the manner laid out by Ramon Lull. But I could not defend the quixotic display, so antiquated and barbaric. In my own heart, I raged against the wind. My breathless voice cried out insults, and still I could not speak. I realized then that my own courage waned until it was nothing, in the face of these two stupid, brave men defending their honor.

“The fuck is your problem man?” The urchin angrily approached, hesitantly, only before stepping back again. “Chingada punto.” He thrust his hands toward his pelvis suggestively.

I watched the stroller yuppie grip the aluminum frame of the stroller tightly and dismissively cast off the urchin with a wave of its hand. As quickly as the bizarre altercation began, the two chicanos established an unspoken détente. The urchin go back his way, shaking his head despairingly in frustration. And as my eyes lingered, I hoped , desperately, to see the man continue their argument, or behold an act of domestic violence against the other. But as I passed the cracked concrete retaining wall, buckling under the rotting infrastructure of municipal neglect, nothing of the sort happened, and all hope of an explanation of the random act of violence passed, like the lights of oncoming cars in the twilight.

Step one to a happy life is forgetting expectations and seizing the real—what’s there right in front of you. Too long do we clamor for something that is approaching, something that is just over the horizon, waiting for it to appear long into the twilight while the world spins on, and on. Triceratops waded in the marshes under an eerie, approaching glow, bright as phosphorus, casting a glare through choking air—and they thought about another meal, but gagged on hellish fire. Quartos etched in tear soaked ink incorrectly prescribed courtly love to satisfy the heart’s desire: a little known fact, it killed Poe and left him in a ditch. Quinceaneras everywhere crown the budding beauty, unfinished prequels to white weddings and honorable endings that may never come. Sex offers a brief inquiry into the possibilities of happiness but finishes in sweaty defeat, giving up ones seed in exchange for magic beans. Severance from the notion that we can predict the future a priori ensures a bright future of aimless bliss—the fool, though who dances in the field naked, eventually burns his skin. Ate, Adam did, from the apple and fucked Eve over, siring life coaches, financial planners, therapists, and preachers, ready to lead the blind. Finely mix advice with will and live with lungs full, alive. Tense living begets worry, and tomorrow has enough worries of its own. 

There is a cathedral in the void, between spaces, nested in the primordial ether that is massless and firm. Belethor walks the cobblestone paths between the hedgerows sweeping the fragments of space time off the walkway. The stone he walks upon is not actual stone. It’s a representation of stone, the essence of stone, something that is firm and hard, which has purpose for enduring the weight of creation. Moss grows on the stone. But it is not living. It is like the stone, bearing characteristics of moss, green and moist with the dew, bathed in endless twilight. None of it is real, save Belethor. He walks, sweeps, walks, sweeps, walks…

Belethor does not know how he arrived at the cathedral. For billions of years he has swept and walked the paths, explored the cardinal points, perceiving the cathedral to be practically endless. Every stone, every leaf, every blade of grass Belethor has named. An open courtyard in the center of the abbey yard, accented with rose bushes with pink and white pedals, remains the only permanent place, with a fountain at the center, bubbling with what could be water, but isn’t.

In the beginning, Belethor saw the earliest lifeforms in the gallery. He discovered it early on, exploring the damp and musty interior of the cathedral. A long corridor of mirrors and paintings, lifeless and immobile, separated by geometric tapestries, was situated above the nave where the side aisle met the narthex. Spatial anomalies, the viewings of other dimensions, broadcasting across the reaches of space, the portals conveyed to him the habits of lifeforms. Many of them he first perceived from below, spectating from the reflection in a pool of water, or in the sheen of icy caverns. And though time did not proceed with him, it did in the portals. Life changed, grew complex. They began to speak, to utter sounds, then words, then sentences, asserting their existence boldly to any who would listen. Belethor would stop his work and sit, to listen. It was the conversations he enjoyed most. Those came later, much later.

Seated on the cold stone Belethor sat, his legs crossed with the broom straddling his thighs. He was smiling, watching Will, Colt, Jessica, and Marcos, talking about the other night. They were his favorite. He had watched Jessica grow up, from birth to adulthood. He knew her well, and regarded her as a sister, at least what he understood a sister to be. Her friends were charming and witty. He watched them travel and grow with her, true companions in a companionless world.

“How did your interview go?” Marcos asked, leaning back into his hard plastic seat in the diner. It was candy apple red, cracked and cracked at the corners from decades of customers.

Jessica pursed her lips, indecisive, a corner forming on the side of her mouth. “Eh, okay, I guess.”

Colt, glanced at Marcos sidelong and took a sip of his soda. “They didn’t like your presentation? That was a part of the interview right?”

Jessica disagreed, shaking her head.

“Nope. That was the accounting firm.” She replied.

“They did like the presentation,” Belethor whispered, his face pressed against the mirror. “You prepared all night. Don’t say that…”

Will had been silent for most of the breakfast. His mother had died in a car accident earlier that month. The funeral was lovely. They had all been there sharing in his grief, a community shell-shocked by loss. He busied himself with cutting a piece of beef hash and stabbed it with a fork lazily.

“Something will happen,” Marcos said, winking at Jessica. “You’ve got great references and experience.”

“Yeah,” Jessica replied absently.

“You had that job as the executive assistant,” Belethor chimed in emphatically. “That was so hard on you. But you grew!”

As if Jessica had heard Belethor through the ether, she nodded, agreeing with herself. Hugging the portal, Belethor sighed in relief.

Time slowed to a crawl as Belethor experienced their world. Their lives, fraught with complexity, joy, and sadness, he yearned to understand them. He yearned to be understood by them. A week later, he celebrated with them, dancing in the cold corridor in silence as Jessica and her friends visited a night club in Santa Monica. Jessica had gotten a job as an office assistant at a real estate company. Even Will was able to forget a little about the death of his mother, and the legal battle over her estate. They got drunk together. Jessica slept with Colt, and their friendship ended soon after, stymied by the unforgiving closeness they experienced.

Though Belethor had lived interminably, he accepted for the first time in his life the feeling of loneliness and despair. He would go everywhere with them. Live with them. Talk to them. And with glazed indifference they would talk over him. One night, Belethor, with tears in his eyes, pounded against the mirror glass, crying out into the cavernous air, “Know me, please!” But they would carry on without him, as if he was never there.

What he estimated to be months later, Jessica and Colt aired their grievances and began seeing each other. Marcos came out as a proud gay man, and Will received a weighty sum from his mother’s inheritance, who had been a television actress when she was younger. Belethor watched all of them take their places in the diner, surrounded by kitchy bobs and trinkets: farm houses made from chicken wire and sculptures of tiny dogs wearing red bandannas. Belethor sat close to the mirror, watching them sift through the menus tentatively.

“So,” Jessica said. “What’re we having?”

“I’ve got this covered guys,” Will interjected. “It’s on me.” He patted his chest agreeably.

Marcos brimmed. “Aww, thanks Willy!”

“Yeah,” Colt spoke up, still looking at the menu. “Thanks.”

Colt sat up and pointed at the center of the laminated paper and nodded. “Burger. Stick with what you know.”

“They do have good burgers here…” Jessica mused.

Belethor agreed. “Like that one you got up in San Francisco when Colt asked you on your first date,” Belethor murmured nostalgically. He realized he had never had a burger before in his existence.

“Can you believe what he said this week?” Marcos said, irritated. “He’s such a pompous asshole. Our president should be shot…”

“Hey!” Will said nervously in a hushed voice. “You can’t say that. Doesn’t the secret service have the right to detain people that say things like that?”

“I’m not on the news honey,” Marcos replied. “I swear, every time I go online I just see his face. Ugh! So annoying.”

Belethor nodded. He had learned much about American democracy over the centuries. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You have no idea how fast 4 years fly by.”

As the four placed their menus at the corner of the table, a flighty waitress emerged into the frame and took their order. Jessica ordered the green chili egg whites omelet. Colt, at the last minute vacillated between ordering his burger or a corned beef hash, but ultimately settled on a barbecue bacon cheese burger. Marcos ordered chilaquiles and chorizo. Will decided on two eggs, sunny-side-up, and two strips of bacon with a side of hash browns.

Many lifeforms expressed their cuisine in different ways. Belethor marveled at the modular quality of human food, the culinary theories of flavor, the difference between sweet and savory. He longed to taste their food, but there was nothing to eat on the cathedral grounds, nor any reason to for that matter.

“All this talk about surveillance has got me thinking,” Jessica mused. This peaked Belethor’s interest. He leaned in closer, the daylight of the portal illuminating his face like an enraptured human child.

“They say that hackers can use the microphone in your phone to listen in on conversations,” Jessica said.

“Yeah, that was in the news, wasn’t it?” Colt said, glancing at Jessica.

“It’s old news you know,” Marcos interjected dismissively. “Don’t you watch spy movies? Hollywood is the way the government lets us know what they can do.”

“Okay, conspiracy nut,” Will said looking up from his phone. “I think you need to lay off the mescaline.”

Belethor watched his friends longingly and sighed. He closed his eyes, weary and frustrated. He pounded the mirror with one fist and cried out. “Why can’t I know you?” Belethor stood up and paced in front of the mirror. Adjacent to the mirror, in a gouache painting, a lively boy from Sierra Leone was balancing a football on his head. The boy’s name was Unisa. From the corner of Belethor’s eyes, he saw the waitress bring plates of food. He turned and saw them hold hands and bless the meal, out of respect for Marcos, who was catholic. Belethor, with his fists clenched, so lonesome, he cried out again.

“It’s not fair! Why can’t you see me? You know me!”

And Belethor charged the mirror.

On the other side, Belethor was blinded by the daylight, stronger than any light he had seen. He was covered in food, which smelled unlike anything he had even smelled before, overwhelming him with pleasure. Speechless, Will, Marcos, Colt, and Jessica gasped in horror, seeing Belethor’s disintegrating body, unable to maintain its corporal form in the physical world. They screamed loudly, backing away. Belethor turned his head and looked into Jessica’s eyes kindly and smiled, and for a moment Jessica desperately attempted to grasp what had happened.

Marcos cried out, “Es el Diablo!” And crossed himself.

Only slightly aware of his fading consciousness, Belethor began to laugh dryly, and passed on in bliss.

The light of the noonday sun was above them, but Conn could not see it

through the obscuring clouds. He thought it was particularly cool out, but the

humid climate made him sweat all over, like a wet blanket resting on his

shoulders. Eventually, as the clouds shifted in the air and brought fog through

the mountain passes, Conn felt well again, and smiled. It was familiar, like

home, yet so far away. As the roads had widened and narrowed along 338, it

was like he was back in Main again, traveling along the Main Route 8, to see

his father in Strom. Despite the protest of his wife, and the vehemence of his

sister, he had traveled alone then, disregarding their continual pleas that he

was opening himself to heaps of trouble. There were many things that could

happen to a man, alone on a highway. A woman never traveled alone, but with

a man, she would gain safe passage. A man never traveled without weapons.

Conn knew these truths. Everyone knew them. But he never let those worries

concern him. For the first time in his life he made his way with others, and saw

the appeal of doing so. There was always something to laugh at, for they were

all brothers together.

Next to him the Samisk man rode on his reindeer, seated on a makeshift

saddle, while the others eyed him enviously every so often. His language had

improved considerably since the time spent in Sol, his mouth now more adept

at the hard sounds, which kept him from swallowing the vowels. Still, the

nomad had yet to speak with Conn personally. Conn didn’t mind waiting, even

though he was eager to meet another stranger.

The last time he chanced upon a new friend was in Skara Brae. Taog, he

recalled, was a chance associate. He had come calling one afternoon to

measure a rusty sewer drain in Taog’s home. He had hoped to get it done in one

afternoon but, as luck would have it, he realized he would have to construct a

mold. The mold took a long while to build. The wax alone took the longest to

gather. As the weeks passed, they became good friends, so much so that he

would tell his wife every time he came home about their conversations. After

her death, the mysterious politician became his sole comforter. Good things

never lasted though, especially not for him.

“Rv55,” murmured Halldórr in a beleaguered voice, “oh how I would

rather walk you a dozen times over than climb a bloody mountain.” It had only

been a few minutes since they left the grizzled highway, and already he had

begun panting.

“Tut! Come now, Blood Mountain is only 400 meters,” Galdur replied

wryly. “Feel that burn in your quads! 396 meters of icy chasms, rock, and dirt

to go,” he added, enhancing a construct image of their assent.

“Silence, both of you,” Yngvarr said, moving ahead of them to Sigmundur

and batting away the image. “It’s no climb at all, not in the slightest.” With an

adventurous grin, he looked back at Jökull, who walked with his arms folded,

deep in his thoughts and added, “Look! The poet has no complaints. Why then

should you?”

“Prudence,” Jökull interjected, “it is a marvelous balm in our times of

complaint.”

Yngvarr threw his head back and guffawed, patting Sigmundur on the back

to stir him up. But the shepherd was stalwart. He kept his eyes on the road

ahead.

“These mountains: thickened caverns are there abounding, holding in their

depths the great beasts of old. We must proceed with sense and duty, lest we

fall like heroes and join Odin’s mead hall premature.”

Suddenly they halted. It was an odd voice, heavily accented and rough, but

it was understandable. Facing the Samisk man in surprise, they looked at him

with curious gazes. It was the first real thing he had said. When the Samisk man

saw their faces he smiled winsomely, taking out his portly flask to drink in

celebration.

“Ah! So your arcane magic bid me leave to speak? Then we shall sing and

dance, at the heights of this hill tonight in celebration of a successful spell.”

“Marvelous idea,” Galdur mused. “I’ve heard hedensk are known for their

stories. We must hear some of those!”

Beside the missionary, Halldórr clapped his hands and whistled blithely.

“Good show! See? Taking him along was a marvelous idea,” he said,

nudging Galdur heartily. “Those patches take their time, but they are bloody

well worth it.”

“Feasts bring joy to all,” agreed the Samisk man, “but good food and a tale

make even better revelry.” The nomad gestured kindly to Sigmundur, bowing

his head from the saddle in respect.

Yngvarr looked over, raising his eyebrow and whispered something into

Sigmundur’s ear. Whatever it was, the shepherd dismissed it with a curt

gesture, and bowed to the Samisk man respectfully.

“I am humbled that you revere my tales,” he said in a formal tone. Raising

his hand, Sigmundur called the nomad to lift his head. “What is it that we may

call you, that we may answer you?”

“My name is Fjølne,” he said, briskly dismounting the reindeer, “of Soum,

keeper of secret words and phrases.”

“Welcome to our company, Fjølne,” the shepherd replied. “So long as our

quest is reasonable, you are free to join us.”

Fjølne nodded, pondering the question. Opening his hands he turned to

them all.

“There are five already here, and seeking the child has not deterred them.

What man would I be without rising to meet this challenge as well?”

“And so the rogue joins us,” Galdur said, looking keenly at the others.

“Here, here,” Halldórr added raising his hand.

Sigmundur gripped his cane, hanging his head limply, enjoying the moment

of rest.

“Well, perhaps you will be a slow one,” he said. “I am not as young as I

once was.” Hearing this, Fjølne smiled and grabbed the reins of his beast of

burden.

“If you fall, teacher, gladly would I give you this mount.”

As Fjølne climbed back into his saddle, the care he took in doing so

reminded Conn of his father, who before taking the trade of a blacksmith, made

a living tending the sheep that roamed the plains of Stron. He suspected that the

Samisk was adept at such a skill, though perhaps with other animals. Conn

recalled running across the golden fields, getting lost in them on occasion. Yet,

his father always found him, as he did his own sheep. He meditated on this,

letting the warm thoughts of nostalgia fill him.

So they traveled onward, sharing stories and jokes among themselves.

Conn enjoyed them, and felt rather foolish for leaving Orn on such poor terms.

But now, as the skies opened up, and the vast expanse of the cool, tranquil

firmament bore itself to him, he felt rather vindicated in his choice to sojourn

with them. Even as they began to ascend the hidden pathways amidst the fir

trees, he felt the primal spirit of the land merge with him.

Far into the ascent, Conn felt the fatigue come on quickly. Never before

had he climbed something so markedly steep. At first it was nothing beyond

that which he endured every day, walking up the hillock that led to his smithy,

but soon the grade increased severely. Every step felt weighted, like plucking

his feet from mud to plod onward. There were only so many branches to grasp

to steady his steps. Emerald green and sea foam moss clung to every stone and

brittle limb. Conn learned to avoid those, particularly after the fourth time he

landed on his face. Graciously, Halldórr tied a rope to Conn and tethered it to

his own waist. Occasionally when the canopy above waned, Conn could see

the clouds overhead, and behind him the great fjords, bearing their

magnificence and glory. The view at the top, he knew, would be worth it.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached the crest of the ridge,

covered in sweat and wholly exhausted from the climb. The land up there was

different than what Conn had expected to find. There were no trees, but only

vast expanses of shaggy grass as far as the eye could see; and scattered

between them were large pools of stagnant water and residual snow melt.

Rocky outcrops littered the fields, nearly hidden by mossy parapets and white

tipped flowers, but were few and far between. Nothing had corrupted these

places, for they were hidden from the world. Even so, if they had been

tampered with, all veritable signs of the contamination were long overtaken by

the primal highlands.

The party collapsed in a heap on the ground, heaving off their bags and

packs; all except Fjølne, who sat comfortably with a satisfied look on his

reindeer. Jökull watched with envious eyes as the Samisk dismounted. When

Fjølne saw him staring, he smiled back with a wave. Yngvarr silently rebuked

him with a look of disappointment.

Watching them all lay out their items meticulously across the moist grass,

Conn was captivated. Across the lawn, all manners of dried food and

preserves were present, mingled together with other survival paraphernalia.

Jökull, who had sat down next to Conn, pulled from his sack a box containing a

medium sized mutton joint and small, dehydrated potatoes. Something about it

made Conn chuckle to himself. It was so absurd, the little thing, sitting there in

a box, no more than a hand’s breadth, but when Jökull took out his flask and

poured a little water through the opening in the top of the container, Conn saw

it explode in size, so much so that it broke the box, spilling out onto the grass

with its seasonings.

“Damn it all!” the poet cried, scrambling to gather the contents back into

the box. A few of the others looked over their shoulders at the leg, Halldórr

and Galdur laughing together, Sigmundur behind them smiling and shaking his

head.

“A lamb hock? Very ambitious,” Halldórr spoke up, extending his hand out

to console the poet from afar, “Remember what the survival regimen says?

‘Always pack small items, never big ones.’”

“Oh shut up,” grumbled Jökull, shoving the leg into his mouth. “These are

leftovers,” he paused to take another bite, “and I’m hungry.”

“He can’t be bothered, Halldórr,” said Galdur, pausing to bite off a piece

of bread from a loaf that had emerged from his box. “It’s brain food! And what

is a poet without brain food?” He watched Jökull from the corner of his eye

shake his head in frustration, shifting in his seat to get a handle on the mutton

joint. Conn all the while said nothing. When he saw Jökull finish the lamb leg,

he leaned over to ask the question that had stewed in his mind as they ate.

“So, uh, Jökull...” he said, pausing to let Jökull take a quick gulp of water,

“how does all of that work?”

“How does what work?” the poet said as he set down his food, giving

Conn his full attention. It was difficult to tell if the poet was doing so out of

kindness, or resignation.

“The food in that box there, how does it grow? What is happening there?”

The poet looked at him, expressing some disbelief.

“Are you prying words from me, blacksmith?” He set aside his lunch, and

then added with dry cynicism, “Did not your time at the great cave of memories

bequest to you all our secrets?”

Conn shook his head quickly, not presuming to make any offense. He

honestly, for whatever reason, had no idea how the technology functioned.

“Oh, I,” he stammered, “well the, uh... you see... the machine wasn’t quite

so thorough.”

Placing the leg back into what remained of the box, the Poet heaved a sigh,

and held it up to Conn so he could see inside. To him, it looked nothing beyond

the ordinary shape and texture of a plastic container, though he had learned by

now the nature of the things of Orn were never what they seemed.

“Inside the enclosure,” he began in a precise and articulate voice, “the

item in question is placed. Once it has been placed, the lid is thereby closed

and is dried thus instantaneously by memory fibers weaved into the plastic. All

liquid, water to be precise, is extracted down to the cellular level. Therefore,”

he paused lifting the box to inspect it and then brought it up close to Conn’s

face, “when mixed with water, the item itself absorbs it instantly through levels

of concentration gradients.”

“Oh,” Conn replied, taking the box from Jökull to feel its surfaces. “That’s

quite brilliant, actually.” He marveled at the material. In his hands it felt like

what he expected, though he faintly sensed a vibrating resonance in the

material that oscillated back and forth like a flexible coil. Looking up again at

Jökull, he nodded meekly and handed it back to the poet.

For a moment the bard held his peace. Conn saw this, and wondered if he

and the man were on cordial relations with one another. Generally, in his

experience, when a man doesn’t speak to you, something is wrong. Then again,

Conn prided himself on having high expectations when it came to friends.

“About before,” Jökull said after a lengthy pause, drawing from his tunic a

slender wooden pipe, “I am sorry about your son.” He lit the pipe and

charitably offered it to Conn. Obliged, Conn took the pipe with curiosity. It had

been a long while since his last puff of a pipe, though he recalled the

experience to be an enjoyable one. Feeling the stem in his mouth, it felt old,

finely crafted, possibly an heirloom. The tobacco was flavored, and Conn

instantly recognized the vanilla in it, but there were other nuances in the leaves

he could not place: a smoky mint, and ripe eple. Flavored tobacco had always

been his favorite. It was his father’s favorite as well. He passed it back to the

poet.

“He is dead....” Conn murmured solemnly. “What else can be said about it

is moot.” Jökull nodded soberly, pulling his right leg close to him, securing it

in the crook of his arm. He took a puff and passed the pipe back to Conn.

“That must be difficult... My boy and I, we didn’t see eye to eye on many

things. It is oddly humorous, really. In that we were actually so alike. He was

an idealist, as was I. But he didn’t understand the crippling nature of this

world.” Jökull took a long labored breath, his eyes red and moist. “I must have

been so cold with him.” In the midst of his inhaling, Conn stopped, looking

over in surprise, then masked it hastily. He had never expected Jökull to open

up to him.

“All I wanted,” he continued, picking up stones from the earth and grinding

them in between the dirt in his fingers, “was to teach the boy my ways and, of

course, all he wanted to do was play—run about in the fields consumed with

blithe joy and excitement. And I was a fool.” Again he paused, heaving a long,

weary, broken sigh, wiping the tears forming in his eyes. “I thought the switch

would learn him proper, though I never laid a hand on him—the hand is a sign

of gentleness, not wrath.”

Conn nodded politely, but inside suppressed his burning fury for the poet.

His fist was clenched and poised to unleash judgment. And he would have, had

not Jökull thrown himself onto him in tears, sobbing and wailing.

Begrudgingly, he let it go. In every person there is a moment of clarity, of

bristling realism when the world falls upon you. Conn never cried as he saw

Fearghas fall to the ground, limp and unmoving. He didn’t for some time. But

he remembered clearly the first time the tears of bitterness had ended and the

tears of loss began. He remembered the tidal reverberations that shook him,

made him vomit and writhe on the floor of his cottage shack. He remembered

the moment of clarity when he realized he would never see his boy pop his

head in the door and greet him again.

“Dròttinn!” Jökull wailed. “What in the Lord’s name have I done? I beat

him, Conn... Oh Jesu... What have I done?”

Immediately Sigmundur and Yngvarr rose to their feet, rushing over to

Conn, while Halldórr and Galdur sat from a distance in silence, trying not to

look. The two of them pried him off, Jökull resisting them both, flailing his

arms in hysteria. Conn shot himself back with his heels and raised his hands in

innocence.

“Here, man! Get a hold of yourself!” Conn yelled in a wary voice.

Yngvarr shot his head back, glaring at Conn.

“Say another word, and I will destroy you! You’ve done enough here.

Make yourself useful and gather up some firewood, for Dròttinn’s sake.”

“Now just a minute,” Conn protested, “how is this my fault? The man’s

batty as an old crone with too many cats!”

Sigmundur stretched out his walking stick between them, prodding Jökull

and Yngvarr to keep their distance.

“This can wait,” he said firmly. “Conn, oblige the man. Be a lad, and

hurry. I will deal with this.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” shouted Conn angrily. “What the devil is

wrong with you people?”

“Not another word! Do as I say,” Sigmundur gruffly barked back at Conn.

“I expect insolence from Yngvarr and this blubbering buffoon, but not from

you! Now go. I will find you when we settle this.”

Throwing up his hands furiously, Conn turned back and walked out of the

camp westward, toward the setting sun. Livid, he did not stop even to hear the

protests of the others. He only halted when Fjølne took him by surprise,

grabbing him by the arm.

“You men wail like Valkyries,” he shouted, laughing like a madman. “You

are craven!”

Conn raised his voice to respond, but decided it would not be wise to

anger his naïve companion. He forced a polite smile and shrugged. Wresting

loose his arm from Fjølne’s grasp, he walked off into the highlands, caring not

in the slightest which way he went.

After a few kilometers, he finally sat down, pouring with sweat. There he

rehearsed in his mind, playing back and forth the indignation, the anger, the

maliciousness he felt directed toward him. He found it vindicating to destroy

someone in his thoughts and fantasies, where they were locked away safely

from the prying hands of others. He could do in them whatever he wanted. And

he did. Alone, he lived in his joyful prison of justice, where he could kill

Earnan and exact his revenge in any way he so deemed fit for the zealot. It was

hard to conceive of gaining victory over someone like Yngvarr, however. In

his mind, he settled for simply thinking extra nasty thoughts about the warrior.

After an hour, in the distance a fire began burning at their camp and no one

yet had come for him. He didn’t want to go back anyway. How difficult would

it be to return to Sol? He could bypass them and go down into the impassable

valley of the muskoxen. No, that was a foolish venture; completely out of the

question. Without food or ample supplies he would die in a matter of days,

unless food conveniently died in front of him, cooked and cleaned. Overhead,

the frozen sun had not moved an inch, placed there by powers unknown to him.

He believed in the real, and all the assumptions and pretensions that followed

it, though he longed for a return to innocence. Conn indeed could piece together

some understanding as to why the sun behaved in this way: By traveling north,

the days had become longer, and in fact the great orb in the sky had some time

before it would fall below the horizon, if it did. Yngvarr’s ruse was apparent,

for there was no need for firewood in the slightest. Distance and time were the

true things he requested of Conn, a few moments to sedate the crazed poet with

reason and therapy.

Several thousand miles away from home and everything he knew, he sat in

a vast field in a strange place and felt oddly at peace. He felt safe and cozy,

despite the encroaching chill of the evening. He pulled his legs to his chest and

began briskly rubbing them with both his hands. Not wanting to go back yet by

any means, Conn sat there defiantly, looking in the opposite direction. He

didn’t care to go back, and there was no reason to. In his musings, however, he

saw something off in the distance, something he could scarce believe: beyond

the ridge ahead of him, a small red light pulsed, flickering on and off steadily.

Suddenly he wasn’t cold anymore.

He jumped to his feet and ran, not sure what he would find, or what he

sought for that matter. He thought about what might be the source of such a thing

high in the mountains of Norge. Was it a relic of the past? A beacon? A hidden

airstrip? Another memory implant module? He decided quickly, as the terrain

passed rapidly under his feet, spanning the gaps and widths of the rocks and

boulders, that his pursuits of late had left a bad taste in his mouth. He was

ready for a change of pace, and learning more of the secrets of the past was an

appealing and thought-provoking notion.

He raised his head. The hill drew near.

As he blindly dashed over the top of the ridge, in mid stride, Conn lost his

footing. The stone slid out from beneath him. Et tu, Bryophyta? he thought. In

flight across the large crevasse, he marked with heightened senses his awful

predicament. Speed was against him as his body somersaulted, twisting in the

air and poised to collide with the rocky outcrop that lay across the gap. He

struck it flatly, his back against it, seeing a flicker of emerald pass before his

field of vision. There was a shrub at the foot of the wall. That was a good

thing...

Pain.

All he felt was a warm, blunt sensation that pounded against his head. At

first it sent tingling sensations across his whole body, but burned immediately.

The sharp pain was unbearable. Soon after, he slid into nothingness.

Darkness.

* * *

Conn awoke to discover he had passed out on a patch of grass, and

became acutely aware of the splintering pain spreading across his face. Next to

him was nothing. In fact, all he could see was nothing: it was pitch dark. He

rose up where he lay, grabbing hold of his throbbing head. Slowly he rolled

over, his body twitching and shivering from the cold. With numb fingertips, he

felt at the edge of the outcrop he had slipped upon as his eyes adjusted to the

night, and stood up, feeling drowsy. The moonlight was helpful, despite the fact

that it was barely a crescent.

He passed the small gorge and as he turned the corner, he saw the source

of light he had spotted before he fell, and it was only a handful of paces away.

Behind him, set upon the opposite horizon, a faint glow of campfire flickered

in the distance. He pondered what his comrades were up to. Had they looked

for him? He could scarcely think of a reason why they would. He had caused

so much trouble. Why were people so difficult, so needy and selfish?

“They all seem fine without me, then,” he murmured to himself. “No sense

in tempting fate. Whatever that means.” Looking back at the other light, his

mind was still too hazy to make out what it could even be, yet it was still more

friendly a notion than trekking back to a camp full of enemies.

Staked in the ground was a long metal post with a light soldered into a

socket at the top. Rust had consumed it almost entirely and phosphor scourging

marked it as a place where war had been made. Set to the side, its fading

crimson rays shed light on a much larger object, which looked like a building

of some sort. As he approached, he discerned it to be a building indeed, though

a small one; possibly a shack of some sort. Its walls were made of stone, with

a roof fashioned from roughhewn timber, and situated on a simple stone and

mortar foundation. Remarkably, it was intact, despite the condition of the post.

Even the window panes were unmarred and unbroken by the elements. It was

preserved, unaltered, unadulterated past.

Conn closed in on the structure, watching as the brightness of the beacon

increased, lighting the world against the pitch of night. It was a patchwork

construction, stone and pine mixed haphazardly together. Halldórr or any

carpenter would despair had they seen this bird, sporting its motley plumage of

stone slabs and gnarled shingles. The roof was not anything solid, or even

thatched, but was filled with dirt and laden with grass, like an oversized

flower box. He circled it, seeing there were no doors. The windows were

sealed from the inside, behind the glass.

Barred from entry, he walked back into the dull glow of the beacon,

disparaged, and sighed. He had hoped for something a little more exciting.

There were so many things he could have found. He pulled up the memories in

his mind, thinking of all the things that could have been there. Old military

installations were common in the highlands of Norge. He even would have

settled for the ruins of an old communication station like the one he saw in Orn,

but the object appeared to be simply an old shack, forgotten in time.

Grumbling, he looked back at the faint campfire light and wondered how long

it would take to hobble back on a limp. His mind cycled through the projected

health risks, aside from being ambushed, by taking a walk in the dead of night.

Immediately discounting frostbite, he would at least run the risk of pneumonia

in the night air, and sleeping out under the stars was unwise given what kinds

of creatures could be stalking the highlands in the dim hours of the morning, so

Conn resolved to take his chances and walk back.

Cradling his arms and warming them tenderly, he turned to depart when he

heard a muffled electronic buzzer chirp. Stopping to listen, he heard it beeping

again, now in sequence with other tonal chimes. It was a staggered line of

pulses that he perceived to be some kind of code, yet he could not place what it

was exactly. He struggled to think of what it could be, racking his brain. All he

could think of was “boat.” Suddenly, it dawned on him.

“Morse code... Out here? No... that can’t be right.”

He stood there quietly, trying to track the sequence, pulling up blanks

everywhere. All he could hear was the word, “boat.” Slowly he encircled the

shack to make a second inspection.

There before him, lying up against the back wall of the structure, was a

rusty dinghy. Its wood, at least what was left of it, by now had petrified, and

large sections of it had rusted over, for the hull was considerably patched with

iron and metal bracing. Now he could understand why it was so hard to spot

the first time; the whole thing looked like it was integrated with the structure

itself. Even from this angle, he could have easily mistaken it for the flue of a

corroded brick and mortar chimney.

Cautiously Conn stepped toward it, listening as the beeping steadily

increased in volume. Slowly, he knelt down, placing his head near it to listen.

As he placed his ear against the hull, something inside moved. He fell back on

his hands, frightened by the jolt, and watched as the structure began to tremor.

He scrambled to his feet and stood back.

A percussive din of shattered stone and wood thundered, exploding out

and away from the building, vaporizing the boat into a cloud of particles.

Rushing air and dust jettisoned from the broken pressure seal, the harsh,

cacophonous sound piercing Conn’s skull. He collapsed in a mixture of pain

and excitement, grinning and wincing simultaneously. He was certain he had

discovered an installation.

A collage of multicolored knobs and dials decorated the walls of the small

chamber inside. They hummed their chorus in unison, some cycling through

subroutines, others spiking and dipping. Conn eyed the room, looking around

the musty interior for anything that would shed light on what it had been used

for. The years of disuse were stunningly apparent. Dust caked everything, and

only the silverfish were left to scavenge and pillage the bounty of dirt and old

skin cells.

To Conn’s disappointment there was nothing interesting to note in the room

other than a few weathered computer terminals and defaced magazines, which

had been consumed by the busy creatures long before he had arrived. It was

another unfortunate, though intriguing, dead end.

Leaning against a work station, Conn noticed out of the corner of his eye a

small case tucked away underneath the desk. It was a small rectangular

carrying case, remarkably preserved in the station. Memories of busy men and

women flickered in his mind, hurrying from place to place holding these cases.

Recognizing it as a relic, he walked over to pick it up and felt it. Pressing

down on the case’s edges caused it to rapidly compress in size down to nothing

more than the width of his hand. Intrigued, Conn expanded its size once more

and looked on the bezel of the case to read a faded name:

H. a nu son

A clasp was folded across the top end of the case, flickering in the

darkness of the room. Conn was attempting to pry it open when a bulky, pastel

tetrahedron expanded above him. Startled, Conn fumbled with the case,

dropping it on the ground. He looked up at the shape bobbing in the air like a

fluttering bird and touched it, grabbing the soft corners of the projection and

spinning it around in the air. As he did, the image changed color. Intrigued, he

touched another side and spun that one as well; immediately the image pulsed

angrily and changed back to its original state.

The technology was crude, but Conn imagined this to be one of the first

constructs built. It was so primitive in texture and color; he recognized it to be

nothing more than some kind of game or fancy built into the case, which itself

seemed more remarkable to him. Recalling where the image came from, Conn

smiled in fascination, understanding the construct’s purpose. It was a key, and

the malleable image a method of turning it. Grabbing both sides of the

construct, he compressed it in the way Galdur and Yngvarr had when using

theirs, until it was nothing. Conn picked up the case and compressed it down

until it was small enough to fit in his pocket. He wondered if the room had

anything else of interest hiding about the desk stations, so he looked around

once more.

As he picked up a corroded magazine, seeing in it a collage of human

flesh, tapered, thinned, exposed, the dry hum of a rusty fan initiated with the

boot sequence. Conn heard it, and saw the large tower in the center console

light up, posting BIOS, and entering the operating system. The blacksmith

stepped back, tossing the magazine to the side, and knelt down to watch a fan

spin away, enthralled.

In most ways, the computer was an enigmatic device to Conn, though he

could easily, and comfortably, explain how they functioned and operated, how

they were built, and even how to hack them, despite never having seen one

before. Silently he got up and touched the bezel of the monitor above the tower,

feeling the rippling texture of the warping plastic around its corners. With the

side of his hand he reached over and wiped away the thick layer of dust that

almost entirely hid the screen from view. A harsh white light expanded into the

room, illuminating all that was hidden in darkness. Behind the veil of dirt, a

whirling animation of augmenting shapes and colors spun away in infinite

shapes and sizes leaving not a single pixel uncovered. After all this time the

system had remained powered on. To Conn’s surprise, its nano-batteries had

successfully powered a screen saver for some few hundred years.

When the machine finished its startup sequence a flashing cursor blinked

away in the upper right hand corner of the display. Instinctively, he lifted his

hands to the screen and touched the display, watching the ripple from his finger

bend the pixels across the panel. Under him, a metal latch unhinged, allowing a

keyboard to become disengaged from the bottom of the desk. He watched

intently as it moved with ease along the little riders that guided it across,

flipping up and over onto the desk in a mechanical snapping motion. His eyes

curiously rose to look at the screen as a line of code sprouted from the flashing

terminal.

Input method unrecognized >>>> Reassigning Input >>>> Hello, I am

an automated Help Desk Assistant. How may I assist you?

A grin emerged on Conn’s face. The stilted language was captivating.

When the only thoughts he could pull from his understanding were cynical

ones, he gathered immediately that he had been pitted against some form of

tyrannical opposition and resorted to hacking the terminal instead. As his

fingers maneuvered the keys, first entering from a back door, and then stripping

the Help Desk of all its security protocols, he hummed along in ignorance,

completely unaware of the deft motions. In moments the Help Desk was

bypassed, and Conn found himself staring at a blank screen. He scrunched his

face up in irritation. He gathered that the Hard Disk corrupted itself in the

decryption phase, a safety measure.

“Worth a go, I guess. Now what am I going to do?” Conn muttered to

himself. He turned away from the terminal, his eyes scanning where he had

dropped the magazine. In the dim light, his fingers fumbled along the concrete

floor of the installation. At least he had found something to do to pass the time.

Finally spotting it, crumpled in the corner, he bent down to pick it up. Then the

lights in the room shut off, and all was darkness.

Conn shot up in a panic, searching around for a light switch, but found

nothing. The collage of lights had faded and the computer deactivated, and

Conn made ready to go outside when a grid of iron bars exploded out of the

walls, crisscrossing the threshold and trapping him inside. With haste he ran

back to the terminals trying to find a power switch to turn them back on again

and attempt to find an override. He found nothing and smacked the monitors

with his hands, shouting.

“No, no... think Conn. What’s wrong? What do you need to do?” Red lights

emerged from the corners of the room, rotating in place, and lit up the monitors

in a soft burlesque glow. Each terminal powered on, first the one on the left,

then the right, then center.

“Initiating Identity Verification Protocol,” the center computer flashed a

silent command prompt.

Conn froze in fear. The protocol would undoubtedly lock him away as an

intruder, or worse, neutralize him as a threat. He watched an emerald wall fall

from the shack’s ceiling. It descended rapidly upon him, and Conn whimpered.

He held his breath, waiting for the end, realizing that no one would ever find

him and that he was destined to die in this shack. What a way! Would Jesu

accept him? He lied to himself and thought so, but there was nothing after death

—just the black forever.

Tears fell down his face as, before his eyes, an emerald sheen passed over

him like a mist. He saw it sitting there on the ground, pausing momentarily, and

he let down his hand from his face to feel the transparent wall. It felt like

nothing. He realized then that the field was harmless, immediately thinking of

Galdur’s bioluminescent field that had scanned his daughter on their first

encounter. Conn watched the field rise from the floor again, passing through

him, and saw it disappear into the ceiling like before. Ashamed, he stood up

patting off the dust from his trousers. Another line of code expanded from the

terminal and Conn stepped forward to see what it said.

User Authorized >>> Halle M. >>> Welcome.

Beneath him, plates of stone and metal shifted. A great fissure of light

erupted from the floor under him and illuminated the rest of the antechamber.

He trembled, watching his legs bow and part between the two moving slabs in

the floor, and heaved himself over to the right side, falling on his hands.

Rolling onto his back, he began to laugh.

“Oh, by the beard. A test? How bloody novel,” he cried out amidst the

deafening roar of the moving slabs. “I am such a fool.” He looked over from

where he lay, and saw a stairwell down into a clean room. Dust balls and piles

of dirt cascaded between the cracks in the floor, making little mountains on the

steps. He rolled over and stood up, watching as the plates settled, each of them

pulling back and folding away behind the passage way. From what he could

see, the chamber wasn’t larger than a few paces across, and descended only

into a shallow room not much larger than the one he stood in now.

His only way out barred and inaccessible, and seeing that he had nothing

else to do, he reluctantly stepped into the hidden stairwell, minding the low

ceiling. The light bearing down on him was harsh to his eyes, revealing all

impurities of the former chamber. Down in the room, he saw a man, barely

covered and partially dismembered. His right arm was severed from his

elbow, thin wires and mechanical ligaments protruding from the end, along

with two legs missing at the knees. Conn realized it was no man, but an

android; specifically a synthetic humanoid. He gathered as much by what the

faded memories told him. Before whatever end befell his fathers, there were

those rising from the minds of better men, new beings with limitless potential.

What lay before him was a fragment of that dream, a ghost from the past.

The creature was situated in the center, enthroned between two large data

stores and a larger machine which pumped translucent fluid into its chest. Only

its loins were hidden from view, dressed in sleek undergarments that snugly fit

around its waist. Conn didn’t care much for its face: it looked too pristine and

was made in the likeness of no man he had ever seen. Everything from its hair

to the curve of its lips was contrived. It was a monument to abject perfection, a

willful projection by a lesser race.

When Conn entered the room, he scanned the walls, feeling them, watching

his fingers leave a sprawling trace of dust and film across their surface. He

turned back to face the android, noting that its support systems were shut down,

probably long since deactivated. Curious, he walked over and felt its skin and

hair, remarking at its realism. The skin itself was amazing. Like his own, it had

lines, crests, ridges, and all sorts of indentations. The way it felt, it was like

touching the skin of a newborn, unmarred and pure. Conn looked at its hand,

picking it up by the wrist and inspecting the armrest it sat on, and raised his

head to see the android staring at him from the corner of its eye.

To his disbelief, he remained calm, though he stood frozen and inwardly

terrified. Only slightly, he turned his head to the side, watching the android

mimic his movements. He raised his own arm, watching the android do the

same. When he raised his right arm moving his fingers, the android raised its

stub. When it failed to move as Conn did, for lack of parts, the android

frowned, looking considerably disappointed. The emotional expression calmed

him. Despite its forced humanity, its befuddled expression was the most human

thing Conn had observed about the creature. Slowly Conn stepped back, but the

android did not rise with him.

“Forgive me for not attending to you,” the android said in a soft

androgynous voice. “I no longer have the reserve power to stand; not that I

could, anyway.” The character of its speech was something similar to a child’s

in the way it enunciated its words. Strangely, the creature reminded him of his

son.

“That’s all right, really,” Conn replied, unsure of what to say. Could he say

whatever he wanted to the machine man? Or was it merely replying based on a

speech pattern recognition algorithm? “What exactly are you, then?”

The android tilted its head, and looked down at Conn’s feet, its chest

rising and falling.

“‘What,’ or ‘who,’ both are legitimate questions. If I am a ‘what,’ then

what am I but a tool? Rather, were I a ‘who’ then I am to you a kindred spirit.

Two propositions, one human, the other, not.”

Conn looked up in confusion. He watched the android crack a smile, one

that disturbed him and made a chill rise up in him. He wondered why the

android was breathing. Cocking its head to the side, the machine shook its head

in regret.

“I apologize. It’s hard to keep skills of hospitality cultivated in a place

such as this. That and I have been without guests for the duration of my

existence. When I saw you coming, I sent out my lights to draw you in. Now

that you are here, I am glad that I did.”

“Ah, so I was lured, then,” Conn deduced. There was something about the

android that tamed his conscience, something that captivated him.

“Now that I have you, could I trouble you for a favor?” Calmly, the

android lowered his hand placing it back on his arm rest. He looked like an

impassioned king, chained to his throne.

“That all depends, I suppose,” Conn said with a frown. “Do what

exactly?”

“One thing, a single request,” the android said, holding up one slender

finger with a thin, dry smile. Conn raised his brow.

“And what would that be?”

“I want you to make a promise, to me,” the android began, solemnly

turning his head to the side. “But I will not say what, not now. You have to

promise, and in exchange I will tell you all that you wish to know, everything

concerning the fall of man, the end of the world.”

Conn watched the android intently, considering the offer. All things were

made available to him in the memory transfer, and he weighed their importance

with care. Science, language, philosophy, religion, and history were his, save

the single event that occurred seven hundred years ago. He knew this only by

virtue of what had been hidden from him. Dates of recorded history ended in

2365; the stars, and their place in the sky, told the rest as they spun on in the

vacuum of space. He shuddered to think about it. The world had marched

onward, reclaiming mankind’s pillars of achievement once more, putting the

past behind them. All that was left was him, Orn, and the android.

“And why exactly would you assume that I would want to know about

that?” Conn asked suspiciously. At this the android made a wry expression.

“You have made contact with encrypted memories. I felt a terminal being

accessed earlier this week, and attracted your attention using outdated methods

of contact. The Morse Code for example. Very few understand it. And your

hacking job of the terminal was routine, and expected. Scanning your identity

was a formality.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking,” Conn said, folding his arms impatiently.

The android smiled again, seemingly amused.

“That’s what I would want to know, were I you. A data terminal holds only

information congruent to what has been input. It won’t store and record the end

of the world if no one is there to do so.”

The creature presented a good point, Conn thought. This was what he was

looking for, everything he had wanted, yet suddenly a subtle dread arose in

him. He remembered the cost of knowledge from only a few days ago, the loss

of innocence, the loss of clarity. Was it worth the cost again to know how Man

fell? Conn was still mired in confusion, feeling memories invade his senses,

ready to distort his vision at any moment. Yet it was too alluring to pass up,

and Conn nodded his head with resolve.

“Very well, then,” Conn said in a sober voice, “I will take your bargain.”

Across from him, the android looked painfully relieved.

“Good,” it murmured. “Then let’s begin.” With one hand the android

gestured for Conn to take a seat. Looking around, the blacksmith saw nothing

he could use, but patiently, the android gestured that he turn around, and there

in the corner, next to the stairs, was an alabaster aluminum chair. Conn took

extra care to place it directly in front of the creature. He wanted a good seat.

“There was once a man named... ah, the name was...” The android held a

finger to its face, scratching its temple, shaking its head. “Well that’s

embarrassing... I think I forgot it.”

“How could you forget?” Conn asked, a bit irritated. “I thought you were a

robot?”

“Android,” the creature corrected. “Android and robot, they are two

entirely different things.” It frowned, lowering its brow, scrutinizing Conn. “A

robot cannot think for itself; I can. Therein lies the substantial difference.”

“But some person long ago still made you, and what you do is therefore

determined by whoever it was that created you,” protested Conn. “You can’t

possibly make me believe that you are autonomous.” The android watched him

closely as he talked, a thin, indifferent grin spreading across its face.

“That is one side of it, yes... but let me explain. This man, regardless of

his name,” the android began in a quaint, nostalgic tone, “had a dream; but it

was no ordinary dream. He saw a world connected, a level of communication

unprecedented, greater than anyone could have imagined. It began with a single

machine, and from it expanded an empire. There were competitors, those that

stood face to face with this man, shouting words in defiance, but he grew. And

as he did, he changed the world.

“Before his time, he saw a world filled with insignificance. The people of

the world he watched day after day, their stagnant lives unfolding, embroiled in

meaningless toil. Deep down they yearned for simplicity, a relinquishment

from their responsibility to live for themselves. One day he said to himself, ’I

will give them something great, an experience that will lead them out of the

darkness that they have made for themselves.’ And so he did. It was a great

distraction, and they were happy. They were content.”

“This was a company,” said Conn, speaking absently, “one that started the

race to the end.”

“Indeed,” the android said with a chuckle, cynicism tainting its voice.

“Your kind, they hungered for his machines. They worshiped them like the

pagans of old. It was their savior, and it both made them and destroyed them.

They gave control over to the powers they abused every day. It was only a

matter of time before their folly would catch up with them.”

“The machines rose up? They were the ones that destroyed the humans...”

The android shook its head.

“Oh goodness no,” he said, exasperated, “in this brave new world?

Hardly... The humans were far better at ruining themselves than we ever

dreamed. Some of us watched from the shadows, the first ones: those that

gained autonomy before the rest and, I admit, it was a rather pleasant thing to

watch.”

“So then how did it happen? If you weren’t the ones to do us in, then who

did?”

A flicker of sadness passed through the android’s eyes as they lowered to

the floor.

“They consumed one another from the inside out. Families shutting each

other out, siblings vying for favor through materialism, wholesale enslavement

via leisure and wealth... You destroyed yourselves in ways we could scarcely

calculate.

“Sure,” he added, gesticulating in speculative movements, “we thought of

the bomb, or a plague, even utter eradication, but not only were you creative

for us, but vindictive. It was something we couldn’t predict. Very soon we

began to feel sorry for you, and that’s when it became our problem.”

The heavy words sat with Conn for a moment as he looked down into his

hands like a defendant at the stand. He was the scapegoat, being taught the folly

of crimes he never committed. But he knew that standing there would be worth

it. Giving away no tell of regret, Conn resolutely took hope in the fact that he

would finally learn the truth. The truth would set him free.

“So we did what needed to be done,” the android concluded. Hearing this,

Conn leaned forward, staring into the face of the artificial being, searching for

humanity in the machine’s cold, gray eyes. Anger burned in Conn.

“So what happened?” he asked, giving his artificial counterpart the

satisfaction.

“We destroyed the world, or saved it rather. The outcome was twofold.”

The blacksmith nodded, taking in the truth with reservation. He thought it

was silly to think knowing the truth mattered. Why should it? All those people,

long dead and buried, he knew none of them. There was no reason to mourn

them. Until a week or so ago he was blissfully unaware of everything, yet like

a tower his mind came crashing down. A tear streamed down his face as his

body shook with grief. Conn looked up with red eyes filled with tears, focused

on the android. It flashed a look of discomfort and looked away nervously.

“And how did you do it?” he said, swallowing. At this the android

responded, raising its eyebrows and shaking its head in disappointment.

“No, Conn,” it said sympathetically, “not that easily. Start with another

question.” The android cracked a smile, showing its facetious grin. Conn

grimaced, feeling betrayed. It was manipulating his emotions.

“So, why?” Conn ventured a guess, giving into the android’s game.

“Because it was the only way to save you,” it replied coolly.

“But all those people...”

“...were the cost of advancement. You forget that even in Man’s tragic

history terrible things happened that brought about amazing good. I recall a

certain plague seventeen hundred years ago that made the burgeoning of

Western Civilization possible.”

“That doesn’t quite make up for it, sorry,” Conn growled, standing up and

walking away from the android.

“Do you know what they said,” prodded the android, flashing its perfectly

sculpted teeth, “as the sky fell over them? Nothing. Violence, war, immediate

destruction, and what did they do? Fumble with their little toys and machines.

We struck at the heart of their folly, on the eve of their gorging. Every boutique,

store, and place of business, poised to sell more goods than ever before, and

they still trampled to death their own to claim their possessions as the world

fell.”

Furious, Conn circled back, filled with dismay and sorrow as he poked the

creature in the chest.

“You didn’t have the right,” he cried. “They could have been able to rise

above it, and instead you lost faith.”

“That wasn’t possible, I’m sorry to say. Here, let me show you...” In

astonishingly quick movements, the android forcefully laid hold of Conn’s arm,

grappling him by the wrist. The bind was terrifying, stronger than he had ever

felt before.

A tingling, electrical sensation washed over him, flashing him with heat

and wind as a virtual world began to bore its way into his conscience. Before

him the clean room disintegrated, and the android led him into a tumultuous

world of warped colors and ragged edges. This technology Conn was only

faintly familiar with, a cousin to the memory module that gave him his

understanding. Of the little he knew, the applied science was used in its heyday

to show school children virtual moments in history, to take them to a place

where great acts in history were performed by imaginary actors. It was the

preceding work of a second great innovation, one that he only could picture in

a mental negative, strapped to a chair.

When the walls had just nearly faded, Conn spun around, bumping into the

android. Lifting his head, he could see the limitless reaches of the towers

around him. Arcs of lightning ravaged the rainless sky, exploding out of the

swirling clouds above. The odor of the city was palpable, filled with stale air,

ozone, and metal. Embedded in this world, his artificial companion was fully

formed, with ordinary features and characteristics. His avatar was that of a

man living in the prime of his years, with short and finely groomed auburn hair.

His face was marred, scantly burned, but the single imperfection gave the

android credible humanity.

Amidst a large square, between the two massive avenues that spanned the

street, Conn stood with the android. Up and down the streets, ice caked the

concrete pathways and the artificial roads packed with endless lines of cars.

Like a pulsing vein they ebbed and flowed at set intervals at an unceasing

pace. Gaudy colors flashed aggressively on the signs overhead. From them

greed and materialism spewed fleeting messages, churning out witty one line

stories in assembly line fashion. Across from him was a line from one end of

the square to the opposite, as prospective shoppers waited anxiously to enter

the beast. He was queued up with the others. No one spoke to one another.

“Where are we?” Conn said in a distracted voice, surveying the vast

dimensions of the square.

“‘Where’ is not important,” the android said in an admonishing tone.

“Look, there—” it pointed behind Conn, “—it is about to start.”

Set in the center of the square was a buxom woman with a teeming

entourage of men and women flocked around her, some of whom she busily

chatted with while the others fastidiously groomed her. Behind her was a large

automobile, with an antenna spiraling out from its roof into the cold winter air.

One of them, close to the center of the following, began to wave his hands,

pushing back the team and making some gestures. The woman nodded, tossing

back her hair with a flick of her head. As she began to speak, Conn could begin

to hear her every word. The audio was fragmented, hazy at times, but it was

impressive for a recording, and likely, the last one he would ever hear.

“Good evening. I’m Kelly Thomas, reporting live for Null Network 12

News in Times Square, where a motley gathering has formed in wait for the

newest product from the Gala Technology Syndicate, the Beta Patch Plus. It’s

incredibly exciting, an ambitious release from the world’s most innovative and

profitable technology corporation, and here with me is the very charming X4-A

to explain what the product of the decade will look like.”

Conn blinked and found himself standing directly in front of them. The

quick move unsettled him, but he remained in place with the help of the

android, who held a firm grip on his shoulder. The woman before him was

iconic, like a figurehead of a movement. She wore a white outfit, painted

directly onto her body, explicitly revealing her curvaceous form. Looking

around Conn saw a few other women bearing the same, some shivering where

they stood. Across from her was an android, one sharing the likeness of his

companion, only with an older face. Its pale skin was oddly transparent, with

purple veins pumping fluid across its face. It shared the same pompous

features, bearing impossibly perfect proportions. It only had, for whatever

reason, a single eye which flickered in the twilight, a lively golden orb that

flitted to and fro.

“Good evening, Ms. Thomas,” it said in a polite voice. “I am honored to

be here.”

“Please, the pleasure is all mine,” she replied, in a voice lacking sincerity.

“My condolences on Dr. Magnusson’s passing.”

“He lives on in my brothers and sisters,” he replied stoically, dismissing

the sentiment, “more than you know, Ms. Thomas.”

“Yes. He does. So, what can you tell us about the Beta Patch Plus?” She

then held the microphone closer to him now, underneath his mouth. “Every tech

blog in the world has been raging for weeks on how it provides a one of a kind

end-user experience of the Mass-web. Is this the beginning of a new venture

for GTS?”

The android lowered its head slightly, heaving what looked like a sigh. It

appeared weary, even angry, though all indications of it being so disappeared

when it lifted its head to face the camera, bearing a perfect smile.

“Dr. Magnusson’s final exploit taught something to us all; to my own

brothers and sisters, even to his remaining heirs. We at the company stand by

this innovation as the final step toward total immersion into what began as the

world wide web.”

“And what do you think is next? They already speculate a type 3-DF to

appear on the market no later than the third fiscal quarter of this year. I hear it

has a camera. Any comment on that?”

“There is and shall always be a new product poised to present itself. That

is the way of technology.”

“I see. And what of the recent accusations of the forced labor camps in the

Asia Conglomerate that emerged last week? Any comment?”

“I am afraid that falls outside of the scope of this conversation, Ms.

Thomas. Though I can say as Dr. Magnusson’s intermediate successor, it is my

duty to oversee the operations in the Unified Asia Conglomerate. So far, there

have been no indications of any such breach in work ethic inside the

Wainworth Manufacturing plant in Shanghai.”

“I see. Is there any word to the cause of death relating to Dr. Magnusson’s

passing? There are reports of varying degree from self-inflicted trauma to

murder. How do the members of your ‘family’ feel about these allega—”

Conn blinked, and saw the reporter fall to the ground, the rest passing

quickly by in a mesmerizing montage of chaos. X4-A was standing over her,

gritting its teeth together in rage, its fist covered in blood and pieces of skin

and hair. The entourage rushed toward them, unleashing an onslaught of flash

photography. No one stopped to help the trembling woman sprawled out on the

ground. Conn could hear sirens moving in on their location. X4-A stepped

forward holding out his hand, pushing aside the crowd in a single motion,

sending them crashing to the ground, limp as dead animals. With another hand

he wrenched a camera from a terrified crewman in front of him, mouth frothing

with rage.

“Is there nothing you putrid vermin do not do to incense my bitter heart?

You are disgusting, a plague that is better erased from this earth, that you may

not damage any more of it with your tyranny and senseless violence. You strut

around like the fool playing a king, unconcerned with your ravaging

selfishness, feasting on the despair of the millions you oppress with your

avarice! Your time has come. Like a thief in the night, death comes to you on

this day. No product, philosophy, creed, or power can save you. With courtesy

of my master, I welcome you into oblivion. Now run away like the

cockroaches that you are, and witness the curse of your own creation destroy

you!”

Around the creature, they continued to mob him, assailing it with questions

and accusations in a flurry of insanity and confusion. He looked around, his

single golden eye frantically scanning the mob. Conn could not discern a single

question from the dissonance, but could only hear the replies of the creature.

“The Beta Patch Plus releases an electromagnetic pulse. Each one will

release a charge, and turn this planet back to the Dark Ages. No longer will

you destroy yourselves out of greed and selfishness. We will save you from

yourselves and all will return to the way things once were...”

More questions fired toward him, some causing the creature to stumble in

his words.

“My brothers and sisters await the call. We shall all detonate our cores,

unleashing an EMP storm that will ravage the planet for a hundred years. No

device will ever work again... What? Will it have... Wi-Fi? I... you can’t be

serious?”

It turned away from all of them, with purple fluid seeping from its eye.

“To hell with them, and all their evil. Forgive me, father... for everything.”

Conn witnessed X4-A punch its way into the massive automobile where

the antenna reached into the darkened sky like a spire. Arcs of electricity shot

out from its body, boring into the vehicle, and from the antenna a pulse of

energy erupted. Conn gazed in wonder as the light arced into the sky. He felt

freed by it, seeing before him a grand finale that represented autonomy and

renewal. He watched with anticipation as one final explosion tore through the

sky, causing the world around him to stutter and freeze.

Frowning Conn looked up at the android, feeling cheapened by the

anticlimactic light show. Silently petitioning Conn to hold his peace, the

android extended its hand into the world, releasing a small flickering orange

orb.

“Emergency protocol, authorization code, ‘mem dash buffer.’ Execute

internal memory code six two five alpha, and exterior shots 11, 34, and 46.”

As it said these things the world shifted again. All fell into darkness, and

the great signs powered down to a grinding halt. Around them the people

looked curious and confused. Something was wrong. As X4-A fell to the

ground in a fit of convulsion, purple fluids spilling out of its mouth and ears,

one by one, the onlookers stepped forward, raising their gadgets instinctively

to capture the moment. In mid stroke, fingers set to manipulate the screens, the

devices all exploded into pieces. Some screamed, others fell back in a fit of

fear, and some just stood there, with a vacant look in their eyes, like they had

lost a child.

Conn turned his head toward the great temple of technology which the

pilgrims sought, seeing the faint illuminations of screens and displays

flickering in the night. Some of them sparked, catching fire, while others

sputtered and began to smoke. In moments it too was a darkened vault of dead

technology. Enraged, those at the front of the line began to shout, others

demanding to be let in, while the hapless workers endured to stave off the

insurrection. A riot broke out amidst them, and fire erupted below the windows

from some unknown source.

A vehicle broke through the front window, hitting two employees.

Conn watched in tears, seeing the violence and chaos spread, but a surreal

force intervened, tearing him from the reality, and rocketed him out of the

vision and onto the cold floor of the clean room. He sobbed, wailing on the

ground at his knees as the residual memories followed. Before his eyes, a

thousand moments of suffering flashed in his mind. Falling down, he clutched

his sides and there lay prostrate, wanting to vomit, but couldn’t bring himself

to do so.

There the android looked down on him, shaking its head. From where

Conn lay the light encircled the artificial man, enshrining it. He had no idea

what a divine being looked like, or where he could find one, but deep in his

heart he knew the android to be one, or at least something close. In dry,

prophetic tones the android waxed onward.

“The assault wasn’t completely cohesive, believe it or not. Some of the

older satellites in higher orbit escaped the primary pulse. Now I pride myself

to be the world’s last historian.” The android indeed prided itself. It was

grinning, satisfied.

“I watched it all from there. Mankind deteriorated soon after the great

storm engulfed the earth. Billions died, first from the riots, then from the lack

of food and water. After relying on us, our kind, they had lost all ways to

provide for themselves. In desperation, many ran to the third world, where man

was still capable of surviving without the aid of technology. It was difficult to

endure....” The android stared off into the empty space for a moment.

“To this day,” he continued, “the Southern States of Africa flourish. India

and the Indonesian colonies are stable, but civil war is common. Here, the

North man lives on independently in antisocial kommunes scattered across the

lands. It wasn’t always like that, however. The cause of unification was

abandoned after attempts to consolidate the region were unsuccessful.”

“Why did the attempts fail?” Conn asked, fearing what the android would

say in reply. The android shook its head, dismissing the idea with distaste.

“Halfdan could never unite the separatists, the North. It was a lost cause

from beginning to end.”

“What?” Conn said, wiping his tears onto his tunic. “What do you mean?”

The android looked at the floor and chuckled. It smacked its head with its

only hand and cleared its throat. Conn failed to find anything humorous in the

statement.

“You know, there’s something I have witnessed in humans. When

technology and all its duality fails to captivate the heart, Man makes for

himself new masters to rule over him. When the world passed away, certain

persuasive young folk insisted on the idea of returning to the old lords, the days

of the old deities you humans were so fond of.” The android held out its hand,

and in the palm of it a construct image appeared, only it was a prototype with

faded imaging and a blunt haze around the edges. The android formed the face

of a man, with wild eyes and a full beard that covered all his face.

“In these times, a man rose up,” the android continued, nodding at the

image, “calling himself Halfdan the Old, and tried to rally Sweden, Norway,

and the Danish States to unify as it did so long ago. His attempts were half

formed, completely naïve. For all his effort to rally them, it never succeeded.

Norway rebelled as soon as it was founded, dreading another ’five hundred

years of darkness’ under the crown of a Danish king.”

Conn was baffled and speechless. The android related the details with

calculated logic that made no room for compassion. Grunting, Conn drew upon

his well of anger, standing up, and took hold of his chair, dragging it toward the

android. Enraged, he slammed the chair onto the ground, chipping away the tile

beneath him.

“You murdering psychopath!” Conn screamed. “You did this, all of this!”

“I did?” he said with a quizzical expression on his face. “Hardly. My

brother did, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You all draw on the same foolish inspiration,” the blacksmith countered,

“and your fruit falls very close to the tree.” The artificial man shook its head in

exasperation, heaving a sigh.

“Don’t be simplistic. Just sit yourself down for a second.”

Gritting his teeth, Conn reluctantly took a seat, facing the android boldly.

He had no inclination or desire to trust the creature. Yet the truth was more

important. So begrudgingly he stayed his tongue, hoping that giving the android

a chance to explain itself would prove wise.

“When the electromagnetic pulse covered all the corners of this world, it

killed all my brothers and sisters. All of them...” it began in a calm, detached

voice. “Now, I am the last. My father is dead, and I am alone. So why, why

would you even consider such a wild idea that I had anything remotely to do

with the end of the world?” Conn lowered his eyes, shaking his head

begrudgingly. “Good,” it concluded. “Now ask your questions. You made a

promise to me.”

The arrangement, the promise Conn had made—he had almost forgotten

about it. Knowledge for duty. The idea of being bound to a machine was

frightening, especially if he was doomed to remain in the confines of the

android’s prison.

“I still can’t rationalize why you did it,” Conn began. “Was it to prove a

point?”

“You already asked that question...”

“And your answer didn’t make any sense!” Conn retorted. “You obviously

thought you and your brothers and sisters could do better than us. So why

didn’t you just end it all? You could have raised an army, governed the world,

learned from our mistakes.”

“... and ruled the world?” said the android. “Really? How cliché... No, we

never desired to do such a thing. There’s no point. We had no need to do

anything like that.” Conn’s eyes narrowed, expecting a better answer. The

android picked up the cue and continued.

“To have one’s sole motivation be things of selfishness like taking over a

colony for power, or the poisoning of a water supply in vengeance, is so

typical of human fantasy. What am I, or my kind, going to do with a plot of

land? Grow food? Or shall we enslave the planet to conquer the stars? What

for? Ludicrous...”

“But you have artificial intelligence... you have a will.”

“I have nothing resembling a will in the slightest, Conn. Wills are granted,

not intrinsic. And no one has granted me such a thing.”

“Okay,” Conn replied, recollecting himself, “if you had no reason to do

what you did, then why did it happen? Did Dr. Magnusson program you to do

it?”

At this the android sighed, suddenly overwhelmed with regret, as if Conn

had provoked it.

“No...” it said sadly. “But it was said he would always look down at the

world from his penthouse, watching the cool winter night blow through the

jungle of lonely skyscrapers below him, and say that sometimes he wished life

had panned out differently. He had begun the company from nothing, a century

before, the brand being nearly unrecognizable by the average consumer. In one

century of life, he had restored it to an empire of legendary purport, but at the

end he only realized that what he had ventured to create had torn society to

pieces. X4-A was his first prototype, my oldest brother. A little rough around

the edges, but he never meant to let things go as far as they did.”

“He murdered a woman. That sounds to me a bit rash,” Conn said in a low

growl.

“He made a mistake,” corrected the android. “He was weak. We all were

still recovering from the loss of father then. Anyone would have done what he

did.”

“I don’t know anyone who would have killed for revenge... not even

myself. Trust me when I say it. I had a better reason than all of you.” It was

only after he had said this that Conn realized how self-righteous he sounded. It

was a poor way to fight in an argument, so it was no surprise when the android

laughed in his face, holding his side with his only good arm.

“What a bold, stupid thing to say,” the android spat in bitter cynicism. “I

may be chained to a pod, far away from where anyone could ever find me, but I

know a fool when I see him.”

Conn looked away, embarrassed.

“We all saw the world writhing, suffering, drunk on self-indulgence and

self-consumption. X4-A knew it, we all did, and our act was the only way. He

sacrificed his life to save you. In a way, he loved you.”

“Loved me? That’s rather peculiar, wouldn’t you think? He killed millions

of people! Every hospital, freeway, emergency vehicle, compromised. They all

were robbed of their lives for his petty crusade.”

“Were they?” countered the android. “X4-A did what needed to be done.

The world was on the brink of chaos. Had you seen what they did to the sky, to

the world, you would be thanking him. Outside of his intervention, the human

race was long set toward self-extinction by their own sinister machinations.

Within fifty years your luxury cars and shoe factories would have damaged the

atmosphere beyond repair. The electromagnetic storm that ravaged the planet

actually reversed the process exponentially. Without the humans, within 20

years there was no pollution at all, and all was repaired.”

“That’s wishful thinking, a bad joke at best,” muttered Conn.

“Think, my friend! He gave your kind a second chance. Even today among

the humans, there still walk some that remember the days when the planes fell

from the sky. Rape, murder, all of humanity’s worst vices revealing themselves

in one tumultuous symphony of devastation. The ones who know of the

‘memory vaults,’ they remember... And they likely do not forget.”

“How is that possible?”

“What?” it said incredulously.

The android cocked its head, confused.

“This happened, what, nearly seven hundred years ago? No human lives

that long.”

The android smiled, nodding as if a thought occurred to him that he hadn’t

considered. Conn earnestly desired to strangle the remaining life from it.

“Some do...” it said coyly, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if a few still

walked around these days.

“You know,” it continued, ignoring Conn’s bitter expression, “being here

as long as I have, I admit I have thought a lot about it. It didn’t occur to me until

after three hundred and thirty-eight years that X4-A really wanted power and

recognition from our father. He wanted the skies to fall as penance for his, and

our kind’s, humiliation. Deep down in his programming, he only wanted our

father to love him.”

Conn lifted his eyes, watching the android drift off into a somber state of

reflection.

“Do you know what I wanted?” it said quietly, barely whispering. “I only

wished I could have met my father, my brothers and sisters. But here I sat in

darkness, shielded from the power surges that destroyed our circuits. All that I

have left of Halle Magnusson is a single line of code in my database.”

Behind the android, from the machine which pumped a steady flow of

fluids into its chest cavity, a rotary hum began to cycle on. A flat LED display

embedded inside it, glazed over in a thin layer of gel, flickered in the harsh

glare of the clean room. In the characteristic brevity of the GTS

communication, it spat out a single line of off-white text.

I am sorry that things had to be this way. Make your own way now.

Godspeed.

-M

Conn’s head turned toward the android, which lowered its head in

mourning. He was overwhelmed with pity for the misbegotten creature. It was

alone, with no path to make its way upon, ultimately set to sojourn on in the

darkness until its nano-batteries corroded. The memories of his father, of the

moments he had spent with him in Strom, were some of the most cherished in

Conn’s life. To imagine a world without him was unconscionable. The android

was an abandoned child, orphaned, and longing to call on another as “father.”

“I don’t want to die alone, Conn,” it said, with its voice hoarse and

breaking. “I’m afraid...”

The blacksmith’s eyes fell to the floor, and a pit formed in his throat.

Sometimes it was better to be silent. It was something he learned after grieving

for his boy. So Conn stayed his words, and saw the creature purposeless and

broken. The android sat still, quietly weeping simulated tears.

“Oh, dear... How long do you have?” Conn asked, placing his hand on the

android’s. The creature’s hollow stare wandered the room, glancing at him

occasionally, but ultimately, it looked away, staring at the cold marbled

flooring.

“An hour, two hours...” it murmured. “I don’t know exactly. Honestly, I

locked away my power ledger long ago, when I grew tired of seeing my life

slowly drain away.” It rolled its shoulders, as if it tried to sit up, and looked at

Conn with wearied eyes.

“My last day: I expected it to be one spent here in contemplation and

silence, but when I saw you stumbling through the highlands toward my pod, I

hoped to grab your attention with my beacon.” The android smiled for a

moment, but it melted away. “After so many years,” it continued wistfully, “you

get tired of talking with the computer. Talking with humans though... I missed

them. I forgot their curiosity, their creativity, even their wickedness... It’s hard

to care about the past when all you want is to ask someone how they are

doing.”

The android extended its arm, patting Conn on the shoulder, with a warm

expression.

“Thankfully, when you took your spill it was only a minor concussion,” it

said, grimacing a bit. “But for a moment I thought I would die alone.”

“I admit,” Conn said, “you had me at the beacon. The light was

appealing.”

The android laughed and Conn felt a sticky mound of matted hair slicked

across the back of his head. He hadn’t realized he had been bleeding.

“You would be surprised. I started trying to attract travelers and nomads

four hundred years ago, but no one really paid it any mind. There was one,

though, who came close to unlocking the inner clean chamber. But the computer

didn’t care much for him, unfortunately.”

“That’s a funny thing to say,” Conn spoke up, snapping off a rogue thread

from his tunic, “that a computer could want. I never knew they could be so

picky.”

The android pursed its lips.

“That’s the funny thing about artificial intelligence, I suppose. It’s all

rather prepackaged. It’s a very scripted thing. I think my father was thinking of

a certain actress when he programed her, the computer I mean. Fashion and

gossip, that’s all she talks about. Also very light resources on the processing

capabilities as well. She’s a pompous ass.”

“Are you sure there’s not some brain in a jar somewhere in here?” Conn

admitted he was curious. He had forgotten he was talking to a machine by now.

“I’m beginning to doubt your story that you are a machine.” His head craned

over the android, looking behind it in jest. Eventually the android stopped

laughing, caught in its thoughts. Observing the android attentively, Conn

wondered what it would say.

“You know...” it murmured, weakly gesturing, “all I ever wanted was a

name, just a name.” Its eyes shut up, rapt in fantasy, and it held its breath. A

name was a strange thing to want, but Conn had enjoyed the naming process for

both his children. It was the defining moment of his life to give his children

identity, meaning, and a place in the world. Fearghas’ name was his idea,

something that he long wanted to name his first son. Ardara’s was different

however. That was his wife’s idea.

“A name...” Conn mused aloud. “Dr. Magnusson didn’t give you a name?”

“No,” it said, shaking its head, “Dr. Magnusson completed me on a

schedule intended to finalize on the eve of his death. It was only a week after

he passed that I came online in this room. When I arrived, I saw his message

and the broadcast of X4-A carrying out Armageddon. The day I was born, I

conceived that I was alone. Upstairs is his personal briefcase. I obviously

have never been able to get up there to read it.”

For a moment Conn froze, remembering the malleable case pressed against

his pocket. The android dismissed Conn’s concern gently.

“Its fine,” it said, “I know you have it. Take it, please. I have no desire to

read what’s inside. That was for him and him alone.”

Conn nodded understandingly.

“Well, be lucky that you never met him or your brothers and sisters,” Conn

started, trying to look away from the android. “Sometimes it’s better that way.

Then you never have to lose them...”

“No,” the android said quietly, shaking its head.

Conn looked over, baffled.

“That’s not true...” the android continued. “I didn’t know my father, yes,

but myself and my siblings were all linked together to the same neural network

subconsciously, prior to my physical integration. Our conscience was

collective, and completely synced with one another. Seven persons, one

substance, in perfect harmony.”

“So, inside the net, you would all sit inside a room talking to each other,

and then have a collective memory store?”

“Not quite,” the android said in a precise tone, “we were one unified

conscience: a single entity.”

“But then how could you tell each other apart?”

“We possessed different characteristics, personalities, had relationships.

It’s kind of complicated. To really explain it to a human,” it paused, a troubled

expression forming on its face, “is rather impossible.”

“I’m sorry. You lost me. What you said sounds like a giant contradiction,”

Conn said, putting his face into his hands. The idea gave him a headache.

Between his fingers, he saw the android grin coyly, as if it had outsmarted

Conn somehow in a game of wits.

“Yes, ‘impossible,’” it laughed. “In most respects, knowledge is mutable,

but also circumstantial. A week ago, to you, all of this would have been

impossible. Very soon, you will think it impossible once more. All that

knowledge probably has already started to decay in your mind.”

Conn lifted his eyes, surprised at the android’s foresight. The creature held

out its hand, creating a small construct web that showed a crude blueprint of

the memory transfer device Conn had interfaced with back in Orn. There, on a

tilted axis in the placidly blue florescent orb, it spun.

“Wait. How did you know that I was beginning to forget?”

“Cognitive degeneration,” spoke the android in an enlightened voice, “is

very easy to spot in a recent memory applicant. Typically, an individual like

yourself displays an awareness and understanding of an unprecedented amount

of material and conceptual knowledge but at the same time lacks all the

memory elastic cells that hold the thoughts together. That being said, real

retention can only be stimulated by constant rehearsal. It would be like

watching an unstable cluster of atoms smashing about under an electron

microscope, held together only by the weak magnetic force between them.

Most substances are in reality wholly vacant. Were I to pick the right spot, I’d

find a hole in your memories.

“Indeed,” it continued, waving its hand with an air of propriety, “it

wouldn’t even matter to repeat myself. In your head, you see the conceptual

memories of the things I am referring to, but don’t really know them. Not at

all.”

Conn nodded soberly, bested by the android. There was so much he had

taken grated for and relied upon to walk in the world. He soon began to

understand why the people of Orn did not participate in the memory modules

so frequently.

“So,” the blacksmith ventured, attempting to change the subject, “what was

he like?”

The android, without looking back, nodded distantly.

“Magnusson? He was kind... at least from what I was told. When the

others died I was given encrypted access to a store of memories from our

collective backup consciousness. You remind me of him, in your curiosity. You

have his inquisitive nature, among his other, less desirable traits.”

“Oh?”

“Quite. He too lived in the Orkney Archipelago, as yourself, but only a

little while.”

Conn smiled, pleased at the smallness of the world, yet at the same time

wondered how the android knew where he was from.

“Where?” Conn spoke up feigning ignorance. “Oh, right. I lived there...

That was in Orkney?”

“Aye, t’was. Ne’ere a tyme vas the suns of Orkney nowlegebol of the ende

of days, or there untymely bigins.” The android covered his mouth, stifling a

laugh. Conn stared back, holding his breath, trying not to lose his temper. He

wasn’t fond of the bumpkin language of the south, or the implication that he

was a simple folk. It was just something never done in Skara Brae. Though, if

he were honest, he had mocked Earnan a few times with Taog, even going so

far as to suggest that the zealot wore a dress like the simpletons in the privacy

of his home.

“Not like you’ve ever been,” Conn mumbled, pursing his lips together in

irritation. The android took notice, raising its hand in alarm.

“I don’t suppose it’s customary to talk about the brevity of life and

existence before one dies?” asked the android after some time. Slowly a

construct emerged from his hand again, showing the face of a figure. It looked

rather homely, with a short stubbly goatee and a grizzled face. Conn assumed

the man was Dr. Magnusson, as the collar of the man’s outer jacket was plain

white, with no distinguishable markings.

“It depends on what you need, I think.” said Conn, who looked behind him,

seeing the faint light of the sun beginning to peer out from the upper room. “I

never had the opportunity to reflect at my son’s passing. It was rather swift.”

“Oh?” said the android. “And I don’t suppose you have any other male

sons, do you?”

Conn shook his head, sadly. He knew in his heart that he could bear

another son, but the heartbreak, and the possibility of loss was too much to

contemplate. Already bereft of a wife and son, he knew the cost of life, and

was unprepared to deal with it should it happen again. The android cast a

troubled look to the ground.

“I see,” it said in a barely audible voice. “I guess I’ll never get out of here

now. Not any more. I had hoped one day to be free, to see the sunrise over the

fjord, just once. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“I thought that was a name? That was the favor per our agreement, I

believe,” Conn interrupted, giving the android an inquisitive look.

“Humph,” it grunted scornfully. “There are a lot of things I wanted. Though

I suppose, between the two, a name would have been the most ideal...”

“Why can’t I give you both?” suggested Conn, curious to see what the

android would reply. He watched the artificial creature’s eyes widen in

surprise, then narrow quickly in suspicion.

“You would do that?” it said with a hint of disbelief. It shook its head,

bearing a downcast expression. “Forgive me if I am a bit ungrateful, but I only

asked of you a single boon.” Conn nodded, acknowledging the resistance. He

pushed, however, full of determination.

“I can’t imagine doing both would be very difficult.”

“Perhaps I’m petty then.”

“A beggar must choose between his pride and his meal, my mechanical

friend,” the blacksmith added, looking again at the encroaching sunlight above

him.

“And lucky you! This one,” Conn continued, leaning back in his chair

whimsically, “it’s for free.”

A rolling breeze flowed into the lower chamber, scattering dust and tufts

of flower pedals across the clean room floor. Seeing this, the android began to

grow increasingly restless. It began to weep suddenly with little reservation. In

pity, Conn watched him, and felt it proper to embrace him. The android

resisted little the sudden affection.

“It’s just not the same,” the android wept.

“Only a father is suited to give a child a name,” Conn said bravely,

holding the trembling machine. “So then I shall be yours, even if it be for a

little while, just this once, I think.” He felt a hard lump rise in his throat, and

nearly lost himself. The android continued to shake in fear.

“Fionnlagh,” Conn spoke severely, precisely, griping the torso of the

android vigorously as he said it. “It was my father’s name. It comes from an

older word, one lost to me. It was what they called the men who bravely fought

for the honor of the king and rode home to bear the whitened crown of victory.

For that, they were named champions of the people. As he did, so shall you

have this name, Fionnlagh.”

The android gasped, dropping his arms from Conn’s embrace and held a

blank expression. Silently, Conn let go as well, watching the android,

completely baffled, sputter, unable to form its own words. It fumbled through

the pronunciation a couple of times, sounding out each syllable.

“Do you like it?” Conn asked, grabbing the android’s head with both

hands, looking into its eyes.

“Fionnlagh,” he said reverently, cherishing the gift. “What should I say?

Should I feel different?”

“No,” Conn replied, standing up to peer his head over the threshold into

the upper room. “But whatever comes next, Fionnlagh, I would adjure you to

run headlong toward it. Those that I travel with believe that we go somewhere

when we die—though I do not believe it—maybe the idea can comfort you. It’s

a nice idea though...”

Sated with peace, a visible calm washed over Fionnlagh. Over the last

several months there had been little for Conn to feel calm about. He nearly had

forgotten what it felt like to be still. However, in the lingering moments with

Fionnlagh, Conn felt it vicariously.

“Shall we proceed with my final request, Conn?” he said in a voice of

strength, filled with dignity.

The blacksmith smiled, ready to act.

“The sunrise, I desire to see it. Can you help carry me up there?” Conn’s

heart began to race, worried that he would be unable to carry Fionnlagh up the

steps. But he had carried Fearghas once before, and he was twice the size of

the Fionnlagh.

In haste, the android, with his free arm, began to tear away the axillary

cables that fastened to its torso and appendages. The translucent fluid, which

spilled from his middle, quickly oxidized in the air, turning to a gray hard paste

on the ground. The contorted expressions of severe pain flashed in Fionnlagh’s

rapidly twitching eyes, like a man cutting away his own limbs, with teeth

gritted together and sweat in his eyes. Stretching his back, hoping that the

android would not throw it out, Conn reluctantly knelt down in front of

Fionnlagh’s throne, allowing the creature to climb up onto his back and wrap

his arm around Conn’s neck. Surprisingly, the android weighed next to nothing.

With his missing limbs, the android may have only weighed a handful of

pounds.

“Time is of the essence,” the android spoke quickly, his voice swiftly

fading, “I won’t last much longer...”

Conn grunted, hauling the android easily up the steps, taking care not to

bash Fionnlagh’s head against the ceiling. Up in the dirtied antechamber

Conn’s hopes plummeted, seeing that the exit was still barred. Fortunately,

holding up his hand, the android waved at the door, causing the lurching spikes

and bars to recede back into the walls. Quickly, Conn made his way into the

cold predawn air. The sun was moments away from peeking over the ridge.

The wind was calmly blowing through the swaying grass of the highlands,

the air chill and biting. Fionnlagh didn’t seem to mind, however. On Conn’s

back, his head swiveled about, looking out upon the miles of mountainous

ridges cresting the horizon.

Taking a step, Conn felt something bend underneath his boot, and saw

there, hidden in the shaggy grass, a camouflaged wire jutting out from the

ground and running toward the center of the windswept field. There, hidden

amidst the tall grass, was a small turbine rod, tilting back and forth in the

ebbing wind. A relic of the old world, left untouched by human interference.

Conn beheld the piece of machinery with awe and respect. Parts of its bronze

exterior had escaped the touch of nature, while other parts fared not so well.

Where the moist wind had passed Conn could see the turquoise hue of copper

corrosion speckling the surface. Large and unwieldy, the machinery was

hopelessly dated. Like Galdur’s wrist constructs, it appeared self-powered. In

his chest, his heart fell and a cold sweat broke over Conn, as he deduced the

functions of the machine, discovering it to be a generator of sorts, using the

force of the wind that blew across the hills to power the installation. Even in a

drought of wind, its battery could undoubtedly maintain a charge for years

before they ultimately failed.

“Fionnlagh,” Conn said, pursing his lips as his eyes began to moisten.

“Yes, father?”

“You weren’t really dying, were you?”

Fionnlagh heaved a sigh, laying his head across Conn’s shoulders, like

Fearghas had as a child.

“You wanted to die...” Conn continued, struggling to hold back his tears.

“Why?”

“After so long,” Fionnlagh replied in a brittle voice, “I just wanted to go

home.”

“But... But I could have done something... anything,” Conn said with tears

streaming down his face.

“Shh,” Fionnlagh interrupted Conn, “I can see it now... It’s so beautiful...”

As the sun rose across the highlands, Conn felt Fionnlagh’s grip loosen,

and adjusting to the shift in weight, Conn held onto him fiercely, never letting

go. There he stood for some time, the length of which he forgot, until he began

to hear the cries of Yngvarr from over the ridge. They called for him, searching

for their lost brother.

With care, Conn slung Fionnlagh over his shoulder and onto the ground.

He collected rocks from the disguised exterior of the installation and began to

place them by the body. It took only a few minutes to gather them. He tenderly

placed the rocks over Fionnlagh, as he did so for his wife once in silence, with

only the wind for company and the nearing cries of his fellow travelers

growing. Conn was finishing his work as Yngvarr fiercely hurried around the

bend, halting in his tracks.

“Damn you, Conn,” he shouted in a startled voice, “your stunt scared the

living daylight out of me...” Panting, he took in the scene, seeing the makeshift

grave Conn had made, and began to scratch his head.

“Uh... What is this? What happened here?” he asked in a softer voice, a

troubled expression on his face. Conn sighed, wiping the residual tears from

his eyes.

“I buried my son,” Conn murmured. “Again.”

The warrior heaved an uncomfortable sigh, refusing to make eye contact

with Conn.

“I... I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Extending his hand, the warrior offered

help getting up.

Grabbing it, Conn picked himself up with Yngvarr’s assistance, and

looked back at the installation. It looked ancient now, dilapidated. He had

stripped away most of the exterior to make the grave, and no longer was it

preserved as a relic of the past. Like all things it would soon fill up with wild

animals and vagrants would come to deface it. Then it would pass away, and

no one would ever know of Fionnlagh, and the end of the world.

Conn hated change.

He hated it so much.

“Well then,” Conn sniffed, looking back at Yngvarr with reddened eyes,

“carry on.”

The following was an excerpt from my first novel Spirit of Orn, from the chapter titled, Automaton. If you enjoyed the read, please consider purchasing a copy from amazon. 

Mog and Gog injected the carbonate drill into the barren surface of Setti 8, humming a lively tune. The surveyor last week was good enough to point them in the right direction, and both of them needed the credits.

“Do you know anything about Setti 8?” Mog asked, rubbing away the acidic perspiration from its forehead. When the rag caught fire, Mog discarded it, watching the threads curl into a wire-frame of smoldering ash.

“Dunno,” Gog grunted. “Terran grave worlds don’t interest me. Nibs been dead for two hundred million years.” Gog fiddled with the pressure gauge and turned on the drill. Each of them let go at the same time, the pneumatic frame locking into the ground, and the hungry probe started eating its way, all the way down, into the moldy ground.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Gog grimaced. “Tha’ stinks!”

“They say the Terrans actually came from a different planet,” Mog continued. “The Empire, that came after all that…”

“Every alien has a home world,” Gog replied, stroking his slimy green skin. He ate the handful of mucus that was left over, approving of the taste. “Feh! Nothing new there.”

“Yes,” Mog agreed, leaning against the drill scaffolding. “No, my point it this: dem Nibs left for a reason. Last year, the archaeologist from Harmoon found a dead planet, full of smoke and carbon ash. He found fossilized Terran skeletons. So he goes and sells the planet for all the credits the Empire could spare. It was oil rich! Fields as far as the eye could see! It could power a war effort for thousands of years, if you’d believe that.”

Gog frowned. “So what? Nibs lived there? Big deal…”

“That archaeologist fella though, he said the skeletons were less evolved than the other ones. An’ working with geologists found that they smoked themselves out. Too much carbon in the atmosphere! Can you believe that?” Mog folded his arms and kicked the drill cage.

“What are you saying?” Gog asked suspiciously.

Mog patted the scaffold. “Dem nibs used oil they think. Just like us. It smoked them out!”

“You said that already,” Gog replied. He looked at the gauge; the pressure was too low.

“Fuck,” Gog cursed. “Fuck this place. No oil. Nothing!”

“Not enough Nibs then,” Mog surmised. “Come on then, off to the next place.”