Margaret Stohl - Idols

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doc?” Lucas frowns.

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

“That’s not good,” I say.

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But with nothing else to say, we all follow.

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

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

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

Or rather, that we are still allowed to live.

Internal Investigative Subcommittee IIS211B

RE: The Incident at SEA Colonies

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

HAL2040 ==> FORTIS

12/1/2042

PERSES Transcripts

//comlog begin;

HAL:Complete PERSES/NULL Transcripts sent.;

HAL:Response?;

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

HAL:Done. Further requests?;

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

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

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

HAL:Happily.;

//comlog end;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tima nods.

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

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

“You’re one to talk,” says Lucas.

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

What they will do.

How quickly we abandoned him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucas glares at him. “We better have.”

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

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

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

It’s not hay.

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

“It’s a car?”

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

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

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

“But doesn’t it need—”

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

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

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

“Dog food,” I say.

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

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

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