James Scotson - Planets Falling

Bets pushes her plate away and suppresses a belch. Flip heads to the washroom. Bets turns to Theo. “This is great fun, Theo. But we came here seeking answers to questions. I’m sure Marksman wants to know where her daughter, father, and husband are. And we need to know how to stop the coming war. We shouldn’t stay here.”

Theo looks at his glass cup and marvels at the frozen chunks of water floating in it. He turns to the metal thing on the floor. “Box. We need to know where Amy Marksman’s family is.”

The box does not answer. Theo boldly taps on it. It responds, “Yes, master, what do you desire?”

“Do you have a proper name?” Theo asks.

“I am called a Human Machine Interface. My masters called me Troll, although I never understood why. They considered it a source of humor. What are your names?”

Theo pauses for a moment, considering whether it is wise to give the thing too much information. It continues, “I am only asking out of politeness. I know from your conversations that you are Theo and appear to be the leader. The thin, raven-haired, fetching woman in the animal skins and plant fiber is called Bets. Is that an abbreviation or a nickname?” Bets shuffles uncomfortably, but says nothing. “The young man enjoying a shower in the washroom is Flip and I surmise from his dress and manner that he is a new arrival to your party. Finally, there is Amy Marksman, an attractive, tawny haired but sad young woman.” Troll turns toward me with its dead, black eyes of glass. “I am sorry but I know nothing about the whereabouts of your family.”

“But that’s impossible, uh, Troll.” Theo says as he sits back down. “The book handed down to me brought us this far. The answer has to be here somewhere, somehow.”

I lightly touch Theo’s hand. “Theo, did you think it’d be that easy? This is like a puzzle. The answer to our questions is here somewhere. Troll, we need to know many things. I suppose it’s best for us to know a little about where we are and what you’re doing here. We didn’t know that anything survived after your masters left.”

“Oh, my masters never left,” Troll answers.

“What do you mean by that?” Bets asks. “They were punished by the gods and forced to leave earth to the moon. Or killed, right?”

Troll sits silent for a moment. Thinking? Then it answers, “You poor souls. After so many generations, you have experienced significant information loss. It will be better for me to show you images of the incident so that you may understand the conditions leading to the loss of our society and my isolation.”

Flip appears from the washroom, hair dripping wet and wrapped in one of the blue robes. “That was great,” he says with a grin.

“Boy, you smell like flowers.” Theo waves his hand past his nose.

A blinding light fills the room and all the food and dishes vanish. The walls, fire, and table are wiped away, replaced by the same mirror-like surface in the washroom. Flip falls to the floor, panicked.

“I apologize for alarming you,” Troll responds. “This room and most of the others have special surfaces that can be shaped in many ways based on your desires and needs. I programmed this room to resemble a dining area that you might experience in the world as you know it. It really is quite harmless and very convenient.”

I have no idea what Troll is talking about, but the ancient ones were far more amazing than anything Teacher ever described. It makes sense that the gods crushed them for over-reaching. We follow the box into the vast central area. Troll stops near the central platform and asks us to sit. Bets stands defiantly, while the rest of us find large, stuffed chairs and sigh in comfort. The space above the plaza sparks to life. Empty air is now filled with unimaginable buildings of glass and metal reaching toward the sun. Colorful boxes, carts maybe, shuttle around the buildings. Some have wings and fly while others roll on the ground. People adorned in strange, colorful clothes saunter on streets of strange black and red rock. They move with no apparent purpose. I see one sickly tree jutting from the surface. I have no idea how it can survive locked in that suffocating, artificial world, which looks like it could be summoned from a child’s painting.

“We are looking at New Reno, the city that you invariably passed through on your travel to this place. It like all the others is ruined now.”

The image vanishes. We are now gazing at a night sky with brilliant stars. A huge red ball, not all that unlike the moon, hangs before us.

“This is mars. It appears as a wandering red star in earth’s — our — sky. In this holovideo, we are hovering 1,000 kilometers above the surface of this planet. Your ancestors lived on mars before the fall. I do not know whether they still live there. If they do, this would give us hope that they may return someday.”

Theo clears his throat. “Ancestors? So it’s true that we’re brood of the ancients? How’d they get to such a little star in the sky?”

“Of course, you are their descendants. You lost their technology when it was destroyed by terrorists. You are no less capable of reaching the same level of sophistication they had. It will just take time and a grasp of science.”

Troll’s using strange words. He explains science to the best of his ability. We all are curious about terrorists. They don’t sound like gods. “Troll, were the terrorists the gods?” I ask.

“Goodness no, Amy Marksman. They were people, although I am unsure whether they were human or some other species. They released a tiny substance onto earth that very quickly degraded human-made materials called plastics. These materials were part of most manufactured materials and wreaked havoc on society. The motives of the terrorists are unknown, although they likely perished along with most of the human population.”

The viewing space before us transforms into a chaotic fugue of images of crumbling cities, boxes falling from the sky or crashing on the ground, widespread fires, and a thing Troll called a train piled on its side and burning. The images then go blank.

“As you can see, the end was traumatic. I think it is time for you to rest. Your biosigns show that you all are exhausted. It is late and we can continue tomorrow morning after breakfast. Let me show you to your rooms.”

After a very brief, lackluster debate, we decide to follow Troll’s advice. We presume Samuel will be fine camping on the hillside and that he probably is already resting or drunk. It must be midnight outside.

Troll guides us to a large, glass box he calls a lift. We step in and it rises high along the wall. It opens onto a walkway with a series of doors. My room’s magnificent, augmented by Troll’s magic I surmise. The bed is impossibly large and soft, with cloud-like pillows. There’s another adjacent room with a shower. This time I soak in steaming water and wrap myself in a soft robe. I’m unconscious before I hit the bed.

I awake with no idea of the time of morning. I decide to explore this place, peeking cautiously in the walkway. No one is stirring and the light of the artificial sun is dim, I guess to make us think it is early morning. I shuffle barefooted down the walkway to the lift. Troll’s box sits in the hallway. I step in, Troll asks me where I want to go, and I tell it to take me up. The lift responds instantly, with me leaving part of my stomach below. Troll’s box, still sitting in the walkway below, shrinks rapidly as I ascend. The lift stops at the highest level — the plaza and seats on the ground floor seeming tiny as fleas. Up here, there’s only one door. It’s labeled with the symbols M-U-N-I-T-I-O-N-S. The smell I noticed when we first descended into this place is strong here. I suddenly recognize it as the scent of the oil used on the guns in father’s armory.